Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Passing the church, Margaret pointed out Constable Row, where she and her husband used to live. Then a hundred yards further on she called out again, “Turn right, just ahead, that’s where the house is.”

The signpost indicated the road to Birdwell. He turned into the junction and found himself driving along a narrow road. Skeletal trees lined the first two hundred yards of the route and as he left them behind the view opened out to farmland either side. The only cottages he could make out seemed to be those on the hillsides, miles away. As he came out of a left hand bend, Jessica called from the back,

“It’s just along here.”

Tony spotted the cottage up ahead, slightly set back from the road. It was larger than he had imagined; a solid Yorkshire stone farmhouse, with a stone slated roof. He had to mount the grassy verge at the front of the house to park, otherwise he would have blocked the carriageway.

Turning in his seat he said, “Just give me a couple of minutes. I’ll see if there’s anyone in and if I can sort something out.” He turned off the engine. “This’ll be the oddest request I’ve ever made,” he added, opening the driver’s door.

Five minutes later he returned to the car and stuck his head inside. “There’s someone in. It’s a woman, her husband’s at work.” He grinned. “She was a little surprised when I told her why I’d come, and what I wanted, but she’s kindly agreed to let us in and have a look round.” He set his gaze upon Jessica. “Are you still okay with this?”

“I think so yes.”

Tony opened up a rear door to let out Jessica and Margaret.

For a few seconds Jessica stood and stared. Her grandmother wound a protective arm around her.

She said softly, “Are you okay love?”

“Yes thanks, Gran,” she answered, tapping her grandmother’s hand and easing herself from the comforting restraint.

Tony led the way and the other three followed him along the path, skirting around the side of the house, to the rear. At the back door a well-made lady, in her early fifties, was waiting. She opened the door wider to allow them in. She looked perplexed and Tony wasn’t surprised, given the strange request he had made.

Tony turned to Jessica and asked, “Anything?” He watched as Jessica’s gaze darted around the kitchen.

She said, “Most of its how I remember. The units look familiar, though there wasn’t a table and chairs here.” Pointing to the far wall she added, “And that dresser wasn’t here.” She stepped into the middle of the floor and slowly turned her head. She looked at the woman who owned the house, “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing at a door which connected with the hallway.

“Be my guest,” the woman replied. She still wore a bewildered expression.

Jessica walked to the doorway, spent a few seconds looking around the hallway and then pirouetted on her heels and faced back into the kitchen. Suddenly she clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my God!”

In that instant her face paled. Then she started to sway.

Tony got to her just in time as her legs buckled. He caught her under the arms, and then half-dragged, half-carried her to a chair Carol pulled out from beneath the kitchen table.

He lowered her into the seat and supported her.

Jessica’s face was waxen and a band of sweat had gathered on her forehead.

She took a deep breath. “I saw my mother!” she gasped. “She was lying just there!”

A Welsh dresser, shelves laden with blue and white decorative pottery, stood on the spot where she was pointing.

Tony Bullars stood on the back doorstep of the renovated farmhouse; the place which, twenty five years ago, had been Jessica’s home, and in which, only ten minutes earlier, she had unlocked the memories of her past. She was still back there, in the kitchen, being comforted by her grandmother and supported by his colleague Carol.

He’d already called and spoken to DI Scaife and been told to hang fire there — Detective Superintendent Leggate was on her way.

Within the next few hours, this place would be swarming with Scenes of Crime Officers and a forensics team. He wondered what the owner would say; she already seemed dazed by it all.

He dug his hands deeper into his trouser pockets and stared out across the rolling countryside. Although he had just got a good result, he was still feeling pretty low. He had left Mike alone. If only he hadn’t gone for that supper, he thought. Somehow, he needed to redeem himself.

A sharp gust of wind whipping across the barren landscape, stung his cheeks and brought him back from his reverie as he shivered. He was glad that he had kept his overcoat on.

Admiring the scenery sharpened his concentration. Beyond the low garden wall, he noted that the field dipped away. He could make out the tops of trees in a small wood. There his gaze stopped.

Now if I’d just killed someone here, that’s where I would bury them.

* * * * *

“Bingo a result!” Hunter called loudly as he read what was displayed on his computer screen for the second time.

He shot a glance across at his partner. His announcement had caught Grace’s attention.

“Got him!” he said. He returned back to his computer, selected the print menu and clicked the mouse. Behind him, the printer whirred into action and he picked out each page the moment it fell into the feed tray. Spinning back to his desk, he fanned out five A4 sheets like a deck of cards, and then glanced between the paperwork and what was on his computer screen to check they were the same. He patted the sheets together and picked up the phone. It rang a good dozen times before the custody sergeant answered. After a few pleasantries, Hunter said, “Can you rouse Peter Blake-Hall’s solicitor for me please? You can tell him I’ve got some good news for his client.”

As he hung up he slid the five pieces of paper across his desk to Grace. “Feast your eyes upon those goodies.” He checked his watch and said, “Good timing. We’ve got another hour before his clock runs out. Can you help us knock some charges together? I’m going to give Peter Blake-Hall an early Christmas present.”

Clasping a handful of rolled up papers, Hunter skipped across the rear yard to the Custody Suite like a child released from class at the end of the day. Grace was on his coat-tails. As they entered reception, Hunter saw Peter Blake-Hall had already been released from his cell and was standing beside his solicitor.

As Hunter and Grace approached, the solicitor tapped the face of his watch. “DS Kerr, in twenty minutes my client’s time is up and you will have to either release him or charge him. So if you’re thinking about going in for another interview?”

“Thank you for pointing that out to me Mr Wilkinson, I am fully aware of that. And no we’re not going in for an interview, that will not be necessary. This will be short and sweet.”

“Then you will be bailing Mr Blake-Hall?”

“On this occasion, no.” Hunter slowly unfolded his paperwork, never taking his eyes off his prisoner. “You remember we seized your mobile phone, Peter?” He searched his face for a reaction. “Well I don’t know if you are aware, but those things hold such a vast amount of information. It logs every call you make and every text even if you delete them…”

“Is there a point to these deliberations, detective?” asked the solicitor.”

“There is, if you’d kindly give me a moment.” Hunter rocked and flexed his neck. “There is also a magical thing called cell-site analysis, which can be done with mobile phones. We can pick out every location you have ever been to with your phone. Not only can we accurately map where you have been, we can also time and date those visits.” Hunter saw Peter Blake-Hall’s face drain of colour. “And I can tell you, Peter, that from your mobile we have been able to log you as being on Jeffery Howson’s street at ten-fifty-two pm on the night of Saturday twenty-second of November which was the night he was murdered. But then, of course you would know that.” He paused for a couple of seconds, hoping for a response. When there was none, he continued, “We also have you logged at the site of the old Barnwell Inn on the afternoon of the fifth of November. That is the location where we found Jodie Marie Jenkinson’s body a week later. Finally, we have you logged at various locations between Wentworth and Harley on the night of first December, which is when Guy Armstrong was run off the road and then murdered in his car.” He watched Peter Blake-Hall’s jaw drop. “Peter Blake-Hall I am charging you with the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong.” As he cautioned him, Hunter thought to himself that there was just one more murder now to resolve — . the one that had triggered this whole dramatic chain of events — that of his wife, Lucy.