He knew that deep down some of it had been his own fault – if only he had known at the time what he was getting into.
Foresight is always a wonderful thing.
Back then he had been a young naïve man with a living to make and his fists were the only tools of his trade. He’d actually used that phrase to the two detectives when they’d interviewed him three days ago back in his native Scotland.
Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate and Detective Sergeant John Reed had picked him up from Motherwell railway station and driven him to a quiet hotel where they’d questioned him in the empty bar area. They’d chosen that place, they’d told him, because they did not want anyone to know he was back in Scotland helping them with their investigation. Initially they had asked him all kinds of questions when they had collected him - not about the murders of the three retired detectives - but about whether he knew if he had been followed or not during his journey. And they had driven a long circuitous route to the hotel. Jock had watched the DS constantly check his mirrors, satisfying himself that they did not have a tail.
That was when he had told them about bumping into the bald headed man in Staithes whom he had recognised from his past and the subsequent hit and run where he and his wife had been badly injured.
The DCI had said to him that it confirmed their worst fears.
They had talked for well over two hours at the hotel, between them piecing everything together. Jock had been able to give them much of the background to it all and although initially he sensed that the two detectives had been suspicious of what he told them; he knew the signs from his experience with his son, once they had back-tracked over everything and double-checked his story with snippets of information from their briefing notes they had ended the interview by telling him that they were extremely grateful for his help. They said it had significantly moved on the enquiry.
Before they had dropped him back at the railway station they had advised him on his own personal safety and the DCI had given him her direct mobile number.
Time and time again during the past two days he had run through in his head everything they had talked about; checking that he hadn’t left anything out, though he knew deep down he hadn’t; it had been locked away in his memory for so long. He shivered, staring back at the framed photographs. He’d done his best to bury the past but it had caught up with him.
What a bloody mess.
He swilled the single malt around the glass and drained it in one gulp. For a second he considered pouring himself another but checked himself. He had to keep a clear head. It was time for home.
He placed the tumbler onto his desk coaster and locked the bottom drawer containing his bottle of whisky before pushing himself up from his seat.
He made his way through his gym, returning the odd misplaced dumbbell weight to its respective place on the rack before taking a last look back; like he always did, and turning off the lights prior to locking up.
Outside the temperature appeared to have dropped. He shivered and zipped up his hooded training top. The car park was empty save for his rented Toyota; the insurance company was still assessing the damage to his own car.
That was when he noticed the padded envelope on the step. He glanced down and gave it a puzzled look. Then he surveyed the car park again – this time with a critical eye; it was quiet.
Bending down he picked up the small brown package. There was nothing written on it. He turned it over. On this side he saw that someone had scribbled in thick black lettering ‘JOCKS GYM.’ The quality of the handwriting was poor.
He felt the envelope; there appeared to be something lumpy inside. He pulled at the sticky fastening and peered into the void.
Startled by what he saw he recoiled in horror dropping the package. It caused the contents to roll out onto the concrete. It confirmed what he thought he had seen. He let out a gasp as his stomach leapt up to his throat. Three severed human fingers lay at his feet.
-ooOoo–
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DAY TWENTY: 12th September.
Barnwell:
Hunter leaned back in his seat, stretched up his arms and then folded them across the back of his head, interlacing his fingers. Physically he felt drained yet mentally he was energised. Since his and Grace’s meeting with the owner of the Asian Women’s Refuge; Nahida Perveen, the investigation had clicked up a gear.
Discovering Samia’s passport had been the catalyst. Fingerprints found on it matched those from the body.
He mulled over in his head what they had uncovered over the past few days. The team had tracked down a dental practice in Sheffield; she had signed up to a practice near to the University. Records held there matched the x-rays from her post mortem. They now had official confirmation that their body recovered from Barnwell Lake was that of Samia Hassan.
Phone calls to the UK Border and Immigration Control, and the British Embassy in Lahore had confirmed that no air ticket had been purchased in Samia Hassan’s name; there was no record of her passing through Immigration Control in the UK, or of her arriving at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore.
On a local level they had tracked down and interviewed several more friends and acquaintances of Samia through her Facebook site. They had reinforced many facts they already knew; the attack on Dr Woolfe, the burglary and damage to the flat, and Samia’s fear of a forced marriage, and they had also determined that no one had spoken with her since the twenty-ninth of July. Presently they were tracking down the police officers who had turned out to those incidents in the hope that one of them might just have recorded the name of Samia’s cousins who had been implicated.
Hunter knew it was a long shot.
Civilian Investigator Barry Newstead had been assigned to Meadowhall to liase with the police and security team based there in order to gain access and view CCTV footage. Nahida had been able to provide the times, dates and the exact place where she had met with Samia and he had been given the job of locating all that footage and check if anything could be of help to the enquiry.
There had been a meeting with Duncan Wroe from Scenes of Crime and his counterpart from The Forensics Science team, and Task Force had been booked for that Sunday to execute a warrant at the Hassans shop and residence.
