Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Hunter acknowledged Ray’s comments with a brief nod.

“Well, one Christmas time when she was about eighteen or nineteen, she called in for a chat after she’d done some Christmas shopping.” His eyes sparkled. “I know what you’re thinking. No, she hadn’t been shoplifting, it was genuine Christmas shopping. Anyway, she saw all the cards on my desk that everyone had sent and she just said that she’d never ever been sent a Christmas card. I found that comment so sad and so I sent her one and signed it as Mr X as a bit of a joke. She knew I’d sent it, because she turned up at my office waving it around and thanked me. I thought she was going to cry.” He pursed his lips and rolled his head from side to side. “That’s quite sad, don’t you think? The only person to ever send her a Christmas card was her probation officer.”

Hunter flipped Jodie Marie Jenkinson’s file shut. “It obviously brought comfort to her, because she’d held on to it after all these years.”

Ray Austin’s eyes suddenly glistened, then he exclaimed, “Do you know the mention of Christmas has just triggered something Jodie said to me the last time we met.”

Hunter was intrigued. “Oh? What’s that then?”

“Well I don’t know if it’s relevant to your enquiries or not, but after she’d told me this I can remember warning her to be careful.”

“What did she say?”

“I can’t remember the exact words, but I said something about Christmas to her. I think I asked her what she was doing for Christmas, and she said, with a bit of luck going on holiday. It wasn’t the reply I expected so asked her if she’d won the lottery, as a joke, and she said: 'Just as good as. I know a secret that’s going to make me a lot of money.’”

Hunter repeated, “A secret?”

“I’m afraid she wouldn’t tell me what the secret was. She just said I’d read about it in the papers.”

“You’re sure she said that?”

“It wasn’t word for word, but it was certainly something close to that. I looked her straight in the eyes after she’d said it and I could tell by her face that she was serious. That’s when I told her to be careful, that she couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble. She just laughed at me and told me not to worry, she could look after herself.” Ray Austin slowly stroked his chin and exchanged looks with Hunter. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That, secret could have just got her killed.”

Hunters brain went into full spin. What Ray Austin had said meant that closing Jodie’s death report was certainly not going to happen today. There were too many unanswered questions.

He replied, “That is just what I need to find out, but it’s looking like a distinct possibility.” Then he pushed himself up out of the chair and extended his hand for a thank you shake.

* * * * *

Glancing at the address scribbled on the Post-it note stuck to the dashboard, Hunter slowed the unmarked police car, swung it in towards the kerb, braked and switched off the engine. Looking out through the driver’s door window, he saw that he was parked outside a large and majestic looking detached, soot-stained, sandstone Victorian dwelling. Staring beyond its low perimeter wall and mature garden of overgrown, lifeless bushes he could see that, outwardly, the front of it still retained all the elegance and splendour of its Gothic architecture. At first he marvelled at the sight before him. Then he let out a sigh of despair, for he knew that this majesty was not going to be mirrored within its interior, given what he had been told about the place housing DHSS tenants. Over the years he’d been in so many flats where single people on housing benefit lived, and he had always left them feeling that many of their residents either knew no better, or actually couldn’t give a damn about, the conditions they were living in.

Before he left the car he got hold of Grace on his mobile and told her what he had just uncovered. “I’m just going to do a quick visit to her flat. If it looks okay I’m going to make sure it’s secure, contact the landlord and then pay a visit with SOCO tomorrow.” He was about to tell her to inform the Office Manager, DI Scaife, what he was up to, when she interrupted him. She had submitted the account of their visit to Peter Blake-Hall, and they had been allocated the job of visiting and speaking with Lucy’s parents. She’d already spoken with them on the phone and fixed up a meeting for two o’clock that afternoon.

Hunter looked at his watch. It was 12.15pm.

“Grace there’s no way I’ll get back to the office in time. And I’m sorry, but this can’t wait. I don’t think Jodie’s death is an accident after what her Probation Officer has just told me and I urgently need to do some follow-up enquiries.” He apologised again and suggested that she either took someone else from the team with her to interview Lucy’s parents, or re-scheduled the meeting. He could sense her frustration as she told him she would catch up with him later and ended their call.

With a pang of guilt he pocketed his phone. He didn’t like to let his partner down, but he knew he needed to visit Jodie’s place.

Twisting the brass doorknob of the wide Victorian glass patterned entrance door, he pushed. It was unlocked and he stepped into the hallway. He had guessed right about the interior. It was dingy. Many of the original black and white floor tiles were chipped and scuffed. A couple were missing and concrete patches replaced them. Torn, woodchip wallpaper covered the walls.

Trying not to make too much noise, he climbed the hairpin staircase up to the second floor, where Ray Austin had told him he would find Jodie’s bed-sit. At the head of the second stairway the landing split left and right with a door at either end. He spotted the door number he was seeking to his right.

Still treading carefully, he made his approach to Jodie’s room. Three steps along the landing, he faltered. He could hear sounds from inside. He saw the panelled door was cracked open a fraction and clocked that the jamb around the door hasp had splinter marks. It had been forced.

Senses heightened in a sudden rush of adrenaline, he clenched his fists and edged forward. Inches from the door he paused and listened. The earlier noise had stopped, and the only sound now seemed to be from a television set in one of the flats below.

Using his foot, slowly, he inched the door open. It creaked on its hinges, reminding him of a horror movie. As the gap widened he tried to get a better view inside but the gloom made it difficult. The curtains were drawn, but enough light pierced through the gaps at either side for him to pick out the outline of various pieces of furniture in the dimness. He was about to step inside when a dark shape shot into view, rocketing towards him and taking him by surprise. Instinctively he threw up his hands into boxing stance, but it was an instant too late. He never saw the blow. It caught him full in the mouth, knocking him sideways and sending him crashing against the wall. He banged the back of his head and instantly a display of fireworks detonated inside his brain, blanking out his sight. Before he had time to react, a second blow to the midriff sent the air exploding from his lungs. His legs buckled and he only just managed to throw out his hands in time to stop himself from fully hitting the deck.

He felt the figure brushing past but couldn’t do a thing about it, he was still scrambling around, trying to recover. There was a distinct sound of someone bounding heavily down the stairs. Using the handrail as support, Hunter yanked himself upright and looked downwards just in time to see a squat, stocky man, in dark padded jacket, a woollen hat pulled low over his ears and hiding his features, disappearing through the front door. His assailant looked to be of the same build and shape, as well as wearing clothing of a similar style and colour as the man he had chased three days earlier at Jeffery Howson’s funeral.