Michael Fowler - Cold Death

Jock had promised that he would. Now he sat in his chair nursing his forearm.

In a couple of week’s time Hunter knew that his father would be showing off the scar, just like the one above his right eye. And he knew what he would be saying, once he had told everyone how he had got this new one, ‘scars are the medals of heroes.’ He wished he had a pound for every time he had heard his father say that. Hunter shook his head and smiled to himself. At least there was no lasting damage.

The DCI said she needed to question them all about what had happened. Hunter asked for a little time with his father and for it to be carried out after he’d visited the hospital. Deep down he knew he needed to check what his father was going to say in his statement and make sure he played down the strangulation; to ensure that he used the words ‘trying to restrain’ as his defence.

The DCI assented to the request.

Hunter could tell by her face that she knew what had really happened and his earlier opinions of her were quashed. He returned an appreciative smile.

Suddenly his dad announced, “I could do with a stiff drink. His father sprang open a cupboard at one side of his desk, delved into it and pulled out a bottle of single malt. Then he shuffled earthenware mugs together from a wall unit behind him and began to pour a generous amount into each. “They say it’s good for shock,” he said handing Hunter, Barry and the DCI a mug each. “Slainte! Doon the hatch” he toasted, chinking each of their mugs.

Hunter glanced at his father. The colour had returned to his face.

You and I need to sit down and talk .

DAY THIRTY FIVE: 27th September.

Barnwell:

Hunter flopped back on the small two-seater sofa in his conservatory. He had inserted a Michael Buble’ CD into his Bose music system and he closed his eyes and allowed ‘Summer Wind’ to sweep over him. His head was thumping. He was glad that the Detective Superintendent had given the team a lie in, allowing them all to work an afternoon shift that day. He knew that there was still a fair bit of ‘mopping up to do’ to close the investigation; Ari, Pervez and Mohammmed had to be charged with Samia’s murder, and a remand file had to be put together for court.

Suddenly disturbing images from the previous night flashed into his already aching head. Sometimes he wished he could turn off his brain. He shook and quickly replaced them with more pleasant ones.

Beth and his Mother had joined them at the gym, thankfully after the melee had ended, and as his dad had poured them all another ‘wee dram’ Beth had given him a quick check over and saved him from going to the hospital by applying several ‘Steri-strips’ herself to close the wound to his forearm, before re-bandaging and giving him a clean bill of health.

Then he Barry and his dad had returned to the pub to re-join the celebrations of the Samia Hassan enquiry.

The team had quizzed him as to what had gone on but he chose to give them a potted version of the events promising to fill them in the next day. What he had really needed was a few more beers to bring him back down from the adrenaline rush, and what he also needed deep down was to be beside his dad, to let him see that he was there for him. Barry had lightened the mood in their small group but the conversation between himself and his dad had been stilted and shallow. Despite this Hunter had the feeling that the ice had been broken between them.

Both of them had fallen through the doors at 1.30am that morning and now he was suffering.

“Morning son.”

His father’s voice brought him back. He rolled his eyes down from his eyelids.

“Feeling delicate?”

“An understatement dad. Rough as a bear’s arse springs to mind.”

His dad chuckled. “Here, get that down you. I’ve just mashed.”

Hunter was handed a cup of strong tea, just how his dad drank it. “Thanks.”

His dad seated himself opposite and rested his cup on the small light oak coffee table. “Son, I need to apologise.” There was pleading in his words.

“Don’t dad.” Hunter locked onto his father’s hurt look.

“No I do, don’t stop me. I know I should have told you about this but I thought I was doing the right thing. I now realise I was wrong keeping you in the dark.”

“Dad — .” Hunter attempted to interject.

“Let me finish son. I’m not proud of what I got myself into and with foresight I would have gone nowhere near that crew, but at the time I was a twenty-year old man with a career in tatters. I thought I was making a fast buck at the time and didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Nevertheless I think I made the right decision to protect your ma and I haven’t made a bad job of bringing you up. You’ve turned out a son I’m very proud of and I hope when things settle down you’ll feel the same way about me. Just remember this Hunter, even though I changed my name you are of the Kerr clan. Your Mum’s a Kerr and you have every right to wear that tartan.”

He watched his dad pick up his cup and take a drink.

There gazes met again.

His dad said, “You know one thing has come good of all this. For years I’ve had to stay away from my family for fear of putting them in danger. Going back up there to meet the DCI when I did, made me realise just how much I’ve missed them. I’ve since been in touch and already fixed up a meeting. What about you, Beth and the boys coming up with your ma and me and I’ll introduce you to your family?”

21st November 2008.

Barnwell:

Hunter took a couple of steps back from his easel, angling his head, slowly scanning various sections of his latest oil painting — a seascape of Robin Hoods Bay. Every few seconds he halted his gaze to focus on a particular passage within the scene, checking that he had resolved the section before letting his artistic eye move on. Five minutes later pleased with how skilfully he had managed to capture the stormy mood in the piece he set his brushes down on his palette and then wiped his hands with a rag.

Time for a cuppa.

Before making for the kitchen he took in another lingering look. It was a process he always went through before he put the canvas to one side. He would get it out again in a week’s time and repeat his actions. He knew from speaking with other artists he was not alone in going through this critique period.

As he focussed on the blustery, rain leaden, clouds within the sky, the brushstrokes laid down in tones of purple, ultramarine blue and pink, it reminded him of a word he had heard his dad use — Dreich. That summed the spirit of the painting perfectly he thought.

Bringing that word to mind suddenly conjured up feelings from the recent turmoil within his life. For a few second’s images carouselled inside his head.

He shook himself and they cleared. He guessed it would be some time before they left him permanently — if they ever would. The main thing was that he and his dad had since reconciled their differences. And he had discovered new members of his family. He had travelled up to Scotland with his father to support him during his visit to Glasgow High Court for the plea and directions hearing for Billy Wallace and Rab Geddes, charged with murder-times-five, and the attempted murder of his dad.

That court visit had proven to be shorter than expected. The pair had refused to come out of their prison cells for the hearing and refused to enter a plea and in their absence the judge had set a trial date for the second week in January the following year.

Hunter mentally diaried the date, so that he could take time off to support his father again when he had to return to give evidence.