Michael Fowler - Cold Death

The last half hour on the bag had reinforced his thinking. It was time to make that call.

He pulled off his training gloves, slung a towel around his neck, and began to steady his breathing, scoping his eyes around his gym. For a split second a wave of satisfaction washed over him. He could still remember the sight which had greeted him the first time he had walked into this place thirty five years ago. Then it had been a derelict drill hall once used by army cadets. At the time it had swallowed up all of their savings and had required lots of physical work to lick it into shape to enable him to open it up as a gym. But it had been worth it. Now it was one of the best boxing academies in the Yorkshire region. He had gained a reputation as a boxing coach; he had a good stable of future young champions in-the-making, and as an added bonus it was a profitable business. As he dabbed at the last remnants of sweat from his face he hoped-against-hope that what he had achieved over the years wasn’t going to come crashing down around him because of one night from his past.

He wandered into his office and dropped into the swivel captain’s chair behind his old desk, leaned back on its springs and looked around his cluttered room. For a few seconds as he pondered putting off the inevitable his gaze leapt around the walls, checking out the yellowing boxing promotion posters hung all around; every one of his achievements were recorded on those; all the fights he had won back in his heydays as a professional.

He pulled back his gaze and shivered. He mulled over in his head what he needed to say and then yanked open the desk’s top drawer. He ferreted around amongst the loose paperwork until he found the card that had been buried at the back all these years. He scanned the number and guessed he would have to add a nought to the beginning of the dialling code after all this time. He took up the handset and punched in the number and listened to the ringing tone repeat itself at the other end. It took what seemed an eternity before anyone answered; he had almost given up hope and was ready for hanging up. Then a voice came on he didn’t recognise; a woman’s voice. It sounded younger than it should have. The voice just said a simple “Hello,” to which Jock repeated the same greeting.

“Who is this?” said the woman.

“Jock — Jock Kerr, who is this?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate,” she answered. The voice was slow and distinctive with an air of confidence. “Who is it you are after?”

“Sorry I must have the wrong number. It was Ross McNab I was after.”

“Oh you have the right number all right.” What the female detective said next took him completely by surprise.

He stopped the call in a daze; trying to grasp what she had just said. He felt as though he was in a very dark place.

* * * * *

Stirlingshire, Scotland:

DCI Dawn Leggate pushed her driver’s door to and pulled on her windbreaker. Zipping it up she stood motionless for a few seconds taking in the surroundings and preparing herself for what she knew lay ahead. She’d deliberately parked twenty yards away from the scene where the lane opened up to the driveway and where it gave her a clear view of the setting. Ahead, facing her, parked on the gravel hard standing were two marked police vehicles, a fire engine and an ambulance, crowded together blocking the entrance to the McNab’s bungalow. Blue strobing lights picked out the shapes of the surrounding trees and hedges, skirted across the fields, momentarily lighting up the waving fronds of wild grasses before finally washing over the white walls of the secluded dwelling. For a split-second there was darkness as the blue lights spun away and then everything lit up again as they continued their sweeping sequence.

She couldn’t help think that the image panning out before her somehow felt staged, almost as if it was an opening sequence to a TV drama: Yet she knew this was for real. Thirty five minutes beforehand the police communications room had rung her mobile as she was about to fork a mouthful of her microwave lasagne meal-for-one. She had sped up the A84 to make it here in record time. Thank goodness the roads had been relatively clear; she knew she’d driven like a mad women, a mixture of frustration and resolve; but it was her turn as ‘on-call’ she tried to tell herself. But after another long day at the office, and with her life currently as it was, she just didn’t need this pressure right now.

Another gust of wind rose over the hedges and whipped her ginger red hair across her face. Coaxing the shoulder length strands into a loose pony-tail she bunched it into her jacket’s high collar and continued on towards the McNab’s home, slipping on a pair of latex gloves whilst desperately trying to avoid the silvery puddles which had collected in the divots along the track.

Squeezing between the emergency vehicles the only light she could pick out inside the smoke-ridden place appeared to be coming from torches, dancing backwards and forwards, fleetingly appearing through the soot-stained glass windows for a split-second before disappearing again — almost a lighthouse effect. She guessed the fire had taken out the electrics. A couple of the window openings were ajar and wisps of white smoke drifted through the gaps before being caught up and whisked away by the north easterly up into the leaden night sky.

She let herself into the darkened hallway. No one was on the door; the crime scene had not been sealed off yet. She mentally ticked it off as one of her priorities.

She found that the air was heavy with soot and smoke and it immediately clogged the back of her throat making her gag. She clasped a hand over her mouth and loosely pinched her nose.

“Hello — anyone there?” she called out even though she knew there was activity somewhere in the bungalow.

Without warning a bright beam appeared from the doorway to her right. It flashed across her eyes temporarily blinding her.

“Sorry ma’am, didn’t hear you arrive,” she heard a man’s voice say. The light had blanked her vision for a few seconds; she couldn’t see a thing.

“The bodies are this way.”

She blinked frantically, desperate to see. Gradually through a haze of orange flashes a silhouette appeared before her. She picked out the shape; a uniform cop barred the door. She recognised his face from back at the station but couldn’t remember his name.

“They’re in a bit of a mess,” he said stepping back.

She took out her own 1,000 candle powered Maglite and switched it on. A powerful ray of light leapt from her torch, piercing the drifting fire smoke, and focussed in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. She swept it through the open doorway into the room, along the floor, up onto the walls, picking out bits of furniture. From its contents she deduced this was the lounge area of the bungalow. The smell in here was different; soot and smoke the same but in a pungent mix which was somewhat sweeter. It reminded her of a barbeque. Then her beam fell onto the chaos and she immediately realised why. Mrs McNab; she gathered it was her from the remnants of a charred dress which was still smouldering. Most of her upper body was char-grilled black except where the skin had split and cracked from the intense heat and here gashes of raw pink flesh gaped through. Eyes stared back at her and white teeth glistened because the soft tissue of the eyelids and lips had shrivelled away. It was a surreal sight.

“The fire officer says she’s been set alight with an ignitable solvent of some type — probably petrol,” announced the uniform cop who had followed her into the room. “When I got here they were just dousing her out. He said she had been the seat of the main fire.”