Secret of the Dead (28 page)

“Until now we haven’t listed them as suspects,” interjected Detective Superintendent Robshaw. “From now on, all that changes.”

Everyone’s attention turned to the SIO.

“Thanks Barry, you’ve done some good digging there, and we’ve also Hunter and Grace to thank for the thorough search of Armstrong’s place. What’s been found at his home has really turned things around. It’s just a shame he wasn’t here to tell us in person. But I think we can all see now why he had to be silenced.” Michael Robshaw rubbed his hands together. “Okay everyone, time to draw up fresh lines of enquiry.”

- ooOoo -

DAY TWELVE: 5
th
December.

The moment Grace entered the office, Hunter said, “Don’t take your coat off.” He snatched up the folder from his desk, marched towards her, grabbed her by the elbow and guided her back the way she had just come.

“Full day for us today partner. Loads to do.”

“What, not even time for a cuppa?”

“Nope,” he shook his head and released her arm as they set off down the stairwell to the rear car park.

“Not even time to put on my lippy?”

He glanced back at her, rolled his eyes and then continued his descent. “By the way, how did your evening go? Back in the good books again?”

“Oh yeah, great thanks. The family thing didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned - the girls went round to their mates but it did give me and Dave some time to catch up. We even cooked together - that’s the first time we’ve done that, for what seems ages. And I got to wrap up some of the girls’ presents.”

Hunter pushed open the back door and stepped into the rear yard. “Crikey Grace, I hadn’t even thought of Christmas,” he called back over his shoulder while striding across the yard. He aimed his car fob at a line of parked cars. Spotting the flash of orange from the indicator lights of a silver coloured Astra, he deviated towards it.

“Anyway,” said Grace, pulling open the passenger door and adjusting her top coat to make it easier to climb in, “How did briefing go last night?”

Hunter dropped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He told her what Barry had revealed. He watched her face light up and said, “Good stuff eh? It’s certainly opened up the enquiry now. Everyone’s buzzing this morning.” He dropped his folder onto Grace’s lap and tapped it. “The DI was dishing out a load of new actions and I’ve managed to snaffle us a nice trip out for the day. We’ve been given the job of speaking to Amanda Rawlinson, Lucy’s old school friend. Remember her? She’s now a Sergeant with the Cumbria Force.”

Grace nodded.

“I spoke with her first thing and she’s day off today so the timing’s perfect.” He drove out of the rear yard and headed towards the motorway. “But before that we’ve got a deviation to make into Sheffield. They’ve tracked down ‘Chicken George’ to a homeless place run by a charity. It’s a place he’s used regularly in the past. A guy on the desk rang in last night. He knew we were looking for him and George apparently booked in late yesterday afternoon, so he gave us a call. I’ve managed to get two PCSOs down there and they’re babysitting him so he doesn’t do a runner. Also, we’ve confirmed that George had been staying at the old inn where Jodie was found, because Task Force found a couple of carrier bags containing some of his stuff in the loft during their search yesterday. There was an old mattress up there and some other bits of furniture as well, so it looks as though he was using the place as his regular doss-hole. The sergeant says that judging by what they found up there, it looks as though George has made a quick exit, so I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s because he saw something which scared him off.”

“That’d be good if he has. Anyway, why’s he called Chicken George?”

Hunter smiled. “I asked my old mate that. He walks the beat where George used to live. He tells me that it was because of his lifestyle. Apparently he was a bit of a character. In fact during the early eighties he earned a name for himself when he had a stand-off with bailiffs and the police at his home for the best part of a week. He held them off with a shotgun. Apparently he used to own this big sprawling house, with quite a bit of land, which he ran as a smallholding, breeding chickens, and the council took out a possession order against him, because it was slap bang in the middle of where they needed to run through a section of new bypass. He was headline news for the best part of a week. Some of the locals held a demonstration around his property in support. The upshot was that eventually they managed to talk him around and he gave himself up. He was compensated and the council re-housed him but he wasn’t allowed to breed his chickens any more and ended up becoming a bit of a drinker and a recluse. In the early nineties he was found regularly in and around the town centre worse the wear in drink and caused quite a few problems for shopkeepers and stallholders in the market. In the end he got locked up a couple of times and did a short spell in prison. He lost his home and when he came out he just started dossing around anywhere he could get his head down.”

