Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Ha, the dynamic duo!” He said. “You two have caused me some right grief.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows and pointed in the direction of the noise. “Am I missing something here? Are the prisoners a tad unhappy this morning?”

“Alan Darbyshire’s collapsed!”

Hunter’s looked from Grace to the Custody Sergeant. “What?”

The Sergeant nodded. “The custody officer found him semi-conscious in his cell half an hour ago. The paramedics are down there with him now. They think he’s had a heart attack. They’re just getting ready to take him to the hospital.”

“He’s bullshitting. He’s pulling a fast one.”

Stony-faced, the Custody Sergeant slowly shook his head. “Sorry Hunter, it’s genuine. They’ve put the monitors on him. They’re just sorting him out to take him up to the District General. I’m trying to fix up an escort to go with him.”

“Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly Hunter, but there you go. You won’t be interviewing him today.”

An agitated Hunter stormed back to the office, leaving Grace to catch up. He slammed his folder down hard on his desk and snatched up the phone, punched in a number and waited as it rang out. A female voice answered at the other end. He cut in the second she finished announcing who she was, though he didn’t take in her name. He asked curtly, “Is Detective Superintendent Robshaw or DI Scaife there?”

“Just a second,” the girl replied and then he heard the phone being put aside.

For a good thirty seconds Hunter listened to a distant humming down the line and then he heard the phone being picked up. His DI’s voice came on.

He explained what had happened to Alan Darbyshire. “We’re not going to get to him today, boss. We don’t even know how bad he is until he’s checked out up at the hospital. They’re bound to keep him in him for a couple of days, at the least.”

With a “Just a minute Hunter,” DI Scaife went off the line. For the best part of a minute he listened to distant voices, trying to pick out what was being said, but it sounded as if the DI had covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

Then the line opened and the DI was back on. “Hunter, the boss is still co-ordinating the search for Ronnie Fisher who’s done a disappearing act. We’re turning over his house now. Some of his clothes have gone and there’s no sign of his passport. We’re currently trying to find where his relatives and associates live. His four-by-four’s been found burned out on wasteland near the canal. We’re in the thick of it here, so he’s suggesting you speak with Superintendent Leggate. She’s left the hospital and is overseeing the search of Peter Blake-Hall’s place.” With that, he hung up.

Hunter clicked down to end the call and then punched in Dawn Leggate’s mobile number. She answered on the third ring. He repeated what he had told the DI. When he had finished he heard the word “Shit” explode down the line.

“My feelings exactly, boss.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Hunter knew she would be running through a back-up plan inside her head.

“Okay, Hunter all is not lost. Peter’s in the cell down there. You and Grace can have an interim chat with him. We haven’t found anything here, I’m afraid. SOCO are still going through the house but they’re not hopeful. And with regards to Mike’s stabbing we don’t think he was involved. When we knocked him up in the early hours he was in bed with a woman and she’s said they’d both stayed there last night. He didn’t turn out to his club. I’m afraid you’re going to have to run with what we’ve got from Lisa Aldridge for now.” There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m going to be here for another couple of hours, and then I’ll join you back at the station and we’ll have a scrum-down and see what we’ve got okay?”

“Okay, boss.” He heard the line go dead, and hung up.

Taking a mouthful of tea, Hunter swallowed, set down his mug and picked up the phone again. He stared across at his partner. “I’m just going to let custody know we’re coming down to interview Blake-Hall. I’m guessing he’ll want a solicitor. Get us a copy of Lisa Aldridge’s statement, will you?”

* * * * *

The excitement had subsided in the detention suite. Hunter could see that normality — if one could call it that — had returned. The Custody Sergeant certainly looked less stressed.

Peter Blake-Hall had requested the services of a solicitor and they weren’t surprised when they heard it was Thomas Wilkinson, a partner with a firm who frequently represented clients who had grievances against the police.

As he entered the interview room Hunter stretched his neck, just like he did before entering the ring. He felt wired.

“Mr Blake-Hall, we meet again,” he said, dragging out a plastic chair opposite the prisoner and sitting down. Pulling the seat forward he slid his knees beneath the fixed table and then placed his folder down on its surface. Shifting his gaze to the solicitor he asked, “And you are?” even though he knew the answer.

“Mr Thomas Wilkinson, of Grant, Harding and Wilkinson,” he said.

The solicitor looked to be in his late forties. He was slightly overweight, with a good head of wavy brown hair, beginning to grey. He wore a dark pin-striped suit, white shirt and a blue and pink striped tie. Hunter said, “I presume you have fully briefed your client and he understands why he’s here?”

“Two o’clock this fucking morning when I was banged up. For the murder of my wife, they said. You have to be kidding.”

Hunter edged forward slightly, pointing at his own head. “Does this face look like I’m kidding?”

The solicitor made an exaggerated attempt at clearing his throat. “No need for sarcasm, officer.”

Grace quickly intervened. “Peter, we’re going to tape record an interview with you.” She switched on the equipment and began the open preamble and formally cautioned him.

Hunter reached across the table, interlaced his fingers and fixed Peter Blake-Hall with a determined look. He took a deep breath and composed himself. His partner’s well-timed intervention reminded him not to lose it. “As you rightly say, you have been arrested on suspicion of the murder of your wife Lucy back in nineteen-eighty-three. I say murder Peter, because although we never found your wife’s body, someone else was charged, tried and convicted of her murder. However, recently, evidence has come to light which throws that conviction into doubt. So we have begun a new investigation and as a result of our enquiries you have been put into the frame for her disappearance.” Hunter never took his eyes off Blake-Hall, though he could see that his opening sentence had no effect. Blake-Hall’s arms remained locked in their folded position and he stared back straight-faced.

Hunter opened up his folder and slipped out several witness statement forms which he carefully laid out across the table.

“Peter, I have here a photocopy of the original statement you made to Detective Sergeant Alan Darbyshire and Detective Constable Jeffery Howson, who came to see you after you had reported Lucy going missing on the morning of Saturday twenty-seventh August, nineteen-eighty-three. Can you recall making that statement to those detectives?”

“Yeah, though I can’t remember what I put in. It’s so long ago.”

“That’s understandable, but don’t worry because I’m going to take you through it.” Hunter picked up the first page. “According to this, you told those detectives that you last saw Lucy at about seven pm on Friday twenty-sixth August, when she left the house, telling you that she was meeting up with a couple of friends.”

“Yeah, Amanda Smith was one of them. I think she’s called Rawlinson now. She was a friend of hers from school. She was a bridesmaid at our wedding. I can’t remember the others though. It’s such a long time ago now.”