Unsolved

by Michael Fowler

  ‘Personal parcel for me,’ he announced to Maddie as he stepped into the office. He sat down at his desk, took out a pair of scissors from his drawer and snipped away the top of the envelope. Peering inside, he thought for a moment that he saw a doll, and intrigued, he tipped the figure onto his desk. It was a doll. Female. It was a cheap version of a Barbie, the kind from a low-budget store, wearing jeans and a pink hoodie, but the weirdest thing was the arms and legs were fastened with black plastic builder’s ties that had been trimmed, and the head was covered by a miniature clear plastic bag, the type that was resealable. Hunter stared at it for several seconds, occasionally looking across at Maddie and then returning his mystified gaze to the trussed-up doll.

  ‘What on earth…?’ uttered Maddie.

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’

  ‘I can see it’s a doll, but what’s it supposed to mean? Does it mean anything?’

  Hunter stared long and hard at the toy, his memory banks whizzing on overdrive. ‘Not a damn thing,’ he replied after a couple of seconds.

  ‘Anything else in the envelope?’

  Hunter looked at the typewritten label on the front of the envelope again, and tipping it up, gave it a shake. Out fell a sheet of folded paper. He set down the envelope, slipped on a pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer, and lifting the A4 sheet at one corner with finger and thumb, he unfurled it. On it was typed:

  Detective Sergeant Kerr, I hope you don’t mind my personal approach, but the thing is I feel I know you as if you were an old friend. I do have to say you have done ever so well for yourself. Married with two fine sons and now a Detective Sergeant. It has to be all those cases you’ve solved. Though I have to say you’ve not done so well with your latest case. There hasn’t been anything on the news recently. Have you come to a dead end? Well, here’s a little clue to help you on your way.

  P.S. I’ll see how you get on with this before I decide whether to send you another clue or not.

  ‘Are they on about the Bannister case?’ Maddie asked after Hunter had read it out to her.

  Hunter placed the doll and the note into separate clear plastic evidence wallets and sealing them, he signed and dated the bags. For a few seconds he studied each of the items again, and then lifting his eyes, answered, ‘No. I think this might be referring to the investigation being conducted by MIT. That Rasa, the Lithuanian girl, whatever her name is, that’s disappeared. The envelope is addressed to me at MIT. Whoever sent them is obviously not aware of my transfer. I think this might be a clue as to what’s happened to Rasa.’

  ‘She’s dead? Suffocated with a plastic bag, you mean?’

  Firm-mouthed, Hunter slowly nodded. ‘Either that, or this is from one of those freaks you get contacting you whenever there’s a case like this. Though I’m more inclined to think that this is not some prank. I think they’ve sent that doll because they want us to understand it represents Rasa and what they’ve done to her. That note is their way of confirming that. Remember the CCTV they showed of her on the news? She had long blonde hair.’ Hunter was already using the past tense when he responded.

  Maddie shook her head. ‘If she is dead, and that’s how she died, that must have been horrible. I can’t imagine what she must have gone through.’

  ‘We know there’s some evil people out there, Maddie,’ Hunter replied, tight-lipped, adding, ‘Having not been involved in the case, it would be interesting to see if she was wearing a pink hoodie and jeans on the day she disappeared.’ He picked up his mobile, said, ‘I’ll get hold of Grace and see if she can talk,’ and sent her a text. In less than a minute she had answered. Hunter read her reply and said to Maddie, ‘She’s out on an enquiry; she says she should be back in an hour and she’ll pop into the office.’

  Maddie acknowledged this with a nod. ‘Are you going to show her the doll and note?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll see if she thinks the same as me and then make a decision on whether it could be evidence or not. I don’t want to give St. John-Stevens too much of a leg-up with the case, do I? It might make him look good.’ He laughed at his own joke and then his mouth set firm. ‘Sadly, the other side of this is that he might think I’m pulling some kind of stunt on him, given what he thinks about me.’

  Maddie rolled her eyes. ‘You men.’

  It was half past eleven before Grace strolled into the Cold Case office. Mike Chapman was in tow.

