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

by David Evans

  “So how bad is he?”

  “Don’t know much more than that, guv.”

  “Who’s the officer in charge, do we know?”

  “A DS Franklin.”

  “Don’t know him. Has he got a guard on Stocks?”

  “Yes, and I’ve asked for us to be informed of any change in his condition.”

  “Have you spoken to the hospital at all?”

  “Not yet, I thought I’d best let you know first.”

  “All right, Luke, thanks. Now, I know it’s going to be a pain, but I think it best you get over there. If he’s as bad as you’ve been led to believe, we may not get much of a chance to talk to him and I want one of the team on hand. Also, you might get a better idea of his condition from the medical staff face to face.”

  “Right, guv.”

  “I assume Scarborough will have a forensics team at the bed-sit. I’ll give this DS Franklin a call, put him in the picture as far as our interest is concerned and make sure they bag up all his clothes so they can be checked with what we’ve found at Williams’ flat. And listen, the minute you get anything more, let me know, day or night. Especially if it looks likely we can talk to him.”

  “Sure.”

  “Speak to you later.”

  As he ended the call, Laura was holding out his replenished whisky tumbler. “Here, I thought you might need a large one.”

  37

  Stuart was true to his word. Saturday morning, when Souter called into the Post building in Leeds, faxed copies of the photographs of the jewellery still missing from the Carlisle murder victim all those years ago were waiting for him. He had to find out whether any of these items matched anything found in the box recovered from Williams’ flat. There were only two people who could help him with this. One option would be Colin. But wouldn’t it be better to go to his friend with the full picture? As he said before, he preferred to ask questions he already had the answers to. The other option would be his sister’s boyfriend. He had to be one of the CID team working on the Williams’ inquiry. A check of all newspaper and media coverage of the case made no mention of the box or its contents. Strong had told him they were keeping that nugget of information secret. The thought did occur to him, only to be immediately dismissed from his mind, that Jean’s mystery boyfriend could also be the killer. By the time he got back to her house, he’d decided on a course of action.

  On his way to the kitchen to fill the kettle, he glanced into the sitting room. Jean was in her dressing gown, lounging on the settee, reading the Saturday supplement from the newspaper. The radio was quietly playing in the background. “Good night was it?” he asked on his way past.

  “I’ll have a coffee while you’re there,” she shouted after him. “White, two sugars. And yes it was, thanks for asking.”

  Souter came back to stand in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets and took in the scene. Evidence of a late breakfast – empty mug, a cereal bowl with the remnants of milk and a spoon in it and a plate with toast crumbs were on the coffee table in front of the settee. A partly filled ashtray, packet of cigarettes and a lighter also lay within Jean’s reach. “He’s not upstairs is he?”

  “You’re quite safe. He’s working this morning.”

  Souter paused a moment. “Well, I suppose, in his line of work, that’s one of the drawbacks. Especially in the middle of this inquiry.”

  Jean sat bolt upright. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your fella. In CID isn’t he?”

  “How did …?”

  “One of Colin’s mob, I think, isn’t he?”

  “But …”

  The kettle clicked off and Souter wandered back to make the drinks. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, in a raised voice from the kitchen, “I’m not going to say anything. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Jean lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it and exhaled sharply. “Actually, he’s been on the phone for you this morning.”

  “Who? Your bloke?”

  “No … Colin. I told him you were on your mobile. Said he’d try later.”

  “Yes, I know.” Souter came back into the room, setting down one of the two cups of coffee he’d brought with him in front of his sister. “I don’t want to speak to him just at the moment.”

  “Not had a falling out, have you?” She offered him a cigarette.

  He accepted, lit it, watched the first puff of smoke spiral towards the ceiling and sat down on the armchair next to the settee. “No, nothing like that. It’s just he wants some information from me.”

  “And you don’t want to give him it?”

  “I want to check it out fully first.”

  “I thought you two were best friends?”

  “We are. But this is professional.”

  Jean took a mouthful of coffee. She puffed on her cigarette again and appeared to think of something else. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About … my friend.”

  “Being in CID, you mean?”

  Jean nodded.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson I suppose. You told me all about that murder the other week. Nothing wrong in that, except you probably said too much. You told me about a box they’d found in the flat with a number of items of jewellery in it and how the police thought it may be significant. Now, I’ve checked everywhere, and that fact has never been released to the public. You’d mentioned this new man in your life but you were protective of his identity and what he did. I just added two and two and hoped I didn’t make twenty-two.”

  Jean stubbed out her cigarette with an angry flourish. “Very good, Robert. You’re obviously in the wrong job!”

  Souter maintained his silence for a second or two before replying slowly, “The thing is, Jean, your friend could get into a spot of bother over that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I know for a fact they’ve been keeping that information back. Using it to, what’s the phrase, ‘pursue other lines of inquiry’.”

  “You shit!” Jean exclaimed, rising from the settee.

  “What?”

  She began pacing the room. “Don’t give me all that innocent bollocks. I know exactly what you’re up to. You want me to wheedle some more information out of him. Well, you can piss off! I’m not interested.”

