Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Then you’re talking to the wrong person. If you want a quote, contact the press office.”

“Is this a miscarriage of justice?”

“I said conversation over.”

Guy Armstrong shook his head. “I can help you with your investigation? I spoke with the witnesses back then. I dealt with Lucy’s family and I also know Daniel Weaver’s family. I scratch your back and you scratch mine.”

Barry slowly started to close the front door. “Goodbye Mr Armstrong.”

The reporter placed his foot over the threshold.

Barry glanced down at the reporter’s black scuffed shoes and then fixed him with one of his meanest, hardest, looks. “You take that foot away now or I’ll break it. Then I’ll put my own foot up the crack of your arse and boot you all the way back up the drive. Do I make myself clear?”

Armstrong withdrew his foot, looking sheepish. “Is that a quote?”

“No, but this one is…fuck off!” Barry slammed the front door shut and kept his huge hand tight on the handle, watching as the blood drained from his knuckles. He waited until he saw the silhouette of Guy Armstrong fade away. After this, other reporters would be in on the chase. He turned to the phone. He needed to let the gaffer know.

DAY SEVEN: 30th November.

Hunter got into work just before seven am, brewed himself a cup of tea and immediately attacked his pending work. Opening his e-mails, he found three relating to the suspicious death of the girl found in the cellar of the derelict pub ten days earlier. He still had a number of gaps waiting to be filled, and with the recent murder case he hadn’t had time to conduct his own enquiries into identifying the victim, discovering where she lived or finding any witnesses; a big ask, given the circumstances of her death. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure he had tied up every loose end. Several days ago he had made a series of phone calls to uniform officers he knew from his beat days and also sent out a global e-mail to duty groups posing those questions.

His first e-mail was from the Coroner’s Officer. He prayed this was going to provide him with a name for the victim and the cause of her death. The opening paragraph read: ‘The girl has been identified as 23 year-old Jodie Marie Jenkinson, goes by her nickname ‘JJ’.’ His prayers had been answered. At the post-mortem he had seen those initials tattooed on the back of her neck. He read on. They had managed to identify her by fingerprints, despite the damage caused by the rats. She had a previous conviction for drunkenness, and an assault and she was currently on probation for shoplifting. As a bonus, the Coroner’s Officer had listed her Probation Officer and his telephone number. Hunter scribbled down the details onto his blotting pad. That was tomorrow morning’s first job after briefing. He skimmed through the remainder of the e-mail and saw that cause of death was drug related. The syringe found beside her contained heroin of a purer concentration than that normally found on the streets. He guessed that she had been so used to the cut-down stuff that her body hadn’t been able to cope with the good gear. That information took his enquiry a giant leap forward and he rattled off a thank you back to the officer, adding that he owed him a drink.

His luck continued with the second e-mail. It was from an old uniformed colleague, now attached to one of the Community Beat Teams, whose patrol area took in the derelict pub. He made regular checks of the place because nearby residents had complained that it had become a haunt for drunken teenagers. He hadn’t found any teenagers but he had come across a local tramp, nicknamed ‘Chicken George’, who was using the place to doss down. The officer had last spoken with him two months ago and was now trying to track him down to ask if he had seen the girl or anyone else in the premises. Hunter responded with another thank you and requested an update once he had caught up with the tramp.

The last e-mail was from Duncan Wroe, the Scenes of Crime manager, which stated that he had forwarded on an album of photographs relating to his suspicious death.

Hunter looked at his pending tray and lifted off a couple of reports from the top. Tucked between the paperwork, he found a blue coloured A5 bound photograph album. He opened it to reveal the first colour print — a front view of the derelict pub. Its sign was missing, as was the lettering above the front windows and door, though he knew it used to be called the Barnwell Inn. Once white plaster was heavily stained, and large clumps had fallen away from the walls to reveal crumbling red brickwork beneath. It looked a mess, thought Hunter, though he knew from the builders that it was about to get a new lease of life as a pub-cum-diner. The next picture showed the view from the entrance door, along a narrow strip of corridor, towards the beer cellar. He could make out the absence of the bottom door panel of the cellar door, the result of one of the builders having put his boot through to get access. The next view took in most of the cellar itself. Jodie Marie Jenkinson was slumped face down on the concrete floor, arms by her side, legs tucked beneath her in a child-like sprawl. He concentrated on this photo. It was a stark reminder of what he had encountered when he had been called out that day. The combination of the fetid stench of stagnant beer, stale faeces, animal and human, and damp, mixed with the decay of someone long dead, had greeted him. As he stared at this photograph the images and smells returned. The last remaining shots were close-ups of the girl. The images were vivid. It wasn’t just the decomposition, but the damage caused by the vermin attacks. As well as her fingers, the tip of her nose was missing and part of her right ear had also been chewed. Mournfully, he shook his head. Two of the remaining photographs were close-ups of her heavily blanched bare arms, which bore multiple healed criss-crossed scars, the tell-tale signs of self-harm. The next couple focused on the drugs paraphernalia surrounding her, the used syringes, strips of burnt foil, and two spoons which showed signs of being heated. He closed the album and thumbed his way back through the pages again. Something about those images was disturbing him, though taking another look was not resolving the doubts. He tried to conjure up visions from previous drug-related deaths he had investigated during his time on the Drug Squad, but that wasn’t helping either. He went over the shots a third time, a little slower, but he still couldn’t put his finger on what was troubling him. It might just be me , he told himself, he might be reading something which wasn’t there. For now, he decided to fill in the gaps with this recent information, speak to her Probation Officer over the next few days and then re-visit the photographs when he had a little more time.

Footsteps coming along the corridor outside snatched him back to the present. He checked his watch as the office double doors swung open.

Barry Newstead barrelled in like someone entering a Wild West saloon. “Now then me old mucker, touch of insomnia have we?”

“Got in early to try and sort out some paperwork. No rest for the wicked.”

“Talking about the wicked. I had a visitor last night I want to tell you about. But first, the most important job of the day. I’ll stick the kettle on.” Barry said with a broad grin.

Hunter watched Barry slip his jacket off and sling it across his desk before heading for the kettle. The tail of his shirt was hanging out of his waistband again. Hunter smiled. Sartorial elegance was certainly not one of Barry’s strong points.

Barry made two drinks, dunking tea bags into mugs of hot water, adding milk and sugar to both before sidling back to Hunter’s desk. He dropped down into Grace’s empty chair opposite and slid across a mug.