Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Hunter nodded.

“Well it seems that most of it was down to Peter. And I’ll tell you what else my friend mentioned on the q.t. You know how I told you about the holidays Alan and Jeffery had in a businessman’s villa in Benidorm?”

Hunter nodded again.

“Well that businessman was none other than Peter Blake-Hall. It seems as though Alan and Jeffery had a right old thing going on with Blake-Hall. It’s my guess he was giving them the info and everything, to keep the pair sweet and in return they’d tip him off if any raids or other stuff was coming his way.”

Hunter cupped his chin and said “Hmm.” Then he added, “Have you told anyone about this?”

“Not yet. I only got the phone call an hour ago. This old mate of mine doesn’t want to get involved if he can help it. He used to work on the same team as Alan and Jeffery and had a lot of time for them. He said that deep down he respects Alan and that he was a very good gaffer to work for.”

“Yeah, but it looks now as though he’s not only bent but he may have murdered Jeffery.”

“I know, and mentioned that to my old friend, but he’d rather stay in the background for now. I’ve promised him that I’ll try and keep him out of it if I can. He’s given us some good stuff to start doing some digging. Just keep it under your hat for now, I’ll make some more calls, and see what I can come up with, and then if we can confirm everything from other sources, then we’ll use those people instead.”

“Look Barry, you know how important this is. I’ll give you a couple of days to do your digging and if you don’t get anywhere then I’m afraid this friend of yours is going to have to stand up and be counted.”

Barry gave Hunter’s wrist a gentle squeeze. “Give me until Thursday.” Then, using the passenger door as support, he launched himself out of the passenger seat and pulled himself upright. “I’ll get the first beers,” he said, striding towards the back door of the pub, never looking back.

* * * * *

Just after 7pm Hunter left the pub feeling hungry and tired but relaxed. The wind had picked up, and rain which had dominated the sky for most of the day was now being whipped across the car park in angled sheets. For a second he stood in the doorway, cursing the weather. Then, hitching up the collar of his quilted outdoor coat and hunching low, he sprinted through the squall to his car.

He wiped the dampness from his face and waited for the windscreen demister to kick in. Two minutes later, with a clear view before him, he flicked on the wipers and swung his Audi out of the pub car park, onto Wentworth High Street and began his wend home. The opening chords of Genesis’ ‘Invisible Touch’ played out through his six speaker system. He turned the stereo up several notches until he could feel the bass vibrate.

Picking up speed, he’d only travelled half a mile, when he spotted a dark coloured saloon car tucked next to the stone wall of the small village brewery on his right-hand side. He was sure there was someone in the driver’s seat, and although he had seen cars parked there frequently during the day, at night, when the brewery was closed, the place was usually deserted. He eased off the accelerator and looked in the driver’s side mirror.

Less than a hundred yards on, in his mirror, he saw the car’s headlights suddenly blaze. Then he watched it pull onto the road and follow.

Suspicions aroused, Hunter hit the accelerator. The Audi’s diesel turbo injection system kicked in, and within seconds he had reached sixty mph, the car’s low profile tyres hugging the wet tarmac as it thundered along the stretch of unlit road in the direction of home. The winding roads ahead were in total darkness, but he knew this area of the countryside like the back of his hand and although he could still make out the headlights of the car behind in his rear-view mirror, he saw that they were slowly diminishing as he left it behind. Taking a sharp left, without indicating, he tore up a switch-back climb of road and then, two hundred yards along, he hit the brakes, wrenched the steering hard left and skidded into a side lane. As his car rocked to a halt, he turned off its lights.

Fifteen seconds later, the saloon flew past. He had enough time to get a fleeting look at the driver. He was sure it was the reporter, Guy Armstrong alone.

Hunter banged into first gear and booted the accelerator. The wheels spun, churning up the track below and fish-tailing momentarily as he whipped the Audi back onto the glistening road. Snapping through the gears, he could hear the engine roar, but in less than thirty seconds he was only twenty yards from the back of Guy Armstrong’s car. He turned on his headlights and hit high beam. The rear of the reporter’s car was hit by a blaze of white light. Hunter saw the saloon’s brake lights flash on and the rear end of the car wobbled. Then it began to angle sideways and slide. He hit his brakes as Armstrong’s car scythed sideways for several seconds before bouncing against the grassed verge and coming to a stop.

Hunter flung open his door, whipped off his seat belt and dashed towards the driver’s side of the still-rocking saloon. He yanked open the door and was met by a pale-faced and shocked looking Guy Armstrong.

Hunter composed himself. “Mr Armstrong, if I’m not mistaken. And I thought I was the one with the certificate in surveillance.”

“You bloody idiot,” he spluttered. “You could have got me killed.”

“That’ll teach you for trying to sneak up on me. Now why are you following me?” Hunter wanted to swear. In fact he really wanted to drag him out of the car by the scruff of his neck, but he didn’t know if Armstrong had his tape recorder switched on.

The reporter took a deep breath and sank back in his seat. He exhaled loudly. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I just wanted a quick word with you about Peter Blake-Hall.”

“Well I don’t want to have a word with you. Especially to do with Peter Blake-Hall. This is a murder investigation and you know that.”

“This is off the record. Hence the reason why I followed you.”

“Off the record. How many times have I heard a journalist say that?”

“But this is. Believe me. I think I can help you. I have a source who ”

Hunter held up his hand. He choked back the words he wanted to use and forced a tolerant smile. “Thank you very much Mr Armstrong for your kind offer, but I don’t need your help.”

“No, I really can help you.”

He could feel a rage building up. “Mr Armstrong. This conversation is over. Good night.”

With a mighty fling, he slammed the door shut. The car rocked.

As he made his way back to the Audi, Hunter realised how wet his face and hair had become. And his ears were stinging with the cold. He shook off some of the wetness.

As he slid into the driver’s seat he felt a dampness creeping into his trousers and realised the seat was soaking. He cussed loudly and slammed the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. The car horn blared.

In a fit of temper he snapped the gear stick into first and stamped on the accelerator, flinging up a blanket of spray as he sped away from the scene.

DAY EIGHT: 1st December.

At morning briefing, Hunter gave details of his encounter with Guy Armstrong, warning the team to be on their guard.

Barry Newstead followed up by relaying his success at tracking down Lucy’s best friend Amanda Smith. He had spoken with her briefly over the phone. Amanda had indeed changed her surname. “She got married in nineteen-eighty-five, the year following Lucy’s murder trial. Her husband, back then, was a serving soldier, a member of the Military Police and they moved to his base in Germany. They came back to this country in nineteen-eighty-eight when he left the army and the pair are now living in Cumbria. In fact, both she and her husband have joined the police up there. She’s now called Rawlinson — Amanda Rawlinson and she’s a uniform sergeant stationed at Kendal,” he said. “I spent ten minutes chatting with her on the phone late yesterday afternoon and told her about our re-opening of Lucy’s case. She didn’t sound too surprised. I’ve told her someone will be going up to interview her within the next few days.” Barry added that had also found contact numbers for Lucy’s parents and her daughter Jessica. He had spoken to them on the phone and warned them to expect a visit later in the week.