“Aw, that’s really sad.”

Hunter shrugged. “C’est la vie Grace, c’est la vie.”

They had reached the southbound intersection of the motorway. Hunter turned the unmarked car onto it and headed towards Sheffield.

The charity-run homeless building was a concrete structure of 1960s architecture on the edge of Sheffield city centre, close to the University. Hunter managed to find a spare parking place on an old cobbled street at its rear.

Pushing through the double entrance doors, they came upon an office-cum-reception point to their right. Hunter and Grace were greeted by a thin, wiry man with wavy ginger hair. Hunter showed him his warrant card and before he had time to tell the man why they were here, he said.

“You’re here for George.”

“Yeah, someone called us last night. I sent a couple of PCSOs just to make sure he hung around.”

The man, lifted up onto his tip-toes, reached over the counter and pointed down along a poorly lit corridor. “I’ve put them in a room down there. They’re having a cuppa with him.” The man lifted a hatch and opened a half-stable door and stepped out from behind reception. “It must be pretty important,” he said setting the hatch back in place. “Can I ask what you want to see him about? Has he done something wrong? Not that I’m nosy, but we have responsibility for him while he’s here. ”

“I can understand that,” said Hunter, slipping his warrant card back into the inside pocket. “As far as we know he’s not done anything wrong, but we think he might have witnessed an incident at a place he was dossing down in.”

“I’ll show you where they are,” answered the ginger-haired man, setting off down the dim corridor. “He’s not too good is George,” he said, without looking back. “He’s been sleeping rough under the railway arches, and the drink’s got hold of him now. He’s in a bit of a sorry state since I last saw him here.”

The man paused by a door at the bottom of the corridor and opened it. “They’re all in here,” he said and stood to one side to allow Hunter and Grace through.

As Hunter stepped into the room, two things greeted him. The first was the smell - a dirty, unclean, and unpleasant stench of decay and stale body odour and the second was the heat, which emphasised the pong. He crinkled his nose.

 Hunched forward in a vinyl covered seat, hands clasping a mug of steaming contents, was the saddest looking human he had set his eyes on in a long time. It was obvious where the smell was coming from.

George glanced up.

His face was sallow and waxen, and Hunter couldn’t help but notice the yellowing of his eyes which were sunken in dark sockets. His collar-length unruly hair was a mix of greys and he had a thin, wispy beard. His clothes had seen better days and the trousers were heavily stained, especially around the crotch area. It looked as though he had wet himself, thought Hunter. On his feet was a pair of new looking fawn coloured slippers. Hunter guessed the centre had given them to him since his arrival.

Hunter nodded to two male PCSOs who were standing by a window. It was wide open. He smiled to himself. The smell had obviously overwhelmed them. He acknowledged the pair with a raised hand and mouthed ‘thanks’. It was their cue to go and they seemed only too happy to leave Hunter and Grace to it.

Hunter took a deep breath, pulled another vinyl covered chair from the side of the room and dropped it a metre away in front of the tramp. Grace remained standing by the door.

“George, do you know who I am?”

“A detective I’m guessing. Those two young coppers said CID wanted a word with me.”

“In a way that’s right, but we’re not exactly CID as such. We’re from the Major Investigation Team at Barnwell. We’re making enquiries into a murder.”

“Oh aye, and what’s that to do with me? I ain’t killed no one.” He raised his mug to his mouth and took a long slurp.

“I’m sure you didn’t George, but I think you know why I’m here, don’t you?”

Hunter was watching him carefully. The tramp’s yellowish eyes darted a glance towards him and then just as quickly returned to looking inside the rim of his mug. That exchange was enough. Hunter said, “George, you’ve been sleeping rough at the old Barnwell Inn recently, haven’t you?”

George made a grunting noise.

