Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Dawn spotted a number of local press photographers angling up their cameras and she pushed past them to approach one of the uniformed officers guarding the scene. She and John flashed their warrant badges and she asked for DI McBride. She was pointed towards a tall slim man with thinning wavy hair who had his back towards them. He was watching the forensic team erect a blue tarpaulin around scaffolding at the front entrance of a pair of modern semis.

Dawn called out his name as she got closer and the detective spun around. She immediately recognised him; she had been on the crime scene investigation and the hostage negotiator’s course with him.

He flashed a smile and held out a hand for her to shake.

She took it and introduced her DS.

“You know the reason why we’re here don’t you Alex?” She recollected his first name.

“Aye, your DS told me over the phone. You’ve trapped up two who were caught in this victim’s car. It was on false plates, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” replied Dawn. “And we’ve linked the car to a murder we’re dealing with in Killin on the thirty-first of August — just five days ago. A retired cop and his wife — tortured and then set on fire. A local saw the BMW driving around the village several times on the day of the murders and thought it was suspicious so she noted down its number.

“So I heard. And the same car could be linked to another murder just off Sauchiehall Street. We’ve got CCTV evidence of a silver BMW driving away close to the scene around the time of the murder. We’re currently enhancing the images for a reg number and to see if we can identify the driver. My team are dealing with that. I suppose you’ve heard that the victim was also a retired cop?”

“Aye.”

“Well this latest killing is going to grab you as well. I’ve just been told he’s a retired DS who also used to work out of Shettlestone CID. He retired back in nineteen-ninety-four. Whoever killed him has left him in a right old mess. I’ve not been inside yet, Forensics are setting up the foot plates for us to walk around the scene, but they’ve said it’s a bad one.”

DI Alex McBride’s response momentarily rocked her back on her heels.

Three retired detectives murdered, and all from the same station.

DAY THIRTEEN: 5th September.

Barnwell:

Standing in the lounge of the pub holding onto a near empty beer glass Hunter’s thoughts drifted away, his inner vision somewhere else; his mind was revisiting the images he had seen on several occasions that morning.

The bound book of colour photographs had been waiting for him on his desk and he had viewed them the minute he had got in. He had been so impressed with the finished look of Frankie Oliver’s work. Especially at the life-like features she had managed to form on the reconstructed head of their victim.

He had marvelled at the artistry of the work so-much-so that he had immediately phoned her up, and as one artist to another he had applauded her skills.

The photo’s had been referred to at the morning’s briefing. The Chief Superintendent had told the team that these were going out on the local news broadcast later that evening.

That announcement had caught Hunter by surprise and he had shot out straight after briefing to get a set over to Zita at The Chronicle; the last thing he wanted was for her to see them on the TV when she hadn’t got her own copies as he had promised.

As he hung around the bar he wondered if his partner Grace would be on the local news broadcast. He recollected the conversation they had had three days previously. He recalled how nervous she had been as she had told him that the boss had requested that she should join him for her first experience of a press conference at the scene of a crime. And he hadn’t spoken with her since. He’d been so wrapped up in the incident with his father that he had forgotten to ask her how it had gone.

“Penny for them Hunter.”

He hadn’t spotted Grace coming towards him until she spoke.

“Crikey you made me jump! I was just thinking about you and your fifteen minutes of fame.” He pointed to a large wall mounted plasma TV playing without sound. He could see that the National news was on. “Are we going to see your bright cherubic features then this evening?”

She dug his arm.

“Hey less of the cherubic. That means fat doesn’t it?” She took a drink from her glass of white wine. “After spending all morning with Mr Robshaw the other day I didn’t even get a look-in with any of the TV crews. It was a waste of bloody time. And I’d got myself all done up for it as well.”

Hunter broke into a smile. He knew what his partner was like for her make-up and fashion, even on a normal working day. He guessed she would have spent hours the night before sorting out a suitable wardrobe for her debut TV appearance. Here she was telling him that she hadn’t even managed to get a look-in.

“That’s because to the press you’re a lowly detective, whilst he’s an interesting, high ranking, Detective Superintendent, who’s running a murder enquiry.”

“Are you saying I’m uninteresting?” She dug Hunter again. “It’s us who does the leg work and solves the crime.”

“Ha but that’s not what the public think.” He lifted the pint glass to his mouth and drained the last dregs of his beer. He thrust forward his empty glass. “Fancy another?”

He watched her swill the remnants of the Chardonnay around the bottom of her glass before swallowing the last mouthful. “Just get me a coke. I’ll have that then make tracks home, I daren’t be late this evening I made a promise to take the girls out for a bite to eat. Besides I need to catch up with Dave, things have not been easy over the past couple of weeks.”

“Know that feeling. The job just gets a hold of you doesn’t it? I sometimes wonder why Beth puts up with me.”

“Must be those rugged good looks!”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said taking the empty wine glass from her. “One more won’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. Then I definitely must go.”

Hunter yawed his way to the bar. The MIT team had virtually taken over one half of the lounge. They had broken away from work early to have a couple of swift drinks, and to watch their SIOs appeal on the local news broadcast, before they all headed for their homes.

Some of them were hanging on to another funny story from Mike Sampson, whilst others were chatting in general.

He knew it was these moments that bonded a team.

Hunter squeezed himself between a small group of regulars who had congregated at the bar and caught the eye of one of the bar staff. He ordered a pint of Timothy Taylor for himself and a glass of Chardonnay for Grace. As he thrust his hands into his pocket for loose change a loud cheer and several wolf-whistles went up behind him. He spun round to see a sea of detectives faces all transfixed on the television screen. Someone shouted to the bar-staff ‘to ‘turn it up’ and Hunter began to decipher the sound. The shot was panning in on their Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, and the announcer said they were speaking from the lakeside at Barnwell Country Park. The newscaster was dubbing the storyline ‘The Lady in the Lake.’

The SIO was commenting on the status of the enquiry and as he began to make his plea for witnesses the scene panned out and was replaced by the stills of the reconstructed face of their victim. Blown up and backlit by the television the result looked spectacular.

Someone just has to recognise this lady he thought.