Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

George glanced up.

His face was sallow and waxen, and Hunter couldn’t help but notice the yellowing of his eyes which were sunken in dark sockets. His collar-length unruly hair was a mix of greys and he had a thin, wispy beard. His clothes had seen better days and the trousers were heavily stained, especially around the crotch area. It looked as though he had wet himself, thought Hunter. On his feet was a pair of new looking fawn coloured slippers. Hunter guessed the centre had given them to him since his arrival.

Hunter nodded to two male PCSOs who were standing by a window. It was wide open. He smiled to himself. The smell had obviously overwhelmed them. He acknowledged the pair with a raised hand and mouthed ‘thanks’. It was their cue to go and they seemed only too happy to leave Hunter and Grace to it.

Hunter took a deep breath, pulled another vinyl covered chair from the side of the room and dropped it a metre away in front of the tramp. Grace remained standing by the door.

“George, do you know who I am?”

“A detective I’m guessing. Those two young coppers said CID wanted a word with me.”

“In a way that’s right, but we’re not exactly CID as such. We’re from the Major Investigation Team at Barnwell. We’re making enquiries into a murder.”

“Oh aye, and what’s that to do with me? I ain’t killed no one.” He raised his mug to his mouth and took a long slurp.

“I’m sure you didn’t George, but I think you know why I’m here, don’t you?”

Hunter was watching him carefully. The tramp’s yellowish eyes darted a glance towards him and then just as quickly returned to looking inside the rim of his mug. That exchange was enough. Hunter said, “George, you’ve been sleeping rough at the old Barnwell Inn recently, haven’t you?”

George made a grunting noise.

“You’ve been sleeping in the loft. I know that because we found some of your stuff up there.”

He shrugged and had another swig of his drink. “No harm in that.”

“No of course not George, but I’m interested in why you left so quickly.” Hunter searched his face again. He remained looking inside his mug. “Shall I tell you what I think George? I think you left so sharpish, because you saw something which scared you.”

The yellow eyes met Hunter’s.

“I’m right, aren’t I George? I know I am. Come on, tell us.”

“Din’t see nothing.”

“You see, just saying that in reply is one reason why I don’t believe you. I’ve been in this job a long time and I know when someone is not telling me the truth.”

George bent his head lower so that Hunter could no longer see his face.

“Come on George, stop hiding from me. You saw a girl get hurt there, didn’t you?”

Shaking his head, he never looked up.

“Look George, we really need your help. A young girl was murdered in the cellar of that old pub and I believe you witnessed what happened.”

“Din’t see nothing.”

“Well maybe you didn’t see, but you heard something.”

George glanced. The sunken eyes were slits.

“Please George, we really need your help.” Hunter waited for a few seconds. When he didn’t reply, he added. “What if I tell you that we know what went off and we have a fair idea who killed her but we just need confirmation. Come on George, you can do that, can’t you? What if I show you some pictures of the people who we think killed the girl there.” Hunter reached inside his folder and pulled out one of Guy Armstrong’s A4 photographs of Alan Darbyshire, Peter Blake-Hall and Ronald Fisher. He leaned forward, thrusting it in front of George’s face.

It made him jump.

Keeping it there, Hunter said, “George, please help me. This is really important. A young girl lost her life in that pub and this is a photograph we have of the three people who we think killed her.”

George studied the photograph carefully.

Hunter said, “What if I say what you tell us stays in this room? No one will know what you’ve told us. This is just between us three.”

George lifted his head and eyed Hunter suspiciously.

“Promise, George. Just help me out and we’ll leave you in peace.”

The tramp shook his head then answered, “Just two.”

Hunter tapped the photo. “Two people in this photo? Is that what you mean?”

George nodded. “Yeah just two, not three.”

“Can you point out which two for me George.”

A grubby hand with dirt beneath the fingernails hovered over the photograph for a couple of seconds. Then he stabbed an index finger at two of the images.

“Those two. They carried the young lass in. I heard them pull up in their big car and then I heard her screaming. I looked out of the window. They were carrying and dragging her. Then they disappeared inside with her. I heard screaming some more and then everything went quiet. I hid upstairs. I was shit-scared. Then they left without her. I didn’t see what they had done to her but I guessed it must have been something bad, ’cos they took off so quickly.”

“When you say they had a big car George, what do you mean by that?”

“One of them big four-by-four things. A big black ’un with blacked-out windows.”

Hunter tapped the photograph. “And you’re quite sure it was these two you saw dragging the girl into the pub.”

George nodded. “I was shit-scared I tell you, but I honestly din’t see what they’d done to her.”

“I believe you George.”

Ten minutes later, Hunter and Grace were shown out by the same man who had let them in. Hunter stood on the damp pavement for a second looking up into the murky grey sky. He started smiling.

Grace said, “I don’t why you’re looking so smug. We can’t use any of that you know?”

“Course I realise that Grace, but what other way were we going to get out of him what we did? You can see the life he leads. How is he going to make a good witness? Do you think he’d stick around if we told him we wanted him to be a witness at Jodie’s murder trial? In fact, you heard what the man on reception said about George. About the drink thing? Didn’t you notice his eyes? They were yellow. That’s a sign his liver’s packing in. Even if we were to get him as a witness, he’d probably never live long enough for the trial. He’s probably looking at another few months at best.” Hunter shook his head and tapped the folder, tucked beneath his arm. “No, that was the best way of doing it. Now we know who killed her. We’ve just got to get the evidence, that’s all.” He winked at her and set off back to the car.

* * * * *

Despite the long journey ahead, Hunter felt jubilant as he left South Yorkshire. He couldn’t wait to get back for the evening de-briefing session to report what he and Grace had learned.

He enjoyed the lengthy drive through the Dales, particularly when he caught up again with long-forgotten views, prompting memories of the many holidays that he, Beth and the boys had shared there in the past. And the roads were surprisingly quiet as was the weather. Until they entered Cumbria, where the skies turned. As they cleared the town of Kendal, a dull orange glow replaced the previous pale blue colour of the horizon and the light grey clouds became thick and dark, turning day almost into night. By the time they had reached Keswick a howling wind had picked up, buffeting the car, and sleet and light snow fell, raking the windscreen so hard that it sounded as though they were being hit by grit stone.

Thankfully, Hunter didn’t have to endure the changed conditions for long, because just a mile outside Keswick he spotted the signpost for Portinscale, the village where Amanda Rawlinson lived with her husband and two daughters, and he swung off the A66 trunk road onto the sweeping lane, which dropped down to the narrow main thoroughfare leading to Derwentwater.