  “Now who’s in the wrong job.”

  “Get stuffed!”

  “Look, Jean, don’t just go off on one. At least hear me out.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m your brother and you could help me out here.”

  “I already am. You’re staying here, aren’t you?”

  Souter sighed and shook his head. “Jean, listen, I think what was discovered in that flat could be more significant than they realise. I just need to know if I’m right. If I am, this could be big. Bloody big.”

  She sat back down on the settee, legs beneath her. “Explain,” she said, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  So Souter spent most of the next ten minutes explaining. Not all. He didn’t feel there was any advantage in his sister being aware of everything he knew and there could be certain disadvantages. He knew the only chance of getting Jean on board was to appear to be totally open with her. He didn’t think there was anything to be gained by mentioning Strong’s suspicions of Billy Montgomery. After all, having Jean attempt to winkle information out of her detective friend could be a double-edged sword. He didn’t want to expose Strong’s theories unnecessarily, particularly as there was no hard evidence so far – and what she didn’t know she couldn’t let slip.

  He did, however, talk about the circumstances surrounding the Irene Nicholson assault; the fact that Paul Summers was currently languishing in prison for a crime his brother, Don, was convinced from day one he hadn’t committed. As he related the gist of his meeting with Don Summers, Souter now began to believe that himself. Perhaps he always had, subconsciously, and that had come
through in his original reporting of the case. Don Summers had virtually said as much. In any event, he needed to establish whether any of the box’s contents could be tied in to any previous crime. He already knew there were links with the Nicholson assault. However, his top priority at the moment, was the need to find out if any items from the box matched those missing from Carlisle.

  “So this is why you’re avoiding Colin,” Jean surmised when Souter had finished. “You’re keeping this Carlisle thing back from him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But why? I thought you two were mates; shared everything. So why not share this? It might be the missing link that ties everything together. You know, like they say on Crimewatch,” Jean went on, imitating a TV announcer’s voice, “no matter how insignificant it may seem, your information could be vital.”

  Souter took a deep breath. “Look, Jean, I’ve just got this new job here. I’ve got to prove their faith in me. If I can come up with a real humdinger of a story, I’ll feel more secure. Also, I’ll feel better going to Colin with the full picture, knowing for sure there is a positive connection to the Carlisle case. At the moment, it’s only conjecture.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t go into print unless I’ve got a good bit more than I have now. And I’m not going to mention anything that’ll put any of my sources in jeopardy. But, don’t forget, there’s also a man in prison for something that I’m more and more convinced he didn’t do. The evidence to prove it was discovered in that box. Now, all I want to know is whether or not it’s likely that there’s at least one more crime – the worst of all crimes, murder – that could have its solution here.”

  “So if the evidence to clear this man has already surfaced, then why isn’t he being released?”

  “It’s all politics. I’m sure if it was down to Colin, wheels would already be set in motion. But that’s why I’m best helping him by finding out as much as I can, unofficially, without rocking the boat.”

  Jean appeared to be digesting all her brother had said. “Look, you say you’ve got photos of some missing items from a Carlisle newspaper. I can’t just show him those and ask him if they’re the same ones found in the flat.”

  “No, I know that, Jean, that’s why I’m not even showing them to you.” Souter leant forward in the armchair and took hold of his sister’s hands in his. “Now, what you told me before was that they found a broken silver chain, a silver charm bracelet and some other items. What I’d like you to do is find out, if you can, what those other items were.” Souter paused as he considered he was on the brink of success as far as convincing Jean to help him was concerned. “If I’m right, I think one of them was a ladies’ cigarette lighter. Possibly that might be the most distinctive thing to identify. I don’t know … maybe get the conversation round to how you don’t see proper cigarette lighters anymore … you know, they’re all these cheap throw-away ones these days.”

  Jean pulled her hands away from his. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “I know. But it is important.”

  “Well … I’ll try. That’s all I can say.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  “But I’m not going to do or say anything to screw this … relationship up. Just when I seem to be getting my life back together. So, if I can’t get anything for you, I can’t get it, okay?”

  “Okay.” Souter held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I won’t press it. And thank you. Now, when are you next seeing him?”

  Jean selected another cigarette from the packet. “He said he’d ring me tonight.” She lit up. “Perhaps go out for a quiet drink somewhere. It just depends on his work.”

  Souter collected the coffee mugs and Jean’s breakfast plates. “Sounds ideal. Just see how it goes” He disappeared into the kitchen and washed up the dishes, leaving them to dry on the draining board.

  “Right,” Souter said, after a few minutes. “I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

  He closed the front door behind him and wondered what Jean was thinking. He was sure she wouldn’t be comfortable with the plan. Subterfuge was never one of her traits, unlike that shit she’d married. But, he was confident she’d do her best.

  38

  With crisp sunshine brightening up the day making an overdue break from what seemed like months of dull, damp, grey depression, Strong enjoyed the drive over to the coast. Laura had declined the opportunity of a Sunday afternoon at the seaside, preferring instead to work on some lesson preparation. They had just been finishing a traditional Sunday roast with all the trimmings when the phone rang.

