Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“How’s your Steven? Heard from him?” asked Hunter.

David’s face took on a keen and menacing look. “You fucking know how he is. You and that bitch are the ones who got him banged up. He’s on the nonce’s wing for his own protection thanks to you.”

“Now, now David don’t get yourself worked up,” interjected Barry. “Steve has only himself to thank for being banged up. He was the one who raped those women and abused those children. He admitted it remember?”

“So you say, so you say.” He pushed his six-foot wiry frame back into the high-backed seat. “Anyway what do you two fuckers want?”

“A little chat that’s all” answered Hunter.

“A little chat my arse.” He leaned forward and took a sip from his pint, never taking his eyes off them. As he set it down he said, “Just piss off and leave me alone.”

“Look David we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Barry snapped one of his shovel-like hands across David’s knee, then squeezed, digging his fingers into the joint.

David twitched.

“The easy way is we ask you some questions to which you give some honest answers. The hard way is I walk over to that bar, buy a fresh pint of lager, set it down in front of you, drop a tenner on the table and then we walk out of here. I’m sure those at the bar will not be too impressed, especially if they think you’re a grass.” Barry released his grip. “Now which is it to be?”

David pushed away Barry’s hand. “What do you want?” he snapped back.

“That’s better,” said Hunter, “you know it makes sense.” He leaned in towards David Paynton. “First question — what car do you own?”

He saw the puzzled look on his face. Paynton raised his eyebrows seemed to think about the question for a good ten seconds then said, “Mondeo, blue, O five plate, you’ll have it on your computer,”

“Second question; which one of you or your mates owns a silver BMW?”

He returned an even more puzzled look; shook his head. “None of us.”

“Sure about that?”

Paynton swelled his chest. He stroked at uneven tufts of bristle, which peppered his jaw-line. “Sure I’m sure. We’ve never owned a BMW; German crap.”

“Who do you know then that owns a silver BMW?”

“No one. BMs are for pimps.” He swung his gaze back and forth between Hunter and Barry. “Look, where is this going? All these questions about a silver BMW. Was it used in a robbery or something?”

“A hit and run,” Hunter replied. He watched for a reaction; there was none.

“Look I’ll say this once more and only once more. None of us — that’s my family, have ever owned a BMW — never mind a silver one. It’s not our style. If I were going for flashy it would be a Porsche. And as far as being involved in a hit and run I have absolutely no idea what you are on about. When was this? Was it in Barnwell?”

“On the North Yorkshire moors six days ago. Ring any bells?”

“I can’t even remember the last time I was anywhere near the moors.” He paused and began stroking his chin, then blurted out, “Six days ago! Ha! It can’t have been me! I was with our Terry. We had to go to the job centre for an interview — they were going to stop our benefits. A bloody waste of time that was as well.” His face creased into a smile. “Check it if you want?”

“Don’t worry we will,” replied Hunter sharply pushing away his chair. He tried to hide his disappointment.

David Paynton’s look took on an air of confidence. “Now wind your neck in and get off my case.”

Barry pushed a finger within an inch of David’s face. “Watch your mouth. We can still do the dirty on you.”

Paynton stared back defiantly. He picked up his pint and took a long swallow.

Hunter and Barry kicked back their chairs and retreated the way they had come.

Hunter paused outside on the footpath looking along the quiet High Street. It was just turning dusk; an orange glow low on the horizon poked between a bank of grey cloud.

“Think he’s telling the truth?”

“It wouldn’t be hard to check out would it? I hate to say this Hunter — because he’s a Paynton, but I think he is.”

DAY EIGHT: 31st August.

Barnwell:

The sky had been full of leaden grey clouds all day but the rain had held off and all that was left of the northerly weather front was a gentle breeze. Grace and Hunter paused at the lakeside edge of Barnwell Country Park listening to the water lap against the shale. They were watching the surface undulate as a warm evening wind whipped across the murky lake.

Hunter turned his gaze skywards. He watched as tufts of pink cloud scooted quickly across a blue-green sky. The sun was beginning to drop low. He glanced at his watch. 9.10pm. He reflected that the summer was drawing to a close. Another month and autumn would be here.

It had been a day of mixed fortunes so far. Hunter had listened to the briefing earlier that day with a greater degree of enthusiasm. It had been a mixture of bad and good news. He’d learned that although the team had been working flat out for over a week the enquiry appeared to be stalling. None of the detectives were bringing anything new back to briefing. Michael Robshaw, the Detective Superintendent, reiterated that they were still no nearer to identifying who the victim was. He had confirmed that there had been no luck with dental records, fingerprints or DNA and were no nearer to matching the rug she had been found wrapped up in to a crime scene. However he did end the session on a high. He finished by stating that he was excited by a phone call he had received from Professor Lizzie McCormack. He reported that the pathologist’s niece was a forensic medical artist whose skills lay in facial reconstruction and that she had agreed to rebuild the victims face so that a fresh appeal could be made on TV. The detective superintendent ended with an announcement that work to build up the victim’s facial features was going to start within the next few days and should be done in a week.

Hunter had spent the remainder of the day getting to grips with his overdue paperwork. Then he’d caught up with Grace and arranged to stake-out the country park to see if they could track down Tanya. To that end an hour earlier the pair had left their unmarked car near the reception centre, and aided by a park ranger carried out a reconnaissance of the location where the young woman had been frequently spotted.

Now free from their escort and dressed in their outdoor fleeces the pair looked like any other couple who strolled the lakeside of an evening. And thanks to the ranger’s guidance they were able keep themselves in a position at all times where they had a clear view of where the street worker parked up with her clients. It was now a waiting game.

From out of the corner of his eye Hunter looked at his partner, watching as the gentle breeze lifted her tight curls away from her face, revealing the dark summer freckles which peppered her high cheekbones. He reflected on how he’d cracked on more than one occasion how they made her look like a cute little schoolgirl and she’d responded by slapping his arm.

He broke into a grin. Because although he knew that she’d been acutely embarrassed by his comments he knew that at times she had used her pasted on naive schoolgirl look to good advantage. Many was the time he had watched on with amusement as villain upon villain, as well as the odd Alpha male colleague, had been thrown completely off guard by her innocent childlike-look and demeanour.

At times it had been like watching a python hypnotise its prey.

She turned her head slowly to meet his gaze and it snapped him out of his thoughts.