Hunter suddenly remembered how he had felt that day he had been told they had found his girlfriend, Polly, murdered. It was the best part of a week before he’d learned she’d been stabbed, and from then on a whole host of ghostly visions of her being attacked by a stranger had visited him frequently for twenty-one years, only stopping when he had learned who her killers were and captured them. Until then, he’d repeatedly had feelings of anguish, despair and guilt. It was the reason why he had joined the police — to catch her killer and lock away the demons that haunted him.
With that thought, Hunter dragged his eyes back from the house and pulled away from the kerb to head into work. He hoped his former boss could come up with a way to help him try and resolve this case, if only for Alice to get closure.
Hunter checked his watch as he entered the building. It was coming up to lunchtime. He had put off speaking with St. John-Stevens long enough. It was time to face another one of his demons. He made his way up to his office, hoping he wasn’t in, but as he tramped along the corridor his hope turned to despair upon seeing his dark shadow at his desk through the green smoked glass panels. Hunter rapped on the glass door, taking a deep breath.
‘Come in,’ the DCI shouted.
Hunter pushed open the door and stepped into the lion’s den.
The DCI looked up from his paperwork.
‘You wanted to see me,’ Hunter said. The words seemed to stick in his throat for a split second before they came out. He was experiencing a degree of nervousness that he hadn’t had thirty seconds ago.
‘I thought I said first thing this morning.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been busy. Time slipped away.’
St. John-Stevens’ face flushed and his mouth tightened. ‘When I say I want to see you first thing, I mean first thing. Not when you feel like it.’
Hunter stood to attention and took in another deep breath, holding it for a good few seconds before releasing it slowly. He didn’t want the DCI to see he had him rattled. He replied, ‘Do I need someone from the Federation for this meeting?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Is this a disciplinary or a chat?’
‘Don’t be facetious, Sergeant Kerr.’
‘I’m not being facetious. It’s a simple question, sir.’
The DCI’s face reddened further. ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you, sergeant?’
Hunter was puzzled by that comment. He answered, ‘No.’
‘Know where I’ve been?’
Hunter’s eyebrows knitted. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘Headquarters. Discussing you.’
‘And did it go your way?’ Hunter spat out the words. He knew he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t resist. He saw St. John-Stevens inhale sharply and watched his fingers claw at his desk.
The DCI answered, ‘If it had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Instead, you would be handing over your warrant card.’ He paused, interlocking his fingers. ‘Which I’m still working on, by the way.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Your journalist friend did you a very big favour with her article in this week’s Chronicle. You could say it saved your bacon.’
The nervousness Hunter was experiencing slowly dissipated. He realised the outcome he had earlier dreaded was instead going his way. With an edge of defiance, he responded, ‘Had to counter the story you gave to The Yorkshire Post.’
For a moment, the DCI didn’t respond. When he did, he said, ‘Can I ask how you managed to get her to write her article in your favour? Are you in bed with the enemy, sergeant?’
Hunter issued a thin, roguish smile. ‘She’s just a friend.’
‘A friend, you say. A special friend?’
‘Just a friend. Something you don’t have.’
The DCI quickly unclasped his hands, turning them into fists. His face turned purple. ‘What!’ he blasted.
‘Are we done here, sir? I’m very busy.’
‘You think you’re clever, don’t you, Sergeant Kerr? Well, let me give you this warning. You might have a few people fighting your corner for now, but that won’t always be the case, sergeant. Soon I’ll be up there, and boy, will you rue the day when that happens.’
Hunter stared long and hard at the DCI. He could feel anger rising to the surface. He needed to remain cool. He said slowly, ‘Is that it, sir?’
‘You need to know, sergeant, that if you take me on, you’ll not win. And when you fall, there will be no one around to catch you.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that.’ Hunter slipped his mobile out of his pocket and held it up. ‘I’ve just recorded this conversation. I’m sure the Federation solicitor will only be too pleased to hear it. I’m sure this constitutes bullying in the workplace. Now, unless you have anything else to say, I’ll get on with my work.’
