Hunter was just doing a second sweep when, without warning, Harry hissed, “Over there.”
Hunter whipped his gaze sideways to where Harry’s outstretched arm was pointing beyond the driver’s side window. He followed the line, to where fifty yards ahead, he could just make out a red car roof appearing from behind a line of old rusting coal tubs.
“You did say he had a red Blueboard?” said Harry.
Hunter nodded.
“That red roofs good enough for me. Shall we see if our friend is with it then?”
Harry started up the car again and hardly touching the accelerator inched the Peugeot forward towards the old coal tubs idling on red-rusted rails. Twenty yards from their quarry Harry brought the CID car to a standstill. He nudged Hunter and whispered, “Just check it out. If he’s in it give me a shout.”
Hunter hardly made a sound as he gently opened the car door. Checking his footing, avoiding a scum topped puddle, he straightened his top coat and zeroed in on his target. Hunching into a crouch he set off at pace towards the coal wagons and throwing himself against the last tub he took a deep breath. He had hardly broken sweat. Poking his head around the wagon he had a view of the rear and offside of the Nissan. He made out that someone was in the front seat, head set back against the headrest, as if in slumber. Half turning Hunter gave Harry Hemsworth the thumbs up and then changed his approach stepping up onto tiptoes, sneaking out from behind the coal tubs.
Hunter spotted that the driver’s side window was half down. The driver was still in recumbent position. Taking another deep breath, he dashed forward and grabbed at the door handle, giving it a yank. But the door didn’t open. The locks were down and Hunter lost his grip. Peter Jackson was awake in a flash and reaching for the dashboard.
In an instant Hunter realised why. A knife was parked just above the steering wheel.
Peter snatched it up and thrust it towards him.
The blade shot through the half open window and thanks to his swift footwork missed Hunter by a few inches. His stomach instantly turned-turtle and without hesitation he yelled back over his shoulder “Harry, he’s got a knife.” Instinctively, taking on a defensive pose, he took a gulp and said, “Just calm down Peter. There’s no need for this.”
“You’re not taking me in,” Jackson shouted, waving the menacing steel at Hunter.
Hunter drew back his arms. “Come on don’t be stupid Peter, this is only gonna make things worse.”
“Back off copper.”
Hunter’s brain was whirling. He locked onto Jackson’s cold bloodied glare. Licking dry lips he said, “Come on be sensible. We can get this sorted out. Kim’s gonna be all right. Just give me the knife and we can forget this ever happened.” He edged one hand forward.
“Fuck off with the bullshit.”
“I’m not bullshitting Peter. There’s only me and you here. Give me the knife and I’ll say you came quietly.”
Hunter saw Jackson’s face change. The hard granite stare became a blank look. He took a step nearer.
In that instant Peter catapulted himself forwards and with a whiplash movement swung out his arm. The knife he’d been clutching whizzed through the gap in the driver’s window.
Hunter tried to react, but he had hardly turned before the blade hit him in the chest. Instinctively he staggered back and let out a gasp.
“You’re fucking lying,” Peter screamed and fired the Bluebird’s engine.
Clawing at his chest, Hunter felt the knife brush the front of his top coat as it fell towards the floor. His eyes snapped down to where the blade had hit and he heaved out a huge sigh as he realised it had struck his radio. He snatched up his eyes again at the sound of grit and gravel being churned up. The Bluebird’s wheels were spinning as it lurched forward.
For a split-second Hunter had to catch himself. His legs momentarily turning to jelly, but then his thoughts were back to the moment and he became conscious of the CID car tearing towards him. The passenger door swung open as it slowed alongside and Hunter leapt into the front seat, scrambling around for the seatbelt. In front, through a veil of coal dust and dirt he could make out Peter Jackson’s Bluebird snaking haphazardly towards the exit gates. He snatched up the car radio to broadcast their pursuit. But before he had even begun to speak, ahead, he saw the red car swerving violently. For a second he watched it slide sideways and then the rear end started to buck. Hunter could hear the Nissan’s engine scream as an uncontrollable spin followed. Seconds later it smashed into the metal gates, sending fragments of rusting steel every which way, as it careered through the gap and impacted into a grass bank. There was an almighty thump as the Bluebird bounced upwards, spun one-hundred-and eighty-degrees in the air before coming back to land on its roof with a sickening crunch.
The CID slewed to a halt yards from the crash and before Harry had even applied the handbrake Hunter was throwing open the passenger door and scrambling from his seat.
As Hunter approached the upturned Nissan he could hear Peter Jackson screaming. The sound reminded him of the time, as a young teenager, he had watched pigs being corralled into a slaughterhouse.
The upside down car was steaming. The roof was crumpled and Hunter had to drop to his knees to see inside. Peter Jackson was hanging upside down, his neck at an awkward angle as his head pressed against the inside of the roof. His legs were trapped inside a squashed bulkhead. Hunter’s eyes were everywhere as his thoughts clawed at prioritising what needed to be done. The situation looked perilous for Jackson. His face was ghostly white.
“Get me out!” he screamed. “Get me fucking out of here.”
