CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAY FIFTEEN: 7th September.
Barnwell:
Hunter rolled his neck and flexed his trapezius as he made his way along the corridor. His muscle-toned frame felt tight but he was sharp this morning especially after the intense training session and three mile run into work.
He’d risen a good hour earlier than usual, promised Beth that he would get a flyer to take the boys to their football coaching session that evening and made his way to his father’s boxing gym and let himself in. He’d spent twenty minutes working the punch-bag, twenty minutes pushing weights and ten minutes with crunch sit-ups on incline before the run into work.
As he passed the Detective Superintendent’s open door he caught sight of his boss working at his desk; he’d obviously gone in earlier than his normal time as well.
“Morning boss,” Hunter greeted him as he passed.
He had only got a few yards further when DS Robshaw’s called out, “Hunter, have you got five minutes?”
“Sure boss.” He stepped back into the open doorway and made his way into the tidy office. He stood before him looking down. The Superintendent was just finishing off writing some remarks onto a CPS file. Behind him a sharp light cascaded in from a huge double-glazed window and backlit the SIO with a halo effect. His reflection bounced off the surface of his polished desk. Hunter glanced around the room. It was plush and looked organised. This is what he’d like to aspire to he thought.
Michael Robshaw signed off his paperwork with a flourish, clicked the top back onto his Waterman fountain pen and laid it square across his jotter. He slipped off his spectacles and lined them up straight alongside his pen. Raising his head he fixed Hunter with a serious look. “I’ve had a complaint about you.”
Hunter screwed up his face. “A complaint about me! What am I supposed to have done now?”
“David Paynton rings any bells?”
Hunter took a long hard look at his boss as he searched for a response. The last thing he wanted to do was give him any bullshit. He had known the Superintendent far too long, and also he trusted and respected him too much to pass off an answer which would be an insult to his intelligence. He had worked with him when he had been a detective constable at Headquarters and Michael Robshaw had been his DI. He knew he had achieved his current status because of his abilities over the years to juggle the management of many successful teams as well as handle the politics which came with the seniority of his rank. He had also on a regular basis spent some personal time with him, training at his father’s gym, and he had put in many a run with him during lunch-breaks.
He settled for, “what’s he said I’ve done?”
He interlinked his fingers and rested them in front of his pen.
“Apparently you and one other, and I’m guessing from the description, that the one other was Barry, waylaid him in the pub a few nights ago and gave him the third degree about your father’s hit and run. Says you were trying to fit him up with it.”
“Just a minute boss, I never…”
He unlocked his fingers and held up his hand; gave him the stop sign. “I’m not going to quiz you on what you did or didn’t say to David Paynton. I’m here to tell you to lay off him. He’s flagged as part of an ongoing drug squad operation. He’s giving them a couple of major local players knocking out cocaine so they want him around. Besides that, I can tell you he definitely wasn’t involved. I got a call from North Yorks police late yesterday afternoon, it would appear that the silver BMW involved in your parents’ road accident has been found in Scotland on false plates and two young thieves are locked up for aggravated vehicle taking. I suggest you give them a call.” He handed across a post-it that contained a telephone number. “That’s the officer in North Yorkshire who’s dealing with the incident.” He leaned back in his large swivel chair. “Hunter you’re a great cop, don’t put your career in jeopardy for that little shit, and besides you’ve still got an unsolved murder here to focus on. Now get ready for briefing you’ve got a busy day ahead after your interview with the doctor yesterday - haven’t you?”
* * * * *
The morning briefing focussed on Hunter and Grace’s meeting the previous day with junior doctor Chris Woolfe.
Perched on the corner of his desk nursing his second cup of tea Hunter repeated almost word for word what Dr. Woolfe had said. In addition the doctor had given them the names of a few of Samia’s close friends she had made at university who would need chasing up and he had also made time after his shift to do a composite e-fit of the two Asian men who had beaten and threatened him. Printed copies of the computer-generated images together with a note stapled to them stating that the doctor had confirmed they were good likenesses had been waiting on his desk first thing that morning. Hunter handed them round the office as he briefed; no one recognised them.
