Free Cold Death by Michael Fowler Page B

occasions and such had been the probing nature of the questions that he had felt like a suspect. He had been so glad he had been able to offer up a solid alibi for the relevant times between her going missing and her body being found.
    Later he had deliberately sought Barry out in the pub he regularly used, to talk through the case, and it became apparent to him, from their discussions, that Barry was working slavishly to catch the killer. Unfortunately that had never happened. Barry had been the officer who had broken the bad news to him that the enquiry was being wound down because of lack of further evidence. That had been twelve months after her murder – he had been almost eighteen years old. And that had been when he had made his decision to join the police.
    He had bumped into Barry four years later, as a young twenty-two year-old detective, on the very first day of his being appointed to District Headquarters CID; fourteen years ago. Barry had been at the peak of his career and had taken him under his wing, showing him all the tricks of the trade. They had formed a formidable team until his promotion to Detective Sergeant eight years ago.
    “Not a damn thing so far,” Barry replied without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’ve been here looking at this lot for the best part of a day and a half and I’m getting square eyes. The most exciting moment was watching a female mallard and her seven chicks waddle across the front of reception. This is almost as boring as going through all the missing from home files from the last job.”
    Despite Barry’s bemoaning the tediousness of the task Hunter knew it would be done thoroughly. He edged his seat closer. “Glad I’ve caught up with you. Sorry to have put you on the spot with those enquiries, but I was stuck up in North Yorks and there was only Grace and you I could trust with something so sensitive, and Grace was in charge of this murder.”
    “No problem, that’s what buddies are for.”
    “Anything new cropped up?”
    Barry pressed the pause button on the system and turned to face Hunter. He smoothed a thumb and forefinger across his dark bushy moustache and then stroked his chin. “I followed up a few calls late yesterday for you but there’s nothing on the grapevine at all about what happened. I’ve only given my snouts half a story, they’ve no idea it’s your parents, just told them it’s a hit-and-run near the east coast. That way if someone does come back with something I’ll know if they’re telling me the truth.”
    Hunter patted Barry’s shoulder. “Cheers for this – I owe you one.”
    “No problem Hunter. You getting me this job has more than paid a debt. I was getting bored stiff at home. It’s great to be back in the thick of it especially after being thrown on the scrapheap.”
    Hunter knew what that meant. He recalled how Barry had been forced to retire six years ago by a newly promoted Chief Inspector who had specifically targeted him because of his unorthodox methods. He remembered how on several occasions the man had threatened to discipline Barry for ‘bringing the force into disrepute,’ before finally side-lining him to a desk job, which he knew would hurt him the most. He could recollect Barry’s virtual last words to him whilst they were out celebrating a result from a job one night. “I’m going to call it a day before I smack that bastard,” he’d said to him with a slur. It had been the first time he had ever seen Barry so morose. Then six weeks ago his ex-buddy had come back into his life again. Barry had rung him right out of the blue with vital information on the serial-killer case, which they had just put to bed, and Hunter had managed to persuade the boss to take him on as a civilian investigator at a time when their backs were against the wall and the team needed more experienced staff.
    “Fancy doing some night-fishing?”
    Hunter caught the smile creeping across Barry’s mouth – he had grasped what