by David Evans
“Thanks, Sammy, I was going to ask.” Susan looked put out.
“Honestly, you’ll have to sharpen up your questioning techniques if you want to survive in journalism.” Souter laughed. “I thought you were going to ask that. I’ll have a word tomorrow and let you know. When could you start?”
“Anytime you like.” Susan broke into a broad smile. “Thanks, Bob.”
“Well, I can’t guarantee, but … I’ll see what Chandler says.”
* * *
Kelly Stainmore sighed heavily and uncorked another bottle of Frascati. She poured a generous measure into her glass, pulled a large cardigan around her and returned to the lounge. The previous bottle stood empty by the side of the low coffee table. She’d meant to take it back into the kitchen but felt she had a bad case of CBA – can’t be arsed. Even she was starting to become concerned about her moods. A mournful tune on the music centre didn’t help, but it matched how she felt.
She hadn’t eaten, didn’t feel hungry. Besides, she’d put on some weight recently, she’d get something later. Her thoughts kept returning to the scenes she had witnessed that afternoon in the terraced house in Normanton. Denise Whitaker. What a sad and lonely end. Nobody missed her. Nobody, it seemed, cared. What if something similar happened to her tonight; undetected heart condition, say. Who would miss her? True, she’d probably be found quickly. She couldn’t imagine the DCI not sending someone round when she failed to turn up for work; no answer to their calls on her mobile. Mobile? She didn’t remember seeing a mobile phone in Denise’s house or any bills for one in the pile of mail. She’d check on that when she was next in. Phone records too for any land line.
So here she was, thirty-four years old. A fairly successful career so far, if you thought Detective Sergeant was a reasonable rank for someone of her age to have attained. She took a drink of her wine, stood up and looked out onto the street below. The trees lining the road were in full leaf and the last of the day’s sunlight dappled through the lounge window. Another sip. No, she didn’t think she’d be missed. Well, a day or two maybe. Apart from her mum and dad. Her two brothers wouldn’t give a shit. She hadn’t seen them in years.
Mum; she’d seemed a little tired last time she went over to Huddersfield. There again, she was fifty-nine. She wondered if she’d retire next year or carry on. Her mum loved nursing and had worked at the Huddersfield Royal Infirmary since it opened in 1965. Dad was a couple of years older and still drove buses in the town. They seemed content with one another. They kept each other going. Who would keep her going? That dark feeling again.
Another gulp of wine. Had she really drunk three-quarters of a bottle before this glass? She looked at the empty bottle on the floor. Well yes, she had opened that one the night before and had only one glass out of it. She was easily getting through a bottle a night, sometimes more. And it didn’t seem to affect her any more. No, she’d need to do something about it. She’d have a free night tomorrow and see how long she could remain AF – alcohol free. Okay, decision made. Feeling happier already, she went back to the kitchen, refilled her glass and took another slurp.
* * *
Charles Chamberlain was sitting in the leather easy chair in the lounge, watching television when Belinda came home. She’d finished her shift at ten. Hungry, she made straight for the kitchen.
“Have you eaten?” she shouted from there.
“Got myself a Chinese on the way home. Knew you were on a late.”
Sounds of dishes being moved in the kitchen, the microwave door being closed then the hum of power as it was switched on. She appeared at the doorway. “Have you seen Anthony?”
“Came home about an hour ago. Been at Simon’s after school. He’s up in his room.”
The microwave pinged and she returned to the kitchen.
“Good shift?” he asked, once she’d reappeared with a bowl of soup and some crusty bread on a tray.
“Not bad. You had a good day?” She sat down on the black leather two-seater settee.
“So so.” His attention had drifted from the television. He put on some reading glasses and picked up the TV section of the newspaper.
She studied him; dark hair thinning slightly and the beginning of a paunch. All the trappings of a successful business, she supposed. “Anything interesting on?”
“Not really.” He turned the TV off and opened out the sports pages.
