Secret of the Dead (9 page)

She took another sip of her tea.

“Sorry to push you Katherine. Just to take you back a little to where your dad mentioned about putting things right. You said that you had overheard some of his phone calls with his old colleagues, reminiscing about jobs. You mentioned one of those colleagues as being called Alan. Do you recall anything from those conversations?”

She shook her head. Her dark bob of hair released itself from behind her ear and fell to the side of her face. She stroked it back.

“I can’t focus at the moment. I’ll think all this over and if anything comes to mind I’ll tell you. There’s so much to take in you understand? It would be worth your time speaking with my mum. Like dad, she’s never really discussed why they split up. I have broached it a few times but all she used to say is what’s done is done. I’ll give Mum her due, she never slagged him off when I was around. ”

“We’ll be doing that as part of our enquiries. And don’t worry about not remembering, something might come to you later. Think about it in your own time. Now just to take you back to Saturday. What time did you last see him?”

“It would roughly be about quarter past four. I’d done a bit of shopping for him with Amy. I was chatting to him as we put it away. He was watching football on Sky.”

“Can you recall anything of what was said?”

“Not exactly. I’m afraid I was going off on one. I told him off about the full ashtray again. Cigarettes are what caused his lung cancer.” She took another sip of her tea, cupping her mug with both hands. “But I do remember the conversation we had on Saturday night when he rung me late on. I remember it because of what he said before he hung up.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Tell me about that.”

“When the phone rang, I’d only just poured myself a glass of wine and put my feet up. I let Amy stay up a little later on Saturdays, so it was just after half past ten. To be honest I’d not long tucked her up and got out of the bath myself so I was going to ignore it, until I saw Dad’s name displayed and I thought he might have taken a turn for the worse. I was surprised when I answered because he seemed quite chirpy. He apologised for the time it was and then asked me if I could take him for a run out, the next day, to The George and Dragon pub in Wentworth, he had to meet up with someone Sunday lunchtime. I told him I couldn’t, I had a couple of private work appointments. He said no worries and that he’d get a taxi. I asked him if it was anything important and he said no, that he felt a little better and wanted to sort something out with an old colleague. I feel a bit guilty about it now especially because of what’s happened.”

Tony guessed that when they checked the records, the timing of the phone call to Katherine would follow the one with Barry Newstead.

“He finished the call by saying something strange. I can remember now the exact words he used.” She looked at Tony over the rim of her cup. “If anything happens to me Katherine I want you to look in the safe. That’s what he said. Not ‘when’ anything happens, but ‘if’, as if he expected this to happen to him.”

“Look in the safe?” Tony repeated.

“Yeah, the safe in the back room. He has a small safe hidden beneath a panel in the back bedroom’s fitted wardrobes. It’s covered by his shoes.”

“Have you seen what’s in the safe?”

“He showed me where it was not long after he was diagnosed. He said I would have to deal with everything in there and that he would leave me instructions inside it which he wanted me to follow. He said the house deeds, insurance policies and important papers were all in there. He opened it up and let me glance inside, but that’s all. I never saw exactly what was in there. There were a few large brown envelopes, I can remember that.”

Tony’s eyes lit up. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and retrieved the clear plastic exhibit bag that contained the brass key, removed from Jeffery Howson’s stomach. He held it up to Katherine. “Do you recognise this key, by any chance?”

She screwed up her eyes as she looked at the contents of the forensic exhibit bag. “Yes. That looks like my dad’s safe key.”

* * * * *

Despite the background heating being on inside 12 Woodland View, Detective Constable Mike Sampson shivered. Half an hour earlier he had discovered that the white forensic suit in the boot of the CID car was on the small size for his frame and no matter how hard he had tried he had not been able to squeeze it over his suit jacket. He’d had to leave his coat in the car, and now he was cursing, because the coldness of the early winter morning had finally crept through the thin fabric of the protective over-suit.

How he wished he could lose some weight.

