Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 6

  Mark Gamble took over Grace’s place in front of the incident boards. Clutched in his right hand was his rolled up bundle of notes from the previous day’s actions though he never opened them as he addressed the detectives. Tapping them on the side of his thigh he picked up where Grace left off, running through yesterday’s day long footslogging visits to the traditional Asian carpet stores in Bradford. He explained that two members of his team had eventually tracked down rugs of a similar make and design to a warehouse store on an industrial unit on the outskirts of the city. Shipping receipts held by the owner identified they were part of a large consignment from the Punjab Province of Pakistan. They had pressed the owner to narrow down the location where they had been made but he had been unable to give a precise area. He had told them that many of the rugs were crafted in small factories and family homes to an ordered design which would be picked up on a weekly basis and delivered to a warehouse by the docks. Dozens of villages would be involved in one single design; it was impossible to pinpoint where the rug their body had been bound in had been made. Detective Sergeant Gamble paused, but only momentarily as though gathering his thoughts. He swapped his bundle of notes to his left hand and continued.

  “We also had the task of gathering any CCTV evidence at the country park. There is some and it does have night vision software but unfortunately it only covers the Lakeside Café, reception area and storeroom, which is all of the main building, and is a good hundred metres from the jetty where the body was thrown from. Having said that there is some coverage to the outside of the building for security and so anyone passing close by would be picked up by the system. They do store discs for a month before they are re-used so we have got our civilian investigators currently going through days and weeks of footage. If whoever killed this girl carried the body past the main building before dumping it off the jetty they will have been picked up by the cameras.” Mark paused again and stroked a comb of fingers through his thick fair hair, resting his hand at the back of his neck. “It’s a long shot but fingers crossed.”

  The briefing broke up again with the DI handing out fresh enquiries for the day. Grace scanned her eyes over the half-dozen sheets generated by the HOLMES team. She had been given the task of tracing and interview the Countryside Rangers employed at the park. She handed them over to Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars to complete; she still had to put the finishing touches to the Coroners Inquest file.

  As her two colleagues wandered out of the office, chatting about last night’s televised football game, Grace picked up the folder from the top of her tray and dropped it onto her blotter. Then she slipped off her jacket, cloaked it around the back of her seat and pulled the chair away from the desk. At the last moment before settling down she checked herself. She spun round and strode towards the office kettle, she needed a coffee; an extra caffeine hit before she started her laborious chore.

  * * * * *

  Hunter drove the hour and a half back from Scarborough District Hospital only making small talk. His head was thumping. His father beside him had been virtually silent and only Beth and his mum had struck up any long drawn-out conversation, and that had been idle chit-chat lifted from their soap magazines.

  It had been a very strained journey and one he was glad was over as he pulled up outside his parent’s home. He followed his dad in through the front door carrying in their overnight bag and set it down in the hallway. He checked that Beth was helping his mum and strode after his father who had made for the kitchen. His dad had filled the electric kettle and was settling it into its base to switch it on. “Tea son?” he asked rhetorically, flicking down the switch. He reached up into a wall cupboard for cups.

  Hunter saw him grimace, setting his teeth against one another and biting down, doing his best to disguise the pain. He edged forward. “Let me do that dad.”

  “Nae I’m fine son, it’s only a twinge.” He took out four cups, set them down and spooned in sugar for himself and Hunter.

  “Look dad I don’t want us to fall out over this,” Hunter said quietly. He could hear Beth fussing over his mother through in the next room.

  “And neither do I son.”

  “I know something’s not right, maybe it’s the policeman in me, I don’t know. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, but just think about what happened up on those moors. If I hadn’t been following you could have been there for hours. You and mum could have been killed. I don’t know what you’re covering up but it seems to me to be too dangerous not to share it.”

  Hunter’s father turned and touched his arm, looked him square on. A film of tears washed over his dad’s bright and intense blue eyes; eyes that he had inherited. “Give me some space son. I won’t promise you anything but I need some time to think it through.”

  * * * * *

  Grace ducked beneath the police crime scene tape and stepped towards the edge of the lake. She rested near to the jetty and fixed her eyes on the spot, where six days earlier, she had watched on as the Underwater Search Unit had hauled up their so-far unnamed body.

  She listened to the sounds around her; the lapping of the water and the regular thunk of the moored rowing boats against the damp wooden pilings of the quay. Behind her she could hear instructions being shouted out to the line of boiler-suited officers who were on their hands and knees carrying out a finger-tip search in one of the grid areas marked out by the forensics team. Most of Barnwell Country Park was still off limits; cordoned off as they searched for any evidence which would trap the killers of their unknown victim. She lifted her eyes and scanned the park; a place she had been so many times and which she normally associated with peace and tranquillity.

