by David Evans
He had his copy of that morning’s Post open on the desk in front of him. The mention of a new piece of evidence in connection with the Claire Hobson case puzzled him. Had Flynn authorised release of some limited information on this, or had Bob acted on his own with what Susan and Sammy must have told him?
The answer came with the door bursting open and a furious DCS Flynn entering, a copy of the newspaper in his hand. The door closed and he stood in front of Strong’s desk. “What the Hell’s the meaning of this?” he asked.
“I’ve only just seen it myself, sir.”
“I told you yesterday I’d give it some thought, but only after Mrs Monk had confirmed her memory about that crest. Has she?”
“She did.”
“And you go and tell them about this.”
“I did not,” Strong said firmly.
Flynn paced the small area of the office. “The ACC will go mad. He wanted to be informed about this before we went public.”
Strong leaned back, calmly reviewing the situation. “But remember where we got this information from in the first place. They even claim subtly that it was them who discovered it. Susan Brown and Sammy Grainger came to me with it last Sunday. In fact my checking the details brought to light the fact that Paul Nichols is in Witness Protection. They’ve published this off their own backs. We never told them to keep it confidential.” He leaned forward and prodded the newspaper on the desk. “But when you read the article, they haven’t actually said what this new piece of evidence is. I don’t think there’s a lot of harm done.”
Flynn seemed to calm. “I’m going to have to say something to Mellor though.”
“Tell him the truth. The reporters were the source of this in the first place. And at the end of the day, they’ve been tasked with running a series of articles with the joint aim of some public interest and appealing for new information.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
* * *
The phone sounded insistent. When he answered, Strong heard the familiar tones of Sgt Bill Sidebotham. “Colin, there’s a fellow down here says he needs to speak to you about the Weaver case.”
“Is Luke not around?”
“He wants to speak to you. He’s that man who spoke to you before, if you remember, a couple of weeks ago. He says he’s remembered something else and wants to follow things up with you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Pearson, Timothy Pearson.”
“Oh, yes. Thanks, Bill, I’ll be down.”
On his way past the CID office, he collected Ormerod and the pair headed downstairs.
Sidebotham came out from behind the front desk when he saw the CID officers approach. “I’ve put him in the front interview room,” he told them.
Timothy Pearson was sitting nervously behind the desk in the middle of the room. Dressed in a smart suit, his tie was loosened at the neck and he had a briefcase at his feet.
“Mr Pearson,” Strong greeted. “I understand you have some new information for us?” Strong and Ormerod took their seats opposite the man.
Pearson quickly pulled the case up onto the table and clicked the locks. Before he opened the lid, he spoke. “I saw the fresh appeal in yesterday’s paper and I’ve been thinking a lot about what I saw that night.” He paused a second as if considering what he was going to say next. “You probably don’t know, but one of my hobbies is drawing. I’ve been having some scary recalls of those events. One of the positives from that has been that I managed to see clearly the faces of the two men who approached me.”
Strong looked to Ormerod then back to Pearson. “Go on,” he said.
Pearson slowly opened his case and took out a sheet of A4. He turned it round and carefully placed it in front of Strong and Ormerod.
Both officers stared at the two images that the man had drawn in pencil before looking at one another.
“Can we keep this, Mr Pearson?” Strong finally asked.
“Of course.”
“That looks …” Ormerod began to say before Strong cut him off.
“And this is how you remembered these men?” Strong asked.
“The older one wore a black woollen hat and the younger one had an anorak hood up, that’s why I’ve drawn them as they are. They’ve given me nightmares since their faces come back to me. But after I’d sketched them out yesterday I had my first good night’s sleep in ages.”
“I really appreciate you coming in Mr Pearson. Now, if we need a further statement from you, you would be okay with that? We would be as discreet as we could.”
Pearson looked down at the table, closing up the briefcase. He nodded slightly. “If you must,” he said.
Strong stood and held out a hand. “Thank you, Mr Pearson, this is most useful. But could I just ask you to keep this confidential too?”
“Of course.” Pearson seemed satisfied with the response.
Ormerod led the man out then re-joined Strong at the bottom of the stairs.
“It is, isn’t it?” Ormerod said indicating the sheet of paper Strong held in his hand.
“Uncanny,” Strong agreed.
* * *
“What now?” Andy Barrett whined as Strong and Ormerod entered his site office.
“I think we need another word, Mr Barrett…” Strong looked pointedly at the young lad who was writing something on a drawing from his notebook, “…in private.”
“You can do that a bit later, Michael,” Barrett said to his colleague.
The youth was bemused but took up some papers and left the office.
Barrett leaned back at his desk. “So what can I do for you now?”
“Well, you can start by telling us the truth.”
Barrett coloured. “I don’t know what you mean. Is this to do with the break-in?” He looked to Ormerod. “You already told me you’ve discovered who murdered Mark.”
Strong flicked open a notebook. “For the record, Mr Barrett, can you tell me where you were on the evening of Wednesday 13th February between the hours of seven-thirty and eight-thirty?”
