Black & Blue: Where it all began…… (D.S Hunter Kerr) (7 page)

“Get me out!” he screamed. “Get me fucking out of here.”

Hunter sank even further and on all fours crawled part way inside the car. He put his hands around Jackson’s neck in an attempt to support his head but his bodyweight was too great. He continued to scream and the pitch hurt Hunter’s ears.

Hunter fixed his look.
He saw that Peter’s right eye was beginning to swell and he was bleeding from his mouth. As he screamed the blood bubbled and foamed.

Hunter said, “Try and keep calm! The ambulance and fire-brigade are on their way.
We’ll soon have you out.”

Peter stopped screaming and began whimpering, “I can’t feel my legs.” He reached out and grabbed Hunter’s wrist.
“I’m going to die aren’t I?”

“No you’re not. We’ll have you out of here in no time.
Just hold on, it won’t be long.” Hunter could feel through his grip that Peter was beginning to tremble. He continued to support his head and hold his gaze. It was then that he noticed that Jackson’s pupils were starting to dilate. Hunter knew it was not a good sign. He gently moved his head. “Come on Peter, hang in there. It’s not going to be long now.”

Jackson’s breathing became shallower.
He started to mumble. “I’m dying aren’t I?”

Hunter knew things were not good and he knew he needed to say something comforting.
He replied, “No you’re not Peter.”

“I am
! I know I am.” He gasped and drew in a deep breath. “I don’t want to die.”

“It’s okay!
We’re going to get you out. Just hang on in there.”

Tears began forming in the corner of his eyes and closing them he said softly, “I did that old lass you know.”

“I know. You don’t need to talk about it right now. Just concentrate on getting out of here.”

He took a deep breath. His chest wavered. “Will you tell her I’m sorry.” He let out a prolonged sigh and then his body went limp.

Hunter
swallowed hard. He had never seen anyone die before.

- ooOoo -

Being called to the Chief Superintendent’s office at District Headquarters for a commendation was the highest accolade of Hunter’s probation service to date.

A both nervous and yet excited energy tingled through him as he waited outside the Chief Super’s door. Sergeant Marrison was fussing over him, picking pieces of fluff off his tunic, that only a microscope would pick up.

Marrison stood back and cast an eye over him. “Now young Kerr, go in there, stand smartly to attention, sling up your best salute and don’t say a thing unless asked a question. Understand?” Then he leaned forward and flicked a finger over Hunter’s collar, finding a loose hair. He held it up, tutted and dropped it exaggeratingly to the floor. “I’ll be right behind you, so don’t let me down.”

Kerr was reflecting on his Supervisors actions. Anyone would have thought he was on discipline proceedings rather than a commendation. A shout of “Come in” broke into his thoughts.

Silver haired
Chief Superintendent King was seated behind a large oak desk. He was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a white shirt and Force tie. He pushed himself back and fixed Hunter with a smile. “I’ve been hearing good things about you Constable Kerr. If you carry on like this I can see you’re going to be heading for greater things. A little birdie tells me you’re interested in CID.”

Hunter nodded, “Yes sir.”

“Well don’t get ahead of yourself young man. You’ve got to get through your probationary period yet.” He leaned forward and interlinked his fingers. “Though on this evidence, I can’t see it being any problem.” Then for the next five minutes the Chief Superintendent applauded him for his bravery. At the end of his speech he pushed himself up from his chair, reached across his desk and took Hunter’s hand in a vice-like grip. Shaking it he finished, “Well done Constable Kerr.” Then turning to Sergeant Marrison he said, “He does credit to your supervision Sergeant.”

Out of the corner of his eye Hunter saw a smile break out on his Sergeant’s face. He heard his Supervisor say, “Thank you sir.” Then he felt a nudge on his arm.

It was time to leave.

As he turned towards the door the Chief Superintendent said at his back, “Oh and Sergeant, make sure he gets his hair cut. He’s not in CID yet.”

- ooOoo -

Read an extract from Michael’s next book:-

COMING, READY OR NOT

To be released September 2014.

PROLOGUE

25
th
July 1986.

Harlyn Bay, Cornwall.

The noise jolted her awake. Startled, Helen Moore snapped open her eyes but she couldn’t see a thing. A thick tar wall of darkness faced her. For a moment, the intensity of the blackness threw her and she scrambled together her thoughts. Then she remembered. She was surprised as to how dark it was inside their tent.

“Did you hear that?”

Beside her James jumped. “What?”

Helen wrenched her eyes wider, trying to pierce the gloom. But it was pointless. It was pitch black dark and so she strained to listen, holding her breath.

She whispered, “That noise?”

“Noise?”

In the distance a percussive
crash of thunder fractured the silence. Helen’s heart leapt.

“It’s only thunder,” her husband said.

Somehow, she was pretty damn sure that the noise, which had disturbed her only a few seconds ago, hadn’t been thunder, but it was now trapped in the depths of her sub-conscious and she couldn’t drag it back. Through gritted teeth she sharply replied, “That’s thunder now, but I heard something else. I think I heard someone moving around outside.”

