Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr)

by Fowler, Michael

  “Hello,” she answered. There was no response but she could make out someone breathing heavily and laboured at the other end. “Hello can I help you?” No response. “Who is this?”

  “Jock – Jock Kerr.” She thought she heard the man say. She made a mental note of the name for later. She tried to determine the region of the Scottish accent, but somehow it had lost its twang. “Who is it you are after?”

  She listened carefully to the answer making another careful record in her head.

  When he had finished she answered, “Oh you have the correct number all right. This is Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate. Can you give me your details and telephone number - I’m investigating Mr McNab’s murder.”

  The line went dead. She was left listening to a long purring noise from the handset. She checked her watch and noted the time; she would make a request for caller ID when she got back to the incident room.

  Replacing the phone she stepped towards the front door and took in a couple of deep breaths of fresh air. At the entranceway she took a long look around to see if any neighbours overlooked the bungalow. There were none. This was going to be a difficult case she told herself.

  Whilst she was thinking about the last phone call a flitting movement up to her right surprised her. A couple of black shapes flashed in front of a pale moonlit sky. She realised what they were; she was watching bats take to the night.

  Dawn stood and watched them, fascinated by their swift movement, zipping and swooping and zooming so close to the trees and at the last moment diving and swinging away. Living in the city she didn’t get to see this type of stage-show. It had made her night.

  For several minutes she stood there mesmerized. Then she shook herself out of her reverie and fished her mobile from out of her pocket; it was time to bring in the Procurator Fiscal and then begin calling out the troops.

  - ooOoo –

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DAY TEN: 2nd September.

  Barnwell:

  Hunter hooked a bare leg across Beth’s hip and pulled her naked body closer. She was warm. He snuggled closer still, moving her fair hair away from the side of her head with his mouth and nose and began kissing the nape of her neck. Her skin was soft and scented. His tongue voyaged downwards into the hollow between her shoulder blades and he caressed her skin gently with short kisses before venturing upwards again, where he settled his lips over the lobe of her ear. She gave off a low pleasurable moan.

  “You smell nice,” he said softly.

  Beth moaned again. “I’ve not woken up yet Hunter,” she murmured – then, “what time is it?”

  “The boys are still asleep and I don’t have to rush into work this morning” he whispered, moving his lips away, back down to the sensitive area around the nape of her neck.

  * * * * *

  Hunter stepped out through the French doors of the kitchen and onto the block-paved patio nursing a steaming mug of tea between his hands. He took a long and measured look over the garden. Most of the flowers were beginning to fade and needed deadheading he thought to himself. With the exception of the potted plants most of them were looking tired. What with the events at work over the past few months he had hardly had time for any gardening. In fact it seemed as though summer had not been part of his life this year. He had never experienced a year like this in his career.

  He settled himself down onto one of the four ornate, white metal patio chairs arranged around a round table and set his drink down. He loved the view from here; this was where he and Beth loved to sit on warm summer evenings sharing a bottle of wine, grateful for a little peace and quiet after they had tucked Jonathan and Daniel up in their beds.

  He felt totally relaxed for once. He had finally caught up with all those restless nights. It had been his best sleep in ages. It also helped that he hadn’t had to go in early to work for briefing. He had arranged to have a coffee and chat with Zita, the reporter with the Barnwell Chronicle, and then he was off to the Forensics Lab to see how Professor McCormack’s niece was shaping up with the facial reconstruction.

  He recalled his phone call with the Forensic Medical Artist that he’d had yesterday. She had invited him up to see the work in progress. He was looking forward to the trip. From an artistic point he couldn’t wait to see the result of the application and flair employed by another artist, as well as talk through the process. And as a cop on the investigation, he was eager to identify their victim and see her likeness. He had also decided to make the trip to Wetherby because he knew it would give him some respite from the investigation.

  His partner Grace had been unable to go with him. He had spoken with her before leaving work the previous evening. Detective Superintendent Robshaw had requested her to join him at Barnwell Country Park that morning where he was making a televised plea for witnesses. He could tell Grace had been nervous about the event and he had reassured her by telling ‘she would be fine,’ and that it was all good experience for a future promotion board.

  Before leaving work he’d asked Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars, the other two members of his team, to make a start on the vehicle owner checks. The information he and Grace had got from Kerri-Ann Bairstow had given the enquiry fresh impetus. Not only had she provided them with a partial index number of a Volkswagon Golf, but through further unrelenting questioning by Grace, they had eventually gleaned that the white van was a Renault Kango make and Kerri-Ann felt confident it was a 53 plate – registered in 2003. They had certainly been glad that the sex worker had developed a system of storing descriptions of people and vehicles to memory as her stock-in-trade method for her own personal safety.

