Secret of the Dead (24 page)

“Okay Duncan, thanks. Dare I ask you about The Barnwell Inn, where Jodie’s body was found?”

Duncan pulled back the cuff of his Tyvek make protective suit, revealing a bare wrist. “Here, take my blood won’t you?”

Hunter couldn’t help but grin. He tried to hide it. “Sorry Duncan, I was only asking.”

“The answer is no. It’s on my to do list. With a hundred-and-one other jobs. It might even have to go out to another team elsewhere in the force, depending on how long and how much I have to do here.”

With that the SOCO Manager made an exaggerated stab with his pen onto paperwork, as if signifying he had finished whatever he had been writing, and turned on his heels back towards the tent.

Grace nudged Hunter and mouthed the word ‘Tetchy.’

Now he couldn’t help but break into a broad smile. In a whisper he retorted, “Just like someone else I know.”

She dug him hard with her elbow as they followed Duncan.

The forensic tent Hunter entered had trapped the smell of the burning. A nauseating mixture of rubber, petrol and cooked meats clogged in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard.

His eyes took in the scene. Guy Armstrong’s Citroen C5 was a heap of charred metal, even the interior had been destroyed. Wire framework was all that remained of the seats and Guy’s body was still in the driver’s seat, slumped forward over the remnants of the steering wheel, his chargrilled head welded into the framework. Guy Armstrong was no longer recognisable. Lumps of barbecued flesh clung to his scorched bones.

The concertinaed front end of the saloon was wedged into the trunk of a mature Chestnut tree. The bark nearest the car had also succumbed to the flames, and the ground around the base of the car was blackened and oily.

Hunter said, “It must have been one hell of a fire.”

Looking up, Detective Superintendent Leggate said, “A fire-ball is how the first fire officer on scene described it.”

 “The petrol tank had already gone up before the Fire Service got here. Guy Armstrong had no chance. Traffic didn’t get here until the fire was almost out.”

“Any witnesses?” Hunter asked.

“Not to the accident. A couple driving back from the restaurant in the village called 999. They said it was well ablaze when they came across it and there was nothing, or no one else around. They hung on for the Fire Service and Traffic. Their call was logged at eleven-o-nine. Fire Service got here at eleven-twenty-one. Traffic about ten minutes after that. They got Armstrong’s details from the VIN number on the car.”

The Vehicle Identification Number etched into the chassis and engine block of the car linked to the registration plate allocated to the car.

She continued, “One of the Traffic Officers has already been to his address. Went at just after two, this morning, but no one answered. They’ve given it another knock a couple of hours ago, but no reply. One of the next-door-neighbours says he’s lived on his own for as long as she’s known him. We’ll check on his personal status when we speak with his employers at The Star again.”

“Do we know if he’d been drinking? The message he left me on my voicemail said he was going to wait for me at The George and Dragon last night.”

“I got one of the Traffic lads to nip up there. The landlord confirms he was in there late on. He remembers him because it was a quiet night, but he says he wasn’t drunk when he left. He had a couple of pints and finished off with a couple of Cokes. Left just before eleven, which, given the distance between here and the pub, ties in nicely with the timing of when his car was found by that couple.”

“And was it an accident?”

The Detective Superintendent turned towards Duncan Wroe.

He slipped his clipboard under his arm, nipping it next to his chest. “Oh the car was certainly involved in an accident. It has a dent to its rear offside and I’ve found remnants of its back light cluster up there on the carriageway.” He pointed a finger up towards the road and then slowly traced it back. “You can see the ruts the wheels have made, where it’s come through the hedge, before colliding with this tree. As to the fire, however, that was definitely not caused by the accident. The petrol cap had been removed and I’ve found burnt remnants of cloth which had been pushed down inside the inlet pipe to the tank.” Duncan exchanged glances with the SIO, Hunter and Grace. “Someone’s fired this deliberately.” He slipped his clipboard out from beneath his arm. “In terms of evidence, I’m afraid that so far we have very little. The entire surface of the car has been burned. We have the petrol cap, but all I’ve found on that so far is a couple of partial prints, which could be Guy Armstrong’s, and some fibres, which indicate to me that someone has also handled it with gloves. There’re quite a number of footprints around here, so I’ve photographed them and I’m going to take a number of casts. We might get lucky, but don’t hold your breath, this place was swamped with Fire Service and Uniform last night. When I got here everyone and their grandmother was trampling around the scene. Your best bet is if you can track down the vehicle which rear-ended Armstrong’s car. At least we should be able to match paint samples.”

