Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “It’s funny, you know, but murder always sounds a more severe crime in Scotland, especially when, like you did just now, it’s pronounced in a Glaswegian accent.”

  “Personally, I blame Jim Taggart,” Souter quipped, in his best Glaswegian twang.

  “Very good,” Strong laughed. ”You’re talking like a native of the place now.”

  “I suppose it’s easy to slip into. Mind you, I had been up there for over three years.”

  “Christ, was it that long? Now you’re going to tell me it’s been more than a year since we last met up.”

  “Nearer two,” Souter said, “But Ah can still talk like thee when ah’ve a mind to,” delivering this in a perfect West Yorkshire accent.

  “Thanks. You’ve just reinforced my theory.”

  “What theory’s that?”

  “Oh, just something that came up recently about accents.” They turned left before reaching the cathedral, heading towards the Bullring. “Anyway, how did you know I was involved in this murder case?”

  “Well I know it doesn’t have the same shock effect as it might have done thirty or forty years ago but murder does still make the papers.”

  “And, of course, that’s your business.”

  “Like I said, I don’t officially start until next week but my boss wondered, seeing as I’m here, whether I’d like to hit the ground running, so to speak.”

  “There’s not a lot more I can add to what’s already in the public domain. The victim’s been identified as Fred Williams, well-known to us for petty crime – burglary, shoplifting, handling – you know the type.”

  “What about motive?”

  “Nothing that jumps out at you.”

  “Method?”

  “Head injuries. And that’s about all I can say at the moment. What we’re looking for are any known sightings of him from early December through to Christmas.”

  “He’d been dead for some time then?”

  “Oh yes. We’re hoping to narrow it down once the boffins finish their work. Apparently, scientists can tell from the insect life on a body how long it’s been deceased.”

  “So there’s no other interesting little snippets you can tell me?”

  They were now waiting for the lights to change to cross over to Wood Street.

  “Not at the moment, mate. But listen, with your Glasgow connections, there’s something you could do for me.”

  “Go on,” Souter said, with mock reluctance.

  “I’d like you to find out what you can about one, Sheila Montgomery nee McDougal.”

  Souter took out a notebook and pencil and began to write as Strong set off across the road when the green man lit up. He jogged a few paces to catch up.

  “Married in June 1957 to a William James Montgomery. Lived at addresses in Govan throughout the sixties, and from memory, I think one was a public house known as the ‘Hole in the Wall’.”

  “Is this connected with the Williams murder?”

  “No. And this is unofficial.”

  “So you can’t go investigating through your colleagues at Strathclyde then?”

  Strong stopped and turned to face Souter. “No …but you could. You must have made a few useful connections in your years up there.”

  “What’s the story on this one, Col?”

  “I’m not really sure if there is one yet.”

  “So there’s no mileage in it for me … yet?”

  Strong resumed walking. “Maybe not at all. I’ve just got a niggling feeling about a character I interviewed earlier this week. I could do with a little background digging up. Discreetly.”

  “Unofficially like?”

  Strong stopped again and thrust out a hand. “Thanks Bob. You’re a pal.” Souter shook hands, almost automatically. “Give me a call when you get anything.” With that, Strong turned the corner and headed into the police station.

  15

  Two o’clock in the morning and the lounge door opened. Strong was sitting on the settee, remote control from the music centre in hand, listening to alternate snatches from the hoax tape and Montgomery’s interview set up in the double tape deck. He’d retrieved them from Jacob Goldsmith’s office that afternoon.

  Laura walked in. “Colin, what’s going on? What are you doing down here at this time of the morning?”

  He stopped the tapes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just something I’m curious about.”

  She moved towards the settee. “Is that what I think it is?”

  He looked up. “The Yorkshire Ripper hoaxer, yes.”

  “Why are you listening to it now, though?”

  Strong considered for a moment before playing the section of the hoaxer tape he thought most closely matched Montgomery’s. “Now listen to this.” He played a section of Montgomery’s interview. “What do you think?”

  Laura took a deep breath and sat down beside him. “That’s why you were interested in Jenny Goldsmith the other morning, or her husband to be more specific.”

  “Well, yes.”

  She sat back. “This second one, is this someone you’ve come across recently?”

  “We interviewed him on Tuesday.”

  “So we’re talking about a gap of, what, twenty years between them?”

  He nodded.

  “His accent, this second one, seems a right old mix. Mostly Scottish isn’t it?”

  “Predominantly.”

  “So what did Jenny’s husband make of it? I assume you’ve spoken to him?”

  He repeated Jacob Goldsmith’s verdict.

  “There you go, then,” Laura dismissed. “The real culprit’s probably dead by now.”

  “Not necessarily. If he was in his thirties when he made that tape, he’d only be in his fifties now.” He re-primed the Montgomery tape. “Anyway, just listen to how he pronounces ‘Lord’.”

  She indulged him to play the relevant sections of both tapes once more. When they’d finished, she looked at him. “Is that it?” she said. “That’s what you’re going on? One word?”

  “It’s the way it’s pronounced. He’s reverted to a north-east accent. He’s originally from Sunderland, you know.”

