by David Evans
Susan glanced at her watch. “We’ve taken up enough of your Sunday,” she said. “I want to see how Alison is.”
* * *
“What are we doing here, Suz?” Sammy asked as they turned off Dewsbury Road. “I thought you were in a hurry to get back to the hospital.”
“I just need to check something out first.” She turned to look at Sammy. “And it’s almost on the way.”
Susan had pulled up outside a pair of semi-detached houses on the Lupset estate. The nearest one, that on the left, was scruffier than its neighbour. The front door looked as though it could do with repainting and the windows probably hadn’t seen a chamois leather all winter. A bicycle leaned against the wall by the door. By contrast, the house to the right looked cared for.
“Is there a reason for this?” Sammy was puzzled.
“Mark Thompson …” Susan said slowly.
“That bloke who was murdered last week?”
She nodded. “His family live in the house on the right.” Susan glanced at Sammy. “He’d only moved out to a flat in town a few weeks ago.”
“You’re not stalking them, are you?”
“It’s the house next door that interests me.”
“What way?”
“Hold on.” Susan put up a hand as a boy of around twelve emerged and grabbed hold of the bike. They watched as he mounted the machine and began pedalling down the street.
They caught up with him about a hundred yards down the road. Susan wound down her window. “Danny,” she hailed.
The lad looked over and wobbled on his bike. “What …? Who …?”
Susan had slowed down. “Can I have a word, Danny?”
The boy braked to a halt. “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked.
“You approached me on Friday,” she said. “And you were hanging around when all that police activity was going on the week before.”
Danny said nothing, just stood with a foot on a pedal ready to dash off.
“I got the impression you wanted to talk to me.”
He sniffed. “Yeah? What about?”
Resisting the temptation to tell Danny to stop pissing about, she responded, “I’m guessing Mark.”
“What’s it worth?”
Susan studied him for a second. “Depends what you want to tell me.”
“Who are you?”
She hesitated. “I’m a journalist. Susan’s my name. Susan Brown.”
“Who are you with?”
“Freelance – but I work with Bob Souter on the Post.”
“Got to go,” he said and before Susan could say anymore, he pedalled off.
49
Strong had spent the past twenty minutes searching the Police National Computer for the records of Paul Nichols. He’d read and re-read the list of offences for which he’d been convicted. But as Sammy had said, there were no entries after 1990 when he was released from Doncaster Young Offenders’ Institution. Sitting at his desk, he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. After a moment he pulled out the piece of paper from his wallet with the mobile number written on that Sammy had given him for Kenny Green and made the call. Appointment arranged for first thing in the morning, he looked at his watch then stood up.
All through the roast dinner with Laura, his thoughts had strayed to what the girls had told him and what he knew of the Claire Hobson case. It had last been reviewed in 1992, Flynn had told him. Presumably that was when the DNA profiles were obtained from the original evidence, the ones that had now been linked to Gary Monk’s biological father, and Charlotte as Claire’s sister of course.
He’d also managed to speak to Bob. He didn’t like the sound of Alison’s condition, Laura had suffered from pre-eclampsia with Amanda but not as severely as Bob was describing. Tomorrow, if he could, he’d call in and see them.
He walked through to the CID room and paused. Kelly Stainmore was the only officer in. She was at her desk studying the computer screen. Silently, he approached.
At the last second, she became aware of him and jumped. “Ah, guv,” she said.
“Nothing better to do on this miserable Sunday, Kelly?” he asked.
“Could say the same.”
Strong walked over to the display boards for the two murders they were investigating. He studied the photograph of Marcus Weaver and the lines emanating from it. His wife and the written note of two children, aged ten and eight. He scratched his head as he thought of what Weaver had been doing that last fateful night. What drives an apparently happily married family man to engage in some illicit sex? He gave a grunt as he realised how stupid that thought was. How many men, and women for that matter, had thought they could enjoy themselves without causing any harm? What proportion of the population had? Weaver would probably still be indulging in his lust if he hadn’t gone to investigate. But investigate what exactly? What had he stumbled across? The displaced cistern lid – was that significant? They had some prints from it, but so far no match to anyone known to them. And what about those two characters seen approaching the toilet block around the same time? Man A and Man B were noted on the board. Man A around fifty, short and stocky and Man B, in his twenties, good looking, according to the witness and nervous as well. Who are those two?
Strong shook his head and switched his attention to the other board. Victim here, Mark Thompson, recently moved from the family home he’d shared with his mother and younger sister and brother. What had he done to be able to give his mother five hundred pounds on the night he died? Why was there a young woman seen visiting his new flat in the days before his death? If the neighbour was reliable, and he didn’t doubt it, she was his cousin, Felicity Barratt. How come she’s now disappeared, according to her husband, Andy? There was more to be teased out of that thread. And then there was George Brannigan; seeking out Mark Thompson on the night he died. He didn’t go for the story Brannigan spun them about looking to do him a favour. Had he been the source of Thompson’s previous good fortune, so he was able to give his mother the money? He needed to speak to him again. And then … he looked over at the other board … that BMW seen cruising the streets of Lupset not only on the night of the Thompson murder but on the previous evening – that’s if it was the same vehicle.
