Secret of the Dead (7 page)

Suddenly he realised his pace had slackened. He picked up his heels and turned his jog into a run.

* * * * *

In the female toilets of Barnwell Police station, Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate checked her appearance in the mirror. She ran a finger around her lips, softening the edge of the gloss which she had applied just two minutes earlier.

Not too much make up,
she told herself.

She straightened her dark blue jacket, flicked at the collar of her white blouse and stepped back a few paces to take in the overall image. Outwardly she looked calm, but inside her head and heart were racing like a clubber on speed.

Her first day of promotion, and a new team to manage.

Meeting the MIT squad last night had filled her with trepidation, particularly after what had gone on two months previously with DS Kerr. She had voiced her anxiety to Michael before they had left his place and he had tried to reassure her that everything would be okay. In some ways he had been right but meeting up again with Hunter had not proved easy. She had tried to catch his eye a few times through the evening and had sensed him staring at her, but whenever she had caught his attention, he had quickly looked away.

Standing before the elongated mirror above the hand basins, doing her best to hide her nervousness, her mind drifted to what lay ahead. She couldn’t afford for things to be edgy between her and one of her team supervisors, not with an investigation in full flow.

She needed Hunter back on side. Michael rated him highly. Hunter Kerr reminded her so much of a detective sergeant she had left behind at Stirling. How she wished she had DS John Reed’s support now. She knew he would help her build bridges, both with Hunter and the team.

First opportunity she would have a clear the air session with Hunter, especially given that on her very first day she was in at the deep end of a major enquiry and working with a team she knew very little about a team which Michael had moulded.

This had been a giant leap for her and the past couple of months had been a whirlwind. At the heart of it had been Michael, who had filled a void in her life. Until ten weeks ago, she had thought love would no longer be part of her life again until she met him. After an evening meal together she had done something which she had not done since university, she had jumped into bed with a first date. Michael’s timing couldn’t have been better. Her marriage had just ended and he offered her the kind of emotion and love she had craved for years.

The sudden chasm in her life had been partly her own fault. Since her teenage years, she had always thrown herself into everything she had done, love life and job as well. Recently, she had chosen the job; she had been promoted DCI into a very busy divisional CID. But she had thought she had done a pretty good job juggling both until four months ago. Getting home late from work that Friday evening, she found the note on the kitchen side from Jack, her husband of eight years, telling her that it was all over and that he had left her. He hadn’t even had the guts to face it out. Over the following weekend, she discovered that he had moved in with a female colleague from his work, a liaison which had been going on for eighteen months.

She, one of Scotland’s top detectives, hadn’t even suspected.

For the best part of a week he had refused to take her calls or reply to her texts and then when she had finally tracked him down to his workplace he had told her during a stand-up row in the foyer that she only ever thought of herself and her job, and that their relationship had been a sham for years.

She’d slapped him across the face hard, and stormed out of the building and out of his life.

The only way she now communicated with Jack was through her solicitor.

Going for that promotion board a month ago had been the hardest decision she had ever made. She already had a distinguished career and worked with some pretty damn good colleagues who were also friends.

But at this stage in her life, a fresh start was required.

She took a final look back at her reflection, checked the hem of her skirt and moved towards the door. Taking a deep breath, she pulled it open and stepped out into the corridor.

* * * * *

Hunter showered and shaved at work, then, with his hair still damp, he made his way up to the office. That run into work had been a tonic - he felt refreshed. He was also glad he had refrained from drinking too much last night, because his head felt clear.

The rest of the squad were in and there was a buzz about the room. It was always like this the first day of an investigation, everyone was eager to get a quick result.

Buttoning up his collar and sliding the knot of his tie into place, Hunter eased himself into his chair, looking to the front of the room. The incident board had been set up, but there was very little written on it. The personal details of Jeffery Howson ran along the top of the white board, and below that the time-line sequence had begun. A head and shoulders shot of him was Blu-tacked in the top left hand corner.

Hunter checked the time-date sequences. The first was the sighting by Howson’s daughter, who had visited him three days prior to his death. The second time-frame covered the phone call with Barry Newstead that same evening, and the third denoted the finding of Jeffery dead by his daughter.

“Okay guys, listen up.” Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw brushed past Hunter’s desk and made his way to the front.

The incident room fell silent.

He grabbed the incident board. “Give me your eyes and ears for the next half an hour. We’ve got a lot to get through.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter caught Dawn Leggate settling herself down on the edge of DS Mark Gamble’s desk. Mark was his counterpart and supervisor of the other team in the department.

Hunter turned and was met by her smile. He forced one back - it felt awkward. He looked away and concentrated on his SIO.

Det. Supt Robshaw opened up the briefing. “Victim is sixty-three year old Jeffery Howson, a retired detective. He was last seen by his daughter when she visited him on Saturday afternoon. She brought him some shopping, put it away, did a little bit of tidying up, made him a snack and left about quarter past four. She was with him just under an hour. Our victim had heart problems and had recently been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Because of that he had trouble getting around, but when she left him she says he was settled in his chair, watching football on television. Apparently he spent a lot of time in that chair, even taking to sleeping in it recently because he couldn’t get comfortable in his bed. We also know that later that day, eighteen minutes past ten in the evening to be precise, he made a phone call to Barry Newstead here with a request to meet. Barry, will you give us the heads-up on your conversation with him?”

Barry ran a hand through his dark rumple of unruly hair and pushed himself back in his seat. In his broad South Yorkshire accent, he outlined the conversation he had had with the murder victim three days earlier. A precise recollection of the chat with Jeffery Howson clipped off his tongue as though it had happened only a few minutes ago. As background, he also repeated the version of the Lucy Blake-Hall murder story told to him by Sue in the pub.

