Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Hunter knew the location fairly well from previous drives out there and was aware that it featured a notorious stretch of road where a number of deaths had occurred down the years. This would be yet one more to add to the statistics, he thought without emotion.

Ten minutes later, as they were nearing the junction, which gave them access to the crash site, they spotted a Road Policing Unit Range Rover blocking their way.

Hunter nudged Grace and nodded.

A small posse of journalists, huddled on the pavement beside the Range Rover, gawped as they approached.

“You were spot-on about reporters,” he said.

Pulling alongside the Traffic car, Grace hurriedly dug into her handbag, pulled out her warrant card, pointed it towards the attendant officer’s face and then zipped through a gap without a backward glance.

Less than two minutes later they were forced to pull up again. The small country lane was littered with all manner of marked and unmarked cars — there was even a Fire Service Forensics van abandoned half-on-half-off the road.

It looks bloody manic , thought Hunter, as he got out and gazed around, though he knew that it was anything but. It was a preserved and controlled crime scene, where everything being done was in strict accordance with the manual on Crime Scene Investigation.

Over the hedgerow to his right, where the field dipped down from the road and met a line of trees, was a large white tent. Hunter spotted his SIO Dawn Leggate and SOCO Manager Duncan Wroe. The Detective Superintendent was just disappearing inside the tent.

He went around to the hatchback, opened it up, slipped off his overcoat and quickly donned a protective suit. Grace followed, and the pair picked their way through a break in the hedgerow and down the embankment to join their colleagues.

Duncan Wroe had his head down, scribbling on papers attached to a clipboard.

Hunter approached him. As usual Duncan’s hair looked unkempt but this morning at least a good day’s growth sprouted from his jaw-line and his eyes were red rimmed.

Hunter said, “You look bleary-eyed Duncan.”

“You would be as well if you’d only had four hours’ sleep. Do you know what time I finished your job last night?”

Hunter shrugged and shot Duncan a ‘don’t know’ expression.

“Ten o’clock, that’s what time! And then I’d just got back to the office when they called me out to this. By the time I’d wrote everything up it was four am before I crawled into bed, and then your gaffer dragged me back out an hour ago and told me they wanted me to go over this scene again.”

Hunter said, “Just think of the overtime Duncan.”

“Pah! They don’t pay me enough for this.”

Hunter blew into his hands. He was beginning to feel the cold. “Anyway Duncan, to digress, did you find anything at Jodie’s place?”

“Lifted a few different sets of prints, you’ll be pleased to learn. I’ll try and get them off later today. Though I don’t think they belong to the bloke you disturbed. Around the door lock and hasp, on one of the wardrobe handles and on a section of the handrail of the banister I’ve recovered some fibres. Looks like he might have been wearing gloves. I’ll process them all the same.”

“Okay Duncan, thanks. Dare I ask you about The Barnwell Inn, where Jodie’s body was found?”

Duncan pulled back the cuff of his Tyvek make protective suit, revealing a bare wrist. “Here, take my blood won’t you?”

Hunter couldn’t help but grin. He tried to hide it. “Sorry Duncan, I was only asking.”

“The answer is no. It’s on my to do list. With a hundred-and-one other jobs. It might even have to go out to another team elsewhere in the force, depending on how long and how much I have to do here.”

With that the SOCO Manager made an exaggerated stab with his pen onto paperwork, as if signifying he had finished whatever he had been writing, and turned on his heels back towards the tent.

Grace nudged Hunter and mouthed the word ‘Tetchy.’

Now he couldn’t help but break into a broad smile. In a whisper he retorted, “Just like someone else I know.”

She dug him hard with her elbow as they followed Duncan.

The forensic tent Hunter entered had trapped the smell of the burning. A nauseating mixture of rubber, petrol and cooked meats clogged in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard.

His eyes took in the scene. Guy Armstrong’s Citroen C5 was a heap of charred metal, even the interior had been destroyed. Wire framework was all that remained of the seats and Guy’s body was still in the driver’s seat, slumped forward over the remnants of the steering wheel, his chargrilled head welded into the framework. Guy Armstrong was no longer recognisable. Lumps of barbecued flesh clung to his scorched bones.

The concertinaed front end of the saloon was wedged into the trunk of a mature Chestnut tree. The bark nearest the car had also succumbed to the flames, and the ground around the base of the car was blackened and oily.

Hunter said, “It must have been one hell of a fire.”

Looking up, Detective Superintendent Leggate said, “A fire-ball is how the first fire officer on scene described it.”

“The petrol tank had already gone up before the Fire Service got here. Guy Armstrong had no chance. Traffic didn’t get here until the fire was almost out.”

“Any witnesses?” Hunter asked.

“Not to the accident. A couple driving back from the restaurant in the village called 999. They said it was well ablaze when they came across it and there was nothing, or no one else around. They hung on for the Fire Service and Traffic. Their call was logged at eleven-o-nine. Fire Service got here at eleven-twenty-one. Traffic about ten minutes after that. They got Armstrong’s details from the VIN number on the car.”

The Vehicle Identification Number etched into the chassis and engine block of the car linked to the registration plate allocated to the car.

She continued, “One of the Traffic Officers has already been to his address. Went at just after two, this morning, but no one answered. They’ve given it another knock a couple of hours ago, but no reply. One of the next-door-neighbours says he’s lived on his own for as long as she’s known him. We’ll check on his personal status when we speak with his employers at The Star again.”

“Do we know if he’d been drinking? The message he left me on my voicemail said he was going to wait for me at The George and Dragon last night.”

“I got one of the Traffic lads to nip up there. The landlord confirms he was in there late on. He remembers him because it was a quiet night, but he says he wasn’t drunk when he left. He had a couple of pints and finished off with a couple of Cokes. Left just before eleven, which, given the distance between here and the pub, ties in nicely with the timing of when his car was found by that couple.”

“And was it an accident?”

The Detective Superintendent turned towards Duncan Wroe.

He slipped his clipboard under his arm, nipping it next to his chest. “Oh the car was certainly involved in an accident. It has a dent to its rear offside and I’ve found remnants of its back light cluster up there on the carriageway.” He pointed a finger up towards the road and then slowly traced it back. “You can see the ruts the wheels have made, where it’s come through the hedge, before colliding with this tree. As to the fire, however, that was definitely not caused by the accident. The petrol cap had been removed and I’ve found burnt remnants of cloth which had been pushed down inside the inlet pipe to the tank.” Duncan exchanged glances with the SIO, Hunter and Grace. “Someone’s fired this deliberately.” He slipped his clipboard out from beneath his arm. “In terms of evidence, I’m afraid that so far we have very little. The entire surface of the car has been burned. We have the petrol cap, but all I’ve found on that so far is a couple of partial prints, which could be Guy Armstrong’s, and some fibres, which indicate to me that someone has also handled it with gloves. There’re quite a number of footprints around here, so I’ve photographed them and I’m going to take a number of casts. We might get lucky, but don’t hold your breath, this place was swamped with Fire Service and Uniform last night. When I got here everyone and their grandmother was trampling around the scene. Your best bet is if you can track down the vehicle which rear-ended Armstrong’s car. At least we should be able to match paint samples.”