“This is Samia’s old room,” said Mr Hassan pushing open one of the closed doors.
Hunter and Grace followed him in. Hunter’s immediate thoughts were that this room was more like a guest room than someone’s bedroom. It was completely devoid of any personal effects whatsoever. He could tell by marks on the wall that there been pictures or photographs hung up at one time but these had been removed. The bed had a duvet draped over it but the duvet cover and bottom sheet had been removed and were neatly folded and lay across the pillows. Hunter guessed it had not been slept in for some time. Against one wall was a chest of drawers the top of which was bare and next to the window on the back wall was a wardrobe. Hunter slipped past Mr Hassan and moved towards the wardrobe.
“Do you mind?” he asked but didn’t wait for his answer as he pulled open one door. He looked inside. It was empty except for a few wire coat hangers dangling from a metal rail inside. Next he checked the chest, tugging open its bottom drawer first. Moving upwards he slid out the next three. Whilst he carried out an eye search he asked some background questions of Mohammed - how long he and his wife had owned the business; how long they had been resident in this country; which region of Pakistan they had come from; the name of the village where the family lived and the place and date of birth of Samia. All formal questions but he asked them in an informal way in order to obtain as much information as possible without setting off alarm bells. He made a mental record of the answers to keep him at ease.
Finally he pushed all four empty drawers back into place and as he straightened he did another quick scan of the room setting a mental picture for his next visit, which he knew would not be in the too distant future. This room is soulless he thought to himself. Things are definitely not right but he knew they couldn’t move too fast under the circumstances. He had to be patient – make the enquiries first and cover all angles.
“Did your daughter take everything which belonged to her? Did she not leave anything behind?”
“My daughter has gone to join my family back in Pakistan. If you want to know she has gone to marry my cousin out there and make a new life for herself.”
Whilst Hunter had been checking out the bedroom with Mr Hassan he had been conscious that Grace had slipped away. He found her in the lounge with Mrs Hassan. She was making attempts to talk with Samia’s mother but the woman was having nothing of it, all she kept repeating was, “No speak English.”
Hunter knew this would be a good time to withdraw and reconvene back at the station to discuss the next steps.
“Well Mr Hassan thank you for your time. You have been most helpful. You have put our minds at ease I’m sure this can be sorted out now.”
“I hope it can officer, I hope it can,” he responded.
* * * * *
Hunter and Grace sat in the unmarked CID car, which they had left parked by the side of the store. Hunter had turned over the engine but was sat motionless running his hands repeatedly around the steering wheel and staring out through the windscreen, not focussed on anything in particular.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
“You bet I am. It is Samia we’ve found in the lake isn’t it?”
Hunter nodded in agreement. “Having just done that search and watching Mohammed and his wife whilst you were talking I’m more than convinced that they’re either responsible for or involved in her death. We’ve got some digging to do to match our hunch.”
* * * * *
The entire Major Investigation Team regrouped at two pm having been called together by DS Michael Robshaw who had been sat in with the HOLMES team most of that morning listening to the team’s updates. The information had come in so thick and fast that for the first time since the investigation had started over a fortnight ago he could see a clear picture emerging as to where the murder enquiry was heading.
The time line sequence on the incident whiteboard had been reorganised and updated and new photographs had been added. Only ten minutes earlier DC Isobel Stevens, the HOLMES manager, had been feverishly writing, putting the finishing touches to the display panel so that it was ready for the meeting.
Michael Robshaw took a last look at the board and slipped off his glasses to address the team. “Okay guys firstly well done everyone, you’ve made some significant inroads this morning. As a result of your feedback from the tasks you were given, without being one hundred per cent sure, I think it would be fair to say that we now know who our victim is.” He folded his spectacles and popped then into his shirt breast pocket. “Hunter, you and Grace have been to see Samia Hassan’s parents. Would you tell the team what you have learned?”
Hunter pushed himself back into his chair and scooted it out from beneath his desk.
“As you know Samia’s parents – Mohammed and Jilani Hassan – are the owners of a convenience store in Hoyland. They have lived there for the past fifteen years and have been resident in this country for twenty-four years.” He glanced down at the scribbled notes he had made in the car before he and Grace had left. “Samia was born here twenty one years ago on the twenty-fifth of July nineteen-eighty-four.” As accurately as he could he recounted the morning’s visit to the Hassans, only occasionally reading from his notes.
“I managed to tease out of him that his family, and the place where he says Samia has gone to marry and live is a very small village set into the foot of the mountains twenty miles from a town called Sul Banda. It’s apparently in the North East of Punjab, at least a day’s journey from Lahore. He says the cousin she has married is also called Mohammed.” Hunter’s blue eyes moved around the room. “Because of the way he answered those questions, although he was edgy, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen the news bulletins that were put out yesterday. I think if he had done he would have been far more guarded. However from now on there is no doubt he will be - and especially when he sees this week’s local newspaper.”
“You did a cursory search as well I understand?” enquired Detective Superintendent Robshaw.