They were quiet for a few minutes. Eventually, she spoke. “I was just wondering …” She took a spoonful of soup then a bite of her bread.
“Mmm?”
“How much are we worth? Do you know?”
“We’re comfortable.” He stopped reading and looked up. “Why are you interested? Do you want to spend on something?”
“No … I was just curious.” Another spoonful of food. “We used to talk about it, but I’ve no idea where we are now.”
“I can give you a summary if you like.”
“That would be interesting.” More bread. “I mean, is it all in cash in savings accounts or do we have stocks and shares or …?”
“Cash savings mostly.”
“I was going to say, property too?”
“Property? We have this place but it’s mortgaged.”
“So we don’t have anything else then?”
“What are you talking about, Belinda?”
She was gaining in confidence. “Nothing you want to tell me? Outwood, maybe?”
He folded up the newspaper angrily. “Have you been …? It’s an investment. Why were you rooting through my drawer anyway?”
“I thought you might have had some coin bags.”
“Not you and your bloody pennies again.”
“Anyway, why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I thought it would be good for Anthony.”
“Anthony? So what about Grace?” She calmly scraped the last spoonful of soup from the bowl. “Or is there another property somewhere with her name on it? Not that Anthony’s is on the Outwood one.”
He stood up. “For Christ’s sakes, Belinda, what does it matter? It’s just an investment.”
“So you said.” She rose and made for the kitchen. “I’m just surprised you didn’t think it worth mentioning, that’s all.”
“It’s no big deal.” He spoke louder. “But seeing as you’re so interested, I’ll sort out a list of all our investments. Tomorrow all right for you?”
She turned to face him at the kitchen doorway. “Bloody Hell, Charlie, what are you getting so pumped up about? I was only asking.”
“And I’m only telling. And don’t call me Charlie. I’m off to bed, I’ve a busy schedule tomorrow.” He turned and left the room.
Belinda disappeared into the kitchen, surprised at the way the conversation had gone. She opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of white wine. “That went well,” she said quietly to herself.
7
Friday 6th July 2001
Early the next morning, Strong walked up to DS Flynn’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come,” the voice from inside said. Strong entered.
“Ah, Colin,” Flynn greeted from the other side of his desk. “Sit down, please.” He indicated one of the two chairs in front of him.
Strong sat down.
“Look, I’m sorry about the news I had to break to you yesterday.” Flynn closed the file in front of him and put his pen down. “I did try and support you but I was over-ruled. For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done an excellent job in the role.”
“Thank you, sir.” Strong studied his boss. He felt he was being sincere, convinced that Flynn had always backed him. “What I wanted to discuss is … well you know what I feel about the team. They’ve supported me every step of the way too, sir.”
The Detective Superintendent leaned back in his chair, elbows on the arms, hands clasped together on his lap. “You want to be the one to let them know, is that it?”
“Exactly. I think they deserve to hear it from me.”
“Thanks. One sugar, sir.”
Strong watched his boss pour out two cups, place them on the desk then sit in another chair alongside him.
“How do you feel about it, Colin?” Flynn asked, after they’d both sampled their coffees. “And drop the ‘sir’ in here. This is just between us.”
Strong sat back and looked to the ceiling for a moment before facing Flynn. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitterly disappointed. Like you, I thought I’d filled the role pretty well. The team have done well too.”
Flynn nodded.
“But, tell me this,” Strong took a deep breath. “Just between us … did the situation with Jack have anything to do with this?”
He could see a slight reaction on Flynn’s face from his reference to former DCI Jack Cunningham, his predecessor in the role.
“One or two on the panel were aware of his history,” Flynn responded.
“Come on, you know I’m not asking what they thought of Jack. The fact you’ve answered how you have tells me everything.”
“Look, I know you did everything you could to cover for his failings, it’s just some of the older school …”
“Like Halliday?” Strong was referring to DCI Frank Halliday who had been Cunningham’s mentor in his early career and had initially resented Strong for what he saw as betraying him, whereas, the opposite was true.
