Something triggered Hunter’s thoughts. ‘Do you know I have heard him mentioned in the past, but I think he’d retired by the time I became a cop. I certainly don’t remember him being at Barnwell nick when I joined. You don’t recall his full name by any chance?’
David lifted his eyes skywards for a couple of seconds deep in thought. Returning them he answered, ‘Jennings! That was his name, PC Jennings. I don’t ever recall hearing his first name. They called him Bobby Scot because he was Scottish. I can vaguely remember him.’ He cracked a grin. ‘Not that I had any dealings with him, mind you.’
‘You wouldn’t know if he’s still alive by any chance?’
‘I’ve got a feeling that he’s still around, though he must be in his seventies at least. I can’t remember seeing in the local obituary that he’s died. If he is alive he’ll be able to tell you far more about this place than I can. Especially about the folk who lived here. Which brings me around to your investigation. I don’t want to pry or anything but all I know is what was on the news last night – that workers here have found a skeleton. I’m guessing from your contacting me and asking about what this place was like in the eighties, that it’s not that old.’
Hunter nodded. ‘We think she was killed and buried in the old chapel during the nineteen-eighties. I can’t say much more than that I’m afraid at the moment. There’s going to be a press conference this afternoon, so you should see some more about it on this evening’s news.’
‘She! You know who it is?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘Other than the gender – not a clue at the moment. Still too early in the enquiry. That’s why I contacted you. One of the things I’m after is a list of the people who lived here during the eighties. An old voter’s list or whatever from back then.’
David Simmons screwed up his face. ‘I haven’t got anything like that I’m afraid. The council might be able to help you there.’ Then, he threw Hunter a studious look. ‘Do you know, mentioning that the skeleton you’ve found is a she has just triggered something!’
‘Oh Yes?’
‘Yes. The Beast of Barnwell!’
Grace’s eyes widened. ‘I’ve heard that name,’ she interjected, swinging her gaze from the historian to Hunter she added, ‘Remember when we were working on the Demon case?’ She looked at Hunter but didn’t wait for a response. ‘Me and Mike had the task of checking out the Missing from Homes? All the old files were in the basement at headquarters. I can remember seeing an old box down there with loads of files and photos from that case.’ She tapped her bottom lip, ‘Now what was his name?’
‘Terrence Arthur Braithwaite,’ David Simmons interjected.
Hunter screwed up his face, ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
The historian thumbed back over his shoulder. ‘This was where he used to live. Chapel Street. He murdered a young lass back in the early seventies and dumped her in the woods not far from here. Raped a few as well if my memory serves me well. He got life, but I can remember seeing in the local paper that he got released a couple of years ago.’
‘What’s made you link him with this skeleton we’ve found?’
‘Because I can remember at the time from the newspaper reports after his trial that it was suspected that he’d done more than just that young lass.’ He paused and said, ‘Check him out. You’ll have enough on him. He made lots of headlines. He was a real monster.’
The cogs started whirring inside Hunter’s brain. He shot a glance over the historian’s head to the construction site where a larger white tent had now been erected over the empty grave. Two forensic officers stood chatting by its entrance. They appeared to be examining something. He brought back his gaze, a surge of excitement engulfing him. Yesterday’s image invaded his thoughts again. A beast’s head. Had the heritage secretary just given them an early breakthrough?
CHAPTER SIX
Dawn Leggate pulled her car onto the driveway, nosed up to the rear of Michael’s parked car, set the handbrake and switched off the engine. Grabbing her bag off the front passenger seat she noticed the house was in darkness and for a moment it threw her. Where’s Michael? Then she remembered. His curry night. Damn! It had completely slipped from her thoughts with everything that had gone on. A sudden twinge of guilt engulfed her. She had promised him a lift to the pub, where he was meeting up with his buddies for pre-drinks before the meal. Opening the car door and looking up at the house she realised that he must have got a taxi. She would wait up for him and apologise, though, she knew she needn’t – he would understand – he had been in her position only 18 months ago.