Overnight, the HOLMES team had done background checks on Samia’s parent’s address; there were only three incidents logged – all 999 calls requesting police attendance for detained shoplifters. A voter’s register check confirmed Samia Hassan as listed at that address along with her father Mohammed and mother Jilani and there was no record of her being reported missing.
“We don’t know what we are walking into today,” Hunter finished off. “The doc is convinced our body from the lake is his ex - Samia Hassan, but no one else has called the name in, including her parents, so we don’t know what kind of reception we’re going to get this morning when we visit. Grace and I will do a softly-softly approach and check out if she is still living there, or if not, if they have heard from her recently. We’ll meet back after lunch for a scrum-down as to where we are once we’ve done the visit.”
* * * * *
Hassans convenience store was nestled between a hairdressers and a small post office on one of the arterial roads that led into the small town centre of Hoyland. It had only taken Hunter and Grace ten minutes to drive there from the station.
As they entered the brightly lit store the first thing that Hunter noticed was the pungent smell of pine air freshener. It was strong but not unpleasant.
To their immediate left a long counter spanned the frontage. An Asian man who appeared to be in his early fifties was working behind it. Hunter checked him out. He was slightly smaller than himself, roughly around five-foot-eight and overweight; a huge well-rounded stomach strained the bottom buttons of his blue and white striped shirt and sagged over his trousers. A thick head of greying hair skirted the sides of his head but he was bald on top. His most striking feature was his hooked nose. The image of Samia entered Hunter’s head and he couldn’t help but think that if this was her father then she obviously didn’t get her looks from him; Samia’s features were far prettier. His eyes roamed around the shop. Most of its brightness came from overhead fluorescent lighting. It was set out like a miniature version of a supermarket, well-packed shelves of fresh produce, tinned and packet foods. The back shelves were stacked floor to ceiling with wines, beers and spirits and close to the door newspapers and magazines took up the remainder of the space. He noticed the large flat-screen monitor suspended from the ceiling directly in front of the counter, its screen split into six sections each portion showing a different part of the store. The CCTV images were of good clarity for a change he thought. He made a mental note; they might need that to back-check footage.
The man greeted them with a cheery yet suspicious smile.
“Don’t worry we’re not selling anything,” Grace said, showing him her warrant card and badge.
He returned a surprised look.
“Mr Hassan – Mohammed Hassan?” she enquired.
He nodded.
“Mr Hassan we’re just making some general enquiries regarding an investigation we have running. We’re trying to track down people who we think might be of help and a witness has given us your daughter’s name Samia. Is she around?”
Good start Grace, thought Hunter focussing on the man’s face. Watching and listening was just as
important a skill as talking when it came to interviews and having a partner who was on the same wavelength was a big advantage.
He saw the man drop his gaze, only for a second or two but it was enough for Hunter to realise Grace had a hit a nerve.
“Samia, er no she’s not here.” He stumbled over his words.
“Do you happen to know where she is?”
At that point Hunter became conscious of movement at the back of the store and he turned. Into view appeared a slim, petite Asian woman dressed in a peacock blue sari. A flash of gold came from a necklace that she wore over the bright material. She was tramping towards them and he could immediately see the likeness to the photograph they had of the facial reconstruction; though these features were a lot older. He had no doubt in his mind that this was Samia’s mother. She started talking rapidly as she approached them.
Mohammed responded conversing with her in similar tones. The conversation lasted for a good thirty seconds. Hunter could only pick out the words ‘police’ and ‘Samia’ as she drew nearer.
“Mr Hassan could you speak in English please?”
He turned back to Grace. “Sorry about that. My wife doesn’t speak any English I told her you were making enquiries about Samia. She wants to know what type of enquiries you are making?”
“There is no easy way to say this Mr Hassan but we are concerned about her whereabouts.”
His eyes diverted again. Hunter watched them latch onto his wife’s. Hers were wide and searching. There was a slight delay in his response. “Why are you concerned?”
“Well we’re trying to track her down but we don’t know where she is.”
Mrs Hassan had started chattering unintelligibly again. Mohammed replied similarly his hands becoming animated.