“It’ll probably be a fox.”

She made an attempt at sitting up but her sleeping bag was wrapped so tightly around her that she slumped sideways. She shouldered the ground tarpaulin heavily and let out a moan. As she fought to prop herself up a second clap of thunder peeled in the distance.

After a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling she manoeuvred herself into a sitting position, anchoring herself by drawing up her knees. Holding her breath she listened.

Silence.

Suddenly feeling foolish, Helen shook her head. It must have been the storm, she told herself, and her half-asleep mind had been playing tricks with her thoughts.

And then the noise struck up again- a rustling sound close by.

Goosebumps prickled her flesh. She stiffened. It sounded as if something or someone was dragging their way through the grass.

“There,” she said. “There it is again. Listen!”

This time she honed in on a soft shuffling sound.
It sounded as if someone was padding around only a few yards from the tents entrance.

“Did you hear that?”

With a hushed moan James said, “I’ll take a look. I’m telling you it’ll just be a fox, or even a badger, something like that.”

She heard a zip unfasten and although she still couldn’t pick anything out in the darkness she could visualise her husband pulling himself out of his sleeping bag.

James brushed past her and then she heard him zipper apart the entranceway. A silvery thread of moonlight washed in through the opening, and she caught his silhouette, on all fours, edging outside.

As the tent folds closed behind him, once again her vision was overcome by blackness and she turned an ear to the entrance. At that moment, despite being encased in her sleeping bag, she felt exposed.
She leaned forwards, wrapped her hands around her legs and pulled her knees tightly towards her chest.

For a few seconds the only sounds she could hear were the swish of grass and James’ soft curses.
She had a vision of her husband scrambling animal-like amongst the damp undergrowth.

A sudden cry of “
Oi” made her jump. Helen tightened her grip on her knees. Scuffling broke out. Then, a desperate scream of “No” pierced the night air.

An overwhelming sense of fear and dread enveloped her as she desperately fought to make sense of what was happening outside. A split-second later she felt the ground reverberate - as if someone had fallen with a heavy bump nearby.

Helen’s chest tightened. Her heart contracted and a sharp pain made her flinch. Then, her stomach turned making her feel sick and faint. She gasped and froze. She took a hold of herself. Instinct was telling her something was wrong. Dead wrong! Especially that something bad had happened to James and yet she still whimpered his name.

For a few seconds there was complete silence. She pulled her legs even tighter. Braced herself so tight that pins and needles sparked through her lower limbs.

Soft spoken words broke the peace.
It sounded like someone was whispering numbers. Counting down.

Then a high-pitched tone hissed. “Coming, ready or not!”

- ooOoo -

CHAPTER ONE

17
th
March 2009.

Sheffield.

In The Frog and Parrot, on Division Street, Leonna Lewis’s ‘Bleeding Love’ boomed from a large set of speakers, piled high upon the staging area, reverberating into the room, tormenting Gemma Cooke’s hearing.
Tormenting her, because picking her way through the song, some of the lyrics were so adversely poignant, given what she had recently gone through, and in another time and another place she might have shed a tear. But, not right now. Tonight she was going to celebrate with her friends. Added to that, the large amount of vodka and coke she had drunk over the last few hours had numbed any feelings of sorrow.

She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket; the noise had stifled its ring-tone. She moved to retrieve it.
For a few seconds she fumbled around, struggling to pull it out - the combination of the tightness of her jeans and her slouched position in her seat making it difficult. Finally she tugged it free. Flipping it open she saw that she had one new message, though it wasn’t from anyone on her contact list. In fact she didn’t recognise the number. She pressed the OK button and the text flashed onto her screen. It took her only a few seconds to read the three lines of text but in that short space of time the drunken happiness she had been experiencing abandoned her, as her stomach turned-turtle and the bile rose in her throat.

An anxious voice opposite broke her free from her trance-like state.

“Gemma, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Across the table, over a sea of alcoholic drinks, Gemma sought out her best friend

Lauren. Catching her concerned look, in a loud, vitriolic tone, she snapped, “Look what that bastard’s just sent.”

She picked out a space amongst all the glasses and bottles, and set down her phone in the centre of the table, enabling all her friends who were hunched around to catch a glimpse.
Depressing the OK button again she activated the back-lit screen.

‘
I’m gonna slit ur throte an burn ur fuckin hous down bitch.’

- ooOoo -

CHAPTER TWO

DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION:

18
th
March 2009.

Barnwell.

The bedside phone rang, jerking Hunter Kerr out of a deep sleep.
Beside him Beth moaned her disapproval and rolled over. It took him a couple of seconds to pull his thoughts together. The alarm hadn’t gone off. It was still dark outside. That phone call could only mean one thing. A job. Bad news for some poor sod. He grabbed the handset and hoisted himself up.

He said softly, “DS Kerr.”

He hung onto every soft Scottish syllable the woman uttered. Her voice was steady, almost soothing, despite the nature of the message she was relaying. He stored everything to memory and as she finished he let her know that he was on his way. Then he ended the call.

