Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3)

by David Evans

  * * *

  Stainmore entered the CID room, a manila folder under her arm and a polystyrene cup of coffee in her hand. She removed her coat threw some keys onto her desk and lowered herself into the chair at her workstation on which the bundle of mail retrieved from Denise Whitaker’s house sat.

  “Everything all right with you, sarge?” DC Luke Ormerod asked from the next desk. Ormerod was the only other officer in the CID room that morning.

  “What? Oh yeah, fine, Luke. Just been back out to Normanton.”

  He turned his swivel chair to face her and noticed her thick cardigan. He looked surprised, it was the middle of summer. “Your unexplained death?”

  “Yep.” She took a drink of her coffee. “Been looking for anything to give us a clue on relatives, but I’m struggling.”

  “What about bank accounts, anything there?”

  She pointed to the pile of envelopes on her desk. “Everything on standing order or direct debits. Various allowances in, housing benefit, that sort of thing; rent, water, electric, gas etc. out. If those workmen hadn’t had to gain entry, she’d have still been there. Regular money in to cover all the outgoings. Missed by no one. Makes you wonder how many other poor sods are out there now; dead; nobody knowing, nobody caring.”

  “Wow, we are in a down mood today, aren’t we?”

  She shrugged. “No, not really, just makes you think, that’s all.” Both hands around her coffee cup she took another sip, looking at Ormerod over the lip. “Also called in and spoke to the coroner’s officer on the way back. He’s thinking about placing an ad in the Wakefield Express.” She drained the cup and dropped it into the bin by her desk. “Anyway, it doesn’t appear she had a mobile either and I’ve just got the land line records from BT.” She pulled out some pieces of paper from the manila file. “Last call out on Friday 26th May last year. Since then, only twelve calls in, and eight of those were from overseas call centres, we think.”

  “What about the other four?”

  “Just going to check those out now.”

  Ormerod stepped over to Stainmore’s desk. Quietly, he said, “I’ve not really had a chance to talk to you, Kelly, but what do you reckon to the Guv dropping back to DI?”

  Stainmore swivelled in her chair and tapped her teeth with a pencil as she gave the question some thought. “I think he’s pretty pissed off,” she finally said. “I mean, he’s done a good job since Cunningham went. As he said the other day when he told us, we’ve all supported him.”

  Ormerod was about to say something else but Stainmore jumped in, “So I’m going to check out those other numbers now.”

  A split second later, Ormerod understood when he realised Strong had just breezed into the CID room.

  “Ah, Kelly, you’re back,” Strong greeted. “Anything interesting from Normanton?”

  “Just telling Luke here, guv. Nothing much of anything. There was a stroppy letter in the mail pile from her dental practice. She must have missed an appointment, and they wanted her to rearrange. I passed the details on to Dr Symonds. I’m assuming he might need dental records for identification. I mean, we’re all assuming it was Denise in there.”

  Strong nodded. “It would be embarrassing if it was someone else.”

  She picked up a second set of keys, a Yale and a deadlock and began to study them. “I wonder what these are for?”

  “Where were they?” Strong enquired.

  “On a hook in her hallway along with her house keys. But they don’t fit any locks at her place, back or front.” She put them down again. “Anyway, what news from forensics?” she asked.

  A grin appeared on Strong’s face. “I think they secretly enjoyed the challenge. They got a local plumber in to disconnect the bath, draw it out and then drain the contents off. After that, they were able to lift the body into a bodybag.”

  “I’d have thought it would have disintegrated.” Stainmore said.

  “Actually, the part of the body below the water is better preserved than that above. A process called adipocere, apparently. A bit like mummification.”

  Stainmore screwed up her face.

  “Initial toxicology shows nothing suspicious and the PM’s taking place tomorrow,” Strong continued.

  “I presume you’ll want me to attend?”

