Secret of the Dead (15 page)

Jeffery Howson’s witness statement was the first he had earmarked, and he pinched together the dozen or so typed sheets and settled back against the tan leather upholstery of the sofa to read through it again, slowly. This was one piece of evidence he couldn’t afford to rush through - this, and the testimony of Alan Darbyshire were the crucial accounts which had condemned Daniel all those years ago and he concentrated on the facts and comments they had recorded. The forensic results had come back on the notes found in Jeffery Howson’s safe - the tests on the paper and the ink had confirmed that they dated back to 1983. Daniel Weaver’s conviction was now unsafe and he knew that Detective Superintendents Robshaw and Leggate had a meeting scheduled that morning with CPS to discuss the latest developments. The likelihood was that Daniel Weaver’s case would be presented before the High Court inside the next seven days and he would be released on bail pending a re-trial. Hunter knew that this afternoon’s interview was not going to be easy. Weaver’s solicitor had already started asking pointed questions.

Next to him was a pile of foolscap papers, each one covered by a series of boxed grids, Hunter’s own personal index system to record and summarise the evidence in each individual witness statement. On one side of the A4 sheets were the names of all thirty-two witnesses within the file; on the opposite side was a section for noting a summary of their evidence. Some had very little to say, but others had played a crucial role in Daniel Weaver’s prosecution. The evidence was in two parts - independent witnesses, who had seen Daniel and Lucy together on the night of her disappearance, and police witnesses, including forensics. Hunter knew some of the detectives who had been involved in the investigation. They were all retired now and he wondered what their reaction would be when he broke the news that the case was being re-opened. Given the new nature of the investigation, he wondered if they would be willing to talk. This was going to be a very uncomfortable case to examine, he told himself.

From time to time, as he read through Jeffery Howson’s statement, he paused and made notes on important points. When he got to the part detailing the first visit to Daniel Weaver’s flat, two days after her disappearance, he turned to the folders of bound black and white crime scene photographs, picked up the booklet which contained the interior shots of Weaver’s flat and slowly thumbed through the images. The ones he was especially interested in were those of the garden shed where Lucy’s handbag had been discovered. There were two close-up shots of a small, fake leather bag, which Jeffery Howson’s statement, told him was cream coloured, poking out of a pile of hemp sacking beneath a bench. The discovery had been crucial to the prosecution’s case and was now one of the pieces of evidence being put under his spotlight. The other photos of interest to him were of Daniel Weaver himself, particularly the close-up head shots of the left-hand side of his face and the three diagonal scratch marks on his cheek. Unlike the allegations of the ‘planting’ of evidence, which surrounded the finding of Lucy’s handbag, there was no such question mark over how Daniel Weaver had obtained his injuries. He had already admitted they had been caused by Lucy. He had stated both in his statement and at his trial that they had been caused when she had pulled away from him during their argument in the market place.

Hunter sighed as he finished reading Jeffery Howson’s statement. The evidence appeared so precise, yet most of Howson’s testimony was in doubt because of the contemporaneous notes found in his bedroom safe. If only he had left a note explaining matters, Hunter thought. As he set aside Howson’s statement and picked up Alan Darbyshire’s, he let out another sigh. He knew this was going to mirror exactly what he had just read, but nevertheless he had to scrutinise it thoroughly before the interview with Daniel Weaver that afternoon.

* * * * *

Hunter steered the MIT car into HMP Wakefield car park and aimed it, nose first, into an empty visitors’ parking space. He killed the engine.

“What do think the reception’s going to be like?” Grace asked, pulling down the passenger side mirror, wetting the tip of her right index finger and smoothing it across her right eyebrow.

