Chris Woolfe nodded. “Yes it was definitely them.”
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWENTY
DAY THIRTY: 22nd September.
Barnwell:
“These are our targets,” announced Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, holding aloft a pair of A4 size colour photographs to his audience of detectives; they were blown up head and shoulders mug shots of two Asian men, holding in front of them custody reference boards, which indicated to the team that at some stage they had both been arrested and charged.
“Ari and Pervez Arshad, twenty-nine and twenty-seven years old respectively, from the Attercliffe area,” he continued. “These photographs were taken just over five months ago when they were arrested and charged with witness intimidation after an assault on a young man at a taxi rank. Three witnesses stated that Ari and Pervez pushed in on a queue and when a twenty-two year old man challenged them they both set about him. They punched him to the ground and statements from the witnesses state that Ari jumped several times on his head - with both feet. That young man is now permanently brain damaged and the three witnesses who initially came forward have now refused to give evidence in court after being visited by the pair.” The SIO turned and pressed the images onto the incident white boards directly beneath the two earlier e-fits joining the blown up CCTV image of the two Asian men caught on camera driving away from Meadowhall in the white Renault van.
All could now see that there was no disputing the likeness.
The Detective Superintendent returned his gaze back into the room. “These two are well known to the Sheffield police and also to Drug Squad. They have been strongly suspected of knocking out cocaine and heroin to the clubbers for some time but subsequent raids have only found enough gear for possession charges. Ari has also been arrested twice for assault and aggravated burglary when it’s believed he went round to collect drug debts owed to him - though once again victims and witnesses refused to give evidence in court.” Michael Robshaw paused and scanned the room. “However their luck has finally run out. We now have clear identification which places these two at the scene on the night Samia’s body was dumped, by our witness Christopher Woolfe, who had previously been assaulted by the pair – and he is willing to testify in court. So not only do we have CCTV footage of these two abducting Samia, we can also now place them on the night her body was dumped in the lake. What we don’t have at present is their precise address. I have already learned that they no longer live at the flat they were at when they were arrested five months ago. That has been let to another couple and was occupied by them on the date of Samia’s abduction. Detectives from Sheffield have paid this couple a visit and given the place the once over. There is no suggestion that these two people have any links to our targets or to the Hassans and therefore our priority now is to identify where they are currently living and bring them in. Tasks today relate to their known associates with a view to tracking them down.”
DC Mike Sampson half raised his arm. “What about bringing Mohammed Hassan back in now that we know about Ari’s number being on his mobile?”
“Not yet. I don’t want him to know just how much we’ve got from the technicians until we have Ari and his brother Pervez in custody.” The Detective Superintendent reached behind him tapping the incident board. “All our efforts now are focussed on these two. Good hunting everyone.”
* * * * *
Prompted by an early finish from work; they still hadn’t discovered the Arshad’s address, Hunter had made a last minute decision to make a detour on his way home and call into his father’s gym for a quick training session to unwind.
Might even get some time with dad!
Removing his training bag from the boot he took a casual look around the grit surfaced car park. He noticed there were a good dozen cars at least - more than usual at this time of day.
Must be a few in. It occurred to him that he might be able to get in a bit of sparring for a change.
As he set his bag down to close his boot, out of the corner of one eye, he spotted movement in one of the parked cars. A grey Mondeo, with its engine revving, was parked at the end of the row. It looked out of place here; not the type of car he normally saw in the car park – most of the trainees who used his dad’s gym were young men using age old ‘bangers’ - the best of them done up with body kits, which shouted ‘boy racer.’
After everything which had gone off he had a sense of anguish about this; something didn’t appear to be quite right. And weren’t they looking for a grey Mondeo, in relation to the attack on PC Marcus Hill.
He slammed the boot shut and slipped down the side of his car to get a better look at the parked Mondeo and especially to view the driver and passenger. From where he was, his initial impression was that the two men in it seemed to be concentrating their stare upon the entrance doors to his father’s gym.
He dropped his stance and shifted for a better angle. The passenger was the nearest. He appeared to be a middle-aged man with long straggly greying hair and a salt and pepper neatly trimmed beard. Unfortunately he was too far away to pick out any other features. The driver, also middle-aged, had thinning crew-cut sandy hair. He had his head pushed back against the headrest, and there was something about him he recognised, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
As Hunter took another step towards the front of his car he saw the passenger sit bolt upright and stare in his direction - he had been eyeballed.
He was given no time to react as the Mondeo roared into life, its front wheels whipping up gravel as it jolted forward, fish-tailing for a split second before straightening up and shooting out of the exit onto the side-street.
He had just enough time to log its number in his head.
As he listened to the squeal of tyres disappear into the distant estate he felt his hackles raise. It had been the look the passenger had thrown him – a cold-bloodied granite stare - an animal-like expression he had seen only a few times in his career – usually when someone had expressed their wish to kill him.
