Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (14 page)

She could tell from his voice that she had woke him up. She apologised as he told her it had been two am before he’d finally got to his own bed and offered to ring him later but he responded by telling her he needed to be up himself to brief his own team.

“Likewise, that’s why I’m ringing you so early,” she replied. As soon as it had come out she could have bit her lip. Her retort had come out all wrong. She hoped he wouldn’t take her response as being a dig - that he was still in bed and she wasn’t - especially that now they were managing a joint investigation together.

She needn’t have worried. He gave her an update of the Belshill murder; she scribbled notes into her police daily journal, her concentration only momentarily distracted when the toast popped out. Then prior to hanging up she thanked him and felt the need to apologise once again for waking him up. Before she rang off DI McBride promised to send over a DS and a DC from his team to join her own morning briefing.

She hit the end call button and then dialled the HOLMES supervisor at Stirling and was brought up to date as to the status of the Killin murder enquiry. She made more notes. It was seven-thirty am when she hit the road.

* * * * *

Entering the office Dawn could see that several new incident whiteboards had been set up. The Glasgow city centre and Belshill murder had a board each and they had been abutted onto their Killin enquiry. These all contained very important components of the investigation and from experience she knew that thorough updates on those charts kept them all in touch with the case. More than anything it helped get a feel for things and could point them in the direction of the perpetrator.

She realised they must have been erected the previous day whilst she and DS John Reed had been at the Belshill murder scene liaising with DI Alex McBride.

Looking at their contents and recollecting the notes she had transcribed in her journal a half an hour ago she knew that the morning’s briefing was going to be very intense.

She checked the three timelines – the handwriting was wonderfully neat; she couldn’t help but think that was a rarity amongst police officers.

Also attached were photographs of the victims, gruesome Scenes of Crime shots plus crime scene locations and maps of each of the surrounding areas. Her eyes darted from log to log. Except for a few things from the Belshill scene everything was here.

Dawn knew she must find out who’d made the effort and congratulate them.

She opened her journal, picked up a dry-erase felt pen and added further notes to the boards doing her best to replicate the script. At this moment she could see that the chain of events link was the stolen silver BMW presently with forensics.

Ten minutes later, standing in front of the incident boards, Dawn Leggate waited for the incident team to finally settle down. The compilation, which included the three victims names, addresses, witnesses, timelines and photographs took over the entire frontage of the room. She rubbed her hands together and studied the faces of her team. She could tell from their expressions that they were fired up.

Dawn knew that it had been a long time since they had been involved in a major joint investigation and the fact that each of the victims had been one of their own would make them even more determined in their efforts to catch the culprit.

