Secret of the Dead (34 page)

“I agree Carol,” the SIO said. “Did you ask this Lisa Aldridge if she would be able to give us an e-fit. It’s a long shot, and I know it’s so long ago now, and Peter Blake-Hall will have changed considerably, but maybe we can do a comparison with old photographs Lucy’s parents have of him.”

“I considered it, but I didn’t ask because of the time lapse thing. What I have started on is trying to determine if Peter owned a red Mercedes back in nineteen-eighty-three. We know he was shipping them in from Germany during the early eighties, and that would certainly tie in with the foreign number plate Lisa recognised. So, I’ve faxed the DVLA at Swansea this afternoon to see if they can do a search of his records and find out the cars registered to him.”

“Good job Carol.” Michael Robshaw leant against the Lucy Blake-Hall incident board, crossing one ankle over the other, taking the weight on his standing leg. “I’ve already passed out this information to Tony and Mike who have been trying to locate Ronnie Fisher and track down the black four-by-four registered to him. I’ve got them parked up near to Peter Blake-Hall’s club and I’ve asked them to update me if he or Ronnie turns up there. So far the pair have gone off the radar, I don’t know if Alan Darbyshire’s arrest has spooked them.” He  turned to Hunter. “Can I ask you to update everyone regarding your interview with Alan?”

From his desk Hunter addressed the group. “It went well at the start. He was unaware of the contemporaneous notes from Jeffery Howson’s safe. Unfortunately, once we showed our hand, he clammed up. We let him have another long chat with his brief but that didn’t help. Except for him telling us that he was with his wife Pauline on the night of Jeffery’s murder, he gave us a ‘No comment’ second interview. He’s refused to comment on the photos which Guy Armstrong took of him apparently arguing with Peter Blake-Hall and Ronnie Fisher and I didn’t want to push him about Jodie’s murder just yet. We’ve given him enough to think about for now.”

“So you and Grace will have another crack at him tomorrow morning?” said Detective Superintendent Robshaw.

“Yeah. His face was a picture when I told him that. I think he thought we were going to bail him. We’ll see what a night in the cells will do.”

“Good, let’s hope that’ll loosen him up.” He uncrossed his ankles and straightened up. Turning to his deputy SIO Dawn Leggate, he said, “And I gather the search of Alan’s home hasn’t turned up anything?”

She swept one side of her hair behind an ear and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Though, if truth be known, I wasn’t expecting us to find anything. He’s had enough time to get rid of anything incriminating. Even his mobile has disappeared, so we can’t track who he’s phoned or where he’s been. And, not surprisingly, his wife does alibi him for the night of Jeffery’s murder.”

“Never mind, a fresh day tomorrow and who knows what that will bring? Except for Hunter and Grace, who are going to continue their interview of Alan Darbyshire, I want the rest of you in here for six thirty am. We’ve put packages together for Peter Blake-Hall and Ronnie Fisher and we’re going to do an early morning knock on the pair. Task Force will be with us and I’ve managed to borrow a few officers from the Community Beat team to help with the searches.” Michael Robshaw tapped a hand on the photographs taken by Guy Armstrong. “If we include the murder of Lucy, these three are the prime suspects in four murders now and hopefully tomorrow we will have them in custody, answering for their crimes. Good hunting everyone.”

* * * * *

Detective Mike Sampson tapped the wiper stick on the steering column and swept the back of his hand across the inside of the windscreen of the unmarked MIT car. It wasn’t just the foul weather outside of the car, a mixture of drizzle and sleet, which was fogging his view, but a thin film of moisture had also collected on the inside of the front screen. He re-directed the heater to demist and cracked the driver’s side window a fraction. The coldness of the night air took him by surprise and he shivered.

The blast of cold air also reminded him that he needed the toilet. He had felt it creep up on him half an hour ago but had tried to will it away. Now the feeling had returned and this time it hurt. He flicked the electric window shut.

After a few seconds the screen began to clear and in an attempt to divert his mind away from the uncomfortable feeling in his groin he focused outside. He had a good view of the front aspect of ‘Le Chambre Rose’ - Peter Blake-Hall’s private club, fifty yards in front, on the opposite side of the road.