He knew those two meant business and he had disturbed them.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
DAY THIRTY ONE: 23rd September.
Barnwell:
Billy Wallace looked up to the heavens to see if there was a break in the clouds as more drizzle floated from a murky blue, cloudy sky, adding to the shiny black wetness of the tarmac surface around him. He gave off an involuntary shudder as he felt the droplets run down his neck and trickle onto his back.
It had been raining on and off most of the day, but that had not been a bad thing he had told himself as he had sloshed amongst the puddles earlier that afternoon. It had enabled him and Rab to do what they had needed to do and not draw suspicion to themselves as they had scoured the streets with their collars up and chins tucked firmly into their topcoats whilst they had searched out their target address.
He wiped drips of rain from his hair as he stepped inside the entranceway of the smoking shelter at the rear of The Station public house, his slate grey eyes scanning the car park before resting his gaze upon the modern railway building that housed the ticket office and waiting room that was only fifty yards away. He strained his ears, waiting for the sounds of the engine clonking over the tracks and checked his watch; the connection train from Edinburgh was due in any time.
He stroked his recently grown beard that covered his craggy features and hid most of the hideous scar, which normally made him stand out, whilst once again mulling over the decision he’d been forced to make. He knew that they needed some extra muscle to finish the job and he’d had to call in some favours with old contacts during his flying visit back to his hometown two days previously. He had been uncomfortable with that; he always liked to know who he was working with – needed that level of control and trust - but on this occasion it was out of his hands. It had cost him a few grand as well, but he knew it would be worth it.
“Get that down your neck.”
The
appearance of Rab Geddes made him jump. He was edgy.
He took the pint of lager from his partner in crime and stepped to one side to allow him into the shelter.
Neither of them smoked but they were using it so as not to draw attention to themselves; two strangers with Scottish accents would make them stand out - he had told Rab.
“Not arrived yet?” said Rab sweeping one hand over his newly grown hair before slurping the top off his bitter.
It had been a long time since Billy had seen Rab with hair. It was still sandy in colour but it was now thin and wispy and he realised why he had taken to shaving his head on a regular basis over the past ten years.
Nevertheless despite their appearance he knew this was necessary. They needed to disguise their features for a few more days.
“Nope. It’s a couple of minutes late,” Billy replied, sliding the cuff back of his coat, looking at his watch again. He glanced back towards the station. The hazy sun was dipping below the rain clouds towards the horizon, another half an hour and then darkness would cover them.
His thoughts drifted back to their recce earlier in the day. After they had finally found the house, Billy had done another circuit of the streets surrounding the semi as he guessed somewhere close there would be cops keeping watch; and he’d been proven right.
Although he hadn’t spotted anyone who stood out as a cop he had found the unmarked police car on the second sweep. He had to smile conceitedly to himself as he checked the Peugeot over. Despite all these years in prison, though the make and models had changed, the police radio in the centre console was still a dead giveaway. He mentally noted its number and position; it would have to be taken care of so they could make their getaway after the job.
He guessed the detectives would be in a house somewhere nearby keeping observation, though he dare not stand around to check as that would make him vulnerable to capture, and so he and Rab had driven back to the railway station finalising their plans. Billy had made sure the car had been parked well away from view. They still had the Mondeo and he knew that yesterday afternoon it had been clocked by that nosy bastard at Jock’s gym, so they had to keep it low profile for a few more hours. After that it could be dumped.
In the distance he heard the rumble of the train and it brought him back from his thoughts. “Come on Rab they’re here,” he said nudging his partner and swallowed the remnants of his glass in one gulp. He swiped the residue from his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, then removing his handkerchief from his trousers pocket he wiped it around the edge of the glass several times; no room for error he told himself as he held it up to the light before setting it down on a bench.
As he stepped out into the car park he pulled up the collar of his coat.
“Got the masks?” He enquired, turning back to Rab who was catching him up with a shortened jog.
Rab took out two black woollen ski masks from his jacket pocket and waved them towards Billy.
The corners of Billy’s mouth creased into a malevolent smile.
* * * * *
The late evening news was starting. Jock Kerr slid a coaster across the surface of the coffee table and set his steaming mug of tea down before flopping down onto the sofa. He was about to shout through to Fiona, who was in the kitchen opening a fresh packet of shortbread biscuits for supper, to let her know the news was on, when the telephone rang. One of the house handsets lay on the table in front of him and its display was glowing with the ringing tone. He snorted as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece even though he knew the time. He snatched up the receiver.
“Hello,” he said gruffly.
“Do you know who this is?” Jock heard the gravelly voice say.
“I always said I’d catch up with you and I have done. Your day of reckoning is almost here.”
The line went dead.
Jock sat transfixed, the receiver pressed firmly to one ear, listening to the continuous purring. In a flash an image from his past flooded into his mind as he recognised the voice and his head was in turmoil. As he started to push himself up from the sofa, without warning, there was an abrupt explosion of glass. Shards flew everywhere, and the fabric vertical blinds drawn across the lounge window erupted from their fastening, as a weighted lump slumped through the shattered opening.
