Secret of the Dead (35 page)

“Did he see Ronnie carrying out the attack?”

Grace shrugged. “I don’t think so. Isobel didn’t say, so I’m guessing he didn’t. Bully found Mike unconscious and he still hasn’t come round. Isobel says they’re keeping him sedated for at least twenty-four-hours.”

“Have they got Ronnie?”

“No, not yet. Apparently they turned out everyone and their grandmother last night, but it looks as though Ronnie’s done a runner. They’ve got Blake-Hall though. They knocked him up in the early hours. He’s downstairs in the trap.”

“Have they locked him up for the stabbing as well?”

“No, for the murder of Lucy. Apparently, Swansea e-mailed back Peter’s vehicle records. He owned a red Mercedes at the time of Lucy’s disappearance and it still carried foreign plates. He didn’t re-register it until October nineteen-eighty-three. How good is that?”

“Not good enough for a conviction.”

“Ooh, you pessimist. It’s a start though.”

Hunter shook the kettle, listened to the sound of the water sloshing around inside and then switched it on. “Anyway, do we know how badly Mike was stabbed?”

Grace’s eyes widened, “Hunter! Any stabbing is bad.”

“You know what I mean,” he said sharply, gathering together two mugs.

“Well, these are not my words, and I don’t think Mike would be too pleased if he heard, but Isobel said that he’d received four stab wounds - one to the back and three to his right side - but because of his size none of them penetrated any vital organs.” She emphasized the word ‘size’ by crooking her fingers in the air.

If it had been anyone other than a colleague, that comment would have drawn at least a smirk between them.

“So they think he’s gonna pull through?”

“That’s the latest, yes.”

Hunter swept a finger around the room. “And everyone else is out?”

“Yeah, Mark and his team are at Blake-Hall’s place with forensics and Mr Robshaw and the DI are across at District HQ in the Intelligence office. They’re running the operation from there. I think CID are helping with the search of Ronnie’s place and he and his vehicle have been circulated.”

“Well, that leaves us to do our business.” He made a tea for himself and a coffee for Grace. “We’ll have these and then crack on.”

Hunter pressed the bell by the entrance to the custody suite and when he heard the buzz of the electronic lock release, pushed open the door, stepping aside to let Grace enter first. He waited as a second inner security door opened and then made his way into the detention area.

It was pandemonium.

The Custody Sergeant was on the telephone, his back towards them. Another two phones were ringing behind the reception point. From the cell area, he could hear metal doors being repeatedly banged and a medley of raised voices drifted up towards him from the corridor. He tried to work out what was going on.

The stressed out Custody Sergeant glanced over his shoulder and greeted them. Mimicking the boy scout promise the officer stuck up two fingers, and silently mouthed the words ‘two minutes’, then returned to his phone call.

Hunter gazed at his partner. He nodded towards the cell area corridor and gave her a ‘wonder what’s going on?’ look”

She shrugged.

It was well over two minutes before the Custody Sergeant slammed down the phone. The other two phones were still ringing but he chose to ignore them.

“Ha, the dynamic duo!” He said. “You two have caused me some right grief.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows and pointed in the direction of the noise. “Am I missing something here? Are the prisoners a tad unhappy this morning?”

“Alan Darbyshire’s collapsed!”

Hunter’s looked from Grace to the Custody Sergeant. “What?”

The Sergeant nodded. “The custody officer found him semi-conscious in his cell half an hour ago. The paramedics are down there with him now. They think he’s had a heart attack. They’re just getting ready to take him to the hospital.”

“He’s bullshitting. He’s pulling a fast one.”

Stony-faced, the Custody Sergeant slowly shook his head. “Sorry Hunter, it’s genuine. They’ve put the monitors on him. They’re just sorting him out to take him up to the District General. I’m trying to fix up an escort to go with him.”

“Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly Hunter, but there you go. You won’t be interviewing him today.”

An agitated Hunter stormed back to the office, leaving Grace to catch up. He slammed his folder down hard on his desk and snatched up the phone, punched in a number and waited as it rang out. A female voice answered at the other end. He cut in the second she finished announcing who she was, though he didn’t take in her name. He asked curtly, “Is Detective Superintendent Robshaw or DI Scaife there?”

