by David Evans
Maureen ushered them into the living room where Irene was standing by the side of the sofa, nervously playing with her hands. A gas fire was set into the wall where an open fire would have been when these properties were first built. It was lit and on the maximum setting. The room was sweltering.
“Hello Irene,” Stainmore said. “This is Detective Inspector Strong.”
Strong nodded and unbuttoned his coat.
“Sit down, please.” Irene indicated the sofa and then fussed around the fire, turning it down. “Sorry, is this too hot for you?”
“That’s fine,” Stainmore said, as she and Strong sat down, careful to avoid the glass-topped coffee table in front of them.
“Would you like tea or coffee or anything?” Maureen asked.
“No, thanks, we’re fine.”
Irene slowly sat down in the armchair facing the window whilst Maureen sat half on the chair arm with her hand resting on the chair back above Irene’s shoulder in a protective fashion.
“Irene,” Stainmore began, “when we spoke on Saturday, you indicated that you may recognise a chain in the photograph I showed you.”
She nodded and leaned forward.
Stainmore took out a clear plastic bag from her leather briefcase and placed it on the coffee table. “Can you take a look at this and tell us if you’ve ever seen it before?”
Her eyes widened as she saw the chain. She looked nervously towards Maureen then back again before tentatively reaching for the bag.
“You can take it out if you like,” Stainmore assured her.
She picked up the bag carefully and studied the chain through the plastic before pulling the self-sealing top slowly apart. She tipped the chain onto her hand as Maureen leant forward to take a look for herself. After a few seconds, Irene shuddered, threw the chain onto the coffee table then buried her head in Maureen’s shoulder, sobbing.
Strong and Stainmore exchanged glances. “Take your time, Irene,” Stainmore said quietly.
“Give us a minute, please,” Maureen said, helping Irene from the chair and out through a glazed door into the kitchen behind them.
Stainmore made to rise and follow but Strong put his hand on her arm and shook his head. Taking advantage of this enforced interruption, he got to his feet and began to tour the room. A china cabinet was built into the alcove to the kitchen side of the chimney breast. A dinner service took up most of the display with the ubiquitous Silver Jubilee mug and plate also on view. However, in the middle, a crystal dish commemorating John and Susan Nicholson’s silver wedding in July 1996 was prominent.
He moved towards the other side of the fireplace near the window where a set of wooden shelves had been fitted. Apart from the top two filled with various paperbacks, the others displayed a few ornaments and a variety of framed family photographs. School photos from around the age of five through to teenager traced the development of the young Irene as well as a boy Strong assumed to be her younger brother. He picked out a happy smiling Irene from the family group that appeared to be celebrating the Nicholson’s silver wedding. In stark contrast, a rather sad, empty-looking Irene stared at the camera in her brother’s wedding day photograph. The true consequences of what she went through were captured in those two shots. In Strong’s experience, none of those responsible for this type of crime ever showed any true remorse, or ever seemed aware of the scale of the damage they did to their victims. He turned the frame over looking for a date.
“My nephew’s wedding two years ago,” Maureen said, as she and Irene came back from the kitchen.
Irene seemed composed now, only the red eyes betraying her recent upset. “That,” she said falteringly, “is my silver chain.”
“Thank you Irene,” Stainmore said. “Unfortunately I can’t let you have it back just yet.”
“It concerns another case, doesn’t it?” Maureen asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Strong replied.
Irene brought a paper tissue up to her eyes as she sank back down into the armchair.
Maureen remained standing and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think this is what we’ve been dreading for the past four years.”
Stainmore looked at Strong who then took up the conversation, “Do you want to tell us about it?”
Irene stayed silent as Maureen responded, “How do we know we can trust you?”
Strong was surprised. “Is that an issue?”
“The other one, Inspector Cunningham, was it …?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Cunningham?”
“Got promotion for his efforts, then.”
“How do you mean?”
“Come on, a conviction secured on this case didn’t do his career prospects any harm, did it?”
Strong was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the way the conversation was developing. “Look, I think you’re going to have to trust us on this. Are you saying you were … shall we say, less than happy with the way the investigation was handled?”
Maureen and Irene exchanged glances. “I think your DCI Cunningham helped our Irene remember a bit more detail than she actually could,” Maureen said.
Strong held Maureen’s gaze for a few seconds. “Let me get this straight,” he said, before concentrating his attention on Irene. “You’re saying that DCI Cunningham suggested certain information to you?” Maureen opened her mouth to answer but Strong put his hand up to stop her. “Irene? Is this what you’re saying?”
“Well,” Irene began, then hesitated before her aunt interrupted.
“Come on, Irene, you’re going to have to tell them.”
“Look, I just don’t know any more.” Irene got up from her chair, tears welling in her eyes. “Leave me alone!” she yelled.
As she rushed for the sanctuary of the kitchen once again, Maureen made to stop her.
“Please, Mrs Hodgson,” Strong interjected, “let her go for now. Sit down will you.”
Maureen looked about to protest but sat down in the chair Irene had vacated.
