Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) (25 page)

Day Twenty-one
: 7th April.

The beaming smile on DCI Stainthorpe’s face was so firmly fixed that not even a wrecker’s ball could demolish it, as, with a spring in his step, he marched to the front of the incident room. He stood next to one of the wipe boards and faced the room. With an outstretched arm he banged a fist over Dale and Scott’s e-fits.

‘
Bingo,’ he shouted. Still smiling he announced, ‘We’ve got a lead on the pair.’ He pulled away his arm from the board. ‘Last night we got a call from the man who runs the post office-cum-general store in a little village called Minions, which is on the eastern flank of Bodmin Moor – he’s known the pair since they were young, and he says they’ve both been in his shop in the last week buying bits of food. Rember we learned that they used to live with their parents in a cottage on the edge of that village.’ The DCI picked up a red felt pen and drew a circle around an isolated shaded area on the large scale ordnance survey map. He tapped the pen over the drawn area. ‘The cottage doesn’t show up on the map but I’m told it’s about quarter of a mile from Minions. Apparently after their parents were killed, and Dale and Scott were put in the children’s home, the council boarded the place up, and it’s remained empty ever since – or at least, we thought it’s been empty. Given the info from our post office owner it’s my guess that Dale and Scott have been using this place as their bolt-hole – most probably, ever since they ran away from the home. I’ve arranged for a couple of officers from the Intelligence Unit to do a recce around the place this morning. They’re going dressed as hikers so as not to spook them, and see if there are any signs of activity around the building. If the feedback is positive, I want an operational plan putting together and a warrant getting immediately.’ He rested the pen on the ledge of the wipe board and rubbed his hands together. ‘The good news doesn’t end there.’ He broke into a smile again. ‘Another of the calls we got, following the appeal, was from an army sergeant who is currently based at Winchester – training new recruits.’ He paused and scanned the room. ‘Dale and Scott were both in the navy – Royal Marines. Joined up in nineteen ninety-eight.’ Pursing his lips he continued, ‘Which explains why, until recently, we’ve not had any attacks since the last one in nineteen ninety-seven. Both of them were released from the navy in May last year. And this is where it is also interesting. After they were released from military prison – they were serving time there.’ He paused again and surveyed the faces of his team. ‘The sergeant, who gave us the information, was a corporal in their unit, and he says that while they were serving in Afghanistan the brothers were given the job of guarding captured Taliban. One of the prisoners was found hanged in his cell and it was found that he’d been tortured beforehand – and quite badly as well it would appear. The hanging was hushed up, but Dale and Scott were court-martialled over it and found guilty of assault, but not of murder. They were given a five-year jail term and then dishonourably discharged.’ He took in a deep breath. ‘Released onto the streets to begin their deadly attacks again.’ The DCI stared into the centre of the room. ‘Well hopefully, we can bring their reign of terror to an end this time. And soon.’

It was mid-afternoon when the call came in that the Incident Team had been hoping for.

The plain
clothes detectives from the Intelligence Unit had found the cottage, but had not been able to hang around because they were so exposed out on the moors. They reported that the place was still boarded up, and had security fencing around it, but they had found recent tyre tracks leading to the rear, and they had found a vehicle. Attempts had been made to secrete a transit van beneath tarpaulin. They had been unable to get close enough to check it out, but confirmed it looked new enough to not be one that had been abandoned.

Upon receiving the news
DCI Stainthorpe called every detective back to station and to a packed Incident Room he regaled the good news. As he brought the briefing to an end he said, ‘Right, I’ve got some phone calls to make to bring in some extra resources. I want someone to go down to the magistrates’ court pronto and swear out a warrant and I want an operational order knocked out.’ He clapped his hands, ‘It’s a sixty thirty start tomorrow morning everyone.’

- ooOoo –

Day Twenty-two
: 8th April.

Despite the early start the atmosphere in the Incident Room was electrically charged. The office was bursting at the seams with uniformed and plain clothes officers. For some it was standing room only.

At the front a new ordnance survey map had appeared.
It was a large scale one of Bodmin Moor and the surrounding area. Pinned to that were several A4 colour photographs.

DCI
Stainthorpe took the briefing. ‘Operation Scarecrow three,’ he announced. ‘This morning’s focus is on the arrests of Dale and Scott Moore and the preservation of evidence in relation to the murders of their parents, James and Helen, in nineteen eighty-six, the murder of Polly Hayes, in nineteen eighty-eight, and most recently, the murders of Gemma Cooke and Elisabeth Bertolutti. Plus, we also believe they were responsible for a series of rapes and aggravated burglaries, in the Richmond upon Thames area during the nineteen nineties.’ He paused, then continued, ‘We believe the pair are currently living in a cottage, which is their old home.’ He slapped a hand over one of the photographs. It was an aerial shot of a small square cottage with a rear extension leading to a group of outbuildings. ‘The Force helicopter took this yesterday afternoon on a fly-past.’ He prodded at a section of the photo. His forefinger was targeted over a small grey oblong shape. ‘There is a possibility that they have access to a van, which is currently hidden beneath tarpaulin. When we raid the premises I want this securing and immobilising immediately.’ He scanned the room. ‘In a minute I am going to hand over to Inspector Forbes, from Task Force. He is Bronze Commander who will be orchestrating this operation on the ground. He will be issuing you with your instructions. But first I want to just point out these to you.’ He tapped three other colour photos pinned to the map. ‘Not far away from the cottage are these landmarks. They are Bronze Age burial chambers. These are all avenues of escape or hiding for the pair, so I want you to bear these in mind when you are securing the perimeter.’ He took a deep breath and tight-lipped added, ‘These two are ex-military. They are used to this terrain and as we know they are no strangers to violence. They have a lot to lose, so we must ensure we give them no quarter and certainly no room for escape.’