He had tried to take his mind off the cold by busying himself around the crime scene. For the past half hour, using the forensic floor plates as stepping stones, he’d mooched around the house, upstairs as well as down, trying to fend off the chill in his bones. Now he was back in the lounge trying to get an insight into the life of Jeffery Howson. He’d checked out the reading material, including a small pile of various national newspapers many of which were folded open at the horse-racing section. The only magazines lying about were those with TV listings. In a low level bookcase he had cast his eye over the spine titles of various hardback and paperback novels. There was a mix of authors and genres. He spotted Ed McBain’s 87
th
Precinct novels, mentally ticked off those he had read, and tried to recall their plots, but moved on when he found himself blurring one into the other. Picking past Harold Robbins, Clive Cussler and Wilbur Smith, he found the bottom two shelves contained a large selection of hardback Enid Blytons
The Famous Five
;
Secret Seven
and
Mallory Towers
adventure stories, which he guessed belonged to Howson’s daughter Katherine.

Then he’d checked out the half dozen or so photographs on the walls. Most of them were black and white images of Jeffery as a young man, either hugging, or with an arm around a gangly, dark haired teenage girl. There were shots taken at the seaside and in the rear garden, and two, taken at different angles, were of the pair posing on the bonnet of a saloon car on the front drive of this house. These two were in colour, though yellowing drastically with age. He recognised that the car was a 1981 registered 3 Series BMW. Memories flooded back. That had been the first make and model of car he’d driven after passing his test. His dad had bought it for him. It was metallic blue and twelve years old. He didn’t have it long. One Sunday morning, less than six weeks into owning it, while blasting along the A170 towards Scarborough, he blew the engine and damaged the cam shaft and the last he saw, it was being towed to the nearest scrap yard. He smiled as he pulled himself back to the present and focused again on the photos. Mike guessed from the resemblance that the girl with Jeffery was his daughter Katherine, the woman he had met and interviewed with Tony Bullars the previous day.

He couldn’t see any of Jeffery with his ex-wife.

Moving away from the photos, he turned his attention to the back of Scenes of Crime Manager Duncan Wroe, who was overseeing the work of a pretty dark haired girl member of his team. She was running a light source along the surface of a mahogany writing bureau looking for fingerprints; Katherine had pointed out the previous day that she thought it showed signs of being searched. She said that before she had left on the Saturday afternoon she had tidied up the few bits of paper which had been left lying about and rolled down the bureau flap to secure it. After she had found her father dead, she noticed it open and papers and envelopes strewn around.

The sudden ringing of his mobile brought him back to the present. He fished through the gap in the forensic suit and pulled out his phone.

It was his buddy Tony Bullars. He hit the answer button, listened to him talking for the best part of a minute, not interrupting, nodding occasionally. Then he ended the call.

Mike turned to the Scenes of Crime Manager. “Duncan, has any of your team found a safe upstairs?”

Duncan Wroe straightened himself, shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.

“Seems as though Jeffery has a safe secreted inside one of the wardrobes in the back room.”

The detective stepped onto the next light-weight plate and followed the route into the hallway and up the stairs. He knew the bathroom was the first on his right of the landing and next to that was the second largest bedroom, overlooking the rear garden.

He poked his head around the door. Another female member of the forensic team was pulling back the sheets of a three-quarter size bed.

“Have you been through the wardrobes yet?”

She shook her head.

“Mind if I take a quick look inside?” he asked pointing towards the dark wood floor-to-ceiling fitted wardrobes.

“Try to touch as little of the surface as you can,” she replied.

Most of the bedroom floor was covered with plastic sheeting. It crackled as he stepped across the room. Opening the right hand door of the first set of double wardrobes with one finger through the handle, he spied a row of well polished shoes lined up in two rows along the floor space. He took them out carefully. There were six pairs in total and he laid them out along the plastic sheeting. Then he smoothed his latex gloved hand over the flat veneer surface, searching for a way to lift the board. Within seconds, he had found a hole drilled in one corner, just large enough to slot his forefinger inside. He gave a quick yank and the board shot up.

“Bingo!” He spotted the green metal safe tucked into the far corner. It wasn’t large, roughly thirty centimetres square. He tested to see if it would move by prising his fingers into a gap at the back. It was set fast and he guessed it had been bolted into the floor joists beneath. It had been fitted so that the door was facing upwards. A chunky brass coloured handle was set off-centre and a key-hole was to one side. He gripped the handle and tried it. There was no movement. He took out his mobile and speed-dialled his partner.

* * * * *

Tony Bullars turned up ten minutes later. He had left DC Ragen with Katherine, working through the history and background details of her father.

Calling Mike from the hallway, he bounded up the stairs and joined him in the bedroom.