“Kelly,” Strong said quietly, motioning towards the kitchen. “Perhaps Irene could get us some tea.”
Maureen watched as Stainmore got up and went to join Irene. When the door had closed she turned towards Strong. “You see the state she’s in now, Inspector. You can imagine how distraught she was just after it happened.”
“You’re very close, I can see that. Why don’t you give me your interpretation of events?”
Maureen took a deep breath while she considered her response. “This is very difficult for us. After the trial, Irene thought she could put it behind her. However, it played on her mind. I think she was always worried she might have made a mistake. She picked out this guy, Summers, in the identity parade but I don’t believe she actually saw her attacker. In some bizarre way she thought she’d done the right thing then and couldn’t go back on it, not without letting everyone down, including you lot. She became withdrawn. That led to the break-up of her relationship with Mike. It wasn’t his fault, he was very patient.”
She paused for a moment. Strong said nothing, not wanting to interrupt her flow. “Look,” she went on, “you can understand what must be going through her mind right now. I’ve worked hard to help her get over it, and just when I think she’s making progress, you turn up with this.”
“But at the end of the day, Mrs Hodgson, it’s important we get the right man.”
Maureen looked as if she was close to tears herself and shook her head. “I know, I know.”
The kitchen door opened and Stainmore led Irene back into the room. Strong shuffled up the settee allowing Irene to take the hint and sit next to him.
“I think Irene’s ready to talk about things now, sir,” Stainmore told him, remaining on her feet.
“Go ahead then, Irene,” Strong said. “In your own time.”
She looked to the ceiling as if seeking courage from some divine being before turning to face Strong. “The truth is, Inspecto
r, I don’t remember seeing who attacked me that night. The other one, Inspector Cunningham, had told me that in cases like this, nine out of ten were committed by people who knew the victim. In the line-up, he looked familiar.”
“Summers?”
“Yes. I thought I’d seen him before, so I picked him out.” Her focus dropped from Strong to her hands in her lap. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Events just seemed to overtake me. But then, when the Inspector told me he had a record for sex offences, I convinced myself it was the right thing to do. I just wanted it all to end.”
She dabbed her eyes again and seemed to gather strength to carry on. “After the trial, part of me always wondered if I’d sent the wrong man away, especially when he protested his innocence and his brother tried to start a campaign. The thing was, I just couldn’t change my mind because I’d be back where I started. It was doing my head in. I suppose that’s why I’m … well, I’m still not …” Her head dropped before she recovered again. “In time, I put it to the back of my mind but, always, I wondered if something like this would happen … and start those doubts all over again.”
She seemed relieved, having finally cleared all her pent up anxieties from her conscience. She raised her head and looked Strong in the eye. “So where did you find the chain? Nowhere connected with Summers, I suppose.”
“I can’t tell you exactly at the moment, only that it turned up during an investigation into another matter. I’m not saying that it isn’t connected but, the point is, we’ll have to look at your case again.”
“I understand.”
Strong reached into the briefcase Stainmore had left by the side of the settee. “In the meantime, I’d like to ask you if you recognise any of these men.” Strong pulled out a brown envelope then carefully took out a photo of Fred Williams, placing it on the coffee table in front of her.
She picked it up, studied it for a moment then put it back down. “No, never seen him before.”
“How about this one?” Strong placed a photo of Billy Montgomery on the table.
“This one,” Irene said, “I have seen.” She looked into the unseen distance above the fireplace as she tried to recall. “Ah, yes,” she said, finally, “he sometimes came in the White Horse where I used to work. Not very often but I do remember him now. Funny accent, a kind of mix of Scottish and Yorkshire I think.”
“Okay, Irene, thanks.” Strong took the last photo from the envelope and placed the mug shot of Jake Hinchcliffe on the table. “Now what about him?”
Again, she studied the photo for a while before putting it back down. “No, not seen him before.”
“All right, you’ve both been a great help.” Strong gathered up the photos and the evidence bag with the silver chain and gave them to Stainmore to put back in her leather case. He rose to leave. “As you can understand though, we will need to speak to you again and get a formal statement from you.”
Irene nodded.
Maureen stood and put a comforting arm around her niece as Strong and Stainmore took their leave.
Stainmore unlocked the car and they both got in.
Strong was silent; there was a definite atmosphere.
She fired up the engine and set off. “So, where to now, guv? Billy Montgomery’s?” she asked.
“Pull up here a minute.”
She did as asked, just around the corner from Irene’s house. Stainmore studied her boss for a second then looked away, waiting for him to speak.
“What’s your opinion of the DCI, Kelly?” he finally asked.
She puffed out her cheeks. “Well …”
“Off the record.”
She turned to look at Strong. “You’re asking if I think he could have screwed this up? If he could have been incompetent? Or deceitful, dishonest; downright corrupt? Criminal in fact?”
“That’s a fairly strong array of adjectives.” Strong was slightly surprised at her cutting tone. “What I mean is … do you think he’s the sort of officer to cut corners to get a result?”
“In a word, guv, no.”
