Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Dawn shuddered. She felt her skin prickle.

“It’s even worse back here ma’am.”

She followed the light from the officer’s torch as it settled on a human form seated at one end of, and hunched across, a large oval table.

Striding over the charred remains of Mrs McNab she stepped warily towards the table arrangement. Moving to the left and right of the humped figure she scrutinised. “And this must be Mr McNab?” she asked rhetorically. He was face-pressed against the table surface, a halo of thick cloying blood surrounding his head. A chunk of flesh was missing from his frontal lobe; it looked as though attempts had been made to scalp him. His skin and clothing were in the main charred and blackened though parts of his bare forearms displayed heat blisters.

“It looks as though he’s been tortured,” interjected the cop again. The beam from his torch flooded across the grimy mahogany veneer surface and settled on an outstretched hand. “Three of his fingers have been chopped off,” the officer continued, “and look at this here.” He flicked the torch light over to a package of shop bought fish fingers resting in the centre of the table. “There’s a note underneath them. I’ve already read it but not touched it.”

Dawn crossed the officer’s ray with her own Maglite beam fixing onto an A4 size silted note. Despite the film of soot she could still make out the black capital letters scrawled across the paper. It read — THESE ARE TO REPLACE THE MISSING ONES.

She tried to catch the gaze of the uniform cop but he was in semi-darkness. Her eyes danced between the disfigured hand of Mr McNab and the fish finger box.

“What sick bastard would do this?” she said out loud. She shook herself back from her thoughts and was quickly turning them into crime scene investigation mode. She went through a check-list in her head; earlier whilst speeding towards the scene she had been told over the radio that SPSA were on their way; getting the Scottish Police Services Authority forensics team here was one job she could tick off. “And I want you to start the visitor log please.” She threw the cop her car keys. “There’s a clipboard and paperwork in the boot. And seal the area off with tape before you come back to the house. Oh and before you go — point me in the direction of the senior fire officer.” Her instructions were interrupted by the ringing tone of a telephone. It was coming from somewhere back in the entrance hall. She paused in mid-flow waiting for voice-mail or an answer machine to kick-in but that didn’t happen. The phone continued to ring unabated. She strode over Mrs McNab’s body and tramped into the hallway. She found the buzzing phone on a stand close to the front door. Lifting the handset from its cradle, through the thin layer of latex of her forensics glove she could feel a slimy, greasy film covering it as a result of the fire and she raised it towards her ear; close enough to hear, yet not mark her face.

“Hello,” she answered. There was no response but she could make out someone breathing heavily and laboured at the other end. “Hello can I help you?” No response. “Who is this?”

“Jock — Jock Kerr.” She thought she heard the man say. She made a mental note of the name for later. She tried to determine the region of the Scottish accent, but somehow it had lost its twang. “Who is it you are after?”

She listened carefully to the answer making another careful record in her head.

When he had finished she answered, “Oh you have the correct number all right. This is Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate. Can you give me your details and telephone number — I’m investigating Mr McNab’s murder.”

The line went dead. She was left listening to a long purring noise from the handset. She checked her watch and noted the time; she would make a request for caller ID when she got back to the incident room.

Replacing the phone she stepped towards the front door and took in a couple of deep breaths of fresh air. At the entranceway she took a long look around to see if any neighbours overlooked the bungalow. There were none. This was going to be a difficult case she told herself.

Whilst she was thinking about the last phone call a flitting movement up to her right surprised her. A couple of black shapes flashed in front of a pale moonlit sky. She realised what they were; she was watching bats take to the night.

Dawn stood and watched them, fascinated by their swift movement, zipping and swooping and zooming so close to the trees and at the last moment diving and swinging away. Living in the city she didn’t get to see this type of stage-show. It had made her night.

For several minutes she stood there mesmerized. Then she shook herself out of her reverie and fished her mobile from out of her pocket; it was time to bring in the Procurator Fiscal and then begin calling out the troops.

DAY TEN: 2nd September.

Barnwell:

Hunter hooked a bare leg across Beth’s hip and pulled her naked body closer. She was warm. He snuggled closer still, moving her fair hair away from the side of her head with his mouth and nose and began kissing the nape of her neck. Her skin was soft and scented. His tongue voyaged downwards into the hollow between her shoulder blades and he caressed her skin gently with short kisses before venturing upwards again, where he settled his lips over the lobe of her ear. She gave off a low pleasurable moan.

“You smell nice,” he said softly.

Beth moaned again. “I’ve not woken up yet Hunter,” she murmured — then, “what time is it?”

“The boys are still asleep and I don’t have to rush into work this morning” he whispered, moving his lips away, back down to the sensitive area around the nape of her neck.

* * * * *

Hunter stepped out through the French doors of the kitchen and onto the block-paved patio nursing a steaming mug of tea between his hands. He took a long and measured look over the garden. Most of the flowers were beginning to fade and needed deadheading he thought to himself. With the exception of the potted plants most of them were looking tired. What with the events at work over the past few months he had hardly had time for any gardening. In fact it seemed as though summer had not been part of his life this year. He had never experienced a year like this in his career.

He settled himself down onto one of the four ornate, white metal patio chairs arranged around a round table and set his drink down. He loved the view from here; this was where he and Beth loved to sit on warm summer evenings sharing a bottle of wine, grateful for a little peace and quiet after they had tucked Jonathan and Daniel up in their beds.

He felt totally relaxed for once. He had finally caught up with all those restless nights. It had been his best sleep in ages. It also helped that he hadn’t had to go in early to work for briefing. He had arranged to have a coffee and chat with Zita, the reporter with the Barnwell Chronicle, and then he was off to the Forensics Lab to see how Professor McCormack’s niece was shaping up with the facial reconstruction.

He recalled his phone call with the Forensic Medical Artist that he’d had yesterday. She had invited him up to see the work in progress. He was looking forward to the trip. From an artistic point he couldn’t wait to see the result of the application and flair employed by another artist, as well as talk through the process. And as a cop on the investigation, he was eager to identify their victim and see her likeness. He had also decided to make the trip to Wetherby because he knew it would give him some respite from the investigation.

His partner Grace had been unable to go with him. He had spoken with her before leaving work the previous evening. Detective Superintendent Robshaw had requested her to join him at Barnwell Country Park that morning where he was making a televised plea for witnesses. He could tell Grace had been nervous about the event and he had reassured her by telling ‘she would be fine,’ and that it was all good experience for a future promotion board.