Flynn nodded once more. “Well … Have you heard about Frank?”
Strong shook his head.
“Passed away last month. Pancreatic cancer, I’m afraid. So he didn’t have a long retirement. But, yes. I’m afraid there may have been some legacy from Jack’s actions that some don’t fully understand. I know you tried your best to keep his weakness, shall we say, from being exposed but you had to get to the truth on that trophy case last year. At the end of the day, Jack doesn’t blame you. He would support you one hundred per cent.”
“I know he does, he’s told me himself. Thanks for the coffee.” Strong rose to his feet. “So when can I tell the troops? Not particularly about Hemingford, I’ll let you do that at the appropriate time, but that I won’t be carrying on as DCI?”
Flynn also stood up. “I’ll leave that entirely up to you. You’re in the best position to time it right.” He held out a hand and smiled.
Strong shook it, face impassive. “Thanks.”
* * *
About an hour later and ten miles away on the Newsroom floor of the Yorkshire Post, Bob Souter was typing away at his computer keyboard. After last night’s conversations with Susan, he’d bumped into John Chandler on the stairs and asked him if there would be an opportunity for her to have some work experience through the summer vacation.
“Is that the young woman you rescued from the basement last year? The one who wrote some of that article with you later on?” he had asked.
“That’s her.”
“I’ll ask the boss and get back to you.” ‘The boss’ referred to the editor and Chandler’s response had been as good as Souter could have expected.
Reporting on a recent spate of car thefts in the Adel area, he was about to pick up the phone and call his DC connection at the local police station for an update, when it’s chirruping beat him to it.
“Souter,” he answered.
“Is that Big Bob who thinks he’s still only twenty-one?” Alison giggled.
“Hello gorgeous,” he said, leaning forward onto his desk and lowering his voice. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. But listen, I’ve got a bit of news.”
“Well this is the newsroom.” He smiled into the mouthpiece.
She chuckled again. “This isn’t for public consumption.”
“What isn’t?”
He heard her take a breath. “How would you feel about me working away for a few weeks?”
“Where do you mean, ‘away’? And how long would be ‘a few weeks’?”
“How about our New York office and, say, six weeks?”
“New York? That sounds brilliant for you, Alison.” He leaned back in his chair, swivelled round and looked to see if anyone was within earshot. “But when exactly?”
“Wouldn’t be until the end of August, going through September but my boss just asked me this morning if I’d be interested.”
“Well of course you’d be interested, wouldn’t you? I mean, an opportunity like that.” None of his colleagues were nearby. He turned back round to face his computer screen. “Could I come with you?”
“I don’t know, it’s only an initial conversation I’ve had. But you couldn’t get that much time off could you?” Alison sounded surprised.
“Not six weeks, no. But I could come over near the end and we could have a little holiday there before you have to come back?”
“I’ll find out a bit more and we can talk about it later.” Again laughter in her voice. “I just wanted to see what your reaction would be.”
“Sounds great. We’ll talk later then.”
* * *
Strong slipped unnoticed into the CID room and stood for a moment to study those members of the team at work. What he’d said to Flynn earlier was true. They’d given him every bit of support they could have over the past few years.
Detective Sergeant Jim Ryan was sitting at his desk with his back to him, on the telephone. Ryan and Stainmore were the two DS’s in the team. Thirty-four, slim, with receding fair hair, Ryan couldn’t be more pleased with life. He’d become a father nineteen months ago and was loving every moment he could spend with his little girl. Strong was proud to have been asked to be one of her godparents.
Detective Constable Malcolm Atkinson sat at the adjacent desk and was intently studying his computer screen. Atkinson was the most recent addition to the CID team, twenty-five years old, a keen and intelligent lad, Strong thought.
