Secret of the Dead (39 page)

- ooOoo -

DAY SEVENTEEN: 10
th
December.

The Major Incident Teams office was packed. Task Force Officers had been drafted in to search for Lucy’s body. There were bums on seats and on desks, and uniform and plain clothed officers even stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisles for morning briefing.

The previous afternoon, Scenes of Crime Team had visited the cottage where the Blake-Halls once lived. In an area behind the present owner’s Welsh dresser, traces of blood were found in the gap between the floor and the skirting board. That sample had been transported by a police motor cyclist earlier the previous evening, together with a comparison DNA sample from Jessica. If it was Lucy’s blood, they would soon know. The house had been sealed off as a crime scene and the shocked owners had been shipped out to stay with relatives. A Forensics team had been working through the night examining the kitchen; floor tiles and part of the skirting board had been removed and additional dried blood patches had been found - every indication that they had found the spot where Lucy was murdered.

The forensics work was continuing that morning.

The focus of that morning’s briefing was to find Lucy’s burial site, and the gardens of the farmhouse and the nearby woodland were centre-stage in that search. A police expert in body search techniques was leading the briefing.

The slim, dark-haired Inspector, dressed in blue coveralls, addressed the assembled group. He said, “I visited the farmhouse yesterday afternoon and the woodland below the house is the most probable location where Lucy’s body is buried.”

Turning sideways, he tapped his splayed fingers over a large-scale ordnance map, of the Wortley area, Blu-tacked onto Lucy Blake-Hall’s incident board that morning.

“I have identified three key sites in the woods as ideal locations.” He prodded three areas of the map. Each of the sections had been marked by red felt pen lines drawn into oblong shapes. He pointed to the lowest box. Focusing on the uniformed officers, he said. “This will be our first search quadrant this morning. If we get an indication that it is a burial site, then we will fix the area and call in forensics.”

Some of the Task Force officers nodded.

“The weather forecast over the next few days is in our favour and the winter terrain on the ground is thin at this time of the year, so that is also an advantage. However, what is against us is the length of time Lucy has been in the ground, so everyone has to move extra slow within the search grids and keep their eyes peeled.” He wound up by saying “If you find something, call me.”

* * * * *

While members of the MIT department were consigned with the task of finding and detaining Ronnie Fisher, Hunter and Grace’s assignment for that day was to prepare the Peter Blake-Hall remand file relating to the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong for the local CPS. His first court appearance was that afternoon and they already knew that his solicitor was not going to be contesting the remand. Nevertheless, the file they presented before the magistrates still had to contain all the relevant evidence from the major witnesses, together with the forensic information which had sealed Blake-Hall’s fate.

Later would be the harder work, when they had to prepare the case papers for presentation before the Crown Court.

Hunter had a pile of witness statements in front of him and was making a précise of their content. Grace was going through the exhibits and putting them in order.

Grace’s desk phone started ringing. She let it go for a few seconds before picking up. Not taking her eyes away from her pile of documents, she cocked her head, trapping the handset between neck and shoulder and answered.

It disturbed Hunter’s concentration and he turned to his partner.

Her head jolted upwards and her surprised gaze met his as she pointed excitedly at the handset. Snatching up a piece of scrap paper, Grace began scribbling as she listened intently.

Hunter tried to make sense of the one-sided conversation. He could tell from Grace’s reaction and wild note taking that it had to be important.

Finally, after ten minutes, she slammed down the phone. “You’ll never guess who that was?”

Hunter opened his hands and shrugged.

“Kerri-Ann Bairstow. And guess what?”

“Grace!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.” Grace glanced at her notes from the telephone conversation. “She thinks she knows where Ronnie Fisher is, or at least where he’s going to be later today.”

“Bloody hell, Grace.”

“Exactly. Isn’t that a turn-up for the books? Who’d have thought Kerrie-Ann would grass someone up?”

“Well, it is someone who more than likely killed her friend.”

