Buried Secrets

by Lisa Cutts

  ‘Seriously, Harry, how are you doing?’

  He knew it was genuine concern: Barbara was a decent woman who kept an eye on her staff. Over the years she’d been at a few social functions with Harry when Milton and Linda had turned up. She had seen Harry drinking with Milton, but always watching out for Linda. On one occasion, Harry had driven his friend’s wife home when Milton had disappeared from the bar, nowhere to be found.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘I’m OK. Well, it’s probably time that I was sitting on crinkly, noisy brown paper and on my way home to slip into something a little more comfortable.’

  He glanced down at his feet. ‘I suppose that you’re also going to want my brand-new leather shoes, worn only once, and I won’t be getting them back for months.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you get a receipt.’

  Harry gave an empty laugh. ‘Who were you thinking of to run me home? Hazel Hamilton’s outside with Josh Walker. All right to ask her?’

  ‘Can you hang on here a moment?’ she said. ‘I need to speak to Josh anyway.’

  Harry did as he was told and stood beside the cushioned seats at the table where DCI Venice had been writing up her policy file. The A4 book was open at her last entry and Harry glimpsed the words, ‘Risk assess DI Harry Powell. Contact with the inquiry?’

  He couldn’t blame her for distancing him from it all: he’d discovered his old friend’s body for starters. Harry indulged himself for one minute, let his guard down and shut his eyes. He was alone now. He could risk it.

  The image of Linda’s body, rigor mortis already starting to set in, as she lay on her side facing towards the rear door. She’d had her back to the hallway.

  Harry’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized until this moment the significance of the way she was facing. How could he have missed that? She had her back to the door, meaning that someone she knew and trusted had been in the kitchen with her.

  One eye had been staring straight at him.

  Linda had such beautiful green eyes.

  Perhaps she’d been trying to watch for him, waiting for someone to come and help her.

  Harry shook his head. ‘Don’t think such stupid bollocks,’ he said.

  Barbara appeared in the open doorway of the mobile incident room and raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’

  ‘Barb, Linda had her back to the door – the spot where someone would have been standing talking to her. It must have been someone she knew.’

  She took a step towards him, leaned forward, but stopped short of actually taking his hand in hers.

  ‘It’s been a shitty day for all of us. Go home, let Josh bag your clothes up, and someone will be over to take your statement.’

  He felt worn out, but not ground down. ‘I can do my own bloody—’

  A hand came up from his superior officer to silence him. It worked.

  ‘Milton is a friend of yours, Linda is a friend of yours, and you found her with the back of her head caved in. Do you really think I’m going to let you write your own statement?’

  ‘OK,’ sighed Harry. ‘Who are you going to send to me?’

  ‘Not sure at the moment.’ She looked down at a list of priority enquiries on the table, blew out her cheeks and said, ‘Once I’ve allocated the FLO, house-to-house, CCTV, Senior CSI and heaven knows what else . . . I’m thinking Simone Piper?’

  ‘You fucking what? I don’t want her – she’s bat-shit mental.’

  ‘Harry, how on earth did you get through your inspectors’ board? You can’t say that sort of thing.’

  ‘How about Hazel Hamilton? She’s normal.’

  ‘I think that Josh has earmarked her for FLO. Don’t look at me like that. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Harry leaned against the side of the table and crossed his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his freckled face.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ she said, ‘the way she was facing may indicate she was surprised. Or of course that she was moved after she was attacked. We won’t know more until the CSIs have finished and the post-mortem’s been carried out.’

  ‘Are you going to let me know the result of either?’

  ‘Not before you’ve got out of my way, handed your clothes over and told us in writing everything that happened this morning.’

  Harry raised his eyes to the van’s ceiling, stained with something dark he hoped was coffee.

  ‘You know where I am when you need me,’ he said, making his way to the door.

  He stuck his head out and saw Josh and Hazel deep in conversation which stopped abruptly as soon as he appeared.

  Weary with the world, Harry made his way to Josh who had his car keys in his hand and was gesturing in the direction of a marked police car, ready as instructed to take his plain-clothes counterpart home.

  Harry was fully aware that he was being escorted home by an inspector and not a constable or sergeant because he had a reputation for being somewhat argumentative. It had surprised everyone when he’d been promoted from sergeant after years of falling out with management over a variety of issues, but he was revered by the rank and file because he always stood up for his staff. No one wanted to take the chance that he wouldn’t fully cooperate and hand his clothes over. No one wanted to take the chance that he might be wearing a suit and tie covered in telltale signs of blood-pattern distribution.

  Anyone could be a killer. Even an old friend.

  DI Harry Powell hadn’t been made a suspect so far, or, irrespective of rank, he’d have found himself under arrest and dressed in police station custody-suite-issued jogging bottoms and sweatshirt.

  But blood splatters were the least of his worries at this point in time: he was more concerned with what the inquiry would reveal in relation to Linda and Milton’s well-hidden personal lives.

  Chapter 6

  Afternoon of Monday 5 June

  ‘As if it’s not fucking bad enough that I’ve had to sit on shiny brown paper all the way home, Josh has buggered off with my newest whistle, and I’ll never see my shoes again.’

