by Ray Clark
“From what they’re saying, they’re going to run a 360-degree camera over the entire scene. That should produce a 3D computer image of the whole area. Then we can ‘float’ through on the computer. Fingers crossed we’ll find something to go on.”
Gardener stared around the village, peering at the nearest houses. “If there’s a question of whether or not someone could see something from their location, the lab will be able to print the whole scene with a 3D printer. But, as you know, without a car and witnesses – we’ll be struggling.”
“Is there any blood at the scene, that would help?” asked Sharp.
“I agree, Colin,” replied Gardener. “Blood on the scene would be a great starter for ten with footmarks left. A blood pattern analysis expert might tell us the point of impact, possible speed of the vehicle, and where the body landed, etc. It would help to know if either of the two bodies has been moved. But so far, we haven’t seen anything.”
“But to be fair,” added Reilly, “it is dark and we haven’t had the time to comb the area.”
Gardener agreed, and then said, “Hopefully, there will be something; fibres caught on twigs, or the wall, footprints on grass verges.”
“Fitz should be able to help with the bodies,” said Rawson. “A post-mortem will tell us a bit more.”
Julie Longstaff glanced around. “Is there any CCTV in the village?”
“Not that we know of,” said Reilly, “but while you were on your way we took the trouble to find out that there are a couple close to the area.”
“Once we get that information we can pull the CCTV from every building in a set radius,” said Gardener. “The parameters will have to be set by the density of the population. Burley is a remote village, so we’ll have to go large, maybe a mile or so.”
“And there’s always ANPR cameras,” said Benson. “They’re almost everywhere now; installed in police cars, both marked and unmarked, so every time a car drives past one of us we get the number plate recorded with a photo of the occupants.”
Gardener nodded. “Which would be great if we actually had a number plate. Nevertheless, I’ll be tasking an action team to go through all ANPR cameras both before and after – especially after – looking for accident damage, and any vehicle that has a report attached to it: reported stolen, no keeper details known, involved in crime, etc. We’ll be looking at cars registered from outside the area and after that, any other cars.”
Gardener knew it had to be treated as a full-on murder crime scene. With more officers, a path, action teams, CCTV recovery teams, house-to-house teams, and search teams. He knew it would be expensive.
“What do you want us to do, boss?” asked Rawson.
“Split into teams of two and start questioning everyone. I know it’s early and no one appreciates the job we have to do but an immediate house-to-house is vital, in case there are people visiting who don’t live here. Two of you have a look at the point of impact with the wall – a paint sample would be great. Then we can contact car manufacturers. With a bit of luck we’ll find something that might make this mountain worth climbing.”
Chapter Five
The incident room had been set up late the previous day but it was Tuesday morning before the team were given the chance to convene to share information. Little had filtered in on the Monday as everyone had been out collecting it, including the SOCOs, the fingertip search team and the CIU – though Gardener realised it could be a short while before they came up with anything.
Gardener stood in front of three whiteboards. Reilly sat on a desk to his left. The rest of the team were dotted around with drinks and notebooks at the ready.
“Okay,” said Gardener, “we know who the victims are but have any of you managed to find out anything about their lives: do they have family? Where do they live and work?”
Dave Rawson took the lead. “The neighbours speak pretty well of the Hunters; I say neighbours but the house they lived in is detached and set back from the main road.”
“Yes,” added Colin Sharp. “It’s called Highway Cottage but they don’t strictly have any neighbours, although their garden joins up with another. A Mrs Sheila Poskitt lives in the bungalow there. She reckoned they were friendly but quiet, a couple who kept to themselves. They were always there if you needed them but very rarely interfered with you.”
“Sounds like the perfect couple,” said Reilly, “but someone wanted them dead.”
“What was the house like?” Gardener asked.
“Large,” said Rawson, “with a double garage but only one car inside.”
“Any idea what they did for a living?”
Sarah Gates jumped in. “One or two people indicated that David Hunter worked for a bank in Leeds.”
“Does anyone know which one?”
“No,” said Longstaff, “but judging by the place they lived in it didn’t look like they had any money problems.”
“Okay,” said Gardener, “in that case, can you ladies have a look around the house, see if you can find any personal documents that will give us a lead? I’d particularly like any computers that you find, and also a phone for David Hunter.”
The girls nodded.
“We had a phone for Ann Marie, didn’t we?” asked Paul Benson. “Did that reveal anything?”
“No,” said Gardener. “All we found were a number of texts from what we take to be friends. So perhaps you and Patrick can go through it and identify everyone who has called or sent a text, and follow up on anything that’s amiss?”
Patrick Edwards nodded, taking notes.
Gardener took a sip of water. “The big question here is, does anyone have anything on the collision, or possible accident?”
“We’ve drawn a blank on that, sir,” said Julie Longstaff. Gardener had transferred Longstaff from the station in Bramfield because she had a very valuable knowledge of computers. She was around six feet in height with shoulder length blonde hair and brown eyes. At twenty-five, Longstaff was single, dedicated and would, in his opinion, work well with Sarah Gates; both were an asset to the team as Bob Anderson and Frank Thornton were both on compassionate leave.