There was silence as Duncan’s words sunk in. The magnitude of the task ahead to catch the culprit who had done this, was daunting.

The Detective Superintendent’s head was bowed, as if in prayer.

Suddenly she clapped her hands, making everyone jump. She announced, “Okay, no time for hanging around, we’ve got a murderer, or murderers, to catch.” She turned to Hunter and Grace. “I want you two to go straight across to Guy Armstrong’s place and see what you can find. If you can’t find a key lying around, and he hasn’t left one with neighbours, force entry. Get someone else to help you search. See what Mike and Tony are doing. I’ll clear it with DI Scaife to release them from their immediate tasks.”

“What about Jodie’s PM this afternoon?”

“It’s not going ahead today, Hunter. The Coroner rang Mr Robshaw this morning. He only got the message first thing, so we can’t get hold of another pathologist to carry it out until tomorrow. To be honest it’ will give us a bit of breathing space, especially as headquarters have told us there are no more resources. There was a double-fatal shooting yesterday evening in Sheffield, so we’ve got to make do with what we’ve got.”

“What about Task Force?”

“I’ve managed to snaffle one search team, the bulk of the team have been drafted in to Sheffield for the shootings. It’s believed to be gang related. I’m meeting with them here…” she paused and took a quick glance of her watch, “…in the next half hour or so. They’re gonna do a search here first, and then I’ve earmarked them to go over to the Barnwell Inn to carry out an extensive search of the building and grounds, once Duncan and his team have finished doing a second sweep.”

Out of the corner of his eye Hunter caught Duncan’s expression. He’d never seen the man look so stressed. He looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, thought Hunter.
This enquiry is certainly testing people’s limits of endurance.
He grabbed Grace’s arm to get her attention, nodded back towards the car and mouthed, ‘it’s time to go.’

As they trudged back to the car Grace mumbled, “That’s me in the bad books again when I get home tonight.” She turned to Hunter. “Correction, change that to if I get home tonight!”

* * * * *

DCs Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars were already waiting outside Guy Armstrong’s 1970s semi, by the time Hunter and Grace showed up.

Mike jokingly mentioned that they’d left a DI back at the office very displeased after having his instructions usurped by an ‘incomer’. Mike wiggled his index fingers in the air as he mouthed the word.

“We’ve just left her at the crash site,” Grace said.

“What do you make of her?” asked Tony.

They were close to the front of the house.

“I’m having difficulty understanding what she’s saying,” said Mike. “I’m having to watch back-to-back episodes of Taggart so that I can get to grips with her accent.” He paused then said “There’s been a murder,” exaggerating the rolling of his ‘r’s.’

The team burst out laughing.

“You’d better not let her hear you say that,” said Grace. “Anyway, I think she’s lovely. It’s just what you men need, a strong woman to put you in your places.”

The four of them enthusiastically set about door knocking in the hope that one of Guy Armstrong’s immediate neighbours might hold a spare key to his house. No one did. They followed up by ferreting around the perimeter of his home, but despite a thorough search of all the usual hiding-places they didn’t turn anything up and checked if any of the ground floor windows were insecure. No luck.

Disappointed, Hunter said, “No other option but to kick the door in.” He nodded to Tony. “The back door looks the best bet, Bully.”

“You want me to do it?” he said.

“Who’s the one with the stripes? Stop whingeing and get your shoulder against it. It’s not as though you’ve never done this before. What about that time you nicked those two muggers you chased to someone else’s flat? You told the neighbours you thought you could smell gas.”

Tony tried to suppress a smile. “I could!”

“Well pretend you can smell it now and get that door in.”

Using the heel of his foot, it took Tony Bullars half-a-dozen attempts before the mortise lock finally gave way. With a resounding crack, the solid-wood door crashed against the kitchen wall, its metal security hasp shooting across the laminate floor.

