Buried Secrets: The Freeman Files Series: Book 11 by Ted Tayler (that summer book TXT) 📕

to know more because when she arrived in Chippenham, part of her invisibility cloak involved wasting her talents at a call centre. A company she stayed with for nineteen years where she became an anonymous voice at the end of the line.”

“What the heck does she have to hide, guv?” said Alex.

“And what does it have to do with Alan Duncan’s death?” asked Luke.

“Don’t look at me,” said Gus. “I’m just starting this jigsaw. We haven’t got half the pieces on the board yet. Perhaps we’ll get more this afternoon.”

An hour later, Gus was ready to drive to Corsham.

“Are you nearly ready, Blessing?” he asked.

“Give me two minutes, guv,” she replied. “I’ll explain to Lydia what I’ve done so far. Ten minutes, and Lydia should have a good idea of Kyle Ellison’s digital footprint.”

Blessing joined Gus in the lift, and they returned to the ground floor.

“The story so far, Blessing,” said Gus.

“Ellison’s Twitter posts were mostly about football, rugby league and the EDL, guv,” said Blessing.

“I’m sorry you had to read that garbage, Blessing,” said Gus.

“Kyle’s not an active member of the extremist organisation, guv. The language isn’t great, but he’s careful not to post or retweet anything controversial. There’s no sign they have removed him from the site at any time. I assess that he’s an extremely low-volume user with less than thirty followers. Kyle follows several high-profile sports stars and female celebrities and goes weeks with no activity. His profile picture is the Leeds United badge. Everything else he posts is text only, no photographs.”

“Never mind, Blessing. Perhaps he’s more active on Facebook.”

“It makes life easier for us when people live their life in a goldfish bowl,” said Blessing.

“Odd isn’t it?” said Gus. “If we encounter someone who doesn’t have active accounts on these sites, we wonder what they’ve got to hide. Twenty years ago, it was possible to carry out clandestine affairs, commit bigamy, and get up to all sorts of antisocial activities with no one being any the wiser. Or so they tell me.”

“That’s a good point, guv,” said Blessing.

Gus drove them to Corsham. Bob and Elizabeth Duncan lived in a modest three-bedroomed semi-detached house on a small estate off Station Road. Gus thought the houses had stood there since the early 60s.

“What’s my role this afternoon, guv?” asked Blessing as they walked to the front door.

“Listen to what they say, make a note of what they don’t,” said Gus.

The doorbell uttered a single harsh ring.

Bob Duncan answered the door and invited them inside. Gus understood what Madeleine Telfer meant. Bob Duncan was barely nine years older than he was, yet he could pass for an eighty-year-old. Bert Penman had more energy at eighty-five.

Alan’s father didn’t ask who they were or want to look at identification. He led them into a tired-looking front room, crying out for a lick of paint. The grey net curtains in the window had once been white, and even in high summer, the room felt dark and gloomy.

“Elizabeth’s in the kitchen,” said Bob. “She thought you’d want a cuppa.”

“Give Mrs Duncan a hand, Blessing,” said Gus. “You know my poison.”

“Only the dining room chairs for you to sit on, I’m afraid,” said Bob. “We don’t get many visitors.”

“That’s not a problem, Mr Duncan,” said Gus. “You know why we’re here?”

“Someone rang to say we were getting a visit from the police. You’re raking over Alan’s case again. That upset Elizabeth. She’s not been the same since he died. Alan was our only child.”

“We understand,” said Gus. “My name’s Freeman. My boss, who will soon be the county’s next Chief Constable asked my team to review Alan’s case. We know it’s been ten years, and talking about his death will still be painful for both of you, but we didn’t find his killer. We must do everything in our power to correct that situation.”

“Why?” asked Bob Duncan. “It won’t bring Alan back. Why can’t you just leave things alone? We’ll be dead and gone in a couple of years. I couldn’t care less about what you do then.”

Blessing returned to the room carrying a tray. Elizabeth Duncan shuffled in behind her and sat in a chair opposite her husband. Gus had already noticed the couple’s wedding photograph, and a casual shot of proud parents with their son in his naval uniform. It was difficult to accept that they were of the same person. Elizabeth was a hunched, pale shadow of the woman in those photos. A decade of grief etched in every line.

“We have tea in the afternoon,” she said.

Blessing handed the couple their cups of tea and raised an eyebrow as she passed Gus his black coffee.

“I was explaining to your husband, Mrs Duncan, that it’s not our intention to cause you any distress by taking a fresh look into Alan’s death in 2008. Someone went to a lot of trouble to plan and carry out that murder. What I want to do this afternoon is talk about Alan. Did he attend school here in Corsham?”

“Alan was top of the class, Mr Freeman,” said Bob Duncan, “whether it was junior or secondary school. He got top grades in a dozen GCSE’s and stayed on for the sixth form. He did well in his A levels too, with A grades in Maths, Physics, and Chemistry.”

“Did he want to attend university?” asked Gus.

“No, Alan always had his heart set on the Navy. I don’t know why.”

Blessing watched Elizabeth Duncan sipping her tea. She was miles away. Perhaps she remembered their son leaving home for the first time. Or maybe she’d forgotten they were even there.

“Where did he train?” asked Gus.

“At Dartmouth,” said Bob. “He was there for seven months, training to become an Engineering Officer.”

“I bet he couldn’t wait to get to sea,” said