Straining his eyes in the dimness of the car’s interior, he took a look at his watch. He struggled at first, but eventually managed to make out that it was just after ten pm. He and his partner, Tony Bullars, had been here for the best part of two hours.

Mike sighed and yawned. He was bored and desperate for a pee. It had been a long day and there was still over an hour before they could call off the observations.

Initially the pair had been directed to find the black Mitsubishi Shogun Sport, and since early that morning they had driven around every conceivable location. Unfortunately, they had found neither the 4x4 or its owner, Ronnie Fisher. It had been a tedious and frustrating day. To make things worse, as they were about to head back in for evening de-brief, they had been given new instructions directly from Detective Superintendent Robshaw himself. He wanted them to drive straight over to Peter Blake-Hall’s club, park nearby until midnight, and report on any sightings, either of Peter or RonnieI. If either of them appeared, they were to call it in and await back-up.

 The new command had puzzled them both at first. However, on the drive to Blake-Hall’s club, they had both come to the same conclusion the enquiry had taken on a whole new direction.

More rain and sleet splattered the windscreen, once more blurring Mike’s view of the street. He cleared the screen again and took another glance at his watch.
Bully’s been gone a long time,
he said to himself.

Fifteen minutes earlier, Mike had announced that he was famished. Tony had responded by saying he had earlier spotted a fish and chip shop a couple of streets away and volunteered to go. It had been a good idea at the time but he hadn’t realised he’d be away for this long. Especially as he was busting for a piss. Mike stared out across the street. In the past two hours they had only counted half a dozen punters going inside the club. Going for a piss would only take a couple of minutes, he told himself - he wouldn’t miss anything, and he’d hear if a car pulled up.

He eased open the door, activating the car’s interior light. Reaching up, he switched it off and swung his legs out onto the footpath.

It was fucking freezing, he muttered under his breath, pulling his jacket around him.

For a few seconds he stood by the car, watching and listening. The only sounds he picked up were those of the rain and sleet peppering the roof. He quietly closed the door. There was an unlit alleyway to his left and he strode towards it.

For a good twenty seconds he stood in the dark, listening to his stream of urine cascading against the crumbling brickwork, sighing with relief as the pain in his bladder eased. Then the sloshing sounds of tyres splashing through puddles fractured the silence. He heard a vehicle stop nearby, followed by the opening of a car door.

He tried to finish urinating but he was still in full flow. Fuck!

It took another ten seconds for him to stop. Thankfully, he could still hear the purring of an engine as he zipped up his fly.

He edged towards the entrance of the alleyway. It sounded as if the vehicle wasn’t too far away. He wanted to see who it was, but he didn’t want to reveal himself.

Craning his neck around the wall, he scanned the street. Parked in front of their MIT car was a dark coloured 4x4. It was the black Mitsubishi Shogun they had been looking for. A dark figure crouched down by the front offside tyre of their car. It looked as though he was letting the air out. Mike stepped into the street, shouting “Oi!”

A face, partially covered by a dark woollen hat, glanced his way.

Mike thought it looked like Ronnie Fisher. He darted out of the shadows.

In the couple of seconds it took Mike to get from the alleyway back to his car, the short, squat man was standing in a defensive posture. As Mike steamed towards him, balling his fists into a punch, he saw a face contorted with frenzy. The man’s eyes were bulging and menacing.

Mike swung an almighty arcing punch, but the man ducked away and he found himself hitting thin air. The momentum spun him sideways and he banged against the side of the car just as a retaliatory thump found his unguarded ribs and knocked the wind clean out of him. A second punch found Mike’s head and his vision shattered into a thousand pieces. His legs buckled and he slumped forward, throwing up an arm in an attempt to fend of another blow, but everything was a blur. He felt a searing sting in his groin and stumbled onto his knees. Then he felt a thump to the middle of his back. Then another and another. A sudden weakness overcame him. There was a sensation of a cold trickle of fluid washing around the sides of his waist and he realised he was having difficulty breathing. A veil of clouds swilled into his brain. The last thing he heard, as his face hit the wet tarmac, was his partner, Tony Bullars, calling out his name.

