Secret of the Dead Page 2

  She had hesitated when the doctor mentioned her daughter. It wasn’t much of a hesitation, but it was long enough to arouse his suspicions. He had whipped aside the curtain and locked onto her gaze. She had tried to glance away but the look on her face instantly told him he was right.

  He had a daughter. Carol was six years old.

  The news had rocked him. Speechless and dumbfounded, he had sat beside Susan in the hospital cubicle, doing his best to focus on what she was saying.

  She confessed she had ended their relationship because she was pregnant with his child and didn’t want to ruin his marriage.

  After Susan had sobered up, been given treatment and discharged from hospital, she had apologised and made it clear no one would ever find out.

  She had kept her word and allowed him to move on and he became a father for the second time when his wife Jean gave birth to Sarah.

  He made regular appearances in Carol’s life, supporting her and Susan financially as much as he could, and he always bought presents for birthdays and Christmas. But he was never a father to her like he was to Sarah and knew he would have to carry that millstone around his neck until his dying day - especially after the tragedy.

  Carol had gone missing on 12th October 1993; the date was ingrained in his memory. She had sneaked away from the Social Services residential care home, where she had been placed and had simply disappeared without trace.

  Because of her background history, every officer who had picked up the file had written Carol off as a runaway, believing that she had fled the area to make her living off the streets. Barry had thought differently. He covertly monitored the case every day for weeks and had picked up the Missing from Home File once uniform had filed it away. Behind the scenes he had worked on it, even defying threats from his Detective Inspector to ‘leave it alone’ because it was not a CID job. After eighteen months of secretive investigation, he had got no nearer to solving Carol’s disappearance. Deep down, he always guessed that his daughter was dead, but he had never shared his suspicions with Susan.

  So when the news came of her death, it was not a surprise to him, though the circumstances of her death were.

  Five months ago, Susan had got back in touch and told him their daughter’s body had been unearthed. She had been brutally murdered and buried in a shallow grave.

  Hearing the news had made Barry focus on his life for the first time in a long while. He had been retired from the force for almost six years and in that time had lost his wife to a stroke. With his second daughter married, the past four years had been boring and lonely. He needed to get back into the job; get involved in the murder enquiry and catch his daughter’s killer.

  Barry contacted his favourite CID protégé, Hunter Kerr - now a Detective Sergeant - heading up one of the squads of Barnwell Major Investigation Team and persuaded Hunter to take him on as a civilian investigator so he could immerse himself in the case. After three months, he had finally discovered her fate. Carol had been the first victim of the infamous ‘Dearne Valley Demon.’

  He and Susan had buried Carol in a proper grave and supported one another in their grief. Two months ago she had moved into his home and they had begun the slow process of rebuilding their lives.

  “Are you sure we’re at the right pub?” Sue asked as she picked up her bottle of orange juice and slid into her seat.

  “Definitely. The George and Dragon he said to me. It’s where everyone in CID meets whenever they’re on evenings. Or at least it was in my day.”

  “And he definitely said he wanted to talk to you about the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall?”

  “Yeah he said something about the wrong person being convicted. Why, do you remember it?”

  Susan pondered the question. “Hmm,” she mused through pursed lips, and continued. “I’ve forgotten a lot of the finer detail, but I recall the story. It was a case I followed religiously back in the early eighties. I used to follow our crime correspondent around like a little lap dog. I’d pick up all the crime stuff when he was off or on holiday and that was one of the crime stories of the year for the Chronicle.” Susan took a sip of her orange through a straw and then nursed the bottle. “From what I remember, Lucy was in her early twenties, married with a kid, a daughter I believe. She was having an affair with a local guy - I can’t remember his name now. From what I recall she was last seen arguing with him outside a pub in the town centre and then no one saw her after that. Husband reported her missing, and within days they had tracked down her lover, arrested him and charged him with her murder, but he pleaded not guilty and there was a long court case. He made allegations he had been fitted up by the police but the jury found him guilty. That’s it in a nutshell. He got life but he might be out by now, what with sentencing these days.” She took another sip at her drink, never taking her eyes away from his. “One thing about the case,” she continued, still clenching the straw between her teeth, “And which kept the story running in the Chronicle for quite some time, was the fact that they never found Lucy’s body.

