Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (29 page)

Suddenly
everything seemed to fast-forward. Jock witnessed a quick movement in Billy’s right arm, it was a jabbing movement downwards, and he spotted the glint of a long blade emerge from the end of his sleeve. A tremor raced through him. Then he realised he was still clutching one of the free weights and it gave him a strange reassurance. He tightened his grip around the bar-bell.

“Don’t be stupid Billy if you do anything to me you’re going to go away for a very long time. You’ll probably die in prison.” Jock said, doing his best to sound calm. “You can walk away from this right now and no one will be any the wiser.”

“I’ve done thirty six fucking years already because of you. It will be worth it,” he growled, edging closer.

Jock
saw Billy’s face change. He was met by a cold-bloodied stare as he stepped closer.

Taking
up a defensive stance, Jock swung the six-kilogram barbell behind his hip, whilst balling the other into a solid fist. A strange thought entered his head; two combatants locked in a fight to the death.

Billy catapulted himself forward swinging his right arm in a whiplash movement.

The knife slashed across Jock’s forearm before he had time to react.

He bounced backwards with fighting instinct and the metal racks clattered against his legs.

Then he spotted the blood spreading through his sweat top, though surprisingly there was no pain. It bought memories flashing into his brain from his boxing days. He remembered he had not recognised pain back then.

Billy pull
ed back the knife again, preparing for another attack. Every sinew in Jock’s body tightened; stretched as tight as a bow ready to fire and he felt an immense power surge through him.  He dropped back on one leg and exploded forward swinging the barbell up in an arc. It smacked against Billy’s jaw and he instantly knew from the blankness which registered in his eyes that he had done the damage. He’d seen that look so many times during his boxing bouts. He instantly followed up with a left hook, smacking the side of Billy’s head. He heard the knife clatter to the floor and saw Billy’s legs buckle. Just before he sank, Jock caught him with the swinging barbell again. A dull thwack emanated from the back of his head.

Jock dropped on top of him, took a handful of hair and yanked Billy’s head back violently. Then he slipped an arm to the front of his neck, slotted his windpipe into the crook between his muscular forearm and bicep, and began to squeeze.

* * * * *

Hunter grabbed Barry Newstead within seconds of the line going dead. “My dad’s in trouble,” he hissed bolting for the side door of the pub.

A rush of energy surged through him as he jumped into his car and fired it up. Slamming the gear into first, and stamping the accelerator, he revved the 1.9 litre engine of his Audi and  tore out of the pub car park towards the gym.

Barry was making an emergency call on his mobile whilst attempting to buckle up.

Less than ten minutes later the car skidded violently sideways across the tarmac surface of the gym’s car park and shuddered to a halt.

Hunter flew from the car leaving the engine running and propelled himself through the rear double doors into the gym.

Only seconds behind was Barry

Rab Geddes was waiting for them in the corridor, legs astride and holding in front of him a wooden baseball bat
. He smacked into his palm.

Hunter skidded on the
wooden surface and came to halt a few yards from him.

“Where’s Billy Wallace?” he screamed.

“You’re too late!” Rab retorted with a sneer.

For a
few seconds there was a stand-off. Hunter eyed the baseball bat bouncing in Rab’s hands. Then anger took over. He flew at him aiming for his face, mauling with clawing hands, gouging at his eyes like a rugby player in a ruck. The force spiralled Rab sideways smashing him into the wall. Hunter heard the breath explode from his lungs and felt the warm breath on his cheek, and in a white heat of berserk fury, and using his arms like pistons, he pulled, punched and pummelled.

Barry Newstead jumped into the fray forcing in
his bulk. Within seconds Rab was pinned against the wall. The baseball bat clattered to the floor as he tried to protect himself from the unexpected onslaught.

Hunter fell away gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, and doubled-up almost retching as he watched Barry slam in a couple more punches to the ribs before Rab collapsed into a heap.