  She had come here for some fresh air having finished the Coroner’s Inquest file half an hour ago; it had taken longer than she had anticipated. All that was required was for Hunter to read it through before it was submitted. She wondered when he would be back.

  Damn; she remembered she still hadn’t rung him. She took out her mobile, flicked up the screen and speed dialled his number. As she listened to the ringing tone she stared out again across the lake. The sky looked angry, threatened rain. Last night’s forecast had said early sunshine with heavy bursts of showers later in the day. It looked like being accurate for once.

  - ooOoo -

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DAY SEVEN: 30th August.

  Barnwell:

  Hunter sat at his desk stroking the sides of his still damp hair from the shower he had taken twenty minutes previously. He had awoken just after six that morning and decided to run into work to clear the past week’s cobwebs from inside his head.

  He booted up his desk-top computer - he knew there would be an abundance of e-mails waiting for him – and leaned back in his chair. As he waited for the programme to go through its firewall security checks he set his eyes on his desk calendar. He picked up his pen and crossed off several of the previous dates; he had been away from the office for eight days.

  Another day and they would be in September; the beginning of Autumn.

  The first of September, he reminded himself – the date pricked his conscience. It had been that date twenty years ago when he had been given the news that had momentarily tore his world apart. His first serious girlfriend - Polly Hayes – had been found murdered. She had been walking her dog in woodland close to her home when she had been attacked. The dog had returned home without her sparking off a search. Police found her body three hours later.

  She had been the reason why he had joined the job seventeen years ago.

  Her killer had never been caught and he always hoped that one day he would get justice – not just for himself, but for her parents as well, who were still around, and who he still called on from time to time – though those times were becoming less frequent with the passing of years. He made a mental note to call in the next couple of days – especially with it being the anniversary of her death.

  He broke himself out of his reverie, pulled his eyes away from the cale
ndar, lifted the handset of his desk phone and began dialling the number of the forces voicemail system. Upon hearing the mechanical voice beginning its preamble he switched to speaker phone and punched in his six-digit password to retrieve his personal messages.

  “Hi, its Zita,” the first communication greeted him. “It’s three-thirty pm on Friday afternoon. Just wanting a quick chat about the country park murder. I think I might have something for you! I’m in the office tomorrow from eight am. Can you give me a call? You’ve got my number.”

  A wry smile played across his mouth. He knew a quick chat is what she did not mean. He had met Zita six months ago at an award ceremony at the Barnwell Museum and Art Gallery where he had won the Open Art Exhibition. She had introduced herself as the reporter for the Barnwell Chronicle and wanted to do a piece on him. Once she had discovered he was a DS with the MIT team she had rung him on almost a weekly basis. Deep down, he didn’t mind. He never gave anything away which would compromise an enquiry, though he privileged her with the first phone call whenever they had broken the back of an investigation. And it had worked in his favour. On a few occasions she had helped him out with background details on individuals he had been interested in. He guessed that by using the form of words she had done – that she may have something relating to their investigation – was her way of guaranteeing a call-back.

  He noted her request in his head and then hit the next message button, simultaneously he pushed himself up from his seat and made for the office kettle; he was in need of a strong, sweet, cup of tea. He switched on the kettle and listened to the next recorded call as he dropped a tea bag into his mug. It was the voice of an ex-colleague who was now the safety officer at his beloved football club, Sheffield United. He was letting him know that he had got him a couple of tickets in the Directors box for next Saturday’s home game and to give him a call. That was too good an offer to miss. He checked the time on his watch – he would make that his priority call straight after the morning briefing.

  The day’s starting well.

  He took his hot drink back to his desk and returned to the task of dealing with his e-mails – he saw from the list that most of them appeared to be in-force spam. He was relieved because he had gone into work early with the intention of clearing up as much of the accumulation of paperwork as he could, before the start of the days play. He spotted that Grace’s Coroner’s inquest file was at the top of his pile. He picked it off and opened it up across his jotter.

  Twenty-five minutes of reading, whilst slowly supping lukewarm tea, in between chewing on his pen top, saw him making headway with the inquest report and as he finished the last paragraph of Grace’s dossier he became conscious of the clamour of voices further along the corridor. He checked his watch and cursed. The team were already beginning to filter in for briefing and he’d not even made a dent in his ‘to do’ tray. He knew he was in for a long day.

  He picked up the bundle of papers and jostled them together into a semblance of neatness, and added a post-it note reminding Grace to have all the exhibits ready, including photographs and video evidence for the inquest proceedings.

  He signed it off with ‘good job’ and ‘thanks,’ dropping it across onto her desk opposite, and finished by fixing the well-chewed plastic pen top back onto his biro. He glanced at the damaged pen as he laid it across his blotter and shook his head. Terrible habit he knew, but better than biting his nails like he used to.