She banged a hand over the nearest board. “Guys we’ve got a busy day ahead of us, lots of work to do, so give me your eyes and ears for the next half hour,” then pointing to the furthermost panel she continued. “Firstly our own Killin enquiry. Ross McNab aged sixty-four and his wife sixty-three were murdered on the afternoon of the thirty-first of August at their isolated bungalow. As you know they were both beaten and Ross was tortured prior to his death. Everything about that scene indicates that more than one person was involved in their deaths. A sharp instrument was used to remove three fingers from his right hand and those have not been found. It looks as though the killers took them from the scene and then left behind a box of fish fingers with a handwritten note which stated,” she paused and glanced at a photograph of the message that had been recovered next to Ross McNab’s body. ‘These are to replace the missing ones.’ Before the killers left they set fire to Mrs McNab using an accelerant. The PM indicates that she was still alive when they lit her.” Dawn paused for maximum effect. She scanned the detectives’ faces again. “A woman walking her dog in nearby fields spotted smoke coming from the bungalow and called the fire brigade. The same woman also spotted a silver BMW driving along a track close to the scene. She had noticed this car earlier driving around the village and thankfully had noted its number because she thought it was acting suspiciously.” She added, “She’s part of the Neighbourhood Watch in Killin.” The DCI glanced at the board again. “The resulting fire has damaged forensics but we might be lucky with the note and box of fish fingers. As you all know Ross was a retired detective. He retired thirteen years ago in nineteen-ninety-five.” She took a side-step, “Okay moving on,” she stabbed a finger below one of the scenes of crime photo’s depicting a battered face, barely recognisable as a man’s. “Alistair McPherson, sixty-one years, another retired cop, was found, as you can see, beaten to death, near a subway close to Sauchiehall
Street at seven-fifty pm on the twenty-seventh of August. We have him captured on CCTV cameras coming out of Lauders bar on that street ten minutes prior to his body being discovered. A very small time frame. CCTV also picked up several sightings of our silver BMW driving in and around Sauchiehall Street before and after the attack. The images have been enhanced but both the driver and passenger had their visors down and so there are no clear images of their faces. What we can distinguish however is that it is not the two young men we have trapped up in the cells.” Dawn moved back from the second board. “Finally,” she slapped her hand over several photographs, which had all been taken from different angles, of an elderly man slumped upright in a carver type chair. “Donald Wilson a retired DS, sixty-nine years old. His body was discovered two days ago in the lounge of his home at Belshill. His hands had been nail-gunned to the arms of his chair and there was an iron burn mark in the centre of his chest. His throat had also been cut. The pathologist has indicated he was killed approximately two weeks ago; the body had early stages of decomposition. The silver BMW on false plates which we have recovered belonged to him.” The DCI latched onto several faces amongst her team. She could see they were focussed. “There are two links to all these three killings, firstly the BMW owned by Donald Wilson, which was stolen from outside his house, and which has been sighted around the locations of the other two murders. The two young men, Sandie Aitkinson and Bruce McColl, whom we still have in custody, who were caught driving it, do have form but it’s petty stuff, and one of them has a cast iron alibi for the Killin murder. They are sticking to their story that they found it parked up with the keys on the front passenger seat, and we can’t knock that. By the end of play this afternoon the Procurator Fiscal has indicated we should bail them.” She was in full flow now. “There is another incident involving the BMW but I don’t know if that is linked yet or not. On the twenty-fourth of August, three days before the murder of Alistair McPherson, it was involved in a hit and run road accident in North Yorkshire. The driver and his wife were injured in that accident and we have discovered from statements that they have Scottish surnames.” She hadn’t told the team about her telephone conversation when she was at the McNab’s with the man who had called himself Jock Kerr, though she had previously mentioned it to DS John Reed. That was one enquiry she and her sergeant were going to follow up personally. “Coincidence or not, we will be looking into that as one of the actions. The other link as you all now realise is that they are all retired detectives who at one time worked out of Shettlestone CID. The key tasks, which are being pushed out from this briefing, are related to that. I want to know the relationship, working or otherwise, that these three had and what jobs did they work on together. There are checks to be done with Personnel and the Retired Police Officers Association. I want everyone traced who knew these three. I am convinced our answer lies in their past association. I want the evil bastards who did this trapped up as soon as possible.”

DAY FIFTEEN: 7
th
September.

Barnwell:

Hunter rolled his neck and flexed his trapezius as he made his way along the corridor. His muscle-toned frame felt tight but he was sharp this morning especially after the intense training session and three mile run into work.

He’d risen a good hour earlier than usual, promised Beth that he would get a flyer to take the boys to their football coaching session that evening and made his way to his father’s boxing gym and let himself in. He’d spent twenty minutes working the punch-bag, twenty minutes pushing weights and ten minutes with crunch sit-ups on incline before the run into work.

As he passed the Detective Superintendent’s open door he caught sight of his boss working at his desk; he’d obviously gone in earlier than
his normal time as well.

“Morning boss,” Hunter greeted him as he passed.

He had only got a few yards further when DS Robshaw’s called out, “Hunter, have you got five minutes?”

“Sure boss.” He stepped back into the open doorway and made his way into the tidy office. He stood before him looking down. The Superintendent was just finishing off writing some remarks onto a CPS file. Behind him a sharp light cascaded in from a huge double-glazed window and backlit the SIO with a halo effect. His reflection bounced off the surface of his polished desk. Hunter glanced around the room. It was plush and looked organised. This is what he’d like to aspire to he thought.

Michael Robshaw signed off his paperwork with a flourish, clicked the top back onto his Waterman fountain pen and laid it square across his jotter. He slipped off his spectacles and lined them up straight alongside his pen. Raising his head he fixed Hunter with a serious look. “I’ve had a complaint about you.”

Hunter screwed up his face. “A complaint about me! What am I supposed to have done now?”

“David Paynton rings any bells?”

Hunter took a long hard look at his boss as he searched for a response. The last thing he wanted to do was give him any bullshit. He had known the Superintendent far too long, and also he trusted and respected him too much to pass off an answer which would be an insult to his intelligence. He had worked with him when he had been a detective constable at Headquarters and Michael Robshaw had been his DI. He knew he had achieved his current status because of his abilities over the years to juggle the management of many successful teams as well as handle the politics which came with the seniority of his rank. He had also on a regular basis spent some personal time with him, training at his father’s gym, and he had put in many a run with him during lunch-breaks.

