As they savoured a second round of drinks, prior to briefing, the pair discussed, checked and doubled-checked their evidence, and made a start on the drafting of preparatory notes, ready for their first interview with Ronnie Fisher. They had Mike’s statement, identifying Ronnie as the person who had stabbed him, and they had recovered the knife which he had attempted to use on Hunter. They were confident Mike’s DNA would be on it. Ronnie was already looking at charges of attempted murder for Mike and the attempted murder of Hunter. There was also a charge from earlier in the investigation when he had assaulted Hunter at Jodie’s bed-sit.
The weight of those three charges would be enough to hold him, giving them sufficient time to collate the evidence relating to the murders of Jeffery Howson, Jodie Marie Jenkinson and Guy Armstrong. And they were very hopeful of getting a result from those as well — like Peter Blake-Hall, Ronnie had kept his mobile phone and that had been seized for examination.
The morning briefing was led by Detective Superintendent Leggate. She congratulated everyone on the previous evening’s success, and followed up by announcing that as of today she was running everything — SIO Michael Robshaw had been called across to the Force Headquarters in Sheffield to discuss his promotion and new role with the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime), and to organise a full press conference to hail the success of their investigation. She then moved on to the real purpose of the briefing — the collating and preservation of evidence against Ronnie Fisher. A search of the red Corsa had turned up several bags of clothing, shoes and trainers, and in Scott Riley’s wheelie-bin they had found a pair of woollen gloves, smelling strongly of petrol or other similar accelerant. With a wry smirk, she raised a laugh by adding that it had not been hard to persuade Scott that it would be in his best interest if he gave a statement outlining that he had seen Ronnie dump them.
She reminded everyone that woollen fibres had been found on Guy Armstrong’s petrol cap, at the homes of Jeffery Howson and Jodie Marie Jenkinson, and at The Barnwell Inn the site of Jodie’s murder.
“If these are the same gloves, then we’ve really got him bang to rights,” she said proudly, and after a slight pause, continued, “It doesn’t end there guys, I got another phone call late yesterday, forensics have come up trumps as well. The DNA sample, provided by Jessica, has helped us identify that the dried bloodstains in the kitchen belong to her mother, Lucy. It looks as though Lucy was murdered there. SOCO and the forensic team at the farmhouse are currently extending their examination into other rooms.” She broke, her eyes exploring the faces of the detectives. “We are almost there everyone. All we have to do now is find Lucy’s body.”
* * * * *
A solicitor from the firm of Grant, Harding and Wilkinson was representing Ronnie Fisher, and as Hunter stepped into the soundproof interview room he had already prepared his thoughts for a challenging interrogation, most likely a battle of wills between himself and a ‘pain in the arse’ defence solicitor.
Seeing the legal representative, Hunter took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This one had an appearance even smoother than Peter Blake-Hall’s solicitor. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with a good head of neatly trimmed silver grey hair and wore a dark blue pinstriped suit, which appeared handmade. A white Oxford, button-down shirt was teamed with a dark blue monogrammed tie.
This man was no legal clerk, thought Hunter, as he dragged out one of the chairs opposite. His appearance shouted senior partner.
Hunter dropped his folder onto the table and lowered himself slowly into the chair.
Grace took the seat beside him, next to the tape recording machine.
Hunter made the introductions and flipped open his folder of notes.
“Mr James Harding.” The solicitor replied.
Guessed right.
Ronnie Fisher was silent. He half-sat, half-lazed on his seat, legs out straight, arms folded, his chin resting on his chest. He didn’t acknowledge them with even a glance.
Hunter couldn’t help but notice the ugly red graze across his forehead, and his badly swollen nose and mouth. He fought back the urge to smirk.
He waited for the tape machine to kick in and then cautioned Ronnie Fisher. “Do you understand what I have just said, Mr Fisher?”
Silence.
“I first want to talk to you about the attack on me last night, when you tried to stab me.”
Silence.
For almost forty-five minutes Hunter fired round after round of questions, firstly regarding the attack upon himself and then the stabbing of Mike Sampson. Ronnie Fisher refused to speak. Hunter would have preferred to have engaged in verbal combat, but he knew how it would look when it was put to a jury and he let out a satisfied sigh as he finished the last question.
As the first tape came to an end, Hunter closed his folder and half rose from his chair. Leaning across the table, using his arms as supports, he announced in a strong formal voice, “Ronnie Fisher, I am charging you with the attempted murder of Detective Constable Michael Sampson and the attempted murder of myself. Would you like to say anything about that?”
Ronnie Fisher raised his head and gave him a hate-filled stare.
* * * * *
The Task Force Specialist Search Team who were combing the woods for Lucy’s body had finished exploring the first marked-out grid section shortly before eleven am.
The nature of the work had been tedious and laborious and so when the call came for them to have a break, there was an almost unanimous sigh of relief.
Police Constable Craig Darrington was busting. For the past hour he had needed a piss, so when the shout went up he immediately scampered away from his group to a holly bush he had spotted earlier, just outside the search grid.
Quickly, he released the waist belt containing his equipment, and unzipped his coveralls, gasping with relief as the stream of urine left his aching bladder. At first he stared around him, checking no one could see what he was doing, but then, as his jet-stream of piss turned to a trickle he dropped his gaze to the ground, ready to zip himself back up and return to his team. For a brief moment he studied the area where he had urinated. The unusual undulation of a small section of the woodland floor caught his attention. His eyes drifted around the uneven oblong shape for a few seconds and that was when he spotted a discarded cigarette butt. For a further few seconds he studied the uneven surface and came to the decision that he needed to explore this, if only to satisfy his curiosity. He reached out for his metal ‘sniffer rod,’ which had been resting against the holly bush and set it atop the mound. With an almighty strike, he thrust it through the top layer of soil. He heard a muffled crack from beneath the earth and the most awful putrefying smell drifted out from the centre of the hollow pole. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and then he yelled, “Sir, over here!”
* * * * *
Detective Inspector Scaife took the call from the Task Force Inspector and immediately informed Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate of the search team’s discovery.
Hunter and Grace entered the office after their interview and the SIO met them.
“Drop what you’re doing. You two are coming with me,” she ordered. She filled them in as they headed downstairs to the exit. They piled into a spare car and raced up to the scene.
Hunter drove at break-neck speed. At one stage, coming out of a bend, close to the public entrance into the woods, he had to brake sharply to avoid hitting a photographer dashing from between the trees.
“It hasn’t taken the press long,” the Detective Superintendent said, as a posse of them swarmed towards their slowing car.
As Hunter weaved a course through, he saw a couple of uniformed officers were doing their level best to corral them back.