Secret of the Dead (3 page)

He suddenly recalled the chilling last words Jeffery Howson had said before hanging up.

“I hope nothing’s happened to him,” he mumbled as he made for the bar.

- ooOoo -

DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION: 24th November.

Hunter Kerr eyed the paperwork littering his workspace. He didn’t like it when his desk was messy.

He had arrived in the office early with the intentions of making a dent in the stack of overdue reports, but he’d been here an hour already and somehow hadn’t quite clicked into gear even with two cups of strong, sweet, tea inside him. The third cup he’d brewed two minutes ago rested in front of him. He dropped in two lumps of sugar and stirred the steaming contents with the end of his biro. Then he sucked the residue from its top and returned to the task in hand.

Leaning back in his seat, pushing a hand through his dark brown hair, he read over the last sentence he had penned and then glanced up to the ceiling in search of inspiration. He was really struggling with piecing together his report on the sudden death of the young woman whose body had been found in the derelict cellar of a disused pub three days earlier. The main problem was the sheer lack of detail on the front page of the ‘Report of Death’ form before him.

There was certainly no lack of specifics in the ‘Circumstances of Death’ section on the reverse of the document. He’d been able to complete that part quite easily. A small team of builders carrying out renovation work had discovered her lying face down on the concrete floor, immediately realising from the bloated face and pungent smell that she wasn’t sleeping rough. The foreman had dialled 999 straight away and, except for where one of them had kicked through the bottom panel of the cellar door, they hadn’t disturbed anything.

Although he was still awaiting results from toxicology samples taken during the post-mortem, all the indications were that she had died of a heroin overdose. At least a dozen empty syringes surrounded her body. Added to that, the numerous discarded foil wrappings and a couple of spoons which showed signs of being heated over a naked flame, clearly set the scene that the cellar was being used by addicts as a shooting den and she had accidentally ended her life there.

For a brief second, he recalled the first images he had of her, lying amid the detritus of a damp old pub cellar, in the early stages of decomposition and with bits of her missing - vermin had begun to nibble at her purple-coloured bloated flesh. He closed his eyes and shook his head, then returned to focus on the file.

The only reason Hunter had been landed with completing the report was because the Pathologist had picked up on an injury to her right cheek; there was some bruising and the cheekbone was cracked. The cause of that injury was inconclusive, though Hunter had pointed out that she had been found lying face down on hard concrete ground. If the toxicology report came back that it was a heroin overdose, which had caused her premature death, then he could clear its ‘suspicious death’ status and leave it in the hands of the Coroner.

Before that though, he had to summarise an account of his investigation and that was currently proving difficult because of the sheer lack of information. The sections detailing who she was or where she lived were still blank. Everyone who had attended the scene and viewed the corpse, himself included, had initially thought that the body was that of a young teenage girl, but the autopsy had revealed that the petite form was that of a woman aged between late teens and early twenties. And the fact that she had grey-blue eyes, shoulder length light brown hair, a good set of teeth and the initials ‘J.J,’ together with a pink butterfly, tattooed upon the lower part of her neck, between her shoulder blades was the sum total of everything they had in terms of identification. There was nothing on the body, or in the cellar where she had been found, which revealed who she was. The Scenes of Crime Officer had done his best to fingerprint the cadaver at the mortuary but it had been the ends of the fingers which rats had nibbled first, making the process extremely difficult. Except for the recent tattoos, all he had to go on to establish her identity, were three items. He looked at the clear plastic exhibit bags at the top of his pending tray. First there was the torn photograph. He’d found that, together with the Christmas card, in the rear pocket of her jeans. The half-picture featured the head and shoulders of a man who looked to be in his early thirties, clean shaven, with thinning dark hair. He thought the face seemed familiar. The Christmas card appeared to be an old one, folded and heavily creased. Inside, it had been simply signed ‘Mr X.’

Hunter wondered if Mr X was the guy in the photo.

