He knew that deep down some of it had been his own fault — if only he had known at the time what he was getting into.
Foresight is always a wonderful thing.
Back then he had been a young naïve man with a living to make and his fists were the only tools of his trade. He’d actually used that phrase to the two detectives when they’d interviewed him three days ago back in his native Scotland.
Detective Chief Inspector Dawn Leggate and Detective Sergeant John Reed had picked him up from Motherwell railway station and driven him to a quiet hotel where they’d questioned him in the empty bar area. They’d chosen that place, they’d told him, because they did not want anyone to know he was back in Scotland helping them with their investigation. Initially they had asked him all kinds of questions when they had collected him — not about the murders of the three retired detectives — but about whether he knew if he had been followed or not during his journey. And they had driven a long circuitous route to the hotel. Jock had watched the DS constantly check his mirrors, satisfying himself that they did not have a tail.
That was when he had told them about bumping into the bald headed man in Staithes whom he had recognised from his past and the subsequent hit and run where he and his wife had been badly injured.
The DCI had said to him that it confirmed their worst fears.
They had talked for well over two hours at the hotel, between them piecing everything together. Jock had been able to give them much of the background to it all and although initially he sensed that the two detectives had been suspicious of what he told them; he knew the signs from his experience with his son, once they had back-tracked over everything and double-checked his story with snippets of information from their briefing notes they had ended the interview by telling him that they were extremely grateful for his help. They said it had significantly moved on the enquiry.
Before they had dropped him back at the railway station they had advised him on his own personal safety and the DCI had given him her direct mobile number.
Time and time again during the past two days he had run through in his head everything they had talked about; checking that he hadn’t left anything out, though he knew deep down he hadn’t; it had been locked away in his memory for so long. He shivered, staring back at the framed photographs. He’d done his best to bury the past but it had caught up with him.
What a bloody mess.
He swilled the single malt around the glass and drained it in one gulp. For a second he considered pouring himself another but checked himself. He had to keep a clear head. It was time for home.
He placed the tumbler onto his desk coaster and locked the bottom drawer containing his bottle of whisky before pushing himself up from his seat.
He made his way through his gym, returning the odd misplaced dumbbell weight to its respective place on the rack before taking a last look back; like he always did, and turning off the lights prior to locking up.
Outside the temperature appeared to have dropped. He shivered and zipped up his hooded training top. The car park was empty save for his rented Toyota; the insurance company was still assessing the damage to his own car.
That was when he noticed the padded envelope on the step. He glanced down and gave it a puzzled look. Then he surveyed the car park again — this time with a critical eye; it was quiet.
Bending down he picked up the small brown package. There was nothing written on it. He turned it over. On this side he saw that someone had scribbled in thick black lettering ‘JOCKS GYM.’ The quality of the handwriting was poor.
He felt the envelope; there appeared to be something lumpy inside. He pulled at the sticky fastening and peered into the void.
Startled by what he saw he recoiled in horror dropping the package. It caused the contents to roll out onto the concrete. It confirmed what he thought he had seen. He let out a gasp as his stomach leapt up to his throat. Three severed human fingers lay at his feet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DAY TWENTY: 12th September.
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Hunter leaned back in his seat, stretched up his arms and then folded them across the back of his head, interlacing his fingers. Physically he felt drained yet mentally he was energised. Since his and Grace’s meeting with the owner of the Asian Women’s Refuge; Nahida Perveen, the investigation had clicked up a gear.
Discovering Samia’s passport had been the catalyst. Fingerprints found on it matched those from the body.
He mulled over in his head what they had uncovered over the past few days. The team had tracked down a dental practice in Sheffield; she had signed up to a practice near to the University. Records held there matched the x-rays from her post mortem. They now had official confirmation that their body recovered from Barnwell Lake was that of Samia Hassan.
Phone calls to the UK Border and Immigration Control, and the British Embassy in Lahore had confirmed that no air ticket had been purchased in Samia Hassan’s name; there was no record of her passing through Immigration Control in the UK, or of her arriving at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore.
On a local level they had tracked down and interviewed several more friends and acquaintances of Samia through her Facebook site. They had reinforced many facts they already knew; the attack on Dr Woolfe, the burglary and damage to the flat, and Samia’s fear of a forced marriage, and they had also determined that no one had spoken with her since the twenty-ninth of July. Presently they were tracking down the police officers who had turned out to those incidents in the hope that one of them might just have recorded the name of Samia’s cousins who had been implicated.
Hunter knew it was a long shot.
Civilian Investigator Barry Newstead had been assigned to Meadowhall to liase with the police and security team based there in order to gain access and view CCTV footage. Nahida had been able to provide the times, dates and the exact place where she had met with Samia and he had been given the job of locating all that footage and check if anything could be of help to the enquiry.
There had been a meeting with Duncan Wroe from Scenes of Crime and his counterpart from The Forensics Science team, and Task Force had been booked for that Sunday to execute a warrant at the Hassans shop and residence.
Things were coming to a head Hunter mused as he looked up from his desk and viewed the work in progress indicated upon the incident white board. Long lists of actions and names had now been added to the timeline. In big red capitals ‘MOHAMMED HASSAN; JILANI HASSAN and SAMIA’s COUSINS?’ had been ringed as the main suspects.
As he re-checked the incident board he knew that everything was taking shape, especially as the raid at the Hassan’s was in two day’s time.
“Who’s the redhead with the gaffer?” asked Tony Bullars pushing through the doors into the office.
His entrance brought Hunter back from his thoughts. He unlocked his fingers and came out of his stretch. “Redhead?” he asked.
“Yeah, good looking, late thirties. I’ve just come past the office and they seem to be thick-as-thieves together. The door was open and she sounded Scottish — like your mum and dad.” He dropped some paperwork in front of Hunter. “That’s the operational order and the warrant for this weekend’s raid at the Hassan’s. The magistrate asked me a few questions but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just flashed my bestest smile at her and she signed it up.”
Hunter smirked. Tony had always been a ladies’ man for as long as he’d known him. Tall and slim, blue grey eyes, chiselled facial features, gelled and styled light brown hair and always immaculately dressed. He was twenty eight years old, still single and he was a charmer. In fact Hunter couldn’t recall there being a time when he’d ever met him in the pub twice with the same girl. He glanced quickly at the warrant lying on his desk then back up at Tony. “Bully, don’t give me half a story. What do you mean good looking redhead, Scottish accent, in with the gaffer?”