“Right everyone,” said Hunter, stepping into the kitchen and slipping on a pair of latex gloves, “We take a room each. I’ll take the lounge.”

Unpleasant smells greeted him as he stepped further into the house. As he passed through the kitchen into the hallway, his nose picked up the stench of old cooking fat. The untidy work surfaces were spilling over with various plates and cups, stained by remnants of food, and a frying pan, which contained globules of furred fat floating on top of an oily surface.

Then he pushed open the door into the lounge and the sight which met him was not pleasant. The pattern of the carpet was barely visible, every inch covered by a sea of paper. Some was torn handwritten sheets from notebooks, but the majority was from newspapers. The room also contained a sofa and two armchairs. Only the seat cushion of one chair was visible the other two pieces of furniture were piled high with books and more newspapers.

Hunter sighed. This lot was going to take an eternity to sift through, he thought.

As he bent down to scoop up the first batch of handwritten notes, a cry came from upstairs. It was Mike Sampson.

“Get up here you lot and just have a butcher’s at this!”

Hunter took the stairs two at a time and met Mike on the landing.

Grace and Tony were not far behind.

Their colleague’s outstretched arm pointed into one of the rear bedrooms.

Hunter poked his head inside. What he saw took him completely by surprise. The room had been kitted out as an office-cum-study. It contained a desk and chair and a bookcase crammed with books. The desk overflowed with pile upon pile of handwritten notes and like the lounge below, every inch of floor space was taken up by handwritten notes on different types of paper. However, it was the stuff on the walls that grabbed his attention. Pasted, Sellotaped, stuck, and pinned, to every conceivable inch of space on three walls was an array of photographs, newspaper cuttings, hand-drawn diagrams, and copious Post-it notes containing scribbled information. Some of it was new, but the majority of the items had the patina signs of ageing.

Hunter turned to his colleagues. “You know what this is, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “This is everything relating to the Lucy Blake-Hall case. This is Guy Armstrong’s very own incident room.”

- ooOoo -

DAY TEN: 3
RD
DECEMBER.

Barnwell MIT incident room was crammed to capacity for morning briefing. More members of the Cold Case Unit had been drafted in, together with another Family Liaison Officer. An Inspector and Sergeant from Task Force were also present. For some it was standing room only, and the office was uncomfortably warm despite the biting wind and rain battering against the windows.

SIOs Michael Robshaw and Dawn Leggate held court together at the front of the room. Another incident board had joined those of Jeffery Howson’s, Lucy Blake-Hall’s and Jodie Marie Jenkinson’s. This one was full of information and photographs from their most recent murder case Guy Armstrong.

It was seven pm the previous evening before Hunter, Grace, Mike and Tony had left Armstrong’s house. What they had uncovered in his study had been a revelation. Newspaper cuttings and original black-and-white photographs from The Barnwell Chronicle, together with other national and regional tabloid newspaper articles, covered every conceivable bit of space around his small upstairs room. Additionally, blanketing the floor, were dozens of other discarded black-and-white photographs, together with smaller colour shots, as well as hundreds of handwritten notes, chronicling every event, from Lucy being reported as missing, the arrest of Daniel Weaver and the subsequent search of Langsett Moor for Lucy’s body, up to the eventual trial and guilty verdict of Weaver during 1983 and 1984.

The team stayed at the house, going through Armstrong’s collection, for almost seven hours, but had only scratched the surface. They planned to continue sorting and cataloguing that morning.

Hunter highlighted all this when he addressed the room, following Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw’s request for an update.

 “It looks like his laptop and his Dictaphone are missing.” Hunter said. “It was his editor who brought it to our attention. Apparently he should have filed a story yesterday morning, via e-mail from his laptop, regarding the lead he had from Jodie. As we know it never happened because he was killed before he could do it.” He looked around the room. “The editor assures me that he took them everywhere with him. I can confirm that about his Dictaphone, because I saw him drop it when he had his run-in with Peter Blake-Hall witnessed by Grace and I three days ago. We’ve not found them at his place and they’re not in his burned-out car.”