Things were coming to a head Hunter mused as he looked up from his desk and viewed the work in progress indicated upon the incident white board. Long lists of actions and names had now been added to the timeline. In big red capitals ‘MOHAMMED HASSAN; JILANI HASSAN and SAMIA’s COUSINS?’ had been ringed as the main suspects.
As he re-checked the incident board he knew that everything was taking shape, especially as the raid at the Hassan’s was in two day’s time.
“Who’s the redhead with the gaffer?” asked Tony Bullars pushing through the doors into the office.
His entrance brought Hunter back from his thoughts. He unlocked his fingers and came out of his stretch. “Redhead?” he asked.
“Yeah, good looking, late thirties. I’ve just come past the office and they seem to be thick-as-thieves together. The door was open and she sounded Scottish - like your mum and dad.” He dropped some paperwork in front of Hunter. “That’s the operational order and the warrant for this weekend’s raid at the Hassan’s. The magistrate asked me a few questions but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just flashed my bestest smile at her and she signed it up.”
Hunter smirked. Tony had always been a ladies’ man for as long as he’d known him. Tall and slim, blue grey eyes, chiselled facial features, gelled and styled light brown hair and always immaculately dressed. He was twenty eight years old, still single and he was a charmer. In fact Hunter couldn’t recall there being a time when he’d ever met him in the pub twice with the same girl. He glanced quickly at the warrant lying on his desk then back up at Tony. “Bully, don’t give me half a story. What do you mean good looking redhead, Scottish accent, in with the gaffer?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I smell cop – and senior cop
at that.” He tapped his nose and turned away. “Get you a cuppa?” he shouted back making for the office kettle.
Hunter’s head was suddenly elsewhere, especially with everything that had gone on with his father. His recent discovery that the offenders who had been arrested in the car which had run his parents off the road were from one of the sink estates near Glasgow came to mind. He had managed to track down the officer in the case from North Yorkshire only to have been told that he had handed over the paperwork to a female DCI up in Stirling. After several phone calls he had finally managed to determine who the Detective Chief Inspector was and he had left four messages for her, none of which had been returned. Over the last few days whenever he had thought about it he couldn’t help but sense that he was being deliberately kept out of the loop.
He rubbed his chin and pondered whether this was the DCI who was running his father’s investigation. Well there was only one way to find out.
He picked up the signed magistrate’s warrant for the Hassans. It was a good excuse to get a foot in the door.
He made his way down the corridor and could spotted that the Detective Superintendent’s door was ajar. He slowed his pace and strained his ears hoping to pick up some of the conversation. A woman’s voice drifted out. Definitely Scottish, though he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He paused at the door for a second then rapped.
“Come in”
Hunter entered Michael Robshaw’s office. The redheaded female was in one of the comfy armchairs in the office looking relaxed. She glanced up at him and flashed a smile. He remembered what Tony Bullars had said. She certainly was attractive and looked to be in her late thirties. She was wearing a well-tailored dark blue trouser suit over a white cotton blouse. A visitor’s badge had been clipped to her jacket breast pocket; he couldn’t make out the name. A folder lay open across her lap. He drifted his gaze and tried to get a glimpse of it. She snapped it shut as if she knew what he was doing.
He flashed a false smile to her, nodded and turned to his SIO. “Got the Op order and warrant for the Hassans this Sunday boss.” He held out the documents.
“Okay Hunter.” He reached across and took the paperwork, gave it a quick once-over and then dropped it onto his jotter. “I gather no problems with it.”
Hunter shook his head.
“Smashing. Everything is in place as well?”
He nodded again.
“Right thanks for that, tell everyone briefing’s at seven thirty am Sunday.”
It felt like he was being dismissed. He turned to the redhead. “I couldn’t help but notice your Scottish accent. My dad’s from Glasgow.” That was a good opener.
“Oh yes – yes. I’m from Stirling.”
“This is DCI Leggate,” interjected Det Supt. Robshaw.
“Not DCI Dawn Leggate?”
“Yes,” she responded, sounding surprised.
“I’ve been trying to track you down for the past few days. I was told by North Yorkshire Police that you’d taken over the job investigating my parents’ hit and run. Apparently you’ve arrested two for it.”
“Oh yes –yes of course. You’re Hunter Kerr?”
Her voice seemed hesitant to Hunter.
“Have they been charged?”
“Has your father not said anything to you?”
“No I didn’t know if he knew or not. It’s been like getting blood from a stone just lately.”
“Well things have been discussed with him. He knows where we are in our enquiry.”
“Can you tell me then?”
“Well – er.”
For a second Hunter thought she appeared flustered.
“You should know better than that. Confidentiality DS Kerr.”
“But this is different. I’m a cop.”
“So you should be even more aware then. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything. It’s an ongoing investigation. I suggest you speak with your father.” Her return was abrupt.
