Buried Secrets Read online

  For my six wonderful friends –

  Catherine Irwin, Eileen Yuksel, Helen Smither,

  Paula Kane, Theresa Garrod and Tracey Smith.

  Here’s to the next thirty-five years.

  Chapter 1

  Monday 5 June

  Milton Bowman slammed the front door behind him, leaving his wife alone in the kitchen without so much as a backward glance. Why did she bring out the worst in him? Despite the tumble of thoughts in his head, the stifling heat of the early morning didn’t pass him by, especially as he’d taken the time to tighten his silk tie and dress in his newest grey suit. Appearances were of the utmost importance to Milton. It was one of the reasons he had taken everything that was happening to him so hard. Some people walked away, some people lashed out. He simply wasn’t sure how he could get everything back on track again.

  He got into his car parked on the drive, bonnet facing outwards as all advanced police drivers had been taught, slammed the door, opened the window and screeched away from his ninety per cent mortgage-free house in the direction of the dual carriageway. He fought the urge to loosen his tie, not wanting to appear unkempt. Standards should be maintained.

  Getting up early for work had never bothered Detective Constable Hazel Hamilton: hearing the alarm sound at half past five in the morning wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed or looked forward to, but she liked the feeling of being awake and out of bed ready to launch herself into another day at the Major Crime Department.

  Some mornings she needed to walk one of the dogs she fostered on behalf of a local charity, but this morning she only had herself to take care of.

  On her way out, dressed in a navy trouser suit, she took her packed lunch, prepared the night before, from her fridge. She mulled over what that day’s tour of duty might bring, and wondered if another murder or rape would mean that she wouldn’t get home before the sun set.

  As she pulled away from her modest two-bedroom house, she focused on the four-mile drive along the coast to East Rise Police Station and forced herself to save any further thoughts of double shifts until she pulled up outside the 1960s concrete building that someone had once considered a good idea. Its five floors of grey looked out over one of the South East of England’s more run-down seaside towns, complete with screeching seagulls snatching food at every opportunity and making a mess of every car.

  She gave a glance to the blue sky and noticed a lack of both cloud and gulls, indicating that the sea was probably calm and peaceful. For a moment, she dared to risk the idea that her day might be equally as tranquil. There had been two days last week when she managed to get out of the major incident room on time.

  As she headed towards the dual carriageway that took her most of the way, she saw that there was an unusual amount of traffic for so early in the day. It wasn’t the best start she could have hoped for. She pushed her mixed feelings aside and wondered what a warm, sunny day at the seaside would bring her over the next eight hours of her shift.

  ‘Emergency. Which service?’

  ‘Ambulance,’ said Luke Morgan into his mobile as he jogged towards the mangled Vauxhall Insignia he had watched seconds earlier drive along the dual carriageway in front of him, taking the roundabout too fast, and veering off at the last second straight at the metal barrier separating the north- from the south-bound lanes. The noise of the engine gunning behind him as the car shot into his line of vision had made him look up. Until that point, Luke had been lost in thought, off to collect his early morning paper from the shop. He’d stared incredulous as the car collided with the concrete flowerbed, poured in place by the council in an attempt to make the smog-ridden dual carriageway easier on the eye.

  That car contained a person. Perhaps more than one.

  This thought hadn’t escaped Luke.

  By the time he’d covered the thirty or so metres to the car, a Transit van travelling in the opposite direction had stopped and two people had come out of their houses to see what was happening.

  Luke reached the driver’s door of the Insignia at the same time as the driver of the van, a man Luke put in his early forties, got to the passenger side. Luke crouched down at the open window on his side and saw the waxy face of the sole occupant of the car behind the steering wheel.

  ‘Help is on its way,’ said Luke, glancing down at the driver’s lap. Thick red liquid was flooding the material of his trousers. Glancing further down, Luke was able to see that his left leg was bleeding heavily just below his knee. Or at least, just below where his knee should have been, were it not jammed between his trapped right leg and the centre console of the car. The impact had severed the flesh and bone, and Luke could see that blood was pumping out of the man’s leg at an alarming rate.

  Luke concentrated on the face of the person rapidly going downhill in front of him. His first aid training had taught him only so much. Even so, common sense would tell anyone that a severed limb with such a loss of blood was limiting the man’s remaining time on earth. Still aware that he was talking to the ambulance service operator, he spoke into his mobile while maintaining eye contact with his casualty.

  ‘He’s in his mid-forties,’ said Luke.

  ‘No, I’m thirty-nine,’ said the man, ‘but I’m having a bad day.’

  Luke gave an empty smile and said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Milton, Milton Bowman.’ He winced and screwed his eyes up before adding, ‘I’m supposed to be at work. I have to tell you something. My wife—’

  At that point, Luke stopped him. ‘Milton, listen to me. The ambulance is coming but I have to get you out of the car. You’re losing a lot of blood and I have to try to stop it. I’m going to pull you out and I won’t lie to you – this is going to hurt.’

  Once more Milton tried humour; it was the only thing he could think of. It was either that or shut his eyes and hope that when he opened them again he had dreamed what had happened that morning in his own kitchen, and this, the stuff of his nightmares.

