Michael Fowler: Secret of the Dead

Barnwell: 14th November 2008.

A sudden wave of panic washed over him and his chest tightened.

Slowing his pace and pausing for a moment, he checked his bearings. It was a long time since he had been in these woods and the memory of that last visit bore no resemblance whatsoever to the area he was currently scanning. In fact, nothing was familiar.

He cursed beneath his breath. He had especially chosen this morning because of the foul weather, but hadn’t anticipated it working against him. The veil of early morning fog was thicker than he had expected — he could only just make out his boots, never mind the landmarks he was seeking.

Ten minutes earlier he’d left his car parked in the lay-by, at the edge of the coppice, in almost the same spot as he had done all those years ago, and now he was attempting to re-trace the route he had taken that night. But it was proving more difficult than he’d expected. So much of the terrain had changed. The wood was much denser, and of course, it had been nightfall back then.

If truth be known he wouldn’t be here now, had it not been for that letter he had received a week ago. Inside the Sheffield-postmarked envelope had been a single sheet of paper with five words typed upon it — ‘It’s time for the truth’- nothing threatening about the sentence, but to him those words were a shadow of peril hanging over him.

Since then he had slept fitfully. When he had dropped off he had been haunted by images of that night. They had replayed over and over, and no matter how hard he tried to dismiss them, they lurked in the deepest recesses of his mind and leapt out whenever he had closed his eyes. Two days ago, it had led him to kill again.

He’d thought that would put paid to his problems, but he had discovered that there was another loose end to eliminate. Since then, he had dwelt on little else. Finally, last night, he had convinced himself what he needed to do. The next killing was inevitable. Only then would he be able to bury the past.

Before that, though, he had one more important thing to check out.

When he had heard the weather forecast this morning he had immediately realised that today would be his best opportunity; not even the most ardent of dog walkers would be braving the woods in these conditions.

Taking another quick look around, convinced he must be close to the spot, he stepped off the main path and cut deeper into the undergrowth.

Tramping through the dying ferns, he spotted his first landmark and let out a sigh of relief. He was surprised he had not seen it sooner — the laurel bush before him had grown so much; it was almost as big as a tree.

He picked up his pace. The bracken beneath his boots was soft and springy — the moisture-laden atmosphere had flattened the mass, making his trek easier, though he found himself catching his breath and beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow. It was a sign of how much out of condition he was. Always so fit as a young man, the toll of his over-indulgent lifestyle over the years had finally caught up with him.

Stopping in mid-stride, he scoped the way ahead. Silvery tentacles of fog weaved before him, caressing the woodland floor, wrapping themselves around tree trunks, making the search for his second marker harder. He strained to listen. Nothing: everything was so still. Not even birdsong this morning.

He walked on through the damp undergrowth, yawing from his course every dozen or so steps. The manoeuvre had the desired effect, for within five minutes he spotted the oak tree he had been looking for. It was bigger and more majestic than his last memory, but then it had been twenty five years ago. He increased his pace, striding into a small clearing and ran a hand over the bark. Then, turning to his right, he re-fixed his bearings and focused on the spot where he had buried her all those years ago.

A thicket of holly overhung the site.

My secret is even safer.

He smiled to himself. In that moment he felt an overwhelming sense of reassurance and let out a satisfied sigh. Reaching into his coat pocket, he slid out his cigarettes. Shuffling the pack, he removed one with his lips and, cupping his lighter, lit it. Taking a deep breath, while raising his head towards the mist laden sky, he held the smoke longer than normal until he could feel the kick from the nicotine fuzz his brain. Now he was relaxed. Removing the cigarette, he bowed his head and said a silent prayer for himself.

Confident that his business was done here, he took a final drag on his cigarette, nipped the remains and flicked the stub away. Then, taking a last look around, he turned on his heels and began the stroll back to his car.

22nd November.

The relentless ringing of the bedside telephone snapped Barry Newstead from his dreams.

For a brief moment, still half-asleep, somewhere in the depths of his consciousness something was telling him it was the alarm clock, and he was about to smack a hand over the off button when his brain jumped into gear and he realised what the persistent noise was.

Grunting, he forced open his eyes, raised his head from the pillow and looked at the back of his bedside cabinet where the small alarm clock rested.

The green back-lit digits were fuzzy without his reading glasses.

Narrowing his eyes, he could pick out a blurred 22:18 on the clock face LED. He had only been asleep for ten minutes but it felt like hours.

The phone continued to ring and, more asleep than awake, he fumbled around in the dark for the handset. Finally his pudgy fingers coiled around it and he snatched it out of its holder.

Beside him, Susan, his partner, moaned. It had disturbed her too.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he thumbed the receive button. “Hello?”

“Barry, is that you?”

He’d heard that voice before. It seemed a little brittle now, but he thought he could place it from his past.

“Yeah, who’s that?”

“Sorry, have I woken you?”

He was just about to swear and give back the affirmative answer when he checked himself.

“No you’re okay, I’d only just dropped off.”

“Barry, its Jeffery Howson. Do you remember me?”

He could recall the name but he couldn’t conjure up a face.

“We were in CID together at district remember?”

A blurry vision flashed inside his head but just as quickly disappeared. The memory was faded. Suddenly the cogs in Barry’s brain began whirring, snatching him completely out from his slumber. He was intrigued.

“I need to meet with you.” The voice broke off. There was a couple of seconds’ silence, then the cracked voice continued, “I wouldn’t have rung you but it’s important, really important.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I don’t mean right now, but I could do with seeing you as soon as possible. I need to get something off my chest. Something I’ve been holding on to for a long time and I need to speak to someone I can trust.”

Another pause. Barry could hear deep wheezing at the other end — a throaty, rasping sound.

The voice came back on, “They tell me you’ve gone back in the job as a civvie?”

“Yeah I’m a civilian investigator with Barnwell Major Investigation Team. Been there almost six months.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was told. That’s why I need to see you. I remember what you were like in the job; I know I can trust you.”

That was the second time he’d used the word trust.

Another short pause as the man gasped for a breath. Then he said, “I need to tell you about the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall back in nineteen-eighty-three. The wrong man was convicted and I know who really killed her. I don’t want to say too much over the phone. I need to meet with you.”