“Yeah - without making it too obvious.” He recounted what he had done. “There is nothing left in that flat that would indicate that Samia ever lived there. All her personal effects have gone and there are no photos of her anywhere. Grace managed to check out the lounge whilst I was looking over her room and there were no pictures of her there either. It’s as if she had never existed.”
The SIO thanked him. Hunter wheeled his chair back under the desk.
Det Supt Robshaw turned and fixed his gaze on Detective Sergeant Mark Gamble, supervisor of the other MIT team. “Mark will you input what your team has found out?”
The Sergeant slipped off the edge of his desk where he had been perched and made his way to the front of the room. He ran a hand through his fair hair before leaning against the side of the incident white board near to where three new photos had been blue-tacked to the panel. The colour shots were of Samia Hassan amongst a group of girls of a similar age. They were smiling, happy images and from the background lighting and red-eye effect it looked as if they had been taken either in a pub or nightclub. There was little doubt that the pictures of Samia were a striking likeness to the facial reconstruction done by Frankie Oliver.
Hunter scrutinised the photographs. This has to be their lady from the lake he thought to himself.
“My team were given the job of tracking down the girls named by doctor Woolfe who had associated with Samia during her time at Sheffield University. We have so far caught up with four of her closest friends. They all describe her as a very bubbly girl who was intelligent. Two of the girls shared rooms with her for several months, prior to her moving in with the doc. She discussed much of her relationship with all of them at some point and there is no doubt she had formed quite intense feelings for him – well until she informed her parents about him. Samia told every one of her friends that her parents completely disapproved of the relationship and one of the girls told us that one Friday afternoon both her mother and father turned up at th
e flat they were sharing and had a stand-up row with her and tried to get her to come home, which she refused to do. She saw Mr Hassan smack Samia across the face before they left. Apparently after the visit Samia ended up in floods of tears and said that her parents were threatening to disown her because she had brought shame on the family.” The DS looped an arm over the top of the panel and sauntered one leg across the other. He leaned comfortably. “All of them have told us about the attack on Doctor Woolfe by the two Asian guys. They said it happened one Friday night just as they had all come out of a wine bar near the University. The girls confirm that he was punched and kicked to the ground and that one of the men tried to drag Samia into their car. They describe it as an old battered white Corsa. Anyway they all jumped in to try and help and one of them phoned the police and that was when the guys drove off. Two beat cars turned up with uniform but Samia persuaded the doc not to make an official report and that she would sort it out. She later told the girls the two men were her cousins. They also confirm the damage to the doctor’s flat as well and they have confirmed that the e-fits which the doc has done are very good likenesses.” He uncrossed his legs, pushed away from the incident board and straightened himself. He tapped three photos stuck to the board. “These pictures have come from Samia’s Facebook site. They were posted after she had finished uni. She kept in touch with all four girls and occasionally phoned them. They all say she was down; that her parents were continually pestering her to marry a cousin who lived back in Pakistan and that she didn’t want to. The last contact anyone had with her was on the twenty-ninth of July. They have tried to phone her mobile many times but there is no ringing tone. We have a record of her number to see if the ‘techies’ at headquarters can trace it. We’ve also posted messages on her Facebook site but that’s not been updated since the twenty-ninth either.”
Michael Robshaw swelled his chest and removed his spectacles from out of his breast pocket. He took out a handkerchief, wiped them and put them on.
“Thanks everyone, the case has moved on with some real momentum today and I think we all know where it is going. I have no doubt in my mind that we are dealing with an ‘honour killing’ here. I’m sure you have drawn the same conclusion. Because of the sensitivity and the repercussions it could have I want a sealed lid on this. No one discusses anything outside this room. Everything we do have from here on we follow it up with the utmost discretion, just on the off chance that we might have got this completely wrong. I want no backlash from this.” He glanced sideways at the panels. There was a list of ‘to dos’ which he had written earlier. He returned his gaze back to the room. “Okay everyone these are the tasks and there are quite a few. The majority are phone calls and will involve diplomacy and patience from you guys. For some of these enquiries you will have to work through the British Embassy in Pakistan and Interpol okay?” He checked the first bullet point he had written. “First on the list we will need to check if she was ever on any flight out of this country into Lahore. We will also have to check with Border Control here and in Pakistan and we need to check the Passport Agency to see if Samia was ever issued with a passport. And now we have Samia’s details I want another check done of local dentists here and in Sheffield to see if we can come up with an identical match to our body. I also want triangulation done of her phone number - see if we can pin-point where her last call was made from. Finally,” he paused and tapped the two e-fit images fastened to the incident panel. “I want a trawl doing of the intelligence system and I want these faxed to surrounding forces. We need to find out who these two are. My guess is that these are the guys that our witness Kerri-Ann Bairstow saw dumping the body off the jetty.” He rested his hands onto his hips and turned to face the detectives. He took in a deep breath. “When we have got all those answers - and only when - we go and pay an official visit to the Hassans.”