With a drawer to a filing cabinet open, DC John Darby was rummaging through some files. Darby was thirty-seven, originally from Nottingham and had the unfortunate habit of making the most amusing comments without realising he was doing so.
Kelly Stainmore was sitting at her workstation facing way from him. Several files were open on her desk but she was staring at the window, deep in thought.
Strong was about to make his presence known when Detective Constable Luke Ormerod entered. Ormerod, at thirty-nine, was his most experienced officer. Short and stocky with thick black hair and a caterpillar moustache, he should have been a Sergeant by now but he spoke his mind and wasn’t too concerned who heard. That probably had held his career back. However, he seemed satisfied with his lot and Strong couldn’t imagine the team without him.
“Morning, guv,” he said cheerily. “Everything all right?”
“Well, I need to speak to everyone.” He looked round the room once more. “Where are the others?”
Ormerod quickly assessed who was in. “Trevor is out talking to the second hand car dealer on Doncaster Road who’s had three cars driven off his forecourt in a week, and Sam’s downstairs interviewing a shoplifter nicked in Primark in The Ridings.”
DC’s Trevor Newell, originally from Lincoln, a tall slim lad of twenty-six and Sam Kirkland, a chunky thirty-four year old from Leeds, completed the team.
“What’s wrong, guv?” Ormerod asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
“All right, Ladies and Gents, listen up please.” Strong walked to the centre of the room, then glanced back towards Ormerod. “Just shut the door, will you, Luke.”
Strong waited until Ormerod had closed the door. “I just wanted to say that I’ve appreciated all your support over the past months since I filled the role of Acting DCI.” He paused for a moment. “I’m afraid that’s coming to an end soon and I’ll be back to Detective Inspector.” There were slight mutterings. “We will be having a new DCI taking up th
e post at the beginning of the month. I’ll let Detective Chief Superintendent Flynn tell you about that at the appropriate time but I thought you deserved to know this bit of news from me.”
There was a palpable feeling of shock in the room. It was Ormerod who finally spoke. “That’s not right, guv. We all know you’re the best man for the job. You know this patch inside out.” He held his arms wide and took in the whole room. “Everybody here thinks the same as me. We’re all part of your team.”
Again, mutterings of agreement.
“Absolutely,” Ryan added.
“I really appreciate that but I’m afraid the powers that be have decided they want an external appointment. Now, I’m sure you’ll give the new man all the support and encouragement you’ve given me when he arrives.” Strong looked at his colleagues as they reacted to the news. “Okay, that’s it for now.”
8
Tuesday 10th July 2001
Three days later, news of a blockage on the M1 on her usual route into the hospital threw Belinda into a bad mood. She’d struggle to make ward handover on time. Sister would no doubt take great delight in ticking her off. Nothing for it but to take the old road to Leeds through Outwood.
As she suspected, traffic was heavier than normal on the alternative route; temporary road works also added stop, start for several miles. Just as she drew to a halt once more, she glanced off to the left and noticed the houses. She was trying to remember the number on the conveyance form she had seen a few days before when something else caught her eye.
A black BMW was parked on the side, about thirty yards in front of her. She squinted to get a clearer view just as the traffic moved another few yards. At a halt again, she could finally see the number plate. No doubt, it was Charlie’s. Her heart rate rocketed and she felt nauseous. She studied the front doors and focussed on a mid-terrace with a white front door and black numbers. She was sure that was the address. But what was he doing here at this time of the day? He should be in his office.
A loud honk from the car behind startled her. Traffic had moved on. She put her car into gear and slowly moved off, giving the scene one further sweep. Fifty yards on and the traffic stopped once more. She adjusted her mirror to focus on Charlie’s BMW. She was puzzled. After the discussion they’d had a few nights back, Charlie had indeed provided a list of their investments. Things looked very healthy. But there was something niggling away at her about his whole attitude. There were things he wasn’t telling her. Again, as the traffic moved off, she put her mirror back in position and began thinking about what to do.
