Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

* * * * *

It was ten past six in the evening before Hunter, Grace and Mike got back to the office.

Mentally running through the day’s events, Hunter made for his desk. He’d left Scenes of Crime still examining the scene, and managed to get the duty Inspector to provide a uniformed officer to stand guard and preserve the scene.

So far the door-to-door enquiries by Grace and Mike had not revealed anything startling about Jodie. A couple of the tenants had spoken with her on most days, but none of them were friends. However, the young man he had exchanged insults with earlier in the day had been surprisingly helpful. He had seen a skinny girl, with dyed blonde hair, roughly the same age as Jodie, going up to her bed-sit on several occasions and he had heard them partying together quite a few times. After one such party, about a month ago, he told Grace that he’d got so pissed off with the pair of them making so much noise, that he’d marched upstairs and banged on Jodie’s door. The skinny blonde one had answered, and when he’d complained, she’d just laughed in his face and told him to ‘fuck off, you’re only jealous, freak.’ He’d collared Jodie the next day on the stairs and she’d apologised. He told Grace that he had seen this girl twice in the past week going up to Jodie’s room. Realising the significance, because Jodie had been dead for well over a week, Grace had pushed him for a description, but he hadn’t been able to offer any further help. Grace had fixed up for him to do a digital e-fit in a hope that it would help identify the girl.

It’s been a good start.

The only person in the office was DI Gerald Scaife. He was sat at his desk, head buried in a large amount of paperwork.

Hunter said, “Only you in boss?”

The DI looked up. “There are a few of the HOLMES team next door, the rest have gone. The Detective Super sacked it early. He’s had to go over to Sheffield, to the BBC studios, to do a piece for Look North, for tonight’s news. Not much has happened here today so everyone is back in tomorrow for eight am briefing. I’m just trying to clear some of the backlog.” He laid down his pen and pushed himself back from his desk. “Your day’s been quite eventful, I understand.”

For the third time that day, Hunter told Jodie’s story, quickly brushing over the part where he had been assaulted. He was still embarrassed that he had come off second best. “The place had been well and truly turned over by that guy, and it’s now looking likely that she’s been murdered. Someone injected her with a lethal dose of heroin to make it look as though it was an accident.” He looked serious. “What for yet, we don’t know. When I left, half an hour ago, SOCO had not turned up anything, and we’ve still got to track down this blonde girl who’s been a regular visitor in the past few months. With a bit of luck, she might know the secret Jodie was keeping. Until we find that out, we’re struggling to come up with any answers. The Super, Dawn Leggate, was going to arrange a second PM for tomorrow to see if that will turn anything up. Jodie had bruising to her cheek and I have to confess I initially thought it was where she had fallen, but it now could be evidence of an assault. It’s something the pathologist can check.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grace picking up items from her desk and returning them to drawers. She was ready for home. He asked. “Do you know where Detective Superintending Leggate is? Has she said anything about what she wants us to do?”

“Yes, she told me to tell you to call it a day. She went off to headquarters a couple of hours ago to see if she could sort out an incident suite and see what other resources were available. She’ll ring you later at home and let you know where you need to be for briefing tomorrow.”

Hunter turned to his own desk to tidy things away.

The DI said, “There’s a couple of messages on your desk. That reporter Guy Armstrong has been trying to get hold of you most of the afternoon. He’s left his mobile number and home number and asked if you’d call him the minute you got in. I think he’s also left a message on your voicemail.”

Hunter viewed several scrap pieces of paper on his desk blotter. There were four notes in all, two of them with phone numbers. He bundled them together and dropped them into his pending tray.

Turning toward the doors, he called back, “He’s a determined man if nothing else. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow now. I’ve got a glass of whisky with my name on it waiting for me back home.

DAY NINE: 2nd December.

Closing the garden gate behind him, Hunter stood for a moment admiring the landscape. A hoar frost blanketed as far as he could see. Taking in a long, deep breath, expanding his chest, Hunter held it a few seconds and then exhaled slowly. The breath left his mouth as a wisp of freezing air.

After speaking with Det. Supt. Leggate late last night, he knew he had the time this morning to have a lengthy run into work; she had earmarked an incident suite for the Jodie Marie Jenkinson investigation, but it wouldn’t be up and running until later in the day and so she told him to turn up at the MIT department as usual.

Jogging on the spot to warm up his leg muscles, he gazed at the sky. A milky light from a pale winter sun was just beginning to bleach through a thin veil of light grey. The day ahead looked promising, he thought, as he set off on his run.

Within a couple of seconds he had pushed his way through frozen waist-high ferns and joined the track of the old racecourse which abutted his garden. Adjusting his breathing, and fixing his gaze to where the straight hit the first bend on his route, he kicked his heels up a pace and headed off in the direction of work.

Showered and changed into his suit, feeling buoyant and fresh, Hunter entered an office bustling with activity. A couple more detectives swelled their ranks this morning; two members of the Cold Case Unit had joined the team.

Despite the new arrivals, he knew they were still going to be stretched, especially now there was his investigation to add to the mix.

Putting a Windsor knot in his tie, he settled into his seat, glancing across his desk to where Grace was blowing into a well-filled cup. He saw that his own mug, resting on its coaster, had been filled. The contents were still steaming. He picked it up firmly between two hands and took a gulp.

“Mmm, that tea’s like nectar. Just what I needed after my run,” he said, then asked, “Been in long?”

“Ten minutes, that’s all.”

“Much happening? I see a couple of lads from the cold case unit have joined us.”

“Yeah, they came in apparently after everyone had gone home to help the HOLMES crew man the phones following Mr Robshaw’s appeal yesterday.”

“I saw that on the late evening news. Did anything positive came out of it?”

“I had ten minutes with Isobel this morning and she tells me that they only got a dozen or so calls all night. She said a few of those were helpful. One of them was from a friend of one of the girls who was a witness at Daniel Weaver’s trial. She says her friend saw Weaver and Lucy arguing in the market place. She told me that the girl’s now married and lives near Yarmouth. Isobel’s expecting to get a call from the woman this morning. That’ll be a good run out for someone. And one has given us a lead in the Jeffery Howson case. A couple coming back from the pub on the Saturday night saw a car parked up close to the bottom of the path which leads up to the back of Jeffery’s garden. That looks promising. Other than that, the usual crank calls — a couple from mediums who say they know where she’s buried. That sums it up, I think. I’ve had a quick chat with one of the new lads as well. He told me that their brief is to help with tracing the remaining witnesses from the Lucy Blake-Hall case.” Grace set down her cup. “By the way, have you heard the other news?”