Barry offered a curt nod as he dropped down into his chair before his cluttered desk. ‘You look shit, Hunter. Out on the piss last night?’
Hunter rode the sarcasm without a hint of expression. ‘No I wasn’t on the piss last night, I, being a dedicated detective – unlike some of us – have been at a murder scene most of the night.’
Barry returned a wry smile, ‘Well for your sake, and looking at the state of you, I’m hoping you’ve solved it, so that you can get yourself off and get some shut-eye.’
Hunter shook his head, ‘Do you know, Barry, sometimes you leave me speechless.’
Wrenching his big arms out of his jacket sleeves Barry returned, ‘Give us the run-down then, Sergeant.’
‘For what you’ve just said, Barry – No. You can wait for the gaffer to come back to do morning briefing.’
Barry reached behind and tossed his coat over the back of his chair. Calmly he said, ‘You’re always a grumpy bugger when you’re tired.’
It was almost 9.00 a.m. before morning briefing got underway. Led by Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate, she brought the room to attention by slapping a hand flat against the large dry-wipe incident board. ‘Morning everyone, we’ll get things started, shall we.’
Dawn reached across the front of the board, stopping her hand at the first of four photographs stuck upon it. She tapped a finger over a portrait pose colour photograph of a very pretty, cheery faced, young woman, with shoulder length, honey-blonde hair.
‘This is our victim, twenty-nine-year-old Gemma Cooke, a mobile beauty therapist,’ she opened. ‘At two eleven a.m., this morning, Valerie Bryce, Gemma’s next door neighbour, at number thirty-six, made a three-nines call to the police, to the effect that a man was banging and shouting at Gemma’s back door and that she had heard glass break. She told the operator in Communications that she thought it was Gemma’s boyfriend and that we should get there quick because he was violent. The operator asked Valerie to stay on the line and describe what she could see and hear, and at two thirteen a.m. she told the operator that Gemma’s boyfriend had just come running out from the alleyway at the side of the house and was haring off towards the industrial estate.’ Her eyes scanned the room. ‘Valerie is absolutely certain it was Gemma’s boyfriend she saw running away from the address. She’s been interviewed and we have a statement from her confirming this. She’s told us that for the past twelve months Adam Fields has been living with Gemma at this address. She’s also told us that a couple of weeks ago he confronted her in the street and called her an interfering old slag and threatened to “do” her if she didn’t keep her nose out of his business. Apparently she has called us on a couple of occasions recently, after hearing Gemma shouting and screaming through the walls of the house. She also told us that she’s seen Gemma in the back garden, when she’s been hanging out her washing, with her arms all bruised. With regards those calls I’ve requested all tagged incidents to this address as well as copies of tapes of the phone calls.’ She returned her eyes back to the incident board, manoeuvring her hand away from Gemma’s portrait photograph to where a timeline had been drawn up, timed and dated at various points in black dry-wipe pen. ‘Back to this morning’s call, PCs Stevens and Wileman, who were in the Response Car, were dispatched to thirty-four Manvers Terrace, arriving at two nineteen a.m. They found Gemma lying in a pool of blood, with a knife sticking in her chest.’ She drew her hand away and pointed out two crime scene photographs beside Gemma’s portrait pose. Her crumpled and bloody corpse had been captured from two opposing angles. ‘The officers state that Gemma was still alive and requested back-up and an ambulance. A Paramedic had already been dispatched and arrived five minutes after the police but he says that when he got there Gemma was dead. The Pathologist who attended, our good friend Lizzie McCormack, has examined Gemma’s body at the scene and so far has found fourteen separate stab wounds, eight of them defensive wounds to her hands and arms. Her preliminary findings are that there were two wounds which could have caused death. One is an elongated cut across her throat and the other is a deep stab wound to her chest. As I say this is only her preliminary finding. She will be carrying out a full post-mortem at eleven a.m. this morning.’ She returned her gaze back to her team of detectives. ‘Motive! Well at the moment it looks like revenge. And the chief suspect is her boyfriend, stroke partner, thirty-two-year-old, Adam Fields.’ She banged a hand over the fourth photo affixed upon the board. This one was a head and shoulders police mugshot of a white male, clean shaven and sporting a shaven head. Solid shoulders and trapezius, which curved up and almost touched each side of his jaw, completed the appearance of a man who regularly trained with weights. ‘This is one very nasty bully. He has previous for violence, especially against women. Six years ago he did an eighteen month stretch in Armley for wounding a previous girlfriend. He glassed her during an argument in the pub.’ She paused, roaming her eyes around the room. After a few seconds, pulling back her gaze, she continued, ‘With regards Gemma, there are seven tagged incidents for thirty-four Manvers Terrace, all relating to domestic violence. Four days ago, Adam was arrested on suspicion of assault upon Gemma, and all I know at the moment, from our system, is that he was given police bail to his parents’ address. Uniform have been to that address this morning and carried out a thorough search. He wasn’t there and his parents have told us that they haven’t seen him since the day of his arrest. Apparently he never stayed there like he should have done. He told them he was going to stay at a friend’s house, but he didn’t say which friend.’ She pulled away her hand and swept her eyes around the room again. ‘I have drawn up a list of priorities but the main focus of the day is the capture of this ugly-looking heap of shite. And as an incentive, I have a bottle of Scotland’s finest which I will donate to the one who locks him up before the day is out.’
By 8.00 p.m. Hunter was battling with tiredness. His head was thumping and he was sapped of energy. Sitting at his desk, cupped hands supporting his head, Hunter watched through eyelids that felt as if they were loaded with lead, as Dawn Leggate gave the evening debrief. He knew that she’d been going as long as he and was amazed at how fresh she still looked as she addressed the squad.
The day had been frantic. The team hadn’t drawn breath while pulling out all the stops to locate Adam Fields, but they had failed in their task. Now the SIO was reeling off a long list of actions which she wanted prioritising for the following day.
Hunter tried to retain and store her words but he was struggling. His brain was as exhausted as his body. He made a few notes, to aid his memory, but when he checked them the words were disjointed. As the SIO called it a day Hunter picked up the notes and dropped them in his in tray. He couldn’t even be bothered to tidy up his desk before he left.
Driving home, he had both driver and passenger window open and willed himself to stay awake. As he pulled into his drive he noticed his home was in darkness. Then he remembered the earlier text his wife, Beth, had sent. She was taking Jonathan and Daniel to the cinema that evening. She had signed it off with a couple of kisses, which had given him reassurance that she wasn’t mad with him for breaking his promise to be with them.
Selfishly, Hunter heaved a grateful sigh. Though he deeply loved their company, right now all he wanted was peace and his own space.
He entered the house, switched on the hall light, keyed in the alarm code to deactivate it and trudged through to the kitchen. In the fridge he found a plate of cold spaghetti bolognese, cling-filmed. Microwave ready. He ignored it. He was even too tired to eat. Instead he picked a bottle of beer from the top shelf, screwed off the top and took a long gulp. It had an instant refreshing effect. He closed his eyes trying to reflect on the long day. The only thing flashing behind his eyelids was that image of the bloodied handprint upon the fridge door. He snapped open his eyes, stared at the bottle of beer for a few seconds and once more fixed it to his lips. He downed it in one and then dropped the empty bottle into the re-cycling bin. Leaving the kitch
en he lazily climbed the stairs, needing the banister to haul up his muscle-weary body. In the bedroom he stripped off, draping his suit over the back of the chair by the dressing table and dropped the rest of his clothes into the wash basket. Then he made for the bathroom and climbed into the shower. He stayed longer than normal, leaning his head back, letting the warm jets of water play over his face. Drying himself vigorously he wrapped the towel around his waist and padded to the bedroom. He dropped backwards onto his inviting bed and laid back his head. The soft duvet and pillow moulded around him. For a few seconds he dragged his eyes around the ceiling. Slowly he found that his focus was blurring.
I’ll just close them for a few minutes, until Beth and the boys get back.
He never heard them come in.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER THREE
Day Two: 19th March.