* * * * *
Hunter slid out the two sports bags from the boot of his car, slammed it shut and because his hands were full knocked the passenger side back door to with his hip; Jonathan and Daniel had left it open as they had bolted into the house. He heard Beth shouting, “Dirty boots off, now.” and “Jonathan where have I told you to put them?” He smiled.
Typical lads.
He had managed to get away from work shortly after four and he had been glad. It meant he had been able to honour his promise to take the boys to their football coaching session. Besides he enjoyed it, especially the final twenty minutes when the session always ended with a dads’ against lads’ kick-about. It brought back the memories of when he’d played amateur soccer in his twenties for a Sunday pub team many years ago. In fact the last time he had been able to play regularly was two years ago when he had played weekly five-a-side games whilst with Drug Squad.
He pushed through the front door into the hallway to find Beth holding onto the bottom newel post of the spindle staircase bawling up to emptiness, “Put your smelly clothes in the wash basket the pair of you and then get in the shower. I’ll be up in ten minutes to dry you off. And no putting on Sponge-Bob Squarepants until you’ve done that!”
Hunter used the bottom of his heel to close the front door. As he was doing so Beth spun round to catch him. She glared. He held up his son’s sports bags.
“What?” he replied, trying to suppress a grin. “I’ve got my hands full.”
“You’re as bad as they are,” she huffed. “How am I supposed to get them to treat the house with respect if you won’t take any notice?” she rebuked him.
He put on his scolded-boy look and leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek.
She held him off with her hand on his chest but couldn’t help but break into a smile herself. “You’re stinky as well. Into the shower yourself before you come anywhere near me. Here give me the bags, I’ll sort them out and for your sins you sort out the boys.”
She relieved him of the sports bags and as she turned he slapped his hand affectionately against her firm bottom before sprinting up the stairs.
“You’re not too big to feel the back of my hand yourself Hunter Kerr!” he heard Beth shout from below as he made his way to the boys bedrooms to bundle up their discarded football kits and confine them to the clothes basket.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and refreshed and dressed comfortably in jogging bottoms and T-shirt Hunter stepped into the large dining kitchen; a rear extension of their three bedroom semi.
Beth was at their double cooker removing a dish from the oven. He slid behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist and nuzzled the nape of her neck.
“Smells good.”
“Home-made Lasagne.”
“Hmm, yummy. Fancy a kir?”
“Oh I’d love one Hunter. I’ve had a pig of a day. A man had a heart attack in the waiting room this morning. The doctor and I managed to get his heart beating again, thank goodness, but by the time the ambulance came to take him to hospital we were an hour behind with all our patients. And you can imagine that some of them were in a state themselves after witnessing it. I’ve been in catch-up mode all day.”
“And I think my day’s been tough!”
Going to the wine cupboard he placed a small amount of Frais des bois liquer in two wine glasses and then added the chilled Muscadet from the fridge. He took a sip and savoured the crisp cold fruitiness of the French aperitif. Then he handed a glass to Beth and letting out a deep sigh slunk into a chair around the farmhouse table centre-stage of their kitchen. He smoothed a palm over the hand-hewn oak surface reminiscing for a few seconds about the time when they had bought this. They’d both spotted it in an antique shop in the village of Settle when they’d spent a week in a cottage in the Yorkshire Dales a few years ago. It was an old battered piece of furniture and only three of the chairs matched but they’d instantly fallen in love with it and on the spur of the moment they’d bought it. It had proved to be an ideal gift to one another; it suited the deliberately designed shabby-chic appearance of the rest of the kitchen.
“I’ve
left the boys in Jonathan’s room they’re playing on their X-Box,” he said casting his eye back to Beth who was slicing through the crusted topping with one hand and sipping her kir with the other. “I called in at mum and dad’s with the boys on the way back.”
“Oh yes,” she replied not turning around. “What did they have to say?”
“Mum was in on her own. I asked her where Dad was and she said he’d had to go back up to Scotland for a funeral.”
“Oh that’s sad. Anyone we know?”
“She mentioned a name, Archie something, but it didn’t ring any bells.”
Beth stopped what she was doing and spun around. “This is going somewhere isn’t it Hunter?” She raised her glass close to her lips but held it there. “Come on spit it out. I can read you like a book.”
He returned the look she was giving him. “It was just the way she said it. She said it was an old friend of his - she couldn’t remember his full name. I asked a few questions but I could tell she just wanted me to stop and shut up.”
“Well you’ve given your dad a hard time just recently.”
“And rightly so. I saw him arguing with someone, which he denied. Then they were run off the road by some maniac, which I think was linked. And when I push him for some answers he won’t talk to me. I know he’s hiding something but I don’t know what. Now this sudden disappearance back up to Scotland – he’s not been back there for years and years. In fact come to think about it I can’t ever remember him going back up there.”
“You’re too suspicious Hunter do you know that. It could be a genuine funeral for all you know. Think about it, all your dad’s pals from his past will be getting on in years now.”
“I can’t help but have that feeling that if I hadn’t called in to see them it wouldn’t have been mentioned.”
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 14