Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Michael Robshaw signed off his paperwork with a flourish, clicked the top back onto his Waterman fountain pen and laid it square across his jotter. He slipped off his spectacles and lined them up straight alongside his pen. Raising his head he fixed Hunter with a serious look. “I’ve had a complaint about you.”

Hunter screwed up his face. “A complaint about me! What am I supposed to have done now?”

“David Paynton rings any bells?”

Hunter took a long hard look at his boss as he searched for a response. The last thing he wanted to do was give him any bullshit. He had known the Superintendent far too long, and also he trusted and respected him too much to pass off an answer which would be an insult to his intelligence. He had worked with him when he had been a detective constable at Headquarters and Michael Robshaw had been his DI. He knew he had achieved his current status because of his abilities over the years to juggle the management of many successful teams as well as handle the politics which came with the seniority of his rank. He had also on a regular basis spent some personal time with him, training at his father’s gym, and he had put in many a run with him during lunch-breaks.

He settled for, “what’s he said I’ve done?”

He interlinked his fingers and rested them in front of his pen.

“Apparently you and one other, and I’m guessing from the description, that the one other was Barry, waylaid him in the pub a few nights ago and gave him the third degree about your father’s hit and run. Says you were trying to fit him up with it.”

“Just a minute boss, I never…”

He unlocked his fingers and held up his hand; gave him the stop sign. “I’m not going to quiz you on what you did or didn’t say to David Paynton. I’m here to tell you to lay off him. He’s flagged as part of an ongoing drug squad operation. He’s giving them a couple of major local players knocking out cocaine so they want him around. Besides that, I can tell you he definitely wasn’t involved. I got a call from North Yorks police late yesterday afternoon, it would appear that the silver BMW involved in your parents’ road accident has been found in Scotland on false plates and two young thieves are locked up for aggravated vehicle taking. I suggest you give them a call.” He handed across a post-it that contained a telephone number. “That’s the officer in North Yorkshire who’s dealing with the incident.” He leaned back in his large swivel chair. “Hunter you’re a great cop, don’t put your career in jeopardy for that little shit, and besides you’ve still got an unsolved murder here to focus on. Now get ready for briefing you’ve got a busy day ahead after your interview with the doctor yesterday — haven’t you?”

* * * * *

The morning briefing focussed on Hunter and Grace’s meeting the previous day with junior doctor Chris Woolfe.

Perched on the corner of his desk nursing his second cup of tea Hunter repeated almost word for word what Dr. Woolfe had said. In addition the doctor had given them the names of a few of Samia’s close friends she had made at university who would need chasing up and he had also made time after his shift to do a composite e-fit of the two Asian men who had beaten and threatened him. Printed copies of the computer-generated images together with a note stapled to them stating that the doctor had confirmed they were good likenesses had been waiting on his desk first thing that morning. Hunter handed them round the office as he briefed; no one recognised them.

Overnight, the HOLMES team had done background checks on Samia’s parent’s address; there were only three incidents logged — all 999 calls requesting police attendance for detained shoplifters. A voter’s register check confirmed Samia Hassan as listed at that address along with her father Mohammed and mother Jilani and there was no record of her being reported missing.

“We don’t know what we are walking into today,” Hunter finished off. “The doc is convinced our body from the lake is his ex — Samia Hassan, but no one else has called the name in, including her parents, so we don’t know what kind of reception we’re going to get this morning when we visit. Grace and I will do a softly-softly approach and check out if she is still living there, or if not, if they have heard from her recently. We’ll meet back after lunch for a scrum-down as to where we are once we’ve done the visit.”

* * * * *

Hassans convenience store was nestled between a hairdressers and a small post office on one of the arterial roads that led into the small town centre of Hoyland. It had only taken Hunter and Grace ten minutes to drive there from the station.

As they entered the brightly lit store the first thing that Hunter noticed was the pungent smell of pine air freshener. It was strong but not unpleasant.

To their immediate left a long counter spanned the frontage. An Asian man who appeared to be in his early fifties was working behind it. Hunter checked him out. He was slightly smaller than himself, roughly around five-foot-eight and overweight; a huge well-rounded stomach strained the bottom buttons of his blue and white striped shirt and sagged over his trousers. A thick head of greying hair skirted the sides of his head but he was bald on top. His most striking feature was his hooked nose. The image of Samia entered Hunter’s head and he couldn’t help but think that if this was her father then she obviously didn’t get her looks from him; Samia’s features were far prettier. His eyes roamed around the shop. Most of its brightness came from overhead fluorescent lighting. It was set out like a miniature version of a supermarket, well-packed shelves of fresh produce, tinned and packet foods. The back shelves were stacked floor to ceiling with wines, beers and spirits and close to the door newspapers and magazines took up the remainder of the space. He noticed the large flat-screen monitor suspended from the ceiling directly in front of the counter, its screen split into six sections each portion showing a different part of the store. The CCTV images were of good clarity for a change he thought. He made a mental note; they might need that to back-check footage.

The man greeted them with a cheery yet suspicious smile.

“Don’t worry we’re not selling anything,” Grace said, showing him her warrant card and badge.

He returned a surprised look.

“Mr Hassan — Mohammed Hassan?” she enquired.

He nodded.

“Mr Hassan we’re just making some general enquiries regarding an investigation we have running. We’re trying to track down people who we think might be of help and a witness has given us your daughter’s name Samia. Is she around?”

Good start Grace, thought Hunter focussing on the man’s face. Watching and listening was just as important a skill as talking when it came to interviews and having a partner who was on the same wavelength was a big advantage.

He saw the man drop his gaze, only for a second or two but it was enough for Hunter to realise Grace had a hit a nerve.

“Samia, er no she’s not here.” He stumbled over his words.

“Do you happen to know where she is?”

At that point Hunter became conscious of movement at the back of the store and he turned. Into view appeared a slim, petite Asian woman dressed in a peacock blue sari. A flash of gold came from a necklace that she wore over the bright material. She was tramping towards them and he could immediately see the likeness to the photograph they had of the facial reconstruction; though these features were a lot older. He had no doubt in his mind that this was Samia’s mother. She started talking rapidly as she approached them.

Mohammed responded conversing with her in similar tones. The conversation lasted for a good thirty seconds. Hunter could only pick out the words ‘police’ and ‘Samia’ as she drew nearer.