Hunter’s bedside alarm woke him with a jolt. For a couple of seconds his mind was in a state of confusion and then he heard a soft moan beside him and everything came back. He turned over and snuggled into Beth. She had her back towards him and he looped an arm over her, dragging her closer and he nestled his head into the nape of her neck. Her skin and hair smelt of fresh strawberries. He breathed in the perfumed aroma and then pressed his lips into her soft skin and kissed her.
‘Sorry about last night.’
‘Busy day?’ she mumbled back.
‘Hmmm. Tell you about it tonight.’ He kissed her again, rolled away, flicked aside the duvet and sat up on the edge of the bed. He checked the bedside clock. It was just after 6.30 a.m. He launched himself out onto the carpet and stretched. As his fingers clawed their way up towards the ceiling a jolt of fresh energy surged through him like high-voltage electricity re-energising last night’s drained body. Stepping into the shower his head was switching into work mode, thinking about the tasks which lay ahead.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ Detective Superintendent Leggate’s voice boomed across the MIT office.
Hunter snapped up his head. He had been so absorbed in sorting out the paperwork littering his desk from the previous day’s activities that he hadn’t noticed his SIO come into the room. She was standing in front of the incident board, hands clasped before her, almost prayer-like. This morning, her ginger, auburn tinted hair had been swept into a chignon updo, the fringe sweeping across her forehead, partially covering her right eye.
‘We have a lot to get through today,’ she said. ‘Last night more addresses were turned over for Adam Fields, but unfortunately we got no joy. We have now exhausted those enquiries and he has been widely circulated. An intelligence package has been put together for his arrest, and I want you, Mark’ – she unclasped her hands and pointed towards DS Mark Gamble – ‘and your team to focus on capturing him.’ She withdrew her finger and swept the room with her gaze. ‘But I want you all to make yourself familiar with the contents of that package before you leave the office today. The arrest of Adam Fields is our key priority.’ Dawn Leggate laboured over her last sentence and stared into the room for a few seconds. Then she continued. ‘Now to our victim, Gemma Cooke. We know that her address was tagged because of domestic violence and we also know that her boyfriend – Mr Fields – was arrested for assaulting her five days ago and released on bail. The full circumstances of all those incidents are in a file with the Public Protection Unit. I spoke with the DI who runs that last night and he’s going to arrange for that to be made available for us this morning.’ She fixed Hunter with her hazel eyes. ‘I want you, Hunter, and Grace, to pick that file up and have a chat with the officer who dealt with Fields. See if you can glean anything different to what we have on our system, especially as to where he might be holed up.’
Hunter acknowledged with a nod.
‘And now I want to bring in Mike who spent all day at the scene yesterday with forensics. He’s going to run through what they’ve turned up.’
DC Mike Sampson scraped back his chair, used his desk to lever himself up and made his way to the front of the MIT room.
Hunter eyed him carefully. The ghost-like vision of Mike lying unconscious, on life-support, flashed inside Hunter’s head generating a sudden feeling of anxiety. It could have just as easily been me. Taking a sharp breath he held it. Then he chased away his thoughts and followed Mike’s progress to the front of the room. He couldn’t help but admire how quickly Mike had recovered from the life-threatening attack three months earlier; Mike had been stabbed during a stake-out to catch a killer on the last case. The murderer had got away but Hunter had tracked him down several days later and cornered him. He had used the knife again in an attempt to evade capture. On this occasion the killer had not been so fortunate and Hunter had exacted his own brand of justice during his arrest. The man was currently in prison awaiting trial.
Continuing to note Mike’s confident strut Hunter realised he had made the right decision to give him last night’s job. Mike was ready. And it wasn’t just mentally, he thought to himself as he monitored him closely. Mike’s whole physical appearance had morphed during his period of rehabilitation. Three months earlier he had been considerably overweight, and now, although still on the beefy side, he was a shadow of his former self. His mode of dress had changed as well – no more ill-fitting suits. Today he was wearing a dark grey, two-piece suit, which looked new, and beneath that a white shirt, tucked neatly into his waistband, fronted with a deep red tie, which Hunter noted he could now knot at the collar. Mike had also grown his hair longer and he sported a goatee beard, but whereas three months ago his hair had been dark, now it was peppered liberally with grey. Nevertheless, Hunter had to admit, as he watched Mike preparing himself for his speech, that he looked a picture, both of health and of sartorial elegance.
