Secret of the Dead (17 page)

“Okay, good work Barry. Right, actions everyone,” said Robshaw. “We’ve got our work cut out on two fronts. Firstly, the murder of retired detective Jeffery Howson, and secondly the re-opening of the Lucy Blake-Hall murder from nineteen- eighty-three. The links between the two enquiries rest with the finding of those interview notes in Howson’s safe. With regards the murder of Jeffery Howson. Sad as I have to say this, but as we all know, our major suspect to date is a retired DCI. He told Hunter and Grace that he last saw and spoke with Howson two weeks prior to his murder. We now know that is a lie. Phone records clearly show that Alan Darbyshire rang Howson on the Saturday evening, twenty-second November, prior to his body being discovered on Monday the twenty-fourth. Given the circumstances, it is not something he would forget, and therefore we have to assume that he’s covering for himself, and, or, for someone else. As we know from the pathologist’s examination of Howson’s body, two people were involved in his killing. Plus, the finding of the contemporaneous notes in Howson’s safe, now indicates he perjured himself in the Lucy Blake-Hall murder trial. We know from Barry here that Howson was about to spill the beans on the whole affair, so it gives Darbyshire the motive for wanting Howson dead.” The SIO tapped the top of the incident board. There was now a photograph of Alan Darbyshire stuck alongside those of Jeffery Howson. It was an enlarged, very formal shot of him in a collar and tie, from Force archives. He looked in his early to mid-forties.

Robshaw continued. “Because of who he is, I want to make sure we have as much solid information as we can possibly get before we bring him in for interview. Therefore, I want as many of the witnesses as possible from the Lucy Blake-Hall enquiry tracing and re-interviewing. If we are still struggling to track down people by the middle of the week, I’m going to make an appeal through the media. Sooner or later the press are going to learn of our enquiries, and I’d rather have them with us than against us, especially now that we know Daniel Weaver is going to be released.” The Detective Superintendent clapped his hands together. “Okay guys, that’s it, unless anyone has any questions or anything to say?”

Hunter exchanged a quick look with Barry, wondering whether he was going to mention Armstrong. Barry never flinched.

The teams broke up, clambering around DI Scaife’s desk for their next set of assignments. The office was buzzing again.

* * * * *

Hunter and Grace had the job of speaking to Lucy’s husband, Peter. They had been told he was living in a renovated farm complex, in the picturesque village of Hooton Roberts. Hunter knew the area well; he had painted there in the past. He also knew that it was a village of two halves. The handful of sandstone cottages and small farms were separated by the main A630 Rotherham to Doncaster road and because of that, Blake-Hall’s home took a bit of finding. Hunter had driven past twice before Grace spotted it at the top of a rise, along a narrow lane and in between cottages.

As Hunter swung the unmarked CID car in through a wide opening onto a gravel chipped driveway, he saw that Peter Blake-Hall’s home was a converted barn. It looked a lavish conversion. A central gabled area set with large glazed doors was its entranceway. It had low walls and a steep tiled roof, in which was set a number of window-lights. Today, the grey tiles glistened, because a light rain was falling from a grey, damp, heavy-clouded sky.

“This must have set him back a bob or two,” Hunter said to Grace, as he slowed the car to a halt. For a few seconds he left the engine idling and stared out through the windscreen. Slowly the image of the Grade II listed barn became distorted as droplets of rain spattered the screen.

He said, “I want to play this just the same way as we did with Alan Darbyshire. No pushing. Try and let him do most of the talking and see what he gives.”

Grace nodded in agreement.

“I’m not going to mention the re-opening of his wife’s case unless he asks about it. I’m going to come at him from the angle of being someone Howson was closely linked to in the past and see where that leads to. I’m only going to let on that we’ve spoken to Howson’s ex if he’s not forthcoming. I want to see what he is prepared to offer without encouragement.”

“I’m sure we will get around to his wife’s case, so if that happens I’ll try and divert him with a few questions about his relationship with her prior to her going missing. See what he’ll also tell us about Daniel Weaver.”

“Good idea Grace. I’ve noticed that file has very little in the way of background. It doesn’t say in Peter Blake-Hall’s statement whether or not he knew about her affair with Weaver. It would be interesting to know.”

