Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

He showered quickly, and, feeling cold as he stepped out of the shower, dried himself even quicker, before jumping into bed.

He pushed himself close to Beth. Instantly he felt the welcoming warmth of her body and he nestled closer, taking in the fragrance of her body lotion. “You smell good,” he said quietly.

Beth moaned. “Hunter, you’re freezing and I was asleep.” She reached back and started to push him away. “Turn over and I’ll cuddle you.”

“Spoilsport,” he chuckled before flipping himself over. She turned with him, and draped an arm and a leg across him.

“I was asleep,” she said, her words trailing away.

Within minutes, warmth had returned to his body. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, and though he was tired, he knew it would be quite a while before he drifted off. His head was awash with thoughts about the case. In the darkness, he listened to the sounds of the house settling around him.

* * * * *

Someone was crying, or was it a moan? It was coming from one of the rooms below. She shuffled along the corridor, towards the light which drifted up the stairwell. It was a dull, warm glow that broke up the scary shadows and the coldness of the floor boards beneath her bare feet. Slowly, she moved nearer the brightness and the sound; a strange gutteral noise, like someone was in pain. Pushing open the door, she glanced down at her feet. Something squelched between her toes. She stared down at her bare feet. Small bunchy toes peeked beneath the hem of her nightdress. A red liquid seeped and bubbled between the cracks in the flagstones and enveloped her tiny feet. She wiggled her toes in the redness. Then everything changed. She was slipping in the red stuff, falling backwards, trying to pull herself away. Then she was running scared. Running into the abyss…

Jessica awoke with a start. Darkness engulfed her and she was drenched in sweat. For a second she wondered where she was, and then it came to her she was in her bed. More importantly she was safely in the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Sitting up quickly, she blinked, then closed her eyes, trying to recapture the visions. It was a long time since she’d had this dream. And she guessed she knew the cause. It had to be the phone call from her grandma Hall, earlier that day, telling her that the police were re-investigating her mum’s disappearance. There was no other explanation why, after all this time, she should have the dream again. If only she could make sense of it all.

Beside her, her husband stirred. He rolled over onto his back.

“Something up?” he said.

Jessica tried to reply, tell him everything was all right, now that she was awake, but a lump stuck in her throat.

“That dream again?”

She nodded, dislodging the lump and blurted out, “Nightmare.”

Her husband looped his arm across her, drew her close and comforted her.

DAY ELEVEN: 4th December.

Hunter got into the office shortly after 7am and was surprised to find the place bustling and teeming with officers. It had been a while since he’d seen it this full; generally he was first in, with a good quarter of an hour at least to himself.

He slipped off his jacket, slung it over the back of his chair and made for the kettle, ready for his first caffeine hit of the day. With the heavy workload ahead, this could be his last strong cup of tea for a while. As he waited for it to boil, he scanned the room. Although he couldn’t pick up on any individual conversations, snippets he gleaned were about the status of the investigation. As he poured hot water over a tea bag in his mug, he told himself that today was going to be a good day.

Returning to his desk, he took a first sip of tea while booting up the computer. Settling back in his chair, he checked through his e-mails. Among them was an up-date regarding ‘Chicken’ George. There had been a sighting of him around Barnsley town centre and that a message had been left for the night shift team to get a fix on him. Hunter replied with a note of thanks. The next one was from Duncan Wroe. He checked the time it had been sent — 22.27 last night. Duncan had obviously had another long day, he thought. He scanned the few lines. It was simple and to the point and outlined that the samples from Jodie’s flat, together with the few he had processed from Guy Armstrong’s crash scene, had been sent by carrier to the Forensics lab, marked as priority, as had the fingerprints found at Jodie’s bed-sit. Those should be fed into the National Automated Fingerprint Identification System within the next couple of days. Finally, Duncan and his team were returning to The Barnwell Inn to re-examine the cellar. Things were beginning to come together, he thought excitedly, as he composed another thank you response. The rest of his on-screen list was in-force spam, which could be dealt with later. He closed down his computer.

As Hunter drained the last of his tea, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up as Grace slid past him, dumped her handbag and coat onto her desk and slumped into her chair.

“Cutting it a bit fine,” Hunter said, looking at his watch. “Domestic issues?”

“Domestic issues!” she checked back. “Nightmare of a morning. I’d forgotten it was the school Christmas party and disco tomorrow. Both girls needed clothes ironing. I ended up losing my rag with them, telling them it was about time they learnt how to use an iron. And then to cap it all David wanted me to iron him a shirt for work. I tell you, I’m up to here this morning,” she tapped her forehead with the side of her hand. “The sooner this enquiry is put to bed, the better. If it goes on much longer, I can see me heading for the divorce courts.”

Hunter smiled and stood up from his desk. “Deep breaths Grace. Deep breaths. You get yourself sorted and I’ll get you a coffee.” As he made his way to the kettle again, he turned and said, “Tell you what, the only job we’ve got today is to finish off at Guy Armstrong’s house. We’ve lost Mike and Tony because they’ve got other jobs, but you and I should break the back of it by mid-afternoon and then you take a flyer. I’ll finish off here and do de-brief.”

“Are you sure about that? I would really appreciate it.”

Looking back over his shoulder he said, “Sure I’m sure. That’s what kind-hearted sergeants are here for.”

* * * * * *

Morning briefing was short. Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw summarised the previous evening’s discussions and then the team received their designated chores. One of the main issues resolved was the supervisory roles both SIOs were taking to overseeing the investigations. It was determined that Detective Superintendent Robshaw took the Lucy Blake-Hall and Jeffery Howson murders, while Detective Superintendent Leggate focused on Jodie’s and Guy’s killings.

* * * * * *

By 10am Hunter and Grace had entered Guy Armstrong’s house, ready to finish off the search of the one remaining room the lounge.

Hunter had given the room a fleeting look over during their first visit, but as he pushed open the lounge door and got his second view, it became apparent that the task was bigger than he’d thought. Volumes of stacked papers filled every nook and cranny and there was barely an inch of floor space showing.

Hunter and Grace exchanged looks.

Hunter sighed. “This is going to take ages.”

Grace smiled. “It’s a good job then you’ve got someone as organised as me on your team.”

As Hunter began sorting and collating his pile of papers, he realised he was dealing with very different pieces of information in this room. The upstairs study, contained specific articles and notes relating to the Lucy Hall-Blake investigation, with possible links to the husband Peter Blake, whereas, this room, contained a mismatch of things. A lot of the newspapers featured articles that Guy Armstrong had written for the Barnwell Chronicle, when he had been their Crime Correspondent, or for The Daily Mail, when he had been one of their Northern reporters. There were also a few recent pieces he had written for The Star. Skip-reading his way through the opening paragraphs, none appeared relevant to their investigations and so he made a makeshift pile of them in the hall. The scribbled notes he picked through appeared to be the original jottings in a mix of both longhand and shorthand that Guy had put together prior to writing those articles. After an hour-and-a-half and getting bored, he spotted a pile of A4 colour photographs, and decided to check these out. It was an inspired decision. As he picked up and looked at the fifth photo, he called out.