“Guv,” Stainmore said, bringing Strong’s thoughts away from the display boards.
He turned. “Yes, Kelly.”
“Have a look at this,” she said, eyes never leaving the computer screen.
“You got something?”
“Maybe. I was just wondering … these two characters that have been identified as having used Mark Thompson’s card …”
Strong looked from the screen where she had frozen the footage, to Stainmore. “Nothing from uniform?”
She shook her head as she rewound the pictures. “I know these aren’t the best quality, but … look how they walk.”
The footage started again, showing the two hooded figures walking along Agbrigg Road towards the camera. As Stainmore had said, the quality wasn’t great and the footage was stilted. She then switched to a view of the two of them walking away from the camera.
She looked up at Strong as he studied the screen.
“Play that again,” he said once the characters were out of shot. He pulled over a chair from the next desk and sat down. After he’d watched it again, he turned to face her.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.
“Could that shorter one …”
“I think so,” she said.
“… be a woman?”
“And if so,” Stainmore continued, “it would be no good looking for two men – we should be looking for a couple.”
“And that prat in the shop should have been able to tell us that.” Strong was annoyed.
“Not necessarily, guv. He did say they both had their hoods up and he wasn’t paying particular attention.”
“We need to get back out there and speak to that little scrot behind the counter again.” He rubbed his face with both hands. �
��We’ll do that tomorrow. Get yourself off home now, Kelly. Well done.”
“I’ll just be ten minutes,” she said, “I just want to look at something else.”
“Don’t overdo it, Kelly,” he said.
She watched Strong walk from the room, before turning back to her desk, happy to be on her own once again. She wanted time to gather her thoughts about what Annabel Monk had told them on Friday.
She took out an A4 pad from the drawer and picked up a pencil. She liked to note down and doodle various snippets of information on some of the cases she worked. As well as helping to provide clear thought, she also thought it therapeutic in certain ways which helped her deal with things. She’d only begun to do this after her near-death experience last September.
So it was established that Gary Monk’s biological father was not the late Richard Monk. The only possibility, as far as Annabel was concerned, was this taxi-driver. Although Annabel blamed herself for letting herself fall into the situation on that fateful night, Kelly sympathised with her. She could well remember being stupid in her youth, drinking too much and taking risks getting home. But what was Annabel able to tell them? It was a taxi firm working out of Leeds. How many of them were there in 1979? More importantly, how many would still have records of fares from twenty-odd years before? She never mentioned first names but couldn’t remember the surnames of her colleagues that were with her that night. And she thought the company she worked for then was long gone too.
But what did Annabel remember? This man was short, she’d said, shorter than her husband. From the photos of Richard and Annabel together that she observed on display on the mantelpiece, Kelly reckoned Richard would be around five foot ten inches. That implied the taxi-driver may have been around five six to five nine? Short hair as well, Annabel had said, and probably in his early thirties. That would put him in his early fifties now. He’d told her he’d not long left the army. So someone coming out of the army in late ‘78 or early ‘79? A smoker also. In those days, with connections to the services, that was unlikely to narrow things down. But what else? Oh, yes, the tattoo. Left forearm she was sure. A coat of arms of some sort?
Stainmore looked at the clock on the wall; gone five and it was pitch black outside. She looked down at the pad and studied what she’d just been scribbling. The initials AM were central, with RM to the right and a big question mark to the left. Lines linked all three with a line down the page to the initials GM. Below the question mark were all the points of information she’d just been through in her head. And a line leading to another set of initials. In the end, she thought there were just too many unanswered questions; too many lines going nowhere.
She rubbed her eyes and put her pencil down. The DI was right, she shouldn’t overdo things; she needed rest. She stood, walked over to the door and picked up her coat from the hooks. Switching off the lights, she left.
50
“What’s happening?” Sammy asked as she and Susan ran down the corridor towards Souter.
He was standing outside the room where Alison had been the last time they visited. Running his hand through his hair, he spun around to face them. “I don’t really know. They’re in with her now.”
Susan took in his appearance. He looked grey and drawn; bags under his eyes, at least two days of stubble and crumpled trousers. He probably hadn’t changed his shirt for a couple of days either. “Who are ‘they’?” she asked.
“A couple of doctors, that midwife who calls everyone ‘sweetheart’, Debbie, and another one.”
Susan led him towards some chairs in the corridor. “So what happened?” she asked as she gently pushed him down onto one.
He slowly shook his head. “I’m not really sure. She was resting and I was talking to her and then … then she started shaking, convulsing like she was having a fit.” He looked up to Susan. “I don’t want to lose her,” he said and turned to Sammy. “I can’t lose her.”
A tear rolled down his cheek and Susan and Sammy sat down either side and instinctively grabbed a hand each.
“Look at me, Bob,” Susan said. When he turned back to her, she continued, “You’re not going to lose her … or the little one, trust me.”
