Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Nahida closed her diary. “From what I remember it was about half ten, quarter to eleven time in the morning. As I said she was really agitated. She was convinced someone was following her. I said I could call security or the police if she wanted and I would bring her to this place, but she said it was only a feeling she had, that she hadn’t seen anyone. Also she wanted to pick up some final things before she left home permanently.” Uncrossing her legs she leant forward and tapped the red knapsack. “This is what she handed me and asked me to keep it safe for when she got here.”

Hunter leaned across and pulled the bag towards him. “Have you had a look inside?” he asked sliding open the top zip.

Nahida shook her head.

He could see that the top section of the bag contained items of clothing and he began to lift out each piece separately laying them down across the coffee table. He counted out two pairs of jeans, four T-shirts, a hooded sweat top, several items of underwear and a pair of trainers. He ran his a hand around the inside lining; he’d emptied that section. He switched his attention to the side pockets. He found make-up and a few items of jewellery — a mix of expensive gold items, a bracelet, two necklaces and a pair of gold loop earrings, together with inexpensive costume jewellery, which consisted of various bead bracelets. Finally he zipped open the front. He had to give the insides a second glance and he couldn’t hide his surprised look. With forefinger and thumb gripping the top edge, as though it was a priceless object, he removed the item and carefully placed it over the laid out garments. It was a British passport. He opened up the back section for Grace and Nahida to see.

The personal details and photograph left them in no doubt that this belonged to Samia Hassan.

DAY EIGHTEEN: 10th September.

Barnwell:

Jock Kerr poured himself a generous shot of Laguvulin single malt.

Just a wee dram after a hard day in the gym.

He pushed back his reclining captain’s chair and propped his feet up onto the desk. Swilling the golden liquid around the crystal tumbler he cradled it against his upper chest allowing the peaty aroma to tease his sense of smell. Reminiscing once again, his eyes roamed around the room leaping back-and-forth between the many framed photos and the promotion posters which adorned the walls of his office; all significant memories of his past boxing career. Then he recalled just how it had all come to a crashing halt. Just when he’d been on the cusp of greatness, with a Commonwealth medal to his name, it had all ended prematurely when one single punch, thrown after the bell during a bout, sliced open an irreparable deep wound above his right eye. At the tender age of twenty his career was over; that one punch had ended everything and had landed him where he was now — in one hell of a mess.

He knew that deep down some of it had been his own fault — if only he had known at the time what he was getting into.

Foresight is always a wonderful thing.

Back then he had been a young naïve man with a living to make and his fists were the only tools of his trade. He’d actually used that phrase to the two detectives when they’d interviewed him three days ago back in his native Scotland.

Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate and Detective Sergeant John Reed had picked him up from Motherwell railway station and driven him to a quiet hotel where they’d questioned him in the empty bar area. They’d chosen that place, they’d told him, because they did not want anyone to know he was back in Scotland helping them with their investigation. Initially they had asked him all kinds of questions when they had collected him — not about the murders of the three retired detectives — but about whether he knew if he had been followed or not during his journey. And they had driven a long circuitous route to the hotel. Jock had watched the DS constantly check his mirrors, satisfying himself that they did not have a tail.

That was when he had told them about bumping into the bald headed man in Staithes whom he had recognised from his past and the subsequent hit and run where he and his wife had been badly injured.

The DCI had said to him that it confirmed their worst fears.

They had talked for well over two hours at the hotel, between them piecing everything together. Jock had been able to give them much of the background to it all and although initially he sensed that the two detectives had been suspicious of what he told them; he knew the signs from his experience with his son, once they had back-tracked over everything and double-checked his story with snippets of information from their briefing notes they had ended the interview by telling him that they were extremely grateful for his help. They said it had significantly moved on the enquiry.

Before they had dropped him back at the railway station they had advised him on his own personal safety and the DCI had given him her direct mobile number.

Time and time again during the past two days he had run through in his head everything they had talked about; checking that he hadn’t left anything out, though he knew deep down he hadn’t; it had been locked away in his memory for so long. He shivered, staring back at the framed photographs. He’d done his best to bury the past but it had caught up with him.

What a bloody mess.

He swilled the single malt around the glass and drained it in one gulp. For a second he considered pouring himself another but checked himself. He had to keep a clear head. It was time for home.

He placed the tumbler onto his desk coaster and locked the bottom drawer containing his bottle of whisky before pushing himself up from his seat.

He made his way through his gym, returning the odd misplaced dumbbell weight to its respective place on the rack before taking a last look back; like he always did, and turning off the lights prior to locking up.

Outside the temperature appeared to have dropped. He shivered and zipped up his hooded training top. The car park was empty save for his rented Toyota; the insurance company was still assessing the damage to his own car.

That was when he noticed the padded envelope on the step. He glanced down and gave it a puzzled look. Then he surveyed the car park again — this time with a critical eye; it was quiet.

Bending down he picked up the small brown package. There was nothing written on it. He turned it over. On this side he saw that someone had scribbled in thick black lettering ‘JOCKS GYM.’ The quality of the handwriting was poor.

He felt the envelope; there appeared to be something lumpy inside. He pulled at the sticky fastening and peered into the void.

Startled by what he saw he recoiled in horror dropping the package. It caused the contents to roll out onto the concrete. It confirmed what he thought he had seen. He let out a gasp as his stomach leapt up to his throat. Three severed human fingers lay at his feet.

DAY TWENTY: 12th September.

Barnwell:

Hunter leaned back in his seat, stretched up his arms and then folded them across the back of his head, interlacing his fingers. Physically he felt drained yet mentally he was energised. Since his and Grace’s meeting with the owner of the Asian Women’s Refuge; Nahida Perveen, the investigation had clicked up a gear.

Discovering Samia’s passport had been the catalyst. Fingerprints found on it matched those from the body.

He mulled over in his head what they had uncovered over the past few days. The team had tracked down a dental practice in Sheffield; she had signed up to a practice near to the University. Records held there matched the x-rays from her post mortem. They now had official confirmation that their body recovered from Barnwell Lake was that of Samia Hassan.