“Mr Hassan if you wouldn’t mind?” checked Grace.
“Sorry,” he apologised, “my wife is asking what is going on – why are the police here?”
“Do you know where your daughter is?”
“Of course I do she is in Pakistan,” he replied sharply.
“In Pakistan,” interjected Hunter. “Are you sure about that Mr Hassan?”
“Of course I am. Why are you asking me these questions about my daughter?”
“As my colleague has already said we have concerns about her whereabouts.”
“Who has said these things? Who is causing us this trouble?”
“No one is causing you any trouble Mr Hassan all we are here for is to check on your daughter’s whereabouts,” continued Hunter.
“She is in Pakistan.”
“Whereabouts in Pakistan?” came back Grace.
“She is staying with my family in a small village in the Punjab.”
“What’s the name of the village?”
“Look what is this all about. All you keep telling me is that you have concerns about her. What concerns?”
“That she might have come to some harm.”
“My daughter has not come to any harm she is with my family.” He was starting to get agitated.
Hunter alternated his gaze between the man and his wife. He could sense that something was not right between them but he did not want to damage the enquiry at this early stage. “Mr Hassan - may I call you Mohammed?” He looked for acknowledgement.
The man nodded.
“Mohammed we’re not here to cause you and your wife any anguish it’s just that a close friend of hers has not seen her for a while and has not been able to get hold of her and therefore reported it to us because they thought it was unusual,” he lied. “Now if you can just give us a little bit more information as to where she is so that we can contact her it would be a great help.”
There was a delayed response before Mr Hassan answered. “You won’t be able to get hold of her it’s a small village in the mountains. My family do not have a phone. It is not like it is here in England. They are quite poor. They have to walk miles to the nearest town.”
“What about your daughter, did she not take her mobile?”
There was a slight pause then he replied, “it will not work in the mountains.”
“When did she go to Pakistan?” interrupted Grace. “And where did she go from?”
“I can’t remember the exact date, it was about two months ago. She flew to Lahore from London. I can’t remember if it was Gatwick or Heathrow.”
Grace scribbled some notes in the folder she was carrying. She held it away from his prying eyes so he couldn’t see what she was writing. Then she fixed him with a warm fake smile. “Thank you for that. That’s a big help.”
“Mohammed just one final thing before we leave you in peace,” Hunter continued the deceit, but because of the nagging doubts he had from Mr Hassan’s answers he knew they had to get sight of where Samia lived before they left. “It’s just a procedural thing but in all cases where someone reports something like this to us we have to check physically for ourselves that they haven’t come to any harm in their own home. You do understand don’t you? We would be heavily criticised by our bosses if we didn’t do a check.”
There was an uneasy silence for the best part of twenty seconds. Mr Hassan glanced down, seemed to be checking his hands, then he shot a glance at his wife before returning his gaze back to Hunter. “I don’t suppose we have any choice.”
“Mohammed it’s not a matter of choice, it would just help us with our enquiries. We’d be able to report back to our bosses that we’re okay with everything,” he added his own fake smile.
Mr Hassan began talking with his wife in Urdu. She huffed and clucked back and made an exaggerated gesture of throwing part of her sari back over her shoulder before turning and making for the back entrance.
“My wife is not happy with this interference. We are very private people. We have not done anything wrong.”
“Mohammed we’re not accusing you of anything, it’s just a formality we have to go through,” Hunter replied. “Now if you can just show us her room and then we’ll leave you.”
Mr Hassan set the lock in the shops front doors, turned a sign around to ‘closed’ and pointed them through to the rear of the store.
The entranceway at the back led them into a small semi-darkened stairway. It was cooler back here. Beyond that Hunter could see a large breeze-blocked room that was full of boxed goods. This was obviously the store room.
The bare wooden stairs led up to a door marked private and stepping through they found themselves in a lavishly carpeted hallway. There were five doors off the hall. A couple of those doors were open and Hunter could make out the lounge and what appeared to be a dining kitchen area. He guessed the other three rooms were the bathroom and two bedrooms.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 13