Then he’d found the worn brass key in one of her front pockets, which he guessed gave access to her home, though looking at the state of the key, and given the circumstances of her discovery, he thought that address was more than likely a sub-let room in a run-down rented house.

He had done a lot of leg-work these past two days and realised zilch for his efforts. He’d reacquainted himself with ex-colleagues and a number of local junkies from his drug squad days, but they hadn’t been able to help with either finding her home or giving her a name. And he had uniform trying to track down any dossers who used the derelict pub, but they had so far come up with nothing. He’d decided that if he hadn’t got anywhere by the end of the day, he was going to speak to his contact at The Barnwell Chronicle and ask her to run a piece as a last-ditch attempt to identify the body.

The thwacking sound and the sudden appearance of a newspaper landing on top of his paperwork made Hunter jump. He looked up to see his colleague DC Grace Marshall, her slim frame dressed in a light grey trouser suit striding past. He had been so absorbed in the drafting of his narrative that he neither heard nor saw his working partner breeze into the office.

Barry Newstead followed in her wake, looking rumpled as ever. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder, allowing Hunter the view of a white shirt straining over his ample belly. The tail of one side had escaped from the waistband of his trousers and it was open at the collar, from where the two ends of a striped tie dangled at an odd angle from its untidy knot.

As he switched his gaze from one to the other, Hunter couldn’t help but smile to himself. They were so far apart when it came to dress and style, and yet complemented each other with their ebullient character and respective work ethic.

“You’re a bit of a dark horse, Detective Sergeant Kerr!” Barry arrowed a finger towards the newspaper on Hunter’s desk, and shot him a wink as he sucked in his stomach, squeezed himself around his desk and lowered himself onto his chair.

Hunter snatched up the copy of the local weekly Barnwell Chronicle, which had already been opened to one of the inside pages. There, in full colour, he was pictured proudly holding before him one of his recent paintings. Below it was the headline ‘A Brush with the Law’. He could feel himself colouring up. A month ago, his journalist contact at the local paper had interviewed him about his recent success within the art world. Two of his seascape oil paintings had been selected for The Mall Galleries ‘Royal Society of Marine Artists’ exhibition. It had been the most defining moment of his artistic career to date and had brought him an invite to showcase his work with a leading London gallery.

Barry said, “Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr uses the long arm of the law for more than just collaring criminals.”

Hunter caught Barry’s smug grin but chose to ignore the gibe. Instead he silently read the opening paragraph of the article.

“Fancy a cuppa?” Grace said, as she edged towards the set of filing cabinets at the far wall, where the office kettle and array of mugs sat. She picked up the kettle, checked there was enough water in it and flicked its switch. Looking back over her shoulder, she offered, “Take no notice of him, he’s jealous. I’m very proud of you Hunter. At least someone else has a bit of class in this office.”

Hunter lifted up his gaze and caught Grace pulling her highlighted corkscrew curls away from her flawless tawny skin, exposing her high cheekbones. He noted that the summer freckles, peppering her cheeks and spanning the bridge of her nose, were now starting to fade.

Barry’s grin widened and he shot out his tongue towards her. “Give over with your brown-nosing wench and get that coffee made.”

“Yo’s saying that because I is black, or because I is woman, Mr Newstead?” Grace returned, mimicking her father’s Jamaican patois and fixing Barry an exaggerated piercing look.

Barry returned a single middle finger salute. “Swivel on that Detective Constable Marshall.”

It was her turn to smile. Then she returned to making the drinks, pouring steaming hot water into three mugs.

Hunter shook the tabloid straight and quickly scanned the couple of paragraphs which made up the remainder of the article. His initial embarrassment had subsided; now he beamed inside. He folded the paper and set it aside. He would read it and digest it again tonight when he got home and had more time.

Grace settled a steaming mug down in front of Hunter. “Oh and there’s a full-page spread on page five in there about the ‘Lady in the Lake’ murder. They’ve covered the case really well.”

