Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Good, let’s hope that’ll loosen him up.” He uncrossed his ankles and straightened up. Turning to his deputy SIO Dawn Leggate, he said, “And I gather the search of Alan’s home hasn’t turned up anything?”

She swept one side of her hair behind an ear and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Though, if truth be known, I wasn’t expecting us to find anything. He’s had enough time to get rid of anything incriminating. Even his mobile has disappeared, so we can’t track who he’s phoned or where he’s been. And, not surprisingly, his wife does alibi him for the night of Jeffery’s murder.”

“Never mind, a fresh day tomorrow and who knows what that will bring? Except for Hunter and Grace, who are going to continue their interview of Alan Darbyshire, I want the rest of you in here for six thirty am. We’ve put packages together for Peter Blake-Hall and Ronnie Fisher and we’re going to do an early morning knock on the pair. Task Force will be with us and I’ve managed to borrow a few officers from the Community Beat team to help with the searches.” Michael Robshaw tapped a hand on the photographs taken by Guy Armstrong. “If we include the murder of Lucy, these three are the prime suspects in four murders now and hopefully tomorrow we will have them in custody, answering for their crimes. Good hunting everyone.”

* * * * *

Detective Mike Sampson tapped the wiper stick on the steering column and swept the back of his hand across the inside of the windscreen of the unmarked MIT car. It wasn’t just the foul weather outside of the car, a mixture of drizzle and sleet, which was fogging his view, but a thin film of moisture had also collected on the inside of the front screen. He re-directed the heater to demist and cracked the driver’s side window a fraction. The coldness of the night air took him by surprise and he shivered.

The blast of cold air also reminded him that he needed the toilet. He had felt it creep up on him half an hour ago but had tried to will it away. Now the feeling had returned and this time it hurt. He flicked the electric window shut.

After a few seconds the screen began to clear and in an attempt to divert his mind away from the uncomfortable feeling in his groin he focused outside. He had a good view of the front aspect of ‘Le Chambre Rose’ — Peter Blake-Hall’s private club, fifty yards in front, on the opposite side of the road.

Straining his eyes in the dimness of the car’s interior, he took a look at his watch. He struggled at first, but eventually managed to make out that it was just after ten pm. He and his partner, Tony Bullars, had been here for the best part of two hours.

Mike sighed and yawned. He was bored and desperate for a pee. It had been a long day and there was still over an hour before they could call off the observations.

Initially the pair had been directed to find the black Mitsubishi Shogun Sport, and since early that morning they had driven around every conceivable location. Unfortunately, they had found neither the 4x4 or its owner, Ronnie Fisher. It had been a tedious and frustrating day. To make things worse, as they were about to head back in for evening de-brief, they had been given new instructions directly from Detective Superintendent Robshaw himself. He wanted them to drive straight over to Peter Blake-Hall’s club, park nearby until midnight, and report on any sightings, either of Peter or RonnieI. If either of them appeared, they were to call it in and await back-up.

The new command had puzzled them both at first. However, on the drive to Blake-Hall’s club, they had both come to the same conclusion the enquiry had taken on a whole new direction.

More rain and sleet splattered the windscreen, once more blurring Mike’s view of the street. He cleared the screen again and took another glance at his watch. Bully’s been gone a long time, he said to himself.

Fifteen minutes earlier, Mike had announced that he was famished. Tony had responded by saying he had earlier spotted a fish and chip shop a couple of streets away and volunteered to go. It had been a good idea at the time but he hadn’t realised he’d be away for this long. Especially as he was busting for a piss. Mike stared out across the street. In the past two hours they had only counted half a dozen punters going inside the club. Going for a piss would only take a couple of minutes, he told himself — he wouldn’t miss anything, and he’d hear if a car pulled up.

He eased open the door, activating the car’s interior light. Reaching up, he switched it off and swung his legs out onto the footpath.

It was fucking freezing, he muttered under his breath, pulling his jacket around him.

For a few seconds he stood by the car, watching and listening. The only sounds he picked up were those of the rain and sleet peppering the roof. He quietly closed the door. There was an unlit alleyway to his left and he strode towards it.

For a good twenty seconds he stood in the dark, listening to his stream of urine cascading against the crumbling brickwork, sighing with relief as the pain in his bladder eased. Then the sloshing sounds of tyres splashing through puddles fractured the silence. He heard a vehicle stop nearby, followed by the opening of a car door.

He tried to finish urinating but he was still in full flow. Fuck!

It took another ten seconds for him to stop. Thankfully, he could still hear the purring of an engine as he zipped up his fly.

He edged towards the entrance of the alleyway. It sounded as if the vehicle wasn’t too far away. He wanted to see who it was, but he didn’t want to reveal himself.

Craning his neck around the wall, he scanned the street. Parked in front of their MIT car was a dark coloured 4x4. It was the black Mitsubishi Shogun they had been looking for. A dark figure crouched down by the front offside tyre of their car. It looked as though he was letting the air out. Mike stepped into the street, shouting “Oi!”

A face, partially covered by a dark woollen hat, glanced his way.

Mike thought it looked like Ronnie Fisher. He darted out of the shadows.

In the couple of seconds it took Mike to get from the alleyway back to his car, the short, squat man was standing in a defensive posture. As Mike steamed towards him, balling his fists into a punch, he saw a face contorted with frenzy. The man’s eyes were bulging and menacing.

Mike swung an almighty arcing punch, but the man ducked away and he found himself hitting thin air. The momentum spun him sideways and he banged against the side of the car just as a retaliatory thump found his unguarded ribs and knocked the wind clean out of him. A second punch found Mike’s head and his vision shattered into a thousand pieces. His legs buckled and he slumped forward, throwing up an arm in an attempt to fend of another blow, but everything was a blur. He felt a searing sting in his groin and stumbled onto his knees. Then he felt a thump to the middle of his back. Then another and another. A sudden weakness overcame him. There was a sensation of a cold trickle of fluid washing around the sides of his waist and he realised he was having difficulty breathing. A veil of clouds swilled into his brain. The last thing he heard, as his face hit the wet tarmac, was his partner, Tony Bullars, calling out his name.

* * * * *

Hunter’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. For the past half hour he had been mentally rehearsing the lines of questions he was going to put to Alan Darbyshire the following morning. The ringing of the bedside telephone made him jump. Beside him, he felt Beth stir. He snatched the phone from its handset and propped himself up on one elbow.

“Hello.”

“Hunter, sorry to disturb you.”

It was Detective Superintendent Leggate. He pushed himself up further and used the bed head to support his back.