“Yes, I suppose there is that to it. Anyway, she says the info’s come from a mate of hers who used to buy their smack from Ronnie. He’s got his head down in a flat at Lundwood, but he’s booked on board a ship tonight to Amsterdam. He’s sailing from Hull at midnight. But before that he’s got to collect some cash stashed in the safe at Peter Blake-Hall’s club. He’s going there some time later today before it opens.” She took another look at her jottings. “A guy called Scott Riley is picking him up and running him out there.”

* * * * *

It was a Gold Command-led Operation and Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw was running the show from District headquarters.

Scott Riley hadn’t been hard to find; he’d got plenty of form. And they had found a red Vauxhall Corsa, which was registered to him, behind his flat.

Now all they had to do was wait for it to move.

To help with the capture of Ronnie Fisher, the Force Surveillance Team had been brought in and they were currently parked up in various streets around Scott Riley’s address. They had every road and side-street around his home covered; the moment he drove away, someone would be tailing him.

At Peter Blake-Hall’s club - Ronnie’s destination, according to Kerri-Ann Bairstow the police were waiting. A four-man Task Force Firearms team, together with a dog-handler, were hidden behind garages three streets away, and Hunter and Grace, with Detective Superintendent Leggate, were in an unmarked car, parked behind a derelict warehouse on waste ground at the rear of the club.

Hunter was in the driver’s seat, shuffling uncomfortably, his fingers rapping away gently at the steering wheel. They had been parked for almost an hour and a trickle of nervous excitement ran through him. It made him recall his Drug Squad days - then, he had frequently savoured the same experience.

He stared out through the windscreen, his eyes settling upon the rear of Peter Blake-Hall’s club. The light was beginning to fade; a faint orange glow had replaced the pale blue horizon. It was only mid-afternoon, but day was giving way to evening.

As he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, Hunter’s personal radio crackled into life. The Surveillance Team were breaking their silence. The crew in the ‘eyeball’ vehicle announced that two men had just got into Scott Riley’s red Corsa, but they were unable to identify the occupants.

A woman’s voice announced “Target vehicle is off, off, off.”

Hunter gripped the steering wheel - the waiting was over. If it was Ronnie Fisher in the car, then in another twenty minutes he would be here and within his grasp.

Within five minutes the commentator’s voice had changed -the first car had fallen back and a new lead car was now on the Corsa’s tail. Hunter could make out, from the directions and landmarks being broadcast, that the target vehicle was indeed heading their way. For a couple of seconds he could hear the blood rushing inside his ears and felt the muscles in his legs and forearms beginning to tighten. The adrenaline had kicked in.

Ten minutes into the unwavering commentary, Hunter heard the sentence he had been waiting for - Ronnie Fisher, their target, had been identified as the front seat passenger. He felt a tap on his shoulders from the back seat. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was giving him the starting orders. He turned the ignition and revved the engine. The car rocked.

The next ten minutes seemed to fly by. From the radio chatter, Hunter determined that the Corsa was heading their way.

As the red car entered the final section of small side-streets on its way to the club, the chatter over the airwaves increased.

A couple of the tail-end cars from the surveillance team convoy would now be peeling away, increasing their speed, ready to block off any escape attempt by the driver of the Corsa. In a few minutes he would be boxed in and going nowhere.

“It’s a stop, stop, stop, outside the Le Chambre Rose,’” came the cry over the radio, quickly followed by, “Target is out of the vehicle and heading for the front doors.”

Detective Superintendent Leggate issued the order, “Strike, strike, strike.”

Hunter gunned the engine. The car’s rear wheels spun and slid momentarily, churning up loose gravel. Then they gripped and Hunter tore towards the back entrance of the club.

A hundred yards from the rear of the premises, the call of “He’s doing a runner,” blared over the airwaves. Hunter saw the emergency double-doors explode open. Ronnie Fisher came out of them so fast, he almost fell over. He managed to balance, then spun away sideways and picked up his sprint.

