Michael Fowler - Cold Death

DAY FOURTEEN: 6th September.

Barnwell:

Hunter never heard Grace approaching, his thoughts were elsewhere and he jumped as she slapped a fresh sheet of paper on top of the small pile of vehicle enquiry forms he was checking. The paperwork had been left on his desk from the previous day’s tasks carried out by Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars and he was checking if all the outstanding enquiries had been completed before he handed them over to the DI.

“Come on get your lazy butt in gear, we’ve got a prime witness to interview.” She stabbed at the pink coloured form she had deposited across his papers.

As Hunter started to read she snatched it up. “Isobel from the HOLMES team has just handed this to me, she said it’s the breakthrough we’ve been after.”

He tried to grab back the paper she was waving but she spun quickly away snatching her jacket from the back of her seat with her free hand. She fixed him a look. “What are you waiting for Sarge?”

He picked up his own coat and wrestled the car keys out from a pocket before following on her heels out of the office.

* * * * *

“Are you going to tell me what we’ve got then?” Hunter asked as he swung the CID car out through the gates of the station’s rear yard and drove towards the traffic lights that gave them access to the main road. “All you’ve said so far is drive to the hospital.”

Grace pulled down the passenger seat visor and checked her make-up. She smoothed a hand across her nose and cheek before exchanging looks with Hunter. “We’re off to see a junior doctor name of,” she paused and took a quick glance at the paperwork that the DI had handed her earlier, “Chris Woolfe. He works on Medical Ward Three at the General. Isobel says that he rang in last night after the late news and said he’s certain he knows who the victim from the lake is.”

* * * * *

Taking the back roads through the woods Hunter was able to push the car faster than the speed limit because there was no traffic and he made the hospital in just over quarter of an hour. He parked the car in one of the mortuary visiting bays, took the POLICE VISITING card from out of the glove box and slid it on top of the dash and then he and Grace took a rear entrance to one of the lift areas. They knew the hospital layout like the backs of their hands.

“Ward Three you say?” asked Hunter pressing the button for the lift.

Grace double-checked the document and returned a nod.

They rode the lift in silence. It squealed and juddered up the two floors before opening up to a directional sign for the ward they required. They followed coloured coded tramlines painted on the corridor floor, taking a sharp left when the yellow line they were following peeled off from the red and blue ones. Medical Ward Three lay behind a double set of closed doors; Hunter could hear voices and activity beyond them and they were still a good ten metres away. Dispensing a large dollop of hand wash he pushed through the doors with his shoulder rolling his hands together as he entered the bright fluorescent-lit ward.

It seemed as though he had entered a world of chaos; there was so much activity and it stopped him in his tracks.

For a split-second it reminded him of his experience a fortnight ago to the day when his mother and father had been seriously injured and rushed into Scarborough District Hospital. The thought of it again caused a state of panic to sweep over him. He felt his stomach turn turtle.

Yet even though if gave him bad memories he couldn’t help but continue to watch, mesmerised by it all. Everything seemed to be happening behind a screen around one of the beds on the ward.

He shook himself out of his trance, exchanged looks with Grace, shrugged his shoulders and widened his blue eyes. He gave her a ‘something’s obviously going on’ look before stepping towards the nurse’s station. That was busy as well.

After a few seconds he caught the attention of an auburn haired plump woman dressed in dark blue. He snatched a glance at her name badge pinned above her breast pocket; it stated, Helen — Ward Sister. His wife Beth was a sister; he knew she was in charge. He finally caught her gaze and flashed his warrant card. “I bet the last people you want to see right now is us?” he said, rocking his head backwards where he could still hear the commotion.

The Sister let out a sigh. “They brought in a twenty-two year old girl in the middle of the night, suffered a stroke just after she’d had a baby — looks like we’ve just lost her.”

He offered a look of empathy as he pushed his warrant badge back into his jacket inside pocket. “We contacted the hospital this morning, we were told a Dr Woolfe would be on duty here.”

“That’s right. He’s tending to the girl behind the screen.”

Hunter and Grace took another look down the ward. The activity behind the shielded bed appeared to be dying down.

“We need to speak with him I’m afraid,” said Grace returning her gaze back to the ward sister. “We can disappear for half an hour for a coffee and then come back.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Could be. He contacted us last night.”

“Okay, just give him a couple of minutes. It looks as though we can’t do anything else for her anyway. They’ve been working on her for over ten minutes now, he’ll be calling it time soon and so he should be out in a bit.” Her response towards the young girl’s death was so matter-of-fact, devoid of any feeling. Hunter guessed her job was very much like his, in times of crisis you remove the emotion in order to cope.

They hadn’t even taken a seat in the sister’s vacant office before Dr Woolfe tracked them down. Dressed in a white, open necked shirt tucked into a pair of jeans he looked very young. In fact if it hadn’t been for his nametag and the stethoscope draped around his neck Hunter would never have guessed he was a doctor. He remembered Grace mentioning he was a junior but this guy didn’t even look as if he had started shaving yet.

The doctor shook both their hands and dropped into the ward sister’s empty seat behind her desk and then beckoned them to sit in low-set seats positioned next to a filing cabinet opposite.

“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time, we can see how busy you are,” opened Grace.

“A bit like your job eh? No rest for the wicked.” He ruffled his fingers through his light brown, collar length, curly hair, leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Is this about my phone call last night?”

“You left a message with one of our teams stating that you think you know who the victim is?” Grace passed across one of the colour photographs taken of the facial reconstruction.

He accepted it and took a long lingering look, gulped several times, then nodded his head. “The guy on TV said this is the girl who you’ve found at the bottom of Barnwell lake right?” He sounded nervous.

“Yes a couple of weeks ago. She was murdered and dumped there.”

“I can’t believe that.” He shook his head. “I had a right shock last night when I saw it on the news believe me”

“Do you recognise her?”

“Well it certainly resembles a girl I used to go out with. It looks like Samia, but I can’t believe it, she’s such a lovely girl — or was — if it’s her.”

“Samia?”

“Yes, Samia Hassan. She lives — or rather she used to live with her parents in Hoyland before we went out together.”

“Are you absolutely certain about that? That photo as you know is just a facial reconstruction, the body was in a bit of a mess I’m afraid,” interjected Hunter.

“Even so it’s an incredible likeness of Samia. Has anyone else phoned in — her mates from uni, and given Samia’s name since you showed it on the news yesterday?”