“I bet you’re really pleased with that result, aren’t you?” said Hunter, who caught the glint in Grace’s eyes as she slumped down into the swivel chair at her desk opposite. He was referring to the guilty verdict given to the brutal murderers of a 23 year old Asian girl whose bloated and battered body had been discovered at the bottom of Barnwell Lake three months ago.

When the job had been called in, Grace had been ‘acting’ DS while he had been away on a long weekend break with his family and she had taken control of her first murder investigation.

He remembered how admirably she had coped during his absence, both with the investigation and with being in charge of the team, especially given her own personal problems at the time. There had been many times since then when he had lain awake at night, re-running the case in his head, wondering how he would have coped had one of his children been abducted by a known serial-killer. He knew she was still seeing the Force Counsellor, and still suffering the occasional panic attack. And yet outwardly, like now, she continued to display such remarkable resolve and resilience.

She would have made a good actress
.

“Chuffed to bits. The judge gave me a commendation as well.”

“And rightly so, you deserve it. I hope the gaffer’s said something to you?”

“He has actually. Told me a couple of days ago that he’d put me forward for a Chief Superintendent’s commendation.”

“I can see we’re gonna have to get the joiners in to make some wider doors for that big head of yours.”

“Huh! Hark who’s talking. At least I don’t have to suck up to journalists to get an article done about myself.” She licked the tip of a forefinger and struck an invisible mark in the air.

Hunter laughed and picked up the tabloid again, flipping back the sheets to page five, where he found a full-page spread outlining the background of their ‘Lady in the Lake’ investigation, and the subsequent court case, together with a series of photographs depicting the offenders and the scene of the murder. He began to pick his way through the article; he wanted to ensure that the crime reporter had given due credit to the painstaking work carried out by the MIT team on what had been another difficult case.

In the background, one of the phones rang. He heard Grace answer - she had beaten Barry to it despite juggling a mug of coffee. Within a few seconds her voice became excited - the way it did when something was breaking.

He lifted his eyes from the newspaper and watched her making notes on a pad, the handset clamped between ear and shoulder.

A couple of minutes later she set the receiver back on its cradle.

“That was the duty inspector. Uniform are at a suspicious death. A woman made a 999 call ten minutes ago. She’s turned up at her father’s and found him dead and thinks his house has been broken into. Mike and Bully have just been diverted to the scene.”

Grace was referring to the other two members of his team, Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars. Hunter set down the newspaper.

“Got any other details?”

“The address they’re going to is listed to a Jeffery Howson. The Inspector believes he’s a retired cop.”

Barry Newstead launched himself out of his chair, banging his knees on the edge of his desk in the process. He made a pained face. Rubbing the tops of his knees vigorously, he said loudly, “Bloody hell, I never expected to hear that name again so quickly.” Then on a softer note, he added, “Mind if I tag along? If this is the Jeffery Howson I think it is, then there’s something I need to tell you.”

* * * * *

They dashed to the scene on the outskirts of Barnwell, using a series of side streets to avoid heavy traffic on the main thoroughfares. From the back seat of the unmarked CID car, Barry gave Hunter and Grace a potted version of the phone call he had received two days previously from the man who had stated he was retired detective Jeffery Howson.

“Are you sure he said that?” enquired Hunter. He drove one-handed, his other hand flexed around the gear stick, constantly changing up and down as he sped through one small estate after another, weaving between tightly parked cars.

“Positive. I know I was dead to the world when the phone went but I can remember most of what he told me. He wasn’t on long anyway. He definitely said he wanted to tell me something about the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall from way back in nineteen-eighty-three and that the wrong man had been convicted.”

“And you were supposed to meet him yesterday?” said Grace.

“Yes at the George and Dragon in Wentworth. He said to meet him there at twelve o’clock. I went with Sue and we waited until half two but he never showed up. If this is the same Jeffery Howson, and I can’t believe that there’ll be two retired cops with the same name in the same location, then I now know why he didn’t turn up.”