  ‘What’s your line of business?’ said Milton. ‘Motivational speaker?’

  ‘No. It’s your lucky day. I’m a Marine. Don’t worry, mate. This is a flesh wound in comparison to some I’ve seen.’

  As he spoke, Luke leaned into the car and opened the door, reaching across for the seat-belt release. While he wasn’t lying about seeing some atrocious injuries during his time in Afghanistan, he knew that his casualty was in trouble. In only the few seconds they’d been speaking, Milton’s colour had turned greyer than his suit. He now wasn’t talking but he was at least breathing. That much Luke was certain of, as he could hear his breath as he removed the seat belt and got ready to pull him from the car. All the time Luke was trying to save the stranger’s life, totally oblivious of the man, other than his expensive taste in clothes. He was however, very aware of his surroundings: he knew who else was in the street, where they were, what they doing, that the van driver had finished talking to the police operator and that he still couldn’t hear a siren in the distance. For now, Luke was on his own.

  He glanced over to where he’d last seen the van driver who was now standing a few feet away from the car. Even though he’d distanced himself from the crash, he was still straining to see what was going on. Luke took advantage.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted over, ‘give me a hand here?’

  The van driver gave an involuntary jolt in the direction of the car wreck as if his impulse upon being asked for his help, like his initial reaction, was to rush to assist, but then he checked himself and paused.

  ‘Could do with a strong pair of hands,’ said Luke. He saw it now: the apprehension in the man’s eyes at watching someone’s life blood drain away. He understood yet he didn’t have time for it.

  ‘You take his shoulders. His name’s
Milton.’

  That seemed to propel him forward. His gaze drew level with Luke’s as he reached the car door.

  Between them they carried Milton from the car, Luke all the while talking to him. The rush-hour traffic was stacking up in both directions, some vehicles because they couldn’t get past, and some whose drivers had a morbid fascination and were trying to watch.

  ‘What were you saying about your wife?’ said Luke, trying to keep Milton conscious for as long as possible as he tried in vain to use his T-shirt to stem the blood seeping onto the concrete.

  ‘When I left her earlier, it wasn’t good,’ Milton gasped.

  His speech was getting harder to decipher and Luke had to move from the mangled mess of his lower left leg, where he’d been kneeling in blood so thick that against the pavement it appeared black.

  ‘I’ll make sure she knows which hospital you’re going to,’ said Luke.

  ‘No, you don’t understand.’ Milton tried to swallow, his strength leaving him now. ‘It’s probably too late.’

  Luke moved back out of the way as the ambulance crews and police took over. He glanced up and down the street, took in the traffic and was very aware of how he must look, naked but for a pair of beige shorts and most of his body speckled with blood.

  Above everything else he couldn’t fail to notice the worried glances that the two police officers were exchanging and their looks of concern at the Vauxhall Insignia and the now unconscious man on the ground.

  Luke saw more police vehicles arrive and, amongst the uniform officers, a woman in a crisp navy trouser suit. She had an identity card on a lanyard around her neck and held out a police warrant card to one of the officers. He watched her give a nod and a greeting smile she didn’t mean to the patrol officers, and then take in the scene as she made her way over to him. She made him feel very much that she was one of the more senior in service and experience. He felt sure that she was going through a mental checklist and working through her priorities. In her position, he would have done the same: ensure there was no imminent threat or danger to anyone present, then move on to those injured and in shock. Only once they were being taken care of find out what happened and who caused it.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, glancing down at his blood-spattered legs and clothing. ‘Thanks for helping out here. I’m Detective Constable Hazel Hamilton. Are you injured?’

  ‘No,’ said Luke, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Can I ask you what happened?’

  She had her pocket notebook out and cheap black biro with its chewed end poised above the page. The photograph of her on her ID card around her neck was of her unsmiling face, something Luke felt was her habitual expression.

  Luke told her what he’d seen, then added, ‘And the man in the car is Milton Bowman.’

  He returned his gaze to the police officer as he said the last part, taking in the strand of blonde wavy hair that had come untucked from her ponytail. He saw the badly applied foundation on her cheeks which probably meant she’d rushed to get to work. Now she’d found herself at the scene of an accident, possibly before she had even got as far as the police station.

  Last of all, he saw her bite her lip and steal a sideways glance in the direction of the casualty.

  What he didn’t know was that she was fully aware who the figure on the ground was.

  One of the bosses from Major Crime, Detective Inspector Milton Bowman from East Rise Police Station.

  Chapter 2

  DC Hazel Hamilton led Luke away towards one of the patrol cars and had a quick word with its driver, who handed over the keys and left them to it.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said as she opened the car door for him, handing him a blanket from the boot. Hazel Hamilton had spoken to Luke for less than sixty seconds, but that was plenty of time for her to assess him and come to the conclusion that he would stay put when asked to, wasn’t about to faint on her, and would cooperate. And almost as important would sit in the back of the car and not steal the kit or play with the blue lights.

  He took the silver-foil blanket from her without a word.

