Cold Death Read Free

he had left the office two days ago, for this well earned break, they had removed the forensic tent from the back of the serial killer’s home after excavating the body of his fourth victim found in the garden.
    The week previous to that the remains of two more of his teenage girl victims had been unearthed from shallow graves at an old colliery site.
    They had known the names and ages of all of the girls who had suffered at his hands even before they had exhumed their remains; he had left behind such detailed accounts of every murder.
    The killing spree of the now infamous ‘Dearne Vally Demon,’ as the press had so candidly dubbed him, had shocked them all and he knew would have lasting repercussions.
    More so because so many revelations had come to light during the enquiry, some of which had not only involved colleagues, but unwittingly himself as well, and had caused him much personal angst over the last few weeks.
    The phrase ‘tangled web’ came to mind as he fought once again to push the thoughts of the case out of his consciousness. He felt a chill shoot down his spine and shuddered.
    Hunter returned his gaze to the view across the beck, spinning away from his daydream, noticing that the morning light had become less sharp over the landscape. He realised that in another ten minutes the artistic quality of the atmosphere would be gone. He returned to his sketch.
    A few more brush strokes, and I’ll call it a day and get back for breakfast.
    Ten minutes later, setting down his brushes, he smoothed his hands into the base of his spine and eased himself upright, teasing the tension out from his vertebrae and stretching himself up to his full six-foot-one. He took another look at his subject, raising his camera to capture one last image to use as reference; to enable him to finish the painting when he got another suitable moment back home, and that was when he spotted his father leaning against the railings, overlooking the beach.
    Dad’s up early as well.
    He clicked off a frame. As he did so he couldn’t help but notice a fleeting movement to one side of the Cod and Lobster pub. He was sure he’d seen a figure dart into the shadows. He zoomed in his lens as far as it would go forcing the focus of the camera towards the side entrance of the pub where he had last seen motion.
    He’d been right. There was someone, slinking against the wall, craning his head around, staring in the direction of his father. His policeman’s sixth sense was telling him that something wasn’t right. He snapped off another frame but the zoom was at its maximum and the image was blurred. He could make out it was a guy with a bald or shaven head who appeared to be both squat and stocky.
    He returned his gaze back to his father, still leaning on the metal railings, one foot resting on the bottom bar, staring out across the harbour. He could tell from his relaxed posture that he was unaware of the man hiding behind the wall only ten yards away. Hunter dug out his mobile from his jeans pocket and flipped up the screen.
    Damn, he cursed to himself, no signal . He’d forgotten, the times he had been here he had never been able to get a signal.
    He moved further to the edge of the Cowbar deciding to shout, hoping his father would be able to hear, and then he saw his dad spin around; the bald headed man had emerged from the shadows and was striding purposefully in his direction. The stranger halted just feet away and thrust out a hand, jabbing a finger inches from his dad’s face. Although Hunter couldn’t hear their body language was telling him that this was not friendly banter. He raised his camera again; shot off a succession of quick frames, not checking if the images were good or not. That was when he caught the quick movement of his father, slapping away the prodding hand and slamming his palm into the chest of the uninvited guest. He dumped the man onto his backside and then leaned over him, spearing his own finger, only a foot from