Hunter yanked the steering wheel hard, hitting the brakes, and the car skewed. Before it had even jerked to a halt, Hunter threw open the driver’s door and launched himself out.

Ronnie was twenty metres ahead but Hunter quickly made ground, snapping close to his heels within seconds. He barked out the order “Police, stop.” It had the desired effect - Ronnie skidded to a halt.

Before Hunter could get within striking distance, Ronnie had turned and dropped into a rugby tackle squat. Hunter didn’t have time to stop, but before he made impact he threw himself side-on, catching Ronnie full in the chest with his shoulder. They hit the ground together, though Hunter’s momentum rolled him away. As he leapt to his feet, Ronnie was mirroring his actions, outstretching his arms to do battle. In that instant, Hunter locked eyes with someone who had the look of Frankenstein’s monster.

In the blink of an eye, Ronnie reached down snatched something out of his right boot.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he growled.

Behind him, Hunter heard Grace scream, “He’s got a knife.”

He jerked back. And only just in time, as a glint of metal flashed before him. The blade had missed him by a few inches.

Ronnie slashed forward with the knife again. This time Hunter was ready. He swung his left arm across to deflect the blow. It wheeled Ronnie to one side, exposing his ribs. Hunter hooked in his right fist, putting his whole weight behind the punch. A bone-jarring crack resounded and Ronnie screamed in pain as the air exploded from his chest.

He toppled, instinctively flinging out an arm to prevent himself from hitting the ground. Hunter brought his elbow crashing down onto the top of his skull like an executioner’s axe.

Ronnie was out before his face hit the ground.

A sudden weakness overcame Hunter and he felt light-headed. Bending double, he clawed in long gulp of air.

Detective Superintendent Leggate and Grace approached. He could hear other detectives spilling through the emergency doors, scrambling towards them.

Everyone stopped and encircled the unconscious Ronnie Fisher. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose.

Hunter raised himself up to his full height and took in another deep breath. He was beginning to shake. The first thing he saw was the bemused look upon his SIO’s face as she viewed their grounded, bloodied target.

Straight-faced he said, “Reasonable force, boss!”

- ooOoo -

DAY EIGHTEEN: 11
th
December.

After receiving treatment for two cracked ribs, a busted nose and a split lip, Ronnie Fisher was released from hospital at 3.30am, in handcuffs, with a police escort, and transported across to Barnwell Custody Suite, where he was bedded down for the night.

* * * * *

Hunter found it hard to drop off to sleep – he was still so high, long after climbing into his bed. And then when he finally dozed, he slept fitfully. He awoke just before 5.30am and after half an hour of tossing and turning gave up, switched off his alarm and climbed into the shower. He drove into work in the dark, on quiet roads, his thoughts drifting towards the day’s work ahead.

At the rear door, he bade good morning to the day Sergeant.

He sprinted up the back stairs and at the top almost collided with his partner Grace, coming out of the ladies toilets.

Catching his balance he said, “You’re in early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Been putting on my face for the day.” They  were the first ones in the office and while one made the hot drinks, the other put bread into the toaster. They had polished the toast off and replenished their drinks before the first of the other team members arrived.

As they savoured a second round of drinks, prior to briefing, the pair discussed, checked and doubled-checked their evidence, and made a start on the drafting of preparatory notes, ready for their first interview with Ronnie Fisher. They had Mike’s statement, identifying Ronnie as the person who had stabbed him, and they had recovered the knife which he had attempted to use on Hunter. They were confident Mike’s DNA would be on it. Ronnie was already looking at charges of attempted murder for Mike and the attempted murder of Hunter. There was also a charge from earlier in the investigation when he had assaulted Hunter at Jodie’s bed-sit.

The weight of those three charges would be enough to hold him, giving them sufficient time to collate the evidence relating to the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong. And they were very hopeful of getting a result from those as well - like Peter Blake-Hall, Ronnie had kept his mobile phone and that had been seized for examination.