Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) (12 page)

Tony
Bullars was leaping out of the passenger side door even before Hunter had turned off the engine. Grace wasn’t far behind.

Pushing open his door,
Hunter watched the pair sprint across to the uniformed response car driver who was waiting for them by the gate, an anxious look on his face. For a brief moment Hunter cast his gaze across the roof of the car and surveyed the manic scene unfolding before him. He already knew from the radio traffic that there was going to be a dead body awaiting him and he began clicking his investigative brain into gear. Going to the boot of the car he took out a white protective oversuit and quickly slipped it on. Taking out two more for his colleagues he closed the hatchback and stepped onto the road. He hadn’t gone more than half-a-dozen paces when his phone rang. He prised it out of his pocket and viewed the screen. It was Detective Superintendent Leggate. Slowing his pace he fielded the call while crossing the carriageway. She’d only just picked up the incident she told him, and in response he gave her what sketchy details he had from the conversation with Tony Bullars.

‘
I’ll be in there in a couple of minutes, boss. I’ll ring you back the second I know exactly what we’ve got,’ he promised and ended the call.

S
tepping through the garden gate his thoughts became distracted by the sound of sirens wailing in the distance; more police were arriving. He quickly re-engaged his brain. He needed to start directing things, but first he had to get inside the cottage and see what he was dealing with. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves he slipped around the side of the stone cottage to where he saw Grace and Tony standing by an open door. Tony had one foot on the threshold and was poking his head in through the gap. He pulled back as Hunter approached. His features were grim.

‘
It is Linane’s friend,’ he nodded. ‘And she’s in a mess.’

Hunter passed each of them a Tyvek forensic suit and edged past
into the cottage. The first thing he noted was that there had been no forced entry. He halted one foot inside the doorway and peered inside the room. The low-ceilinged lounge was gloomy. There was light being cast, but it was coming from a decorated glass canopied table lamp, which was hanging at an odd angle, low down, almost touching the top of the skirting, and so the glow wasn’t having much effect. It looked to have fallen from a nearby mahogany sideboard. Slowly roaming his eyes around the crime scene he clocked pieces of broken crockery littering the floor; all the signs of a struggle. Then his gaze settled on the body. Tony’s comment had been spot-on. She was in a mess. Judging by the puddle of blood encircling her it looked as though she had met a tormented death. It hadn’t even started to coagulate; she hadn’t been dead long. Thinking about what needed to be done, especially to preserve the scene, he was about to issue instructions to his two colleagues when he caught sight of the bloodied T-shirt on the deceased. In that instant his stomach emptied and a fog clouded his vision. The room was suddenly stuffy. It seemed as though the walls were closing in and the floor was rising up towards him. Then the room started spinning and his legs felt unsteady, as if they were going to buckle beneath him. He put out a hand and supported himself on the sideboard. He needed to get out. He closed his eyes to shut out the image and swallowed hard. A few seconds later he snapped them open. He gawped again at the corpse, checking that his vision hadn’t been deceived. It hadn’t. Stumbling backwards out of the cottage and onto the path he took in a deep breath. A rush of blood pounded in his brain.

After all this time
.

He pitched a hand
into his trouser pocket and tugged out his mobile. Then he made for the gate. In the background he could hear his name being called, but his concentration was elsewhere. He needed to make a phone call. Urgently.

Barry Newstead turned up twenty-five minutes after Hunter had made his call. He had brought with him Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate. By their arrival Hunter had composed himself and had got his brain back into gear. He had directed Grace to start the house-to-house and she was currently marshalling four uniformed officers into a group to begin that task. Hunter knew that it was an assignment which shouldn’t take them long, given the small number of dwellings which made up the hamlet. Tony Bullars had a harder undertaking. Hunter had given him the job of carrying out an immediate search of the surroundings, firstly, for the weapon, to determine if it had been discarded, and secondly, for the killer. On that last charge it was a very long shot, he knew, especially given the fact that Street was surrounded by open countryside, but he wasn’t going to be responsible for any embarrassing outcomes if he was orchestrating the initial actions at a crime scene he told Tony, who had returned a questioning frown.

Hunter qualified his instructions by adding,
‘Just set up a perimeter, Tony. Hundred yards or so, for now. Just to make sure he’s not hiding in the bottom of any hedgerow.’

He watched Tony stride away and then switched his attention to
Dawn Leggate and Barry Newstead who were tramping towards him.

The SIO was pulling on her top coat.
‘Barry says you’ve got something that we need to see?’

Hunter alternated his gaze between the pair, before
settling his eyes upon Barry. ‘I wanted you to see this, Barry, before I go any further.’ He half turned and nodded towards the cottage. ‘Just have a look at the body and tell me my eyes are not deceiving me.’ He turned back and spotted his boss’s eyebrows knitting tightly together. He said to her. ‘I’ll explain everything in a couple of secs after Barry’s had a quick look inside.’