Hunter turned off the engine and opened his door slowly. The cold and the damp hit him and he shivered. Checking for puddles, he alighted. Immediately, he heard raised voices. He could see from Grace’s expression that she had heard them too.

The voices were coming from around the side of the house. It sounded like two men, and the conversation was heated. One of them was swearing profusely.

Hunter threw a quizzical look at Grace. “Someone’s venting their spleen. We’ll take a shufty, shall we?”

Locking the car, Hunter skirted past the front entrance and edged around the side of the building where the two voices had reduced to one. Behind him, Grace’s low-heeled shoes scrunched over the loose gravel chippings. There would be no element of surprise.

He turned the corner in time to witness a man in a camel-hair coat being pushed from a doorway, his arms windmilling, as he fought to keep his balance, and in doing so a small hand-held tape recorder flew up in the air and landed behind him. Hunter recalled what Barry had told him about being door-stepped by a reporter the previous evening. The description Barry had given fitted this man to a tee.

In the doorframe a tall, beefy man was spearing a finger in the direction of the journalist.

He shouted, “Now for the last time, piss off.”

Hunter stepped into view. “Having a spot of trouble?”

Both men  turned his way.

“And who the fuck are you?” said the stocky one.

Hunter dug into his jacket and found his warrant card. “CID,” he announced, flashing his badge.

“Well, you’re just in time to witness me kick this man’s arse off my premises for trespass.” The thickset man moved from the doorway and onto the drive.

Grace quickly stepped forward, putting herself in front of the reporter. He was scrabbling in the wet gravel, attempting to recover his tape recorder and the batteries which had spilt from it.

“There’s no need for that, now we’re here. I’m sure this gentleman was just leaving.” Hunter turned to the reporter. “Weren’t you sir?”

The man huffed, snapped the batteries back in place, made a quick visual check of his tape-recorder, wiped the wetness from it on his coat sleeve, slipped it into his pocket and turned on his heels without saying a word.

Hunter’s gaze followed him as he tramped away down the driveway. As he neared the gate, Hunter turned back to the well-made man. “I’m guessing that was a reporter?”

“Yes, fucking leeches.” He turned to Grace. “Pardon my French miss.” Then he turned back at Hunter. “He says you’re re-opening the case into my wife’s murder. Is that right?”

Best laid plans…
Hunter reflected. Quickly gathering his thoughts, he replied, “Well Mr Blake-Hall, we’re investigating the murder of a detective who worked on your wife’s murder. That’s what we’re here for. Can we come in and have a word?”

Hunter studied the man for a few seconds, never breaking eye contact. Then he smiled, though Hunter could tell it was strained.

“Yeah, sure.” Peter Blake-Hall stepped to one side and invited them into the house.

From a short hallway Hunter and Grace stepped into a large, airy, open-plan house. The lounge and dining room were one, and at the far end, through a set of open glazed doors was a bespoke fitted kitchen of cream painted units and light oak work surfaces.

Hunter found himself staring around the room. He was in awe. Without doubt, this was a conversion which had money and time spent on it. The interior had so much space, with a timbered roof structure in full view. A galleried landing ran most of the way around the walls, with light oak doors leading off. Hunter guessed that was where the bedrooms and bathroom were. The majestic stone fireplace before them contained a roaring log fire burning in a large dog-grate, throwing out welcoming warmth. Although the place looked sumptuous, its design managed to maintain a rustic appeal.

“This is a beautiful home, Mr Blake-Hall. The nightclub business is obviously doing well.” Hunter eyed the man carefully. Peter Hall-Blake looked to be in his middle to late fifties. He still had most of his light brown hair. However, it was beginning to grey and the front had thinned to a widow’s peak. This morning he had a layer of stubble. At some stage he had used weights regularly but now the muscle-tone was giving way to fat. Though, viewing the bulk of his upper arms straining the sleeves of his casual striped shirt, Hunter thought that he still looked as though he could handle himself given the situation. It had been a good thing that Grace had got between him and the reporter, or they would likely now be interviewing him under caution for assault, rather than chatting with him as a possible witness in their murder enquiry.