“Just a second,” the girl replied and then he heard the phone being put aside.

For a good thirty seconds Hunter listened to a distant humming down the line and then he heard the phone being picked up. His DI’s voice came on.

He explained what had happened to Alan Darbyshire. “We’re not going to get to him today, boss. We don’t even know how bad he is until he’s checked out up at the hospital. They’re bound to keep him in him for a couple of days, at the least.”

With a “Just a minute Hunter,” DI Scaife went off the line. For the best part of a minute he listened to distant voices, trying to pick out what was being said, but it sounded as if the DI had covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

Then the line opened and the DI was back on. “Hunter, the boss is still co-ordinating the search for Ronnie Fisher who’s done a disappearing act. We’re turning over his house now. Some of his clothes have gone and there’s no sign of his passport. We’re currently trying to find where his relatives and associates live. His four-by-four’s been found burned out on wasteland near the canal. We’re in the thick of it here, so he’s suggesting you speak with Superintendent Leggate. She’s left the hospital and is overseeing the search of Peter Blake-Hall’s place.” With that, he hung up.

Hunter clicked down to end the call and then punched in Dawn Leggate’s mobile number. She answered on the third ring. He repeated what he had told the DI. When he had finished he heard the word “Shit” explode down the line.

“My feelings exactly, boss.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Hunter knew she would be running through a back-up plan inside her head.

“Okay, Hunter all is not lost. Peter’s in the cell down there. You and Grace can have an interim chat with him. We haven’t found anything here, I’m afraid. SOCO are still going through the house but they’re not hopeful. And with regards to Mike’s stabbing we don’t think he was involved. When we knocked him up in the early hours he was in bed with a woman and she’s said they’d both stayed there last night. He didn’t turn out to his club. I’m afraid you’re going to have to run with what we’ve got from Lisa Aldridge for now.” There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m going to be here for another couple of hours, and then I’ll join you back at the station and we’ll have a scrum-down and see what we’ve got okay?”

“Okay, boss.” He heard the line go dead, and hung up.

Taking a mouthful of tea, Hunter swallowed, set down his mug and picked up the phone again. He stared across at his partner. “I’m just going to let custody know we’re coming down to interview Blake-Hall. I’m guessing he’ll want a solicitor. Get us a copy of Lisa Aldridge’s statement, will you?”

* * * * *

The excitement had subsided in the detention suite. Hunter could see that normality - if one could call it that - had returned. The Custody Sergeant certainly looked less stressed.

Peter Blake-Hall had requested the services of a solicitor and they weren’t surprised when they heard it was Thomas Wilkinson, a partner with a firm who frequently represented clients who had grievances against the police.

As he entered the interview room Hunter stretched his neck, just like he did before entering the ring. He felt wired.

“Mr Blake-Hall, we meet again,” he said, dragging out a plastic chair opposite the prisoner and sitting down. Pulling the seat forward he slid his knees beneath the fixed table and then placed his folder down on its surface. Shifting his gaze to the solicitor he asked, “And you are?” even though he knew the answer.

“Mr Thomas Wilkinson, of Grant, Harding and Wilkinson,” he said.

The solicitor looked to be in his late forties. He was slightly overweight, with a good head of wavy brown hair, beginning to grey. He wore a dark pin-striped suit, white shirt and a blue and pink striped tie. Hunter said, “I presume you have fully briefed your client and he understands why he’s here?”

“Two o’clock this fucking morning when I was banged up. For the murder of my wife, they said. You have to be kidding.”

Hunter edged forward slightly, pointing at his own head. “Does this face look like I’m kidding?”

The solicitor made an exaggerated attempt at clearing his throat. “No need for sarcasm, officer.”

Grace quickly intervened. “Peter, we’re going to tape record an interview with you.” She switched on the equipment and began the open preamble and formally cautioned him.