“I just …”
He was interrupted as the door to Alison’s room opened and Senior Midwife Debbie Berry appeared. He instantly stood up. “What’s going on?” he asked.
She took hold of his hands and looked at Susan and Sammy. “These your friends, sweetheart?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s just sit down a minute,” she said, easing Souter back down and sitting next to him. Susan and Sammy stood. “We’re going to take Alison down to theatre now,” she said. “We were concerned with her blood pressure levels, as you know. And what happened earlier … what you witnessed, was Alison having a fit. Now, we checked baby on the monitor and that showed what we call a pathological trace. That’s not good. But we’re going to deliver baby as soon as we can.”
“Will she be okay?” Bob asked.
“She’s in the best possible hands.”
Before he could ask anything further, the room door burst open again and Alison on the bed, flanked by a woman and a man in white coats and another woman in a blue midwife’s uniform, was whisked out and down the corridor.
Midwife Berry stood up. “You can wait in the room and we’ll come and tell you when we know any more.”
“But I need to be with her,” Souter said, getting to his feet.
“Please, just wait here,” she said as she dashed off in hot pursuit of the rest of her colleagues.
Sammy reappeared with three Styrofoam cups with lids on. Susan took one and Sammy offered one to Souter. “Any news?” she asked.
Souter gave no answer but Susan gave a slight shake of the head.
“I can’t imagine it would be long,” Sammy went on. “I mean, they’d perform a section wouldn’t they and get the baby out quickly.”
Susan gave her friend a hard stare, as if to tell her to stop gabbling on and causing Bob more worry. Truth be told, he probably wasn’t listening to anything anyway; lost in his own little world of worry.
Susan looked at the space where the bed was then back to Souter. “It’ll be okay, Bob,” she reassured, putting an arm around his shoulder.
Slowly he looked up at her. “Do you really think so?”
Before she could answer, the door opened and Midwife Berry entered.
Immediately Souter stood up, almost spilling his drink. “How are they?” he asked.
“You have a son, Mr Souter,” she announced.
Susan and Sammy broke into broad grins and hugged him from either side. He remained tense.
“The paediatricians are checking him over and as he’s thirty-six weeks, he’ll go into SCBU, I mean our Special Care Baby Unit for a while, until we’re happy with his progress.”
“But what about Alison?”
“We’re stabilising her now before we send her up to HDU, the High Dependency Unit. We’ll need to keep a close eye on her blood pressure.”
“Can I see them, both of them?” He felt torn apart; delight from learning he once again had a son; fear that he had to have specialist care and terror that he might lose Alison.
“I’ll come back and fetch you when we’ve settled them in. But don’t worry, this is all perfectly normal for what Alison and baby have been through. They’ll have the best possible care.” She gave them a reassuring smile then left.
Souter shuddered. “Oh God,” he said.
“Here.” Sammy held out the coffee she’d rescued from him. “Drink this and calm down. You heard what she said. You’ll be able to see them soon.”
He took a deep breath. “I hope you’re right,” he said then took a gulp of his coffee before making a face. “Aargh! No sugar.”
“Sorry,” Sammy said, “I’ve mixed yours and mine up. Here.” She held out the other one.
Souter finally laughed and held his arms wide. “I’m so lucky to have you two,” he s
aid.
They gave him another hug.
“You’re so lucky to have those two upstairs,” Susan said. “Now, once you’ve been to see them, we’ll take you home. You need to get yourself a shower, change of clothes and freshen up. You can’t let Alison see you like this.”
* * *
“Your first arrest, then Gary,” the desk sergeant said. “Well done, lad.”
It was just after midnight at Wood Street and Gary Monk had a broad smile on his face as he saw the pleased expression of the sergeant. “Thanks, sarge.”
He and his mentor, a well-seasoned PC were standing in the Custody Suite having handed over a man in his thirties they’d arrested for ‘going equipped’ to carry out burglary. A known offender, the sergeant decided he’d keep him off the streets for tonight.
“All right, go take your refs now,” his colleague offered. “I’ll follow this up for you.”
Monk began to walk towards the canteen, which although unattended at night, had vending machines from which he could get a drink, a sandwich or some chocolate, and also allowed night staff to sit at tables and chairs. However, another thought crossed his mind and he changed direction and headed for the stairs.
The corridor was quiet, no one around at this time of night. He approached DI Strong’s office and tried the handle. No surprise that the door was locked. Walking back down the corridor, he stopped outside the door marked CID Room. He could hear the blood pounding through his ears. If he was spotted up here, his whole career could be at an end before it had really begun.
Glancing quickly up and down the empty corridor, he tried the handle, fully expecting the door to be locked. Surprisingly, it opened. The lights were off but a couple of computer screens gave some light to the room. Light from the corridor also flooded in behind him as well as through some partially open blinds from streetlamps. He stepped forward and took in the array of desks. Also prominent were the display boards. He walked towards them and recognised photos of the scenes from the park where he’d first met DI Strong. Another board had pictures relating to the second murder that was the talk of the canteen – the body found in a skip behind the convenience store on Dewsbury Road.
