Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Hunter exchanged a quick look with Barry, wondering whether he was going to mention Armstrong. Barry never flinched.

The teams broke up, clambering around DI Scaife’s desk for their next set of assignments. The office was buzzing again.

* * * * *

Hunter and Grace had the job of speaking to Lucy’s husband, Peter. They had been told he was living in a renovated farm complex, in the picturesque village of Hooton Roberts. Hunter knew the area well; he had painted there in the past. He also knew that it was a village of two halves. The handful of sandstone cottages and small farms were separated by the main A630 Rotherham to Doncaster road and because of that, Blake-Hall’s home took a bit of finding. Hunter had driven past twice before Grace spotted it at the top of a rise, along a narrow lane and in between cottages.

As Hunter swung the unmarked CID car in through a wide opening onto a gravel chipped driveway, he saw that Peter Blake-Hall’s home was a converted barn. It looked a lavish conversion. A central gabled area set with large glazed doors was its entranceway. It had low walls and a steep tiled roof, in which was set a number of window-lights. Today, the grey tiles glistened, because a light rain was falling from a grey, damp, heavy-clouded sky.

“This must have set him back a bob or two,” Hunter said to Grace, as he slowed the car to a halt. For a few seconds he left the engine idling and stared out through the windscreen. Slowly the image of the Grade II listed barn became distorted as droplets of rain spattered the screen.

He said, “I want to play this just the same way as we did with Alan Darbyshire. No pushing. Try and let him do most of the talking and see what he gives.”

Grace nodded in agreement.

“I’m not going to mention the re-opening of his wife’s case unless he asks about it. I’m going to come at him from the angle of being someone Howson was closely linked to in the past and see where that leads to. I’m only going to let on that we’ve spoken to Howson’s ex if he’s not forthcoming. I want to see what he is prepared to offer without encouragement.”

“I’m sure we will get around to his wife’s case, so if that happens I’ll try and divert him with a few questions about his relationship with her prior to her going missing. See what he’ll also tell us about Daniel Weaver.”

“Good idea Grace. I’ve noticed that file has very little in the way of background. It doesn’t say in Peter Blake-Hall’s statement whether or not he knew about her affair with Weaver. It would be interesting to know.”

Hunter turned off the engine and opened his door slowly. The cold and the damp hit him and he shivered. Checking for puddles, he alighted. Immediately, he heard raised voices. He could see from Grace’s expression that she had heard them too.

The voices were coming from around the side of the house. It sounded like two men, and the conversation was heated. One of them was swearing profusely.

Hunter threw a quizzical look at Grace. “Someone’s venting their spleen. We’ll take a shufty, shall we?”

Locking the car, Hunter skirted past the front entrance and edged around the side of the building where the two voices had reduced to one. Behind him, Grace’s low-heeled shoes scrunched over the loose gravel chippings. There would be no element of surprise.

He turned the corner in time to witness a man in a camel-hair coat being pushed from a doorway, his arms windmilling, as he fought to keep his balance, and in doing so a small hand-held tape recorder flew up in the air and landed behind him. Hunter recalled what Barry had told him about being door-stepped by a reporter the previous evening. The description Barry had given fitted this man to a tee.

In the doorframe a tall, beefy man was spearing a finger in the direction of the journalist.

He shouted, “Now for the last time, piss off.”

Hunter stepped into view. “Having a spot of trouble?”

Both men turned his way.

“And who the fuck are you?” said the stocky one.

Hunter dug into his jacket and found his warrant card. “CID,” he announced, flashing his badge.

“Well, you’re just in time to witness me kick this man’s arse off my premises for trespass.” The thickset man moved from the doorway and onto the drive.

Grace quickly stepped forward, putting herself in front of the reporter. He was scrabbling in the wet gravel, attempting to recover his tape recorder and the batteries which had spilt from it.

“There’s no need for that, now we’re here. I’m sure this gentleman was just leaving.” Hunter turned to the reporter. “Weren’t you sir?”

The man huffed, snapped the batteries back in place, made a quick visual check of his tape-recorder, wiped the wetness from it on his coat sleeve, slipped it into his pocket and turned on his heels without saying a word.

Hunter’s gaze followed him as he tramped away down the driveway. As he neared the gate, Hunter turned back to the well-made man. “I’m guessing that was a reporter?”

“Yes, fucking leeches.” He turned to Grace. “Pardon my French miss.” Then he turned back at Hunter. “He says you’re re-opening the case into my wife’s murder. Is that right?”

Best laid plans… Hunter reflected. Quickly gathering his thoughts, he replied, “Well Mr Blake-Hall, we’re investigating the murder of a detective who worked on your wife’s murder. That’s what we’re here for. Can we come in and have a word?”

Hunter studied the man for a few seconds, never breaking eye contact. Then he smiled, though Hunter could tell it was strained.

“Yeah, sure.” Peter Blake-Hall stepped to one side and invited them into the house.

From a short hallway Hunter and Grace stepped into a large, airy, open-plan house. The lounge and dining room were one, and at the far end, through a set of open glazed doors was a bespoke fitted kitchen of cream painted units and light oak work surfaces.

Hunter found himself staring around the room. He was in awe. Without doubt, this was a conversion which had money and time spent on it. The interior had so much space, with a timbered roof structure in full view. A galleried landing ran most of the way around the walls, with light oak doors leading off. Hunter guessed that was where the bedrooms and bathroom were. The majestic stone fireplace before them contained a roaring log fire burning in a large dog-grate, throwing out welcoming warmth. Although the place looked sumptuous, its design managed to maintain a rustic appeal.

“This is a beautiful home, Mr Blake-Hall. The nightclub business is obviously doing well.” Hunter eyed the man carefully. Peter Hall-Blake looked to be in his middle to late fifties. He still had most of his light brown hair. However, it was beginning to grey and the front had thinned to a widow’s peak. This morning he had a layer of stubble. At some stage he had used weights regularly but now the muscle-tone was giving way to fat. Though, viewing the bulk of his upper arms straining the sleeves of his casual striped shirt, Hunter thought that he still looked as though he could handle himself given the situation. It had been a good thing that Grace had got between him and the reporter, or they would likely now be interviewing him under caution for assault, rather than chatting with him as a possible witness in their murder enquiry.

“I see you’ve done your homework on me.” Peter sank down onto a large mushroom coloured sofa close to the stone fireplace, and gesticulated for them to sit in another large sofa opposite. “Be my guest.” As Hunter and Grace sat, he said “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t refer to my place as a nightclub. It’s licensed as a private lap-dancing club. I offer something totally different to one of those vulgar places. Maybe in the old days my place was viewed as being somewhat lascivious, but thankfully the world has moved on. And yes, in answer to your question, it has allowed me a good lifestyle over the years.” He crossed his legs. “You’ll have to pay us a visit. And I don’t mean in the official sense. Come socially one night on me. Bring a couple of colleagues.” Peter Blake-Hall turned to Grace. “My offer extends to you, but it might not be to your tastes dear.”