  “Please Kelly, you may as well follow it through.” From Stainmore’s desk he picked up a card she’d brought in with the other paperwork. “What’s this? Talisman Club? Never heard of it.”

  “Me neither, guv. Found it on the bedside cabinet.”

  He turned and showed it to Ormerod. “Mean anything to you, Luke?”

  Ormerod took the card and flipped it over. He shook his head as he gave it back to Stainmore. “No and I don’t recognise the symbol either.”

  “Probably nothing,” Strong dismissed, then began a discussion with Ormerod. “Those distraction burglaries, any developments there?”

  Stainmore studied the mysterious card for a few seconds before placing it back in the file, pulling out the BT information and picking up the phone.

  Ten minutes later, she knocked and entered Strong’s office where he’d returned after talking to Ormerod.

  “Yes, Kelly,” he said.

  She approached his desk. “Maybe something and nothing, guv.”

  He looked up from his paperwork. “If you’re puzzling, it’s probably something. You know, coppers’ instinct.”

  “One of those numbers that called Denise Whitaker’s land line last June …”

  “Go on.”

  “When I rang it, it was answered by the office of Charles Chamberlain Associates.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “The commercial legal practice?”

  “Yes. Only the receptionist said she’d never heard of a Denise Whitaker, or Denis for that matter, and she definitely wasn’t a client. She told me she’d worked there for the past four years.”

  “But your gut feeling is telling you …?”

  “Not sure.” She shrugged. “Like I said, probably something and nothing. Might even have been a misdialled number. One other caller was the local paper. Said they were conducting a sales initiative around that time, you know, free paper delivery for a six month subscription, one from the dentist prior to that letter I was talking about and one from her doctor’s surgery. Again, I’ve passed that on to Dr Symonds.”

  “And no relatives coming out of the woodwork?”

  “Not so far. I’m just ringing round the likely solicitor’s practices that might have had Denise as a client, from the point of view of a will.”

  “Well, if that draws a blank, and the PM comes up with nothing suspicious, then I think you’ve wasted enough time on the case.”

  * * *

  “I’ve had a word with the boss,” Chandler said, referring to the paper’s editor, “and he’s agreed to take your friend on for the summer, subject to interview.”

  “That’s great, John,” Souter responded.

  Mid-afternoon and Chandler had wandered onto the newsroom floor at the newspaper’s headquarters.

  “She’ll have to muck in with anything though, copying, general office duties,” he went on. “She won’t be let loose reporting. She can shadow you and Janey for a while.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be delighted with that, thanks. Who’ll interview her and when?”

  “Get her to call Selina in HR and we’ll sort something out. I’ve emailed her to expect a call.”

  The phone on Souter’s desk rang as Chandler took his leave.

  “Hello?” Souter answered.

  “Bob, my man,” came the Glaswegian voice from the earpiece.

  “Now then, Charlie,” he said, recognising his friend from the Glasgow Herald, “how’s life in the far north?”

  “Ah’m no’ that far north, cheeky bastard, otherwise ah’d ‘ave been on The Orcadian in Orkney or The Shetland Times!”

  “I’m sure you’d have fitted in well as a southerner from Shettleston,” Souter chuckled. “Anyw
ay, what nuggets do you have for me?”

  Ritchie’s tone grew serious. “Tread carefully, Bob. This Kenny Brogan is one evil bastard from what I can make out. Nothin’ sticks tae him. ‘Teflon Kenny’ somebody called him.”

  Souter picked up a pencil. “But he has a record of getting himself in on the action though?”

  “Thistle Developments have a reputation of securing some lucrative projects, aye. They’ve made some big money up here. But always reekin’ of dirty money. A lot of construction people I’ve spoken to wouldnae touch anythin’ they’re involved with. They’ve got their feet under the table with some big council developments and word is they have some influential people in their pockets. Always interested in stuff that has European funding too.”

  “So this retail development would sound right up their street,” Souter pondered.