The man flustered, shuffling letters and papers around on his desk. “Why do you want to know about then?” Strong didn’t answer. “I was at home, in the flat.”
“And can anyone vouch for that?”
“Well, yes, I suppose Felicity can.”
“Have you heard from her again since we spoke yesterday?” Ormerod asked.
Barrett dropped his head. “No. No, I haven’t.”
“So,” Ormerod continued, “she’s not available to confirm your whereabouts and we can’t even speak to her about the sightings of someone matching her description at Mark Thompson’s flat around this same time?”
“What? No, I haven’t been able to speak to her. As I told you yesterday, I’ve only had a text.”
“When was the last time you saw George Brannigan?” Strong took up the questioning again.
Barrett’s head swivelled towards the DI, alarmed at the change of tack. “George? I … I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
Strong flicked through his notebook. “Last year sometime, you said when we last spoke.”
“Er, yes. Yes that’s right. It must have been.”
“So you weren’t with him on the evening of Wednesday 13th February, Mr Barrett?” Strong persisted.
“No. Look, what’s all this about?”
“Would it surprise you to know that we have a witness who’s described you and Mr Brannigan in a location we’re interested in in connection with another enquiry?”
“What enquiry?”
“I’ll ask you again, Mr Barrett, where were you on the evening of 13th February? In the company of Mr Brannigan?”
“I’ve told you, I was at home.”
“So you weren’t in the vicinity of the park in Wakefield?”
“No. No, of course not. What are you implying?”
Strong shrugged. “I’m implying nothing, merely asking questions.”
“Do you know what type of car
Mr Brannigan drives?” Ormerod asked.
“Er, a BMW, I think.”
Strong kept up the pressure. “When was the last time you were in that vehicle?”
“The car? I can’t think I’ve ever been in it.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve told you.”
Strong nodded to Ormerod who produced a still from the CCTV images that Sam Kirkland identified on the night of Weaver’s death.
“So this wouldn’t be you?” Ormerod asked as he placed the photo on Barrett’s desk. “In the passenger seat.”
The man picked it up and looked at it for a few seconds. “This could be anybody,” he finally said. “You can’t possibly tell who this is with this quality.”
“We could get it enhanced,” Ormerod responded.
Barrett seemed to grow in confidence. “If you could you would have done that already and shown me that.”
Strong unfolded a photocopy sheet of the sketches Timothy Pearson had given them. “What about these images, Mr Barrett? Surprisingly like you and Mr Brannigan.”
“Could be any two men,” Barrett said dismissively.
Strong studied the man for a second. “I’ll give you one last chance to tell the truth, Mr Barrett. Were you in the location of the park in Wakefield on Wednesday 13th February between the hours of seven-thirty and eight-thirty in the evening?”
Barrett looked defiant. “No,” he said.
Strong looked to Ormerod. “He’s had his opportunity, DC Ormerod,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Outside, as they got into the car, Ormerod sighed, “I don’t believe a word of that. No way those sketches weren’t him and Brannigan.”
Strong settled in the driver’s seat. “We need something concrete to place them at the scene, Luke. Pearson’s eye-witness statement probably wouldn’t be enough. We’d need some forensics.” As he turned and pulled his seatbelt into position, he could see Barrett through the office window on the phone. “I wonder who he’s speaking to now?” he wondered.
“Brannigan?”
“Let’s see what he has to say, Luke.”
Strong started the engine and they pulled off the site.
* * *
“They’ve both denied they were anywhere near the park on the night, let alone the toilet block,” Strong said. “To be honest, unless we uncover more evidence, there’s not a lot else we can do.”
In DCS Flynn’s office, the man himself rubbed his face with both hands. “And we really have nothing else?”
“Nothing much, sir.”
“What about forensics Let’s get them to look again at the samples. There must be something on Weaver’s clothes? His skin? Something?” Flynn began to sound desperate.
“I’ve asked the lab to run more tests.”
“What about your investigations into Claire Hobson’s murder? The press have been badgering again, especially the Post. They’re pressing me to confirm if we’re actually conducting a cold-case review.”
“What have you told them?”
“Nothing yet. But I suppose we’ll need to make some sort of official announcement.”
“Do we use them to ask for help on this? Especially as they’re running a campaign off their own back.”
“I’ll speak to Mellor.”
“About that, sir,” Strong said. “Do you think it’s time to open out the re-investigation? Bring other members of the team onto it?”
“Not just yet, Colin. I don’t want to draw their attentions away from the Weaver case. God knows we need some progress on that.” Flynn relaxed slightly. “Anyway, how are you and Stainmore getting on?”
“As I told you this morning, we saw Annabel Monk yesterday and I’m convinced the taxi-driver who attacked her and is Gary’s biological father was a member of the Green Howards until sometime around 1978 or 1979.”
“And are you trying to track down likely suspects?”
“I’ve been in contact with the MOD to get what information they have about who left that year. I did tell them it was urgent, but we’re in their hands at the moment.”
