Free Cold Death by Michael Fowler

wanted to do a piece on him. Once she had discovered he was a DS with the MIT team she had rung him on almost a weekly basis. Deep down, he didn’t mind. He never gave anything away which would compromise an enquiry, though he privileged her with the first phone call whenever they had broken the back of an investigation. And it had worked in his favour. On a few occasions she had helped him out with background details on individuals he had been interested in. He guessed that by using the form of words she had done – that she may have something relating to their investigation – was her way of guaranteeing a call-back.
    He noted her request in his head and then hit the next message button, simultaneously he pushed himself up from his seat and made for the office kettle; he was in need of a strong, sweet, cup of tea. He switched on the kettle and listened to the next recorded call as he dropped a tea bag into his mug. It was the voice of an ex-colleague who was now the safety officer at his beloved football club, Sheffield United. He was letting him know that he had got him a couple of tickets in the Directors box for next Saturday’s home game and to give him a call. That was too good an offer to miss. He checked the time on his watch – he would make that his priority call straight after the morning briefing.
    The day’s starting well.
    He took his hot drink back to his desk and returned to the task of dealing with his e-mails – he saw from the list that most of them appeared to be in-force spam. He was relieved because he had gone into work early with the intention of clearing up as much of the accumulation of paperwork as he could, before the start of the days play. He spotted that Grace’s Coroner’s inquest file was at the top of his pile. He picked it off and opened it up across his jotter.
    Twenty-five minutes of reading, whilst slowly supping lukewarm tea, in between chewing on his pen top, saw him making headway with the inquest report and as he finished the last paragraph of Grace’s dossier he became conscious of the clamour of voices further along the corridor. He checked his watch and cursed. The team were already beginning to filter in for briefing and he’d not even made a dent in his ‘to do’ tray. He knew he was in for a long day.
    He picked up the bundle of papers and jostled them together into a semblance of neatness, and added a post-it note reminding Grace to have all the exhibits ready, including photographs and video evidence for the inquest proceedings.
    He signed it off with ‘good job’ and ‘thanks,’ dropping it across onto her desk opposite, and finished by fixing the well-chewed plastic pen top back onto his biro. He glanced at the damaged pen as he laid it across his blotter and shook his head. Terrible habit he knew, but better than biting his nails like he used to.
    Scraping back his chair he stretched his arms up over his head, straightened his back and made for the office kettle again; he’d let the last cuppa go cold before he had finished it. As he listened to the water boil he updated himself with the timeline sequence on the incident board. He also studied the mortuary shots. It was the first time he had seen them; they were horrific; such appalling violence had been meted out prior to her death. And she still had no name despite the detective superintendent’s TV appeal. He had managed to catch it twice last night, first on the early evening local news slot and then after the ten o’clock news. He double-checked the log to ensure nothing significant had happened overnight; he knew that the HOLMES team would have been covering a late shift yesterday evening to take any calls following the news plea.
    Grace entered the office bang-on 7.30am and Hunter watched her following a similar ritual to his; making a beeline for the kettle; but in her case he knew it would be coffee.
    Hugging her steaming cup he followed her movement as she sunk gently into her chair opposite