Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Well, thanks for that Alan,” he said, pushing himself up from the sofa. “You’ve been a great help.”

Grace shut her notebook and returned it to her handbag.

They shook hands and made for the door. The retired DCI opened it and as they were about to step out, Hunter turned.

“Oh, there was just one thing Alan. We’ve found some of Jeffery’s old pocket note-books,” Hunter lied.

“Pocket books?” he frowned. “They should have all been handed in when he retired. They destroy them after seven years.”

“That’s what we thought. Well it seems as if he hung on to a couple. We’ve got to go through them thoroughly but they seem to feature a case you haven’t mentioned. What was it now Grace?”

“Oh, the Lucy Blake-Hall murder back in nineteen-eighty-three.” Grace had quickly latched on to her partner’s wavelength.

Hunter could have sworn the retired DCI gulped. Despite the pudgy neck, there was a clear movement.

“Lucy Blake-Hall,” he seemed to stumble over the words. “Sorry, you caught me unawares. I had to think hard for a bit then. It was so long ago now. Jeff and I interviewed the man who killed Lucy. He confessed to her murder. Yes I remember now. He was found guilty at Crown and got life. It was such a long time ago that I’ve forgotten most of the details senior moment and all that”

Yes I bet you have! Your memory was pretty damn good when it came to recalling The Beast of Barnwell case, which was ten years earlier.

“It’s strange he should have kept those. Did he leave anything else about that case?”

“Don’t believe so.” Hunter raised another fake smile and followed Grace out onto the path. “Well thank you for your time Alan. If anything else crops up we know where to find you now don’t we?”

DAY FOUR: 27th November.

Hunter dropped his right shoulder and exploded forward with a deft uppercut. He followed up with a left jab, and a swift right, before dancing away into the centre of the ring and setting up his guard again.

Sweat dribbled into the corner of his eyes. He experienced a momentary sharp stinging sensation before blinking and wiping the salty water away with his training mitts. He switched his footwork and took up a leading position in readiness for another onslaught.

“Come on son, last thirty seconds,” barked his dad, Jock. “Then you’re done.”

Flexing his shoulders, he sprang forward again. Two hard and fast punches, right and left, smacked the leather training pads his father held. He dodged away and took in a great gulp of air. He had only been sparring with his dad for ten minutes, but he was drained.

It had been a long while since they’d done this. September had been the last time he had done any serious training with his dad. Of course he had visited his father’s boxing gym since then, but he’d only had time to lift weights and work the training bag.

There was also another reason they had not trained together. Hunter still felt a certain awkwardness when in his father’s company. He had tried to put the events of the past two months behind him, but in the background it had nibbled away. It wasn’t the ordeal he had been put through, but the fact that his father had deceived him and then tried to hide his past even when that past had got people killed. And now it was like his father was pretending nothing had happened. Hunter had done his utmost to reconcile himself with things, but it was still jarring away inside. ‘Your dad will talk about it when he’s good and ready,’ Beth had said to him on more than one occasion during the past few weeks, but with one thing and another, especially his work, he’d not been able to grab any time for a clear the air session.

“Two more punches son, and we’re done.”

Hunter swung in a flourish of quick jabs and finished with a strong uppercut, lifting the pad his father held. As he dropped his arms with exhaustion, his dad sideswiped his head.

“Keep your guard up at all times son.” His dad gave him a wink and cracked a grin as he gripped one pad under his armpit and tugged it off. “That’s it, we’re done.”

Pulling off the other pad, he reached across to Hunter and grabbed his hands to help as he slipped off the training mitts.

“Good session that Hunter. Shower now, eh?” He dropped the gloves and pads against a ring post and ducked under the middle rope. “What time did you say you had to be in to work?” he asked, glancing back as he stepped out of the boxing ring. “Have you got time for a quick cuppa before I open up? Don’t know about you but I’m parched.”

Hunter nodded. He was still trying to catch his breath. He grabbed a towel off a corner post and wiped his face and the back of his neck as he made his way to the changing room. The adrenaline was still coursing through him. He felt energised despite the workout he’d just had.

He was glad now that he’d dragged himself out of bed early. He’d even had the time to take the boys to school that morning — something he’d not been able to do for ages. Now he felt set up for the day; he could take anything that was thrown at him.

“Put the kettle on, I’ll be ten minutes,” he shouted after his father, who was sloping off towards his office. “I don’t have to be in until eleven this morning, I’ve got a funeral to go to, for that ex-detective. That case I’m on that I’ve told you about?”

* * * * *

Barry Newstead grabbed Hunter the moment he strolled into the department.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you on your mobile most of the morning,” he said excitedly.

Hunter pulled his phone from his pocket and examined it. His face creased.

“Sorry Barry, I’ve had it on silent. I’ve been down at my dad’s gym.”

“You’ll never guess what I’ve discovered?” He thrust a sheet of paper at Hunter.

Hunter saw that it had a list of numbers, in time, day and date order. Barry stabbed a finger over one number highlighted with yellow fluorescent ink.

“That’s the top copy of Jeffery Howson’s itemised phone bill for his land-line. Guess who he rung on the afternoon of his death.”

Hunter scrutinised the tinted telephone number. It didn’t mean anything.

“Alan Darbyshire. He rung Alan Darbyshire just before five pm on that Saturday he was killed. It’s one of the last numbers he called that day. The next one was mine and the last one was his daughter Katherine.”

Hunter fixed Barry’s glistening brown eyes.

“Good God Barry, this is a real turn up for the books. It completely contradicts what he told me and Grace yesterday. He told us that he had last spoken with Jeffery on the Monday or Tuesday prior to his death. Does the gaffer know about this?”

“Yeah, I fed it into this morning’s briefing. He’s chasing up forensics to prioritise examination of some of the exhibits, see if we can find something good enough to bring Alan in.”

* * * * *

Hunter stamped his feet on the damp grass. The cold was beginning to get to him. A biting north westerly wind had picked up since he had emerged from the warm church and was disturbing the fallen autumn leaves around the headstones in Barnwell cemetery. The dry rustling noise disturbed an uncanny silence.

He flicked up the collar of his overcoat and buried his hands in his pockets as he scanned the faces of the mourners huddled graveside.

Ten minutes earlier, he had followed up at the rear of the slow procession as Jeffery Howson’s casket had been carried from the church to his final resting place in the cemetery. The light wood coffin now rested upon two wooden posts above an open grave.

Hunter could smell the freshly turned soil and clammy earth.