Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (11 page)

She let herself into the darkened hallway. No one was on the door; the crime scene had not been sealed off yet. She mentally ticked it off as one of her priorities.

She found that the air was heavy with soot and smoke and it immediately clogged the back of her throat making her gag. She clasped a hand over her mouth and loosely pinched her nose.

“Hello – anyone there?” she called out even though she knew there was activity somewhere in the bungalow.

Without warning a bright beam appeared from the doorway to her right. It flashed across her eyes temporarily blinding her.

“Sorry ma’am, didn’t hear you arrive,” she heard a man’s voice say. The light had blanked her vision for a few seconds; she couldn’t see a thing.

“The bodies are this way.”

She blinked frantically, desperate to see. Gradually through a haze of orange flashes a silhouette appeared before her. She picked out the shape; a uniform cop barred the door. She recognised his face from back at the station but couldn’t remember his name.

“They’re in a bit of a mess,” he said stepping back.

She took out her own 1,000 candle powered Maglite and switched it on. A powerful ray of light leapt from her torch, piercing the drifting fire smoke, and focussed in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. She swept it through the open doorway into the room, along the floor, up onto the walls, picking out bits of furniture. From its contents she deduced this was the lounge area of the bungalow. The smell in here was different; soot and smoke the same but in a pungent mix which was somewhat sweeter. It reminded her of a barbeque. Then her beam fell onto the chaos and she immediately realised why. Mrs McNab; she gathered it was her from the remnants of a charred dress which was still smouldering. Most of her upper body was char-grilled black except where the skin had split and cracked from the intense heat and here gashes of raw pink flesh gaped through. Eyes stared back at her and white teeth glistened because the soft tissue of the eyelids and lips had shrivelled away. It was a surreal sight.

“The fire officer says she’s been set alight with an ignitable solvent of some type – probably petrol,” announced the uniform cop who had followed her into the room. “When I got here they were just dousing her out. He said she had been the seat of the main fire.”

Dawn shuddered. She felt her skin
prickle.

“It’s even worse back here ma’am.”

She followed the light from the officer’s torch as it settled on a human form seated at one end of, and hunched across, a large oval table.

Striding over the charred remains of Mrs McNab she stepped warily towards the table arrangement. Moving to the left and right of the humped figure she scrutinised. “And this must be Mr McNab?” she asked rhetorically. He was face-pressed against the table surface, a halo of thick cloying blood surrounding his head. A chunk of flesh was missing from his frontal lobe; it looked as though attempts had been made to scalp him. His skin and clothing were
in the main charred and blackened though parts of his bare forearms displayed heat blisters.

“It looks as though he’s been tortured,” interjected the cop again. The beam from his torch flooded across the grimy mahogany veneer surface and settled on an outstretched hand. “Three of his fingers have been chopped off,” the officer continued, “and look at this here.” He flicked the torch light over to a package of shop bought fish fingers resting in the centre of the table. “There’s a note underneath them. I’ve already read it but not touched it.”

Dawn crossed the officer’s ray with her own Maglite beam fixing onto an A4 size silted note. Despite the film of soot she could still make out the black capital letters scrawled across the paper. It read - THESE ARE TO REPLACE THE MISSING ONES.

She tried to catch the gaze of the uniform cop but he was in semi-darkness. Her eyes danced between the disfigured hand of Mr McNab and the fish finger box.

“What sick bastard would do this?” she said out loud. She shook herself back from her thoughts and was quickly turning them into crime scene investigation mode. She went through a check-list in her head; earlier whilst speeding towards the scene she had been told over the radio that SPSA were on their way; getting the Scottish Police Services Authority forensics team here was one job she could tick off. “And I want you to start the visitor log please.” She threw the cop her car keys. “There’s a clipboard and paperwork in the boot. And seal the area off with tape before you come back to the house. Oh and before you go - point me in the direction of the senior fire officer.” Her instructions were interrupted by the ringing tone of a telephone. It was coming from somewhere back in the entrance hall. She paused in mid-flow waiting for voice-mail or an answer machine to kick-in but that didn’t happen. The phone continued to ring unabated. She strode over Mrs McNab’s body and tramped into the hallway. She found the buzzing phone on a stand close to the front door. Lifting the handset from its cradle, through the thin layer of latex of her forensics glove she could feel a slimy, greasy film covering it as a result of the fire and she raised it towards her ear; close enough to hear, yet not mark her face.

“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 –

DAY TEN: 2
nd
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’ll 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.