“I think Daniel Weaver’s going to be pretty pissed off,” said Hunter as he gazed at the fortified entrance gates of the Victorian prison. “And I guess he’s every right to be. Although, if you had asked me that same question before we found those contemporaneous notes in Howson’s safe I would have given you a different answer. I’ve read the prosecution file three times now and know it back to front. At the time of his trial, you can see why the jury returned a guilty verdict. Several witnesses saw him and Lucy arguing that night and no one saw her again after that. And there is no one who can alibi Daniel Weaver after he left the market place. He told police he went home, got drunk and then the next morning went to his mother’s house for breakfast. Weaver lived alone and no one saw him come or go. His only comments in his defence is that he had no idea where Lucy had gone once she left him and that the police planted the handbag in the shed and then fabricated his confession. We now know the last part of that could be true.”

“I spoke with Prison Intelligence yesterday to get a bit of background on Weaver. It appears he’s kept himself to himself at every prison he’s been in. There are times when he has been a pain in the arse, as the prison officer put it, because he regularly challenged officers when he felt he was being badly treated. For that he served some time in the punishment block. Added to that, he also refused to engage in any prisoner therapy; one of the main reasons why he hasn’t been considered for parole or early release.” Flipping the mirror back up in place, Grace added, “Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”

Hunter shook his head, “Not exactly. I’ve got an idea of where I want it to go.” Hunter reached behind and pulled a bulging folder from the back seat. “I’ve made notes and I’d like to lead him back through that night, but it all depends on what his brief has advised him to say.”

Tucking the folder beneath his arm, Hunter locked the car and strode towards the prison gates. Grace trotted beside him.

At reception, Hunter produced his warrant card and appointment letter, after which he and Grace passed through metal sliding doors into the search area, where they emptied their pockets into trays and stepped through the airport style electronic security portal. Then they were taken to the main hall, where the wives, girlfriends and families of prisoners had all congregated to meet their loved ones and children were chasing around screaming at one another.

They were shown into a small room just off the main hall which mirrored one of their own interview rooms back at the police station. As the door closed behind them, most of the noise muted. In the centre of the room was a table, the surface of which had been well-graffitied and gouged, together with four chairs, all secured to the floor. Hunter and Grace each took a seat.

They had been waiting in silence for less than ten minutes when the door opened and Daniel Weaver appeared. He was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. Behind him was a well groomed man in a suit, who Hunter guessed was his solicitor. A prison officer stood behind the pair.

Daniel entered the room first. He had his hands in his pockets and as he took a seat opposite, lifted them out, and folded them in defiant pose.

Hunter remembered the head and shoulders black-and-white shots he had seen of Daniel. He still had his curly hair, though it was showing distinct signs of thinning and much of it was greying. They were roughly the same size, with well-developed shoulders and arms, but unlike himself, Daniel was carrying a paunch.

Hunter asked him if he wanted a drink. Daniel Weaver shook his head.

“Daniel, do you know why we are here?”

“Yeah, my brief’s told me. You’re here to apologise for fitting me up and negotiate the amount of compensation I’m due.”

The reply threw Hunter for a second. He fixed his gaze and forced a smile. “That’s not my job Daniel. That’s something for your solicitor and the Home Secretary. I’m here to tell you that we’re re-opening your case and I want to ask you some questions.”

Daniel leant forward and rested his folded arms upon the table. “You’ve got a nerve. The last time I was asked questions by your lot, I got thirty years.”

“That wasn’t me, Daniel.”

“No, but you’re all the same.”

“Believe me, we’re not all the same,” said Grace.

Daniel Weaver pushed himself back in his chair, pursed his lips and shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Daniel I have read your prosecution file from nineteen-eighty-four and I went to go back over the events of what happened between you and Lucy.”

“No offence like, but if you think you’re gonna get any help from me you’ve got another think coming. You lot got it so wrong back then and I was fitted up. Now you’re trying to make amends. I’ve done twenty-five years for something I didn’t do and you come here with your false smiles and expect me to help you. You can take your questions and shove them up your arse.”

“I realise there’s a lot of things going through your mind right now Daniel. And you’ve every right to feel bitter towards the police, but I can assure you this time things will be different and I hope you will be willing to co-operate.”

“Co-operate! You have got to be joking. Look what happened the last time I co-operated.”

