Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) (2 page)

DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION: 18th March 2009.

Barnwell.

The bedside phone rang, jerking Hunter Kerr out of a deep sleep. Beside him Beth moaned her disapproval and rolled over. It took him a couple of seconds to pull his thoughts together. The alarm hadn’t gone off. It was still dark outside. That phone call could only mean one thing. A job. Bad news for some poor sod. He grabbed the handset and hoisted himself up.

He said softly,
‘DS Kerr.’

He hung onto every
soft Scottish syllable the woman uttered. Her voice was steady, almost soothing, despite the nature of the message she was relaying. He stored everything to memory and as she finished he let her know that he was on his way. Then he ended the call.

Fumbling around in the darkness he r
eturned the handset, and as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb his wife further, he dragged himself out from beneath the duvet. The chill in the room caught him unawares and gave him goose pimples. Shivering uncontrollably he pulled himself into a stretch and set off for the bathroom.

Manvers Terrace looked every inch the crime scene by the time Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr arrived. Halfway down the street a length of blue and white POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape spanned the road, barring his way: fixed between two lampposts, it performed Mexican waves on a sharp early morning breeze.

He
pulled his black Audi Quattro into the kerb, slotting it behind three liveried police vehicles, an ambulance, its strobe lights still whirling, and a CID car, all of which appeared to be in a state of abandonment rather than parked. For a few seconds he surveyed the street. The incident had already brought a cast of onlookers out from their homes to collect and gossip on the pavements. Some of them were in their dressing gowns. The majority however, had on jogging pants and T-shirts, or sweatshirts; well prepared for their long haul of gawking. Two uniformed officers, in high visibility coats, were doing their best to shepherd the separate groups into one assembly. Hunter scanned a few of the faces, wondering how many of them would willingly come forward as witnesses given the wickedness of the crime.

Killing the engine
, he reached behind and snatched his outdoor coat from the rear seat and pushed open the door. Nudging an arm through one sleeve he stepped out onto the road and cast his steel blue eyes around the scene again. The view stretching out before him wrenched back distant memories. In his early years he had lived only two streets away, and this had been one of the neighbourhoods he had frequented, before his parents had moved to their present home. As happy childhood images tumbled around inside his head it suddenly dawned on him just how long ago that had been; he had last set foot in this terrace twenty-three years ago, when he had been thirteen years old, and although the general appearance of the two rows of red-brick Victorian houses remained very much the same, he identified a number of cosmetic changes which had given the place a much needed makeover. For one, the old concrete stanchion lamps had been replaced by modern metal ones. Recalling how the area had been one of gloom, especially during the winter months, he saw that the street was now bathed in a warm ambient light. Secondly, and more significantly, the view at the head of the two rows had changed dramatically. Where there had once been wasteland and an old dilapidated set of buildings, which had once been a brickworks company, there was now a carpet of well-maintained grass. Metal bollards at regular placed intervals prevented vehicle access to the area and through it snaked a footpath towards a newly constructed industrial estate, the perimeter of which had been artistically landscaped. And though the look of the place interfered with his nostalgic memories he had to admit that it looked better like this.

As he switched his gaze back to the onlookers
, finally being corralled into one group, he wondered if any of them before him were those from his childhood years and if so would they remember him.

The
chilly breeze picked up a notch, brushing his face, blowing away the memories and snapping his thoughts back to the moment. He zipped up his padded coat, tucked his chin into his collar, dipped his hands into his pockets and made towards the cordon. Another uniformed officer, highly visible in a fluorescent jacket, guarded the barrier. Hunter recognised him, though he couldn’t recall his name, and so instead of saying something, gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he ducked beneath the tape to enter the outer cordon. As he passed by he saw the officer lift his clipboard and write upon it; Hunter knew that he’d been given the job of logging the comings and goings of everyone who visited the scene.

S
traightening himself Hunter slid his left hand out of his pocket and glanced at his watch, mentally noting the time: 3:40 a.m. – thirty-five minutes earlier he had been tucked up in his warm bed, dead to the world.

Then up ahead he spotted the
person who had dragged him out of his warm bed. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was striding purposefully towards him. He couldn’t help but notice that even at this time in the morning she cut quite a stylish figure in her knee-length camel coloured cashmere coat and calf length boots. As if she was on a night out. He fought back a smile. His new boss reminded him so much of his long-time working partner, DC Grace Marshall, who likewise never turned out anywhere without looking her very best – even to a gruesome murder scene.

Sl
ugging his hands back into his coat pockets he picked up his heels. Striding to greet his Senior Investigating Officer he said, ‘Morning, boss.’

In her s
ilky Scottish burr she replied, ‘Morning, Hunter, sorry to call you out. The night detective from District CID is here but this is one I think we should be involved in, it’s a repeat domestic.’

Hunter immediately knew that his SIO was referring to the fact that the address where the murder had occurred was one which had been repeatedly attended by the police as a result of reports, or complaints, relat
ing to violence being perpetrated upon one or more of the occupants. He enquired, ‘The victim?’

‘
I’m told it’s a lady by the name of Gemma Cooke. Twenty-nine-year-old. Lives at number thirty-four.’ She half turned and pointed towards the head of the street. ‘Duncan Wroe from SOCO arrived five minutes ago. He’s in there now.’ Detective Superintendent Leggate spun on her heels, flicked her head at Hunter – a gesture for him to join her – and set off in the direction she had indicated.

Hunter fell in beside her.
‘You said on the phone it was a stabbing.’

‘
Aye. Repeatedly with a kitchen knife by the look of things! The young lady’s in a bit of a mess! I’ve only briefly viewed the body. Only got here myself ten minutes ago.’