  Laura stood up. “Do you know, this little scene reminds me of that dramatisation we saw on TV last year where that detective was sitting up listening to the tape at all hours of the morning because it got under his skin.”

  “You mean George Oldfield.”

  “That’s him.”

  He decided to lighten the conversation. “Listen, if I start developing facial tics, you will let me know?”

  “Come on Colin, come back to bed.”

  “Oh, all right.” He took the tapes out of the player. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  She paused at the door. “Look, I know you well enough by now, Colin Strong. And I know you don’t like things left unresolved. You need to have answers but, I don’t want to see something like this take you over.”

  “Don’t worry, Laura, it’s just my instinct’s telling me, at the very least, I’ve got to run with this a bit longer.”

  “Don’t let it consume you, just like it did George Oldfield.”

  He turned off the room lights on the way out.

  16

  David Bowie’s Hunky Dory album was playing on the stereo. Souter discovered it in Jean’s collection and had forgotten just how good it was. He was impressed by some of the material he had to choose from. She had an eclectic taste, ranging from one or two classical albums, some modern stuff and some classic sixties and seventies material. Fortunately, Trevor had taken his obscure jazz and country & western collection with him.

  It was certainly more enjoyable than the television. He’d watched the news and, spoilt for choice between another boring chat show, an unfunny American sit-com or the latest reality offering of Big Brother, switched off. The thought of people sitting in their armchairs at home watching other people nobody’s ever heard of sittin
g in armchairs in a room somewhere else amused him. Why not save a fortune and replace the television set with a mirror.

  He was sitting on the sofa enjoying a can of Tetley’s when he heard the key enter the latch. Jean had arrived home.

  A car horn bipped before the door closed.

  A quarter-past midnight.

  A few drinks with some of the girls from work she’d said. He didn’t believe that. Not judging by the effort she’d made. No, she was definitely out with some bloke. Not that he minded. After all, it was none of his business; she was a free agent again. It just amused him that she didn’t admit the fact. Maybe she wasn’t ready to, not to him anyway.

  “Still up?” She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the armchair.

  “I’ll be off once this side’s finished.”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Every track’s a belter. So how was your evening?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  He smiled at her non-committal answer, rose and made for the kitchen. “Tea? Or a coffee?”

  “There’s the remains of a bottle of Italian white in the fridge. I’ll have a glass of that, thanks.”

  When he returned, Jean had moulded herself to the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, lit cigarette in hand.

  “Want one?”

  He put the glass of wine down on the coffee table in front of her then took a cigarette from the packet, lit it with her lighter and sat back on the sofa. “Who went tonight, then?”

  “Just a few of the girls from work.”

  “Anywhere nice?”

  “What?” Jean drew on her cigarette. “Oh, we went into Leeds. One of those new flash wine bars on Albion Street.” She flicked ash into the tray on the table, nervously he thought. “How’s your day been?”

  “Evening’s been a bit boring. Loads of crap on TV. I’ve got some washing by the way, so when you next plan to put the machine on …”

  “Oh, thanks,” she said, sarcastically.

  He grinned. “Apart from that, I got woken up at eight by a phone call from John, wanting me to start early, cover a story for them.”

  “That must have been a bit of a shock, judging by the state you were in last night.”

  “I wasn’t that bad. Well, I could have done with a lie in I’ll grant you …”

  “What’s the story then?”

  He leaned forward. “That’s the thing. You see it prompted me to try Colin again and we ended up meeting for a bite to eat in town.”

  “That would have been nice for you. How is he by the way?”

  “Fine, yes. Still looks the same as ever. I reckon he’s got a painting in the attic.”

  “Some people weather better than others, that’s true.” Jean looked across at him and he was unsure if it was a veiled insult. “Is Colin something to do with your story then?”

  “Yes. It seems he’s in charge of this murder enquiry at Hardcastle House. Fred Williams, some petty criminal found with his head bashed in.”

  “He’s dealing with that one, is he?” Jean stretched forward to stub out her cigarette. “It was in the papers. Apparently, they’ve found some case with a load of jewellery and stuff hidden in the flat. They reckon it’s some sort of trophy collection.”

  Souter looked across at his sister. He wasn’t sure but he thought she’d coloured slightly, as if realising she had said something she shouldn’t have. He was sure there was no mention in the press of anything being found in the flat and certainly Colin hadn’t.

  The record finished playing. He got up, went over to the stereo, took the record off and placed it back in its sleeve. “You got tonight’s paper?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “In the rack, there.” She finished the last of her wine.

  He bent down, picked the paper out and turned to the sports page.

  “Right, I’m off to bed.” Jean collected the empty glasses. “I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.”

  “Yeah, good-night.” He could hear the glasses being deposited in the kitchen, then her footsteps on the stairs. Turning the paper over, he scanned through the murder report. He’d read the morning edition and knew what had been reported there. He ended up reading it twice. He was satisfied that what Jean had told him wasn’t on general release. And that interested him more than anything.

  17

  The hubbub of noise from a dozen different conversations died away to a few whispered comments as Strong entered the Incident Room.

