Tainted: A DI Colin Strong Investigation (The Wakefield Series Book 4)

by David Evans

  “So basically, we’ve got Jack Shit.” Hemingford sounded exasperated.

  Strong and Ormerod exchanged glances. To Strong, Hemingford was wound up about something. This wasn’t the usual frustrations of the early days on a case. “Well, Luke and myself visited his mother on Saturday evening, and again yesterday,” he said. “Obviously a huge shock. We didn’t get too much from her then – she’d last seen him on Friday evening when he’d called to see her at tea time. Two things she and her daughter, Becky, told us were interesting. Firstly, Mark gave his mother five hundred pounds when he called on Friday; said something about having done a favour for a mate. And secondly, Mrs Thompson had a visit from a George Brannigan who was looking for Mark.”

  “Who is this Brannigan character?”

  “Apparently Mrs Thompson’s sister, Veronica was married to him for ten years before she died three years ago. There seems to be no love lost between Mrs Thompson and Brannigan. Anyway, yesterday afternoon Luke and I called in to the scrapyard in Huddersfield where Brannigan is based but no one was around. Looks like he lives in a big house adjoining the yard. We plan to try again later today.

  “In the meantime, we have a FLO with Mrs Thompson and I’ll be speaking to her later today.” He looked over to Kelly Stainmore. “I’ll go with DS Stainmore and see what else we can tease from her. And, of course, we have forensics looking at his flat.”

  “Do we know where he was attacked? If the fingertip search of the yard has come up with nothing then it wasn’t where he was found,” Hemingford said.

  Ormerod took up that one. “Nothing obvious. There again, it has pissed it down for most of the time since Friday night.”

  Hemingford let out a big sigh and turned to the other boards. “So where are we on the Marcus Weaver murder?”

  Strong outlined what they knew and what was suspected – not much further on from Friday’s briefing. He still felt that Weaver was conducting an affair with a female from his workplace but his colleagues either didn’t know who, or weren’t saying.

  “Could he be having it off with another man from work?” Hemingford asked. “It has been known.”

  Strong puffed his cheeks. “I honestly don’t think so. We have the footprints and tyre tracks plus the female scent in Weaver’s car. But we’re in that limbo period waiting for results from various forensics tests.”

  “Right, I’ll speak to the DCS and see if he can apply pressure to hurry things along there.” Hemingford began to walk to the door.

  “And I had results in from the fingerprints we took from Mrs Weaver,” Stainmore added. “They don’t match the ones on the passenger door handles, either inside or out.”

  “One other thing, sir,” Ormerod said.

  The DCI paused. “What’s that, Luke?”

  “I spoke to the Drugs Squad and, as far as they know, those toilets are not on their radar for trafficking.”

  Hemingford turned and continued on his way, head bobbing in a nod.

  Ormerod watched him go then walked over to join Strong. “He doesn’t seem to be that interested, does he?”

  Stainmore joined them. “He’s got something else on his mind,” she said.

  “You might be right, Kelly,” Strong agreed.

  “Anyway,” Stainmore continued, “thanks for bringing me on board on Saturday. I missed all the action.”

  “That’s just what I said, Kelly.” Luke held out his hands. “I told him you’d be pissed off not being involved,”

  “I just thought you’d appreciate a weekend off with your folks,” Strong responded.

  Stainmore’s face broke into a broad grin. “Too bloody right. It was pissing down on Saturday and my mum’s roasties are to die for.”

  30

  Alison slumped into her chair and moved it as close as she could to her desk. That was the third time this morning she’d been to the toilet. The bump was decidedly uncomfortable now. Thank God she only had two more days after this. Her maternity leave began on Wednesday.

  Four emails had arrived in her inbox since she’d been gone and she opened the first message. Before she could read it, she was interrupted.

  “Hi.” Sammy approached her desk, a batch of manila folders in her hand. “I called up before but they said you’d gone to the Ladies’.”