Hunter waited by the gate
. He followed the path Barry took until he disappeared around the side of the cottage. For the best part of two minutes he waited in silence, conscious of his SIO beside him; she was impatiently tapping one foot and her leather sole gave off a sharp resounding clip.

Then Barry re-appeared.

Hunter scrutinised his face. His colleague
’s mouth was pursed tight. Hunter, back rigid, said, ‘It’s her T-shirt, isn’t it?’

‘
It certainly appears to be similar, from what I remember. It’s such a long time ago now, Hunter.’

‘
I know, Barry, but I’m telling you that’s her T-shirt.’

‘
Will someone please enlighten me?’ demanded Dawn Leggate.

Hunter dragged his eyes away from Barry and met his boss
’s searching hazel eyes. ‘In nineteen eighty-eight my then girlfriend Polly Hayes was murdered. She was sixteen. Barry here was involved in that enquiry. When her mother last saw her on the morning of the day she was killed, she had on a Bon Jovi T-shirt. That body in there has on Polly’s T-shirt.’

Dawn Leggate
’s forehead creased into a frown and her eyes narrowed. ‘Hunter, just because the deceased in there has a T-shirt with the same band name on it as the one your girlfriend was wearing, doesn’t mean it’s the same one.’

A
flashback jumped inside Hunter’s inner vision; Polly bouncing towards him, arms outstretched, sashaying around, showing off her new T-shirt. As quickly as her wraith-like image appeared she was gone again.

He replied,
‘Oh, but it is, boss. Hers was unique. You see, we both went to see Bon Jovi at 'The Monsters of Rock festival'. at Donnington Park She bought one of their T-shirts and waited backstage for him to sign it. When she got back home she embroidered over his signature so she wouldn’t lose it when it was washed. That T-shirt on that woman’s body in there has Jon Bon Jovi’s embroidered signature on it – in exactly the same place as Polly’s.’

Hunter watched the Detective Superintendent search out Barry
’s face.

Barry
returned a nod. ‘From what I remember, about how it was described, it certainly seems to be the same one, guv,’ he said solemnly. ‘ Her mother definitely said she had it on when she left the house to walk the dog and we had a sighting from an old bloke who passed her approximately half an hour before the time when we believe she was killed and she had it on then. When she was found she was wrapped in a green cloak. Underneath it she just had on her bra. The Bon Jovi T-shirt was nowhere in sight. A thorough search was made but we never found it. And, regarding the cloak, we checked with her family and friends, and none of them had ever seen it before and we never managed to suss out how she came by it. It was a real mystery and we never bottomed it. ‘He shot a sideways glance to Hunter, ‘We even checked to see if she had another boyfriend.’ He shook his head, ‘No joy on that front as well.’

Tightly lipped,
Hunter said, ‘How on earth is that woman in there connected to Polly’s murder?’

- ooOoo -

Day Nine: 26th March.

Hunter rested his head against the driver’s side window and stared out across the road. He set his sights on the Task Force Search Team who had arrived minutes earlier in two vans. He watched them as they disembarked and scoped their surroundings. The two fragmented teams formed into a loose circle and casually chatted amongst themselves while donning their black overalls. Hunter knew that in another ten minutes these officers would be scouring the garden and perimeter of the cottage, searching for evidence.

Inside the cottage that
search had already started; he had watched the forensic team go in there three-quarters of an hour earlier.

Also, s
ince his arrival, a white forensic tent had been erected against the side door and an inner cordon had been put in place.

Hunter yawned and then he shivered.
He was tired and he was cold. It had been well after midnight before he had got home. He had undressed in the dark, tossed all his clothing over the back of the dressing table chair and virtually collapsed into bed. Tired though he was he hadn’t immediately dropped off. For the best part of an hour he had tossed and turned, re-running the unresolved event inside his head. As if his mind wasn’t shredded enough with the Tom Hagan affair, the finding of Elisabeth Bertolutti’s body dressed in Polly’s T-shirt had well and truly messed him up. When his brain had finally shut down it hadn’t been for long. He’d awoken several times during the night in the midst of a dream. The same dream. A young, strikingly pretty, blonde-haired girl was running towards him through a field of tall wheat, but never getting any closer. She’d call out his name and then disappear from sight. Polly. On each occasion, upon awakening, he’d wished away her image and then rolled over and cuddled Beth. Holding her tightly, he’d eventually dropped off nursing a feeling of guilt. At 6.30 a.m. he had been awoken by the unrelenting trill of the bedside alarm. He’d had to force himself out of bed and take a cooler than normal shower to invigorate his body. Though that effect had only lasted as long as his drive into work and he had struggled to get through morning briefing. He had only managed it by shaking himself awake each time his eyelids had closed for a blink.