Entering the house, she pulled off her shoes, placed them neatly beneath the radiator, scrunched out the tension from her toes in the softness of the hall carpet and made her way through to the kitchen. There, she slipped off her jacket and dumped it together with her bag and keys onto the work surface, picked out a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a generous measure of wine from the fridge. Taking a mouthful, she savoured the refreshing hints of pear and lemon and felt herself beginning to unwind from her hectic day. She had already decided that she was going to finish this, pour herself another, have a soak in the bath, put on her dressing gown, throw together a ham salad and then watch some mindless television until Michael got home.
She had just drained her glass and was reaching for the wine bottle when her mobile rang.
* * *
Drawing his coat around him Michael Robshaw stepped away from the doorway of the Indian restaurant into the cool night air. He stood for a second, buttoning up and taking in the street. The square to his left that had been busy earlier was now relatively quiet. A couple were locked together, arm in arm, steering a path to the pub four doors up. A man was by the entranceway, leaning against the wall, having a smoke. He was staring skywards and looked to be in his own world.
Momentarily, Michael followed his gaze. The sky was especially clear tonight. He immediately recognised the Big Dipper. It was the only star constellation he could remember from his school science lessons. The sudden blare of a car horn made Michael jump. He spun his head in the direction of the sound. Across the road a silver VW Passat was parked with the engine running. The driver’s window lowered and his friend Peter stuck his head out.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’
He fastened the last button and shook his head. ‘Positive. It’s only a twenty-minute walk. I’ll have burned off some of the meal by the time I get home.’
‘Okay mate, I’ll be in touch.’ Peter gave him a quick wave, wound up the window and set off up the steep hill, beeping his horn as he left.
Michael watched the brake lights go out of view, hitched up his collar and set off walking. He loved these nights. A few beers and a curry with his friends, though their numbers had diminished over the years. There used to be half a dozen of them meeting up every three months to catch up, and share what was going on in their lives, but one of their number had died last year of a heart attack, and tonight one other couldn’t make it, leaving just himself, Peter, Stuart and Keith to meet up at their favourite curry house, where for the last two and a half hours they had talked and laughed, sharing anecdotes about the job they all did and loved. They were cops. He, Peter, Stuart and Keith had been fledgling detectives together and despite all going their separate ways over the years – his because of promotion – they had kept in touch. Michael was now the Force Crime Manager – Detective Chief Superintendent – though not for long; although relatively young at 49, he had already determined that in two years’ time he would be opting for his pension and retiring. He had already begun making plans.
He was half way up the hill, catching his breath – telling himself he must get back into his exercise regime – when he heard the slow rev of an engine behind him.
Pete! Larking about. Smiling, he didn’t look back.
The car revved again. This time it was more determined.
He took the edge off his pace, and half turned to check no
one was around to catch him sticking up two fingers. The car was twenty yards away in between streetlamps. As he fixed his gaze on the front grill the headlights blazed, blinding him. For a couple of seconds stars cascaded before his eyes. As he fought to clear the flashes, he heard the engine purge to a roar, followed by a screech of tyres. The next thing he felt was a powerful blow to his legs and suddenly he was flying upwards. Flashes of bonnet, and windscreen, and a starry sky filled his vision and then everything went black.
He was unconscious by the time the car reversed back over him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAY THREE
The alarm woke Hunter at 6.30 a.m. As he climbed out of bed he noticed the heating had kicked in – it must have dropped cold overnight.
Showering quickly, he dressed on the landing so as to not wake Beth and then tiptoed downstairs, avoiding the second from bottom step which always creaked.
In the kitchen he made tea by dunking a teabag in a mug and whilst adding the milk, loaded crumpets into the toaster. Waiting for them to toast he loosely fastened his tie and then, mug in one hand and buttered crumpet in the other, he made his way to the French doors and looked out. He could only see to the bottom of his garden. Beyond that a veil of mist blocked his view into the fields beyond and he realised now why the heating had come on. He brought his gaze back. Everything in his garden was damp and flat and he noted that most of the border plants had lost their blooms. He told himself that he must catch up with some gardening on his next days off.
