Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) (11 page)

Day Eight
: 25th March.

The minute Hunter got in he brought himself up to date by checking the incident board. There were no new revelations. Grace arrived ten minutes later looking slightly the worse for wear. Hunter guessed, that like he, she had slept very little. He offered her a smile and made them both a hot drink.

Placing a mug of steaming coffee before her, he said,
‘Sorry about not ringing you last night. I had a few hours with Beth and the lads and then went to bed early. I had a stinking migraine.’

‘
Don’t worry, Hunter I didn’t feel too good myself. I shared a bottle of wine with Dave, let off some steam about the crap day I’d had and then hit the sack early myself.’

He sipped his tea.
‘Anyway how did it go?’

Grace gave him a blow-by-blow account of her interview with Professional Standards. He quickly learned
that hers had followed an almost identical line of questioning.

B
etween them, as they finished their drinks, they came to the conclusion that Professional Standards had merely been covering their ‘own backs;’ that their quick response would enable them to make ‘all the right noises’ when The Independent Police Complaints Commission came calling.

Their brief conversation had made them both feel better
.

The day’s briefing was led by Detective Superintendent Leggate. She told the MIT team that nothing fresh had come in overnight to move the enquiry forward. She did update them on DC Tom Hagan’s condition. She informed everyone that there was no lasting damage and that he had been released from hospital. She finished by saying, ‘Despite what’s happened Tom Hagan is still a suspect.’

Beside her on the sofa, Linane Brazier’s mobile rang, making her jump and breaking her concentration. She threw aside the magazine she had been reading and scooped up her phone. The number that flashed up on screen was on her contacts list. She knew who this was, and glancing across the room, to where the clock was hung on the wall, she noted that her caller was two hours overdue.

Hitting the answer key
she answered brightly, ‘Hi.’

On the other end of the line
, in broken English, her friend and working partner Elisabeth Bertolutti said, ‘Linane, I’m so sorry, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I’ve only just got in. I’ll tell you about it later.’

Unable to stop the pitch rising in her voice
Linane asked, ‘Do you have it with you?’

In
similarly excited fashion Elisabeth answered, ‘Yes, yes, I’m just unwrapping it now. Turn on your laptop, I’ll show it you.’

Trapping her mobile between her ear and shoulder,
Linane hoisted herself off the sofa and rushed across to where her laptop sat on the breakfast bar. As she booted up her computer she listened to Elisabeth’s child-like voice ecstatically announce, ‘You’ll be so pleased when you see it. It’s far better than the photograph. It’s worth every penny.’

Eyes glued to the screen
, anxiously tapping her French manicured nails upon the dark granite surface, Linane mentally willed the computer to go faster through its start-up process. She had been waiting all day for this. Ever since Elisabeth’s phone call that morning to say she’d bought the piece. After what seemed an eternity, but in reality was less than a minute, Linane’s screen appeared and she clicked open her web-cam browser. Quickly typing in her Skype account number and password, she brought up her contacts and saw that Elisabeth was already waiting on-line. She hung the cursor over her name and double-clicked again. A split-second later Elisabeth’s head and shoulders appeared on screen. A beaming smile lit up her face. In the background she recognised part of the lounge of the cottage they rented up north in Yorkshire.

Talking to the
web-cam image Linane said, ‘Show me then,’

He
r friend’s head and shoulders ducked away a second as she reached off-screen. Then, re-positioning herself back into view she held before her an oil painting. ‘Ta-dah,’ she exulted.

Linane
’s eyes roamed every which way around the canvas. She was captivated by the mastery of the brushwork. She had to agree with her partner’s sentiments, even though her only view of it was through a computer screen, it certainly looked to be worth every penny of their investment. Cleaned up, she thought, this will make a handsome profit.

Unexpectedly,
the painting dropped at one corner and she caught sight of her friends head, partially turned, looking back over her shoulder.

‘
Just a minute, Linane, there’s someone at the door.’

She watched
Elisabeth set the painting to one side, push herself away from the desk, rise from the antique Captain’s chair and step towards the front door.

Linane
pressed her face towards the screen. Elisabeth’s image had become grainy in the distance. At that moment a strange sensation overtook her. It started as a tingling feeling in the base of her spine, which quickly shot up into her head and buzzed her ears; it felt as if she had been hooked up to a low voltage generator and it made her shudder. For a brief moment the room spun, and then everything seemed to close in on her and slow down, and she could feel all her senses heighten. She smelt things she hadn’t smelt before, and one of those smells was fear – her own fear. It made her call out, ‘Elisabeth, put the security chain on.’

Her
warning came too late.

Before her eyes the door of their cottage sw
ung sharply inwards, clattering hard against the wall. There was a resounding crack as the metal handle smashed against the plasterwork.

It made
Linane jump.

A
split-second later Elisabeth flew backwards into the room, arms flailing, trying to stop herself from hitting the dark wood sideboard, set against the far wall of their lounge. She barrelled into it with such force that it scattered two Rockingham Pottery ‘blue ware’ plates, they had recently bought from an antiques fair. One of them broke before it hit the floor. The replica Tiffany lamp went next, toppling over the side, its cord saving it from hitting the deck.

I
n through the open door followed a tall, dark-clad intruder. In a flash, that raider was clawing at Elisabeth’s throat, pressing her hard against the sideboard, lifting her off her feet.

Linane
froze, eyes transfixed to her laptop, watching in horror as the dark invader launched Elisabeth over the back of sofa, dumping her to the floor. She saw the intruder vault after her friend, landing on top.

