Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“In a way — just something I need to follow up that’s all.”

Grace’s eye-brows knitted together. “That all sounds rather mysterious Hunter.”

“That’s because it is.” He pushed himself up. “It’s top secret and if I tell you I might have to kill you.” He exaggerated his smile, tapped his nose and turned towards the door.

* * * * *

Hunter tracked MIT’s civilian investigator Barry Newstead to the ground floor CCTV room; the back room editing suite to be precise, where he found him going through footage from Barnwell country parks security system. He crept into the semi-darkened room silently and saw that Barry was intensely scrutinising speeded up images, which were floating across one of the small viewing screens set into a desk console. Barry looked sharply over his shoulder, acknowledged Hunter with a nod and then returned to the TV monitor.

Hunter fondly ruffled a hand through Barry’s rumple of dark dyed hair. “How’s it going big guy? Found anything?”

The thickset, large bellied investigator grunted and shuffled to one side in his swivel chair, shaking his head away from Hunter’s rifling fingers. Hunter pulled up a chair and slotted himself beside his old friend and colleague.

Hunter had a real fondness for Barry Newstead. He had met him shortly after his girlfriend’s body had been found. Barry had been one of the investigating detectives’. Early on in the enquiry he had been interviewed by him on several occasions and such had been the probing nature of the questions that he had felt like a suspect. He had been so glad he had been able to offer up a solid alibi for the relevant times between her going missing and her body being found.

Later he had deliberately sought Barry out in the pub he regularly used, to talk through the case, and it became apparent to him, from their discussions, that Barry was working slavishly to catch the killer. Unfortunately that had never happened. Barry had been the officer who had broken the bad news to him that the enquiry was being wound down because of lack of further evidence. That had been twelve months after her murder — he had been almost eighteen years old. And that had been when he had made his decision to join the police.

He had bumped into Barry four years later, as a young twenty-two year-old detective, on the very first day of his being appointed to District Headquarters CID; fourteen years ago. Barry had been at the peak of his career and had taken him under his wing, showing him all the tricks of the trade. They had formed a formidable team until his promotion to Detective Sergeant eight years ago.

“Not a damn thing so far,” Barry replied without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’ve been here looking at this lot for the best part of a day and a half and I’m getting square eyes. The most exciting moment was watching a female mallard and her seven chicks waddle across the front of reception. This is almost as boring as going through all the missing from home files from the last job.”

Despite Barry’s bemoaning the tediousness of the task Hunter knew it would be done thoroughly. He edged his seat closer. “Glad I’ve caught up with you. Sorry to have put you on the spot with those enquiries, but I was stuck up in North Yorks and there was only Grace and you I could trust with something so sensitive, and Grace was in charge of this murder.”

“No problem, that’s what buddies are for.”

“Anything new cropped up?”

Barry pressed the pause button on the system and turned to face Hunter. He smoothed a thumb and forefinger across his dark bushy moustache and then stroked his chin. “I followed up a few calls late yesterday for you but there’s nothing on the grapevine at all about what happened. I’ve only given my snouts half a story, they’ve no idea it’s your parents, just told them it’s a hit-and-run near the east coast. That way if someone does come back with something I’ll know if they’re telling me the truth.”

Hunter patted Barry’s shoulder. “Cheers for this — I owe you one.”

“No problem Hunter. You getting me this job has more than paid a debt. I was getting bored stiff at home. It’s great to be back in the thick of it especially after being thrown on the scrapheap.”

Hunter knew what that meant. He recalled how Barry had been forced to retire six years ago by a newly promoted Chief Inspector who had specifically targeted him because of his unorthodox methods. He remembered how on several occasions the man had threatened to discipline Barry for ‘bringing the force into disrepute,’ before finally side-lining him to a desk job, which he knew would hurt him the most. He could recollect Barry’s virtual last words to him whilst they were out celebrating a result from a job one night. “I’m going to call it a day before I smack that bastard,” he’d said to him with a slur. It had been the first time he had ever seen Barry so morose. Then six weeks ago his ex-buddy had come back into his life again. Barry had rung him right out of the blue with vital information on the serial-killer case, which they had just put to bed, and Hunter had managed to persuade the boss to take him on as a civilian investigator at a time when their backs were against the wall and the team needed more experienced staff.

“Fancy doing some night-fishing?”

Hunter caught the smile creeping across Barry’s mouth — he had grasped what Hunter was alluding to. Between them they had used this term so many times over the years. It had been their coded phrase whenever one of them had decided to engage in underhand activities and required back up.

“I’ve nothing much else on — what do you have in mind?” Barry returned in a low voice.

* * * * *

The Masons Arms on Barnwell High Street was a drab Victorian pub that had not changed in character for years. It was a place with a reputation. Local decent folk and anyone with an ounce of sense gave it a wide berth. Such was the clientele who frequented it that a simple brawl always turned into a wild-west saloon fight.

It was the first time Hunter had ever entered the pub, and under normal circumstances would have avoided the place, but tonight he was on a mission.

He pushed through the lounge doors with Barry following up behind — watching his back. They were met by an interior that belonged somewhere in the past — dingy, low-lit, and with the smell of stale tobacco hanging heavily in the air. Because of the smoking ban Hunter guessed it was emanating from the pores and clothing of the dozen or so customers who hugged the bar. But then taking one look at them and recognising some of the faces, he wasn’t too sure. He knew that some of the people in here didn’t like to be governed by society’s rules and laws.

There was an instant silence as the small sea of faces ‘clocked them,’ but as he and Barry strode past it appeared that the punters had returned to their drinks and hushed conversation, though he guessed in reality that eyes would be slyly fixed on them right until they left.

Hunter quickly scanned the room and spotted his quarry, now sporting a Mohican style haircut since their last meeting, tucked into a corner, nursing what looked like a half drunk pint of lager.

He and Barry had already snuck-up and pulled up chairs before David Paynton realised they were there.

“Mind if we join you?” Hunter said rhetorically, squatting down on his seat, slotting his legs under the small round table that separated him from his foe. Barry took up a position at the side leaving David Paynton well and truly boxed in.

David’s hazel eyes burned into the pair of them. “What the fuck do you two want?”

“Now that’s not a very nice greeting for two old friends of yours David, is it?” Hunter couldn’t help but notice Paynton’s disfigured nose. It gave him the look of a boxer who had lost more fights than he had won. For a split-second it gave him a pang of self-satisfaction. He knew that had been his handiwork — but it had been well deserved. A month ago David, his brother Terry and his cousin Lee had ambushed him coming out of his father’s gym. Thankfully Barry and his father had been on hand to come to his aid and between them all three of the Paynton clan had been hospitalised.