Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) by Michael Fowler Page B
Authors: Michael Fowler
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photographing Tom Hagan and furnished him with the appropriate release documents.
Hunter returned to his desk feeling low and his head was mashed. He had to get out of the office to unpick everything and make some sense of it all. He made the excuse to Grace that he was just nipping out for something to eat and then jumped into one of the MIT cars and drove out of the station yard at speed with no direction in mind. By the time he had gathered his thinking he was near to Manvers Terrace. He took a detour to the murder scene.
Most of the street had been re-opened to the residents, though a line of blue and white tape secured the immediate area around number 34 and a Community Support Officer was standing guard to prevent trespass of the inner cordon. Hunter pulled into the side of the road, killed the engine and stared out through the windscreen. By Gemma’s front door Hunter couldn’t help but note the line of colourful floral tributes decorating the footpath.
Obviously very well thought of.
For several seconds his thoughts drifted. He tried to focus on the interview with Tom Hagan but being here interfered with his concentration. His thoughts were spiralling around and he found himself reflecting on his childhood and early teenage years rather than that morning’s work. He set his sights beyond the crime scene tape and rested it on the grassed area at the head of the street. He had shared some good times here in the early 1980s; playing football. That piece of grass, back then, had been rough wasteland that backed onto derelict Brickworks. There was no sign of it now. He and his mates had used part of the broken perimeter wall as one of the goals; chalks marks outlined goalposts. While at this end jumpers or coats signified the other goals. He’d been Kevin Keegan, midfield dynamo. Other members of their imaginary England Squad had been taken up by his best friends, Tony Mitchell, Rob Jenkinson and the McCarthy brothers – Danny and David. He tumbled their young, cheery-faced images, around in his head and as their faces hazed away he wondered what they were all doing with their lives now. He caught himself and dragged back his thoughts. He switched focus, delivering his gaze upon number 34. What he had previously believed, about Gemma Cooke’s murder being ‘domestic’ related, was turning out to be nothing as straightforward. Something else was puzzling him as well. It had to do with that necklace they had found on Gemma’s body.
- ooOoo –
CHAPTER EIGHT
Day Seven: 24th March.
Pulling his Audi into the car park of Barnwell Police Station, Hunter ratcheted down the music of Blondie, while simultaneously scanning the rear yard for a parking place. Spotting an available space, between two marked patrol cars, he freewheeled into it and switched off the engine. In buoyant mood he nudged open his door and took in a deep breath. He filled his lungs, catching the morning freshness. Birdsong was the only sound around him. He listened to the exalted exchanges between the different species and pondered for a moment, staring skywards. As he caught a glimpse of the sun breaking through a thin veil of light grey clouds, he mused it was one of those days where he’d rather be out painting than being cooped up in a stuffy office. He shook himself out his reflections. One day, he told himself, and that’s all I’m going to do. Every day, come rain or shine.
But today , Detective Sergeant Kerr, you have a killer to catch.
Locking up the car he marched off across the car park, singing the chorus of ‘Dreaming’ inside his head. As he neared the rear door a smile played across his mouth; as a teenager he’d lusted after Debbie Harry; pouting images of her had adorned his bedroom walls. He caught himself again. He was in a contemplative mood this morning and he needed to get his head clicked into the right gear. Dismissing the thoughts of his adolescent years, he punched in the code to the security
Hunter returned to his desk feeling low and his head was mashed. He had to get out of the office to unpick everything and make some sense of it all. He made the excuse to Grace that he was just nipping out for something to eat and then jumped into one of the MIT cars and drove out of the station yard at speed with no direction in mind. By the time he had gathered his thinking he was near to Manvers Terrace. He took a detour to the murder scene.
Most of the street had been re-opened to the residents, though a line of blue and white tape secured the immediate area around number 34 and a Community Support Officer was standing guard to prevent trespass of the inner cordon. Hunter pulled into the side of the road, killed the engine and stared out through the windscreen. By Gemma’s front door Hunter couldn’t help but note the line of colourful floral tributes decorating the footpath.
Obviously very well thought of.
For several seconds his thoughts drifted. He tried to focus on the interview with Tom Hagan but being here interfered with his concentration. His thoughts were spiralling around and he found himself reflecting on his childhood and early teenage years rather than that morning’s work. He set his sights beyond the crime scene tape and rested it on the grassed area at the head of the street. He had shared some good times here in the early 1980s; playing football. That piece of grass, back then, had been rough wasteland that backed onto derelict Brickworks. There was no sign of it now. He and his mates had used part of the broken perimeter wall as one of the goals; chalks marks outlined goalposts. While at this end jumpers or coats signified the other goals. He’d been Kevin Keegan, midfield dynamo. Other members of their imaginary England Squad had been taken up by his best friends, Tony Mitchell, Rob Jenkinson and the McCarthy brothers – Danny and David. He tumbled their young, cheery-faced images, around in his head and as their faces hazed away he wondered what they were all doing with their lives now. He caught himself and dragged back his thoughts. He switched focus, delivering his gaze upon number 34. What he had previously believed, about Gemma Cooke’s murder being ‘domestic’ related, was turning out to be nothing as straightforward. Something else was puzzling him as well. It had to do with that necklace they had found on Gemma’s body.
- ooOoo –
CHAPTER EIGHT
Day Seven: 24th March.
Pulling his Audi into the car park of Barnwell Police Station, Hunter ratcheted down the music of Blondie, while simultaneously scanning the rear yard for a parking place. Spotting an available space, between two marked patrol cars, he freewheeled into it and switched off the engine. In buoyant mood he nudged open his door and took in a deep breath. He filled his lungs, catching the morning freshness. Birdsong was the only sound around him. He listened to the exalted exchanges between the different species and pondered for a moment, staring skywards. As he caught a glimpse of the sun breaking through a thin veil of light grey clouds, he mused it was one of those days where he’d rather be out painting than being cooped up in a stuffy office. He shook himself out his reflections. One day, he told himself, and that’s all I’m going to do. Every day, come rain or shine.
But today , Detective Sergeant Kerr, you have a killer to catch.
Locking up the car he marched off across the car park, singing the chorus of ‘Dreaming’ inside his head. As he neared the rear door a smile played across his mouth; as a teenager he’d lusted after Debbie Harry; pouting images of her had adorned his bedroom walls. He caught himself again. He was in a contemplative mood this morning and he needed to get his head clicked into the right gear. Dismissing the thoughts of his adolescent years, he punched in the code to the security
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