‘
Suspects?’

‘
One line of enquiry – a former partner. The night detective is with a witness as we speak – a female neighbour. She made the three-nines call. She was woken up by the man banging and shouting at Gemma’s back door. Did a runner before we got here.’

‘
Do we have his name and has he been circulated?’

‘
Guy by the name of Adam Fields. He’s known to us, and he’s on the system as living at this address, so I’ve asked communications to see if they can come up with any other addresses where he might be. And I’ve got patrol cars out scouting around the area as we speak. The neighbour saw him running off towards the industrial estate so I’ve requested a dog to carry out a search.’

Number 34 was two houses from the end of the terrace
. Looking at the front of the house sparked another image inside his head. Old Ma Briggs used to live here. Fearsome woman! She’d once clipped his ear for kicking his ball against her kerb. That was a long time ago now. He shook the memory away. A murder victim now occupied this house and he zoned his thoughts back to the present.

To the left of the front door
a narrow passage led to the rear, and Hunter and Dawn took it. They emerged into a small yard, its cracked concrete surface partially lit by a shaft of fluorescent light, pouring through the gap of the open kitchen door.

Hunter spotted slithers of broken glass, glistening back like diamonds from the ground.
A tiny, bright yellow, plastic evidence marker, bearing a black letter 1, lay among the shards. Removing his latex gloves from his coat pocket, he caught Dawn’s eyes and darted his gaze to the ground.

Returning
an understanding look she nodded towards the debris. ‘We believe her attacker kicked the door in. It was like this when uniform got here.’

Slipping on his protective gloves
Hunter strode over the broken glass onto the threshold. Edging the damaged door inwards with his elbow, he caught the unpleasant whiff of a strong coppery odour, and knew instantly that he was going to be faced by an awful lot of blood. Swallowing, he took a deep breath and held it. Before him several SOCO metal footplates, laid to protect the scene, paved the way into the house. He stepped onto the nearest plate and craned his neck around the door to get his first glimpse inside. A frenzied scene met his eyes. He hadn’t been wrong about the blood. The body seemed to swimming in a sea of it. A single, bloodied, smeared handprint scarred the white surface of an upright refrigerator, next to the corpse. Hunter’s eyes lingered on it for several seconds. The solitary graphic image pricked his conscience, ramming home the horror and torment of what had gone on here. He knew that this single snapshot would remain locked inside his head, gnawing away at him until he caught the sick bastard who had done this.

There was
certainly no doubt about how Gemma Cooke had been murdered. The kitchen knife was still embedded in the centre of her chest.

Scenes of Crime Supervisor Duncan Wroe
, in a white protective over-suit, hunkered over her body. Raising bleary eyes to meet theirs he said, ‘I wondered how long it was going to be before they called out the cavalry.’

‘
And a very good morning to you as well, Duncan,’ Hunter returned. ‘What’ve we got then? And don’t tell me a dead body.’ Despite the sarcastic retort Hunter was pleased it was Duncan who had been turned out. It meant that nothing was going to be overlooked.

‘
I’ve only just started processing the scene. I don’t know if you’ve managed to have a word with the CID guy yet but he’s told me that the body’s been disturbed since the incident. She wasn’t found like this. Apparently uniform found her just behind the door still alive and when he got here a policewoman was frantically trying her best to save her. Paramedics got here pretty quick and took over. They worked on her for a good thirty minutes but unfortunately nothing could be done.’

Hunter could see that t
he result of those actions had added to the scene of carnage – tracks of smeared blood and bloodied footprints caked most of the floor space. In fact there was so much blood about that it was virtually impossible to determine the pattern of the floor’s vinyl covering.

Duncan hovered a gloved hand over
Gemma’s chest. The short purple satin night-slip she was wearing was soaked in blood. ‘And I’m not surprised. I’ve counted at least ten separate knife wounds. Some look pretty deep. She didn’t stand a chance.’

‘
Do we know if she managed to say anything before she died?’

Duncan raised his head, hunched his shoulders and gave Hunter a no idea look.

‘Do you know where this policewoman is?’

Again
, he hunched his shoulders. ‘No idea, but I hope someone’s bagged up her clothes.’

Hunter knew what he was alluding to. The policewoman had been in
direct contact with the victim providing opportunity for trace evidence of the perpetrator to be transferred – linking the offender to the crime. Therefore, for evidential purposes her clothing required removing and sealing inside evidence bags. He said, ‘I’ll chase that up, Duncan. Anyway looking at this lot you look as though you’ve got your work cut out.’

‘
Tell me about it.’ He drew back his gaze and returned to his examination of the body.

From the doorway Dawn Leggate said,
‘The pathologist is on her way and I’ve got communications to start ringing around the call-out list. A forensic team should be joining us within the next hour. Do you need anything else, Duncan?’

With
out looking up the SOCO Supervisor replied, ‘We could do with a forensic tent to seal off this back door.’

‘
Already sorted that.’

‘
That’s it for now then. Now if you’d give me a bit of space. My crime scene’s mucked up enough as it is.’

With a smile Hunter said,
‘I know when I’m not wanted, Duncan,’ and he stepped back into the rear yard.

Dawn
joined him. Resting a hand on his shoulder she said, ‘Is there anyone from MIT you want turning out – Grace?’

‘
No, not Grace, I’m thinking about giving this one to Mike Sampson.’

Hunter watched his SIO
’s eyebrows knit together.

She
said, ‘Are you sure Mike’s ready?’

‘
Absolutely. He’s been back a good month now. All he’s been doing is paperwork and I can tell he’s itching to get his teeth into something. This will be right up his street – a domestic.’