“I know what you’re saying Hunter but there’s nothing you can do about it is there? He’ll tell you when he’s good and ready. Just give him some space.”
“There’s something not right,” he muttered. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
* * * * *
Glagow, Scotland:
“Cop!” Billy almost upended the tray, containing his fish supper, onto his lap as he fought frantically to get his baseball cap down over his eyes.
“Where?” demanded Rab, instinctively sliding himself lower into the driver’s seat.
“There!” Using one hand to point, with the other, Billy pulled harder on the peak, lowering it a little further. Satisfied that he had hidden enough of his face he lifted his head slightly and peered through the windscreen, setting his sights, twenty yards in front, on the dark haired man in the short grey overcoat who was leaning back against the driver’s side of the dark blue Vauxhall Vectra. The man appeared to be scanning the street, and he shot a glance in their direction, but it was only fleeting.
Rab went for the key in the ignition but Billy snapped a gloved hand around his wrist.
“No, just wait! I don’t think he’s spotted us.”
“How do you know he’s a cop?”
“I saw him a couple of weeks ago at the bail hostel, talking with the supervisor.”
Placing his hands on the dashboard he leaned forward to get a clearer view.
“I wonder what he’s doing here, in this neck of the woods? And it looks as though he’s alone. Just wait a moment and see what he’s up to. If he clocks us then we piss off.”
Billy pushed himself away from the dash and settled back into his seat. Returning to his supper, whilst watching intently out through the windscreen, he picked out several chips from the polystyrene tray and loaded them into his mouth.
Five minutes later he caught sight of movement; a slim, dishevelled man appeared from a small side street, parallel to where the Vauxhall Vectra was parked, and stopped opposite the plain clothed cop.
“Well just look who it is?” Billy’s eyelids screwed into hardened slits as he watched the pair strike up a conversation. “I wonder if we’re on their agenda by any chance?”
Watching as the shabbily dressed man accepted a cigarette from the detective, he reached beneath his seat, exploring, until he sought out what he had been looking for. Hooking his fingers around the steel wheel brace he began to slide it out from beneath its hiding place.
“Once they’ve finished their cosy chat you and I are going to have a wee word with our pal. I don’t like it when people go behind my back”
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAY SEVENTEEN: 9th September.
Sheffield:
“What’s that address again?” Hunter asked pulling the car into the kerb.
Grace slid the handwritten note over the handbrake to where Hunter could see it and ran a French manicured finger nail beneath the scribbled destination he had been searching for over the last five minutes.
Zita had telephoned Hunter yesterday afternoon. She had got back to him with the address of the Asian Women’s Refuge and had fixed up a meeting with its owner – her contact.
They had found the street easily enough - off the Wicker in Sheffield, but all the buildings looked the same; three storey Victorian red-brick houses with their soot encrusted frontages from past industry and with dusty windows. At first glance it appeared as if the majority of them were empty, or more likely were used as storage for the small shops or last remnants of businesses, which still operated in this run-down area. Hunter and Grace knew that behind one of the doors was the refuge. However, given the absence of a number and knowing that the secret address would have no signage advertising itself, finding it was proving extremely difficult.
“Give the woman a ring Grace, tell her where we’re parked and ask her to come out and make herself known, otherwise we’ll be here all day.”
Grace reached into her handbag, mumbled to herself the telephone number she had scribbled on the inside leaf of the folder, and tapped it into her mobile. Within seconds there was an answer and Hunter listened to the one sided conversation from Grace. Less than thirty seconds later Grace ended the call and slipped the phone back into her bag.
“She’ll be down in a minute. She’s been watching us drive up and down from her office somewhere up above us but because we’re in an unmarked car she didn’t come down.”
Hunter turned off the engine and as he had parked on double-yellow lines he placed the ‘police visiting’ card on the front of the dashboard.
A sharp rap on the front nearside door startled them. Hunter looked sideways to see a middle-aged Asian woman crouched down by the door looking in at them. He took in the details of a smile but most of her face was partially covered by a white cotton veil.
Nahida Perveen, as she introduced herself, greeted them with an energetic shake of her hand.
Dressed in a long white cotton dress, embroidered with a gold neckline, Hunter could see she was tall and slender though he still couldn’t make out her features because of the veil.
“Sorry I didn’t come down and make myself known. We have to be very careful here as you can guess. I forgot to ask Zita what you looked like and some of the husbands and fathers of the women who are staying here will do anything to find this place.” Her voice was perfect BBC English.
She led them through a solid wooden door into a dark entryway. Hunter could pick out detailed Victorian tiles, which covered the lower half of the entrance hallway. They followed her up a stone stairway to the first floor where the lighting was better. “We have ten ladies with us at present but I don’t think any will make an appearance. They’ve gone through such a lot and have come here for safety until we can help them turn their lives around. They knew you were coming but you still won’t see any of them. Some of them don’t even trust the police unfortunately,” Nahida said as she took them to the top of the stairs, only occasionally looking back as she spoke.
