Michael Fowler: Secret of the Dead

Removing the towel from his waist, he dabbed at his damp hair and then fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully. He had a flashback of the earlier post-mortem. He thought he’d seen it all during his years of investigating murders but the discovery of the key in Jeffery Howson’s stomach had left him open-mouthed and it had provided a hot topic of conversation upon his return to the office, where he had met up with Grace, Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars who had scaled down their enquiries for that day.

Scenes of Crime and Forensics had made a preliminary examination of the house, but with darkness drawing in, they had secured 12 Woodlands View and planned a full search and inspection in the morning. Prior to clocking off, they’d had a scrum-down with Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, giving him an overview of events. Their SIO wanted them in for an 8am briefing and then he had ended with a comment that had Hunter puzzled.

Not only did he remind them he would see them all later — MIT had a curry booked at a local Indian restaurant to celebrate the outcome of the ‘Lady in the Lake’ case — but added that he had something important to announce.

As Hunter finished drying himself he pondered on the detective superintendent’s earlier words.

It must be something of significance, Hunter told himself, otherwise why would he have felt the need to make the comment?

His thoughts drifted to the evening ahead.

The Major Investigation Team had been going for a curry on a regular basis since its inception two years ago, and although on this occasion it had been booked to celebrate the successful result from their last case, some of the team, himself included, suggested they invite their respective wives, husbands or partners. There had been a few objections, most notably from Barry Newstead and Mike Sampson, but the majority had agreed upon partners joining.

He smiled at his reflection. He knew it wouldn’t be long into the meal before Beth would be kicking his ankles beneath the table. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he knew from previous gatherings that before even the first drink was consumed to toast the MIT’s latest conquest, talk would soon get around to this latest murder enquiry.

Over the years he had made so many promises to Beth about avoiding such talk, but he seemed to break them almost on every occasion.

If only he could explain the buzz he experienced from doing his job.

There would be one consolation for Beth. She would be rescued part way through the evening by Grace, leaving him to engage in boy’s own stuff, while his wife and work partner huddled into a corner, sharing a bottle of wine and chatting.

The sudden peal of music drifting up from the lounge downstairs snapped him out of his thoughts. He recognised the opening track of James Blunt’s ‘Back to Bedlam’ album.

He turned back to the mirror, once again moving his head from side to side, this time checking the few grey hairs at his temples.

The years are creeping up on me , he said to himself, stroking the right side of his hair.

He flexed his pectorals and tensed his shoulders so that the muscle was rippled and defined. The regular workouts at his father’s boxing gym kept him in good shape.

“Posing as usual, Hunter Kerr?”

Beth made him jump. She had crept upstairs and he hadn’t heard a thing.

She slipped her arms around his naked waist and ran her smooth fingers over his taut abdomen, then dragged her nails across his prominent abs.

For a split-second, his stomach tightened.

Beth leaned into him, resting her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder. The subtle flower fragrance from her perfume drifted over him. She smelt good.

He focused on her face. Shades of brown eye-shadow set off the blueness of her eyes and he loved her cute turned up nose. In the mirror, he watched her kiss the nape of his neck, one side of her bob of fair hair falling across the front of his shoulder.

She caught him looking at her through the mirror and cracked a cheeky smile.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking to myself what a lucky person Beth Kerr is to be married to such a hunk as me.”

“Delusional as well as a poser.” Beth said, kissing his shoulder. “I was just thinking we’ve got a good hour before we need to get ready,” she whispered.

Hunter spun around, catching her unawares. He gripped her wrists, quickly pinning them behind her back. Then he kissed her soft mouth.

As he led her to the bedroom, the second track was just striking up.

Barry Newstead leaned into Hunter’s ear and said in a hushed voice, “A few years ago celebrating a result was a lot different from this. Do you remember? It was a pie and a pint and a lock-in at the pub and you paid for it with a thick head the next day.”

Hunter did remember. Surprisingly, the memories of those nights were as fresh as if they had happened only yesterday. The venue was always the pub at the bottom of the hill, not far from district headquarters, where, after midnight, a couple of the lads would get their guitars out from the boots of their cars and everyone would join in with the drunken revelry; slurred renditions of songs such as ‘Whisky Wild Rover,’ Black Velvet Band,’ and ‘Sloop John B’, would reverberate around the small lounge. In the small hours everyone would eventually stagger home with croaking voices. And just like Barry had said, the following day he would feel as if his head and guts were going to explode.

“Yeah, good nights eh?” he said. “But things move on.”

“Not always for the best if you ask me. I don’t know, this bloody job’s gone soft,” Barry took a long slurp of his beer, demolishing half the pint.

Hunter glanced across at Beth who had already found a seat in the small lounge area by the foyer and was chatting away to Sue Siddons.

The four of them were the first to arrive at the Indian restaurant. Hunter and Beth had got there by taxi. Sue had driven Barry’s car. They had arrived simultaneously and given each other a smiling welcome before entering the restaurant.

This was the squad’s favourite curry house. They had tried several across the Borough over the past two years but had voted this the best. Not just because of its traditional decor, the low-lit intimate feel and friendly atmosphere — it was more a place for couples than an end of night venue for those who had drunk too much — but also because of its food, freshly cooked in the Bangladesh tradition. And it was quiet enough for the team to gossip among themselves, especially about work.

“I don’t know Barry, I quite like these nights out. You get to know more about the person you work with.” He took a sip of his own pint of chilled Indian beer in a decorated glass. “Do you know why I think you don’t like these evenings Barry?” Hunter deliberately turned his head away, hiding a smile.

“Go on, surprise me,” he replied gruffly.

“Because you’re afraid of letting your mask slip or someone might reveal your secrets. We might find out that the ruff-tuff brusque detective is really a pussy-cat with a liking for crochet and basket-weaving.”

Hunter saw Barry’s head whip round. He tried to avoid eye contact.

Barry dug Hunter’s arm with his elbow. “Daft pillock!” He took another swill of his beer, then said softly, “anyway, what’s wrong with crochet?”

They both cracked a grin.

Grace and her husband David were the next to arrive. David joined them at the bar, while Grace sidled off to greet Beth and Sue.

As Grace drifted towards where his wife and Sue were seated, Hunter couldn’t help but follow her with an admiring eye. Grace was not only slim and pretty but she had a real eye for style and fashion. Tonight she had on a brightly coloured print top over a pair of white linen trousers and was holding a suede clutch bag. Knowing his work partner, Hunter was sure there would be at least one designer label to her outfit.