  Hazel picked up her mug of tea from the kitchen table where she’d made herself at home, and said, ‘If you’re going to talk cockney, I should perhaps get an interpreter.’

  ‘Where are you from? Leeds?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Manchester.’

  ‘Why did you end up in the South East?’

  ‘I heard how warm and friendly you all were. And besides, I had to go home and get changed too to avoid cross-contamination from being with a witness at Mr Bowman’s accident this morning. Sir, can we get back to the statement?’

  He drummed his fingertips on the pine tabletop and nodded at her.

  He wasn’t going to be obstructive, they both knew that, but he wasn’t just going to roll over either. Even despite the terrible events of the morning, he wouldn’t go off script and allow people to see the real Harry. He’d cry in the privacy of his own home, but not until he was alone. Any tears he shed for Linda would be done in secret.

  They were both aware that Hazel had been chosen because she wouldn’t leave until she had what she’d come for. That, and the stark truth that there weren’t that many people available to pick from.

  ‘Shouldn’t they have sent a DS?’ asked Harry.

  ‘We didn’t have one, so you’ve got me.’ Hazel knew better than to argue, but still, DI or not, he was a witness, and a witness in a murder inquiry, so she should be treating him with the same respect as anyone else.

  ‘Are you OK speaking to me, or would you prefer someone else?’ she asked, not completely convinced this was going to work.

  Harry scratched at the stubble already creeping over his face. ‘Course I am. Tell me, why did you leave uniform and come back to Major Crime?’

  ‘I heard that you were going to be my new DI,’ she said, shutting down the question immediately. ‘So, can we start with what time you left the incident room to go to Milton and Linda Bowman’s home?’

  He knew better t
han to keep avoiding talking about what he’d seen. He wanted the person responsible found, and found quickly, but he wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to pick the right words. Hazel was a good officer, and wouldn’t tell a soul outside the incident room what Harry told her. A number of officers and staff would have access to his statement, although only a few would speak to her directly and ask for her opinion on whether Harry was in some way responsible for Linda’s death.

  ‘Can you describe how Linda was when you first saw her?’ said Hazel, tone even, pen poised, but eyes on Harry.

  She watched his facial muscles tighten, saw him slowly blink, tighten his grip on his coffee mug.

  ‘She was looking straight at me. Well, one of her eyes was—’

  The beginnings of a sob came from Harry. It was the kind of noise someone made when their distress had built inside them, to the point of boiling over.

  He put his hand out to stop her from speaking. If she gave him words of kindness now, he couldn’t be sure he could stop himself. He was used to being the one who rocked up at people’s doors, told them bad news, explained what was going to happen and tried to pick up the pieces. He’d done it his whole life, personal and professional. No amount of bravado he showed to his family, friends and colleagues had ever let them see how much he mourned for butchered and raped strangers with only himself for company.

  He was a decent man, but his PR was all wrong.

  For the next couple of hours, Hazel asked Harry questions and he answered them.

  Twice Hazel pulled a small packet of tissues from inside her jacket hanging on the back of the chair and pushed them across to him. Twice he took one and passed the rest of the packet back to her.

  ‘OK,’ she said at last. ‘You know what comes next, Harry.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her: firstly, because he had no idea what she was talking about, and secondly because she’d switched at some point from calling him ‘sir’ and was now using his first name. He’d been so caught up in what he’d been telling her, concentrating, trying to get the details correct so that anything that could help find Linda’s killer would be written down and passed to an incident room of detectives, he wasn’t aware of when this change in familiarity had taken place. Perhaps it was around the second or third coffee, or when he’d poured himself a large brandy.

  Harry looked down at his empty glass then drained the remains of his coffee.

  ‘Do you want to read your statement yourself to check it, or shall I read it out to you?’ Hazel waited for his reply.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ he said, looking around for the bottle of Martell. He pushed himself from the chair, scraping the legs across the tiled floor, setting Hazel’s teeth on edge. He took a stride towards the draining board where he’d left the dwindling bottle, turned with it in his hand and said, ‘Would have been a time you’d have joined me. I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ll read it out to you,’ said Hazel, stifling a sigh.

  ‘Stop me if you’re not happy with the content of this,’ she said and began to read from the pages and pages of handwritten statement sheets in front of her.

  Hazel concentrated on what she was reading, but was all too aware that Harry was staring at her as he heard his version of finding Linda Bowman in her own kitchen, pieces of her skull stuck to the floor, blood so thick it was no longer red but black.

  Finally, Hazel sat back and said, ‘All I need now are some signatures from you and I’ll be out of your way.’

  Slowly, he sat back up. His face was unreadable, but then it usually was.

  He picked up a black pen from the table, pulled the statement forms towards him and began to sign, first the top left-hand side of page one, followed by his signature on the bottom left, then the same with each sheet up to the twenty-fourth. He only glanced up once he’d put his final signature after the last word.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to start asking me all sorts of questions now, such as my date of birth, where I was born and how tall I am,’ he said with a frown.