  “Absolutely. And word here is they’re attracting too much of the wrong sort o’ attention so they’re lookin’ at things further afield. This Yorkshire project would be their first foray south o’ the border.”

  “So where did Brogan get his influence and money from?”

  “Well he’s a smart cookie. Took a Business Studies degree at Strathclyde University. That’s where he met his missus. Dropped on lucky there too. Some minor aristocrat, Lady Morag Hamilton. Her faither died soon after they got spliced.”

  “Convenient.” Souter was taking shorthand notes.

  “And she copped for a shed load o’ money plus some big estate near Dalmellington.”

  “Dalmellington? That’s Ayrshire, isn’t it?”

  “Aye. In the middle o’ bloody naewhere. But on top o’ that, her brother’s an MEP, so ye can imagine, he’s got more contacts than a telephone exchange. You know what those bastards are like wi’ their snouts in the trough. Bloody gravy train, I wouldnae gie them the steam aff ma tea!”

  Souter smiled. “Not a big EU fan then, Charlie?”

  “Make me boak.”

  “So word is Brogan is expert at working the system?”

  “Got a PhD in it. And he’s an expert at exploitin’ people’s weak spots for his own ends.”

  “Anything concrete?”

  “Too careful for that. But there were strong rumours he was behind that Stuart Williamson scandal last year.”

  “Was that the financial guy from the city council that committed suicide? Jumped off the Erskine Bridge?”

  “That’s the fella. Smeared the bugger’s reputation afterwards wi’ rumours he was intae rent boys and such. Then they discovered all sorts o’ irregularities, especially wi’ development projects. He ended up carryin’ the can. Brogan was involved in some o’ those projects too but nothin’ stuck tae him.”

  “Thanks for that, Charlie. And if you discover anything else …”

  “I’ll let you know. And one more thing, he has a heid case as a sidekick. Name o’ Kennedy, Wullie Kennedy. I think he’s done time for GBH and such.”

  Souter was silent for a moment as he wrote down the last details.

  “ But … remember what I said,” Ritchie added, “tread carefully.”

  “See you, mate.” Souter ended the call and reread the notes he’d taken. Brogan had certainly got his interest.

  * * *

  When Belinda arrived home, just after half past ten, Charlie was out.

  “Said something about a meeting at the golf club,” Anthony informed her.

  She looked round the hallway. “What happened to that bin bag full of clothes I meant to take for recycling?”

  “Dunno. Maybe Dad took it,” he suggested then disappeared back to his room.

  In the kitchen she made herself a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea, then sat down in the lounge. Fortunately, her shift had been busy, not allowing her to dwell on the sighting of Charlie’s car near the house. But now, in the quiet of the room, she began to ponder. Her thoughts took in the investments he’d told her about. There were a couple of savings accounts in joint names, kept below the government’s guarantee level, plus two ISA’s in separate names, and finally the Outwood house which he claimed to have bought for £55,000. All that seemed fairly believable but she wasn’t convinced he was telling her everything.

  She finished her supper and walked into their bedroom. Opening Charlie’s drawer again, she rummaged through, looking for the envelope. Nothing. The crafty sod must have moved it. Not surprising, though.

  A yawn surprised her. She had to get up for an early shift tomorrow. Back in the lounge, she collected her mug and plate and took them to the kitchen. When she returned to the bedroom, she began to get ready for bed. She hoped Charlie wouldn’t be too late or noisy to disturb her.

  Slipping between the sheets, she picked up a book and, sitting up, began to read. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, she opened her eyes to find Charlie stripping out of his clothes and putting on his pyjamas.

  “That backside looks a bit red,” she said spontaneously.

  He pulled the bottoms up quickly. “Been sitting on it all day,” he said, climbing into bed.

  “Busy day in the office then?”

  “Yep.” He leaned over and switched off his bedside lamp.

  “No break then; you weren’t out and about anywhere?” She was wide awake again.