Hunter waited for a few seconds, and when the DCI didn’t respond, he turned on his heel and left the office. He felt sick.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘God, I need a drink,’ Hunter blurted, entering the office, yanking off his coat and tossing it over his chair. ‘And not just tea.’
Maddie looked up from her computer. ‘I’m guessing you’ve just come back from seeing the boss?’
‘When will that man ever leave me alone?’ he chuntered, picking up the kettle, shaking it and then switching it on. ‘I think I’ve probably gained some respite for a few days at least.’ Arranging two mugs, Hunter told Maddie about his mobile phone reveal.
She let out a laugh. ‘You never did?’
‘No, I didn’t. But he’s not to know I haven’t recorded it. But I’ll tell you what, when I saw the look on his face when I told him, it made me think that I should do that from now on. He can’t keep treating me like this.’ Hunter dunked the tea bags in the mugs of hot water, stirred them around for thirty seconds and slung them in the bin. Adding milk and sugar, he brought the tea back to the desks, and as he put the mugs down, he spotted a brown padded envelope in his top tray. He caught Maddie’s eye and dipped his head towards it.
‘Oh, that came half an hour ago. The receptionist brought it up. It looks like another parcel from that mysterious boyfriend of yours. Or should I say not so mysterious, if it’s from Dylan Wolfe.’
Hunter eyed it for a few seconds, then took out a pair of latex gloves from his desk, pulled them on and picked up the envelope. It had the same printed label addressed to himself at Barnwell MIT. He turned it over, slipped the blade from a pair of scissors under the flap, slowly slit it open and gently tipped out the contents. The first thing to tumble out was a doll’s plastic knee-length boot. That was quickly followed by two small pieces of bone that clattered onto the desk. Hunter ran his eyes over both items before casting a quick gaze across to Maddie, who was doing the same.
‘Are those human bones?’ she asked, not taking her eyes off them.
Hunter studied them for a few seconds and then answered, ‘No, I don’t think so. Too small. They look more like chicken bones to me. From a thigh.’ He raised the padded envelope to check if there’s was anything else inside, and seeing there was, dipped his hand inside, and with finger and thumb pulled out a folded piece of paper. Double-checking the envelope was now empty, he set it aside and opened the slip of paper. Out fell a picture from the folds. It was a black and white image of what appeared to be a terraced back yard with outbuildings. As he gave it curious scrutiny, the immediate thought entering his head was this was copied from a photograph of the Bannisters’ rear yard, but in the absence of crime scene photos he would have to show it to Alice for confirmation.
‘More clues?’ asked Maddie.
Hunter read the typed note:
Dear Hunter, forgive the informalities again, but as I said in my last letter, I feel I know you like an old friend. Although ‘friend’ is not exactly the word I should use, but for now we’ll keep things on a friendly footing. I’m disappointed to see nothing on the news about Rasa, especially as
I went to great trouble to send you my last gift to help your investigation along. Maybe you and your colleagues think it’s a hoax? Well, I can assure you it’s not. She really is dead. She was such a spirited individual — put up quite a fight. It was delicious to see her draw her last breath. Anyway, enough of my ramblings. Just to give you a further leg-up, these latest gifts are a clue to where you’ll find Rasa’s body. I do hope you work it out soon. She is starting to smell a bit. And when you do work out the clues, I do look forward to meeting you again. You and I have such a lot to discuss. I might even tell you about the others. Good hunting.
PS. ’Scuse the pun.
Hunter read it again, this time out loud for Maddie to digest. As he finished, he said, ‘He’s saying there are more. Jesus.’ Hunter skim-read it a third time, and then took a few minutes, placing the note and items in four evidence bags.
‘If these are from Dylan Wolfe, have you any idea who the others might be?’ asked Maddie.
‘Not a clue, although I told you that Barry always said he believed Dylan had committed more crimes.’
‘The other question is, are the others bodies or rape victims?’