“Okay Daniel let me try a different approach. Are you aware the reason why we have re-opened the investigation into Lucy’s disappearance back in nineteen-eighty-three?” He watched his face a second. There was no reaction. “Okay I’ll tell you. A detective involved in that case has been murdered and has left behind some evidence which raises questions about one of the interviews with you when you were arrested.”

“Is it Darbyshire or Howson?”

“All that will become clearer to you in the next few days. At the moment that’s not an issue. What is, however, is the new piece of evidence we have discovered which casts doubt over one of your initial interviews.”

“But knowing which one of the bent bastards is dead is important to me,” he answered determinedly. “It’s so gratifying to know that one of them has finally got their just deserts. The other one will get his payback as well, once I’m out of here.”

The solicitor, who until Daniel’s outburst, had been making notes with a poker-face, quickly looked up. He reached across and grasped Weaver’s wrist, then turned to Hunter.

“As you can appreciate detective, my client is a little frustrated. This news has been a complete shock.”

Daniel shook off the solicitor’s grip. “Frustrated! Fucking frustrated! That is an understatement! I’m fucking furious. You have the audacity to come here after twenty-five years and ask me to help you out with your enquiries into a murder which I was stitched up with and you expect me to be nicey-nicey about it all? That’s a fucking joke.” He pushed himself up. “I’ll find out soon enough which one of those cops is dead and I’ll tell you now the only tears you’ll find me shedding, are those of joy. And I want you to pass on a message to the one who’s still around. You tell him he’d better keep looking over his shoulder.”

“Is that a threat?”

Daniel made for the door. As he grabbed the handle he turned to face Hunter. “You bet it is.” Then he stormed out of the room.

The solicitor quickly scooped up his papers and made to follow his client. “Mr Weaver doesn’t mean anything by that detective. I’ll have a word with him once he calms down.

He almost skipped out of the room. Hunter could hear him shouting after his client, his voice drifting away into the distance.

Hunter pulled together his own loose papers, tapped the edges level and slipped them into his folder. Snapping shut the cover he said, “Well Grace, that didn’t turn out the way I had planned.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t say it was one of your best interviews, would you?”

* * * * *

Barry Newstead still had a flush on from his evening bath and had just got to the bottom of the stairs, tucking his shirt into his trousers, when the doorbell went. He got a view of the top half of a silhouetted figure through the frosted glazing of the front door. He opened it. Standing in the porch was a man, the same size and shape as himself, with close-cut, salt-and-pepper, greying hair. His hands were thrust deep into a long, camel-hair coat.

“Sue Siddons?” the man enquired, his voice nasal and high-pitched.

“You are?” Barry replied, sucking in his belly as he pulled the leather belt through its buckle to secure his shirt into his waistband.

“Guy Armstrong,” said the man, holding out his hand to shake. “I used to work with Sue on the Barnwell Chronicle many years ago.”

Barry didn’t take the hand. He fastened up his shirt cuffs.

“She has mentioned you.” He looked a lot older than Sue had described, but then she had been drawing on memories from over twenty years ago and a lot had gone on in her life since then.

“You must be Barry. She’s told me about you as well.”

Barry’s face set tight.

“Can I speak to her?”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“She didn’t say that on the phone when I spoke with her yesterday afternoon.”

“Well she’s decided that now, since she’s spoken to me.”

A sly grin crept across his mouth. “Typical cop.”

“Ex-cop.”

“But you still have a fear of reporters?”

“Not a fear. Just don’t like them.”

“Sue’s mentioned that you’re working on the murder of a retired detective who was involved with the Lucy Blake-Hall case back in ninety-eighty-three. I worked on that case and I have a source who believes they know who killed her all those years ago; I only want a quick chat – a bit of background about this detective’s murder. I won’t reveal my source.”

“Mr Armstrong, you managed to catch Sue off guard yesterday afternoon. She’s already told you more than she should have done. Now you may have been colleagues all those years back, but she is no longer a reporter, and I would prefer it if you left her alone. She has nothing else to say to you about either the Lucy Blake-Hall case or about the death of one of my former colleagues.”