Mike Sampson picked up a hand remote device from a table by the side of the dry wipe incident board and smoothed a hand down the front of his tie as he faced his colleagues.
‘I’ve had much of the footage, which SOCO and Forensics took yesterday, put together for a presentation. I know how you lot struggle with the intellectual technical jargon,’ he smiled.
He certainly hadn’t lost his sense of humour, Hunter told himself.
Mike aimed the remote up towards the ceiling where a projector hung. Immediately a colour image of the front of 34 Manvers Terrace flashed onto the incident board. More pictures flashed onto the board, the alleyway at the side of the front door followed by the rear of the premises with its open kitchen door. Close-up shots of the broken lock and smashed glass panel quickly replaced the opening sequence of images.
‘We can see that the rear door has definitely been forced. Several shoe prints have been lifted from the panels indicating it had been kicked in.’ He paused a few seconds and then introduced a wide shot of the kitchen. Gemma’s corpse dominated the picture, surrounded by blood. Its earlier crimson colour was now dirty brown. ‘The post-mortem has revealed a catalogue of injuries, both old and new, on Gemma’s body. Two of those were equally severe enough to have caused her death. The first was a six-inch long cut to her throat and the second was a penetrating stab wound to her chest. The knife was still embedded in her chest when uniform and paramedics got there.’ Gripping the remote even tighter in his right hand Mike tapped the open palm of his left. ‘Gemma had other stab wounds – two to the right side of her thigh and one to the stomach. She had defence wounds to both hands and arms. In fact, one of those injuries severed the tendons of her right hand. It looks as if she attempted to grab the knife away from her attacker.’
That last sentence jarred Hunter’s concentration. The bloodied handprint upon the fridge door momentarily flashed inside his head again and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine.
Mike continued, ‘She also had bruising to her face. The pathologist has determined that three of the bruises were old ones and puts them in the region of being approximately one week old. Those are more than likely the injuries she received when she reported the assault carried out by Adam Fields. I’ve
requested those photos she had taken when she reported the assault for comparison. There is a fresh bruise to her left cheek, just below her eye. That more than likely happened during last night’s attack. The blow fractured her cheekbone.’ He aimed the remote back at the projector and the image slowly zoomed in on Gemma’s body. Mike halted its progress at a close-up of the knife embedded in the centre of her chest. ‘This is a steak knife, similar in make to other knives she has around the kitchen. Duncan Wroe has recovered several good prints from its handle, so we’re hopeful they’re those of the perpetrator and not Gemma’s.’ Mike expanded the focus of the picture back to the original shot. ‘I just want to show you a couple more things. The first is this.’ He half-turned to the board behind him and with the remote made a circle motion around a pizza box resting on the kitchen work surface. Then he flicked the remote back to the projector and the image changed to a shot of a lounge. A grey and black L-shaped corner sofa took up most of the right hand side of the room. In the centre of the picture was a chrome and glass topped coffee table, and in the top left hand corner of the shot was a large flat screen TV with DVD player. The picture zoomed in again homing in on two wine glasses on the coffee table. A residue of red juice was visible in the bottom of both vessels. The image remained on the screen for a good twenty seconds and then it was replaced by one of a bedroom. A white antique frame double bed took up most of the screen. The duvet had been thrown aside, cascading over the side of the mattress onto the floor. The picture zoomed in again and its progress halted on a small section of carpet by the right hand side of the bed. Here there was a discarded torn condom packet. ‘All these indicate that Gemma had a visitor last night. Most of the pizza was eaten, an empty bottle of wine was in the kitchen bin and I don’t need to enlighten anyone regarding the empty condom packet. We haven’t found the condom. We think it might have been flushed down the loo. What we do have however is lots of trace evidence. Prints on the glasses, and on the bottle and what look like semen stains on the bottom sheet of the bedding.’
Coming, Ready or Not Page 3
