Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Four of the coffin bearers, two either side of the grave, each grabbed hold of the end of a rope, and took the weight of the casket as the supporting props were slid away. The bearers began to lower the coffin.

Hunter watched the casket making its descent.

“We commit this body to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said the vicar in sombre tones, his head bowed. He peppered the coffin lid with a handful of loose soil.

Hunter looked at the burial group, scanning their faces. It wasn’t a large assembly, made up of mainly elderly men. Hunter guessed they were ex-colleagues.

Three women made up the burial party as well. Katherine and her daughter, Amy, were two of them. Katherine was sobbing uncontrollably. A slender, dark dyed-haired woman, who looked to be in her mid-sixties, had a comforting arm around her. Hunter guessed it was Katherine’s Mother; Jeffery’s ex-wife.

Hunter hated funerals.

He had been tasked with attending Jeffery Howson’s service, and he knew nearby there would be a member of the Intelligence Unit covertly filming everything. It was standard procedure; it was not unknown for the killer to turn up at the funeral of his victim.

That thought made him lock onto Alan Darbyshire who was huddled amid the congregation. The man met his gaze, as if he had known he was being watched. He quickly turned away and dropped his head.

If that wasn’t the actions of a guilty man, thought Hunter.

Hunter’s concentration was disturbed by the machine-gun rattle of a solitary magpie somewhere to his left. He turned his head and fifty yards away, by the boundary hedge, he caught a sudden and unexpected movement. A broad, squat figure dressed in a black padded jacket and wearing a dark woollen hat, which covered most of his head and his ears, disguising his features, was standing close to a gap in the cropped line of holly.

Hunter eyeballed him for several seconds. The unknown guest was staring in the direction of the funeral party.

Hunter took a few steps back, pulling out his radio from inside his coat. He switched it into life. It had been pre-loaded onto the same frequency as that of his colleague’s from the Intelligence Unit. Although he couldn’t see him, he knew he would be somewhere nearby.

Turning away from the gathering, he pressed the handset close to his mouth and in a low tone requested the plain clothed officer’s attention.

The radio crackled but there was no response.

He tried again, in a firmer tone this time, and began striding toward the stranger.

Hunter knew he was in the open but he had little option. Instinct was telling him that something wasn’t right.

He’d only made a half a dozen steps before the incomer saw Hunter and began edging away towards the breach in the holly hedge.

Hunter picked up his pace and hissed into his radio as the stranger made the gap.

In a flash, the man had disappeared. Hunter smacked the radio against his thigh in frustration.

Damn it!

He knew that even if someone did respond in the next few seconds it would be too late — the dark-clad figure would be long gone.

DAY FIVE: 28th November.

“Hunter Kerr I’m surprised at you,” scolded Grace, looking over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s not like you to be a nine-o’clock-critic.”

“I’m just so frigging miffed. We could have caught that guy at the funeral. Instead he did a runner and we’ve no idea who he is.”

Grace pushed herself forward. Leaning across the desk, she said, “It was a mistake. Anyone could have made it. The Intelligence Unit guy had simply switched his radio off for the church service and forgot to switch it back on…end of. He wasn’t to know that the stranger was going to turn up in that part of the graveyard. His job was to film the congregation of Jeffery Howson’s funeral and he did that.”

Hunter held up his hands. “Yep, fair comment Grace. It just would have been nice to find out what he was doing there.”

“Course it would, but we didn’t, and so we have to live with it. He’ll come again. We’ll find out who he is, don’t you worry.” She took a sip at her drink and set it down, hands still wrapped around her warm mug. “Anyway, he did manage to get some good footage of Alan Darbyshire. Did you see the look on his face as you were chasing after the guy?”

Hunter nodded.

“Picture wasn’t it? You could tell from his reaction that he knew who that man was.”

“There’s no doubt Alan Darbyshire is up to his neck in this. I’d love to bring the slimy lying toad in, but you heard the gaffer at this morning’s briefing. He wants us to hold off for the time being, see if we get something concrete that will link him physically with Jeffery Howson’s death.”

“It’ll happen. We know he told us one lie about the last time he spoke with Jeffery because of the telephone records, and don’t forget his signature on those notes we found in Howson’s safe. If they are the originals, then we’ve at least got him for perjury in the Weaver trial. That will be enough to arrest him and get enough of a lever on him to quiz him about the murder.”

Hunter nodded again. “I can see where the gaffer is coming from. Because Darbyshire’s ex-job, especially an ex-DCI, he wants us to get enough evidence so that when we do finally give him a tug we can make it stick, but it’s so frustrating.”

“It’ll come good in the end.” Grace pushed herself upright and took a last sip of her coffee. “Anyway, we have enough work to handle just now. You weren’t here for this morning’s briefing, but the Super wants us to speak with Daniel Weaver before he hears it from the press that we’ve re-opened the Lucy Blake-Hall case, especially as he’s already had one appeal turned down. I’ve already set things in motion. He’s currently in Wakefield Prison, and I’ve also managed to track down his barrister from the trial back in nineteen-eighty-four. He’s defending a stabbing case at Sheffield Crown Court which is listed for three days, so I’ve left a message with his secretary for him to get back to me.”

“Good job Grace. Once you sort out a time and date with him to meet, I’ll contact the prison and fix up a visit. This will not be an easy one, you know. If those notes from Howson’s safe prove to be original, he’s going to be more than a little pissed off. He’s served twenty-four years for a murder he might not have done.”

“And we’re going to come in for some flak from the media. They just love a miscarriage of justice story like this.”

“That’s why it would be nice to have Alan Darbyshire in a cell before we go and speak with Daniel Weaver.”

“Trouble is we need the evidence, and we haven’t got enough.”

“Talking about evidence, how’ve you gone on with the old card index?”

“Don’t ask. That has been a nightmare. I’ve managed to get it in some semblance of order, but only thanks to Isobel from the HOLMES team. She’s worked on the old card system on quite a few murders in the past, so she helped me piece it all together. It’s currently laid out over two desks in their office, and the team are slowly inputting it into the computers. She’s estimated that in roughly a fortnight’s time, we’ll be up to speed and be able to run the Lucy Blake-Hall enquiry from HOLMES. But it’s going to make for a fair bit of leg-work. And I can see we’re going to need some help from the Cold Case Team”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Isobel’s already identified that quite a few of the witnesses are dead. Added to that, some of the addresses no longer exist. Some of the old terraced streets have been knocked down, and to complicate matters further, some of the female witnesses have changed their names. Got married and moved. This is not going to be an easy investigation.”