It had been an extended one to take into account both murders; they hadn
’t managed to yet find a venue to house the latest investigation. That had been raised as the day’s highest priority. On that footing Detective Superintendent Leggate had told the team that she’d already discussed the issue with the Force Crime Manager, and as well as getting a room to house the new enquiry she was also bringing in an SIO to manage it. She had also requested additional resources to staff the investigation, but for the time being she had directed Hunter, Grace and Tony Bullars to oversee the Street Lane murder until those arrived.

Hunter
’s task for the day was to liaise with the Crime Scene Manager and Forensics, and gather and catalogue any exhibits, while Grace and Tony had been instructed to collect Tony’s girlfriend from the flat she had been staying at in Richmond upon Thames and bring her back to South Yorkshire. Detective Superintendent Leggate had told the team that Linane Brazier had already been visited and questioned by detectives from the Metropolitan police the previous evening, but she wanted Grace to do a more in-depth video recorded interview at one of the Force’s Victim/Witness Suites. She ended the morning session by informing everyone that because of the staff shortage she would be overseeing the post-mortem of Elisabeth Bertolutti, which had been arranged for 10.00 a.m. that morning.

A
s he gazed out through the side window, he was pre-occupied with his thoughts. Polly’s undetected murder, twenty-one years ago, had initially been the reason why he had joined this job. It had also been the reason why he had been so determined to join the ranks of CID – to enable him to be actively involved in local murder enquiries, as well as have access to behind-the-scenes information about other murders throughout the country to check if any had similarities to Polly’s killing. There had been a couple of close ones, which he had actively monitored, but then they had caught the killer and the perpetrator hadn’t admitted responsibility for her death. He now knew, that finally, after all these years, he had his first solid link to her slaying, and though that link was unable to give him anything concrete by way of testimony, there was the opportunity to get fresh forensic evidence. This was the breakthrough he had been looking for. It was also his chance to get closure. Not only for him, but for Lynda and Peter – Polly’s mum and dad – who he had shared his grief with in the early years following her death. He was not going to let this slip away, he told himself. He owed it to Polly and he owed it to her parents.

Rousing himself from his feeling of ennui he snatched
up his clipboard from the passenger seat and pushed open the driver’s door. An icy blast of wind buffeted his face, and though it momentarily stung it also had the much desired effect of freshening him up. He slung his legs out of the car and braced himself against the weather. He was ready to begin his day’s work.

Hunter knew that he wouldn’t be allowed inside the cottage until Forensics had processed the scene and so he spent most of that morning anxiously pacing up and down the narrow tarmac lane of Street, each hour checking in with the supervisors of the house-to-house team and search team. Neither of them brought him any good news and by midday he had resolved that he was in for the long haul and returned to his car where he had a ham and cheese sandwich waiting for him in the glovebox. He had just taken his second bite when his phone rang. It was Detective Superintendent Leggate. Swallowing hard he hit the answer button.

‘
Anything, Hunter?’ she enquired.

He gave her his negative update.

Then she said, ‘Okay, no problem, there’s not much happening this way either. I’ve just got back from the PM. Something of significant interest has cropped up during it, which I know you’ll want to hear. I’ll fill you in on the findings later at briefing. I’ve also spoken with Grace and Tony and it’s going to be late afternoon before they get back up here. They’re going to take Linane straight to the interview suite at Maltby, so I’m not expecting to hear anything from them until evening briefing. And that’s another thing, Hunter, briefing is back here.’ He caught a noticeable pause, which lasted a couple of seconds. Then she said, ‘I’ve decided against us having an incident room at District. Feelings are apparently running high in CID and PPU there, over Tom Hagan, so I’m giving the place a wide berth. It’s not that I think officers there would sabotage our enquiry, but it’s sensitive as you know, and I wouldn’t want anything leaking out which would compromise it, so I’m looking for us to go somewhere else. We might even have to run it from a neighbouring District.’ With that she told him not to rush back and that briefing was at 7.00 p.m.; she was going to do two separate briefings again.

Before he had time to ask questions she
ended the call. For a good ten seconds he stared at his mobile screen, ruminating on the call. He wondered what of significance had been uncovered at the post-mortem.

Staring at the phone isn
’t going to give you any answers.

He dumped his mobile on the passenger seat
and finished his sandwich.

Chewing the last mouthful,
he spotted that the Search Team were about to take their lunch break. He decided to go for a stroll.

Beyond the end cottage, where Elisabeth Bertolutti had been
murdered, the stretch of tarmac along Street Lane ended and became a dirt track. He had been told by officers, who had sealed off the road the previous evening that this track wound its way past open fields, through an avenue of trees, and half-a-mile ahead merged into a winding B road back towards Barnwell. He had also learned that the track was mainly used by horse-riders, walkers and cyclists as the only vehicles equipped to negotiate it were motor cycles or four-by-fours. As he approached and clapped eyes on the deep water-filled ruts, he realised why.

