Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3)

by David Evans

  “I know, guv.”

  “Okay.” Strong headed for the door. “I’ll catch up with the rest of the team later.”

  When he’d gone, Ormerod turned to Stainmore. “You’re not one hundred per cent happy with the Whitaker case, I can tell.”

  Stainmore picked up the mystery set of keys and began fiddling with them. “No,” she said, “Not entirely.” Focussing back to her colleague, “I just want to check on a couple of things first before I hand it all back to the Housing Department.”

  The phone on the desk rang and she answered. “Oh, hi Jason,” she said, listened for a few seconds then continued, “No, go ahead with that and I’ll let you know if I get anywhere with it.” A few more nods of the head as she listened to what Jason was saying, punctuated by several ‘yep’s’ before she brought the call to an end. With a loud sigh, she replaced the handset.

  “You sound exasperated,” Ormerod said.

  “No … I mean, he’s a nice lad but …”

  “Who was that? Your new best friend, Jason?”

  “He’s the coroner’s officer I’m dealing with. He’s one of those guys who tells you everything in the minutest detail. Anyway, the ad will be in the paper this week.”

  * * *

  Susan was delighted with the chance to work with the Yorkshire Post newspaper. She’d made the call the following morning to Selina in HR and arranged to come in for an interview at the end of the week.

  Souter, meanwhile, had picked Janey Clarke’s brains about the Lofthouse Retail Development.

  “Why do I get the feeling you know more than you’re telling me?” she asked.

  “I just think it would be something interesting for Susan to get involved with when she comes here for the summer.” He’d told her about Susan’s upcoming interview and what Chandler had said about shadowing Janey and himself. “Nice bit of local politics,” he concluded.

  “I still think you’re up to something.” She turned back to her desk.

  Of course you do, Souter thought. I’d be a bit disappointed if you didn’t, you being an aspiring journalist.

  The retail scheme was returning to the full Planning Committee the following week and the outstanding matters were expected to be passed without too much opposition. Souter had dug back through their records and identified one or two of the main players, as far as the Council was concerned. The Head of Planning was Michael Pitchforth, married with three children and had been in post for nearly ten years. The Leader of the Council was the Labour councillor, Bernard Faulkner. He was married but did have a bit of a reputation as a ladies man. It was his aim to drive this project through.

  He’d also put in a call to his friend DS Ron Boyle of Strathclyde police following the conversation he’d had with Charlie Ritchie. He wanted to find out a bit more about Kenny Brogan but, more importantly, his supposed muscle, William Kennedy.

  His computer pinged, indicating new mail. When he opened it up, he found it was from Charlie Ritchie.

  “Just thought you might be interested in who you’re dealing with,” he wrote. Attached were two picture files. When he opened them up, he discovered photos of Kenny Brogan, short fair hair, about five foot six inches tall, looking dapper in an expensive looking overcoat, striding in to offices, obviously in Glasgow.

  His desk phone rang and Patricia on reception announced it was a Mr Boyle returning his call.

  “Ron, thanks for calling back,” Souter said.

  “No problem, Bob. How’s that new bird of yours? Still not found you out yet?”

  “We’ve been together for over a year now.” Souter laughed. “And there’s nothing to find out.”

  “Right,” Boyle said in a disbelieving tone. “Anyway, you wanted a heads up on a couple of names.”

  I’d appreciate that.”

  “Well, I’d just caw canny with these two, if you know what I mean,” Boyle warned.

  This was becoming a recurring theme, Souter thought. “What do you mean, Ron?”

  “Slippery wee bastard is our Brogan. Lots of reputation but we’ve got nothing on him. Too clever for that, but loads of rumours about dodgy building deals with his company, Thistle Developments.”

  Souter tapped his pencil on a pad. “I’ve heard that. He’s looking to do something down here which is why I’m doing some checking.”

  “The other one, Wullie Kennedy, is a real psycho. Apparently he went to school with Brogan but thick as shite. Wiry but deceptively strong and violent with it.”

  “Not a good combination then?”

  Boyle laughed mirthlessly. “I’d say the worst. He’s got some serious form, ABH, GBH, robbery with violence. But since Brogan seems to have taken him under his wing, he hasn’t brought himself to our attention.”

  “So how long has he been working with Brogan.”

  “These past two years. Ever since Thistle started to move up the leagues.”

  “Obviously Brogan feels Kennedy serves a purpose though?”

  “I would say so. I mean there have been rumours about Thistle’s dealings up here. Opposition to some of their projects mysteriously evaporating, if you get my drift. But nothing we can get involved with. But if they’re muscling in down your way, I’d be very careful how you go, Bob.”

  “That’s the second word of caution I’ve received from up your way, Ron. Appreciate your concern.”

  Souter ended the call, made a few notes, put his jacket on and left the newsroom.

  10

  Tuesday 17th July 2001

  On several occasions during that week, Belinda chose the Outwood route to the hospital. Charlie’s car was nowhere to be seen. Then, on the Friday, the roadworks had altered and traffic in her direction was diverted by way of a couple of side streets while work continued on the main road. After turning left down the first street, she was following the signs, about to turn right. A black car parked on the street straight ahead caught her eye. Surely not?

  She was in a traffic flow, unable to stop, so followed the diversion back onto the main road. However, instead of following the road to Leeds, she turned back towards home. The way Charlie had reacted the week before persuaded her to take another look.

  She turned back into the diversion again but this time drove straight on, slowly past the black BMW. Definitely his car. A quick three-point turn and she passed the car again. She checked her watch. No time to do anything today, she needed to get to work, but she was determined to find out what was going on. Next week, she’d use this route regularly and give herself more time.