Barry really knows how to grab an audience, Hunter thought to himself as he watched his former mentor fold his arms across his distended belly as he finished.

“Thanks for that Barry,” said Robshaw. “We know from phone records that the call to Barry was made from Howson’s land-line and at this stage we have no reason to believe that the caller was not our victim. What we do know is that Jeffery never made that meeting. In fact we know from the PM that he more than likely met his death shortly after the phone call with Barry. House-to-house has thrown up an interesting element which has come from his next door neighbour.” He paused and surveyed the faces of his team. “Mr. Farmer, who has been Jeffery’s neighbour for the past fifteen years, has told officers that just before eleven on Saturday evening his dog started barking and he noticed the outside security light, at the back of the house, had come on. He went out to do a quick check, but he says he didn’t hear anything. He just assumed it was a cat or a fox, went back inside and then locked up for the night and went to bed. He was specifically asked if he heard the sound of breaking glass, as we know that the offenders got in via the side door, but he says he heard nothing like that and he definitely didn’t hear any signs of a struggle or arguing coming from Jeffery Howson’s place. So until anything more definite comes in regarding time frames, I am holding on to the fact that he was attacked some time between ten eighteen, when Barry spoke with Howson, and eleven pm when Mr Farmer, the neighbour, was disturbed by his barking dog.” He darted his gaze between detectives. “What we don’t have at the moment is a motive for his murder. We know about his phone call with Barry, the crux of which was his concern over the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall back in nineteen-eighty-three. To use his phrase to Barry, ‘the wrong man was convicted of it and I know who really killed her.’ And we know about the mysterious key found in his stomach contents, which he obviously swallowed for a reason. But what we don’t know yet is that reason, or what that key opens up.

“I guess when we discover that, we will get our motive. But there is also another element we need to focus on. There are signs of a search, certainly in the lounge area, so we also have to ask ourselves if this is a burglary gone wrong.” Robshaw faced the room again. “Guys, this was one of our own. We owe it to him and his family to get a quick result.”

Letting go of the incident board, he rubbed his hands together.

“Forensics are at a very early stage. They will be returning this morning to do a thorough examination of the house. House-to-house has only been done with immediate neighbours. Besides Mr. Farmer’s information, we have learned that Jeffery was a relatively quiet and private man who had very few visitors. So far, no one has seen anything out of the ordinary. We’re casting the net a little bit wider this morning. Task Force will be continuing with the door-knocking and will also be doing a finger-tip search of the garden. That will be extended. Beyond his garden fence there is a footpath leading into the woods.” The SIO paused. “Okay, actions.” He opened his hands and tapped his thumb. “First. We re-interview the daughter, get a thorough background everything she knows about her father. I also want to know what that key fits. See if the daughter knows. He swallowed it for a reason, and as I have already mentioned, my guess is that reason got him killed. But we don’t reveal to her or to anyone outside this room how we found it.” He tapped the palm of one hand with an index finger. “Second, he made great stay about the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall back in nineteen-eighty-three. Barry has already given an insight into that but I want a copy of that file and I want to know everything about that case. Contact the Cold Case Review team.” He progressed along his fingers. “Third, we trace Jeffery Howson’s colleagues. I know he’s been retired a good few years now, but a number of his ex-colleagues should be around. I want to know who he worked with at divisional CID who was his partner? I want to know everything about him. I want someone to speak with the Intelligence Unit. Has there been a spate of burglaries recently? Who is active in that area? And finally for today, we make a request for his telephone records. We know about his phone call to Barry, but I want to know if he made any other calls after that and anyone he spoke with in the week leading up to his murder. Given his state of health, the phone was his lifeline to the outside world and we need to know if the list throws up any suspects.”

Michael Robshaw tucked his hands into his trouser pockets.

“That’s it for now everyone. We meet back here at eight-pm for de-brief.” He took a deep breath and steadily scanned the room. “Team, it would be nice to put this one to bed quickly. I want the bastards who did this nailed and pronto.”

* * * * *

Hunter and Grace had only been waiting in the foyer of the newly built Maltby police station, which housed the Cold Case Review Team, for a little over five minutes before Detective Sergeant Jamie Parker, the officer in charge of the team, appeared through the door at the side of the glass fronted reception area. He greeted them, remaining in the doorway, propping it open with one foot; an invitation for them to enter.

The DS was tall and slim and smartly dressed in collar and tie. His short dark hair was giving way to grey and a neatly trimmed half-beard and moustache lined a cheery smile. He proffered his hand, announcing his name as they approached and shook Hunter’s first in a firm grip. Then he took Grace’s and eased open the side door a little further to allow them to slide past.

They found themselves in a carpeted, brightly lit corridor lined with numerous doors. Many were open and it was apparent from the noises within that there was lots of activity going on either side.

“We’ve got a murder running - just started this morning,” Parker said, almost as if he had read Hunter’s thoughts.

“They’ve drafted in detectives from other stations. It’s a bit manic this morning.”

“Always is at the start of a job,” added Hunter thinking about his own team’s new case.

Jamie nodded. “We’re up on the first floor,” he said, pointing them along the corridor to a set of double doors.

A metal stairwell took them up to the next floor. The Cold Case Review Team was housed in the first office along the corridor. It was a long oblong room, made cramped by metal filing cabinets, filling almost the length of the back wall, and six desks, which took up most of the floor space. Three detectives were at their desks. They cast Hunter and Grace a quick glance before returning to their work.

Jamie Parker took up his own seat at his desk and offered up two empty seats either side of him. “It’s a good job the other two DCs are out on enquiries, otherwise it would have been standing room only,” he said, leaning forward and pushing back the desk jotter to make room to rest his arms. “We drew the short straw when we moved in here. We were the last team in. I think they gave us the janitor’s storeroom by mistake,” he said. “Can we get you a cuppa?”