Hunter still couldn’t make out her face.
She showed them through another locked door, guided them along a corridor and showed them into a room, which Hunter guessed put them somewhere at the back of the building. It was a huge sitting room, brightly lit, with a high ornate plaster ceiling. It was furnished with four sofas and three armchairs, all draped with patterned throws; none of the fabrics matched. They were arranged around two low wooden coffee tables. The carpet was thin, stained and threadbare. Hunter could see that the place had been furnished on a tight budget.
Nahida chose one of the chairs and pointed out one of the sofas, as the place for them to sit. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back.
That was when Hunter caught sight of her badly scarred face. A clump of pink leathery flesh marred the left hand side of her head.
“You’re probably wondering how I got this scar?” she said.
Hunter diverted his gaze and latched onto her almond eyes. He felt embarrassed. He had held on too long looking at her face. He could feel his cheeks flush.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” She smiled. “I’ve lived with this for almost twenty years. That’s what made me set up this place.” She pulled back her cotton veil a fraction; it was enough for Hunter to see the full extent of her injuries. The scar wound its way from the side of her left eye over her ear down towards her jaw. A portion of her hair was missing. In its place was a lumpy piece of scarred flesh.
“My boyfriend did this with drain cleaning fluid – a powerful acid.” She re-covered her face. “This ended my career. You see I was a TV news journalist working in London – an in-front of camera reporter.” She gave them an awkward smile.
“I’ll not bog you down with the details because I know you’re here on other matters but it will give you an awareness of where I am coming from. The man who did this; my boyfriend, was chosen for me by my parents. He came from my parents village in Pakistan; he was from a family who h
ad been very good friends with them. My father and his father had been business partners before my parents came to live here. I quickly discovered that his values and culture were entrenched in something I didn’t really understand and I knew it wasn’t going to work within weeks of meeting him. Firstly he wanted me to pack in my job. He started to accuse me of flirting with my colleagues. After nine months I told him I had taken enough and told him I wouldn’t be going through with the marriage. I left him one night whilst he was at work and went to stay with a friend – another reporter. He started pestering me with phone calls threatening me so I changed my number. Then he’d turn up at work and security had to intervene. Anyway one night we were celebrating a colleague’s birthday in a bar one evening and he turned up. He started accusing me of having an affair and then just threw the cleaning fluid in my face. Fortunately some quick thinking by my friends prevented me from serious injury – they poured drink all over me and then used water from behind the bar, but it still left me with this.” She smoothed a finger over the scar. “The police arrested him but he was given bail and fled back to Pakistan – to his family. He’s still on the run out there.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I continued my career as a journalist but it was all desk work. My editors didn’t say as much but I realised my career in front of the camera was over and so I persuaded the company to make me redundant and I used the money to come up here where no one knew me and set this place up, so that I could help protect other Asian women from what happened to me.”
“And have you been able to help many?” asked Grace.
“Hundreds over the years. Word of mouth and contacts through solicitors have made this a very popular place for women to turn their lives around.”
“And I gather from what you’ve told Zita that you believe our victim contacted you for help and had made arrangements to come here but never turned up and also that you haven’t been able to get hold of her since?” Hunter said.
“That’s right. I’ve tried her mobile several times since our meeting and there’s no answer. In fact I rang it as late as yesterday and now it appears to be dead. Not only that, but I saw the news the other evening, and the reconstructed face you showed looked exactly like the girl who came to me for help. When we met she called herself Samia.”
Hunter and Grace looked at one another. Grace opened up her folder and slid out an A4 size colour copy of the facial reconstruction. She also took out copies of Samia’s photographs from her Facebook site. She slipped them across the coffee table to where Nahida had a better view.
“Is this the girl you met?” asked Grace.
She lined up each of the photographs and picked up one, which showed Samia holding up a drink to camera. She scrutinised it for just a few seconds before setting it back on the table. She tapped the photograph and raised her eyes to fix Grace. “This is definitely the Samia I met and spoke with.”
“When did she come here?”
“Oh she never came here at all. She originally left a message on our answer machine and left her mobile number. It would have been a good six months or so ago now. I arranged to meet up with her at a coffee place at Meadowhall. It’s a place I always use. It’s public and it’s busy. I also need to suss out the people I’m meeting with before they find out where we are. You wouldn’t believe the things the husbands and parents do to try and track down the girls who flee here. I have had people posing as police officers, social workers, solicitors. You name it I’ve had to deal with it.” Nahida leaned forward clasping her hands intently. “I suppose my job is a little bit like yours when I meet up with the people who request my help. I have to sort out who is genuine and who is not.”
Hunter knew exactly where she was coming from. He pursed his lips and nodded.
“Can you remember what she said to you?” continued Grace.