“We picked up something,” said Colin Sharp, meaning he and Dave Rawson.
Rawson took over. “We found a couple who came out of The Malt public house sometime around eleven thirty. They reckoned they saw a stationary vehicle nestled between two overhanging elms in the park, off the Main Street. It was opposite a row of two-storey cottages, in the vicinity of the church of St. Mary’s.”
“Interesting,” said Gardener.
“Don’t suppose they got the number plate?” Reilly asked.
“No,” replied Sharp. “They didn’t really hang around, and they live in the opposite direction.”
“But they mentioned that the engine was running and four people were inside,” said Rawson. “They saw that as they left the pub and drew a little closer to the vehicle.”
“Four people?” questioned Reilly.
“Yes,” said Sharp, “with the engine running.”
“Which suggests they were waiting there for a reason,” said Gardener.
“Did you get any more info?” Reilly asked.
“It was a 4x4,” said Sharp, “but they couldn’t say what make. Neither husband nor wife have ever owned a car in their life so they have no idea about cars.”
“And it was white,” added Rawson.
“That’s a start,” said Gardener. “Given that there was quite a large pile of debris on the road, do we have a paint sample?”
“Yes,” said Edwards. “The fingertip search also gave us the remains of one or two more parts to go with it; broken bits of plastic. No idea what they are but a couple of them have numbers on.”
Gardener thought about that for a moment. It was something. “In that case, send off what you can for forensic analysis. That should give us the manufacturer, and with a bit of luck the make and model. From there, we can start to look at how common the vehicle is, how old.
/> “If we get all of that information we can have you looking at dealerships and probably auctions. Let’s see who bought one. You can also search the DVLA database for the make, model and colour and see if we can then narrow it down to postcodes.”
“The main focus might well be on scrapyards,” said Reilly. “Backstreet garages. Depending on how bad the damage is, are they going to get rid of it or try to repair it?”
“You might ask the paint manufacturer – if you find them – about individual sales. That should keep the two of you busy for a while.”
Gardener glanced at the file in front of him, opened it and leafed his way through the contents. “Fitz has managed to carry out post-mortems in record time on both David and Ann Marie Hunter. Depending on how you look at it, there isn’t much good news.”
“Why?” asked Sharp. “What does he say?”
“That Ann Marie died as a result of a blow to the head, which was serious enough to cause a brain haemorrhage.”
“Was she hit by the car?” asked Sarah Gates.
“Not according to the report.”
“So who hit her and what with?” asked Longstaff. “We never noticed any weapons at the scene.”
“We don’t know at the moment,” said Reilly. “Whatever it was, they’ll have taken it with them.”
“Best guess on what happened,” said Gardener, “is that there may have been an altercation between her husband and the people in the car, to which she was a witness, and she was silenced. The chances are, her husband was hit, and perhaps she saw it, or heard it, and tackled those responsible when they were trying to hide him. When we found her she was clutching her phone.”
“Major mistake by whoever hit her,” said Sharp, “leaving the phone.”
“Could be any number of reasons for that,” said Reilly. “Maybe she didn’t die instantly; maybe whoever hit her cleared off pretty sharpish and she tried to phone for help afterwards.”
“Or she was trying to reach her husband,” added Gardener, glancing at the report again, “whose injuries were consistent with being hit by a vehicle. Most of his bones were broken, organs ruptured, and he had a lot of internal bleeding.”
“But there wasn’t a mark on him from what we saw,” added Sharp.
“No,” said Gardener, “but somebody wanted him dead, and did a good enough number to make sure that was the case. What we need to know is who, and why?”
Chapter Six
As Gardener and the team filed out of the room, he was approached by a desk sergeant whose name he wasn’t sure of, but he knew she manned the desk well and did a great job of seeing messages were delivered to the right people.
“Mr Gardener, Mr Reilly? There’s someone here to see you.” Gardener was saved any embarrassment as he glanced at her name badge – Brenda Long.
“His name is Roger Hunter, brother of David.”
That pleased Gardener; a family member. As yet they’d had very little information on the Hunters so it was a welcome intervention.
“Can you give us five minutes, please, and then maybe show him up to the fourth floor? We’ll meet him outside the lift.”
It was in fact Reilly who met the man, guiding him into a suite normally reserved for high-level meetings. The room was long and angular with a panoramic window affording a view of the city; thick pile carpets, easy chairs and low tables spoke of ease and relaxation.
“Have a seat, Mr Hunter,” said Gardener, staring at a short squat man with a solid frame; around five feet eight, with thinning ginger hair. He had large biceps, a muscular chest and strong hands, which suggested he worked out regularly. Brick Shithouse was the term that came to mind.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Reilly.
“No, thank you,” said Roger, “never drink it, but tea would be nice.”
Reilly made the arrangements and whilst he was waiting, the man pulled out a packet of pistachio nuts from an inside pocket, which he dropped on the table after opening.
“I came as soon as I could but I neither live nor work around here.”