  Amanda dashed for it, expecting a call from one of her friends, and couldn’t hide her disappointment when she shouted back from the hall, “It’s for you, Dad!”

  Ormerod had returned to the unit that morning, relieving Trevor Newell who had covered the night shift in the company of one of Scarborough’s uniformed officers. Luke reported that Kenny Stocks had initially regained consciousness around midday but had drifted off again. Now, around two o’clock, he seemed to be stable and awake. DS Franklin and his sidekick were questioning him and Ormerod suggested Strong get over there as soon as possible. Franklin had sent the clothes Stocks was wearing at the time of the assault to Forensics and Ormerod had organised a similar fate for the remainder of his charming wardrobe.

  In contrast to Pinderfields, Scarborough General Hospital gave the impression of being from a much more modern era. The Wakefield unit looked as if the NHS had taken over a World War Two air base; a myriad of Nissan huts, linked by miles of corridor. Scarborough, on the other hand, was brick built and at least appeared to be of the late twentieth century.

  When he arrived, Strong found the car parks chock-a-block full, as he half expected – Sunday being a main visiting day. Eventually, he found a space where an elderly man was about to get into an old two-door mark 1 Cortina. The man acknowledged Strong’s presence before struggling into the driver’s seat. He watched as the old Ford was carefully manoeuvred out from between two of its contemporary descendants, Mondeos. The old car had certainly been lovingly looked after and he wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be one owner from new. As he studied the shape of the vehicle, Strong was transported back to the mid-seventies when his father took him out for his first tentative attempts at driving in the family’s four-door version. The kangaroo starts in a lane on the outskirts of Doncaster. Later, his first lustful fumbles in the back with Carol Kingswood.

  The red brake lights glowing from the distinctive ‘Y’ shaped rear cluster jolted him back to the present, just in time to stop some chancer sneaking into his spot. Safely parked, Strong opened the door and got out to find the old man at his shoulder.

  “Here,” he said. “Can you do owt wi’ this?” He held out his ticket. “It dun’t expire till half nine.”

  “That’s great.” Strong smiled. “Much appreciated.”

  “Just pass it on when tha’s done. Healthcare might still be free … for now …but the buggers make a bloody fortune out o’ this parkin’ lark. Cheerio, now.” With a wave of his hand, the old man turned and made a slow return to his car.

  He felt cheered up. It was surprising how just one small act of kindness by a complete stranger often restored his faith in mankind. And God knew, in his job, he sometimes felt in need of all the reassurance he could get.

  Strong had arranged to meet Ormerod in the sub-wait area near the Intensive Care Unit. A few minutes later, he spotted Luke sitting at a low table chatting with a couple of other men Strong assumed to be the local CID officers.

  “Ah, guv,” Ormerod said, rising to his feet. “This is DS Peter Franklin and DC Mike Baldwin.” He gestured to the detectives in turn while Strong shook hands and introduced himself.

  Franklin was in his early thirties with receding fair hair. Although slight of build, his grip was firm. He was a man who obviously took pride in his appearance and the one-word summation of him
that flashed through Strong’s mind was ‘clothes-horse’. Baldwin, on the other hand was a mess. He was slightly younger than his DS but overweight and Strong imagined that no matter what you dressed him in, he’d always look the same. Still, he looked like he could handle himself and he’d rather have him on his side in a brawl than against.

  Ormerod’s offer to his boss of a coffee was accepted and he disappeared in search of one.

  “So, how is our little friend?” Strong asked the Scarborough men.

  “Scared shitless,” Franklin replied. “And very nearly kicked into the same condition.”

  “Has he said much?”

  “Not a lot. Reckons two big blokes in balaclavas knocked on his bed-sit door in the early hours of Friday morning. When he opened the door a crack, one burst past him, the other pushed him back into the room, shut the door and then proceeded to give him a thorough going over.”

  “And, no doubt, he doesn’t have a clue as to what it’s all about?”

  “Spot on.”

  “Any other witnesses?”

  Baldwin took up the reporting. “Nurse upstairs heard the commotion, saw two men running from the front door and jump into a waiting Mercedes C Class, light coloured. She recognised the front of it because her old man has one. Didn’t get the registration and didn’t get any sort of look at the suspects. Unfortunately, the front door to the building just happens to be the furthest away from the street lamps that you can get. Fortunately for our friend Stocks, though, she knew what she was doing when she found him and called the ambulance. Works here in A & E.”

  Strong sat back in his seat and thought for a moment. “What’s your take on this, Peter?” he asked the DS.

  “Got to be a professional job. There are one or two characters in Scarborough who could have done this, but the word is, it was an out of town assignment. Whoever your mate upset, he’s more scared of them than he is of us. Personally, I don’t think we’ll get any further with this. Now, my guess is that the problem lies back on your patch.” Franklin paused as he spotted Ormerod returning through the double doors. “I know you said you wanted to talk to him in connection with a murder enquiry. That sounds serious enough to me to warrant someone being given a good smack.”