A
strident, pain-filled, shriek exploded from Elisabeth’s mouth, jarring Linane’s ears.

In
the eerie half-light, cast by the swinging table-lamp, Linane saw something glint. She realised what it was. Her heart raced. Simultaneously bile leapt up from her stomach and into her throat. It stung and gagged her, stopping her screaming out another warning.

The monster had a knife.

Linane’s stomach muscles tensed as she witnessed the first thrust. The action was repeated; again and again. And in a few seconds she lost count of the number of times she saw the knife plunge into Elisabeth’s torso. She was amazed that her friend didn’t cry out. All Linane could hear was the sucking sound of the blade being yanked out after each fresh stabbing.

The attack stopped almost as quickly as it had started.
And it was at that stage that Linane came to her senses. Although her insides were churning and she felt faint she knew had to do something. She snatched her eyes away from her screen and searched out her mobile. It was only a few yards away. As she was about to reach out and grab it, at the periphery of her vision a sharp movement caught her attention. She snapped her eyes back upon the screen. The dark-clad killer was standing in the centre of the lounge, slowly roaming his head around. She thought she heard him chanting numbers, counting them backwards. He stopped when he spotted their computer. And that’s when she caught a proper view of Elisabeth’s murderer; until now his features had been in shadow. Her legs wobbled and she had to grab hold of the granite work surface to stop herself from collapsing. Into view came the most hideously masked face she had ever seen.

She
slunk back sharply, knocking aside her phone.

The mask
ed-killer stepped forwards and leaned in, pressing his face closer, taking up the whole of the screen.

Once more
Linane froze, her hand covering her mouth. She couldn’t say a word. Not even issue a cry.

Without warning a
muffled voice boomed ‘Boo!’ out through the speakers.

Elisabeth
’s heart leapt against her chest.

Then in deep gravel
ly tones the mask said, ‘Coming, ready or not.’

It was a
t that stage she let out a piercing scream.

By the end of the afternoon Hunter still had his head buried in his hands. Except for the occasional stroll across the room to make a hot drink he had been desk-bound for most of the day, sifting back over evidence and reading through statements. He had even tediously listened back through the tape recordings of the interviews with Adam Fields and DC Tom Hagan to check he hadn’t missed anything. As he chewed another lump of plastic off his decimated Biro top his thoughts became distracted. The last case the team had worked on had been complicated by the fact that former detectives had been involved in a very complex web of deceit. Now, in this latest investigation, there was the distinct possibility that one of their own might be a murderer. And, although Tom Hagan had given them a timeframe of when he had left Gemma’s house and returned to his own home, it could not be corroborated. Therefore, he had no alibi. Things were not boding well for the PPU Detective. He knuckle-rubbed his temples and lifted his head, setting his eyes across the desk where his partner Grace also had her head buried in her hands, eyes drilling her own paperwork.

He was about to suggest they take a break and grab something to eat when the office doors clattered open.
Hunter whipped round his head catching sight of Tony Bullars storming into the room. At mid-chest he was thrusting out his mobile.

Catching his breath h
e blurted, ‘My girlfriend’s on the phone. She says her friend’s just been stabbed! Uniform are on their way to her cottage. We need to go.’ He swallowed hard.

Hunter sprung himself out of his chair
. ‘Bully, slow down, you’re not making sense. What are you on about?’

He took
several deep breaths. ‘My girlfriend Linane has just phoned me. She’s staying down in Richmond. She says that her friend, who she shares a cottage with in Street, has just been stabbed. She was Skyping her and saw it happen.’ He aimed a finger at his mobile. ‘She’s rung me a few minutes ago. It’s only just happened. I’ve contacted Communications and they’re sending the response car. We need to get over there.’

Hunter threw his gaze back to Grace.
Her eyes were wide open, engaging his and she was already pushing herself up from her desk. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and snatched up the car keys.

Within minutes of screeching away from the rear compound Hunter was swinging the unmarked police car onto the main arterial road, which connected onto the Dearne Valley Parkway bypass – the fastest route to the tiny hamlet of Street. There were still the last dregs of rush hour traffic on the road, but that didn’t deter or slow his driving, and many of his jockeying manoeuvres left behind a wake of cars breaking sharply, their drivers blasting their horns, and some making rude hand gestures, as he sped past. At Elsecar he pulled off the main road and continued driving at breakneck speed along the stretches of country lanes towards the tiny hamlet of Street.

In the back
of the car Grace had turned up her personal radio, and as Hunter slickly switched up and down gears, and swung in and out of lighter traffic on the B roads, he strained his ears to monitor the update from the response car. Over the airwaves he heard other police call signs coming onto the net. More officers were responding to the call, coming from different directions, but all heading towards Tony Bullars’ girlfriend’s cottage.

In the front seat, eyes glued ahead, Tony fidgeted anxiously.

Approaching the outskirts of Wentworth, only five minutes from their destination, they heard the call they were dreading; the response car operator radioed in, ‘We’ve got a female body. We need some back-up.’

Careering off the main traffic route onto
Street Lane Hunter saw that three marked police cars had already beaten them there. The last car in had been angled to block off the narrow road; nothing was getting in or out. Hunter pulled the MIT car sharply across to the right, mounting the grass verge beside a dry stone wall and yanked on the handbrake.

Street Lane consisted of a dozen or so stone cottages
, and Hunter could see that most of the activity was centred upon the end cottage some twenty yards ahead. A uniformed officer had already secured one end of blue and white crime scene tape to a telegraph pole and was quickly unwinding it across the road.