  Scraping back his chair he stretched his arms up over his head, straightened his back and made for the office kettle again; he’d let the last cuppa go cold before he had finished it. As he listened to the water boil he updated himself with the timeline sequence on the incident board. He also studied the mortuary shots. It was the first time he had seen them; they were horrific; such appalling violence had been meted out prior to her death. And she still had no name despite the detective superintendent’s TV appeal. He had managed to catch it twice last night, first on the early evening local news slot and then after the ten o’clock news. He double-checked the log to ensure nothing significant had happened overnight; he knew that the HOLMES team would have been covering a late shift yesterday evening to take any calls following the news plea.

  Grace entered the office bang-on 7.30am and Hunter watched her following a similar ritual to his; making a beeline for the kettle; but in her case he knew it would be coffee.

  Hugging her steaming cup he followed her movement as she sunk gently into her chair opposite whilst reading the note on the front of the inquest file. She looked up and met his eyes and then responded with a thumbs up and “cheers” before slotting the file into her out tray.

  The morning’s briefing was a low-key affair. The HOLMES team were still checking through all last night’s calls but there appeared to be nothing new to add to what had already been uncovered. DI Scaife issued some fresh priorities but Hunter’s team still had to track down and speak with all of the park’s rangers. He checked with Grace to see if she, Mike and Tony would mind finishing off the actions without him. He made the excuse that he wanted to clear his tray, but in reality he had more personally pressing things to sort out.

  “Fine Hunter, no problem. We should be able to clear them all by late this afternoon, but do you fancy working a bit over tonight?”

  “Not really,” he hesitated. “Why is there something urgent to follow up?”

  “Not urgent as such. One of the park rangers we tracked down yesterday let something out which could lead somewhere.”

  “What’s that then?” Hunter asked leaning across his desk, resting his elbows and interweaving his fingers.

  “Apparently after the park closes the ranger told Mike that some parts which are covered by trees and bushes are used by couples in cars. They have been told by their boss that whichever one of them covers a late shift should try and discourage it because there had been complaints by a few walkers out for an evening stroll. One of them let fall in conversation that one girl in particular turns up quite regular but with different guys. They know her as Tanya and it seems she has spun them some yarn about being a Russian dancer who has fled her brutal husband and is trying to make ends meet.” Grace rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth dismissively. “It’s obvious she’s a prostitute who has found a decent spot for her clients.” She pursed her mouth. “I just thought that if she is a regular visitor that there might be a chance she might have seen something suspicious, might even have clocked who dumped the body and won’t have come forward because of what she does. I thought we could stake-out the lake for a couple of evenings, and see if she turns up.”

  Hunter unlocked his fingers and pushed himself back into his seat. “I’d love to say yes Grace but I’ve got something else planned tonight.”

  “Oh okay, sorting out your parents - I understand.”

  “In a way - just something I need to follow up that’s all.”

  Grace’s eye-brows knitted together. “That all sounds rather mysterious Hunter.”

  “That’s because it is.” He pushed himself up. “It’s top secret and if I tell you I might have to kill you.” He exaggerated his smile, tapped his nose and turned towards the door.

  * * * * *

  Hunter tracked MIT’s civilian investigator Barry Newstead to the ground floor CCTV room; the back room editing suite to be precise, where he found him going through footage from Barnwell country parks security system. He crept into the semi-darkened room silently and saw that Barry was intensely scrutinising speeded up images, which were floating across one of the small viewing screens set into a desk console. Barry looked sharply over his shoulder, acknowledged Hunter with a nod and then returned to the TV monitor.

  Hunter fondly ruffled a hand through Barry’s rumple of dark dyed hair. “How’s it going big guy? Found anything?”

  The thickset, large bellied investigator grunted and shuffled to one side in his swivel chair, shaking his head away from Hunter’s rifling fingers. Hunter pulled up
a chair and slotted himself beside his old friend and colleague.

  Hunter had a real fondness for Barry Newstead. He had met him shortly after his girlfriend’s body had been found. Barry had been one of the investigating detectives’. Early on in the enquiry he had been interviewed by him on several occasions and such had been the probing nature of the questions that he had felt like a suspect. He had been so glad he had been able to offer up a solid alibi for the relevant times between her going missing and her body being found.

  Later he had deliberately sought Barry out in the pub he regularly used, to talk through the case, and it became apparent to him, from their discussions, that Barry was working slavishly to catch the killer. Unfortunately that had never happened. Barry had been the officer who had broken the bad news to him that the enquiry was being wound down because of lack of further evidence. That had been twelve months after her murder – he had been almost eighteen years old. And that had been when he had made his decision to join the police.