“You’ve been sleeping in the loft. I know that because we found some of your stuff up there.”

He shrugged and had another swig of his drink. “No harm in that.”

“No of course not George, but I’m interested in why you left so quickly.” Hunter searched his face again. He remained looking inside his mug. “Shall I tell you what I think George? I think you left so sharpish, because you saw something which scared you.”

The yellow eyes met Hunter’s.

“I’m right, aren’t I George? I know I am. Come on, tell us.”

“Din’t see nothing.”

“You see, just saying that in reply is one reason why I don’t believe you. I’ve been in this job a long time and I know when someone is not telling me the truth.”

George bent his head lower so that Hunter could no longer see his face.

“Come on George, stop hiding from me. You saw a girl get hurt there, didn’t you?”

Shaking his head, he never looked up.

“Look George, we really need your help. A young girl was murdered in the cellar of that old pub and I believe you witnessed what happened.”

“Din’t see nothing.”

“Well maybe you didn’t see, but you heard something.”

George glanced. The sunken eyes were slits.

“Please George, we really need your help.” Hunter waited for a few seconds. When he didn’t reply, he added. “What if I tell you that we know what went off and we have a fair idea who killed her but we just need confirmation. Come on George, you can do that, can’t you? What if I show you some pictures of the people who we think killed the girl there.” Hunter reached inside his folder and pulled out one of Guy Armstrong’s A4 photographs of Alan Darbyshire, Peter Blake-Hall and Ronald Fisher. He leaned forward, thrusting it in front of George’s face.

It made him jump.

Keeping it there, Hunter said, “George, please help me. This is really important. A young girl lost her life in that pub and this is a photograph we have of the three people who we think killed her.”

George studied the photograph carefully.

Hunter said, “What if I say what you tell us stays in this room? No one will know what you’ve told us. This is just between us three.”

George lifted his head and eyed Hunter suspiciously.

“Promise, George. Just help me out and we’ll leave you in peace.”

The tramp shook his head then answered, “Just two.”

Hunter tapped the photo. “Two people in this photo? Is that what you mean?”

George nodded. “Yeah just two, not three.”

“Can you point out which two for me George.”

A grubby hand with dirt beneath the fingernails hovered over the photograph for a couple of seconds. Then he stabbed an index finger at two of the images.

“Those two. They carried the young lass in. I heard them pull up in their big car and then I heard her screaming. I looked out of the window. They were carrying and dragging her. Then they disappeared inside with her. I heard screaming some more and then everything went quiet. I hid upstairs. I was shit-scared. Then they left without her. I didn’t see what they had done to her but I guessed it must have been something bad, ’cos they took off so quickly.”

“When you say they had a big car George, what do you mean by that?”

“One of them big four-by-four things. A big black ’un with blacked-out windows.”

Hunter tapped the photograph. “And you’re quite sure it was these two you saw dragging the girl into the pub.”

George nodded. “I was shit-scared I tell you, but I honestly din’t see what they’d done to her.”

“I believe you George.”

Ten minutes later, Hunter and Grace were shown out by the same man who had let them in. Hunter stood on the damp pavement for a second looking up into the murky grey sky. He started smiling.

Grace said, “I don’t why you’re looking so smug. We can’t use any of that you know?”

“Course I realise that Grace, but what other way were we going to get out of him what we did? You can see the life he leads. How is he going to make a good witness? Do you think he’d stick around if we told him we wanted him to be a witness at Jodie’s murder trial? In fact, you heard what the man on reception said about George. About the drink thing? Didn’t you notice his eyes? They were yellow. That’s a sign his liver’s packing in. Even if we were to get him as a witness, he’d probably never live long enough for the trial. He’s probably looking at another few months at best.” Hunter shook his head and tapped the folder, tucked beneath his arm. “No, that was the best way of doing it. Now we know who killed her. We’ve just got to get the evidence, that’s all.” He winked at her and set off back to the car.

* * * * *

Despite the long journey ahead, Hunter felt jubilant as he left South Yorkshire. He couldn’t wait to get back for the evening de-briefing session to report what he and Grace had learned.