“Well those notes are timed and dated exactly the same as the ones I have previously shown you, exhibit HK three, but they are signed by Daniel Weaver and what is interesting Alan, is that in those notes, just like as in exhibits HK one and HK two, he denies his involvement in the murder of Lucy Blake-Hall. What if I also tell you that those have been analysed by forensic scientists and they can be dated back to nineteen-eighty-three. You’ll know what I mean when I say they’ve been analysed, won’t you Alan? The grading of papers and the watermarks have been compared, as well as the chemical compositions of the inks. They were also ESDA tested. For the tape that is Electro Static Detection Apparatus testing, where graphite is poured onto paper and it fills in any indentations. You understand that process, don’t you Alan?”
He nodded.
“The tape can’t pick up nodding.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Testing found indentations of lettering transferred through from exhibit number HK two. You know what that means, don’t you Alan?”
“Enlighten me.”
“These notes from Jeffery Howson’s house must have been at some stage been beneath the contemporaneous notes, exhibit HK two, for the handwriting impressions to have indented through. I therefore put it to you that these notes are the original ones Daniel made during your interview with him, and that notes HK three are a fabrication you and Jeffery Howson put together after interview to convict Daniel Weaver.”
Alan Darbyshire stared hard at Hunter. The corners of his mouth set tight and then he answered, “No comment.”
“You went into the witness box at Crown Court and told lies, didn’t you?”
“No comment.”
Hunter sat back in his seat and grinned. After several seconds of silence, he leant forward. “I want to now ask you questions about the murder of Jeffery Howson.”
“What?”
“When we spoke with you at your home, one of the questions we asked you was, when did you last speak with Jeffery? If I remember rightly, your response was ‘It’d be about two weeks ago now.’ In fact, we know from phone records that Jeffery rang your home on the evening of twenty-second November, the day he was murdered.”
Alan Darbyshire bit down on his lower lip, pondered on the question for a good ten seconds, then the look on his face lightened. “Now now, detective sergeant, I think you need to check your notes there. If I remember rightly you asked me when I had last seen Jeff, not when I last spoke with him.” He threw his own smug grin back at Hunter.
Hunter glanced at Grace for support. She shrugged. He quickly gathered his thoughts.
“Okay Alan, my mistake. Moving on regarding that call he made to you, what did he say.”
Darbyshire looked to the ceiling momentarily then answered, “Nothing much, just passing the time of day, this and that. I think he just wanted to talk to someone.”
“It wasn’t to tell you then that he was going to the police and tell us about the miscarriage of justice he and you had been involved in regarding Daniel Weaver.”
The retired DCI coloured up. “No, definitely not.”
“DS Kerr, that is out of order.” It was the first time the solicitor had intervened.
Although Hunter knew he had struck a raw nerve, he also knew he needed to back off. He held up his hands in surrender, then said, “Changing tack Alan, how well do you know Peter Blake-Hall?”
He seemed to think about the question, then answered, “Long time. You’ll probably be aware, if you’ve done your homework, that Jeff and I used to pay him a visit at his club in the early eighties. Used to drink there occasionally.”
“And you used to work for him.”
“Yep, no secret. I needed a job once I retired, and he had the ideal position of a club manager going vacant. I used to make sure everything ran smoothly at the club regarding his licence and the hiring of staff, et cetera.”
“And when did you last see him?” Hunter paused, then added, “Or last spoke with him?” He put on a fake smile. “I don’t want to get my questions misinterpreted.”
“It’d be a good year or so. I don’t have anything to do with Peter any more. I don’t need to.”
“Or Ronnie Fisher?”
The colour in Alan Darbyshire’s face had just returned to some normality. His cheeks flushed again. “Look, where is this going?”
“What if I tell you we have a witness, who overheard a conversation between you, and Peter Blake-Hall, and Ronnie Fisher, discussing the murder of Lucy, as recently as early November this year, when you made a mention of evidence which could get you all sent down.”
“I’d say she was wrong.”
“I never said the witness was a she.”
Alan Darbyshire’s eyes widened.
“We, as you have already stated, have been doing our homework and we are building up a case which is not putting you in a very good light. We have a lot of unanswered questions, especially regarding Lucy’s disappearance all those years ago, and now the murder of your ex-colleague Jeffery Howson. This is your chance to redeem yourself.”
“I would prefer not to say anything further.”
“If you’re certain about that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll give you one last opportunity.” Hunter shuffled out several more exhibits from his folder and laid them out in front of the retired DCI. “You have just said that the last time you saw Peter Blake-Hall was about a year ago. How do you account for these photographs, taken just over three weeks ago on tenth November? It looks to me as though you, Peter and Ronnie are having a heated exchange of words. What was that about Alan?”
Alan Darbyshire’s chair almost fell over as he jumped up, face filled with fear. He smashed a fist hard down on the table and screamed. “You think you’re fucking smart, don’t you? You’ve no fucking idea who you’re dealing with here”
* * * * *
Two phones rang at the same time at opposite ends of the office, breaking Carol Ragen’s concentration. She looked up from her journal and glanced around the room. The place was empty and that surprised her, because twenty minutes earlier, when she had got back from her task of updating Jeffery Howson’s daughter and ex-wife about the latest stages of the investigation, she had walked into a scrum-down between Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, Detective Inspector Scaife and Civilian Investigator Barry Newstead. She’d gathered that the three of them were working through the next lines of the enquiry. She had been so immersed in writing up her journal that she hadn’t even noticed them leaving the department.
One of the phones stopped ringing and she waited for the other one on the Detective Inspector’s desk to switch across to his voicemail. After thirty seconds of continuous ringing she realised that wasn’t going to happen and giving out a long sigh she scraped back her chair and strode across.
“DC Ragen,” she said, snatching the phone off its cradle.
The downstairs receptionist was on the other end. She explained that a woman had come in asking for someone from MIT — that she had information about the Lucy Blake-Hall case.
Carol was about to tell her to take down details, and that someone would go out and see her later, when she changed her mind. “Tell the lady I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.” Hanging up, she tramped back to her desk, picked up her notepad, and swept out of the office, down the back staircase to the rear of reception. When Carol sprung open the door into the foyer, she saw that the only person in there was a slim, dark haired woman in a bright red duffel coat, who, despite wearing too much make-up, appeared to be in her mid to late forties. The lady met Carol’s gaze.
Carol said “Mrs?” and waited for a response.
“Aldridge. Lisa Aldridge.” She took a step forward and removed a newspaper from beneath her arm. “I’ve come about this.” She held up the paper.
It was the latest edition of The Barnwell Chronicle, with ‘Innocent’ emblazoned in large print across its front page. Carol had already read the article and knew that it featured Daniel Weaver’s release on bail, pending the possibility of his appeal and the re-investigation into the Lucy Blake-Hall case.