“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
