Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

* * * * *

Over another mug of tea Hunter caught up with his journal, putting in the details of his conversation with Ray Austin and also logging the incident at Jodie’s bed-sit. He re-visited the scene in his head, trying to magic up a better image of the man he had encountered, but no matter how hard he concentrated he was stuck with the mental picture of a faceless, squat, stocky man in dark clothing and woolly hat.

He realised there were still a number of gaps about Jodie’s personal life and he put in a call to the Probation Service.

Ray Austin had not yet gone off to court and the receptionist put Hunter through.

The second he answered Hunter said, “Ray, DS Kerr here. Did you manage to find out the name of the bar where Jodie worked?” Down the line he heard the Senior Probation Officer clear his throat.

He replied, “I’m afraid I’ve not had much luck Sergeant. I’ve wracked my brains since you left yesterday, but I can’t remember what she told me. I spent most of yesterday afternoon checking back over her file and I trawled through the notes of my recent meetings with her, but I don’t appear to have written it down. I’ve spoken to a few people here who knew Jodie, just on the off chance, but as I told you yesterday I was the only one in the office she’d confide in. I’ve asked the receptionists to check with a couple of clients who knew her, when they come in for their appointments, to see if they might know which bar she worked at. Other than that I can’t help, I’m afraid. If I do get anything, I’ve got your number.”

“When you say clients, do you mean friends of hers?”

“Not as such Sergeant Kerr. Jodie didn’t have many close friends. She knew a lot of people, but I wouldn’t class any of them as friends. We have one associate on file, who I remember she was close with, but I checked her status out this morning and she’s currently in Newhall Prison, serving eighteen months for shoplifting.” He gave Hunter the woman’s details.

Hunter shared the information they had gleaned from door-to-door inside Westville House. He relayed what the tenant living below Jodie had told them about the skinny, blonde woman who had been seen in Jodie’s bed-sit.

After what seemed like an interminably long period of silence, Ray Austin answered, “Sorry again, Sergeant Kerr, that description doesn’t ring any bells. I’ve made a few notes and I’ll ask my colleagues here and go back through Jodie’s paperwork again and see if I can come up with the name of anyone that might fit.”

Hunter thanked him, passed on his mobile number, with instructions to ring the minute he came up with anything and then hung up. Next he dialled Duncan Wroe’s office phone, to check if he had recovered anything from his examination of Jodie’s room. His call went straight through to Duncan’s voicemail. He inwardly cursed with frustration and left him a message, then dropped the receiver onto its cradle as if it were a hot potato.

Finishing his notes with a flourish, he returned his journal to his top drawer and locked it. Then, draining the remnants of his lukewarm tea he dragged his coat from off the back of his chair. Looking across desks, he saw Grace’s eyes were glued to her desk-top computer screen.

“You good to go?” he asked.

She lifted her gaze. “Just clearing my e-mails.”

“I want to pay a visit to Jodie’s place and see if SOCO have come up with anything, then I want to go out to where Armstrong had his crash last night. You okay with that?”

For the next five minutes Hunter fidgeted in his seat, forced to wait while Grace skimmed through her e-mails, closed down her computer and returned unfinished paperwork to her pending tray. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the desk while mentally ticking off the things he needed to do.

Finally catching her gaze, he pounced out of his chair and snatched up his folder.

Pushing herself up, Grace slid open her top drawer, took out a lipstick and applied a fresh layer of gloss. She met his look. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

Shaking his head in exasperation, Hunter steered her out of the office and jockeyed her down the stairs, into the backyard and then tossed her the keys to one of the team’s unmarked cars. “You drive Grace. We’ll go to Jodie’s flat first, see if there’s any SOCO there, and then we’ll go to the crash site.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, pointing the electronic fob towards the blue Vauxhall Astra and popping the door locks.

He caught her playful smile as he jumped into the passenger side. As she climbed in beside him and belted up he said, “Sorry Grace. I’ve got a million and one things on my mind this morning.”

“So have I, and not all of it’s police work,” she responded, slotting the key into the ignition, “I was reminded by the girls this morning there’s no cereals left and we’ve almost run out of bread. And David has asked me if there’s any chance of us sitting down as a family and having an evening meal together any time in the near future.” She started the car.

Hunter tried to catch her gaze. “Point made Grace.”

“I forgive you Sergeant.” She blew him a kiss out of the side of her mouth and then engaged gear. “Anyway, don’t you want to know how I’ve gone on this morning?”

He gave her an inquisitive look.

“I was given the job of tracking down who Guy Armstrong worked for.” Grace swung the car out of the police station yard and onto the main thoroughfare. “Well, he wasn’t freelance at all. For the last five years he’s been employed at The Star in Sheffield. I’ve spoken with one of the newsroom editors and he tells me that he was one of their investigative reporters. And a good one at that, by all accounts. He told me that when he got in this morning there was a message on his desk, which had been left by one of the evening staff, stating that Armstrong had rung in last night and said that he was onto a hot lead with regards to the Lucy Blake-Hall murder and would file copy this morning for this lunchtime’s deadline. You can imagine he was in a bit of shock when I told him what had happened. He asked me if the accident was being investigated as suspicious. I tried to give him the usual bullshit about it being a fatal and as such would be investigated thoroughly. As soon as he asked why a detective was ringing him up with these questions I could sense he was having none of it, so don’t be surprised if a few reporters start following us around.”

Hunter blew out a soft whistle. “So Guy Armstrong really was on to something.”

* * * * *

An empty liveried police car parked in front of Westville House was the only sign of any police presence at Jodie’s bed-sit.

Hunter told Grace that he’d only be a couple of minutes and to keep the engine running. Less than five minutes later he was back.

“There’s only one uniform around and Jodie’s room’s been sealed off. He was told during hand-over that SOCO had finished processing the scene in the early hours and we would be back later today to carry out a search. He’s a bit miffed off now I’ve told him it might not be until this afternoon before we can get there. He’s also told me that the landlord came this morning, saw it and is not best pleased. He wants to know how long we’re gonna need the place ’cos he’s got a list of people who want to rent it.” Fastening up his seat belt, he added, “I’ve told him if the landlord turns up again just get a contact number and we’ll get back as soon as we can. Right, let’s see what we’ve got on Guy Armstrong.”

Grace had to double-back until she had picked up the stretch of road which led out towards Wentworth. The crash site was on a sharp bend outside the village on the road to Harley.