  “I see more of that place than I do my computer screen,” Alison quipped.

  Sammy looked her friend up and down then smiled. “You don’t look too comfortable sitting there. Do you need a cushion?”

  “I’ve already got one,” she said, patting the bump.

  The two of them burst out laughing, prompting a couple of Alison’s work colleagues to look up from their desks and smile.

  Regaining her composure, Sammy leaned forward towards her friend. “Have you been able to pick anything up?” Her voice was just above a whisper. “Regarding Mr Weaver’s bit of …”

  Alison looked round at the rest of her colleagues, all now pre-occupied, heads focused on their computer screens. “No,” she answered. “Have you?”

  “Oddly enough …” Sammy gestured towards the stairs then walked off, the folders still in her hands.

  “Oh God,” Alison exclaimed, “I’ll have to go back to the loo again.” She stood up and waddled out, following Sammy.

  They walked into the small kitchen off the stair lobby. Sammy had already made sure nobody else was there.

  “Go on then, what do you know,” Alison asked, closing the door.

  “Well, you know I said on Thursday that I thought I’d seen him with a woman … well, you know, not ‘with a woman’ as such but …”

  Alison grew impatient. “Sammy, just tell.”

  “Okay, you know the New Claims department one floor down?” Sammy paused to glance through the vision panel in the door. The last thing she’d want would be to be caught spreading rumours.

  Alison filled the kettle and switched it on. “Yes. Is she one of them?” she asked, dropping a tea bag in a mug.

  “I think so. I heard a couple of other women chatting about Mr Weaver earlier on in the toilets. Then they dropped their voices but I heard a name. And then they went all concerned, you know, with an exaggerated shocked expression on their faces.”

  “Do they know you heard?”

  “No, I’m positive they didn’t. I was at the far end and I got the impression they were completely wrapped up in their conversation.”

  “So who is it?”

  “You know as you go in to their section, there’s a woman on the left-hand side with medium length dark hair, curly?” Alison was nodding. “Probably early thirties, usually wears a beige cardigan. Her name’s Charlotte.”

  “Oh, I know, Charlotte …” Alison screwed up her face trying to remember then snapped her fingers and pointed at Sammy. “… Watkins, Charlotte Watkins.”

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman with a mug proclaiming she was the best mother in the world entered.

  “Hi Alison. How long have you got to go now?” the woman asked.

  “Another month. But this’ll be my last week.” Alison moved towards the door. “Kettle’s just boiled.”

  “Hope all goes well for you.”

  “Thanks.” Alison opened the door.

  “Is this yours?” The woman picked up the empty mug with a tea bag in.

  “Oh, I’ll come back for it later. We just need to do something first,” Alison said. “Come on then, Sammy, let’s crack on.”

  Once outside, Sammy pushed the button to call the lift.

  “Where are we going now?” Alison wondered.

  Sammy tapped the folders she had tucked under her arm. “Well I thought we’d go and see Charlotte and discuss one of these new claims.”

  “You crafty sod.”

  Charlotte Watkins was at her desk when Sammy and Alison walked in to the department.

  “Hi, it’s Charlotte, isn’t it?” Alison said.

  She looked up from the paperwork she was studying. “Yes, it’s … Alison from ups
tairs.”

  “That’s right,” Alison replied. “And this is my colleague Sammy Grainger.”

  “Hello Sammy.”

  “Hi.”

  “What can I do for you?” Charlotte asked.

  Sammy passed one of the manila folders to Alison. “It’s this claim,” she said. “I think it needs to be dealt with by this department down here.”

  Alison opened the folder and placed it on Charlotte’s desk so she could see it.

  Charlotte began to read through the paperwork. “I think it does,” she said.

  “That was shocking news last week, wasn’t it?” Sammy said to Alison in a conversational tone.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Mr Weaver. From upstairs,” Sammy explained.