  “O.K. everyone, we’re in day two of this enquiry, let’s bring ourselves up to speed. Kelly?”

  Stainmore stood up in front of a large white-board with photos of the victim and the murder scene attached. “First of all,” she began, “the official PM on Williams confirms death caused by the severe injuries to the victim’s face and head. Next, he was discovered, as you can see here,” pointing to one of the photos, “face up on the bed. We believe the attack took place in the living room, as evidenced by the blood found on the floor here and the spatter on the wall here.” She leaned over and indicated two more pictures on the board. “Because of the severity of the injuries, it would have been impossible for the victim to have crawled there himself. So, we believe the perpetrator placed our victim on the bed in the position found. Another interesting fact is that the flat appears to have been thoroughly cleaned. According to the post mortem, Williams had been dead for between four and six weeks; that puts time of death anywhere between December the 6th and the 20th. Now, we can narrow that down a little bit further because a neighbour confirmed a sighting of him on the stairs on the morning of the 9th and from the post behind the door, probably before the 13th.”

  “That’s right,” John Darby added, “uniform reported the same witness also spotted him on the evening of the 8th carrying a television up the stairs. Thought nothing of it, apparently. He was always carting a TV, video or other piece of electrical gear around. Also, the last transaction on his cards took place on the 9th.”

  “Trevor,” Strong asked, “any joy on Williams’ transport?”

  “A Ford Escort van, guv. Parked round the back of the flats. It was empty but Forensic are giving it a going over now.”

  Strong sought out Kirkland. “Sam, anything on the lock-up front or are we saying Williams stored his ill-gotten gains in the flat?”

  “Nothing yet, but we’re still checking.”

  Strong turned to Ormerod at the back of the room. “Luke, what have you got on Williams’ known associates?”

  “Page three on the notes, guv.”

  He flicked over the pages of notes that all officers had been issued with and began skimming the names on the third page. “Some neighbour mentioned visitors, didn’t they? Have we been able to identify any of them from this list?”

  “I’ll be on with that this morning.”

  “What about the prints found in Williams’ flat? Any positive ID so far?”

  “Uniform are delighted that none were down to them,” Kirkland stated, causing a ripple of hilarity to spread through the ensemble. “However, on the door handles we got some lovely examples belonging to one Kenny Stocks.”

  “Kenny Stocks, eh?” Strong repeated quietly. Stocks was well known at the station. He had previous convictions for theft, breaking and entering as well as possession of cannabis. Not particularly bright, he was the type to be easily influenced. Strong thumbed through the notes again. “He doesn’t appear on the list of Williams’ known associates.”

  “We don’t think he was,” Ormerod said.

  “Well let’s wheel him in, then, and see what he has to say for himself. All right, Kelly, carry on.”

  Stainmore moved over to an adjacent board where the photographs obtained from the lab were displayed. “Yesterday afternoon, concealed in the victim’s wardrobe, we discovered this box,” she said, pointing to the relevant picture. “One possible motive for Williams’ murder may have been its recovery. So far, we’ve managed to identify Wi
lliams’ prints but we’re still trying for a match on some others we’ve found. The contents all appear to be items of ladies’ jewellery or items normally associated with women. Detailed descriptions of the eight pieces are in your notes, page four.”

  Paper was shuffled as notes were turned over to the relevant page.

  “Malcolm and I have been trawling the archives for any cases where women have been attacked and items may have been stolen. So far, we’ve come up with twelve examples of unsolved assaults on women in the north of England. These are on page five of your notes.” Stainmore held up the list. “They range from an attack on a prostitute, Norma Thurlow, in 1981 in Headingley, right up to seventeen year old Lorraine Popplewell eighteen months ago, including barmaid, Irene Nicholson, three years ago, here in Wakefield.”

  Kirkland interrupted, “Surely the Nicholson case is closed now, Sarge? Summers is serving a four stretch for it.”

  “For the time being, we’re looking at that again,” Strong said. “For one thing, Williams was interviewed in connection with the case at the time. Judging by the night-time reading we found below his bed, he had an unhealthy interest in women, or maybe a healthy interest, depending on your point of view. The thing is, did the box belong to Williams and, therefore by implication, was he responsible for these attacks? Or, if it wasn’t his, how come we found it in his flat with his prints all over it? Was he hiding it for someone else? Possible but unlikely. Or, a more probable option, did he steal it on one of his burglary excursions? In which case, let’s look more closely at the victims of these recent break-ins. Any luck tracking down current whereabouts of the women assaulted, Kelly?”

  “I’ve addresses for five so far, and one, Susannah Walker, assaulted in Sheffield in 1983, died in 1995.”

  “Any more possible matches for those items of jewellery, Malcolm?”

  “Just the two up to now but we hope to make progress on that when we start re-interviewing the victims.”

  “Carry on with that but start the process by having a little chat with Irene Nicholson. See if she recognises anything. Also, try the description of Williams again.” Strong turned and addressed the whole team. “Right, you all know what you’re doing! Let’s get on with it.”