He settled for, “what’s he said I’ve done?”

He interlinked his fingers and rested them in front of his pen.

“Apparently you and one other, and I’m guessing from the description, that the one other was Barry, waylaid him in the pub a few nights ago and gave him the third degree about your father’s hit and run. Says you were trying to fit him up with it.”

“Just a minute boss, I never…”

He unlocked his fingers and held up his hand; gave him the stop sign. “I’m not going to quiz you on what you did or didn’t say to David Paynton. I’m here to tell you to lay off him. He’s flagged as part of an ongoing drug squad operation. He’s giving them a couple of major local players knocking out cocaine so they want him around. Besides that, I can tell you he definitely wasn’t involved. I got a call from North Yorks police late yesterday afternoon, it would appear that the silver BMW involved in your parents’ road accident has been found in Scotland on false plates and two young thieves are locked up for aggravated vehicle taking. I suggest you give them a call.” He handed across a post-it that contained a telephone number. “That’s the officer in North Yorkshire who’s dealing with the incident.” He leaned back in his large swivel chair. “Hunter you’re a great cop, don’t put your career in jeopardy for that little shit, and besides you’ve still got an unsolved murder here to focus on. Now get ready for briefing you’ve got a busy day ahead after your interview with the doctor yesterday - haven’t you?”

* * * * *

The morning briefing focussed on Hunter and Grace’s meeting the previous day with junior doctor Chris Woolfe.

Perched on the corner of his desk nursing his second cup of tea Hunter repeated almost word for word what Dr. Woolfe had said. In addition the doctor had given them the names of a few of Samia’s close friends she had made at university who would need
chasing up and he had also made time after his shift to do a composite e-fit of the two Asian men who had beaten and threatened him. Printed copies of the computer-generated images together with a note stapled to them stating that the doctor had confirmed they were good likenesses had been waiting on his desk first thing that morning. Hunter handed them round the office as he briefed; no one recognised them.

Overnight, t
he HOLMES team had done background checks on Samia’s parent’s address; there were only three incidents logged – all 999 calls requesting police attendance for detained shoplifters. A voter’s register check confirmed Samia Hassan as listed at that address along with her father Mohammed and mother Jilani and there was no record of her being reported missing.

“We don’t know what we are walking into today,” Hunter finished off. “The doc is convinced our body from the lake is his ex - Samia Hassan, but no one else has called the name in, including her parents, so we don’t know what kind of reception we’re going to get this morning when we visit. Grace and I will do a softly-softly approach and check out if she is still living there, or if not, if they have heard from her recently. We’ll meet back after lunch for a scrum-down as to where we are once we’ve done the visit.”

* * * * *

Hassans convenience store was nestled between a hairdressers and a small post office on one of the arterial roads that led into the small town centre of Hoyland. It had only taken Hunter and Grace ten minutes to drive there from the station.

As they entered the brightly lit store the first thing that Hunter noticed was the pungent smell of pine air freshener. It was strong but not unpleasant.

To their immediate left a long counter spanned the frontage. An Asian man who appeared to be in his early fifties was working behind it. Hunter checked him out. He was slightly smaller than himself,
roughly around five-foot-eight and overweight; a huge well-rounded stomach strained the bottom buttons of his blue and white striped shirt and sagged over his trousers. A thick head of greying hair skirted the sides of his head but he was bald on top. His most striking feature was his hooked nose. The image of Samia entered Hunter’s head and he couldn’t help but think that if this was her father then she obviously didn’t get her looks from him; Samia’s features were far prettier. His eyes roamed around the shop. Most of its brightness came from overhead fluorescent lighting. It was set out like a miniature version of a supermarket, well-packed shelves of fresh produce, tinned and packet foods. The back shelves were stacked floor to ceiling with wines, beers and spirits and close to the door newspapers and magazines took up the remainder of the space. He noticed the large flat-screen monitor suspended from the ceiling directly in front of the counter, its screen split into six sections each portion showing a different part of the store. The CCTV images were of good clarity for a change he thought. He made a mental note; they might need that to back-check footage.

The man greeted them with a cheery yet suspicious smile.

“Don’t worry we’re not selling anything,” Grace said, showing him her warrant card and badge.

H
e returned a surprised look.

“Mr Hassan – Mohammed Hassan?” she enquired.

He nodded.

“Mr Hassan we’re just making some general enquiries regarding an investigation we have running. We’re trying to track down people who we think might be of help and a witness has given us your daughter’s name Samia. Is she around?”

