Secret of the Dead (23 page)

“To be honest boss, I never questioned him about what car he drove, because I didn’t want to arouse suspicions,” Hunter responded, “but there was a gold coloured Toyota Avensis parked in front of his house.”

“I can make a discreet phone call regarding that,” piped up Barry Newstead.

The Detective Superintendent turned to Barry. “Okay I’ll leave that one with you.” Then his attention returned to the room. He slapped a hand, palm-flat, against the incident board he was standing beside. “Okay, fresh focus everyone! Jodie Marie Jenkinson, twenty-three year old single girl, who lived at flat ten, Westville House, Victoria Road, Barnwell. She was last seen alive by her probation officer on the afternoon of Tuesday eleventh of November.” He pointed to the scenes of crime photograph which depicted her crumpled form, slumped across the concrete floor. “She was found in this state by builders, in the cellar of the old Barnwell Inn, on the morning of Friday twenty-first of November. We know from the post-mortem that her body had lain there at least a week, and that her blood results indicate that she had a high concentration of pure heroin in her system. Until yesterday, it was believed that her death was an accidental overdose. The information Hunter gained from her Probation Officer yesterday afternoon, the discovery of the burglary at her bed-sit, and the message left by reporter Guy Armstrong, who incidentally was found dead in his crashed car last night, has changed all that.” Michael Robshaw slapped the board again. “Ladies and gents, we have another post-mortem being carried out on Jodie’s body later today, but it’s my firm belief, given everything we have learned in the past twenty-four hours, that she has been murdered. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make Jodie’s death look like an accident. And I also believe we have the reason behind her murder. Her probation officer states that she had a secret, which was going to make her a lot of money and he would read about it in the papers. Guy Armstrong’s recorded message on Hunter’s voicemail states that Jodie was his source for the Lucy Blake-Hall case, and I quote, ‘a couple of weeks ago she overheard a conversation between two people’ which led him to believe that Daniel Weaver was innocent of her murder.” The Detective Superintendent then pointed beyond Jodie’s incident board to the wipe board containing the timeline sequence and information relating to the killing of Jeffery Howson. “We also have tenuous links to Jeffery’s murder, in as much as the man Hunter disturbed burgling Jodie’s bed-sit, and who assaulted him, fits the same description as the man he chased at Jeffery’s funeral.” Michael Robshaw’s eyes moved from one detective to another. “This may be just a coincidence, but I don’t like coincidences, especially when that person is linked with two murders, so until anyone brings me anything different I am linking Jodie’s death to our current investigation. And it may not end there. Traffic are bringing me the report on Guy Armstrong’s accident last night and I have specialist forensic officers joining our scenes of crime at the location to carry out a thorough examination. His accident is also just too much of a coincidence. So with that in mind I’m also organising tasks this morning relating to Guy Armstrong.” He dipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his face earnest. “In the past year we have had our fair measure of harrowing and complicated cases, but never have I known one with as many twists and turns as this. We have our work cut out.”

* * * * *

Over another mug of tea Hunter caught up with his journal, putting in the details of his conversation with Ray Austin and also logging the incident at Jodie’s bed-sit. He re-visited the scene in his head, trying to magic up a better image of the man he had encountered, but no matter how hard he concentrated he was stuck with the mental picture of a faceless, squat, stocky man in dark clothing and woolly hat.

He realised there were still a number of gaps about Jodie’s personal life and he put in a call to the Probation Service.

Ray Austin had not yet gone off to court and the receptionist put Hunter through.

The second he answered Hunter said, “Ray, DS Kerr here. Did you manage to find out the name of the bar where Jodie worked?” Down the line he heard the Senior Probation Officer clear his throat.

He replied, “I’m afraid I’ve not had much luck Sergeant. I’ve wracked my brains since you left yesterday, but I can’t remember what she told me. I spent most of yesterday afternoon checking back over her file and I trawled through the notes of my recent meetings with her, but I don’t appear to have written it down. I’ve spoken to a few people here who knew Jodie, just on the off chance, but as I told you yesterday I was the only one in the office she’d confide in. I’ve asked the receptionists to check with a couple of clients who knew her, when they come in for their appointments, to see if they might know which bar she worked at. Other than that I can’t help, I’m afraid. If I do get anything, I’ve got your number.”

