Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

Ten minutes into the unwavering commentary, Hunter heard the sentence he had been waiting for — Ronnie Fisher, their target, had been identified as the front seat passenger. He felt a tap on his shoulders from the back seat. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was giving him the starting orders. He turned the ignition and revved the engine. The car rocked.

The next ten minutes seemed to fly by. From the radio chatter, Hunter determined that the Corsa was heading their way.

As the red car entered the final section of small side-streets on its way to the club, the chatter over the airwaves increased.

A couple of the tail-end cars from the surveillance team convoy would now be peeling away, increasing their speed, ready to block off any escape attempt by the driver of the Corsa. In a few minutes he would be boxed in and going nowhere.

“It’s a stop, stop, stop, outside the Le Chambre Rose,’” came the cry over the radio, quickly followed by, “Target is out of the vehicle and heading for the front doors.”

Detective Superintendent Leggate issued the order, “Strike, strike, strike.”

Hunter gunned the engine. The car’s rear wheels spun and slid momentarily, churning up loose gravel. Then they gripped and Hunter tore towards the back entrance of the club.

A hundred yards from the rear of the premises, the call of “He’s doing a runner,” blared over the airwaves. Hunter saw the emergency double-doors explode open. Ronnie Fisher came out of them so fast, he almost fell over. He managed to balance, then spun away sideways and picked up his sprint.

Hunter yanked the steering wheel hard, hitting the brakes, and the car skewed. Before it had even jerked to a halt, Hunter threw open the driver’s door and launched himself out.

Ronnie was twenty metres ahead but Hunter quickly made ground, snapping close to his heels within seconds. He barked out the order “Police, stop.” It had the desired effect — Ronnie skidded to a halt.

Before Hunter could get within striking distance, Ronnie had turned and dropped into a rugby tackle squat. Hunter didn’t have time to stop, but before he made impact he threw himself side-on, catching Ronnie full in the chest with his shoulder. They hit the ground together, though Hunter’s momentum rolled him away. As he leapt to his feet, Ronnie was mirroring his actions, outstretching his arms to do battle. In that instant, Hunter locked eyes with someone who had the look of Frankenstein’s monster.

In the blink of an eye, Ronnie reached down snatched something out of his right boot.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he growled.

Behind him, Hunter heard Grace scream, “He’s got a knife.”

He jerked back. And only just in time, as a glint of metal flashed before him. The blade had missed him by a few inches.

Ronnie slashed forward with the knife again. This time Hunter was ready. He swung his left arm across to deflect the blow. It wheeled Ronnie to one side, exposing his ribs. Hunter hooked in his right fist, putting his whole weight behind the punch. A bone-jarring crack resounded and Ronnie screamed in pain as the air exploded from his chest.

He toppled, instinctively flinging out an arm to prevent himself from hitting the ground. Hunter brought his elbow crashing down onto the top of his skull like an executioner’s axe.

Ronnie was out before his face hit the ground.

A sudden weakness overcame Hunter and he felt light-headed. Bending double, he clawed in long gulp of air.

Detective Superintendent Leggate and Grace approached. He could hear other detectives spilling through the emergency doors, scrambling towards them.

Everyone stopped and encircled the unconscious Ronnie Fisher. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose.

Hunter raised himself up to his full height and took in another deep breath. He was beginning to shake. The first thing he saw was the bemused look upon his SIO’s face as she viewed their grounded, bloodied target.

Straight-faced he said, “Reasonable force, boss!”

DAY EIGHTEEN: 11th December.

After receiving treatment for two cracked ribs, a busted nose and a split lip, Ronnie Fisher was released from hospital at 3.30am, in handcuffs, with a police escort, and transported across to Barnwell Custody Suite, where he was bedded down for the night.

* * * * *

Hunter found it hard to drop off to sleep — he was still so high, long after climbing into his bed. And then when he finally dozed, he slept fitfully. He awoke just before 5.30am and after half an hour of tossing and turning gave up, switched off his alarm and climbed into the shower. He drove into work in the dark, on quiet roads, his thoughts drifting towards the day’s work ahead.

At the rear door, he bade good morning to the day Sergeant.

He sprinted up the back stairs and at the top almost collided with his partner Grace, coming out of the ladies toilets.

Catching his balance he said, “You’re in early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Been putting on my face for the day.” They were the first ones in the office and while one made the hot drinks, the other put bread into the toaster. They had polished the toast off and replenished their drinks before the first of the other team members arrived.

As they savoured a second round of drinks, prior to briefing, the pair discussed, checked and doubled-checked their evidence, and made a start on the drafting of preparatory notes, ready for their first interview with Ronnie Fisher. They had Mike’s statement, identifying Ronnie as the person who had stabbed him, and they had recovered the knife which he had attempted to use on Hunter. They were confident Mike’s DNA would be on it. Ronnie was already looking at charges of attempted murder for Mike and the attempted murder of Hunter. There was also a charge from earlier in the investigation when he had assaulted Hunter at Jodie’s bed-sit.

The weight of those three charges would be enough to hold him, giving them sufficient time to collate the evidence relating to the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong. And they were very hopeful of getting a result from those as well — like Peter Blake-Hall, Ronnie had kept his mobile phone and that had been seized for examination.

The morning briefing was led by Detective Superintendent Leggate. She congratulated everyone on the previous evening’s success, and followed up by announcing that as of today she was running everything — SIO Michael Robshaw had been called across to the Force Headquarters in Sheffield to discuss his promotion and new role with the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime), and to organise a full press conference to hail the success of their investigation. She then moved on to the real purpose of the briefing — the collating and preservation of evidence against Ronnie Fisher. A search of the red Corsa had turned up several bags of clothing, shoes and trainers, and in Scott Riley’s wheelie-bin they had found a pair of woollen gloves, smelling strongly of petrol or other similar accelerant. With a wry smirk, she raised a laugh by adding that it had not been hard to persuade Scott that it would be in his best interest if he gave a statement outlining that he had seen Ronnie dump them.

She reminded everyone that woollen fibres had been found on Guy Armstrong’s petrol cap, at the homes of Jeffery Howson and Jodie Marie Jenkinson, and at The Barnwell Inn the site of Jodie’s murder.

“If these are the same gloves, then we’ve really got him bang to rights,” she said proudly, and after a slight pause, continued, “It doesn’t end there guys, I got another phone call late yesterday, forensics have come up trumps as well. The DNA sample, provided by Jessica, has helped us identify that the dried bloodstains in the kitchen belong to her mother, Lucy. It looks as though Lucy was murdered there. SOCO and the forensic team at the farmhouse are currently extending their examination into other rooms.” She broke, her eyes exploring the faces of the detectives. “We are almost there everyone. All we have to do now is find Lucy’s body.”