Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“She just wanted to make some money to start a new life, she said. To be honest, I told her to be careful.”

“It’s too late though now Kerri-Ann, isn’t it? But you can help us get those responsible. We really need to know what Jodie told you.”

She fiddled with her hands again, this time rolling a couple of gold rings around her fingers. She chewed her bottom lip, then responded. “I want screens at court, you know. I don’t want these guys to see me.”

“We can arrange that.”

Kerri-Ann studied their faces for a few moments, then replied, “She heard an argument at the club where she was working.”

“The club?”

“Yeah, Jodie had a job working behind the bar of a strip club near Wakefield.”

“Owned by Peter Blake-Hall?”

“I don’t know who owned it, but she did mention a guy called Peter and another one called Ronnie. She didn’t tell me the name of the ex-cop involved. She just told me she knew it was an ex-cop she’d heard them arguing with.”

“Do you recall when this argument took place?”

She shook her head. “No, she told me all this about three weeks ago.”

“And what did Jodie say about what she heard?”

She seemed to study the question and then she answered. “I can’t remember what she told me word for word, ’cos she told me one night when we’d had a drink.” She sniggered, “Well it was more than one drink, the pair of us were half-pissed.”

“But you do remember what she told you?”

“Oh God, yes, I can’t forget what she said.”

“Go on then Kerri-Ann, tell us what you recall.”

“Well she didn’t know they were in the club. She’d gone in with the bar manager to help stock up. She was in the cellar and came up ’cos she heard arguing. She thought it was the manager at first. That someone had come in while they were shut and was trying to get a drink. When she got to the door, she realised it was the owner, that Peter guy, and his mate Ronnie. She’s told me about Ronnie before. He tried to tap her up once and she told him to back off. She didn’t like him at all. Anyway, she didn’t like to go into the bar with the owner being there and so just stood waiting behind the door until they’d finished. She said that there was this other guy there — an older guy and he was shouting something about his mate wanting to go to the cops or something. And Ronnie was telling this older guy that he needed to keep him in order and tell him what’s good for him. That if he grasses, then he as an ex-cop had a lot more to lose. That’s when Jodie picked up on the older guy being one of your lot.”

“Did she manage to get this man’s name — this ex-cop?”

“She never told me that. The only names she mentioned were Peter and Ronnie.”

“What else did she hear?”

“The ex-cop apparently said something about the other man having some evidence which could send them all down for a long time. Ronnie just went off on one after he said that — shouting at the ex-cop, saying that he needed to sort it or he would sort it for him. And Peter said if there really was some evidence then they needed to make sure it disappeared.”

“Do you know what evidence this was all related to? Did she tell you that?”

“Jodie said that she’d found out later what it was all about, because she mentioned it to this reporter she knew, and he’d given her a hundred quid and was going to give her more if she could find out some more. He told her that what she had overheard related to the murder of a woman from a long time ago.”

“Did the reporter tell Jodie the name of the woman?”

“Jodie didn’t tell me any name, but the reporter told her it was Peter’s wife. That’s when I told her she needed to be really careful.” Kerri-Ann looked solemn. “And I was right wasn’t I? This got her killed. You can see now why I’m scared, can’t you?”

DAY FOURTEEN: 7th December.

It was exactly seven-thirty-two am when the convoy of unmarked police cars, and Scenes of Crime vans, turned off the main trunk road and coasted into St. Margaret’s Avenue. Twenty seconds later all seven vehicles fell neatly into line, parking up one after another, nose-to-tail along the cul-de-sac.

Hunter and Grace were first to step out onto the street, followed by Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson.

They closed their car doors with as little noise as possible and tiptoed across the road to Alan Darbyshire’s semi-detached home.

As Hunter neared the gate, he glanced back over his shoulder and signalled to the search team and forensic teams to hang back. Then, followed by Grace, he trotted down the drive to the front door. Tony and Mike slipped around the side and secured the rear.

Hunter checked his watch, noted the time in his head and banged sharply on the front door. Then he took a step back and glanced up at the bedroom window. He saw the light come on and ducked back out of sight.

Less than a minute later the hallway light came on and he heard heavy footfalls coming down the stairs towards them. As the key turned in the lock, Alan Darbyshire called out, “Who is it?”

“Police,” Hunter shouted back.

For a few seconds there was no movement, then Hunter heard a security chain being released and the door opened.

A blast of warm air greeted Hunter, as did a bleary-eyed Alan Darbyshire, wearing his dressing gown. He was fastening the belt around his oversized stomach.

Alan asked “What do you two want at this godforsaken hour?” but Hunter could tell from the look of resignation that he knew why they were there. When any cop called at this time of the morning it was only for two reasons — to be the bearer of bad news, or to arrest. Alan Darbyshire’s face paled as he stared over Hunter’s shoulder and spotted the line of cars parked opposite.

He said, “What on earth’s this?”

Hunter wanted to say so many things, but he composed himself and stepping into the hallway announced, matter-of-factly, “Alan Darbyshire, I am arresting you on suspicion of perjury.” Then he cautioned him. The retired DCI was forced to take a step backwards.

Grace followed Hunter into the carpeted, well-lit hallway, speaking softly over her radio set, telling everyone they were in.

She left the front door open and out in the street they heard the sound of cars doors banging, followed by the chattering of voices. The teams were getting ready to do their respective jobs.

Still drained of colour, Alan said loudly, “You’d better have something bloody good on me, because you’re not going to hear the last of this.”

“Believe me, we have,” said Hunter. “I think you’d better get dressed, because we’ve got a nice warm cell waiting for you.”

Darbyshire coloured and his eyes widened, “You need to be very careful about what you say to me young man. Do you understand?”

Hunter was about to react when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned sharply to see Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate behind him. She had travelled in the convoy with DS Mark Gamble, to oversee the operation and offer the team support, given the fact that their target was a retired DCI.

She said, “Mr Darbyshire, I am Detective Superintendent Leggate. I am in overall charge of this operation. I am here to make sure this job runs professionally.” She paused and then said. “After all, there can be no room for error, can there? We don’t want anyone accusing us of a miscarriage of justice, do we?”

Hunter could have sworn there was a twinkle in her eye. He returned his gaze to Alan Darbyshire, whose face was the colour of beetroot. Hunter said, “I want you to get dressed now Alan and then we’re taking you down to the station for questioning. You’ll already know this, but you’ll be able to contact a solicitor once we get there.”