Secret of the Dead

Caffeine Nights Publishing

SECRETS OF

THE DEAD

The third novel in the

 DS Hunter Kerr series.

Michael Fowler

Fiction aimed at the heart

              and the head...

Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2013

Copyright © Michael Fowler 2013

Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.

CONDITIONS OF SALE

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

www.caffeine-nights.com

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-907565-59-5

Cover design by

Mark (Wills) Williams

Everything else by

Default, Luck and Accident

SECRETS OF THE DEAD

Secrets taken to the grave cannot remain hidden forever…..

MICHAEL FOWLER

Michael was born and grew up in the once industrial heartland of South Yorkshire and still lives there with his wife and two sons.

He served as a police officer for thirty-two years, both in uniform and in plain clothes, working in CID, Vice Squad and Drug Squad, and retired as an Inspector in charge of a busy CID Department in 2006.

Secrets of the Dead
is the third novel in the DS Hunter Kerr series.

Aside from writing, his other passion is painting, and as a professional artist he has numerous artistic accolades to his name. His work can be found in numerous galleries throughout the UK.

He is a member of the Crime Writers Association.

He can be contacted via his website at www.mjfowler.co.uk

By the same author:

HEART OF THE DEMON

COLD DEATH

Acknowledgements

The idea for this story was sparked by an exercise at The Rawmarsh Writers Group, so I am grateful to Margaret Ardron for that. Though, without the help of others this would never have come to fruition. Therefore I have to thank Detective Sergeant Ian Harding, who runs South Yorkshire’s Cold Case Unit. He gave me an invaluable insight into their working practices and also some great quotes, which I couldn’t resist borrowing.

Once more I owe a debt of gratitude to Stuart Sosnowski, CSI Supervisor, South Yorkshire Police, who never lets me down, no matter how many crime scenes I conjure up in my imagination for him to process.

Also to PC Steve Cook, Task Force, with whom I frequently swap stories in the pub and who gave me the ending for this novel.

I want to thank Liz, not only for her continuing support, but also for spending the time to patiently go through my first edit. Also, to Janet Williamson, who read the finished story and provided advice towards its final edit.

Finally, I have to give special mention to Darren Laws at Caffeine Nights Publishing. Darren has worked tirelessly to support and promote me in the short time-span I have been with them and never loses his patience, no matter how many times I decide to change things after submission. Thank you Darren.

To my loving wife Liz, for all the support and encouragement she has given me over the years, enabling me to write and paint.

Barnwell: 14
th
November 2008.

A sudden wave of panic washed over him and his chest tightened.

Slowing his pace and pausing for a moment, he checked his bearings. It was a long time since he had been in these woods and the memory of that last visit bore no resemblance whatsoever to the area he was currently scanning. In fact, nothing was familiar.

He cursed beneath his breath. He had especially chosen this morning because of the foul weather, but hadn’t anticipated it working against him. The veil of early morning fog was thicker than he had expected - he could only just make out his boots, never mind the landmarks he was seeking.

Ten minutes earlier he’d left his car parked in the lay-by, at the edge of the coppice, in almost the same spot as he had done all those years ago, and now he was attempting to re-trace the route he had taken that night. But it was proving more difficult than he’d expected. So much of the terrain had changed. The wood was much denser, and of course, it had been nightfall back then.

If truth be known he wouldn’t be here now, had it not been for that letter he had received a week ago. Inside the Sheffield-postmarked envelope had been a single sheet of paper with five words typed upon it -‘It’s time for the truth’– nothing threatening about the sentence, but to him those words were a shadow of peril hanging over him.

Since then he had slept fitfully. When he had dropped off he had been haunted by images of that night. They had replayed over and over, and no matter how hard he tried to dismiss them, they lurked in the deepest recesses of his mind and leapt out whenever he had closed his eyes. Two days ago, it had led him to kill again.

He’d thought that would put paid to his problems, but he had discovered that there was another loose end to eliminate. Since then, he had dwelt on little else. Finally, last night, he had convinced himself what he needed to do. The next killing was inevitable. Only then would he be able to bury the past.

Before that, though, he had one more important thing to check out.

When he had heard the weather forecast this morning he had immediately realised that today would be his best opportunity; not even the most ardent of dog walkers would be braving the woods in these conditions.

Taking another quick look around, convinced he must be close to the spot, he stepped off the main path and cut deeper into the undergrowth.

Tramping through the dying ferns, he spotted his first landmark and let out a sigh of relief. He was surprised he had not seen it sooner - the laurel bush before him had grown so much; it was almost as big as a tree.

He picked up his pace. The bracken beneath his boots was soft and springy - the moisture-laden atmosphere had flattened the mass, making his trek easier, though he found himself catching his breath and beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow. It was a sign of how much out of condition he was. Always so fit as a young man, the toll of his over-indulgent lifestyle over the years had finally caught up with him.

Stopping in mid-stride, he scoped the way ahead. Silvery tentacles of fog weaved before him, caressing the woodland floor, wrapping themselves around tree trunks, making the search for his second marker harder. He strained to listen. Nothing: everything was so still. Not even birdsong this morning.

He walked on through the damp undergrowth, yawing from his course every dozen or so steps. The manoeuvre had the desired effect, for within five minutes he spotted the oak tree he had been looking for. It was bigger and more majestic than his last memory, but then it had been twenty five years ago. He increased his pace, striding into a small clearing and ran a hand over the bark. Then, turning to his right, he re-fixed his bearings and focused on the spot where he had buried her all those years ago.

A thicket of holly overhung the site.

My secret is even safer.

He smiled to himself. In that moment he felt an overwhelming sense of reassurance and let out a satisfied sigh. Reaching into his coat pocket, he slid out his cigarettes. Shuffling the pack, he removed one with his lips and, cupping his lighter, lit it. Taking a deep breath, while raising his head towards the mist laden sky, he held the smoke longer than normal until he could feel the kick from the nicotine fuzz his brain. Now he was relaxed. Removing the cigarette, he bowed his head and said a silent prayer for himself.

Confident that his business was done here, he took a final drag on his cigarette, nipped the remains and flicked the stub away. Then, taking a last look around, he turned on his heels and began the stroll back to his car.

- ooOoo -

22nd November.

The relentless ringing of the bedside telephone snapped Barry Newstead from his dreams.

For a brief moment, still half-asleep, somewhere in the depths of his consciousness something was telling him it was the alarm clock, and he was about to smack a hand over the off button when his brain jumped into gear and he realised what the persistent noise was.

Grunting, he forced open his eyes, raised his head from the pillow and looked at the back of his bedside cabinet where the small alarm clock rested.

The green back-lit digits were fuzzy without his reading glasses.

Narrowing his eyes, he could pick out a blurred 22:18 on the clock face LED. He had only been asleep for ten minutes but it felt like hours.

The phone continued to ring and, more asleep than awake, he fumbled around in the dark for the handset. Finally his pudgy fingers coiled around it and he snatched it out of its holder.

Beside him, Susan, his partner, moaned. It had disturbed her too.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he thumbed the receive button. “Hello?”

“Barry, is that you?”

He’d heard that voice before. It seemed a little brittle now, but he thought he could place it from his past.

“Yeah, who’s that?”

“Sorry, have I woken you?”

He was just about to swear and give back the affirmative answer when he checked himself.