  He yawned. “No, just boring paperwork and a couple of meetings, that’s all.”

  “And to top it off another meeting at the golf club?”

  “Mmm.” He lay on his side with his back to her.

  She looked down at him. “Still, at least you’d have had a drink there?”

  “Managed a pint, yes.”

  “So you weren’t out of the office all day then?”

  He turned back to face her. “What is all this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

  Again, she surprised herself remaining calm. “Did you hear about the accident on the M1? It was shut when I set off for work.”

  He rubbed his face with his hand. “I know this might be fascinating information but what’re you getting at?”

  “I had to take the alternative route into Leeds.” A puzzled expression grew on his face and she continued, “Up Leeds Road through Outwood.”

  “Oh, I see.” His perplexed features changed to anger.

  “So I was just wondering how I came to see your car parked up outside your investment.”

  “I didn’t realise you were keeping tabs on me. You can get trackers fitted you know, then you’ll always know where I am. And if you must know, I’d nipped out to check on the place. As a responsible owner I need to make sure there are no leaking pipes, the power hadn’t tripped, boring stuff like that. Is that okay?” He held her gaze for a few seconds then turned away once more. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’re not the only one with a busy day tomorrow.”

  She studied him for a few more minutes before turning off her own bedside lamp and settling down in the bed. The bastard was lying – again. And she was wide awake, probably would be for hours now. He wouldn’t have admitted he’d been there if she hadn’t challenged him. And she wasn’t sure she’d had the full story from him, even now. Maybe he did feel it was so insignificant, he’d forgotten that he’d nipped out of the office. No, she was sure there was more to it than that. She’d find out but she’d have to be as sneaky as he was. Her mind turned events over for some time. He was breathing deeply now, in that initial descent into a deep sleep. Finally, after what seemed like ages, sleep overtook her as well.

  9

  Wednesday 11th July 2001

  “You look a bit pasty,” Ormerod greeted Stainmore as she put her bag down by the side of her desk.

  “Just been to the weirdest post-mortem I’ve ever had to attend.”

  “Of course, the body in the bath.”

  She sat down in her chair. “What was left of it.”

  Strong sauntered in and joined in the discussion. “Everything all right, Kelly, you look a bit tired.”

  Stainmore looked round at the otherwise empty CID room. “An
yone else like to contribute to how shit I look?”

  Ormerod grinned.

  “Sorry,” Strong said. “Just concerned, that’s all.”

  She held up her hands and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your heads off.”

  “So what were the findings?”

  “Natural causes. Evidence of a heart attack.”

  Strong nodded. “Heart, eh?”

  “Yes. That tied in with her medical history, Dr Symonds confirmed. Apparently, she was on medication for high blood pressure as well. You’ll also be glad to know dental records confirmed it was Denise Whitaker, 58 years of age as reported by Housing.”

  Strong leaned against the adjacent desk and nodded. “So, natural causes.”

  “Actual cause of death, though, was drowning,” she continued. “Head dropped into the water and, well …”

  “That’s not surprising. Forgot to say when you were out, Kelly, Denise’s GP surgery rang for you and I took it. I think they were embarrassed. Her own GP retired last April and the new one only lasted three months before he moved south. So, her third GP in five months wasn’t aware of her as a patient. Hence she wasn’t missed.”

  Stainmore rolled her eyes. “Great. God help us if we ever become ill and need to count on our doctor.”

  “Anyway, that’s it then,” Strong concluded. “Case closed. What else have you got on now?”

  She sighed and shuffled some paperwork around before pulling out some sheets. “I’ve got the Donaldson rape case coming to trial next week and then there’s these distraction burglaries that Luke’s been working on for the past two months.”

  “You’ll need to be on the ball for that next week.” He leaned in closer. “You’re okay with your evidence though, aren’t you?” Stainmore nodded and he turned his attention to Ormerod. “But we’ve got to get to the bottom of those distractions, Luke.”