A twenty-strong team travelled to Minions. Ten heavily armoured Task Force Officers in their personnel carrier led the way, closely followed by a dog man. Hunter and Grace brought up the rear – they were sharing a car with DS Macey and DC Scarr. In between were local CID Officers. If there was a likelihood that Dale and Scott would resist, there were certainly enough of them.

As the convoy passed through Liskeard, and began its long climb up to the highest village in Cornwall, they found themselves confronted by a swirling mist and dropping temperatures.
By the time they entered the village it had become a pea-souper, and all of them had been forced to drop their speed to a crawl while making their way along the main street.

Hunter was surprised
by how small the place was. Within a couple of minutes they had passed two rows of whitewashed buildings and had reached the end of the village. Thirty seconds later they were passing an old mining engine house, which Hunter saw had been transformed into a heritage museum, and were turning onto a dirt track, which took them directly onto the moors. They were on the final stage of their journey.

After five minutes of bouncing along
an undulating boggy lane Hunter spotted brake lights ahead. The fog gave a halo effect around them. He slowed the car and drew to a halt. Seconds later dark clad figures emerged from the Task Force Personnel Carrier. He put on the handbrake and turned off the engine.

Hardly a sound was made by anyone as uniformed officers kitted themselves out with body armour
and detectives donned stab vests. Then they went into a huddle and listened to the Inspector issue his final instructions in a hushed voice. After confirming that everyone understood their role he led the way on foot.

Within a couple of minutes of tramping across the damp ground Hunter was at sorts with his bearings, especially faced with an impenetrable blanket of grey.
The fog was dragging itself across the moor in clumps and layers and it reminded Hunter of a scene from the Sherlock Holmes movie,
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Thankfully, he could still make out the inspector at pole position.

Within f
ive minutes the pace of the yomp had slackened. A hundred yards further on Inspector Forbes came to a halt. He put on his reinforced crash helmet.

His team
copied.

Then, ushering everyone together, in a low voice he checked in with,
‘Okay, does everyone know what they are doing?’ Wisps of cold air drifted from his mouth.

There was a round of nods.

‘Right this is it. Strike, Strike, Strike!’

Everyone set off at a jog.

Hunter watched the Task Force officers fan out.
Some disappeared into the mist. Seconds later, the silhouette of the cottage came into view. He could make out the security fencing barring their way. It was the heavy mesh panel type set in concrete posts. Hanging from one of the panels was a large yellow sign, bearing the logo of a security firm, warning away trespassers. It was heavily weatherworn. In front of him two officers were bolt-cropping a chain. Two of their armed colleagues backed them up. It only took a matter of seconds, and then they were pulling apart the panels and dashing inside the compound. Hot on their heels was the dog man and the squad of detectives.

Hunter wasn
’t far behind, and although he couldn’t see what was going on, because of the shroud of fog, from the sound of pounding feet and cries and calls going on all around he knew that the team were surrounding the cottage like a school of sharks.

It took three blows before the front door splintered and crashed inwards.

Hunter followed three Task Force Officers in, backed up by detectives from Wadebridge, who starburst into the inner reaches of the building. He entered a long room with a stone-slab floor. He quickly took in his surroundings. A bare electric bulb burned from the ceiling – that told him that someone was living here. Wallpaper, the pattern of which was ancient, peeled in places from damp walls. In the middle of the room was a table covered in dirty crockery. Many of the plates had remnants of food – again, confirmation that recently someone had made this their home. Ahead, and to the right was a steep stairway. From the stomping sounds above him he knew that officers were already searching bedrooms.

Suddenly above, he heard a banging and crashing noise, quickly followed by the sound of scrambling feet.
At the back of the house a call went up that made him realise someone was doing a runner. Hunter spun on his heels and made for the door. Training his ears he picked up the sound of someone scrabbling up and over the chain-link fencing. He bolted down the short path and hared out through the way they had come. Taking a sharp right and leaping across a narrow ditch he landed heavily onto the boggy moorland tufts. His ankles jarred and it made him wince. Recovering quickly, he set off towards where he had last heard the clambering. He couldn’t see a thing but he could hear. Someone was panting heavily not too far ahead. He picked up his pace, at the same time increasing his breathing, dragging in lungfuls of cold air. Within a few seconds he knew he was making ground when a wispy dark silhouette appeared before him. He was about to shout ahead when a call went up behind him – it was as if someone had read his mind.

