Free Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) by Michael Fowler

intense blue eyes; eyes that he had inherited. “Give me some space son. I won’t promise you anything but I need some time to think it through.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Grace ducked beneath the police crime scene tape and stepped towards the edge of the lake. She rested near to the jetty and fixed her eyes on the spot, where six days earlier, she had watched on as the Underwater Search Unit had hauled up their so-far unnamed body.
    She listened to the sounds around her; the lapping of the water and the regular thunk of the moored rowing boats against the damp wooden pilings of the quay. Behind her she could hear instructions being shouted out to the line of boiler-suited officers who were on their hands and knees carrying out a finger-tip search in one of the grid areas marked out by the forensics team. Most of Barnwell Country Park was still off limits; cordoned off as they searched for any evidence which would trap the killers of their unknown victim. She lifted her eyes and scanned the park; a place she had been so many times and which she normally associated with peace and tranquillity.
    She had come here for some fresh air having finished the Coroner’s Inquest file half an hour ago; it had taken longer than she had anticipated. All that was required was for Hunter to read it through before it was submitted. She wondered when he would be back.
    Damn ; she remembered she still hadn’t rung him. She took out her mobile, flicked up the screen and speed dialled his number. As she listened to the ringing tone she stared out again across the lake. The sky looked angry, threatened rain. Last night’s forecast had said early sunshine with heavy bursts of showers later in the day. It looked like being accurate for once.
     
    - ooOoo -
     

     
     
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    DAY SEVEN: 30 th August.
    Barnwell:
     
    Hunter sat at his desk stroking the sides of his still damp hair from the shower he had taken twenty minutes previously. He had awoken just after six that morning and decided to run into work to clear the past week’s cobwebs from inside his head.
    He booted up his desk-top computer - he knew there would be an abundance of e-mails waiting for him – and leaned back in his chair. As he waited for the programme to go through its firewall security checks he set his eyes on his desk calendar. He picked up his pen and crossed off several of the previous dates; he had been away from the office for eight days.
    Another day and they would be in September; the beginning of Autumn.
    The first of September, he reminded himself – the date pricked his conscience. It had been that date twenty years ago when he had been given the news that had momentarily tore his world apart. His first serious girlfriend - Polly Hayes – had been found murdered. She had been walking her dog in woodland close to her home when she had been attacked. The dog had returned home without her sparking off a search. Police found her body three hours later.
    She had been the reason why he had joined the job seventeen years ago.
    Her killer had never been caught and he always hoped that one day he would get justice – not just for himself, but for her parents as well, who were still around, and who he still called on from time to time – though those times were becoming less frequent with the passing of years. He made a mental note to call in the next couple of days – especially with it being the anniversary of her death.
    He broke himself out of his reverie, pulled his eyes away from the calendar, lifted the handset of his desk phone and began dialling the number of the forces voicemail system. Upon hearing the mechanical voice beginning its preamble he switched to speaker phone and punched in his six-digit password to retrieve his personal messages.
    “Hi, its Zita,” the first communication greeted him. “It’s three-thirty pm on Friday afternoon. Just wanting a quick chat about the country park murder. I think I might have something for you!