Reilly returned with the drinks and took a seat.
“I’m pleased you did, Mr Hunter, you may be able to help us with our investigation.”
“I was hoping you could help me. I’m at a loss as to what’s happened. I’ve spoken to David’s neighbour, Sheila Poskitt, and she said something about a car crash, but his car’s in the garage without a scratch on it.”
“There was an incident with a vehicle,” replied Gardener, “but it wasn’t his car. At the moment, we’re still trying to work out what happened ourselves.”
To help Roger Hunter understand, Gardener took him through what he so far knew, which wasn’t a great deal.
“So you think David was hit by a vehicle, but not Ann Marie?”
“That’s what the post-mortem suggested,” replied Gardener, “but we have a lot more ground to cover. Aside from yourself, is there any other family?”
“Sorry, no, they were never blessed with children.”
“Where did your brother and sister-in-law work?” Reilly asked Roger Hunter. “At the moment we only know from the neighbours that Roger worked for a bank, but we don’t know which one.”
“Trans Global on Merrion Street.”
“What did he do?”
“Strangely enough I’m not really sure. Finance director comes to mind.”
Gardener didn’t bother asking what that entailed. Now that he had the name and address of the bank he would find out from the horse’s mouth.
“When did you last see your brother?” Reilly asked.
“We’re not very close-knit. We phone each other perhaps once a month but I think the last time I actually saw him was perhaps a year ago.”
“What do you do, Roger?” asked Reilly.
Roger Hunter smiled, but it was pained. “Government work, very boring, but necessary.”
“What does that mean?” asked Reilly.
“If I told you I’d have to kill you, Mr Reilly.”
All three men laughed, especially Gardener, thinking how much easier said than done it would be with his partner.
“It was worth a try,” said Reilly.
“One of the things we’d like to try and find out is why they were both out around midnight. Are you aware of any family problems?”
“None that I can think of but I’m sure that neither of them told me everything.”
“Any financial problems?”
“It’s highly unlikely, given David’s position, and their status in life. He had a good pension, a good salary, and a number of sound investments. House was paid for, new car every three years.”
“How long had he worked for the bank?” Gardener asked.
“Pretty much all his life, since the eighties.”
“Obviously a trusted employee,” said Reilly.
“You’d think so,” said Roger Hunter, taking a mouthful of tea before reaching for the pistachio nuts. “People who can’t be trusted don’t get to work for a bank in the first place.”
“Would you say they had a sound marriage?”
“It was certainly very good; not perfect, but then, whose is?”
Good point, thought Gardener. Though Roger was David’s brother he probably wouldn’t gain much ground with his line of questioning if they never saw much of each other, but he had picked up some useful information.
“I’m going out on a limb here, Mr Hunter,” said Gardener, “but you wouldn’t be aware of any enemies your brother might have had; perhaps someone who may want to do him some harm?”
Roger Hunter was taken aback by the question. “Do him any harm? I don’t think so. I know he worked for a bank so I don’t doubt he picked up one or two enemies, the current economic climate being what it is, but I don’t think anyone would go so far as to kill him.”
“You’d be surprised,” added Reilly. “Where are you staying, Roger?”
“If it’s okay with you two I thought I might stay at the house. Unless
it’s a crime scene.”
“We don’t think it is, but we’d like access to the house during the day today. We’d like to take their computer, and we would also like to see if David’s phone is in the house. We can check through paperwork, and providing there is nothing to suggest the house itself is a crime scene, you can take possession.”
Roger Hunter nodded. “It sounds like you have your work cut out so I won’t bother you any further. But I do have one more question. Have you any idea when the bodies will be released, and when I might be able to bury my brother and his wife?”
Gardener figured that question would eventually come into play. “If you leave me your contact details I will do everything I can to make sure it’s sooner rather than later.”
Chapter Seven
Alan Braithwaite strolled past The Malt as the church bell chimed the first of its ten rings. A bitingly cold wind snaked its way through the centre of the village, forcing him to pull his overcoat tighter around his body.
Another ten minutes should see the first signs of frostbite, thought Braithwaite, unless his Jack Russell terrier, Spike, managed to do his business early and therefore call it a day.
He seriously doubted that. The dog was out every morning come rain or shine. The scheduled walk took them to the end of the village and the roundabout before Spike would even consider turning back; might make a difference if he had a lead but he didn’t like putting the dog on one, preferring to allow it the freedom to roam.
Traffic in the village was quiet. He hadn’t yet seen a vehicle, or another human being.
What he had seen were a number of police posters pinned to street lights and telegraph poles, appealing for witnesses to the hit and run: had anyone seen anything suspicious; cars they didn’t recognise? That was a tough one. It was a village, there were people driving in and out all day that the residents had never seen.
Braithwaite walked around the left-hand bend leading out of the village, Spike happily trotting along in front of him, stopping every two or three feet to have a sniff at something – though his owner could never see what. The wall belonging to the Frost family was badly damaged where a vehicle had hit it – only now, two orange and white cones connected by police tape still cordoned off the path.