Good start Grace, thought Hunter focussing on the man’s face. Watching and listening was just as important a skill as talking when it came to interviews and having a partner who was on the same wavelength was a big advantage.

He saw the man drop his gaze, only for a second or two but it was enough for Hunter to realise Grace had a hit a nerve.

“Samia, er no she’s not here.” He stumbled over his words.

“Do you happen to know where she is?”

At that point Hunter became conscious of movement at the back of the store and he turned.  Into view appeared a slim, petite Asian woman dressed in a peacock blue sari. A flash of gold came from a necklace that she wore over the bright material. She was tramping towards them and he could immediately see the likeness to the photograph they had of the facial reconstruction; though these features were a lot older. He had no doubt in his mind that this was Samia’s mother. She started talking rapidly as she approached them.

Mohammed responded conversing with her in similar tones. The conversation lasted for a good thirty seconds. Hunter could only pick out the words ‘police’ and ‘Samia’ as she drew nearer.

“Mr Hassan could you speak in English please?”

He turned back to Grace. “Sorry about that. My wife doesn’t speak any English I told her you were making enquiries about Samia. She wants to know what type of enquiries you are making?”

“There is no easy way to say this Mr Hassan but we are concerned about her whereabouts.”

His eyes diverted again. Hunter watched them latch onto his wife’s. Hers were wide and searching. There was a slight delay in his response. “Why are you concerned?”

“Well we’re trying to track her down but we don’t know where she is.”

Mrs Hassan had started chattering unintelligibly again. Mohammed replied similarly his hands becoming animated.

“Mr Hassan if you wouldn’t mind?” checked Grace.

“Sorry,” he apologised, “my wife is asking what is going on – why are the police here?”

“Do you know where your daughter is?”

“Of course I do she is in Pakistan,” he replied sharply.

“In Pakistan,” interjected Hunter. “Are you sure about that Mr Hassan?”

“Of course I am. Why are you asking me these questions about my daughter?”

“As my colleague has already said we have concerns about her whereabouts.”

“Who has said these things?  Who is causing us this trouble?”

“No one is causing you any trouble Mr Hassan all we are here for is to check on your daughter’s whereabouts,” continued Hunter.

“She is in Pakistan.”

“Whereabouts in Pakistan?” came back Grace.

“She is staying with my family in a small village in the Punjab.”

“What’s the name of the village?”

“Look what is this all about. All you keep telling me is that you have concerns about her. What concerns?”

“That she might have come to some harm.”

“My daughter has not come to any harm she is with my family.” He was starting to get agitated.

Hunter alternated his gaze between the man and his wife. He could sense that something was not right between them but he did not want to damage the enquiry at this early stage. “Mr Hassan - may I call you Mohammed?” He looked for acknowledgement.

The man nodded.

“Mohammed we’re not here to cause you and your wife any anguish it’s just that a close friend of hers has not seen her for a while and has not been able to get hold of her and therefore reported it to us because they thought it was unusual,” he lied. “Now if you can just give us a little bit more information as to where she is so that we can contact her it would be a great help.”

There was a delayed response before Mr Hassan answered. “You won’t be able to get hold of her it’s a small village in the mountains. My family do not have a phone. It is not like it is here in England. They are quite poor. They have to walk miles to the nearest town.”

“What about your daughter, did she not take her mobile?”

There was a slight pause then he replied, “it will not work in the mountains.”

“When did she go to Pakistan?” interrupted Grace. “And where did she go from?”

“I can’t remember the exact date, it was about two months ago. She flew to Lahore from London. I can’t remember if it was Gatwick or Heathrow.”

Grace scribbled some notes in the folder she was carrying. She held it away from his prying eyes so he couldn’t see what she was writing. Then she fixed him with a warm fake smile. “Thank you for that. That’s a big help.”

“Mohammed just one final thing before we leave you in peace,” Hunter continued the deceit, but because of the nagging doubts he had from Mr Hassan’s answers he knew they had to get sight of where Samia lived before they left. “It’s just a procedural thing but in all cases where someone reports something like this to us we have to check physically for ourselves that they haven’t come to any harm in their own home. You do understand don’t you?  We would be heavily criticised by our bosses if we didn’t do a check.”

There was an uneasy silence for the best part of twenty seconds. Mr Hassan glanced down, seemed to be checking his hands, then he shot a glance at his wife before returning his gaze back to Hunter. “I don’t suppose we have any choice.”