“I think you may just have seen who killed Lucy. It’s a shame you didn’t know who it was who took her away in the car though.”
“I didn’t know him but I heard his name if that’s any help.”
Carol’s face lit up. “You heard his name?”
“Well not his full name, but when the guy was tussling with Lucy and trying to get her into the car I heard her shout at him ‘I’m getting in the bloody car. Just let go of me Peter, will you.’”
“And she definitely said the name Peter?”
“Definitely.”
* * * * *
“It just has to be Lucy’s husband,” said Carol Ragen as she looked around the MIT office. Finally. she fixed her gaze on Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, standing by the incident boards at the front of the room. “I mean, which other Peter has featured in our investigation?”
“I agree Carol,” the SIO said. “Did you ask this Lisa Aldridge if she would be able to give us an e-fit. It’s a long shot, and I know it’s so long ago now, and Peter Blake-Hall will have changed considerably, but maybe we can do a comparison with old photographs Lucy’s parents have of him.”
“I considered it, but I didn’t ask because of the time lapse thing. What I have started on is trying to determine if Peter owned a red Mercedes back in nineteen-eighty-three. We know he was shipping them in from Germany during the early eighties, and that would certainly tie in with the foreign number plate Lisa recognised. So, I’ve faxed the DVLA at Swansea this afternoon to see if they can do a search of his records and find out the cars registered to him.”
“Good job Carol.” Michael Robshaw leant against the Lucy Blake-Hall incident board, crossing one ankle over the other, taking the weight on his standing leg. “I’ve already passed out this information to Tony and Mike who have been trying to locate Ronnie Fisher and track down the black four-by-four registered to him. I’ve got them parked up near to Peter Blake-Hall’s club and I’ve asked them to update me if he or Ronnie turns up there. So far the pair have gone off the radar, I don’t know if Alan Darbyshire’s arrest has spooked them.” He turned to Hunter. “Can I ask you to update everyone regarding your interview with Alan?”
From his desk Hunter addressed the group. “It went well at the start. He was unaware of the contemporaneous notes from Jeffery Howson’s safe. Unfortunately, once we showed our hand, he clammed up. We let him have another long chat with his brief but that didn’t help. Except for him telling us that he was with his wife Pauline on the night of Jeffery’s murder, he gave us a ‘No comment’ second interview. He’s refused to comment on the photos which Guy Armstrong took of him apparently arguing with Peter Blake-Hall and Ronnie Fisher and I didn’t want to push him about Jodie’s murder just yet. We’ve given him enough to think about for now.”
“So you and Grace will have another crack at him tomorrow morning?” said Detective Superintendent Robshaw.
“Yeah. His face was a picture when I told him that. I think he thought we were going to bail him. We’ll see what a night in the cells will do.”
“Good, let’s hope that’ll loosen him up.” He uncrossed his ankles and straightened up. Turning to his deputy SIO Dawn Leggate, he said, “And I gather the search of Alan’s home hasn’t turned up anything?”
She swept one side of her hair behind an ear and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Though, if truth be known, I wasn’t expecting us to find anything. He’s had enough time to get rid of anything incriminating. Even his mobile has disappeared, so we can’t track who he’s phoned or where he’s been. And, not surprisingly, his wife does alibi him for the night of Jeffery’s murder.”
“Never mind, a fresh day tomorrow and who knows what that will bring? Except for Hunter and Grace, who are going to continue their interview of Alan Darbyshire, I want the rest of you in here for six thirty am. We’ve put packages together for Peter Blake-Hall and Ronnie Fisher and we’re going to do an early morning knock on the pair. Task Force will be with us and I’ve managed to borrow a few officers from the Community Beat team to help with the searches.” Michael Robshaw tapped a hand on the photographs taken by Guy Armstrong. “If we include the murder of Lucy, these three are the prime suspects in four murders now and hopefully tomorrow we will have them in custody, answering for their crimes. Good hunting everyone.”
* * * * *
Detective Mike Sampson tapped the wiper stick on the steering column and swept the back of his hand across the inside of the windscreen of the unmarked MIT car. It wasn’t just the foul weather outside of the car, a mixture of drizzle and sleet, which was fogging his view, but a thin film of moisture had also collected on the inside of the front screen. He re-directed the heater to demist and cracked the driver’s side window a fraction. The coldness of the night air took him by surprise and he shivered.
The blast of cold air also reminded him that he needed the toilet. He had felt it creep up on him half an hour ago but had tried to will it away. Now the feeling had returned and this time it hurt. He flicked the electric window shut.
After a few seconds the screen began to clear and in an attempt to divert his mind away from the uncomfortable feeling in his groin he focused outside. He had a good view of the front aspect of ‘Le Chambre Rose’ — Peter Blake-Hall’s private club, fifty yards in front, on the opposite side of the road.
Straining his eyes in the dimness of the car’s interior, he took a look at his watch. He struggled at first, but eventually managed to make out that it was just after ten pm. He and his partner, Tony Bullars, had been here for the best part of two hours.
Mike sighed and yawned. He was bored and desperate for a pee. It had been a long day and there was still over an hour before they could call off the observations.
Initially the pair had been directed to find the black Mitsubishi Shogun Sport, and since early that morning they had driven around every conceivable location. Unfortunately, they had found neither the 4x4 or its owner, Ronnie Fisher. It had been a tedious and frustrating day. To make things worse, as they were about to head back in for evening de-brief, they had been given new instructions directly from Detective Superintendent Robshaw himself. He wanted them to drive straight over to Peter Blake-Hall’s club, park nearby until midnight, and report on any sightings, either of Peter or RonnieI. If either of them appeared, they were to call it in and await back-up.
The new command had puzzled them both at first. However, on the drive to Blake-Hall’s club, they had both come to the same conclusion the enquiry had taken on a whole new direction.
More rain and sleet splattered the windscreen, once more blurring Mike’s view of the street. He cleared the screen again and took another glance at his watch. Bully’s been gone a long time, he said to himself.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Mike had announced that he was famished. Tony had responded by saying he had earlier spotted a fish and chip shop a couple of streets away and volunteered to go. It had been a good idea at the time but he hadn’t realised he’d be away for this long. Especially as he was busting for a piss. Mike stared out across the street. In the past two hours they had only counted half a dozen punters going inside the club. Going for a piss would only take a couple of minutes, he told himself — he wouldn’t miss anything, and he’d hear if a car pulled up.