Michael Fowler: Secret of the Dead

“I can see we’re gonna have to get the joiners in to make some wider doors for that big head of yours.”

“Huh! Hark who’s talking. At least I don’t have to suck up to journalists to get an article done about myself.” She licked the tip of a forefinger and struck an invisible mark in the air.

Hunter laughed and picked up the tabloid again, flipping back the sheets to page five, where he found a full-page spread outlining the background of their ‘Lady in the Lake’ investigation, and the subsequent court case, together with a series of photographs depicting the offenders and the scene of the murder. He began to pick his way through the article; he wanted to ensure that the crime reporter had given due credit to the painstaking work carried out by the MIT team on what had been another difficult case.

In the background, one of the phones rang. He heard Grace answer — she had beaten Barry to it despite juggling a mug of coffee. Within a few seconds her voice became excited — the way it did when something was breaking.

He lifted his eyes from the newspaper and watched her making notes on a pad, the handset clamped between ear and shoulder.

A couple of minutes later she set the receiver back on its cradle.

“That was the duty inspector. Uniform are at a suspicious death. A woman made a 999 call ten minutes ago. She’s turned up at her father’s and found him dead and thinks his house has been broken into. Mike and Bully have just been diverted to the scene.”

Grace was referring to the other two members of his team, Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars. Hunter set down the newspaper.

“Got any other details?”

“The address they’re going to is listed to a Jeffery Howson. The Inspector believes he’s a retired cop.”

Barry Newstead launched himself out of his chair, banging his knees on the edge of his desk in the process. He made a pained face. Rubbing the tops of his knees vigorously, he said loudly, “Bloody hell, I never expected to hear that name again so quickly.” Then on a softer note, he added, “Mind if I tag along? If this is the Jeffery Howson I think it is, then there’s something I need to tell you.”

They dashed to the scene on the outskirts of Barnwell, using a series of side streets to avoid heavy traffic on the main thoroughfares. From the back seat of the unmarked CID car, Barry gave Hunter and Grace a potted version of the phone call he had received two days previously from the man who had stated he was retired detective Jeffery Howson.

“Are you sure he said that?” enquired Hunter. He drove one-handed, his other hand flexed around the gear stick, constantly changing up and down as he sped through one small estate after another, weaving between tightly parked cars.

“Positive. I know I was dead to the world when the phone went but I can remember most of what he told me. He wasn’t on long anyway. He definitely said he wanted to tell me something about the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall from way back in nineteen-eighty-three and that the wrong man had been convicted.”

“And you were supposed to meet him yesterday?” said Grace.

“Yes at the George and Dragon in Wentworth. He said to meet him there at twelve o’clock. I went with Sue and we waited until half two but he never showed up. If this is the same Jeffery Howson, and I can’t believe that there’ll be two retired cops with the same name in the same location, then I now know why he didn’t turn up.”

Alarm bells were beginning to sound in Hunter’s head. “And it also means that there could be more to that phone call.”

A hundred yards in front, Hunter spotted the turning which would take them to the road they wanted. He dropped down a gear and began to indicate right.

The cul-de-sac, which held less than a dozen 1930s style semi-detached houses, had already been cordoned off by the time Hunter, Grace and Barry arrived. Blue and white Police Crime Scene tape fastened between two gate posts stretched across the quiet street. It was a big area which had been isolated, but Hunter knew it was better to start off with a large cordon, which can be reduced, rather than a small one which might need expanding, and which could also get contaminated in the interim.

Someone had done their job right, he thought as he slowed the car and glanced around.

Up ahead, highly visible in a yellow coat, a female Police Officer was standing guard by another barrier of plastic ribbon. An inner cordon had also been established.

Pulling into the kerb and switching off the engine, Hunter took an even longer look at the surroundings. He had not been on this street for years. It was a route he had frequently taken back in his uniform beat days when he had needed some peace and solitude, and he recalled how this road led onto a series of footpaths through a ten acre patch of much-used woodland, which was also the site of an ancient Roman ridge. It was a popular place for dog-walkers and metal detecting treasure hunters. If this was a murder, he thought to himself as he pushed open the car door, they were certainly going to have their work cut out, given the number of people passing regularly through this location.

He studied the parked up cars already here. One of the department’s unmarked Ford Focuses, two marked police vehicles, a white SOCO van and a crimson coloured Lexus on personal plates, which he knew belonged to Forensic Pathologist Lizzie McCormack, lined the road outside 12 Woodlands View.

As his eyes again studied the scene, he could see from the activity half way along the street that uniform had already started house-to-house enquiries.

Hunter went to the boot and took out three white forensic suits and three sets of shoe covers. Then, locking the car, he strode towards the scene.

As they approached the inner cordon the uniformed Officer took a step forward in an attempt to head them off.

Issuing her a ‘well done’ smile, Hunter pulled out his warrant card, held it up long enough for her to get a good look, and then sidestepped her and ducked beneath the tape.

Grace and Barry followed, falling in beside him.

By the gateway of number 12, another high visibility garbed officer stood sentry-like. Hunter flashed his warrant card again and the three walked down the driveway to the side door. It had been wedged open and Hunter immediately noted the damage to the glass panel in the upper section. The corner closest to the key-lock had been smashed, and fragments of glass lay scattered over a portion of the tiled kitchen floor inside. A yellow coloured Scenes of Crime marker — number one — had been placed in the middle of the broken glass and a series of strategically placed forensic foot plates snaked their way into the depths of the house, from where Hunter could hear muffled voices. He recalled the earlier phone call Grace had taken back in the office, especially the part about the daughter believing that the house had been broken into, and he conjured up an image of a hand reaching through the shattered panel and turning the key to let themselves in.

Before stepping inside, Hunter pulled on his forensic suit and shoe covers and slipped on latex gloves.

Grace and Barry donned their own protective clothing and followed him in.

The side door opened into the kitchen, a small area with fitted floor and wall units in dark oak, many of which had lost their polished lustre. Decades-old green and white tiles decorated the walls.

Pushing open an inner door, Hunter traversed over the reinforced foot plates in the direction of the voices.

The lounge was where all the activity was taking place.

The moment he stepped into the room, his sense of smell was immediately assaulted by the fetid and musty mix of stale urine and tobacco. Pinching his nose, he quickly took in the surroundings. The room was untidy and drab. Artexed walls, which he guessed were originally cream in colour, had become stained a dirty brown, and the mahogany furniture, dating from the 1980s, looked tired. Heavy drapes partially drawn across the window blocked out most of the natural light, only adding to the gloom of the room. The fireplace had been fashioned from a patchwork of Yorkshire stone, which spanned across from one alcove into another to make up a low unit, on which perched a large flat screen TV. It was the only modern item Hunter had so far spotted. What did take his eye was the print of the painting ‘The Chinese Girl’ often referred to as ‘The Green Lady,’ which hung above the fireplace. He remembered the same print above his own parent’s fireplace during the seventies. He had not seen one of these for years and knew that this was now an iconic piece of art.