Hunter sank even further and on all fours crawled part way inside the car. He put his hands around Jackson’s neck in an attempt to support his head but his bodyweight was too great. He continued to scream and the pitch hurt Hunter’s ears.
Hunter fixed his look. He saw that Peter’s right eye was beginning to swell and he was bleeding from his mouth. As he screamed the blood bubbled and foamed.
Hunter said, “Try and keep calm! The ambulance and fire-brigade are on their way. We’ll soon have you out.”
Peter stopped screaming and began whimpering, “I can’t feel my legs.” He reached out and grabbed Hunter’s wrist. “I’m going to die aren’t I?”
“No you’re not. We’ll have you out of here in no time. Just hold on, it won’t be long.” Hunter could feel through his grip that Peter was beginning to tremble. He continued to support his head and hold his gaze. It was then that he noticed that Jackson’s pupils were starting to dilate. Hunter knew it was not a good sign. He gently moved his head. “Come on Peter, hang in there. It’s not going to be long now.”
Jackson’s breathing became shallower. He started to mumble. “I’m dying aren’t I?”
Hunter knew things were not good and he knew he needed to say something comforting. He replied, “No you’re not Peter.”
“I am! I know I am.” He gasped and drew in a deep breath. “I don’t want to die.”
“It’s okay! We’re going to get you out. Just hang on in there.”
Tears began forming in the corner of his eyes and closing them he said softly, “I did that old lass you know.”
“I know. You don’t need to talk about it right now. Just concentrate on getting out of here.”
He took a deep breath. His chest wavered. “Will you tell her I’m sorry.” He let out a prolonged sigh and then his body went limp.
Hunter swallowed hard. He had never seen anyone die before.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWELVE
Being called to the Chief Superintendent’s office at District Headquarters for a commendation was the highest accolade of Hunter’s probation service to date.
A both nervous and yet excited energy tingled through him as he waited outside the Chief Super’s door. Sergeant Marrison was fussing over him, picking pieces of fluff off his tunic, that only a microscope would pick up.
Marrison stood back and cast an eye over
him. “Now young Kerr, go in there, stand smartly to attention, sling up your best salute and don’t say a thing unless asked a question. Understand?” Then he leaned forward and flicked a finger over Hunter’s collar, finding a loose hair. He held it up, tutted and dropped it exaggeratingly to the floor. “I’ll be right behind you, so don’t let me down.”
Kerr was reflecting on his Supervisors actions. Anyone would have thought he was on discipline proceedings rather than a commendation. A shout of “Come in” broke into his thoughts.
Silver haired Chief Superintendent King was seated behind a large oak desk. He was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a white shirt and Force tie. He pushed himself back and fixed Hunter with a smile. “I’ve been hearing good things about you Constable Kerr. If you carry on like this I can see you’re going to be heading for greater things. A little birdie tells me you’re interested in CID.”
Hunter nodded, “Yes sir.”
“Well don’t get ahead of yourself young man. You’ve got to get through your probationary period yet.” He leaned forward and interlinked his fingers. “Though on this evidence, I can’t see it being any problem.” Then for the next five minutes the Chief Superintendent applauded him for his bravery. At the end of his speech he pushed himself up from his chair, reached across his desk and took Hunter’s hand in a vice-like grip. Shaking it he finished, “Well done Constable Kerr.” Then turning to Sergeant Marrison he said, “He does credit to your supervision Sergeant.”
Out of the corner of his eye Hunter saw a smile break out on his Sergeant’s face. He heard his Supervisor say, “Thank you sir.” Then he felt a nudge on his arm.
It was time to leave.
As he turned towards the door the Chief Superintendent said at his back, “Oh and Sergeant, make sure he gets his hair cut. He’s not in CID yet.”
- ooOoo -
Read an extract from Michael’s next book:-
COMING, READY OR NOT
To be released September 2014.
PROLOGUE
25th July 1986.
Harlyn Bay, Cornwall.
The noise jolted her awake. Startled, Helen Moore snapped open her eyes but she couldn’t see a thing. A thick tar wall of darkness faced her. For a moment, the intensity of the blackness threw her and she scrambled together her thoughts. Then she remembered. She was surprised as to how dark it was inside their tent.
“Did you hear that?”
Beside her James jumped. “What?”
Helen wrenched her eyes wider, trying to pierce the gloom. But it was pointless. It was pitch black dark and so she strained to listen, holding her breath.
She whispered, “That noise?”
“Noise?”
In the distance a percussive crash of thunder fractured the silence. Helen’s heart leapt.
“It’s only thunder,” her husband said.
Somehow, she was pretty damn sure that the noise, which had disturbed her only a few seconds ago, hadn’t been thunder, but it was now trapped in the depths of her sub-conscious and she couldn’t drag it back. Through gritted teeth she sharply replied, “That’s thunder now, but I heard something else. I think I heard someone moving around outside.”
“It’ll probably be a fox.”
She made an attempt at sitting up but her sleeping bag was wrapped so tightly around her that she slumped sideways. She shouldered the ground tarpaulin heavily and let out a moan. As she fought to prop herself up a second clap of thunder peeled in the distance.
After a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling she manoeuvred herself into a sitting position, anchoring herself by drawing up her knees. Holding her breath she listened.