“When you say clients, do you mean friends of hers?”

“Not as such Sergeant Kerr. Jodie didn’t have many close friends. She knew a lot of people, but I wouldn’t class any of them as friends. We have one associate on file, who I remember she was close with, but I checked her status out this morning and she’s currently in Newhall Prison, serving eighteen months for shoplifting.” He gave Hunter the woman’s details.

Hunter shared the information they had gleaned from door-to-door inside Westville House. He relayed what the tenant living below Jodie had told them about the skinny, blonde woman who had been seen in Jodie’s bed-sit.

After what seemed like an interminably long period of silence, Ray Austin answered, “Sorry again, Sergeant Kerr, that description doesn’t ring any bells. I’ve made a few notes and I’ll ask my colleagues here and go back through Jodie’s paperwork again and see if I can come up with the name of anyone that might fit.”

Hunter thanked him, passed on his mobile number, with instructions to ring the minute he came up with anything and then hung up. Next he dialled Duncan Wroe’s office phone, to check if he had recovered anything from his examination of Jodie’s room. His call went straight through to Duncan’s voicemail. He inwardly cursed with frustration and left him a message, then dropped the receiver onto its cradle as if it were a hot potato.

Finishing his notes with a flourish, he returned his journal to his top drawer and locked it. Then, draining the remnants of his lukewarm tea he dragged his coat from off the back of his chair. Looking across desks, he saw Grace’s eyes were glued to her desk-top computer screen.

“You good to go?” he asked.

She lifted her gaze. “Just clearing my e-mails.”

“I want to pay a visit to Jodie’s place and see if SOCO have come up with anything, then I want to go out to where Armstrong had his crash last night. You okay with that?”

For the next five minutes Hunter fidgeted in his seat, forced to wait while Grace skimmed through her e-mails, closed down her computer and returned unfinished paperwork to her pending tray. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the desk while mentally ticking off the things he needed to do.

Finally catching her gaze, he pounced out of his chair and snatched up his folder.

Pushing herself up, Grace slid open her top drawer, took out a lipstick and applied a fresh layer of gloss. She met his look. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

Shaking his head in exasperation, Hunter steered her out of the office and jockeyed her down the stairs, into the backyard and then tossed her the keys to one of the team’s unmarked cars. “You drive Grace. We’ll go to Jodie’s flat first, see if there’s any SOCO there, and then we’ll go to the crash site.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, pointing the electronic fob towards the blue Vauxhall Astra and popping the door locks.

He caught her playful smile as he jumped into the passenger side. As she climbed in beside him and belted up he said, “Sorry Grace. I’ve got a million and one things on my mind this morning.”

“So have I, and not all of it’s police work,” she responded, slotting the key into the ignition, “I was reminded by the girls this morning there’s no cereals left and we’ve almost run out of bread. And David has asked me if there’s any chance of us sitting down as a family and having an evening meal together any time in the near future.” She started the car.

Hunter tried to catch her gaze. “Point made Grace.”

“I forgive you Sergeant.” She blew him a kiss out of the side of her mouth and then engaged gear. “Anyway, don’t you want to know how I’ve gone on this morning?”

He gave her an inquisitive look.

“I was given the job of tracking down who Guy Armstrong worked for.” Grace swung the car out of the police station yard and onto the main thoroughfare. “Well, he wasn’t freelance at all. For the last five years he’s been employed at The Star in Sheffield. I’ve spoken with one of the newsroom editors and he tells me that he was one of their investigative reporters. And a good one at that, by all accounts. He told me that when he got in this morning there was a message on his desk, which had been left by one of the evening staff, stating that Armstrong had rung in last night and said that he was onto a hot lead with regards to the Lucy Blake-Hall murder and would file copy this morning for this lunchtime’s deadline. You can imagine he was in a bit of shock when I told him what had happened. He asked me if the accident was being investigated as suspicious. I tried to give him the usual bullshit about it being a fatal and as such would be investigated thoroughly. As soon as he asked why a detective was ringing him up with these questions I could sense he was having none of it, so don’t be surprised if a few reporters start following us around.”