  ‘Wotcha,’ Mike said, plonking himself down at one of the empty desks. ‘Are you gonna stick the kettle on? I’m parched.’

  ‘It’s over there,’ Maddie responded.

  Mike harrumphed, pushed himself up and went to make the drinks.

  Grace said hello to Maddie and then asked Hunter, ‘What’s up?’

  He showed her the doll and note in the exhibit bags.

  Reading the letter first, she then scrutinised the doll. Upon finishing, she looked up and said, ‘Wow. When did you get these?’

  Hunter jerked his chin towards the bags. ‘They came in a padded envelope this morning addressed to me. I think they refer to your case. Whoever sent them thinks I’m involved in it.’

  ‘And you think that this is might be a confession from the person who abducted Rasa? That they’ve killed her?’

  ‘Either that or a prank. The letter hasn’t got the best grammar I’ve seen.’

  ‘On par with the statement-taking of some officers I know,’ laughed Grace, angling her head towards Mike Chapman, who was just setting down four mugs of tea.

  Hunter had just picked up his mug and was about to make a comment when the door burst open and in strode St. John-Stevens, his face flushed.

  ‘I was told this was where I might find you all. My, this is all very cosy, having a chat over a cup of tea when there’s work to be done.’ He arrowed a finger at Grace and Mike. ‘You two were given tasks from this morning’s briefing.’

  ‘We’ve done them,’ Grace answered back sharply, jolting upright.

  ‘Well, you should be handing them back to the DI and filling in your journals, not having a jolly old chinwag. This is not kindergarten.’ The DCI planted his hands firmly on his hips. ‘And as for you, Detective Sergeant Kerr: I left a message for you to contact me the moment you came in. That was two-and-a-half-hours ago.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring you, boss. Your phone’s been engaged,’ Hunter lied.

  ‘Not for two-and-a-half hours, it hasn’t. And why didn’t you come to find me, in that case? I’m only down the corridor. And how many times do I have to tell you I don’t like being called boss?’

  Hunter could see St. John-Stevens’ face flushing even redder. He answered calmly, ‘Did you want me for anything important, sir?’

  ‘First, I want to know where you were you off to so early this morning?’

  ‘Just nipped out to see a former colleague who’s not been well. He took a bad turn while on holiday recently. I heard he might have had a heart attack, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay,’ Hunter lied again.

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Roger Mills. He was my tutor when I joined. He was in uniform.’ Hunter watched the DCI’s face contort with anger. He thought he was going to explode.

  ‘I know who he is, and I’m hoping it was only a welfare visit and nothing to do with him being involved in the Bannister case that I told you to drop?’

  Suddenly, Hunter felt good. This was the first time that he felt he had the upper hand with St. John-Stevens. Straight-faced and with a degree of satisfaction, he replied, ‘Of course it was a welfare visit, sir. I never even mentioned the case. The file’s been in my out tray for the past couple of days. In fact, didn’t you pick it up this morning?’ Hunter watched the DCI studying his features. He kept a poker face.

  ‘If I think for one minute you’ve been behind my back, disobeying an order, I will have your badge. Do you understand?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

  The DCI gave Hunter a long, hard stare and Hunter held his gaze, not fli
nching. After a good twenty seconds, St. John-Stevens snatched back his glare, turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. As the door closed everyone looked at one another, and when they were confident he was out of earshot, they burst into a fit of laughter.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ The man cursed to himself, pacing backwards and forwards inside the dilapidated portacabin. He kicked a chair, sending it crashing against the wall, before stopping at the grimy window, looking out across the yard. Last night’s rain had filled the uneven tracks with water, the surface of which glistened with the waste oil that had gradually leaked from the dozens of rusting, scrapped cars stacked in threes, end to end. His eyes rested on the open shipping container outside. He could just make out the rear end of the burned-out Ford Escort sticking out of it, his focus zeroing in on the boot where he had hidden the Lithuanian prostitute’s body. For a split second the image of her squirming and thrashing, her mouth sucking at the plastic bag over her head as she clawed for breath, flashed inside his head. He wondered if Detective Sergeant Kerr had received his package yet, and if he had, would he catch on to what it symbolised? He was sure he would, having read about the cases he had been involved in.