  Barry slowly nodded his head, “Interesting.” He took another look at his watch. “Howson should have been here over half an hour ago. He definitely said half twelve to me.”

  “Did you say this Jeffery whatever his name is is retired?”

  “Jeffery Howson,” Barry reminded her. “Yeah, long time ago. He’ll be well into his sixties now. He was a senior detective when I went to district CID. He was on another team so I didn’t have that much to do with him and can’t really remember that much about him but he can obviously remember me.”

  “Weren’t you involved in the Lucy Blake-Hall case, then?”

  “No, I had a couple of years away from the department. I went on attachment to Headquarters Serious Crime Squad for a few years.” Barry picked up his beer and eyed it. There was a quarter of a pint left. He drained it in several swallows, then set it down, letting out a satisfied sigh as he wiped the residue from his thick, bushy moustache.

  “Do you know I wish you’d shave that thing off, it would take years off you.”

  He set down his empty glass. “This morning you were having a go at me, saying I could do with losing a few pounds. Are you fed up with me already?”

  “Now we’re an item, I’m going to lick you into shape so you can keep up with me.” She twinkled her hazel eyes at him. “Either that, or I’ll trade you in for a younger model.” She reached across and mussed a hand through his dark mop of unruly hair.

  He shrugged away from her and picked up his empty glass. “I think you’d best remember your place, young lady” he retorted with a smirk. “I’m going to get another beer. It doesn’t look as though Jeffery Howson is going to show up.” Pushing his 6’ 1” seventeen stone frame up from the chair he added, “I have to say he didn’t sound too good on the phone last night.”

  He suddenly recalled the chilling last words Jeffery Howson had said before hanging up.

  “I hope nothing’s happened to him,” he mumbled as he made for the bar.

  - ooOoo -

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION: 24th November.

  Hunter Kerr eyed the paperwork littering his workspace. He didn’t like it when his desk was messy.

  He had arrived in the office early with the intentions of making a dent in the stack of overdue reports, but he’d been here an hour already and somehow hadn’t quite clicked into gear even with two cups of strong, sweet, tea inside him. The third cup he’d brewed two minutes ago rested in front of him. He dropped in two lumps of sugar and stirred the steaming contents with the end of his biro. Then he sucked the residue from its top and returned to the task in hand.

  Leaning back in his seat, pushing a hand through his dark brown hair, he read over the last sentence he had penned and then glanced up to the ceiling in search of inspiration. He was really struggling with piecing together his report on the sudden death of the young woman whose body had been found in the derelict cellar of a disused pub three days earlier. The main problem was the sheer lack of detail on the front page of the ‘Report of Death’ form before him.

  There was certainly no lack of specifics in the ‘Circumstances of Death’ section on the reverse of the document. He’d been able to complete that part quite easily. A small team of builders carrying out renovation work had discovered her lying face down on the concrete floor, immediately realising from the bloated face and pungent smell that she wasn’t sleeping rough. The foreman had dialled 999 straight away and, except for where one of them had kicked through the bottom panel of the cellar door, they hadn’t disturbed anything.

  Although he was still awaiting results from toxicology samples taken during the post-mortem, all the indications were that she had died of a heroin overdose. At least a dozen empty syringes surrounded her body. Added to that, the numerous discarded foil wrappings and a couple of spoons which showed signs of being heated over a naked flame, clearly set the scene that the cellar was being used by addicts as a shooting den and she had accidentally ended her life there.

