Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Mark Gamble took over Grace’s place in front of the incident boards. Clutched in his right hand was his rolled up bundle of notes from the previous day’s actions though he never opened them as he addressed the detectives. Tapping them on the side of his thigh he picked up where Grace left off, running through yesterday’s day long footslogging visits to the traditional Asian carpet stores in Bradford. He explained that two members of his team had eventually tracked down rugs of a similar make and design to a warehouse store on an industrial unit on the outskirts of the city. Shipping receipts held by the owner identified they were part of a large consignment from the Punjab Province of Pakistan. They had pressed the owner to narrow down the location where they had been made but he had been unable to give a precise area. He had told them that many of the rugs were crafted in small factories and family homes to an ordered design which would be picked up on a weekly basis and delivered to a warehouse by the docks. Dozens of villages would be involved in one single design; it was impossible to pinpoint where the rug their body had been bound in had been made. Detective Sergeant Gamble paused, but only momentarily as though gathering his thoughts. He swapped his bundle of notes to his left hand and continued.

“We also had the task of gathering any CCTV evidence at the country park. There is some and it does have night vision software but unfortunately it only covers the Lakeside Café, reception area and storeroom, which is all of the main building, and is a good hundred metres from the jetty where the body was thrown from. Having said that there is some coverage to the outside of the building for security and so anyone passing close by would be picked up by the system. They do store discs for a month before they are re-used so we have got our civilian investigators currently going through days and weeks of footage. If whoever killed this girl carried the body past the main building before dumping it off the jetty they will have been picked up by the cameras.” Mark paused again and stroked a comb of fingers through his thick fair hair, resting his hand at the back of his neck. “It’s a long shot but fingers crossed.”

The briefing broke up again with the DI handing out fresh enquiries for the day. Grace scanned her eyes over the half-dozen sheets generated by the HOLMES team. She had been given the task of tracing and interview the Countryside Rangers employed at the park. She handed them over to Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars to complete; she still had to put the finishing touches to the Coroners Inquest file.

As her two colleagues wandered out of the office, chatting about last night’s televised football game, Grace picked up the folder from the top of her tray and dropped it onto her blotter. Then she slipped off her jacket, cloaked it around the back of her seat and pulled the chair away from the desk. At the last moment before settling down she checked herself. She spun round and strode towards the office kettle, she needed a coffee; an extra caffeine hit before she started her laborious chore.

* * * * *

Hunter drove the hour and a half back from Scarborough District Hospital only making small talk. His head was thumping. His father beside him had been virtually silent and only Beth and his mum had struck up any long drawn-out conversation, and that had been idle chit-chat lifted from their soap magazines.

It had been a very strained journey and one he was glad was over as he pulled up outside his parent’s home. He followed his dad in through the front door carrying in their overnight bag and set it down in the hallway. He checked that Beth was helping his mum and strode after his father who had made for the kitchen. His dad had filled the electric kettle and was settling it into its base to switch it on. “Tea son?” he asked rhetorically, flicking down the switch. He reached up into a wall cupboard for cups.

Hunter saw him grimace, setting his teeth against one another and biting down, doing his best to disguise the pain. He edged forward. “Let me do that dad.”

“Nae I’m fine son, it’s only a twinge.” He took out four cups, set them down and spooned in sugar for himself and Hunter.

“Look dad I don’t want us to fall out over this,” Hunter said quietly. He could hear Beth fussing over his mother through in the next room.

“And neither do I son.”

“I know something’s not right, maybe it’s the policeman in me, I don’t know. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, but just think about what happened up on those moors. If I hadn’t been following you could have been there for hours. You and mum could have been killed. I don’t know what you’re covering up but it seems to me to be too dangerous not to share it.”

Hunter’s father turned and touched his arm, looked him square on. A film of tears washed over his dad’s bright and intense blue eyes; eyes that he had inherited. “Give me some space son. I won’t promise you anything but I need some time to think it through.”

* * * * *

Grace ducked beneath the police crime scene tape and stepped towards the edge of the lake. She rested near to the jetty and fixed her eyes on the spot, where six days earlier, she had watched on as the Underwater Search Unit had hauled up their so-far unnamed body.

She listened to the sounds around her; the lapping of the water and the regular thunk of the moored rowing boats against the damp wooden pilings of the quay. Behind her she could hear instructions being shouted out to the line of boiler-suited officers who were on their hands and knees carrying out a finger-tip search in one of the grid areas marked out by the forensics team. Most of Barnwell Country Park was still off limits; cordoned off as they searched for any evidence which would trap the killers of their unknown victim. She lifted her eyes and scanned the park; a place she had been so many times and which she normally associated with peace and tranquillity.

She had come here for some fresh air having finished the Coroner’s Inquest file half an hour ago; it had taken longer than she had anticipated. All that was required was for Hunter to read it through before it was submitted. She wondered when he would be back.

Damn ; she remembered she still hadn’t rung him. She took out her mobile, flicked up the screen and speed dialled his number. As she listened to the ringing tone she stared out again across the lake. The sky looked angry, threatened rain. Last night’s forecast had said early sunshine with heavy bursts of showers later in the day. It looked like being accurate for once.

DAY SEVEN: 30th August.

Barnwell:

Hunter sat at his desk stroking the sides of his still damp hair from the shower he had taken twenty minutes previously. He had awoken just after six that morning and decided to run into work to clear the past week’s cobwebs from inside his head.

He booted up his desk-top computer — he knew there would be an abundance of e-mails waiting for him — and leaned back in his chair. As he waited for the programme to go through its firewall security checks he set his eyes on his desk calendar. He picked up his pen and crossed off several of the previous dates; he had been away from the office for eight days.

Another day and they would be in September; the beginning of Autumn.

The first of September, he reminded himself — the date pricked his conscience. It had been that date twenty years ago when he had been given the news that had momentarily tore his world apart. His first serious girlfriend — Polly Hayes — had been found murdered. She had been walking her dog in woodland close to her home when she had been attacked. The dog had returned home without her sparking off a search. Police found her body three hours later.