“Here,” Flynn said, handing over a slip of paper. “ACC Mellor thought you might need some help unlocking information from those buggers at the MOD. This is a good friend of his who should be able to help you. If he can’t or won’t, let me know.”
Strong took the proffered sheet and folded it up into his wallet.
“No need to tell you that’s strictly confidential.”
“Sir,” Strong acknowledged.
Back in his own office, he took out the piece of paper Flynn had just given him. There was no question, to get better information, Strong definitely needed an ‘in’ at the MOD.
Picking up the phone, he dialled the number.
“Hello,” a male voice answered.
“Good afternoon, my name is Strong, Detective Inspector Colin Strong from Wakefield CID. I understand you may know our ACC, Roy Mellor?” he asked.
“Are you in your office now?” the man responded.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back.”
The line went dead and Strong stared at the handset for a moment before replacing it. A pattern is emerging here, he thought. That’s the second time the authenticity of his identity was being checked.
A minute later, his phone rang.
“Colin,” Bill Sidebotham said, “I’ve a call for you. Wouldn’t give his name but said you were just speaking to him and got cut off.”
“Thanks, Bill, put him through.”
The same voice he’d just spoken to came through the handset. “Colin, what can I do for you?”
Strong outlined the information he had and what he hoped to find out from official records. He gave the man dates and hoped he could hear sooner rather than later.
“Is this the best number to get you, or would you prefer me to call on your mobile?” the man asked as the call was winding up.
Strong related his mobile number.
“I’ll be back to you as soon as I can,” the man said. “By the way,” he concluded, “old Roy must trust you.”
Strong was left with a dialling tone buzzing in his ear. Only when he replaced the handset did he realise the man hadn’t given his name.
66
Monday 4th March 2002
RE-INVESTIGATION INTO THE TWENTY-YEAR-OLD UNSOLVED MURDER OF CLAIRE HOBSON
Tomorrow marks the twentieth anniversary of the rape and murder of 14-year-old Claire Hobson. She was last seen leaving her friend’s house on Friday 5th March 1982 Her body was discovered on railway sidings in Horbury just outside Wakefield two days later on Sunday, 7th March 1982.
We understand that officers from West Yorkshire Police based at Wood Street in Wakefield are conducting a fresh review of this case, following the discovery of a major new piece of evidence, uncovered by our own investigations.
“It’s official then, guv,” Stainmore said. “It must be if it’s in the papers.” She had a wan smile on her face. “We’re conducting a review of the case.”
Strong was reading the front page of that morning’s Post. He’d been amused that Susan had managed to get joint credit for the article alongside Bob Souter. “Flynn okayed the request for information based on the taxi driver, recently ex-army, in his thirties with a tattoo,” he replied.
“That’ll narrow it down,” she said with irony. “Most squaddies will have tattoos.”
“He didn’t want to give too much away at this stage. If we get some common names to allow us to conduct interviews, we might be able to narrow things down even more. I asked him if I could get the others involved in this, but he said they had to concentrate their efforts on the Weaver case.” He folded up the paper and put it to one side. “I suppose it’s too early to gauge any response from Joe Public?”
“Nothing when I left the CID Room just now, although the team has been wondering where this has all come from.”
“Not surprised their curiosity’s piqued.” Strong settled back in his chair.
“I suppose it may take a little while, it’s only just hit this morning’s paper.”
“Anyway, how was the rest of your weekend?” Stainmore asked.
“Went to see my mate’s new baby.”
“Is that your journalist friend?”
“That’s him. He’s asked Laura and me to be Godparents.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Yep, us and Susan and Sammy.”
“Are they his wife’s friends?” Stainmore wondered.
“Friends of both of them really. You remember Susan? She’s had a hand in writing those articles.” Strong indicated the newspaper. “She was the one who fell through the farmhouse floor last year.”
“Right. She’s working at the Post now then, is she?”
“Partly, when she’s not studying at Uni. And Sammy was the girl whose friend had gone missing and was found …”
“Oh God, yeah, I remember from the same time.”
Suddenly, the door burst open and Luke Ormerod shot forward. “Sorry guv, sarge.”
Stainmore turned round. “You don’t normally call me ‘sarge’,” she said. “It must be something big.”
The broad smile on Ormerod’s face told them that was the case. “That breakthrough? I think we’ve got it.”
Strong and Stainmore said nothing, waiting for Ormerod to tell them.
“The fingerprints on the cistern casing …”
“I thought they’d been run through the system and there was no match,” Strong said.
Ormerod held up a finger. “That was before the break-in at Andy Barrett’s site. I persuaded some of those who usually had access to the store to give their prints.”
“And you’re going to tell me it was a match for Barrett himself,” Strong guessed.
“Absolutely.”
Strong got to his feet. “Brilliant. Now we bring him in, under caution if necessary.”
* * *
Davidson stormed into Brannigan’s office in the scrapyard. “What the fuck have you been doing?”
The young lad Brannigan gave some work to looked up, alarmed. Brannigan looked to him. “Take a break, Stevie,” he said. “Take your time.”