In spite of this morning’s weather he loved this time of day and loved it when the house was in this tranquil state. In another hour he knew it would be anything but. The boys would be up and Beth would be anxiously cajoling them into getting ready for school. Thankfully he wouldn’t be around – he struggled to cope with Jonathan and Daniel in the morning. He marvelled at how Beth managed, more so when it was her day to work, and she had to oversee them getting prepared for school, as well as get herself organised within a tight schedule.
He dragged himself out of his ruminations and finished his second crumpet, his thoughts switching to the day ahead. There was nothing Hunter enjoyed more than when a new case started. The first few days he experienced that rush all detectives get when a fresh investigation was underway. There was nothing they wanted more than to catch the killer and yesterday’s reveal by David Simmons might just be the lead as to who had murdered their victim.
At 7.10 a.m. Hunter put his mug in the dishwasher and made his way to the hall where, in front of the mirror, he buttoned up the collar of his shirt and secured the knot of his tie. He paused for a moment staring back at his image, checking he was good to go. Then, picking up his car keys he quietly let himself out of the house.
* * *
Bounding up the back stairs Hunter had expected to be entering a highly charged office with everyone in high spirits. However, the atmosphere he encountered as he stepped into the room was anything but. As per normal detectives were making phone calls, or chatting amongst themselves but instead of being buoyant their mood seemed sombre. Puzzled, Hunter made his way across to his desk, slipped off his coat, draped it around the back of his chair and leaning across his desk sought out his partner’s attention.
Grace looked up from what she was working on and offered up a weak smile.
He returned a quizzical frown and flicked his head backwards. ‘What’s up with everyone? Someone died?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’
Hunter screwed up his face even tighter. ‘Heard what?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Robshaw got knocked down last night! He’s in a critical condition!’
Stunned, Hunter slumped into his chair, ‘Mike?’
Grace nodded, ‘Looks like a hit and run.’
‘Christ!’ Hunter locked onto Grace’s concerned look. Michael Robshaw had been the Investigation Team’s SIO until last November, when, following promotion, he had been assigned to headquarters to manage the force’s Crime Portfolio. Before that he had forged a very close working relationship with Michael. He had been his DI during his CID days, had supported and encouraged him to get his promotion to sergeant and had recommended him for Drug Squad. When the Major Investigation Teams were being set up across the force it had been Michael Robshaw who had telephoned him at home and given him the ‘heads up’ to apply for one of the Detective Sergeant’s posts. Hunter was extremely fond of him. He trusted and admired him. ‘What happened?’
Grace shrugged her shoulders. ‘Not quite sure. All I know, from what I’ve been told, is that last night he went out with some of his old work mates to Asian Spices in the square, and was making his way home when he was hit by a car which didn’t stop. He’s in intensive care in a really bad way apparently. They don’t know if he’s going to make it. The gaffer’s with him.’
‘Morning guys’ Detective Inspector Gerald Scaife’s announcement lifted everyone’s heads.
Hunter followed the DI’s slow walk to the front of the room where he stopped by the incident board.