* * * * *

Hunter’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. For the past half hour he had been mentally rehearsing the lines of questions he was going to put to Alan Darbyshire the following morning. The ringing of the bedside telephone made him jump. Beside him, he felt Beth stir. He snatched the phone from its handset and propped himself up on one elbow.

“Hello.”

“Hunter, sorry to disturb you.”

It was Detective Superintendent Leggate. He pushed himself up further and used the bed head to support his back.

“This is just a courtesy call. I’m currently down at the District General.” There was a pause, then she continued, “Mike’s been stabbed.”

It took a couple of seconds  to sink in. Then he said. “Mike? Mike Sampson?”

“Aye.”

“When? Who?”

“About three-quarters of an hour ago. You know he and Tony were carrying out observations on Peter Blake-Hall’s club? Well it was there. We think it was Ronnie Fisher, but we ain’t sure.”

“And what about Bully? Is he okay?”

“Tony’s fine.” There was a little hesitation before she replied, “He found him.”

“Found him?”

“Long story Hunter. I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. As I said, this is a courtesy call because they’re your team. I’ve called out Mark Gamble and his team to process the scene, and Tony and I are at the hospital with Mike. Uniform and CID are searching for Ronnie, and we’re bringing the job forward on Peter Blake-Hall. We’re doing it in the next couple of hours.”

“Give me twenty minutes boss, and I’ll get dressed and join you.”

“No Hunter. Everything’s sorted. I’m looking after things at the hospital and Detective Superintendent Robshaw’s turning out to coordinate the search for Ronnie Fisher and oversee the raid on Peter Blake-Hall.” There was another pause down the line, then she said, “It’s not that I don’t want you here, Hunter, or need your help, but you’ve got Alan Darbyshire to sort out tomorrow and I want you interviewing him with a clear head. I want what he’s got coming to him to stick, okay?”

Frustrated though he was at not being able to do anything, Hunter knew that what she was saying made sense. He nodded in the dark, then asked, “How is he?”

“To be honest Hunter, I don’t know. He’s lost a lot of blood, though the ambulance crew stabilised him at the scene. He’s in theatre and we’ll not know anything for the next couple of hours, at least.”

Hunter heard her sigh. With a heavy heart, he said, “So you want me and Grace in at the normal time?”

“Aye. There’s no morning briefing. I’ll leave a note for you about what’s happening, or get someone to give you a message when you get in. Detective Superintendent Robshaw will more than likely be around anyway to update you.” There was another long pause, and then she finished, “Hunter, I’m sure everything is going to be fine. You know Mike, he’s made of good old Yorkshire grit.” Then the line went dead.

Hunter hung on to the handset. The thoughts inside his head were undulating like a Mexican wave.

DAY FIFTEEN: 8
th
December.

Grace was already at her desk when Hunter got in at 7.30 am. He hadn’t even closed the door behind him before she said.

“You could have rung me!”

He slipped his arms out of his coat. “It was late, Grace. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He draped his coat over the back of his chair and glanced at his desk jotter, looking for a note.

“But it’s Mike.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry Grace. I know it’s Mike. But I couldn’t afford for both of us to be worried and knackered this morning. We’ve got a big job ahead of us today and I wanted one of us functioning properly.” He rummaged around his desk top, searching for a note. He turned his attention to his in-tray. There was nothing. At last, he focused on Grace. “Has anyone said anything about Mike? Do we know how he is?”

“Apparently Bully and Miss Jean Brodie are still at the hospital. He was in theatre for four hours. They’re saying he’s not out of the woods yet but he should pull through.”

Hunter smirked. “Miss Jean Brodie. Where’s that come from?”

Grace joined him in a smile. “That’s what Mike’s nicknamed the new gaffer.”

Typical of Mike, thought Hunter. Shaking, his head he made for the kettle and cups. “I’ll make us a drink before we get started on Alan Darbyshire.” He added, “Has anyone said anything else about the attack?”

“Isobel got me first thing. She said that Bully had gone for fish and chips while they were doing obs on Blake-Hall’s club, and that when he got back he found Mike collapsed and Ronnie Fisher’s four-by-four fleeing the scene.”