  ‘Would you mind sitting on this?’ she said. ‘I’ve checked with the driver and it’s all she’s got in the car. I don’t want to sound insensitive, but being honest with you, if you get in and leave blood on the back seat, we’ll have to get the car deep-cleaned. We can’t afford for it to be off the road. There’s always a distinct lack of fast-response patrols. I’d appreciate it.’

  He put it on the seat and climbed in.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. Hazel didn’t have any concerns about his welfare: one of the things that made her a very competent officer was her ability to talk to people and get them to tell her things. In her twenty years as a police officer, it had never ceased to amaze her that some of her colleagues seemed incapable of conversation. She very much got the impression that the six-foot solid man sitting in the back of the patrol car would tell her what she needed to know yet would not volunteer information without being asked the right questions.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he answered. ‘More than I can say for Milton Bowman. The van driver’s not looking too good either.’

  She sighed and tucked the loose hair behind her ear. ‘You’re right there – about both of them. The van driver’ll be fine but we’re waiting to hear more about Milton.’

  Luke watched her chew the side of her mouth and peer in the direction of the crowd of uniformed men and women battling to save one life.

  ‘Has anyone told his wife?’ said Luke.

  Hazel’s gaze snapped in his direction, frown creasing her forehead.

  Pre-empting her question, he said, ‘It was about the only thing he said to me. He told me that he was supposed to be at work and started to say “My wife” something or other, but I stopped him. I had to get him out of the car and try to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘I’m not sure who’s been told to tell her,’ said Hazel. Under normal circumstances, it would be one of the PCs at the scene. Bearing in mind who the victim was, someone of equal or more senior rank would be given the unenviable task of knocking on Mrs Bowman’s door to tell her that her husband was on his way to hospital. Whatever the outcome, life was never going to be the same again for anyone in the family.

  Hazel steeled herself for a physically uncomfortable time, back twisted so she could turn to speak to her witness, heat of the day making her suit cling to her, as she got as much detail from Luke as she could about all that he’d seen, heard and done that morning.

  Detective Inspector Harry Powell sat with his head in his hands at his desk at East Rise Police Station’s incident room.

  He had barely had time to sit down when he received the call that DI Milton Bowman had been flown to Sonbury city’s Accident and Emergency and he wasn’t expected to live.

  Harry had got to work earlier than usual to catch up on paperwork, although all that consumed his thoughts now was the memory of Milton on the previous Friday evening, getting ready to leave the office before heading off home to take his wife out for a surprise meal. Harry ran his hands over the top of his head before rubbing his neck. A neck that had felt merely the pressure of an increasing workload until three or four minutes ago, and now it bore the burden of having to give the terrible news of a traffic accident to Linda Bowman.

  At least that was what Harry was concentrating on – a traffic accident. When he’d last spoken to Milton he had seen the dark shadows under his eyes, watched him tighten the knot on his tie, all the while aware of a tenseness in his face he hadn’t noticed before. Harry put it down to the upcoming chief inspector’s board he knew his counterpart was desperate to pass, and the added burden of his drug reduction campaign.

  ‘Special occasion, is it?’ he’d asked with a hidden pang of jealousy. On the surface, Milton seemed to have it all: beautiful wife, a mortgage smaller than most people’s credit card bill and he played golf with the assistant chief constable. In contrast, Harry had his job.

  �
�No. I’m hoping it’ll keep her off my back for another week or so. Things aren’t too good between us at the moment.’

  At the time, that had made Harry feel slightly better about himself. Only now, of course, it was churning his insides around. He stood up and made his way out of his office. He knew that no one else was in the incident room. Even the cleaners didn’t come in before seven, but he’d been there to get ahead of the day, especially as he was on call for incidents in the county. A good night’s sleep always eluded him when the phone could go at any minute, with a distant voice informing him there had been a murder, a shooting, a rape, a kidnap, or a ferry disaster, and asking how long he would be before he got there to take charge.

  East Rise incident room was where he’d worked as a detective constable, before going away to the county town’s police station at Riverstone to get himself promoted to sergeant, and then returning as a detective inspector. He paused in the centre of the room, seagulls screeching outside. The place held many happy memories for him, except he knew that when he recalled today it would bring back no positive thoughts.

  Dismissing the idea of waiting for someone else to come on duty and accompany him to his destination, Harry went outside to the car park, got into his car and drove off to deliver some very bad news.

  It was just before 8 a.m. when Harry pulled up outside Milton Bowman’s address. He’d been there many times in the past but not for a few years. He had got to know Linda, become very fond of her and considered her a friend. Once or twice, Harry had had a glimpse of what he thought was the real Linda, one who wouldn’t stand for any nonsense and could take care of herself. He hoped he was right: she would need all the strength she could muster in the next few months.

  The last time Harry had been to the Bowmans’ house was when he had dropped Milton home following a five-a-side match between East Rise incident room and one of the county’s other incident rooms at North Downs. It had turned a bit ugly with East Rise losing by eight goals to two, riling Milton who went in for a tackle, breaking the opposition’s top scorer’s leg.