Hunter reached across the table, interlaced his fingers and fixed Peter Blake-Hall with a determined look. He took a deep breath and composed himself. His partner’s well-timed intervention reminded him not to lose it. “As you rightly say, you have been arrested on suspicion of the murder of your wife Lucy back in nineteen-eighty-three. I say murder Peter, because although we never found your wife’s body, someone else was charged, tried and convicted of her murder. However, recently, evidence has come to light which throws that conviction into doubt. So we have begun a new investigation and as a result of our enquiries you have been put into the frame for her disappearance.” Hunter never took his eyes off Blake-Hall, though he could see that his opening sentence had no effect. Blake-Hall’s arms remained locked in their folded position and he stared back straight-faced.

Hunter opened up his folder and slipped out several witness statement forms which he carefully laid out across the table.

“Peter, I have here a photocopy of the original statement you made to Detective Sergeant Alan Darbyshire and Detective Constable Jeffery Howson, who came to see you after you had reported Lucy going missing on the morning of Saturday twenty-seventh August, nineteen-eighty-three. Can you recall making that statement to those detectives?”

“Yeah, though I can’t remember what I put in. It’s so long ago.”

“That’s understandable, but don’t worry because I’m going to take you through it.” Hunter picked up the first page. “According to this, you told those detectives that you last saw Lucy at about seven pm on Friday twenty-sixth August, when she left the house, telling you that she was meeting up with a couple of friends.”

“Yeah, Amanda Smith was one of them. I think she’s called Rawlinson now. She was a friend of hers from school. She was a bridesmaid at our wedding. I can’t remember the others though. It’s such a long time ago now.”

“No problem Peter. And you say you think she caught the bus into town. Well at least that was her intention.”

Peter nodded, “Yeah. She did as well because I can remember they tracked down the bus driver who dropped her off near the market place.”

“Did she tell you what her arrangements were that night?”

“You mean regarding her meeting up with Danny?”

“Well, I’m after what she said to you.”

“She didn’t mention that slime-ball, if that’s what you’re getting at. She said she was just meeting up with a few friends. She said she’d be back about ten. I was looking after Jessica and she knew I normally went to the club about that time. I expected her to be back. When she didn’t come back I rung round some of her mates, Amanda first, and that’s when I realised she hadn’t gone out to meet them. I waited ’til midnight and then when she still hadn’t come in I rang the police. I told you the rest the other day.”

“Yes you did Peter.” Hunter scanned down the witness statement. “You’ve put in this statement a description of the clothing she was wearing when she went out. Can you remember that still?”

Peter Blake-Hall stared up to the ceiling. He appeared to be deep in thought. Then he replied, “She had on a yellow dress and a fawn cardigan. That had some kind of design around the neck and cuffs. She had her handbag with her as well. The one you lot found in Danny Weaver’s shed.”

“The one Alan Darbyshire and Jeffery Howson found, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“They showed you that bag on the Sunday, according to your statement?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They brought it to my house. Asked me if I recognised it. It was Lucy’s, I told them and that’s when they told me they had Danny locked up. And that’s when they also told me she’d been carrying on with him for six months.”

“So until Alan and Jeffery told you Lucy was having an affair with Danny Weaver, you had no idea.”

“None at all. It was a complete shock.”

“Can I just take you back to that Friday night when Lucy went out?”

Blake-Hall tipped his head.

“You said, both in your statement, and just now on tape, that when Lucy had not come home you first phoned round her friends and then just after midnight you rang the police?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you go out looking for her?” Hunter thought he caught a flicker of unease in Peter’s eyes. The man tightened the lock in his folded arms.

“No.” A split-second later he added, “I was looking after Jessica, wasn’t I. How could I go out?”

“Yes, of course you were.” Hunter looked down at the last page of Peter’s statement. He moved his head to make it look as though he was reading what was recorded, then he raised his eyes. “Peter, just one thing. Can you remember what car you were driving at that time?”

Blake-Hall frowned. “What’s the relevance of that?”

“It’s just that it’s cropped up in our enquiries.”

Blake-Hall shrugged, “No idea.”

“What if I give you a bit of a help?” Hunter leafed through his folder again and picked out the recent witness statement supplied by Lisa Aldridge. Instead of laying it out over the table in full view, he tantalizingly held it at an angle. In the periphery of his vision he caught Peter Blake-Hall making a slight movement, craning his neck, though doing his best not to appear curious. Hunter inwardly smiled.