Mike pointed out the safe and Tony removed the small brass key from the sealed clear plastic exhibit bag. On bended knees, he leaned inside the wardrobe and tried it.

“Fits,” he called back excitedly, turning the key. The door, though surprisingly heavy for its size, opened upwards smoothly. In the gloom, Tony could make out a number of packages and envelopes. He took each one out individually, using only finger and thumb, and passed them back.

Mike laid them out on the plastic sheeting.

Running a hand around the inside of the safe, satisfying himself it was empty, Tony pushed himself up and turned to his colleague. In better light he was able to see the contents from the safe more clearly. There were two small Jiffy bags and three envelopes, A4 size. Each was marked in neat copperplate handwriting. He scanned the packages, picking out the words ‘last will and testament’ and ‘life insurance’ on two of the envelopes.

“That’s the one we want,” said Mike, picking up a brown envelope. He handed it to his partner.

Tony Bullars read the words written across the front and felt at the package. It was apparent to him from its thickness and flexibility that it contained a small wad of paper. He turned the envelope over. It had been stuck down and additionally sealed with sticking tape. He turned it back and re-read the front sentence neatly written in black ink.

‘For the attention of Barry Newstead’

* * * * *

Hunter stretched in his chair, hooked his hands behind his head and gazed around the incident room. It was the first time in over an hour that he had looked up from his desk. He and Grace had got back from the Cold Case Unit at midday, and over a sandwich and mug of tea he had immediately delved into the Lucy Blake-Hall murder prosecution file. Now he became conscious of the noise levels and activity going on around him and realised that he had immersed himself in the story of the 1984 trial of Daniel Weaver, who had been charged with his part in the killing of Lucy, and he’d been oblivious to the work going on in the room. He spotted his counterpart, DS Mark Gamble, leaning back in his chair, one leg propped upon the corner of his desk, a telephone handset clamped between his right shoulder and ear, doing more listening than talking.

Grace was at the front of the room leaning over a long table, moving postcard size buff coloured cards across the surface like a croupier in charge of a Black Jack table. In front of her were row upon row of similar cards and she appeared to be switching or adding to the piles she had created. He realised she was sorting out the old recording index system from one of the case boxes.

“Having fun?”

She looked up. “Having fun? This is a nightmare. It’s like sorting out a thousand piece jigsaw with some of the bits missing. I can’t make head nor tail of some of the cross-referencing or the information written on some of these cards.”

“You can see how they made so many mistakes with the Ripper enquiry, can’t you? That’s why they introduced HOLMES.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m hoping that when I start going through some of the paperwork it will all fall into place.”

“I’m sure it will Grace.” He unhooked his hands and pointed to the bound prosecution document he had just read. “Interesting story, and a well put together file. The summary is a lot more long-winded than some of today’s files but it makes for good reading. In fact, having read it, I’m puzzled now why Jeffery Howson made that phone call to Barry, because on paper the job seems cut and dried. The evidence against Lucy Blake-Hall’s killer is so strong.”

Grace pushed herself up and stretched her spine. “Give me a quick run-down then and fill me in. It might help me make some sense of this lot that I’ve got to sort out.”

“Okay, briefly, Lucy was just twenty-two years old when she disappeared back in August nineteen-eighty-three. At the time, she was married with a young daughter…” Hunter paused and glanced down at some notes he had made, “…Jessica,” he added and continued with his narration. “It appears she’d been having an affair with a guy called Daniel Weaver for approximately six months and he’d made arrangements to rent a place in St. Neots, near Cambridge, where they were going to live together. On the night of her disappearance, he checked his notes again, “Friday the twenty-sixth - the start of the Bank Holiday weekend - witnesses saw her and Daniel together in a pub, and an hour later they were seen arguing in the market place. That’s the last anyone saw of her. Husband reported her missing the Saturday morning and when Daniel was paid a visit a day later, on the Sunday, he had scratches to his face so he was arrested. Jeffery Howson and a Detective Sergeant Alan Darbyshire were the arresting officers and they had several interviews with him. Initially he denied the affair and denied meeting her on the Friday. On the second interview he changed his story. He admitted the affair and admitted seeing her that Friday. He also admitted that the marks to his face were caused by Lucy. He said they had rowed because she had changed her mind about running away together. His place was searched and they found Lucy’s handbag hidden among some sacks in his garden shed. In a third interview Weaver confessed to killing her. That’s it, in a nutshell.”