Silence.
Suddenly feeling foolish, Helen shook her head. It must have been the storm, she told herself, and her half-asleep mind had been playing tricks with her thoughts.
And then the noise struck up again- a rustling sound close by.
Goosebumps prickled her flesh. She stiffened. It sounded as if something or someone was dragging their way through the grass.
“There,” she said. “There it is again. Listen!”
This time she honed in on a soft shuffling sound. It sounded as if someone was padding around only a few yards from the tents entrance.
“Did you hear that?”
With a hushed moan James said, “I’ll take a look. I’m telling you it’ll just be a fox, or even a badger, something like that.”
She heard a zip unfasten and although she still couldn’t pick anything out in the darkness she could visualise her husband pulling himself out of his sleeping bag.
James brushed past her and then she heard him zipper apart the entranceway. A silvery thread of moonlight washed in through the opening, and she caught his silhouette, on all fours, edging outside.
As the tent folds closed behind him, once again her vision was overcome by blackness and she turned an ear to the entrance. At that moment, despite being encased in her sleeping bag, she felt exposed. She leaned forwards, wrapped her hands around her legs and pulled her knees tightly towards her chest.
For a few seconds the only sounds she could hear were the swish of grass and James’ soft curses. She had a vision of her husband scrambling animal-like amongst the damp undergrowth.
A sudden cry of “Oi” made her jump. Helen tightened her grip on her knees. Scuffling broke out. Then, a desperate scream of “No” pierced the night air.
An overwhelming sense of fear and dread enveloped her as she desperately fought to make sense of what was happening outside. A split-second later she felt the ground reverberate - as if someone had fallen with a heavy bump nearby.
Helen’s chest tightened. Her heart contracted and a sharp pain made her flinch. Then, her stomach turned making her feel sick and faint. She gasped and froze. She took a hold of herself. Instinct was telling her something was wrong. Dead wrong! Especially that something bad had happened to James and yet she still whimpered his name.
For a few seconds there was complete silence. She pulled her legs even tighter. Braced herself so tight that pins and needles sparked through her lower limbs.
Soft spoken words broke the peace. It sounded like someone was whispering numbers. Counting down.
Then a high-pitched tone hissed. “Coming, ready or not!”
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER ONE
17th March 2009.
Sheffield.
In The Frog and Parrot, on Division Street, Leonna Lewis’s ‘Bleeding Love’ boomed from a large set of speakers, piled high upon the staging area, reverberating into the room, tormenting Gemma Cooke’s hearing. Tormenting her, because picking her way through the song, some of the lyrics were so adversely poignant, given what she had recently gone through, and in another time and another place she might have shed a tear. But, not right now. Tonight she was going to celebrate with her friends. Added to that, the large amount of vodka and coke she had drunk over the last few hours had numbed any feelings of sorrow.
She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket; the noise had stifled its ring-tone. She moved to retrieve it. For a few seconds she fumbled around, struggling to pull it out - the combination of the tightness of her jeans and her slouched position in her seat making it difficult. Finally she tugged it free. Flipping it open she saw that she had one new message, though it wasn’t from anyone on her contact list. In fact she didn’t recognise the number. She pressed the OK button and the text flashed onto her screen. It took her only a few seconds to read the three lines of text but in that short space of time the drunken happiness she had been experiencing abandoned her, as her stomach turned-turtle and the bile rose in her throat.
An anxious voice opposite broke her free from her trance-like state.
“Gemma, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Across the table, over a sea of alcoholic drinks, Gemma sought out her best friend
Lauren. Catching her concerned look, in a loud, vitriolic tone, she snapped, “Look what that bastard�
��s just sent.”
She picked out a space amongst all the glasses and bottles, and set down her phone in the centre of the table, enabling all her friends who were hunched around to catch a glimpse. Depressing the OK button again she activated the back-lit screen.
‘I’m gonna slit ur throte an burn ur fuckin hous down bitch.’
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWO
DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION:
18th March 2009.
Barnwell.
The bedside phone rang, jerking Hunter Kerr out of a deep sleep. Beside him Beth moaned her disapproval and rolled over. It took him a couple of seconds to pull his thoughts together. The alarm hadn’t gone off. It was still dark outside. That phone call could only mean one thing. A job. Bad news for some poor sod. He grabbed the handset and hoisted himself up.
He said softly, “DS Kerr.”
He hung onto every soft Scottish syllable the woman uttered. Her voice was steady, almost soothing, despite the nature of the message she was relaying. He stored everything to memory and as she finished he let her know that he was on his way. Then he ended the call.
Fumbling around in the darkness he returned the handset, and as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb his wife further, he dragged himself out from beneath the duvet. The chill in the room caught him unawares and gave him goose pimples. Shivering uncontrollably he pulled himself into a stretch and set off for the bathroom.
* * * * *
Manvers Terrace looked every inch the crime scene by the time Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr arrived. Half-way down the street a length of blue and white POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape spanned the road, barring his way: fixed between two lampposts, it performed Mexican waves on a sharp early morning breeze.
Black & Blue: Where it all began…… (D.S Hunter Kerr) Page 6