  “Oh God, yes. I was off on Thursday and Friday,” Alison replied. “Only on three days.” She patted her stomach. “In fact this is my last week until …” She stopped, aware of Charlotte’s reaction to what she and Sammy were saying.

  Tears were streaming down Charlotte’s cheeks. She snatched open a drawer on her desk and pulled a handful of tissues free from a box that was there.

  “Sorry,” she said, stood up and dashed from the room.

  Alison looked across at Charlotte’s work colleagues. They just shrugged and carried on with what they were doing.

  Alison and Sammy walked in to the female toilets on Charlotte’s floor. Sobbing could be heard from behind the one cubicle door that was closed.

  Sammy quickly checked the other toilets were unoccupied, then nodded to Alison.

  “Charlotte,” Alison said softly. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”

  More sobs.

  “Please Charlotte, come out. We think we know,” Sammy said. “But this is between us. We won’t tell a soul.”

  Sounds of sniffing and nose-blowing. After a few seconds, the toilet flushed and the bolt slid across. Slowly the door opened and a puffed face with bloodshot eyes peered round. “I need to tell someone,” Charlotte said, looking from Alison to Sammy and back. “Can I trust you?”

  31

  Strong and Ormerod stepped from the Mondeo onto puddles that were still frozen from the overnight sharp frost. They cracked like broken windows as the pair walked to the open gates of George Brannigan Scrap Metal Merchant Ltd’s yard. A diesel train rumbled across the viaduct at the side of the premises, its throaty sound announcing its imminent arrival at Huddersfield railway station.

  They made their way to the green portakabin office at the side of the yard nearest the house. Fluorescent light could be seen inside. The yard was quiet with no obvious activity taking place. Piles of scrapped cars and vans were lined up opposite along with a couple of skips. At the far end, a mechanical crusher stood silent, threatening; a crane with its grab arms hanging over it.

  Strong opened the office door and a bald thick-set man wearing glasses looked up from the desk where he was busy filling in forms.

  “Can I help you … officers?” the man said pointedly.

  “Mr Brannigan, George Brannigan?” The DI asked.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” Brannigan said, removing his glasses, putting down his pen and rising from behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”

  Strong and Ormerod flashed their warrant cards and introduced themselves, an unnecessary action given Brannigan’s instinctive reaction to them.

  “I understand you were in Wakefield on Friday evening?” Strong began.

  The man looked puzzled. “Was I?”

  “According to a witness you were. Are you denying that? Have they got it wrong, or can’t you remember?” Strong was trying to hide his instant dislike of the man. He was aware of Ormerod tensing too.

  “Look, what’s this about?” Brannigan asked.

  “Do you deny being in Wakefield on Friday evening?”

  “No, I don’t but I’m just curious as to your interest. Have I done something wrong?”

  Deciding it was probably best to reduce the tension that was building, Strong asked if they could all sit down.

  Brannigan agreed then said, “Can you just tell me what this is about and maybe I can help you?”

  “Do you know a Mark Thompson, Mr Brannigan?” Strong asked.

  A definite reaction. “Well, yes. He’s my late wife’s sister’s boy.”

  “I understand you were looking for him on Friday. Can you tell me why?”

  “I … er … I wondered if he was looking for a bit of extra work. I thought I could do him a bit of a favour.”

  Ormerod turned round, looking out of the window. “You don’t seem too busy to me, Mr Brannigan,” he said.

  “It can be deceptive,” Brannigan answered.

  “Did you speak to Mark on Friday?” Strong asked.

  “No. No, I didn’t. I called at his house but his mother said he was out and staying over with friends, I think.”

  “So, just to be clear, you never saw Mark on Friday, or spoke to him?”

  “No. I said, didn’t I? He wasn’t in.”

  Strong flipped open his notebook. “So you were in Wakefield at Mark’s house at about eight ten, I understand. What time did you get back here?”

  “I dunno, maybe about nine.”

  “And can anyone confirm that?”

