But then Hunter had transferred to Drugs Squad, and had then achieved promotion and they had lost touch. Whilst in his new post he had picked up gossip which had disturbed him. Sadly, he’d learned that Barry had brought about his own downfall. Barristers and judges had begun to vehemently challenge his breaches of guidelines, in particular of The Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and his ‘collars’ began to walk away free from court.
Word got back to Hunter that some of the younger managers had labelled him a maverick and a dinosaur, and between them had plotted his downfall. In particular one newly promoted Chief Inspector had removed him from operational CID and sidelined him to a desk job. He’d left numerous messages on Barry’s voicemail for him to get in touch. He’d expected him to return the calls and take his advice, but he never had. The next thing he had learned was that Barry had retired. Hunter had caught up with him again at his leaving do. It was one of the biggest he had attended and he saw and heard so many past and present CID bosses praise his efforts. He recalled one retired Detective Superintendent telling everyone ‘how sad it was that detectives like him were no longer allowed to operate to the benefit of the victims.’
Hunter had recently watched the TV series ‘Life on Mars’ and had been amazed how much of Barry’s character and working practices fitted into the series. He did wonder at first if he had been an advisor to the programme and found himself scouring the credits for the ex-detective’s name.
As he pulled into the rear car park of the village pub Hunter couldn’t help think that despite the inconvenience and the fact that he was shattered after another gruelling fourteen hour day it would be nice to catch up with Barry again after all this time.
The George and Dragon, built of Yorkshire stone, was a typical country pub. The interior had a warming ambience and its décor was that of an old farmhouse, with heavy stone flagged floors, timbered ceilings and whitewashed plaster walls. Turn-of-the-century sepia photographs of the pub and the village decorated the walls, and the furniture was a mixture of heavy wooden chairs, high backed benches and many different sized tables. It was one of those pubs he only occasionally visited, particularly on warm summer evenings, though with its range of good quality real ales he quickly acknowledged he should and would pay it more attention in future.
The bar area was a hive of activity and he scoured the sea of faces to see if he could spot Barry. He hoped he would still be able to recognize him after all these years. Then he spotted him, tucked away in the corner on one of the high back seats, just putting a pint of beer to his mouth. ‘He hasn’t changed one bit’, he thought to himself. The same, dark, rumple of hair and red-flushed face, reminiscent of a hill farmer. Hunter was deeply suspicious of the Dorian Grey appearance, especially as he knew that Barry had been retired at least six years and would be in his early fifties. Hunter made eye contact, raised his hand to acknowledge him and then shook it several times towards his face silently mouthing the words ‘want another beer’. Barry gave him the thumbs up and Hunter ordered two pints of Timothy Taylor Landlord; one of his favourite real ales, before squeezing between customers towards the seated area where his ex-colleague sat.
Hunter also saw that Barry still had that bushy moustache, which he stroked so frequently and annoyingly, and as he got closer he spied the tell-tale signs that he was dying his hair. As Barry pushed himself up from his seat and thrust out a hand to greet him Hunter couldn’t help but notice he was more beer-bellied and rotund than he had last remembered him, but as he gripped and shook his hand he could feel there was still strength in those arms, which he had seen him use piston-like on more than one occasion to pummel an adversary.
“Looking Good Hunter.”
“You too Barry.”
“Still as diplomatic as ever I see. That’s why you got promoted and I didn’t. I’ve put on a few pounds I know, since I retired.” He slapped the side of his girth; “but I can still give the young-uns a run for their money.”
Hunter had no doubt that he could.
“How are you doing?”
For a good half hour as they sipped their beers Barry quizzed him about the job, tut-tutting and shaking his head as Hunter described the many changes that both the uniform side as well as the CID departments had undergone since Barry’s retirement. For a few seconds he wondered if he himself would be as cynical and critical when it became his time to leave. Over the first twenty minutes conversation the chilled smooth tasting beer went down easily and Barry went to the bar to replenish the glasses.
Then as Barry eased himself back into his seat Hunter decided it was time to get to the crux of why he had driven here. “Well I have to say I was intrigued by your call, right out of the blue after all these years.”
Barry took the head off his beer. “Have you identified your body from the Manvers site yet?” he enquired not looking up.
“Not yet. We’re ploughing our way through hundreds of missing-from-home files going back years and the gaffer went on Crimewatch tonight, but I don’t know if anything’s come of that.”
“That’s why I rang you. I got a call just like you, right out of the blue. From a woman I haven’t seen or spoken to in years. It was the mum of a girl who went missing back in the early nineties, a Carol Siddons.”
“Should that name mean anything to me? Like I say Barry there are many girls who are still outstanding in our records. What makes her think it’s her daughter?”
Barry took another drink of his beer and set his glass down. “I personally worked on that case for a short while, as a favour to the mother. Susan Siddons was a girl I knew from my beat days and she became a snout of mine, a very reliable one. Anyway what I’m getting around to is that she recognized the clothing you showed on the programme tonight as that which her daughter was wearing on the night she disappeared. Let me just give you a bit of background and then I’ll give you Susan’s address so that you can go and meet her tomorrow.”
Hunter eased himself back into his weathered pine chair, cupping his pint, ready to listen. He knew from his early career days that Barry Newstead had a real flair for recounting the many and varied cases he had been involved in.
“Susan Siddons was a young journalist, in her first job straight out of University when I first came across her. She was a real looker. Could fetch ducks off water, but she always seemed to attract the wrong type of bloke. She came from a middle class background; both parents were teachers, and I think she just wanted to experience ‘a bit of rough.’ Anyway she took up with a guy from a family of villains who was a real bastard to her. She got pregnant and moved in with him. We got called out quite a few times to their house as a result of ‘domestics’ but she would never press charges even though he’d slapped her around and blacked her eyes on a couple of occasions.”