  For a brief second, he recalled the first images he had of her, lying amid the detritus of a damp old pub cellar, in the early stages of decomposition and with bits of her missing - vermin had begun to nibble at her purple-coloured bloated flesh. He closed his eyes and shook his head, then returned to focus on the file.

  The only reason Hunter had been landed with completing the report was because the Pathologist had picked up on an injury to her right cheek; there was some bruising and the cheekbone was cracked. The cause of that injury was inconclusive, though Hunter had pointed out that she had been found lying face down on hard concrete ground. If the toxicology report came back that it was a heroin overdose, which had caused her premature death, then he could clear its ‘suspici
ous death’ status and leave it in the hands of the Coroner.

  Before that though, he had to summarise an account of his investigation and that was currently proving difficult because of the sheer lack of information. The sections detailing who she was or where she lived were still blank. Everyone who had attended the scene and viewed the corpse, himself included, had initially thought that the body was that of a young teenage girl, but the autopsy had revealed that the petite form was that of a woman aged between late teens and early twenties. And the fact that she had grey-blue eyes, shoulder length light brown hair, a good set of teeth and the initials ‘J.J,’ together with a pink butterfly, tattooed upon the lower part of her neck, between her shoulder blades was the sum total of everything they had in terms of identification. There was nothing on the body, or in the cellar where she had been found, which revealed who she was. The Scenes of Crime Officer had done his best to fingerprint the cadaver at the mortuary but it had been the ends of the fingers which rats had nibbled first, making the process extremely difficult. Except for the recent tattoos, all he had to go on to establish her identity, were three items. He looked at the clear plastic exhibit bags at the top of his pending tray. First there was the torn photograph. He’d found that, together with the Christmas card, in the rear pocket of her jeans. The half-picture featured the head and shoulders of a man who looked to be in his early thirties, clean shaven, with thinning dark hair. He thought the face seemed familiar. The Christmas card appeared to be an old one, folded and heavily creased. Inside, it had been simply signed ‘Mr X.’

  Hunter wondered if Mr X was the guy in the photo.

  Then he’d found the worn brass key in one of her front pockets, which he guessed gave access to her home, though looking at the state of the key, and given the circumstances of her discovery, he thought that address was more than likely a sub-let room in a run-down rented house.

  He had done a lot of leg-work these past two days and realised zilch for his efforts. He’d reacquainted himself with ex-colleagues and a number of local junkies from his drug squad days, but they hadn’t been able to help with either finding her home or giving her a name. And he had uniform trying to track down any dossers who used the derelict pub, but they had so far come up with nothing. He’d decided that if he hadn’t got anywhere by the end of the day, he was going to speak to his contact at The Barnwell Chronicle and ask her to run a piece as a last-ditch attempt to identify the body.

  The thwacking sound and the sudden appearance of a newspaper landing on top of his paperwork made Hunter jump. He looked up to see his colleague DC Grace Marshall, her slim frame dressed in a light grey trouser suit striding past. He had been so absorbed in the drafting of his narrative that he neither heard nor saw his working partner breeze into the office.

  Barry Newstead followed in her wake, looking rumpled as ever. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder, allowing Hunter the view of a white shirt straining over his ample belly. The tail of one side had escaped from the waistband of his trousers and it was open at the collar, from where the two ends of a striped tie dangled at an odd angle from its untidy knot.

  As he switched his gaze from one to the other, Hunter couldn’t help but smile to himself. They were so far apart when it came to dress and style, and yet complemented each other with their ebullient character and respective work ethic.

  “You’re a bit of a dark horse, Detective Sergeant Kerr!” Barry arrowed a finger towards the newspaper on Hunter’s desk, and shot him a wink as he sucked in his stomach, squeezed himself around his desk and lowered himself onto his chair.