‘I believe he’s referring to bodies.’
‘That’s what I thought as well,’ answered Maddie. ‘And if that’s the case, are the others the Bannisters?’
Hunter locked eyes with her for a moment. The same thing had entered his head. After several seconds of silence, he said, ‘I need to think about what these clues mean. Chicken bones, a doll’s boot and a picture of a terraced rear yard. The letter says these are to help us find Rasa’s body. Is she buried in a back yard somewhere?’
‘Are you going to let Grace know about this?’
‘I’ll give this some thought and message Grace later to fix up a meeting to show her what’s been sent. Because of the nature of the note, I can’t keep this to myself any longer, as much as I begrudge helping St. John-Stevens.’
From the balcony above the sports hall at Barnwell leisure centre, Hunter watched his eldest son, Jonathan, jiggle past a defender and unleash a shot that whipped past the goalkeeper in the five-a-side game below. That goal gave his team the lead with just two minutes to go and Hunter instantly let out a whoop of delight, proudly watching Jonathan throw a celebratory punch in the air as he jogged back to his own half. It was the first time during the last hour and a half of Barnwell FC’s under thirteens coaching session his thoughts had focussed on the football. Until now, all he had thought about was the letter and the clues sent to him earlier that day.
He had left work and driven home with his deliberations all over the place, and wanting to block them from his thoughts once he got indoors, he had photographed the items with his phone and sent the images, together with a message to Grace, requesting a meeting early the next day. Then he had locked everything away in his briefcase, intending to focus on family matters, knowing it was Jonathan’s coaching night. Yet, despite his best efforts, he had failed to switch off, the clues and puzzle washing around inside his head as he’d showered, changed, eaten his meal and driven Jonathan to training.
Even returning back home from the session, chatting with Jonathan about his gameplay and how he’d scored the winning goal in the final match, Hunter still found his thoughts drifting, mulling over the sent clues, his mind toying with whether they had been sent by Dylan Wolfe or not. As he emptied Jonathan’s training bag, confining his football kit to the laundry basket, there was still no reprieve from his reflections.
The moment when he and Barry had first encountered Dylan in 1991 jumped into his inner-vision and began playing out like a TV drama; they had cornered Dylan at the old coking plant complex at Manvers the week after he had stabbed his girlfriend. Hunter had been tipped off that Dylan was hiding up at the old plant ready to flee to London where arrangements had been made for him to disappear, and he and Barry had driven down there to check out the tip-off. Hunter had found Dylan napping in a car and after disturbing him, Dylan had tried to stab Hunter in order to escape. His police radio had saved him, and following that attack there was a short car chase, ending with Dylan crashing his car and being badly hurt.
Once in custody, Hunter had learned that the car he’d been found in belonged to the owner of the car dismantlers where Dylan worked, and they had locked up the owner for assisting an offender. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to prove that the car owner had helped Dylan to evade capture and he had been released without charge. Two years ago, Hunter had been told that the owner had died of a heart attack and his car dismantlers yard had been mothballed by his wife. He had seen it recently, its front gates chained and padlocked, a dilapidated eyesore at the edge of the industrial estate. As an image of the derelict dismantlers yard flashed inside his head, he grappled with recalling the owner’s name. Suddenly, the man’s nickname came to him. Fat Bas. Now what was his name? As he racked his memory again, it flashed into his brain and in that split second everything fell into place. Hunter hurried downstairs, took his phone off its charger and messaged Grace. Think I know where Rasa’s body is. Going to do a recce. See you tomorrow a.m.
It took Hunter less than ten minutes to drive from his home to the derelict dismantlers yard that was once owned by Harold Barry Bones. It was starting to rain as he turned in to the industrial estate, and he drove down a deserted glistening wet road with his wipers repeatedly clearing the screen. Easing off the accelerator, he crawled past the yard’s entrance gates, hoping to get a look through them, but corrugated sheets had been placed over the wire mesh, blocking any view. The only way he was going to be able to see into the yard was to find a gap in the perimeter fence, and not wanting anyone to see what he was up to — even though he was a cop, he was acting on the hoof — he drove around the corner, away from the main thoroughfare, turning off his lights as he pulled into the verge.
