Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (18 page)

DAY TWENTY TWO: 14
th
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, the
y 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.

Hunter pushed his legs under the table and dropped his paperwork and exhibits onto the veneer surface with a resounding slap for effect. He slowly and deliberately unfastened his cuffs and rolled his shirt-sleeves back to reveal sinewy muscled forearms.

Tony Bullars flicked on the tape recording machine.

“Mr Hassan you understand why you have been arrested, don’t you?” opened Hunter. “We have explained to you that your daughter’s body has been recovered from Barnwell Lake and that she has been murdered.”

Mohammed nodded.

His bearded overweight solicitor began making notes.

“Mr Hassan. I would appreciate a verbal answer. The tape cannot pick up nods.”

“Yes, yes,” he stammered. He licked his lips. “But you have got it wrong I haven’t done anything bad to Samia. I haven’t killed her.”

“We’ll get around to that in a minute.” Hunter steepled his fingers and looked over them. He tried to lock onto Mohammed’s eyes but his were darting around; he was avoiding making eye contact.

A classic sign of guilt.

“When I was at your place a week ago you told me that Samia had flown to Pakistan to get married to a cousin of yours. Do you remember telling me that?”

“I can recall saying something like that but I think you misunderstood what I meant.”

“Why would I misunderstand you?”

“Because I might not have explained myself.”

“Would you like to explain yourself now then?”

“What I should have said is that I guessed Samia had flown to Pakistan to marry my cousin. You see she packed up all her things a couple of months ago and she told me she was going to Pakistan to marry my cousin.”

Hunter gave a wry smile. He pulled his fingers apart and pushed himself back in his chair. “Well that is very interesting she should say that to you Mr Hassan because we have statements from several people which clearly state that she did not want to go to Pakistan to marry any cousin of yours. In fact those witnesses have said that you were forcing her to go there.”

“They are lying.”

“Why should six different people all say the same thing?  That you were trying to force her to go to Pakistan, to force her into a marriage with someone she didn’t know.”

“She probably told them one thing but really meant another. Samia was happy to marry my cousin.”

“If she was happy to marry your cousin why should she pack some of her things together with a view to taking refuge away from you?”

“That is a lie.”

“No it is not Mr Hassan. We have a statement to that effect and we also have the things she packed ready to leave you. We also have a statement from someone who states you went to Sheffield whilst she was staying with friends and you argued with her about going to Pakistan to be married and when she told you she didn’t want to go you slapped her across the face.”

“They are lying. We rowed because I found out she was living with someone. She was bringing dishonour upon herself.”

“Because she had a white boyfriend?” Hunter saw Mohammed’s face colour up.

“No, no, you are trying to put words in my mouth. She was bringing dishonour upon herself because she was sleeping with him before she was married.”

He wanted to probe him further about the involvement of the two men who had assaulted Doctor Chris Woolfe and who had tried to drag Samia into their car, but at this stage the team had not been able to identify them and he didn’t want to alert Mr Hassan to the fact that they were even aware of this incident for fear his two relatives would go to ground, or even disappear out of the country – if they hadn’t already done so. Anyway he still had something else he wanted to hit him with. “I put it to you Mr Hassan, because Samia had made her mind up not to enter into a forced marriage and to get away from you that you decided to do something about it?”

“No, no that is not right.”

“That you were angry with your daughter. That by her refusal to agree to marrying your cousin, you thought she was bringing dishonour to yourself and so you murdered her.”

“No. You are making me out to be a bad man.”

The solicitor stopped scribbling and gave a loud throaty cough. “I think my client has fully answered all your questions relating to this terrible act perpetrated against his daughter. If you press him any further you will be in danger of intimidating him.”

“Oh I wouldn’t want to do that,” Hunter returned sarcastically. He leant forward pushing his arms flat across the interview table and interlaced his fingers. He fixed Mohammed with a glare.

Mr. Hassan stiffened.

“Okay then Mr Hassan, seeing as everyone is lying against you and your solicitor is unhappy with my line of questioning about you being involved in the brutal murder of your daughter.”

“Detective Sergeant Kerr, that is out of order” interjected the solicitor.

Hunter shrugged his shoulders and returned a look of innocence towards the solicitor. “I apologise if you find my questioning offensive, but my job is to discover the truth in this matter and all your client has given me are answers which are evasive. I don’t want to get into a cat fight here on such an important issue so I’ll move on – okay?” He paused. “Mr Hassan this morning when we searched your flat - .”

“You had no right to do that,” Mohammed interrupted.

Hunter raised his clenched hands a fraction then dropped them back down with a thump.

Both Mohammed and the solicitor jumped.

“Sorry about that,” Hunter exclaimed, unlocking his fingers. “Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?  Oh yes, this morning when we searched your flat – with a warrant,” he added in an exaggerated tone, “we found this at the back of one your kitchen drawers.” He slid out a clear plastic exhibit bag, which contained the registration document for the white Renault Kango van. “I am showing Mr Hassan exhibit RA One.” He slid the document into the centre of the table. “This VR Twelve relates to a white Ranault Kango van registered in two-thousand-and-three. Is this yours Mr Hassan?”

He watched Mohammed blush. A droplet of sweat ran down the side of his face.

“It was mine. I used the van for collecting stock from the warehouse.”

“Where is it now?  It’s not at your premises or parked nearby.”

Mohammed Hassan’s gaze galloped up to the ceiling.

“Mr Hassan, can you give me an answer?”

“It, it,” he stammered, “it has been stolen.”

“And when was it stolen?”

“I – I can’t remember exactly,” he paused. “I think it was taken a couple of months ago.”

“Did you report the theft to the police?”

“No.”

“And why didn’t you report the theft of your vehicle Mr Hassan?”

“Because I didn’t think it was worth it.”

“You didn’t think it was worth it?” Hunter returned dryly.

“Well it wasn’t worth that much.”