“Not word for word but I can give you the gist of our conversation.” She settled herself back. “She told me she wanted to get away from her parents but needed somewhere she could hide for a while – where she couldn’t be found, whilst she sorted somewhere permanent to go. She said her parents were putting pressure on her to go out to Pakistan to marry a cousin out there and that she didn’t want to go. I told her that I could help her out with that. Samia told me that she was being constantly watched since she had finished University; that her parents wanted to know virtually her every move. She also told me that she felt she was being followed and mentioned two cousins. At our first meeting she also gave me details of other problems she had encountered because of a relationship with a young doctor. At the end of that meeting I gave her a number of options which included talking to the police as well as meeting me again. She felt she couldn’t go to the police because she didn’t really want to get any of her family into trouble. She felt it would just make things worse for her. She really just wanted to get away.”
“Did you meet again?”
“We did but that didn’t go to plan. She contacted me a couple of times from her mobile and told me she couldn’t get away without anyone knowing. Then right out of the blue about six weeks ago Samia rang me. She said she was on a train coming to Meadowhall and asked if I could meet her again at the coffee place just by Marks and Spencers. She was in a bit of a state when I finally got there. She was agitated, looking all around her. I have to say she made me nervous even though I’ve been involved in so many of these. I was really glad that there were a lot of people around us. She told me she’d managed to sneak out of the flat whilst her father was at the warehouse and she’d brought some things for me to store for her until she could get everything together so she could leave. I could see she was in one hell of a state and I did suggest she should come with me there and then. I could arrange with the police to pick up her other bits she needed later, but she didn’t want anyone else to be involved, especially not the police. I didn’t want to leave her to do that but she said everything would be okay; she was confident she could finish getting together the last of her things. And in a couple of days, she said, she’d contact me and arrange to be picked up.”
“Can you remember when that was exactly?”
“It will be in my diary.”
She pushed herself up out of the seat and left the room, but she was only gone a few minutes before she returned carrying a red knapsack in one hand and a large journal in the other. She set the knapsack down on the coffee table, covering the photographs of Samia, then she sat back in the chair, crossing her legs again and flicked open her diary across one thigh. Following a roving finger she drifted her eyes over several pages checking each one before moving onto the next. After a couple of minutes she paused and stabbed at a page. “It was Monday the twenty-eighth of July.” She announced looking across at Hunter and Grace. “She was already at the coffee shop waiting for me.”
Hunter gazed across to Grace and caught her eye. He knew from the briefing two days previously that her friends had last reported speaking with her the day after - the twenty-ninth of July. Since that day on no one had heard from Samia.
Nahida closed her diary. “From what I remember it was about half ten, quarter to eleven time in the morning. As I said she was really agitated. She was convinced someone was following her. I said I could call security or the police if she wanted and I would bring her to this place, but she said it was only a feeling she had, that she hadn’t seen anyone. Also she wanted to pick up some final things before she left home permanently.” Uncrossing her legs she leant forward and tapped the red knapsack. “This is what she handed me and asked me to keep it safe for when she got here.”
Hunter leaned across and pulled the bag towards him. “Have you had a look inside?” he asked sliding open the top zip.
Nahida shook her head.
He could see that the top section of the bag contained items of clothing and he began to lift out each piece separately laying them down across the coffee table. He counted out two pairs of jeans, four T-shirts, a hooded sweat top, several items of underwear and a pair of trainer
s. He ran his a hand around the inside lining; he’d emptied that section. He switched his attention to the side pockets. He found make-up and a few items of jewellery – a mix of expensive gold items, a bracelet, two necklaces and a pair of gold loop earrings, together with inexpensive costume jewellery, which consisted of various bead bracelets. Finally he zipped open the front. He had to give the insides a second glance and he couldn’t hide his surprised look. With forefinger and thumb gripping the top edge, as though it was a priceless object, he removed the item and carefully placed it over the laid out garments. It was a British passport. He opened up the back section for Grace and Nahida to see.
The personal details and photograph left them in no doubt that this belonged to Samia Hassan.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DAY EIGHTEEN: 10th September.
Barnwell:
Jock Kerr poured himself a generous shot of Laguvulin single malt.
Just a wee dram after a hard day in the gym.
He pushed back his reclining captain’s chair and propped his feet up onto the desk. Swilling the golden liquid around the crystal tumbler he cradled it against his upper chest allowing the peaty aroma to tease his sense of smell. Reminiscing once again, his eyes roamed around the room leaping back-and-forth between the many framed photos and the promotion posters which adorned the walls of his office; all significant memories of his past boxing career. Then he recalled just how it had all come to a crashing halt. Just when he’d been on the cusp of greatness, with a Commonwealth medal to his name, it had all ended prematurely when one single punch, thrown after the bell during a bout, sliced open an irreparable deep wound above his right eye. At the tender age of twenty his career was over; that one punch had ended everything and had landed him where he was now – in one hell of a mess.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 15