Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

DAY SEVENTEEN: 10th December.

The Major Incident Teams office was packed. Task Force Officers had been drafted in to search for Lucy’s body. There were bums on seats and on desks, and uniform and plain clothed officers even stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisles for morning briefing.

The previous afternoon, Scenes of Crime Team had visited the cottage where the Blake-Halls once lived. In an area behind the present owner’s Welsh dresser, traces of blood were found in the gap between the floor and the skirting board. That sample had been transported by a police motor cyclist earlier the previous evening, together with a comparison DNA sample from Jessica. If it was Lucy’s blood, they would soon know. The house had been sealed off as a crime scene and the shocked owners had been shipped out to stay with relatives. A Forensics team had been working through the night examining the kitchen; floor tiles and part of the skirting board had been removed and additional dried blood patches had been found — every indication that they had found the spot where Lucy was murdered.

The forensics work was continuing that morning.

The focus of that morning’s briefing was to find Lucy’s burial site, and the gardens of the farmhouse and the nearby woodland were centre-stage in that search. A police expert in body search techniques was leading the briefing.

The slim, dark-haired Inspector, dressed in blue coveralls, addressed the assembled group. He said, “I visited the farmhouse yesterday afternoon and the woodland below the house is the most probable location where Lucy’s body is buried.”

Turning sideways, he tapped his splayed fingers over a large-scale ordnance map, of the Wortley area, Blu-tacked onto Lucy Blake-Hall’s incident board that morning.

“I have identified three key sites in the woods as ideal locations.” He prodded three areas of the map. Each of the sections had been marked by red felt pen lines drawn into oblong shapes. He pointed to the lowest box. Focusing on the uniformed officers, he said. “This will be our first search quadrant this morning. If we get an indication that it is a burial site, then we will fix the area and call in forensics.”

Some of the Task Force officers nodded.

“The weather forecast over the next few days is in our favour and the winter terrain on the ground is thin at this time of the year, so that is also an advantage. However, what is against us is the length of time Lucy has been in the ground, so everyone has to move extra slow within the search grids and keep their eyes peeled.” He wound up by saying “If you find something, call me.”

* * * * *

While members of the MIT department were consigned with the task of finding and detaining Ronnie Fisher, Hunter and Grace’s assignment for that day was to prepare the Peter Blake-Hall remand file relating to the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong for the local CPS. His first court appearance was that afternoon and they already knew that his solicitor was not going to be contesting the remand. Nevertheless, the file they presented before the magistrates still had to contain all the relevant evidence from the major witnesses, together with the forensic information which had sealed Blake-Hall’s fate.

Later would be the harder work, when they had to prepare the case papers for presentation before the Crown Court.

Hunter had a pile of witness statements in front of him and was making a précise of their content. Grace was going through the exhibits and putting them in order.

Grace’s desk phone started ringing. She let it go for a few seconds before picking up. Not taking her eyes away from her pile of documents, she cocked her head, trapping the handset between neck and shoulder and answered.

It disturbed Hunter’s concentration and he turned to his partner.

Her head jolted upwards and her surprised gaze met his as she pointed excitedly at the handset. Snatching up a piece of scrap paper, Grace began scribbling as she listened intently.

Hunter tried to make sense of the one-sided conversation. He could tell from Grace’s reaction and wild note taking that it had to be important.

Finally, after ten minutes, she slammed down the phone. “You’ll never guess who that was?”

Hunter opened his hands and shrugged.

“Kerri-Ann Bairstow. And guess what?”

“Grace!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.” Grace glanced at her notes from the telephone conversation. “She thinks she knows where Ronnie Fisher is, or at least where he’s going to be later today.”

“Bloody hell, Grace.”

“Exactly. Isn’t that a turn-up for the books? Who’d have thought Kerrie-Ann would grass someone up?”

“Well, it is someone who more than likely killed her friend.”

“Yes, I suppose there is that to it. Anyway, she says the info’s come from a mate of hers who used to buy their smack from Ronnie. He’s got his head down in a flat at Lundwood, but he’s booked on board a ship tonight to Amsterdam. He’s sailing from Hull at midnight. But before that he’s got to collect some cash stashed in the safe at Peter Blake-Hall’s club. He’s going there some time later today before it opens.” She took another look at her jottings. “A guy called Scott Riley is picking him up and running him out there.”

* * * * *

It was a Gold Command-led Operation and Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw was running the show from District headquarters.

Scott Riley hadn’t been hard to find; he’d got plenty of form. And they had found a red Vauxhall Corsa, which was registered to him, behind his flat.

Now all they had to do was wait for it to move.

To help with the capture of Ronnie Fisher, the Force Surveillance Team had been brought in and they were currently parked up in various streets around Scott Riley’s address. They had every road and side-street around his home covered; the moment he drove away, someone would be tailing him.

At Peter Blake-Hall’s club — Ronnie’s destination, according to Kerri-Ann Bairstow the police were waiting. A four-man Task Force Firearms team, together with a dog-handler, were hidden behind garages three streets away, and Hunter and Grace, with Detective Superintendent Leggate, were in an unmarked car, parked behind a derelict warehouse on waste ground at the rear of the club.

Hunter was in the driver’s seat, shuffling uncomfortably, his fingers rapping away gently at the steering wheel. They had been parked for almost an hour and a trickle of nervous excitement ran through him. It made him recall his Drug Squad days — then, he had frequently savoured the same experience.

He stared out through the windscreen, his eyes settling upon the rear of Peter Blake-Hall’s club. The light was beginning to fade; a faint orange glow had replaced the pale blue horizon. It was only mid-afternoon, but day was giving way to evening.

As he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, Hunter’s personal radio crackled into life. The Surveillance Team were breaking their silence. The crew in the ‘eyeball’ vehicle announced that two men had just got into Scott Riley’s red Corsa, but they were unable to identify the occupants.

A woman’s voice announced “Target vehicle is off, off, off.”

Hunter gripped the steering wheel — the waiting was over. If it was Ronnie Fisher in the car, then in another twenty minutes he would be here and within his grasp.

Within five minutes the commentator’s voice had changed — the first car had fallen back and a new lead car was now on the Corsa’s tail. Hunter could make out, from the directions and landmarks being broadcast, that the target vehicle was indeed heading their way. For a couple of seconds he could hear the blood rushing inside his ears and felt the muscles in his legs and forearms beginning to tighten. The adrenaline had kicked in.