Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“You’re too suspicious Hunter do you know that. It could be a genuine funeral for all you know. Think about it, all your dad’s pals from his past will be getting on in years now.”

“I can’t help but have that feeling that if I hadn’t called in to see them it wouldn’t have been mentioned.”

“I know what you’re saying Hunter but there’s nothing you can do about it is there? He’ll tell you when he’s good and ready. Just give him some space.”

“There’s something not right,” he muttered. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

Glagow, Scotland:

“Cop!” Billy almost upended the tray, containing his fish supper, onto his lap as he fought frantically to get his baseball cap down over his eyes.

“Where?” demanded Rab, instinctively sliding himself lower into the driver’s seat.

“There!” Using one hand to point, with the other, Billy pulled harder on the peak, lowering it a little further. Satisfied that he had hidden enough of his face he lifted his head slightly and peered through the windscreen, setting his sights, twenty yards in front, on the dark haired man in the short grey overcoat who was leaning back against the driver’s side of the dark blue Vauxhall Vectra. The man appeared to be scanning the street, and he shot a glance in their direction, but it was only fleeting.

Rab went for the key in the ignition but Billy snapped a gloved hand around his wrist.

“No, just wait! I don’t think he’s spotted us.”

“How do you know he’s a cop?”

“I saw him a couple of weeks ago at the bail hostel, talking with the supervisor.”

Placing his hands on the dashboard he leaned forward to get a clearer view.

“I wonder what he’s doing here, in this neck of the woods? And it looks as though he’s alone. Just wait a moment and see what he’s up to. If he clocks us then we piss off.”

Billy pushed himself away from the dash and settled back into his seat. Returning to his supper, whilst watching intently out through the windscreen, he picked out several chips from the polystyrene tray and loaded them into his mouth.

Five minutes later he caught sight of movement; a slim, dishevelled man appeared from a small side street, parallel to where the Vauxhall Vectra was parked, and stopped opposite the plain clothed cop.

“Well just look who it is?” Billy’s eyelids screwed into hardened slits as he watched the pair strike up a conversation. “I wonder if we’re on their agenda by any chance?”

Watching as the shabbily dressed man accepted a cigarette from the detective, he reached beneath his seat, exploring, until he sought out what he had been looking for. Hooking his fingers around the steel wheel brace he began to slide it out from beneath its hiding place.

“Once they’ve finished their cosy chat you and I are going to have a wee word with our pal. I don’t like it when people go behind my back”

DAY SEVENTEEN: 9th September.

Sheffield:

“What’s that address again?” Hunter asked pulling the car into the kerb.

Grace slid the handwritten note over the handbrake to where Hunter could see it and ran a French manicured finger nail beneath the scribbled destination he had been searching for over the last five minutes.

Zita had telephoned Hunter yesterday afternoon. She had got back to him with the address of the Asian Women’s Refuge and had fixed up a meeting with its owner — her contact.

They had found the street easily enough — off the Wicker in Sheffield, but all the buildings looked the same; three storey Victorian red-brick houses with their soot encrusted frontages from past industry and with dusty windows. At first glance it appeared as if the majority of them were empty, or more likely were used as storage for the small shops or last remnants of businesses, which still operated in this run-down area. Hunter and Grace knew that behind one of the doors was the refuge. However, given the absence of a number and knowing that the secret address would have no signage advertising itself, finding it was proving extremely difficult.

“Give the woman a ring Grace, tell her where we’re parked and ask her to come out and make herself known, otherwise we’ll be here all day.”

Grace reached into her handbag, mumbled to herself the telephone number she had scribbled on the inside leaf of the folder, and tapped it into her mobile. Within seconds there was an answer and Hunter listened to the one sided conversation from Grace. Less than thirty seconds later Grace ended the call and slipped the phone back into her bag.

“She’ll be down in a minute. She’s been watching us drive up and down from her office somewhere up above us but because we’re in an unmarked car she didn’t come down.”

Hunter turned off the engine and as he had parked on double-yellow lines he placed the ‘police visiting’ card on the front of the dashboard.

A sharp rap on the front nearside door startled them. Hunter looked sideways to see a middle-aged Asian woman crouched down by the door looking in at them. He took in the details of a smile but most of her face was partially covered by a white cotton veil.

Nahida Perveen, as she introduced herself, greeted them with an energetic shake of her hand.

Dressed in a long white cotton dress, embroidered with a gold neckline, Hunter could see she was tall and slender though he still couldn’t make out her features because of the veil.

“Sorry I didn’t come down and make myself known. We have to be very careful here as you can guess. I forgot to ask Zita what you looked like and some of the husbands and fathers of the women who are staying here will do anything to find this place.” Her voice was perfect BBC English.

She led them through a solid wooden door into a dark entryway. Hunter could pick out detailed Victorian tiles, which covered the lower half of the entrance hallway. They followed her up a stone stairway to the first floor where the lighting was better. “We have ten ladies with us at present but I don’t think any will make an appearance. They’ve gone through such a lot and have come here for safety until we can help them turn their lives around. They knew you were coming but you still won’t see any of them. Some of them don’t even trust the police unfortunately,” Nahida said as she took them to the top of the stairs, only occasionally looking back as she spoke.

Hunter still couldn’t make out her face.

She showed them through another locked door, guided them along a corridor and showed them into a room, which Hunter guessed put them somewhere at the back of the building. It was a huge sitting room, brightly lit, with a high ornate plaster ceiling. It was furnished with four sofas and three armchairs, all draped with patterned throws; none of the fabrics matched. They were arranged around two low wooden coffee tables. The carpet was thin, stained and threadbare. Hunter could see that the place had been furnished on a tight budget.

Nahida chose one of the chairs and pointed out one of the sofas, as the place for them to sit. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back.

That was when Hunter caught sight of her badly scarred face. A clump of pink leathery flesh marred the left hand side of her head.

“You’re probably wondering how I got this scar?” she said.

Hunter diverted his gaze and latched onto her almond eyes. He felt embarrassed. He had held on too long looking at her face. He could feel his cheeks flush.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” She smiled. “I’ve lived with this for almost twenty years. That’s what made me set up this place.” She pulled back her cotton veil a fraction; it was enough for Hunter to see the full extent of her injuries. The scar wound its way from the side of her left eye over her ear down towards her jaw. A portion of her hair was missing. In its place was a lumpy piece of scarred flesh.