“My dad,” Hunter managed to gasp as he gulped in a lung full of air.

“You go and help him.” Barry urged. “This guy’s going nowhere fast.”

Hunter turned on his heels hitting the double swing doors into the main training area with his shoulder. He caught his balance, re-adjusted and quickly scoured the room. He caught sight of his dad by the weight rack draped across a prostrate figure which he immediately realised was Billy Wallace. At first Hunter wondered what was happening then the reality hit home. His father was strangling Billy. He sprinted the ten yards across the wooden sprung floor and snapped his arms around him making every effort to drag him off, but his dad had Billy locked tight.

“Dad! Dad!” he screamed, “He’s had enough, let him go.  You’re going to kill him.”

He hooked his fingers into a gap and prised at his father’s wrists. “Dad I said let him go –NOW.”

Hunter saw by the reaction from that shout that it had registered. He caught his father’s wild and staring eyes and in the next moment they had softened. Hunter prised at his dad’s hands again and this time they yielded to his force. Billy’s head smacked the wooden floor.

Hunter pulled his father to his feet and pushed him away and went to Billy’s aid. He quickly checked his airway, manoeuvred him into the recovery position and checked him again. He stared at his chest and inwardly prayed. Suddenly a spluttering cough burst from Billy’s mouth, racking his body into life.

“Thank god for that!” Hunter cried out in relief. He spun round to face his father who was ashen-faced and staring down. “Christ dad you could have killed him.”

His dad glanced at the blood pouring from the wound on his forearm, clamped a hand around it and started to shake.

* * * * *

Standing in the entranceway to his father’s gym Hunter watched Billy and Rab being loaded into the back of an ambulance. They had a catalogue of bumps and bruises between them, and Billy had a deep wound to the back of his head, but neither of them was seriously hurt. A couple of minutes later they were off to hospital with an armed police escort

DCI Dawn Leggate appeared with two members of her team. She informed Hunter that the hired help in the ski masks had been detained and were en route to the custody suite. She added that the pair were known back in Scotland as petty crooks but since they hadn’t actually done anything except act as decoys and drive dangerously they didn’t have anything to hold them, though she’d make sure they had a night in the cells whilst a check was made to see if they were wanted elsewhere.

That had been ten minutes ago. Now he, Barry, his father, and the DCI, were seated around the desk in his father’s office. His dad had refused to go in the ambulance and so one of the paramedics had put a bandage on the laceration and told him that it required suturing and to get it treated before the day was out.

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
.

- ooOoo -

DAY THIRTY FIVE: 27
th
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 d
isturbing 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 adrenalin
e 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 s
eated 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.

He had also spotted DCI Dawn Leggate at the court and taken her to one side to check on the prosecutions’ case. On this occasion she was far more amenable, telling him that the evidence against the pair was overwhelming. So much so that she was expecting the pair to enter a guilty plea at the last moment. She added that the Procurator Fiscal was requesting an indeterminate life sentence for both men: the likely hood was that they would die in prison.

After that they had gone on to Belshill, his father’s old home town, where he had been introduced to his dad’s cousins. It had been a weekend of celebrations resulting in very thick head’s for both of them. Since then he had witnessed a whole new mood change in his father’s demeanour and they had spent some very enjoyable sessions together, especially down at the gym.

The ringing telephone, back in the lounge, broke his reverie. He heard Beth answer it.

“Hunter it’s for you,” she shouted, walking towards him, holding out the handset. “It’s work.”

He held up his hands to her, indicating they were smeared with oil paint.

She switched it to speaker phone and turned it towards him.

“Hello.”

“DS Kerr?”

He recognised the voice of one of the duty group Inspectors. “Speaking.”

“Sorry to disturb you at home. I know it’s your long weekend off, but I’ve been asked to call you in. Some of my officers are at the scene of a derelict pub. A couple of builder’s there have found the remains of a body in the cellar.”

- ooOoo -