‘
Police – stand still.’

It was a warning cry – Hunter knew what was coming.
He remembered his training and skidded to a halt, slamming his arms down by his side and fixing himself statue-like.

Seconds later he caught what sounded like the
echoing, thumping sound of a horse bearing down on him. Hunter held his breath. He flinched as a monster of a dog shot past him, and then just as quickly disappeared into the swirling grey shroud. A few seconds later he heard a growl and a piercing cry come out of the mist. He couldn’t help but smirk – the dog had done its job.

He felt a tap on his shoulder as the dog man sprinted past.
Hunter followed him.

Ahead the screams
of physical pain were getting louder.

Less than ten seconds later Hunter was watching over a man
yelling and rolling around, trying to dislodge his lower arm from the mouth of a snarling German Shepherd. The man was in a great deal of pain.

The dog man shouted,
‘Leave Prince,’ and a split second later the police dog had released its grip and was slavering over its capture. The dog man pulled back his dog and slung on a lead.

It gave Hunter a better view of their prisoner.
He was a slim man, with broad flattened boxer-type nose. His eyes met Hunter’s and they glistened with hate. He realised how good the likeness was to the e-fits.

Was this Polly
’s killer?

Hunter eyed him up
– he could feel his emotions rising and balled his hands into fists. Then, catching himself, he took in a sharp breath. The air was thick and cold and caught the back of his throat. He coughed, let it out and relaxed his hands. As he bent down to make the arrest, out of nowhere, four detectives appeared and Hunter found himself being pushed aside.

The man kicked out wildly, but it was a futile attempt.
He was pounced upon and quickly overwhelmed by a swarm of hands. Yanked upwards, he gave off another squeal of pain.

‘
You’re nicked,’ shouted one of the detectives.

‘
Get fucked,’ the man yelled.

One of the detectives grabbed at his hair and
demanded, ‘Where’s your brother?’

‘
Fuck off.’

It didn
’t take long to handcuff him – the man offered no resistance. As he was dragged away, Hunter could see from the bowed shoulders that the prisoner’s fighting spirit had been sapped.

The
y trooped back over the moor, to the cottage, their captive’s feet hardly touching the ground. When they got back to the perimeter fencing Hunter could see that the man’s arm was bleeding profusely. He pointed it out to Inspector Forbes, who, after a quick check, determined he required hospital treatment before being taken into custody.

He was driven away with a police escort
to Liskeard Hospital.

With a degree of
frustration Hunter picked up where he had left off and tramped back up the path to the cottage. Stepping inside the front door he heard noises coming from the floor above and made his way to the stairs. The steep stairway was in semi-darkness. He tried the light switch at the bottom but there was no bulb in the holder. He carefully negotiated the steps. On the top landing Hunter halted and looked around – wondering how on earth someone could live in these conditions. The place was squalid and exuded damp and coldness – the conditions seemed rawer inside than outside.

The door immediately in front was ajar.
He heard the sounds of a cupboard being opened from within. He called out ‘Grace?’

‘
In here, Hunter.’

Pushing open the door he stepped into a room that smelt stale and sweaty. A patch of light streamed in through a gap in the boards covering the window allowing him to pick out objects within the sparsely furnished room. Against one wall was an old fashioned brass bed covered in stained sheets.
Grace was standing in front of a set of drawers. She was peering inside the top one.

‘
I’ve found some women’s underwear,’ she called out. ‘And what looks like Gemma Cooke’s watch from the description.’ She pointed backwards, ‘And just check out what’s on the bed.’

Hunter followed the line of her arrowed finger. In the centre of the messy bed he saw a laptop computer.
The lid was up and the screen was on.

Grace glanced over her shoulder.
‘I’ve had a quick look – its Elisabeth’s. He’s right in the doo-dah.’ She turned around. ‘By the way which of the Moore brothers is he?’

‘
He’s refusing to talk.’

‘
And no sign of the other one?’

Hunter shook his head,
‘Not yet. They’re still searching the outbuildings – and the dog’s having a nose around.’

‘
Well, at least we’ve got one of them – and a load of evidence. That’s a start.’

Following debrief Hunter telephoned Detective Superintendent Leggate and gave her an update. ‘It’s Scott Moore we’ve got. We’ve identified him by his mobile phone, and he’s got Dale’s number stored. The techies are going through it at the moment to see if we can get a location.’

‘
But you’ve no idea where he is at present?’ she asked.

‘
None, boss. We’ve been ringing the number stored on Scott’s phone all afternoon but he’s not picked up. He’s completely gone to ground.’

‘
What about Scott – is he saying anything?’

‘
Not a dicky bird. Won’t even confirm his name. To be fair they’ve only done one interview with him. He was at the hospital four hours getting treated for the dog bites’ – he started to smirk and fought it back – ‘ten stitches he’s got.’