  Once he had bought the doll, he had spent days scouring dozens of charity shops, shopping for similar clothes to the ones the prostitute was wearing so he could send the right message. He’d love to be a fly on the wall when DS Kerr opened it. Would it be on the news? Thoughts of the news triggered a vision of the night before last, when he’d messed up and almost got caught. Thankfully, the mask and false plates would make sure he wouldn’t be identified, but he had to be careful from hereon in. The last thing he needed to do was make another mistake.

  Hunter drove home in a dreamlike state, his thoughts bouncing between the parcel he had been sent anonymously and St. John-Stevens’ obnoxious behaviour. Why does it feel like I’m back at school every time I’m in his presence? Although this time he had rattled the man with his responses, he could tell from the DCI’s reaction that he didn’t believe one word of what he had said, and he knew that at some stage he would be looking to get back at him. He had immediately warned Roger to expect a call from St. John-Stevens and told his former colleague what he had said to the DCI about doing a welfare visit. Roger assured him that he’d be more than willing to back him up.

  By the time Hunter had pulled onto his drive he was wired with frustration, and entering his home, he threw his coat over the bannister, went straight to the kitchen and took out a chilled beer from the fridge. Flipping off the top, not bothering with a glass, he necked half the beer in one gulp, letting out a heavy sigh as he removed the bottle from his lips.

  ‘Heavy day?’ Beth said, appearing at the door.

  ‘St. John-Stevens again.’

  Beth went to the fridge and took out a box of mince. ‘Spag bol for tea,’ she said, tearing back the cellophane wrapping. ‘Why don’t you apply for a transfer? You don’t have to put up with him. He’s doing your blood pressure no good at all.’

  Hunter took another glug of beer, and then wiping a dribble from the corner of his mouth answered, ‘Because I’m not giving him the satisfaction of thinking he’s beaten me, that’s why.’

  Beth stopped what she was doing, and turning to him, replied, ‘Well, I’ve no sympathy for you, then. All I can say is that you’re as stubborn as he is.’

  Hunter finished his beer and set down the empty bottle. ‘I’m going to get showered and changed.’ He was about to step away when Beth glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Where do the empties go?’ she said sternly.

  Hunter shook his head and dumped the bottle in the waste bin. Then, walking away, he said with a grin, ‘I don’t know, I’ve St. John-Stevens on my back at work and Beth Kerr on my case when I get home.’ Then he scurried away, letting out a laugh. As he climbed the stairs, he already felt better.

  Before jumping in the shower, he dropped in on the boys. Jonathan was doing his homework. Acknowledging his eldest with a brief nod and saying he wouldn’t disturb him, Hunter quickly moved on to Daniel’s bedroom. He was on his Xbox. Hunter said the same to his youngest, turned down the offer to play Call of Duty, telling Daniel to lower the sound, closed his door and went into his bedroom to undress. After a quick shower, Hunter changed into his joggers and T-shirt and made his way back downstairs. Beth was adding Ragu sauce to the fried mince and onions.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked, kissing her neck.

  ‘You can set the table,’ she replied over her shoulder and added, ‘Your phone’s been going. I think you’ve got a message.’

  Hunter had left his mobile near the charger. He picked it up. The message was from Grace. She was asking if they could meet tomorrow, and she’d sent an image snapped from a frozen clip of CCTV footage that they had of Rasa Katiliene prior to her disappearance. As he studied the picture of the bleach-blonde Lithuanian wearing a pink hoodie and jeans, he had no doubt in his mind that the doll he had been sent was meant to reflect her characteristics, and couldn’t help but think that it had to be Rasa’s killer who had sent it. But why me? thought Hunter. Who’s toying with me?

