Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“You look tired,” she said dropping down on the sofa with a big sigh. “Boys were lively tonight?”

“Sorry Beth I should have taken them up tonight and given you a break.” He tried to focus on the TV programme but it was washing over him.

Beth pushed herself up and turned towards him. “All right Hunter what’s the matter? You’ve been at odds with yourself since you got home. Something gone off at work?”

He shook his head. “It’s my dad again.” He told her about the brief meeting with DCI Leggate earlier in the day. “I called in at mum’s on the way home but they weren’t in and I’ve rung their mobiles and dad’s gym but there was no answer.”

“Look Hunter do you think you might be reading into this more than you should be?”

He pursed his lips. “I thought that myself, but it was the way both the superintendent and the DCI reacted when I tried to probe about mum and dad’s incident. She gave me all the confidentiality crap. You know cops don’t do that with other cops.”

“She might just be a stickler for procedure Hunter. She’s from another force, she doesn’t know you from Adam.”

“No there was something in the way she answered me. She was bullshitting.”

“Well you can’t do anything about it can you? You’re going to have to wait until your dad tells you himself.”

He closed his eyes again.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it is the last thing I do.

DAY TWENTY TWO: 14th September.

Barnwell:

By seven-thirty am the incident room at Barnwell police station had become badly overcrowded with Murder Squad detectives, Task Force Search Team members, Scenes of Crime Officers and Forensic specialists all squeezing into any space they could find. There was standing room only.

A large scale street map and a blown-up, colour, aerial photo of the Hassans store, taken by the Force helicopter, together with a hand drawn layout of the property; both store and ground floor flat, dominated one of the white boards at the front of the room.

Hunter led the briefing; he was orchestrating the raid. He handed around photocopies of the operational plan setting out the purpose of that morning’s sortie and then quickly got into his preamble. He summarised the investigation to date and then outlined everyone’s tasks. Although the team had the Hassans as TIE’s; Trace, Interview, Eliminate, they had not been able to identify the attack site where Samia had been killed. That was the crux of the day’s task ahead and the purpose of the warrant and he deliberated over his final words; he wanted no stone left unturned.

Shortly after eight am as the Police and Forensic teams were heading out of the station’s yard, daylight had just broken through a heavy grey sky. The day ahead looked promising.

Hunter and Grace were leading the convoy and in less than quarter of an hour they were hitting the outskirts of Hoyland. Hunter eased off the accelerator, but only a fraction and he took the turning into the side road at the side of the convenience store quicker than normal, braking sharply to avoid a parked car close to the junction. He mumbled an apology to Grace as the car rocked to a halt. He felt wired. A highly charged tingling sensation surged through him. He was always like this on raids: a flash from his Drug Squad days momentarily took over his thoughts and just as quickly disappeared as he took in the sight of the Hassans convenience store.

In less than twenty seconds they had the premises surrounded. Hunter glanced at his watch: twenty past eight on a Sunday morning and he was surprised to find that the shop was already open.

He and Grace pushed through the entrance doors, Hunter holding out the warrant, whilst Task Force, Scenes of Crime and Forensics disembarked, sealing off the area and sorting out their equipment.

Mohammed Hassan was behind the counter serving a customer with an edition of one of the morning’s papers. His jaw dropped when he saw them enter. But that was only briefly. Within seconds he had composed himself and his face took on a hardened look.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“We have a warrant to search these premises Mr Hassan,” returned Hunter thrusting the rolled up magistrate’s document towards his face. He threw the customer a ‘I want you to disappear now’ look and followed up by using his head to indicate the door. The customer took the hint — leaving quickly.

“What for? I have done nothing wrong.”

“When we came the other day making enquiries about your daughter Samia remember me asking you a series of questions as to her whereabouts and you told me she had flown over to Pakistan?”

Hunter paused and studied Mohammed’s face. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Well we now know she was never there because as you will have realised by now from the local news broadcasts we have recently found her body. She has been murdered and I suspect your involvement in her killing.”

“No, no you have got this all wrong. I haven’t done anything to Samia.”

“Mr Hassan I am arresting you on suspicion of your daughter’s murder,” finished Hunter.

Ten minutes later, in handcuffs and protesting loudly, both Mr and Mrs Hassan were helped into separate marked police cars as officers were sealing off the frontage of the store with crime scene tape. The premises were secure and ready to be searched.

Hunter took out a protective forensic oversuit from the boot of his car and slipped it on. He watched everyone else kit themselves out as he picked up his clipboard from the back seat. He made a bee-line for Duncan Wroe the Scenes of Crime manager, and the Task Force Sergeant; he wanted to double-check their tasks. He noticed that Grace was corralling her team together; she had responsibility for the search of the rear store-room.

For the next three hours Hunter repeatedly moved from one doorway to another through the building watching the Forensics Team photographing, swabbing walls and furniture, lifting carpets and selectively drop various items into evidence bags, whilst Task Force overturned chairs, sofas and beds and rummaged through and behind units and cupboards. The work was slow and methodical but the exhibits were soon stacking up on the landing ready to be removed for tests.

As Hunter was about to call time for lunch-break the first positive call went up.

“Got something Sarge.” It came from one of the Task Force officers working in the kitchen area. He strode excitedly to the door and waited in the opening; he didn’t want to contaminate the search grid. A slightly built, dark haired female greeted him with a broad grin across her face. He saw that the white forensic suit she had on hung loosely in baggy folds around her such was the slimness of her frame.

“Is this what you’re looking for from your list?” She proffered him an A4 folded document. He slotted his clipboard beneath his arm and took it from her casting his eyes over the DVLA V12 form. As he peeled over the front sheet with his latex gloves he couldn’t help but break into a smile himself; it was a registration document for a white Renault Kango van — on a 53 plate.

* * * * *

Hunter loosened his tie away from his collar and undid his top button. He glanced across at Tony Bullars. “Right let’s see if we can wrap this up,” he said pushing open the interview room door.

The two detectives strolled into an already warm and stuffy room and eased themselves down on seats opposite Mohammed Hassan and his solicitor. Mr Hassan was looking very uncomfortable; a damp patch stained the front of his shirt.

Another hour of questioning and I’ll have Mr Hassan soaking wet with sweat.