“I see you’ve done your homework on me.” Peter sank down onto a large mushroom coloured sofa close to the stone fireplace, and gesticulated for them to sit in another large sofa opposite. “Be my guest.” As Hunter and Grace sat, he said “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t refer to my place as a nightclub. It’s licensed as a private lap-dancing club. I offer something totally different to one of those vulgar places. Maybe in the old days my place was viewed as being somewhat lascivious, but thankfully the world has moved on. And yes, in answer to your question, it has allowed me a good lifestyle over the years.” He crossed his legs. “You’ll have to pay us a visit. And I don’t mean in the official sense. Come socially one night on me. Bring a couple of colleagues.” Peter Blake-Hall turned to Grace. “My offer extends to you, but it might not be to your tastes dear.”

Hunter could sense Grace, shuffling beside him, seething. He knew the remark would have wound her up. Before she had chance to bite, he replied, “Thanks for the offer, but that might not be a wise thing, what with the investigation and everything.”

Blake-Hall looked perplexed again. “Everything?”

“A throwaway comment sorry. I just meant under the circumstances.”

“My, things have changed. I guess this is what I’ve heard your retired colleagues moan about. Political correctness and all that. The detectives I knew in the past would have jumped at my offer.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s political correctness, but yes, things have changed.” Hunter flipped open his folder. “If I can just tell you why we are here.”

“To be honest I’ve been expecting you. I believe you want to ask me about Jeffery Howson.”

Hunter was caught off guard again. He asked, “Did that reporter tell you that?”

“No, Alan Darbyshire rang me and told me what’s happened. Terrible shock.”

“Oh? When was that?”

“A couple of days…” He paused, stroked his un-shaven jaw-line and then continued. “Yeah, it was either Thursday or Friday when he told me.” He shook his head and smiled. “You detectives I don’t know. There’s nothing sinister about Alan ringing me up and telling me what happened. We go back a long way. But then you know that, otherwise why would you be coming to see me about Jeffery Howson? Let me just say on record that I’m indebted to those two guys. If it hadn’t been for them, my wife’s killer would never have been caught. Since then, we’ve kept in touch. In fact, when Alan retired from the Force I gave him a job.”

This was news to Hunter. He dearly wanted to look at Grace. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her making notes. “He never told us that when we spoke with him the other day.”

Peter Blake-Hall shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no big secret. I took him on to manage the staff in my club. He’d interview and vet the staff for me, and to be honest it made good business sense when it came to getting the licence when we changed across to an official lap-dancing club. He was with me until about eighteen months ago.”

“Did Jeffery used to work for you as well then?” said Grace.

“Jeffery? Good God no. Jeffery kept himself to himself when he retired, although I’m guessing Alan would have told you that. No, Jeffery changed after he got divorced. To be honest I’m partially to blame for that. I don’t know if you know, but Alan and Jeffery used to come to my club regularly, more-so after they arrested Danny Weaver. I treated them to a few beers and the entertainment. I know officially it was frowned upon, especially the type of premises they were back then, but it was my way of saying thank you. One night, Jeffery’s wife turned up at the club and caught him chatting with a couple of the girls. There was a right to-do between them. She accused him of carrying on with one of them, slapped him across the face and stormed out and that was the end of their marriage. I learned from Alan that she had left him. He did come in a couple of times after she left, but it wasn’t for long. To be honest, I had to politely ask him to stop coming, he was so bloody morbid and miserable around the punters. I kept in touch with Alan though, and as I say he worked for me once he retired.”

“So when did you last see or speak with Jeffery?” asked Hunter.

 “Crikey, that is a question.” Peter Blake-Hall stroked his chin and gazed up into the roof space. A few seconds later he said. “It wasn’t that long after Danny Weaver’s trial. That’s when I had to have a quiet word with him. As I said, he became a miserable sod. He came in just to prop the bar up and drown his sorrows. He took the request well though. There was no animosity between us about it. You can check that back with Alan.” Blake-Hall uncrossed his legs, and hunched forward, planting his hands onto the top of his thighs. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“That reporter I threw off my doorstep said you were re-opening my wife’s case. Is that right? And do you think Jeffery’s murder has something to do with that?”