  For the rest of the day, the mysterious sender of his parcel preyed on his thoughts, as did the contents, especially the letter. Its cryptic message hinted at someone from his past, and he spent the evening replaying every case over his nineteen-year career, trying to recall some of the conversations he had had with each of the villains that might earmark one of them as the sender of the note; but no matter how hard he tried to filter just one of them from his brain’s archives, no one sprang to mind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  6.45 a.m. Hunter smacked off the alarm, got out of bed wearily, and in the dark trudged to the bathroom, staying longer in the shower to refresh himself. He’d had another restless night, grappling with thoughts on who the mysterious messenger and probable killer of Rasa Katiliene was, but his overworked brain hadn’t solved it. Dressing on the landing, he crept back into the bedroom, kissed Beth on the forehead, told her he’d see her later and tiptoed downstairs. He made himself a mug of tea and a couple of pieces of toast and then quietly left.

  He drove to work with the radio turned down, pondering over what to do about the doll and note. If it had been his old boss, Dawn Leggate, he wouldn’t have hesitated to hand them over so they could thrash out their relevance to the investigation, but he had no appetite to help St. John-Stevens. Once Maddie got in, he would talk it through with her and get her opinion. And he was meeting Grace later that day to discuss the matter. If she said that it could be a probable lead, he’d abide by her decision, even if it did mean helping his archenemy.

  As Hunter entered the office, he was greeted with bright autumn sunlight pouring through the windows, arcing warm shafts of light across the room, and it instantly lifted his mood. The first thing he did was unlock his desk drawers and check the doll and note were still there. They were. Slipping off his coat, he booted up his computer and then drifted across the room, switching on the kettle, checking his watch. It would be another hour before Maddie got in.

  He had just poured boiling water over the tea bag in his mug when his mobile rang. He thought it might be Beth, but he looked at the screen before answering. Zita Davies. Zita was a reporter with the local Chronicle. A couple of years ago, she had publicised his painting success at an exhibition at the Mall Galleries in London, resulting in him gaining representation by a reputable gallery in Lincoln, and in return he had given her the heads-up whenever a case had broken. A few years ago, she had given him a lead on a case that had helped them identify a female victim who had been murdered and dumped in Barnwell Lake. They had been in touch ever since with Hunter sharing his team’s successes. As the deadline was looming for the weekly paper, he guessed she was ringing for an update on Rasa Katiliene’s disappearance, believing he was involved in the enquiry.

  Hunter answered the call, preparing to disappoint her. ‘Good morning, Zita. To what do I owe this p
leasure, as if I couldn’t guess?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not a pleasant phone call, Hunter. I’m ringing you about the piece in the Yorkshire Post this morning.’

  ‘Yorkshire Post! I haven’t read the Yorkshire Post in years. What’s the piece you’re talking about?’ His face screwed up with bewilderment as he talked.

  ‘It’s a piece about you. In fact, it’s front-page news.’

  ‘About me!’

  ‘It says Guernsey Police are investigating you over the death of Billy Wallace on Sark.’ Following a brief pause, she said, ‘Is it true?’

  Her information sent his brain into a spin. For a second he struggled to get out his words. Finally, he said, ‘Zita, I need to see what it says.’

  ‘Is it true, though?’ she asked softly.

  Even though Hunter trusted Zita, the bottom line was she was a journalist, and journalists were always looking for front-page news. What she had just told him was front-page news. Swallowing hard, he said, ‘I’ll need to see what they’ve put before I say anything.’

  ‘I’ll text you the link.’ She paused again before adding, ‘You will get back to me, won’t you? My editor wants the story, and he’s asked me to write it. I’ve got no choice, I’m afraid, Hunter. I’ll do my best to give you a fair hearing, trust me.’

  ‘I know you will, Zita. Let me read it and I’ll come back to you.’

  Seconds after ending the call, his phone pinged and he opened up his incoming message. Zita had sent the link to the Yorkshire Post feature. Watching it upload, Hunter could feel his stomach churning. When it appeared on the screen, it was as if he had been hit by a meteor. The headline was a straight lift from the book HUNTER KILLER. Without reading on, he knew from the title this was not going to be good. He read the leading paragraph.