  Brannigan was becoming irritated. “No. I live alone. Look what’s all this about?”

  Strong stood up, Ormerod following suit.

  “Mark Thompson was found dead on Saturday,” Strong said as he studied Brannigan’s face. “We may need to talk to you again.”

  As the detectives walked to the door, all Brannigan could manage was, “But … how?”

  “He was murdered Mr Brannigan,” Strong said, closing the door behind him.

  They waited until they were back in the car before either spoke.

  “Do you believe him, guv?” Ormerod asked.

  Strong blew air from his cheeks. “Judging by his reaction, and I think that was genuine, I don’t think he knew Mark Thompson was dead. But I don’t buy this bollocks as to why he was looking for him in the first place, Luke.”

  “That’s exactly my feeling too.”

  * * *

  Brannigan stared at the closed door for several seconds after the detectives had left. What the Hell was going on? He could see how it looked. He turns up trying to find the guy then later that night someone does him in. He needed to speak to Felicity. Did she know about Mark?

  He pulled out his mobile and rang her number. Straight to answer message. Andy, he must pick up, surely. Three rings then answer message too. Bastards are avoiding him.

  He walked to the office window, mobile in hand and looked out. No sign of the coppers. But they’d be back, he was sure of it. And when they did, he had to have his story straight.

  He studied his phone and scrolled through his contacts before choosing one. After three rings, a voice answered.

  “Patrick,” Brannigan said. “I think I’ve got a job for you.”

  * * *

  “Ah, Colin,” the desk sergeant greeted as Strong walked through the main entrance doors to Wood Street Police station, Ormerod close behind.

  “Yes, Bill,” Strong said.

  “There’s someone to see you. Said it’s important. Something about the Weaver case. I’ve put him in the front interview room for now.” He pointed his thumb to the ceiling. “I’ve just rung upstairs and they said you were out. I was going to get someone else down but, seeing as you’re here …”

  “To see me specifically?”

  “Asked to speak to the officer in charge of the case.” The sergeant squinted at a note by the phone. “Name of Pearson, Timothy Pearson.”

  “You may as well join me, Luke,” Strong said, making his way to the interview room.

  Seated at the table was a man of around thirty, slim, clean shaven with dark brown hair, dressed in a suit, shirt and tie.

  “Mr Pearson?” Strong enquired. “I’m Detective Inspector Strong, and this is my colleague DC Ormerod. I u
nderstand you wanted to speak to me?”

  “You’re in charge of the enquiry into the murder in the park on Wednesday night?” the man asked.

  The detectives sat down on the two spare chairs opposite. “That’s correct. I believe you have some information?”

  “Well …” the man paused and gave a nervous cough. “This is in strictest confidence, right?”

  Strong leaned forward onto the table between them. “Mr Pearson, we’re not interested in why you may have been in the vicinity of the park toilets on Wednesday evening, we’re dealing with murder here. And we’d like to catch whoever was responsible for that. Now, if you have something to tell us that may help our investigation, that would be very much appreciated.”

  The man looked down onto his lap for a second then up to hold Strong’s gaze. “I was there,” he said. “Not in the toilets at the time but outside earlier.”

  “So what time was that?” Strong asked as Ormerod opened his notebook.

  “About a quarter to eight.”

  “So what have you got to tell us?”

  “There were two men who approached the building. I thought …” Pearson hesitated, a concerned look on his face. “I thought they were, you know … interested.”

  “I get the picture,” Strong said.

  “Well I smiled at them. Then one of them said …” Pearson broke off and looked to the ceiling.

  “Go on, Mr Pearson,” Strong encouraged.

  “He said, ‘Fuck off, weirdo,’ to me.” The man looked visibly upset.

  “Can you describe these two men?”

  “It was dark and foggy but the one who spoke, he was older, maybe around fifty? He was short and stocky. The other one was taller, much younger; in his twenties maybe, quite good looking.”

  “Do you think you’d recognise them again?”