  ‘Or, you can turn the page and fill it in yourself.’

  ‘No, it’s your job, and besides, I’m now pissed. Sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’ It was her turn to put her hand up to stop Harry from interrupting. ‘I know you’re going to tell me that you’re not the usual kind of witness and you’ve seen it all before, but I know from personal experience, not just through this job, how much these things can build up and get to you. So try to forget that you’re a DI, and let me know if there’s anyone I can call for you, or if you’d like someone to be here for the rest of the day.’

  Harry gave a short hollow laugh, looked up at the kitchen clock, adorned with cobwebs, and said, ‘No one’s coming back here tonight. Not unless my luck really improves.’

  He knew better than to ask her to come back to join him for a nightcap after she went off duty. Even Harry recognized that asking her to have a drink with him for a third time was crossing a boundary. He didn’t need to be investigated for sexual harassment on top of everything else.

  Paperwork collected and jacket back on, Hazel was ready to leave. Harry stood up to follow her to the front door.

  As they got to the door, Hazel reached for the handle at the same time as Harry stretched across to open it. Their hands remained for a second where they were: Hazel’s beneath Harry’s. Awkwardly they stared at each other, both a little taken aback by the intimacy of the act. They’d spent hours in the same room, at the same table, yet this was the closest they’d been to each other, and it made both of them feel uncomfortable in a way neither had expected.

  Hazel moved her hand away, and before she knew what she was thinking, said, ‘Perhaps we’ll have that drink another time.’

  Her own words had surprised her, though not as much as they’d jolted Harry towards the right side of sobriety.

  He stood looking at her, mouth slightly open, free hand rubbing at the stubble on the side of his face, the other still on the door handle.

  He tugged the door open and said, ‘Well, see you later.’

  ‘Yes, bye,’ said Hazel, stepping outside into the late-afternoon heat. She walked to the end of the driveway, turned to say something, and saw Harry close the front door.

  ‘You idiot,’ she said to herself as she got back into her unmarked car. ‘Of course he wasn’t asking you out.’

  She drove away, face still reddened from the humiliation of misreading the entire situation.

  Chapter 7

  Doug Philbert, another of Major Crime’s detective inspectors rapidly dispatched from North Downs incident room, was not usually a man to lose his temper. This particular day, however, hadn’t got any better since finding out that one of their DIs was about to die, the same DI’s wife had been murdered, and her body discovered by another DI who Doug was pretty certain had a soft spot for the murder victim. To top it all off, Doug was privy to some uncomfortable information regarding the Bowmans’ marriage and history. He’d then got into a row with Operational Planning about staffing, had to explain to his own wife that he wouldn’t be home any time soon, and had to cancel a lecture at Training School for the mock incident room he was supposed to be running for those on the accreditation pathway for their detective constable status. Doug could still recall the CID course when it was six weeks packed into ten, including a day at the county’s brewery and another getting legless on the ferry across to France. That was soon stopped when police helmets and truncheons were found adorning the walls of pubs and cafés in Boulogne, in exchange for plain-clothes officers drinking free Stella Artois by the bucketload. He never did find out where his own police-issue headgear ended up, but he suspected if he scoured the bars across the Channel he’d find it there somewhere, gathering dust on a shelf, his force number in permanent marker pen inside its rim.

  He picked up the phone and called Inspector Josh Walker. He could tell by the background noise that Josh was outside, Doug presu
med still at the scene at the Bowmans’ home address.

  ‘Inspector Walker. How can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, Josh, it’s Doug Philbert. I’m in need of an FLO, and rumour has it that you’ve already had a word with Hazel Hamilton.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s OK to do it, I think, but as she’s one of your DCs, the final decision’s yours.’

  ‘I’m going to have to allocate it to her,’ said Doug with a sigh. ‘She’s not ideal for this one and I’ve already had to send her to take Harry’s statement too. We simply don’t have enough staff, as usual.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Josh. ‘That’s raised another issue. Can I run something else by you?’

  Doug could hear the background hum lessen as Josh took himself off somewhere quieter to speak.

  ‘Just got back into my car. I don’t want anyone overhearing what I’m about to say,’ said Josh. He sighed. ‘Harry’s a mate, a good mate, but is he going to cause her any problems?’

  Doug wasn’t totally sure how he should react to the question; pausing only seemed to prod Josh into continuing.

  ‘It’s common knowledge that Harry had a thing for Linda Bowman. Everyone saw how he looked at her. Everyone, that is, except for Milton and Harry’s own wife.’

  ‘Estranged wife,’ corrected Doug. ‘What are you telling me here? Linda ends up dead because after Harry’s been making puppy eyes at her for twenty years he finally snaps and kills her? Not only is that hugely unlikely, detective inspector or not, but he’d have found himself in a cell by now with the duty solicitor on their way if, for one second, there was any suggestion, likelihood or evidence to point towards his involvement.’

  Doug rubbed his temple with his free hand, regretting not putting the call on speakerphone so he could at least try to manoeuvre his headache away. His hand hesitated over the phone, then he decided it was best if no one overheard Josh’s concern.