“Please if you wouldn’t mind Barry and I’ll make a brew.”
Five minutes later, sipping at her freshly brewed coffee, Grace caught the sound of Hunter’s voice outside in the corridor. As he entered the office she pushed herself up from her desk ready to greet him.
“Where were you last night when I needed you? I came back to the office from talking to a witness and it was like the Marie Celeste. I tried to ring you on your mobile but all I kept getting was your voicemail.”
“That’s because whilst you were downstairs in the interview room, me and Tony got called out to the hospital. Kirsty Evans came round yesterday afternoon. She knows who attacked her. It was a guy who took their school photographs. She knows him as Gabe.”
“What a coincidence,” Grace replied.
* * * * *
Avoiding the motorway Hunter took the A61, the less congested route into Wakefield. It was a good few years since he had travelled this road but as he passed certain landmarks the memories gave him a warm feeling. It seemed like yesterday, but he quickly recalled that it was in fact twelve years since he had made the regular twice weekly journey for a period of ten weeks to and from Detective Training School, which was situated in a side road on the edge of the city, and he just knew he would have to re-visit and view the centre before returning to Barnwell. He had had such a memorable experience learning there. He had returned to the district bursting with knowledge of the criminal law, and along the learning path had also made so many contacts with detectives from other forces, the length and breadth of England, which had proved extremely useful over the years.
As he slowed the car to join the crawling nose-to-tail traffic entering Wakefield he glanced across at Grace who he could see was still studying the notes she had made from her conversations with Gabriel Wild’s ex-partner the previous night and also Barry Newstead earlier that morning.
Together with the revelation from Kirsty Evans, Hunter knew this was the breakthrough they had been waiting for.
After Barry’s phone call to one of his old West Yorkshire colleagues Hunter had been given the telephone number of his counterpart in MIT in Wakefield. Immediately after morning briefing he had spoken with a Detective Sergeant Glen Deakins and arranged a meet at Wood Street police station situated in the centre of the city.
Following the Detective Sergeant’s instructions Hunter parked the unmarked police car in a multi storey car park and he and Grace walked the few hundred yards to the old red-bricked police station opposite the Law Courts.
Despite an attempt to give its foyer a contemporary makeover the waiting area still had that dark and gloomy feel typical of the Victorian era. Showing their warrant badges to the front-of-entrance clerk, Hunter and Grace took up seats which had been arranged along the front wall below two large sash windows, the bottom section of which held toughened and frosted glass. A pale sunlight had managed to penetrate and was lighting the dimness around them.
Biding his time Hunter coolly eyed the numerous framed force publicity posters adorning the walls and couldn’t help but smile, thinking cynically, as he read over the mission statements and modern day Whitehall spin which seemed to have even crept into the police service. ‘All this bullshit’, he said to himself, when what the public really wanted was cops on the streets.
Within a few minutes his attention was distracted by the sound of an electronic buzzer and a side door burst open. A tall, slim, steel-grey haired man appeared in the doorway. Wearing a two-piece pinstriped suit and sporting a good tanned complexion DS Glen Deakins looked more the typical business tycoon than an MIT detective. He greeted them and Hunter immediately recognised his strong Leeds dialect as he rolled his tongue around their names.
“Hi, I’m to give you the full works.” He held out a hand to shake. “My DCI can’t speak highly enough of Barry Newstead.” He glanced behind them. “Barry not with you?”
Hunter shook his head.
“Pity. The DCI was hoping to catch up with him. It appears they worked together on some secretive joint force investigation into corruption in the Met during the early eighties.”
He held open the door as Grace and Hunter joined him and then pointed an extended arm up the open staircase that connected all three floors of the building. “We’re on the top floor. MIT has all one corridor. Too hot in summer and freezing cold in winter but whose complaining, still get the cheque in the post thirteen times a year, don’t we?” The Sergeant grinned. His features were strong and his hazel eyes displayed genuineness about him.
The top of the stairway opened onto a bright and airy corridor that led to suite after suite of rooms and offices, each one seemed to be bustling with activity. Its airiness took Hunter by surprise.
As if reading his mind the DS offered, “This place was given a full refurb before we moved in eighteen months ago. Everything we need is here. You ought have seen the place before it got its make-over.” He took them down the corridor. “I’ve got us a room at the far end where you can look at the files from the Kelly Johnson murder.”
He stopped at a glass-panelled door and pushed it inwards. They entered an eight-foot-by-eight-foot carpeted room. It was lit by a pair of fluorescent lights set in a chrome frame for maximum brightness. Along one wall was a framework of metal shelves adorned floor to ceiling with boxed case files. Hunter guessed this was where they stored the cold case work; previously undetected serious crimes of rape and murder which required reviewing now that new scientific methods, such as DNA, had come into play. In the centre, two desks had been pushed together, the light oak surfaces almost covered by an array of paperwork, organised into piles.
“The Kelly Johnson case.” DS Deakins pointed out with an open palm, almost as though he was introducing someone rather than something. “I know this job like the back of my hand. I worked on this as a young detective back in ninety-six. In fact it was my first ever murder case. I spent over six months on it before it was wound down to just a small team. It was filed as undetected after eighteen months and its one of our review cases now.” He rested his hand on one of the piles. “Everything is here. The witness statements, door-to-door reports and suspect interviews in date and alphabetical order.”
Hunter eyed the pile-upon-pile of paperwork. “You might be able to shortcut things for us without the need to plough through all this lot, especially as you worked on it for so long.”
“Yeah, no problem. To be honest when the gaffer asked me to show you the case it gave me the opportunity to skip read back over some of the actions I did on the case. In fact now it seems only like last week when I was working on it.” DS Deakins pointed out the chairs around the table to Grace and Hunter and lowered himself into one. Leaning forward, intertwining his fingers, he rested his chin, and flicked his gaze from one to the other of his guests. He paused for a few seconds as if gathering his thoughts.
In the background Hunter became suddenly conscious of the bustle of activity, which was coming from the rooms further along the corridor. He reckoned behind those doors would be similar scenes to those of his own murder team back at Barnwell. Officers busy on telephones or computers following up their leads to crack the case. Working practices the length and breadth of the country were distinctly similar despite each murder being different.
“Kelly Marie Johnson, thirteen years old,” Glen unlocked his hands and spun an A5 size photograph of a smiling teenage girl towards them. The colours were still extremely sharp despite the photograph being twelve year old. A picture of a very pretty girl, and yet with many similarities to the other victims; dark collar length hair, glistening hazel eyes, and with an air of innocence about her.