  It was a real boost and the investigative machinery had been cranked up as a result. The HOLMES team had submitted the Golf’s partial registration number to The Vehicle Licensing Centre at Swansea for a search. At the same time they had extracted the names of all the local owners of Renault vans and tracking them down was the fresh focus of the MIT teams.

  Barry Newstead had been given new CCTV work – to scrutinise town centre footage, especially around the bus station, and also identify and flag up any white vans seen around the country park, including searching through stills obtained from speed site cameras.

  The enquiry was slowly, but surely, beginning to pick up pace.

  * * * * *

  Hunter had arranged to meet the Chronicle reporter, Zita Davies, in a coffee shop which was tucked away inside a ladies high-end fashion shop on the High Street. When Zita had confirmed the location the previous afternoon he’d had to double-check the address back with her, such had been his surprise upon hearing the name of the venue. He had passed the shop so many times over the years, in fact he knew that it was one of Grace’s frequent shopping haunts, and yet he had never realised a cafe existed there. He was even more surprised at what greeted him, as he ambled past the racks of ladies clothes to make his way to the back of the shop. The retail part opened up to a bright and airy Bistro style cafe, furnished in a contemporary style, and he noted that original artwork adorned the soft cream walls – though the contemporary painting style was not to his taste.

  Zita was waiting for him. She had taken a small round table tucked into a corner of the room. She was wearing a white cotton shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and her shoulder length flaxen coloured hair was tied back accentuating her high cheekbones.

  He pulled back a chair, slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back and seated himself opposite.

  “I’ve ordered a pot of tea for us. It is tea you drink isn’t it?” She flashed him a welcoming smile. “I’ve already told them that I’m just waiting for someone and to serve it when you come in. Is that okay? I know you said on the phone you could only spare an hour.”

  “Yeah thanks Zita, that’s fine.” He told her about going up to Wetherby and his reason for going.

  “Oh wow that’s cool. You will let me have an early look at the results won’t you?”

  “I’ll be getting some photo’s done of it so I’l
l get one of those across to you as soon as they land on my desk.”

  “I appreciate that. Anyway how are things with you?”

  He was just about to speak when he became conscious of a shadow falling across the table. He checked to his left and saw a young girl dressed in black sidling towards them. It was the waitress. She was carrying a tray of cups and the pot of tea Zita had ordered. He watched as she set it down in the centre of their table and he acknowledged her with a smile before she spun away.

  He picked up one of the cups and locked on to Zita’s hazel eyes. A hint of peacock blue mascara lined them; it was the only make-up she wore.

  “When you say, how are things with you? I’m guessing you don’t really mean in my personal life. You really want to know how the investigation is going don’t you?”

  She held up her hands in a show of surrender. “There’s no flies on you Hunter Kerr. I guess that’s why you’re a detective.” She flashed another bright smile. “Are there any new leads?”

  “We have one lead Zita but it’s in the very early stages. In fact the team are following it up this morning. If it comes to anything you know I’ll give you a call.”

  Hunter watched as she took her eyes from him and drifted them to the teapot. She lifted the lid, glanced inside and then picked up a spoon and began stirring the contents.

  “Will it lead to the killer?”

  “I honestly don’t know. We only came across the information two days ago and as I say the team are out there following it up.”

  “Is there nothing you can give me for our next edition?”

  Hunter pursed his lips. “Do you know Zita we still don’t know who the victim is. We don’t even know where or when she was killed. All we know is that whoever killed her wrapped her up in a rug and dumped her in the lake. We’re obviously going through the routine stuff to try and identify her, but locally there’s no report of anyone roughly matching her description as missing, so we don’t even know if she’s a local woman or not.”

  “Nothing to identify her then?”

  Hunter shook his head. “Nothing. I’m hoping that the facial reconstruction will help do that. And as I’ve said, once I get some photo’s done you are first on my list to get a copy.”

  She replaced the lid on the teapot and poured some tea into Hunter’s cup. “Well I might be able to help you out in return.” She poured herself a cup.

  “You mean identify her?”

  “Maybe. When I got the info regarding the murder, especially that the victim was maybe Asian, I made a few phone calls to some of my contacts. One of those contacts is a woman who runs an Asian women’s refuge across in Sheffield. I’ve done a few stories in the past about domestic violence and this lady provided me a couple of horror stories which affected Asian women. Anyway she told me that recently a couple of young girls had approached the refuge for support and one in particular had made arrangements to stay there but had then failed to turn up and had not contacted her since. She told me she had tried the girl’s mobile several times but it was always switched off.”

  Zita raised her cup to her mouth and Hunter fixed her gaze.

  “It may be nothing Hunter but it’s obviously concerned the woman who runs the refuge enough to mention it to me.”

  “And it’s certainly enough for me to raise an enquiry and check it out. Can you give me her details?”