“That’s what I’d have said too, Kelly. But you can’t ignore what they’ve just told us. And the necklace, of course.”
“There is one other possibility,” Stainmore pondered.
“Go on.”
She took a deep breath. “He could be like most men at some time or other and allow their brains to be in their bollocks.”
Strong smiled nervously and looked all round, as if checking that he was the only one to hear what she’d said. “You think he was having it away with Kathy Sharp?”
Stainmore shrugged. “Like Maureen said back there, securing the conviction didn’t do his promotion prospects any harm, did it?”
“And DC Sharp becomes a DS with the help of a strong recommendation from her boss?” he surmised.
“She could have been an embarrassment for him. Nice solution to the problem.”
“Listen, Kelly, who else knows Irene Nicholson has identified this necklace?”
“Well … no-one. I mean, I mentioned it was a possibility to Malcolm – he’s working this line of enquiry with me. He knows we were coming out here this morning so he’ll no doubt ask when we get back.”
“Alright, let’s just keep this under wraps for now. The DCI’s back today, isn’t he?”
“No, tomorrow. He’s having an extra day down …” Stainmore slowed. “in … London. You don’t think he’s still … no, surely …”
“You mean our little Met minx? Maybe. We’ll give it till tomorrow before we let the team know about the definite Nicholson connection.”
“So, Billy Montgomery’s then?”
“No, not just yet. I want to check a few details on his record back at Wood Street first.”
“Okay.” Stainmore started the engine.
“Oh, but first, let’s go by Morrison’s. I need some more cigars.”
Stainmore just shook her head.
24
On Monday morning, Souter parked his car in a visitor’s space and looked up at the tired precast concrete panels of the Yorkshire Post building. When constructed in the 1960’s, it was a landmark. Its digital clock welcomed visitors arriving in Leeds by train from the south and the west. Now, against its neighbours, it looked dated, incongruous, like some item of fashion that had had its day.
Five minutes after checking in at Reception, John Chandler, the paper’s deputy editor, greeted him warmly and brought him up to his office for an initial chat. With a view over the new City Island complex and, just visible in the distance, Elland Road stadium, home of Leeds United, the office was impressive.
Chandler poured them both a cup of freshly brewed coffee from the percolator that was placed on the low beech wood cabinet sited along one wall. Handing one to Souter, he sat down behind his desk. He looked fit and tanned, as if he’d not long returned from a winter break in some sunny clime.
“I’m glad you decided to join us,” he said. “I think you’ll be a strong addition to the team. I’ll introduce you in a minute.”
Souter nodded a thanks and took a sip of his coffee.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had much of a chance to catch up with any old colleagues from the Star days?”
“Oddly enough, I had a pint with Jimmy Wilson last week He managed to get me a freebie to the game at Maine Road on Saturday. He was covering Sheffield United.”
“Good game?”
“Not really. City won two-one.”
“A real character, Jimmy. How was he?”
“Much the same. A bit older but none the wiser. Same old brown suit; a bit like Columbo, only scruffier.”
Chandler smiled. “Sound hack, though. Plenty of good contacts. Knows a lot of useful people.”
“That’s true.”
“Thanks for that piece on the Williams murder last week, by the way. Things seem to have gone quiet on that one. Probably just a fall out between small-time criminals.”
&nbs
p; “Maybe,” Souter said slowly.
“You think there’s more to it, then?”
“I don’t know, really, but I’ve got a few lines I’m following myself, so we’ll just have to see how it develops.”
Coffees finished, Chandler gave Souter a guided tour of the offices, introduced him to his new colleagues, then left him to settle in to his desk.
The office was open plan, similar to that at the Herald, with low screens separating the workstations. At the next desk, a plump but attractive dark-haired girl in her mid-twenties was seated. She had been introduced as Jane Clarke but when Chandler had gone, she was at pains to point out that everyone called her Janey.
“Everyone calls me Bob,” he said in response. Before she could ask any more, his phone rang.
“Mr Souter?” the hesitant voice asked, “it’s Patricia on reception.”
“Hello,” he said, mentally putting a name to the face he’d seen earlier.
“I’ve got a caller asking to speak to a Bob Souter.
“Did they say who it was, Patricia?”
“Charlie Ritchie.”
“Thanks.”
The line clicked and Charlie’s familiar Glaswegian accent burst through. “How’s it goin’, big man?”
“Missing me already, Charlie?”
“One or two here are, aye. Anyway, you were askin’ about Sheila Montgomery last week, married to some wee nob by the name o’ Billy.”
“As you know.”
“Well, I’ve got somethin’ else that might interest you …”
When the conversation ended, Souter made a couple more calls, checking the information Charlie had just given him. Satisfied, he left the office and made his way outside to call Strong in private.
25
“Roast beef with French mustard and a tea, white, no sugar.”
“Thanks, Kelly. Just put them down there for now.”
Stainmore selected a triangular plastic sandwich box and a polystyrene cup from the large brown paper bag she’d brought with her and put them down on the table. Strong was busy writing on an A3 pad surrounded by other papers leaving no clear space on his desk.