There were no streetlamps here and he sat in darkness, staring out through a rain-blurred windscreen, starting to think through his next move; if his thoughts were right and Rasa Katiliene’s body was in the boot of one of the scrap cars in that yard, he would have to make a physical check — actually get inside the yard to carry out a search. No good having second thoughts now, Hunter. You’ve got this far, he told himself, suddenly having pangs of doubt about whether he was making the right decision.
Taking another look at the compound, he took a deep breath, reached into his glove box and took out his Maglite. Let’s go for it. He removed the keys from the ignition, zipped up his coat and climbed out of the car. As he locked the door, he stood motionless, looking around his surroundings and listening. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking in one of the compounds, but it was a good way off. There was no sound coming from the derelict dismantlers yard, so there didn’t appear to be a guard dog, and he set off walking back towards the gates, keeping close to the fence. The corrugated gates were secured by a rusting chain fitted with a new-looking padlock. It was a good one that would take bolt-croppers to remove and he hadn’t brought any. He cursed, took another look around and moved on, checking the fence as he went along. The top was covered by razor wire, so he had no chance of climbing over the top. His only hope was of finding a gap, and he found none at the front.
Around the next corner, things were looking better. Old wooden railway sleepers made up the fence here and many of those were in a bad state. A hundred yards along, Hunter found his gap. One of the sleepers had slipped to one side, and although it was a very tight squeeze, he was left with enough of a breach to slip through and once inside he switched on his torch. Staying next to the gap, getting ready to retreat, he whistled and strained his ears again, checking there was no guard dog. When there was no movement or barking, he swept his powerful beam around the yard. It was still very much as he remembered it nineteen years ago: dozens and dozens of scrap vehicles piled three-high in rows that stretched to the back of the premises, and to his left was the old reception block — a portacabin that had grilles over the windows. Beside it were
two rusting ship containers, where he recollected car parts were stored.
The rain was starting to come down faster, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he was soaked. His jeans were already sticking to his thighs, so he decided to see what was in the containers, do a quick check of the portacabin, and then leave with a view to returning tomorrow when it was daylight.
He went to the furthest container. It was closed but it didn’t look as though it was locked, and he yanked at the handle. It was stiffer than he’d anticipated — the rust causing the resistance — and it took him two strong pulls before he finally prised it from it from its barred position. Even then, it was just as stiff to pull open the doors, the hinges squealing as he hauled them apart. Finally, getting a wide enough gap, he poked in his torch. A strong smell of engine grease and petrol fumes hit the back of his throat, making him cough, and swallowing hard he scoped the inside. Vehicle parts were everywhere. Removed engine blocks covered the floor and smaller parts lined shelves fastened to the sides. He darted his beam around, but nothing jumped out at him as being suspicious. This was just a storage place for vehicle parts, nothing else.
Closing the door, Hunter moved on to the second container. As he flashed his torch across the doors, he saw this one was padlocked, and the chain and lock securing the handles appeared to be new. He studied them for a moment, weighing up whether to force them or not, considering the consequences should he find anything of evidential value. The defence would have a field day over the fact that he didn’t have a warrant. But, while he contemplated walking away, the other side of his thoughts were telling him to go for it — if he found anything incriminating, he could always smuggle away the chain and padlock and say he found the container unsecured. Who was around to challenge that? Steadily, he circled the torch around the ground, moving it slowly outwards, looking for something solid to snap the lock. His beam found a long metal bar in the mud, and putting his Maglite into his mouth, clenching it between his teeth, he picked up the bar, inserted it between the chains, twisting and straining them tight, before putting all his strength into wrenching the links from the lock. It took a lot of heaving before the chain finally snapped, the padlock flying away with a clatter.
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