Avoiding the worst of the sludge, h
e plodded along the track for a few hundred yards. To his right he noticed a large pond encircled by trees. There was a hand painted sign, just beyond the track-side hedge, denoting that the waters were for ‘private fishing only.’ Beyond that he had a view all the way to Rotherham. Here he came to a standstill and half-turned. He stepped up onto a grass verge, beside which a low dry stone wall meandered. It gave him another view across open fields. He did a three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn, quickly exploring his surroundings. He couldn’t help but think that this was going to be a tough one. This was perfect killing ground – nothing but miles of open countryside for a killer to disappear in. If there was nothing forthcoming from the house-to house enquiry then he doubted very much if they would find anyone out here who had witnessed anything. He just prayed that Forensics would find something. His thoughts were suddenly disturbed by the sound of raucous squawking not too far away. To his right, up on the hillside, above a line of trees, he clocked a clamour of rooks scatter into the skyline. Something’s disturbed them, he mused.

He stood, tucked away, amongst the trees, looking down over the fields, the focus of his prying eyes centred upon the end cottage on Street Lane – the scene of his latest triumph. He had arrived there five minutes earlier, just in time to watch the team of dark-suited police officers filing out through the garden gate. He now watched them making their way back to their marked van parked opposite the cottage. He checked his watch and guessed they were breaking for lunch. He also noticed the white forensic tent, which had been put up by the side door – the door ‘that bitch had opened up to him.’ He rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously. Boy, had he taught her a lesson. He couldn’t believe his luck when he had spotted her in the service station on the M1 yesterday afternoon. He’d bumped into her, on his way to the toilets, but he could tell from the brief glance she had returned that she hadn’t recognised him. That was when he had decided he wouldn’t get another opportunity as good as this. He knew that he might be taking a real chance following her home, but then, he told himself, that was what life was all about – taking chances. And he had gotten away with it. Again.

He
slipped off a glove and dipped his right hand inside his camouflage jacket pocket, stopping when his fingers found what he was searching out. He fondled the coarse material. An electrifying buzz surged through him. The mask was his greatest weapon of fear. Every time.

Hunter stood by the boundary wall of the garden and spent an hour watching Task Force Officers continuing their fingertip search of the garden. By 2.00 p.m. they had reached the perimeter hedgerow and had not found anything of significance. He was bored, though he tried not to show it, offering an encouraging smile, whenever he caught the eye of one of the officers. It was all he could do. He felt helpless and he guessed they were as frustrated as he. Rolling back his cuff he checked his watch, making a mental note of the time, while wondering if anything material was happening back at the incident room. It was then he spotted Crime Scene Manager, Duncan Wroe, emerging from the forensic tent by the side door. Hunter shook down his cuff and tramped towards him.

Anxiously, he asked,
‘Anything?’

Duncan slipped down his face mask.
As was usual he was sporting several days’ growth of facial hair. He wiggled a hand in front of Hunter. ‘Not sure. We’ve lifted a few sets of prints, but we’ve also got some glove marks around the entry door and jamb. Where the body was, we’ve got a definite shoe print and a few other partials of the same tread dotted around the room. Looks like her killer stepped in her blood. The tread looks as though it might be from a trainer, or something similar. It’s good enough to run through the system.’

‘
Is that positive?’

‘
It’s a start.’

‘
Good.’

‘
I thought you might say that.’ Duncan paused. His face took on a questioning look. ‘They’ve mentioned to me that the victim, possibly, was wearing a T-shirt which belonged to a girlfriend of yours who was murdered?’

‘
Not possibly, Duncan – definitely. When she was last seen she had on this Bon Jovi T-shirt, from a concert we went to. She got it signed, and then embroidered the signature so it wouldn’t disappear. When they found Polly’s body she had this cloak thing wrapped around her and no sign of that T-shirt. No one knew what had happened to it.’

‘
Until you found this victim.’

Hunter nodded.
‘I know it’s definitely Polly’s T-shirt she’s got on. It’s not something you forget.’

Duncan pursed his mouth, gave him a look of understanding and then said,
‘And so you’re working on the assumption that this victim here…’ He flicked his head back towards the cottage ‘…maybe, had something to do with your girlfriend’s murder.’

Hunter shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’m trying to keep an open mind, but you have to admit a big question mark is hanging over Elisabeth Bertolutti. At the moment though, nothing’s making sense.’

‘
And you’re hoping I can make things clearer.’

‘
It’d be nice if you could. It’s always been one of my ambitions to be able to tell Polly’s parents that we’ve caught her killer.’