“Sorry to interrupt Hunter but I have a few things to discuss with DCI Leggate,” Detective Superintendent Robshaw interposed. “If you could excuse us.”
Hunter knew from their reaction that there was something more to this but he was being dismissed.
“And if you could close the door behind you Hunter? Thank You,” added Michael Robshaw.
* * * * *
Hunter sank into his armchair and rested his eyes. He felt drained and had a thumping head and the TV was interfering with his thoughts; everything was spinning around in his head. He heard the patter of Beth’s slippered feet come down the stairs and enter the lounge; she had just tucked up Jonathan and Daniel in their beds. He snapped open his eyes.
“You look tired,” she said dropping down on the sofa with a big sigh. “Boys were lively tonight?”
“Sorry Beth I should have taken them up tonight and given you a break.” He tried to focus on the TV programme but it was washing over him.
Beth pushed herself up and turned towards him. “All right Hunter what’s the matter? You’ve been at odds with yourself since you got home. Something gone off at work?”
He shook his head. “It’s my dad again.” He told her about the brief meeting with DCI Leggate earlier in the day. “I called in at mum’s on the way home but they weren’t in and I’ve rung their mobiles and dad’s gym but there was no answer.”
“Look Hunter do you think you might be reading into this more than you should be?”
He pursed his lips. “I thought that myself, but it was the way both the superintendent and the DCI reacted when I tried to probe about mum and dad’s incident. She gave me all the confidentiality crap. You know cops don’t do that with other cops.”
“She might just be a stickler for procedure Hunter. She’s from another force, she doesn’t know you from Adam.”
“No there was something in the way she answered me. She was bullshitting.”
“Well you can’t do anything about it can you? You’re going to have to wait until your dad tells you himself.”
He closed his eyes again.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it is the last thing I do.
- ooOoo –
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAY TWENTY TWO: 14th September.
Barnwell:
By seven-thirty am the incident room at Barnwell police station had become badly overcrowded with Murder Squad detectives, Task Force Search Team members, Scenes of Crime Officers and Forensic specialists all squeezing into any space they could find. There was standing room only.
A large scale street map and a blown-up, colour, aerial photo of the Hassans store, taken by the Force helicopter, together with a hand drawn layout of the property; both store and ground floor flat, dominated one of the white boards at the front of the room.
Hunter led the briefing; he was orchestrating the raid. He handed around photocopies of the operational plan setting out the purpose of that morning’s sortie and then quickly got into his preamble. He summarised the investigation to date and then outlined everyone’s tasks. Although the team had the Hassans as TIE’s; Trace, Interview, Eliminate, they had not been able to identify the attack site where Samia had been killed. That was the crux of the day’s task ahead and the purpose of the warrant and he deliberated over his final words; he wanted no stone left unturned.
Shortly after eight am as the Police and Forensic teams were heading out of the station’s yard, daylight had just broken through a heavy grey sky. The day ahead looked promising.
Hunter and Grace were leading the convoy and in less than quarter of an hour they were hitting the outskirts of Hoyland. Hunter eased off the accelerator, but only a fraction and he took the turning into the side road at the side of the convenience store quicker than normal, braking sharply to avoid a parked car close to the junction. He mumbled an apology to Grace as the car rocked to a halt. He felt wired. A highly charged tingling sensation surged through him. He was always like this on raids: a flash from his Drug Squad days momentarily took
over his thoughts and just as quickly disappeared as he took in the sight of the Hassans convenience store.
In less than twenty seconds they had the premises surrounded. Hunter glanced at his watch: twenty past eight on a Sunday morning and he was surprised to find that the shop was already open.
He and Grace pushed through the entrance doors, Hunter holding out the warrant, whilst Task Force, Scenes of Crime and Forensics disembarked, sealing off the area and sorting out their equipment.
Mohammed Hassan was behind the counter serving a customer with an edition of one of the morning’s papers. His jaw dropped when he saw them enter. But that was only briefly. Within seconds he had composed himself and his face took on a hardened look.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“We have a warrant to search these premises Mr Hassan,” returned Hunter thrusting the rolled up magistrate’s document towards his face. He threw the customer a ‘I want you to disappear now’ look and followed up by using his head to indicate the door. The customer took the hint – leaving quickly.
“What for? I have done nothing wrong.”
“When we came the other day making enquiries about your daughter Samia remember me asking you a series of questions as to her whereabouts and you told me she had flown over to Pakistan?”
Hunter paused and studied Mohammed’s face. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Well we now know she was never there because as you will have realised by now from the local news broadcasts we have recently found her body. She has been murdered and I suspect your involvement in her killing.”
“No, no you have got this all wrong. I haven’t done anything to Samia.”
“Mr Hassan I am arresting you on suspicion of your daughter’s murder,” finished Hunter.
Ten minutes later, in handcuffs and protesting loudly, both Mr and Mrs Hassan were helped into separate marked police cars as officers were sealing off the frontage of the store with crime scene tape. The premises were secure and ready to be searched.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 16