Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Until now we haven’t listed them as suspects,” interjected Detective Superintendent Robshaw. “From now on, all that changes.”

Everyone’s attention turned to the SIO.

“Thanks Barry, you’ve done some good digging there, and we’ve also Hunter and Grace to thank for the thorough search of Armstrong’s place. What’s been found at his home has really turned things around. It’s just a shame he wasn’t here to tell us in person. But I think we can all see now why he had to be silenced.” Michael Robshaw rubbed his hands together. “Okay everyone, time to draw up fresh lines of enquiry.”

DAY TWELVE: 5th December.

The moment Grace entered the office, Hunter said, “Don’t take your coat off.” He snatched up the folder from his desk, marched towards her, grabbed her by the elbow and guided her back the way she had just come.

“Full day for us today partner. Loads to do.”

“What, not even time for a cuppa?”

“Nope,” he shook his head and released her arm as they set off down the stairwell to the rear car park.

“Not even time to put on my lippy?”

He glanced back at her, rolled his eyes and then continued his descent. “By the way, how did your evening go? Back in the good books again?”

“Oh yeah, great thanks. The family thing didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned — the girls went round to their mates but it did give me and Dave some time to catch up. We even cooked together — that’s the first time we’ve done that, for what seems ages. And I got to wrap up some of the girls’ presents.”

Hunter pushed open the back door and stepped into the rear yard. “Crikey Grace, I hadn’t even thought of Christmas,” he called back over his shoulder while striding across the yard. He aimed his car fob at a line of parked cars. Spotting the flash of orange from the indicator lights of a silver coloured Astra, he deviated towards it.

“Anyway,” said Grace, pulling open the passenger door and adjusting her top coat to make it easier to climb in, “How did briefing go last night?”

Hunter dropped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He told her what Barry had revealed. He watched her face light up and said, “Good stuff eh? It’s certainly opened up the enquiry now. Everyone’s buzzing this morning.” He dropped his folder onto Grace’s lap and tapped it. “The DI was dishing out a load of new actions and I’ve managed to snaffle us a nice trip out for the day. We’ve been given the job of speaking to Amanda Rawlinson, Lucy’s old school friend. Remember her? She’s now a Sergeant with the Cumbria Force.”

Grace nodded.

“I spoke with her first thing and she’s day off today so the timing’s perfect.” He drove out of the rear yard and headed towards the motorway. “But before that we’ve got a deviation to make into Sheffield. They’ve tracked down ‘Chicken George’ to a homeless place run by a charity. It’s a place he’s used regularly in the past. A guy on the desk rang in last night. He knew we were looking for him and George apparently booked in late yesterday afternoon, so he gave us a call. I’ve managed to get two PCSOs down there and they’re babysitting him so he doesn’t do a runner. Also, we’ve confirmed that George had been staying at the old inn where Jodie was found, because Task Force found a couple of carrier bags containing some of his stuff in the loft during their search yesterday. There was an old mattress up there and some other bits of furniture as well, so it looks as though he was using the place as his regular doss-hole. The sergeant says that judging by what they found up there, it looks as though George has made a quick exit, so I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s because he saw something which scared him off.”

“That’d be good if he has. Anyway, why’s he called Chicken George?”

Hunter smiled. “I asked my old mate that. He walks the beat where George used to live. He tells me that it was because of his lifestyle. Apparently he was a bit of a character. In fact during the early eighties he earned a name for himself when he had a stand-off with bailiffs and the police at his home for the best part of a week. He held them off with a shotgun. Apparently he used to own this big sprawling house, with quite a bit of land, which he ran as a smallholding, breeding chickens, and the council took out a possession order against him, because it was slap bang in the middle of where they needed to run through a section of new bypass. He was headline news for the best part of a week. Some of the locals held a demonstration around his property in support. The upshot was that eventually they managed to talk him around and he gave himself up. He was compensated and the council re-housed him but he wasn’t allowed to breed his chickens any more and ended up becoming a bit of a drinker and a recluse. In the early nineties he was found regularly in and around the town centre worse the wear in drink and caused quite a few problems for shopkeepers and stallholders in the market. In the end he got locked up a couple of times and did a short spell in prison. He lost his home and when he came out he just started dossing around anywhere he could get his head down.”

“Aw, that’s really sad.”

Hunter shrugged. “C’est la vie Grace, c’est la vie.”

They had reached the southbound intersection of the motorway. Hunter turned the unmarked car onto it and headed towards Sheffield.

The charity-run homeless building was a concrete structure of 1960s architecture on the edge of Sheffield city centre, close to the University. Hunter managed to find a spare parking place on an old cobbled street at its rear.

Pushing through the double entrance doors, they came upon an office-cum-reception point to their right. Hunter and Grace were greeted by a thin, wiry man with wavy ginger hair. Hunter showed him his warrant card and before he had time to tell the man why they were here, he said.

“You’re here for George.”

“Yeah, someone called us last night. I sent a couple of PCSOs just to make sure he hung around.”

The man, lifted up onto his tip-toes, reached over the counter and pointed down along a poorly lit corridor. “I’ve put them in a room down there. They’re having a cuppa with him.” The man lifted a hatch and opened a half-stable door and stepped out from behind reception. “It must be pretty important,” he said setting the hatch back in place. “Can I ask what you want to see him about? Has he done something wrong? Not that I’m nosy, but we have responsibility for him while he’s here. ”

“I can understand that,” said Hunter, slipping his warrant card back into the inside pocket. “As far as we know he’s not done anything wrong, but we think he might have witnessed an incident at a place he was dossing down in.”

“I’ll show you where they are,” answered the ginger-haired man, setting off down the dim corridor. “He’s not too good is George,” he said, without looking back. “He’s been sleeping rough under the railway arches, and the drink’s got hold of him now. He’s in a bit of a sorry state since I last saw him here.”

The man paused by a door at the bottom of the corridor and opened it. “They’re all in here,” he said and stood to one side to allow Hunter and Grace through.

As Hunter stepped into the room, two things greeted him. The first was the smell — a dirty, unclean, and unpleasant stench of decay and stale body odour and the second was the heat, which emphasised the pong. He crinkled his nose.

Hunched forward in a vinyl covered seat, hands clasping a mug of steaming contents, was the saddest looking human he had set his eyes on in a long time. It was obvious where the smell was coming from.