  “Can I hold back on them a couple of days Hunter? I haven’t told the woman I was going to have this conversation and I don’t want to betray her trust. I’ll need to get back to her and arrange something for you. I’m sure she’ll be alright because she does deal a lot with the police, but just to make sure, if you know what I mean.”

  “No problem Zita. It’s good of you to tell me. And anyway if it comes up trumps you can splash it across the headlines how the Chronicle helped with the murder enquiry.”

  She fixed him another smile.

  As he finished his tea Hunter back-tracked on the information which had already been widely fed to the media and deflected a number of her probing questions regarding the latest lead.

  “You can’t blame me for trying,” she said on more than one occasion as he shook his head at her.

  Thirty five minutes later Hunter was following her out of the fashion-shop-cum-cafe and waving her off in her car, she promising that she would get back to him with the details of the name and contact number of the woman who ran the Asian refuge, and he promising he would get photo’s of the facial reconstruction to her as soon as they were developed.

  * * * * *

  It took Hunter slightly over an hour to drive to the Forensic Lab at Wetherby. As he slowed for the gate he couldn’t help but think how long it had been since he had last visited this place; where as in the past it had been he, as the young detective, who had the task of safely delivering evidence, now the job employed civilian drivers to take care of the delivery of forensic exhibits,

  He flashed his warrant card to the uniformed gate guard and answered a few security questions before being pointed towards the visitor’s car park. Strolling towards the Forensics laboratory he could see that with the exception of the increased protection since his last visit very little of the physical structure had changed. The building was of a 1960s design, flat-fronted construction of concrete and glass, though he could see that new colourful signage did its best to break up the grey drabness.

  The reception area was remarkably light and airy and he checked in with the receptionist telling her that he was expected in ten minutes time; at ten-thirty. Arriving early for a meeting was something, which had been drilled into him ever since he was a young cop, and it was advice which he had followed through his service.

  Hunter had only just taken a seat when Frankie Oliver, Forensic Medical Artist – he checked her name badge – breezed into reception. She thrust out a hand and greeted him with a beaming smile, showing off a perfect set of white, even teeth. So white in fact that Hunter wondered if they had been cosmetically bleached. Frankie was the same build as her Aunt, Professor Lizzie McCormack, slim and petite. Hunter guessed that she was in her late twenties and he could see that she had been blessed with a faultless skin complexion and pretty features. A hint of mascara framed soft hazel eyes. What made her stand out though was her hair style, short and chopped funky, and dyed jet black with hints of burnt copper.

  As she led him towards her lab room Hunter let her know the dual purpose of his visit – fascination with the process together with an artistic eye.

  “A detective with a soft side eh?” she commented as she swiped her security card through an electric lock reader. “That’s unusual, and refreshing. At least for once I’ll know my work will be appreciated.” She pushed open the door and held it open for him to pass through. He caught a whiff of her perfume; a hint of flowers; subtle; expensive.

  She directed him to her workstation. He could see there were half a dozen other white-coated technicians beavering away in the lab as she pointed him towards a white plinth, approximately five feet in height. Fastened to it was a grey half executed bust. It had all the appearance of a head but without fully formed features. Plastic teeth and prosthetic glassy eyes were set but not covered giving it a surreal effect.

  “Do you want me to take you through it?” she asked slapping a hand over the lumpy cranium.

  Hunter’s gaze was already studying the craftsmanship that had gone into the project. “Give me the full works. I’ll let you know if you’re boring me.”

  She laughed displaying those perfect white teeth again. “Don’t beat about the bush will you! Okay pin back your lugholes and if there’s anything you don’t understand stop me. I must warn you that once I’m in full-flow I take some holding back.” She moved closer to her sculpture. “Firstly I did a cast of the girl’s skull. My aunt helped me with that because the original skull has to be devoid of flesh. In the past I have had to work with a clean skull – you know a skeleton has been dug up - but in this case I have been very fortunate
. With your body the majority of its flesh is in place. Anyway I digress.” She pinched some of the clay away from the head and worked it into a lump. “We use an oil based clay.” She thumbed it back onto the bust. “Sticks easily to the cast and can be manipulated for longer. First, plastic pegs are inserted at specific anatomical sites around the skull to indicate the level of tissue required. Those enable me to begin the muscular build up with the clay – like I have done here.” She stroked an index finger around contour lines of the face. “Big muscles which form the sides of the face onto the jaw, round the eyes,” she continued stroking the clay form to make her point. “Once the muscle structure is in place I can think about the thin fatty layer which lies on the surface – the connective tissue as it is called. A lot of formation was already there on your body even though it was bloated and disfigured. For instance, creases and folds from the underlying muscle structure especially the mouth and shape of the nose were in place. The nose is generally one of the most difficult facial features to reconstruct, because the underlying bone is limited. However because the girl’s face is almost intact this model should be exact.” All the time she was talking Hunter through her handiwork she was smoothing her dainty slim fingers around the clay head.