Hunter blew out a soft whistle. “So Guy Armstrong really was on to something.”

* * * * *

An empty liveried police car parked in front of Westville House was the only sign of any police presence at Jodie’s bed-sit.

Hunter told Grace that he’d only be a couple of minutes and to keep the engine running. Less than five minutes later he was back.

“There’s only one uniform around and Jodie’s room’s been sealed off. He was told during hand-over that SOCO had finished processing the scene in the early hours and we would be back later today to carry out a search. He’s a bit miffed off now I’ve told him it might not be until this afternoon before we can get there. He’s also told me that the landlord came this morning, saw it and is not best pleased. He wants to know how long we’re gonna need the place ’cos he’s got a list of people who want to rent it.” Fastening up his seat belt, he added, “I’ve told him if the landlord turns up again just get a contact number and we’ll get back as soon as we can. Right, let’s see what we’ve got on Guy Armstrong.”

Grace had to double-back until she had picked up the stretch of road which led out towards Wentworth. The crash site was on a sharp bend outside the village on the road to Harley.

Hunter knew the location fairly well from previous drives out there and was aware that it featured a notorious stretch of road where a number of deaths had occurred down the years. This would be yet one more to add to the statistics, he thought without emotion.

Ten minutes later, as they were nearing the junction, which gave them access to the crash site, they spotted a Road Policing Unit Range Rover blocking their way.

Hunter nudged Grace and nodded.

A small posse of journalists, huddled on the pavement beside the Range Rover, gawped as they approached.

“You were spot-on about reporters,” he said.

Pulling alongside the Traffic car, Grace hurriedly dug into her handbag, pulled out her warrant card, pointed it towards the attendant officer’s face and then zipped through a gap without a backward glance.

Less than two minutes later they were forced to pull up again. The small country lane was littered with all manner of marked and unmarked cars - there was even a Fire Service Forensics van abandoned half-on-half-off the road.

It looks bloody manic
, thought Hunter, as he got out and gazed around, though he knew that it was anything but. It was a preserved and controlled crime scene, where everything being done was in strict accordance with the manual on Crime Scene Investigation.

Over the hedgerow to his right, where the field dipped down from the road and met a line of trees, was a large white tent. Hunter spotted his SIO Dawn Leggate and SOCO Manager Duncan Wroe. The Detective Superintendent was just disappearing inside the tent.

He went around to the hatchback, opened it up, slipped off his overcoat and quickly donned a protective suit. Grace followed, and the pair picked their way through a break in the hedgerow and down the embankment to join their colleagues.

Duncan Wroe had his head down, scribbling on papers attached to a clipboard.

Hunter approached him. As usual Duncan’s hair looked unkempt but this morning at least a good day’s growth sprouted from his jaw-line and his eyes were red rimmed.

Hunter said, “You look bleary-eyed Duncan.”

“You would be as well if you’d only had four hours’ sleep. Do you know what time I finished your job last night?”

Hunter shrugged and shot Duncan a ‘don’t know’ expression.

“Ten o’clock, that’s what time! And then I’d just got back to the office when they called me out to this. By the time I’d wrote everything up it was four am before I crawled into bed, and then your gaffer dragged me back out an hour ago and told me they wanted me to go over this scene again.”

Hunter said, “Just think of the overtime Duncan.”

“Pah! They don’t pay me enough for this.”

Hunter blew into his hands. He was beginning to feel the cold. “Anyway Duncan, to digress, did you find anything at Jodie’s place?”

“Lifted a few different sets of prints, you’ll be pleased to learn. I’ll try and get them off later today. Though I don’t think they belong to the bloke you disturbed. Around the door lock and hasp, on one of the wardrobe handles and on a section of the handrail of the banister I’ve recovered some fibres. Looks like he might have been wearing gloves. I’ll process them all the same.”