Slim built, but not skinny, in his early forties, with brown, greying hair cut short to the scalp, Gerald Scaife wore a steely expression as he faced the team. ‘I’m sure everyone’s heard the sad news about Mr Robshaw this morning,’ he roamed his gaze around the room but didn’t make eye contact with anyone. ‘The gaffer’s been by his bedside since late last night and doesn’t know when she’ll be in so she has asked me to hold the fort and take briefing this morning. With regard to the accident, I have briefly chatted with her but she knows very little about how it happened because of Mr Robshaw’s condition. There is an ongoing investigation by traffic as we speak, so as soon as I know anything definite I will update you. Regarding Mr Robshaw, he does have some very serious injuries, the most serious of which is a fractured skull, which has caused a bleed in the brain and when I spoke to the gaffer an hour ago he was in theatre being operated on. As soon as I get an update I’ll let you all know.’ Pausing a second he added, ‘I think I speak for us all when I say we wish him our very best.’ For a brief moment his glanced at the floor. Then, looking up he continued, ‘Now back to our enquiry. Overnight, following the TV appeal, a number of callers have left names of who they believe our victim is. There are at least a dozen and the HOLMES team will be checking them against Missing Persons Index. If we get a match to our profile it will be immediately put out as an action to follow up. At the scene, Doctor Wilson and forensics have almost finished their work around the gravesite. Late yesterday afternoon they recovered a black stiletto shoe, size five, with a broken heel, which we believe is the victim’s and also a pair of 9ct gold loop earrings. Pictures of those will be put up on the board during the day. Forensics are going to extend the search but, as you all know, because of the state of the site this is not going to be easy.’ Breaking, he focussed on Hunter. ‘Enquiries-wise, you and Grace got something after you spoke with the local historian. Do you want to take us through it?’
Hunter looked up from his journal. He had been doodling – a habit of his. Covering his head and shoulders cartoon sketch of the straight-faced DI with his arm, Hunter cleared his throat and responded, ‘Yeah, very interesting chat with the secretary of Barnwell heritage group yesterday afternoon. We met him down at the site. He gave us a little bit of history about the area which, though interesting, doesn’t help us with regard to the time period we’re looking at. He’s loaned us a couple of ordnance survey maps and a few black and white photographs that could help us to get a picture of how the area around Chapel Meadows looked before the recent work started. The really interesting thing he did tell us, and it could be something of significance, but requires some following up, is that the killer Terrence Arthur Braithwaite used to live on this estate.’ He saw from the faces of some of the team that the name had registered – but not in everyone’s. He continued, ‘To those who are not familiar with the name, you may be familiar with the nickname he was given in nineteen-seventy-three when he was jailed for l
ife – The Beast of Barnwell.’ Now he saw everyone’s face light up. ‘Not wishing to jump the gun here, but I couldn’t help but think that the cow’s – as in beast’s – head, placed on top of our victim, might just be his signature.’ He looked around the room for any reaction. His colleague’s faces were deadpan. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued, ‘Anyway, Braithwaite’s case was well before anyone’s time here, but the reason I’m bringing his name into the enquiry is because the heritage secretary told me that, although he was only convicted of killing one girl in nineteen-seventy-two, he said that he was suspected of killing others, but it was never proved. I have to confess I haven’t had much time to follow up the latter part of what he told us, but I have pulled off what’s recorded on PNC and I can confirm that Terrence Braithwaite lived at 16 Chapel Lane at the time of his arrest – less than fifty yards from the chapel where our victim was discovered. And, I can also confirm that in nineteen-seventy-three he was found guilty of the murder of a seventeen-year-old girl called Glynis Young, plus the rape of four other women and was sentenced to life.’ Hunter paused and took a deep breath. ‘The heritage secretary told us that a few years ago there was a feature piece in The Chronicle about Braithwaite being released.’ He looked at the DI. ‘I’ve got to follow this up as well.’ Glancing across to his partner he added, ‘I think Grace knows where we can put our hands on information from the original investigation.’
Grace pushed herself back in her chair, ‘Yes boss,’ she began. ‘When we were working on the ‘Demon’ case, just over a year ago, Mike Chapman and I had the task of checking through all the old Missing from Home files, to see if we could find a couple of his victims. We discovered that those files had all been stored in the basement across at District HQ. Well, whilst we were down there I found this large box full of statements, crime scene photos and the crown court file relating to Braithwaite. At the time I only cherry picked through the stuff in there, more out of curiosity, so didn’t get the full picture of what he’d done exactly, but there was so much in that box that I’m pretty sure it’s everything to do with the original investigation’.
Shadow of the Beast Page 4