  Hunter snatched up the copy of the local weekly Barnwell Chronicle, which had already been opened to one of the inside pages. There, in full colour, he was pictured proudly holding before him one of his recent paintings. Below it was the headline ‘A Brush with the Law’. He could feel himself colouring up. A month ago, his journalist contact at the local paper had interviewed him about his recent success within the art world. Two of his seascape oil paintings had been selected for The Mall Galleries ‘Royal Society of Marine Artists’ exhibition. It had been the most defining moment of his artistic career to date and had brought him an invite to showcase his work with a leading London gallery.

  Barry said, “Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr uses the long arm of the law for more than just collaring criminals.”

  Hunter caught Barry’s smug grin but chose to ignore the gibe. Instead he silently read the opening paragraph of the article.

  “Fancy a cuppa?” Grace said, as she edged towards the set of filing cabinets at the far wall, where the office kettle and array of mugs sat. She picked up the kettle, checked there was enough water in it and flicked its switch. Looking back over her shoulder, she offered, “Take no notice of him, he’s jealous. I’m very proud of you Hunter. At least someone else has a bit of class in this office.”

  Hunter lifted up his gaze and caught Grace pulling her highlighted corkscrew curls away from her flawless tawny skin, exposing her high cheekbones. He noted that the summer freckles, peppering her cheeks and spanning the bridge of her nose, were now starting to fade.

  Barry’s grin widened and he shot out his tongue towards her. “Give over with your brown-nosing wench and get that coffee made.”

  “Yo’s saying that because I is black, or because I is woman, Mr Newstead?” Grace returned, mimicking her father’s Jamaican patois and fixing Barry an exaggerated piercing look.

  Barry returned a single middle finger salute. “Swivel on that Detective Constable Marshall.”

  It was her turn to smile. Then she returned to making the drinks, pouring steaming hot water into three mugs.

  Hunter shook the tabloid straight and quickly scanned the couple of paragraphs which made up the remainder of the article. His initial embarrassment had subsided; now he beamed inside. He folded the paper and set it aside. He would read it and digest it again tonight when he got home and had more time.

  Grace settled a steaming mug down in front of Hunter. “Oh and there’s a full-page spread on page five in there about the ‘Lady in the Lake’ murder. They’ve covered the case really well.”

  “I bet you’re really pleased with that result, aren’t you?” said Hunter, who caught the glint in Grace’s eyes as she slumped down into the swivel chair at her desk opposite. He was referring to the guilty verdict given to the brutal murderers of a 23 year old Asian girl whose bloated and battered body had been discovered at the bottom of Barnwell Lake three months ago.

  When the job had been called in, Grace had been ‘acting’ DS while he had been away on a long weekend break with his family and she had taken control of her first murder investigation.

  He remembered how admirably she had coped during his absence, both with the investigation and with being in charge of the team, especially given her own personal problems at the time. There had been many times since then when he had lain awake at night, re-running the case in his head, wondering how he would have coped had one of his children been abducted by a known serial-killer. He knew she was still seeing the Force Counsellor, and still suffering the occasional panic attack. And yet outwardly, like now, she continued to display such remarkable resolve and resilience.

  She would have made a good actress.

  “Chuffed to bits. The judge gave me a commendation as well.”

  “And rightly so, you deserve it. I hope the gaffer’s said something to you?”

  “He has actually. Told me a couple of days ago that he’d put me forward for a Chief Superintendent’s commendation.”

  “I can see we’re gonna have to get the joiners in to make some wider doors for that big head of yours.”

  “Huh! Hark who’s talking. At least I don’t have to suck up to journalists to get an article done about myself.” She licked the tip of a forefinger and struck an invisible mark in the air.

  Hunter laughed and picked up the tabloid again, flipping back the sheets to page five, where he found a full-page spread outlining the background of their ‘Lady in the Lake’ investigation, and the subsequent court case, together with a series of photographs depicting the offenders and the scene of the murder. He began to pick his way through the article; he wanted to ensure that the crime reporter had given due credit to the painstaking work carried out by the MIT team on what had been another difficult case.