Michael Fowler - Cold Death

The car had attracted his attention because it had emerged from a copse of trees, which he knew was the site of a ruined eighth century chapel. He had an interest in local history, and he knew it had protected status.

Marcus pulled his police car off the road and drifted up onto the grass verge, settling next to a gap in the hedge, where he hoped for a better view. He saw that the Mondeo had come to a stop, but such was the angle of its parking that he was unable to get a view of its number plate. He watched as the passenger door opened. A man dressed in a long dark coat disembarked.

Leaning across the passenger seat of the police car Marcus strained his eyes to get a clearer description but he was too far away. He watched on as the dark clothed man made his way to the rear of the Mondeo where he popped open the tailgate.

Marcus decided he had seen enough. His suspicions were aroused. He radioed in, using his personal airwaves set, informing the communications room operator what he could see, and asked for back up. Then he pulled back onto the road and set off towards the track, half a mile away, where he knew he would be able to get access to where the Mondeo was.

The public bridle-path he turned onto was rutted and undulated and lined by heavy hawthorn bushes, and it took him much longer than he had anticipated finding an opening into the field.

Marcus spotted the gap at the last moment, and pulling the steering hard left, bounced up and over a tufted incline, and dropped down hard onto the recently harvested field. The heavy landing knocked the wind out him and he slammed on the brakes. The police car skidded to a halt. As he grabbed his breath he scoured the fields to gather his bearings. He espied the Mondeo twenty yards away, though he realised, when he saw that both front doors were open, and the car devoid of passengers, that he had lost the element of surprise.

He flung open his driver’s door and sprinted towards the car, giving an update over his personal radio, whilst at the same time searching the field with his eyes to see if anyone was making a run for it.

There was no sign of life. He guessed they had dashed into the copse where the old chapel was. Once his colleagues arrived Marcus knew that there would be nowhere for them to hide. They’d surround them and soon flush them out.

He stopped at the Mondeo, craning his neck inside, through the open doors, just in case one of them was laying low in the seats. The car was empty. Then he made his way to the rear where the tailgate was still up.

Now let’s see what you were up to, shall we!

What he found in the boot momentarily startled him — curled up in the foetal position lay a man, and he’d seen enough corpses in his time to realise this man was dead.

The sudden rustle of leaves coming from the coppice behind made Marcus jerk up his head. Emerging through the bushes and into relief he saw a stocky built man. A black woollen ski mask covered his head. He reached for his baton and simultaneously depressed the emergency button of his radio — his Status-Zero alert — a signal which overrode all other communications on that channel and let colleagues know that he was in imminent danger.

Marcus never heard the footsteps behind him and never felt the blow to his head, though his ears registered the sharp crack as his skull fractured.

The very last thing he saw, before his vision pitched into darkness, was the galaxy of stars which exploded inside his head.

DAY TWENTY SIX: 18th September.

Barnwell:

It took Hunter ages to find a parking spot. He had never seen the police station car park so full. And inside the station was no different. The rear foyer and corridor was crammed with uniformed officers all milling around. He didn’t identify any as regular faces.

Pushing through the double doors into the first floor stairwell he recognised one of the duty group sergeants. He was carrying a clip-board and seemed deep in thought.

“What’s going on?”

The uniformed Sergeant looked up. “Oh, morning Hunter. You mean the Task Force officers? Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Marcus Hill was attacked last night. He’s in a bad way.”

“Marcus!” Hunter knew Marcus Hill. A few years ago Marcus had joined Hunter’s team as a CID aide, but had then passed his sergeants exams and decided to go back into uniform where he would have the regularity of ‘acting-up.’ He had only spoken with him a couple of weeks ago, when he’d bumped into him in the canteen. He’d seen the smile on Marcus’s face as he’d told him that he’d just passed the last round of sergeant’s boards and was waiting for a suitable vacancy.

“What happened?”

The Sergeant outlined the circumstances. “Fractured skull. And he suffered a bleed to the brain. They operated on him late last night and he’s heavily sedated. We won’t know anything else about his condition until later this morning.”

“Have you got the person who did it?”

The Sergeant shook his head. “He called in a grey Mondeo, that he thought was acting suspiciously, in one of the fields opposite the Crown Inn at Barnburgh, and called for back-up. Then he went status-zero, but it took the first car a good ten minutes to get to him. By that time the Mondeo, and whoever had attacked him, had left. We’ve got everyone available out looking. Task Force are going out to do a thorough search of the area.”

Hunter laid a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Okay let me know how you go on, and keep me updated about Marcus.” He turned and made his way up the stairwell to the MIT room, his thoughts drifting.

Shouldering his way through the doors Hunter immediately felt the atmosphere in this office at a complete contrast to the one he had been greeted with downstairs. This place was buzzing. It brought him back from his gloom.

He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around the back of his chair. He caught his partners gaze. She was placing a mug of coffee down on her desk.

“Morning Grace. Have you heard about Marcus?”

“Yeah, terrible isn’t it.”

Hunter nodded. He pointed towards his murder squad colleagues who were at their desks, cradling their own hot drinks and chatting excitedly in small groups.

“Something going on that I should know about?”

“That’s appeared this morning.”

Grace thumbed a sign towards the white incident boards at the front of the room. Beside them, stacked on a trolley, was a large flat screen TV on ‘stand-by’ and a DVD player.

“I called in to speak to Isobel first thing and she told me we were in for a treat this morning. She said there’d been a breakthrough — but she wouldn’t tell me what.”

Before Hunter and Grace could discuss things further they were interrupted by Michael Robshaw and Barry Newstead making a noisy entrance. The team watched Barry swagger to the television, his face beaming as he switched on the monitor with a hand held remote, whilst the SIO took up centre stage in front of the boards.

“Okay everyone settle down.” I’m guessing you’ve all heard a whisper that progress has been made in this case, especially after the disappointment we had from the interview with the Hassans.” Michael Robshaw swung his eyes from Hunter to Grace. “And that’s no reflection on you two by the way. We had nothing to go on.” He paused and broke into a grin. “That was until yesterday afternoon.” He began rubbing his hands together. “When Barry discovered what you are about to all see. All yours Barry,” introduced the SIO.

Barry Newstead smoothed a hand down over his loosened tie. He took in a deep breath and made a vain attempt at pulling in his beer belly. “As you know, I was given the task of visiting the security team at Meadowhall to see what, if any, CCTV footage they had of Samia Hassan and see if there was anything of significance which could take the investigation further. Well thanks to the dates, times and precise location which refuge owner Nahida Perveen provided I was able to isolate the cameras which might have captured images of Samia. This is what I have found. The footage is disjointed because I have just taken clips from hours of original CCTV film and cobbled it together onto one disc.”