Fumbling around in the darkness he returned the handset, and as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb his wife further, he dragged himself out from beneath the duvet. The chill in the room caught him unawares and gave him goose pimples. Shivering uncontrollably he pulled himself into a stretch and set off for the bathroom.

* * * * *

Manvers Terrace looked every inch the crime scene by the time Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr arrived.
Half-way down the street a length of blue and white POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape spanned the road, barring his way: fixed between two lampposts, it performed Mexican waves on a sharp early morning breeze.

He pulled his black Audi Quattro into the kerb, slotting it behind three liveried police vehicles, an ambulance, its strobe lights still whirling, and a CID car, all of which appeared to be in a state of abandonment rather than parked. For a few seconds he surveyed the street.
The incident had already brought a cast of onlookers out from their homes to collect and gossip on the pavements. Some of them were in their dressing gowns. The majority however, had on jogging pants and T-shirts, or sweat tops; well prepared for their long-haul of gawking. Two uniformed officers, in high visibility coats, were doing their best to shepherd the separate groups into one assembly. Hunter scanned a few of the faces, wondering how many of them would willingly come forward as witnesses given the wickedness of the crime.

Killing the engine, he reached behind and snatched his outdoor coat from off the rear seat and pushed open the door. Nudging an arm through one sleeve he stepped out onto the road and cast his steel blue eyes around the scene again. The view stretching out before him wrenched back distant memories. In his early years he had lived only two streets away, and this had been one of the neighbourhoods he had frequented, before his parents had moved to their present home. As happy childhood images tumbled around inside his head it suddenly dawned on him just how long ago that had been; he had last set foot in this terrace twenty-three years ago, when he had been thirteen years old, and although the general appearance of the two rows of red-brick Victorian houses remained very much the same, he identified a number of cosmetic changes which had given the place a much needed makeover. For one, the old concrete stanchion lamps had been replaced by modern metal ones.
Recalling how the area had been one of gloom, especially during the winter months, he saw that the street was now bathed in a warm ambient light. Secondly, and more significantly, the view at the head of the two rows had changed dramatically. Where there had once been wasteland and an old dilapidated set of buildings, which had once been a brickworks company, there was now a carpet of well maintained grass. Metal bollards at regular placed intervals prevented vehicle access to the area and through it snaked a footpath towards a newly constructed industrial estate, the perimeter of which had been artistically landscaped. And though the look of the place interfered with his nostalgic memories he had to admit that it looked better like this.

As he switched his gaze back to the onlookers, finally being corralled into one group, he wondered if any of them before him were those from his childhood years and if so would they remember him.

The chilly breeze picked up a notch, brushing his face, blowing away the memories and snapping his thoughts back to the moment. He zipped up his padded coat, tucked his chin into his collar, dipped his hands into his pockets and made towards the cordon. Another uniformed officer, highly visible in a fluorescent jacket, guarded the barrier. Hunter recognised him, though he couldn’t recall his name, and so instead of saying something, gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he ducked beneath the tape to enter the outer cordon. As he passed by he saw the officer lift his clipboard and write upon it; Hunter knew that he’d been given the job of logging the comings and goings of everyone who visited the scene.

Straightening himself Hunter slid his left hand out of his pocket and glanced at his watch, mentally noting the time: 3:40am – thirty-five minutes earlier he had been tucked up in his warm bed, dead to the world.

Then up ahead he spotted the person who had dragged him out from his warm bed. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was striding purposefully towards him. He couldn’t help but notice that even at this time in the morning she cut quite a stylish figure in her knee-length camel coloured cashmere coat and calf length boots. As if she was on a night out. He fought back a smile. His new boss reminded him so much of his long time working partner, DC Grace Marshall, who likewise never turned out anywhere without looking her very best – even to a gruesome murder scene.

Slugging his hands back into his coat pockets he picked up his heels.
Striding to greet his Senior Investigating Officer he said, “Morning boss.”

In her silky Scottish burr she replied, “Morning Hunter, sorry to call you out.
The night detective from District CID is here but this is one I think we should be involved in, it’s a repeat domestic.”

Hunter immediately knew that his SIO was referring to the fact that the address where the murder had occurred was one which had been repeatedly attended by the police as a result of reports, or complaints, relating to violence being perpetrated upon one or more of the occupants.
He enquired, “The victim?”

“I’m told it’s a lady by the name of Gemma Cooke. Twenty-nine year old.
Lives at number thirty-four.” She half-turned and pointed towards the head of the street. “Duncan Wroe from SOCO arrived five minutes ago. He’s in there now.” Detective Superintendent Leggate spun on her heels, flicked her head at Hunter - a gesture for him to join her - and set off in the direction she had indicated.

Hunter fell in beside her. “You said on the phone it was a stabbing.”

“Aye. Repeatedly with a kitchen knife by the look of things! The young lady’s in a bit of a mess! I’ve only briefly viewed the body. Only got here myself ten minutes ago.”

* * * * *

COMING, READY OR NOT can be pre-ordered.