Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“No problem Peter. And you say you think she caught the bus into town. Well at least that was her intention.”

Peter nodded, “Yeah. She did as well because I can remember they tracked down the bus driver who dropped her off near the market place.”

“Did she tell you what her arrangements were that night?”

“You mean regarding her meeting up with Danny?”

“Well, I’m after what she said to you.”

“She didn’t mention that slime-ball, if that’s what you’re getting at. She said she was just meeting up with a few friends. She said she’d be back about ten. I was looking after Jessica and she knew I normally went to the club about that time. I expected her to be back. When she didn’t come back I rung round some of her mates, Amanda first, and that’s when I realised she hadn’t gone out to meet them. I waited ’til midnight and then when she still hadn’t come in I rang the police. I told you the rest the other day.”

“Yes you did Peter.” Hunter scanned down the witness statement. “You’ve put in this statement a description of the clothing she was wearing when she went out. Can you remember that still?”

Peter Blake-Hall stared up to the ceiling. He appeared to be deep in thought. Then he replied, “She had on a yellow dress and a fawn cardigan. That had some kind of design around the neck and cuffs. She had her handbag with her as well. The one you lot found in Danny Weaver’s shed.”

“The one Alan Darbyshire and Jeffery Howson found, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“They showed you that bag on the Sunday, according to your statement?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They brought it to my house. Asked me if I recognised it. It was Lucy’s, I told them and that’s when they told me they had Danny locked up. And that’s when they also told me she’d been carrying on with him for six months.”

“So until Alan and Jeffery told you Lucy was having an affair with Danny Weaver, you had no idea.”

“None at all. It was a complete shock.”

“Can I just take you back to that Friday night when Lucy went out?”

Blake-Hall tipped his head.

“You said, both in your statement, and just now on tape, that when Lucy had not come home you first phoned round her friends and then just after midnight you rang the police?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you go out looking for her?” Hunter thought he caught a flicker of unease in Peter’s eyes. The man tightened the lock in his folded arms.

“No.” A split-second later he added, “I was looking after Jessica, wasn’t I. How could I go out?”

“Yes, of course you were.” Hunter looked down at the last page of Peter’s statement. He moved his head to make it look as though he was reading what was recorded, then he raised his eyes. “Peter, just one thing. Can you remember what car you were driving at that time?”

Blake-Hall frowned. “What’s the relevance of that?”

“It’s just that it’s cropped up in our enquiries.”

Blake-Hall shrugged, “No idea.”

“What if I give you a bit of a help?” Hunter leafed through his folder again and picked out the recent witness statement supplied by Lisa Aldridge. Instead of laying it out over the table in full view, he tantalizingly held it at an angle. In the periphery of his vision he caught Peter Blake-Hall making a slight movement, craning his neck, though doing his best not to appear curious. Hunter inwardly smiled.

“What about a red Mercedes Benz on German plates?” He knew the first bit and guessed the second. “I am right in thinking that around that time you were importing cars from Germany, Mercedes and BMWs?”

“No secret. They were cheaper from there. You didn’t have to pay VAT on them. I wasn’t doing anything illegal.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to help you recall if you owned a red Mercedes saloon on the night of Lucy’s disappearance.”

“Can’t remember. Might have done. I’ve owned one in the past.”

“What if I help you out further by telling you that we have checked your records at the DVLA and they show that in ninety-eighty-three you owned a red Mercedes-Benz 380SL on German plates, which you re-registered in October of that year.”

Before Peter Blake-Hall had time to reply his solicitor intervened with, “Detective Sergeant, what is the relevance to this line of questioning?”

Although Hunter was replying to the solicitor, he looked squarely into the eyes of Peter Blake-Hall, “The relevance is that this statement here,” Hunter began shaking Lisa’s witness statement, “Puts your client in Barnwell market place at around ten-forty-five pm, on Friday twenty-sixth August, nineteen-eighty-three, firstly he was seen driving his red Mercedes, and then seen dragging his wife, Lucy, into the front passenger seat, before driving away. Unlike his own original statement, which states nothing of the sort. According to this statement, your client, Mr Wilkinson, is the last person to have seen Lucy and in my book, that puts him clearly in the frame as a suspect.” Hunter watched Peter Blake-Hall’s face turn ashen. He was waiting for him to respond when the solicitor laid a hand on one of his tightly folded arms.

“In the light of this recent evidence, I would like to confer with my client.”

They’d had no option but to bring the interview to an end. Hunter grinned at Peter Blake-Hall as they formally wrapped up the session. As he and Grace left the room, they knew they had their prisoner rattled. They also knew that upon their return there was the likelihood of him saying ‘no comment’ to any future questions. That proved to be the case twenty minutes later when they entered into a second bout of questioning.

Peter Blake-Hall sat back in his chair, arms again folded, displaying an air of arrogance, while Hunter read through the statement Amanda Rawlinson had given them. He deliberately broke off at the end of every paragraph, to check back with a question. Especially, he halted the readings when he came to the part where Amanda stated that Lucy had been assaulted by him. Each time Peter issued back ‘no comment.’ Thirty five minutes into the second interview, Hunter called it a day and handed Peter Blake-Hall over to the Custody sergeant to be put back in his cell.

Hunter left the custody suite with a disappointed frown creasing his face. He left Grace at the ground floor ladies toilets, and trudged his way up the stairs with a head full of dark thoughts. He shouldered the doors, almost falling into the room.

Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate, sitting at his desk, took him by surprise.

“Oh, hello boss, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I’ve just called the custody suite and they said you were on your way up here. How did it go?”

Hunter dropped down into Grace’s chair opposite and outlined the interview he and Grace had just concluded with Blake-Hall.

When he finished, she said, “Bollocks.”

It drew a smile from Hunter. “Couldn’t have put it any finer boss. Anyway, how’s it gone at his place?”

“Absolutely zilch. The house is spotless. And I’m sure he wasn’t involved in Mike’s stabbing. He was in bed when we went round there at one-thirty this morning. A woman was there as well. She says they’ve been together for the past ten years and that last night they both stayed at home and had a meal. Apparently he doesn’t go to the club every night now. He has a manager to look after things. In the kitchen there was an empty bottle of wine and the dishwasher was full, so it appears he does have a good alibi for that one. We tried to draw him out about Ronnie but he was having none of it. Said he wasn’t saying anything until his solicitor was present. I’ve seized his phone though — if he’s had it a while, it’ll give us some info. One of the team has whisked that across to Headquarters and the techies have promised to fast-track it.” She rang her hands together. “So where does that leave us?”