Jock froze. His eyes registered what lay before him but his brain was grappling with the vision; confusion, disbelief and fear were all manifesting at the same time. The head and bare shoulders of a man’s lifeless body lay flopped over the windowsill entangled amongst the wreckage of the blinds. A chill ran through his body as he momentarily sat riveted staring at the unkempt lank of hair hanging from the bloodied head. At the same time he became conscious of an awful gut-wrenching smell emanating into the room.
The piercing screams of his wife, who had rushed into the room, holding her face in her hands, jolted him into action.
The instinct to survive took over. He launched himself from the sofa and made a dash for the hallway. Flinging open the front door he leapt out onto the path. Having jumped out from a brightly lit house, for a split-second his eyes only registered blackness, but quickly his sight re-adjusted and in the darkness he saw that slumped half-inside, half outside of the front window was a naked man. The paleness of the flesh told Jock that he was dead.
Out of the corner of one eye movement at the top of his drive grabbed his attention. He half turned. He made out a tall silhouetted figure looking in his direction. Behind the shadow he could see, pulled against the kerb, a hatchback car. Its engine was revving loudly. In the half-light he could make out at least a couple more people both in the front and rear all staring in his direction.
He seesawed his gaze between the dead body hanging half out of his lounge window and the man at the top of his drive. His eyesight had fully adjusted to the surroundings of the night.
The figure in the long dark overcoat was peeling up a ski mask. The action was slow and deliberate. He first caught sight of the beard and as the woollen mask lifted the straggly wavy hair dropped, framing the man’s face.
A shiver ran down Jock’s spine. Despite the greying beard and hair he recognised his nemesis after all these years.
Billy Wallace’s eyes were wide and staring and glistening with hate.
In the distance Jock could make out the faint wail of a siren; he knew the police were on their way and a wave of relief washed over him.
There was a stand-off as Jock scrutinised Billy who was motionless staring back at him.
Billy lifted his hand and dragged a finger across his exposed throat – a slow slashing movement. He gave him a menacing smile before turning and easing himself into the front passenger seat of the car behind. The door was still open as the wheels squealed on the wet tarmac. It shot away from the kerb and screamed towards one of the side streets.
* * * * *
Hunter sank into his armchair with his tumbler of single malt whisky. He savoured the moment of his first sip, feeling the pleasant after burn, first tickling the back of his throat, then his gullet, and finally his stomach. It was a wonderful feeling. Removing the glass from his lips he eyed the contents and then swilled the amber liquid around listening to the chink of ice against the cut glass.
It had been another long day.
He took another small sip, this time holding it in his mouth. Momentarily he closed his eyes as the oak-aged flavours caressed his taste buds. He swallowed.
Moments like this were rare these days.
An hour ago, as promised, he had managed to get home - in time for Beth to make her ‘girls’ night’ appointment. He hadn’t even had time to take off his jacket before she was kissing him on his cheek and telling him his salmon was in the microwave and just wanted heating up, and there was some salad in the fridge.
“I’m only round the corner at Julie’s,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “You know where I am. See you about eleven,” she finished as she disappeared out of the door.
He’d only jus
t managed to get Jonathan and Daniel settled down. They had finally let him go after three short stories. As he’d ruffled their hair affectionately and kissed their foreheads before tucking the boys up it had jolted his conscience; he sometimes wished he had more time for this.
He picked up the remote from the coffee table and powered on the TV; he would try and lose himself for a couple of hours before Beth got home.
He took another glug of whisky and listened to the sounds of the house. The central heating pipes creaked somewhere upstairs beneath the floorboards. He pushed himself back into his armchair feeling himself relax. He swilled the contents around again; the tumbler was almost empty.
One more, and then that’s it.
He enjoyed a drink at home but it was never more than a couple to unwind. He’d seen too many of his counterparts use it as a crutch to ease away the tensions of the day and now found themselves relying on it too much. For some, drinking had become second nature and he’d seen the disastrous consequences which had resulted. It had made him determined not to go down that route.
Twenty minutes later as he set down his second empty glass he could feel his eyes becoming heavy. He was close to exhaustion.
Time to call it a day.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Not even for Beth. Never mind, he knew she would understand.
As he pushed himself up the phone rang.
He eyed the handset and saw his parents name’s light up on the screen. He slipped it out of its stand.
His mother’s voice screamed down the line. The panic in her cries rattled him to the core. He tried to interrupt whilst attempting to make sense of her high-pitched ramblings. Finally, unable to get a word in, he just shouted, “I’m on my way!” and then ended the call.
He speed-dialled Beth’s mobile; she was only two minutes away, and then bolted upstairs to sling on his jeans and a sweat top. By the time he had got downstairs Beth was almost falling through the front door. Her face flushed.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 20