  She didn’t have long to wait. The following Tuesday, the diversions and roadworks had all been removed. No sign of his car on the main road so she turned down the side street as she had done the week before. There it was again, parked in the same spot. She’d given herself an extra half hour to get to work so she parked on the opposite side.

  She felt pumped up, the adrenaline flowing. As she walked up the street to the main road, she tried to calm herself. Deep breaths. She needed to be in control. Right at the top and two doors down, she was standing outside the house with the white door and black numbers. The first ring on the bell went unanswered. At the second push, she heard footsteps on a staircase. The door opened partly and there stood her husband, a shocked look on his face.

  “Belinda. What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question. Mind if I come in?” She made to bundle her way past him and into the house.

  He held the door firm. “I was just heading back to the office.”

  “But I’m sure you can spare a few minutes to show me round, seeing as it is our investment.”

  This time he sighed and swung the door wide. “If you insist.”

  She stepped straight into the living room. “How come you’re here again anyway?”

  “Well … they came to read the meters, so I had to make arrangements to be here for that.”

  She turned and faced him. “They’ve been then, have they?”

  “Yes,
about ten minutes. Look, I really have to get back.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting at the office.”

  Belinda began a slow walk around the room. “Just as well the meter reader came when he did.” She stopped and looked at the framed print of Rievaulx Abbey hanging above the fireplace.

  “Er, what? Yes, I suppose so.”

  She strolled around the leather settee, rubbing a finger along the back. “Because normally, you can wait in all morning or all afternoon for them.” She was back up close to him. “Normally, they give you a window of four hours or so.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s been now, so I must get back. And you need to get going if you’re going to make your shift too.” He opened the front door. “Where are you parked?”

  “Just across from you. You can walk me down, if you like.”

  Relief spread over his face. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come on then.”

  They set off back down the side street in silence until they reached Charlie’s car.

  “Well, I’ll see you tonight,” he said, leaning forward in an attempt to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  She moved her face away, said nothing and walked over to her own car. Her anger was simmering just below the surface, but she was determined to remain controlled. As she performed another three-point turn, she saw her husband wave and smile to her as he sat in the driver’s seat, mobile phone to his ear. Arrogant bastard, she thought. At the top of the road she turned left to head towards Leeds but pulled in about fifty yards further on. Something wasn’t right. She could sense it in the house. Charlie was too keen to get her out of there. And as for all that bollocks about meter readers and meetings back at the office, well, she just didn’t believe a word of it.

  Her nearside door mirror afforded an unrestricted view back down the pavement. She was about to drive away when a figure in a black coat appeared. She was a bit too far away to be sure that the woman had come from the house but there was no mistaking who it was; Anita Matthews, Charlie’s personal assistant and family friend.

  She suddenly felt cold; and sick. Her stomach was turning upside down. Anita walked in her direction then turned down the street where Charlie was parked. A couple of minutes later, his BMW appeared at the junction, Anita in the passenger seat. With a break in the traffic, the car turned right towards Wakefield.

  She struggled to breathe. Tears welled in her eyes but she made a great effort to hold them back. After a few gasps, she managed to regulate her breathing. She dabbed her eyes with a paper tissue and checked for mascara smudges in the mirror. Another glance at her watch and she set off for the hospital.

  * * *

  Strong strode into the CID room, sheaf of papers in his hand and began to address the officers present. “Okay team, listen up,” he said in a loud voice.

  Attention focussed on Strong as he approached a display board on the CID room wall. “This pair, I’m assuming they’re the same, are seriously getting on my tits now.” He pointed to two nondescript Identikit images before fixing a photograph of an elderly man to join the three elderly women already up there.

  “After a gap of five weeks, our distraction specialists have struck again.” He indicated the latest picture. “Frank Parsons, eighty-three year old widower and late of the Green Howards.” Strong looked round the room. “And I know this, how? Because our enterprising distractors have walked away with old Frank’s Second World War medals, along with his life savings of fifteen hundred pounds.”

  The detectives let out a collective groan.

  “So, Luke, you’ve been on this from the beginning. Take us through what we know because Flynn wants our full attention on this.”

  Ormerod stood and approached the board. In turn, he ran through the sequence of robberies. “Florence Harvey, widow, seventy-six was targeted on 19th April at her semi-detached home in Hemsworth. Two men, one around forty, stocky with a thick moustache, wearing overalls and a cap, holding a clip board, told her he was checking on water pressure and could he test the kitchen taps. Younger assistant, shorter, slim, dressed in jeans and black sweat shirt comes in behind and sneaks upstairs. She didn’t clock him until he was coming down again. The older one spins her a story about his apprentice having a weak bladder. Calm as you like, they wander off down the street. After they’d gone, she checked upstairs and found the three hundred pounds she’d put by for her grand-daughter’s eighteenth birthday present had gone.”

  “No sightings by the neighbours?” Strong asked. “No strange vehicles seen in the immediate vicinity?”

  “Nothing.” He pointed to the second photo. “Victim number two, eighty-one year old widow, Hannah Williamson living in a bungalow in Walton visited by two men on April 25th. Similar routine – testing water pressure, the older guy talks his way in whilst his younger compatriot sneaks in to the bedroom. This time the contents of her handbag were rifled and one hundred and fifty pounds gone along with some gold and silver jewellery. Again, no indication of how they’d arrived or left. Thirdly, eighty-two year old Winifred Haywood targeted on May 3rd. Unfortunately, Winnie is in the early stages of dementia, so it was a bit more difficult getting an account of her encounter. Her daughter was visiting her flat in Sandal when she saw our two walking down the road, away from her mother’s front door.” He indicated the images of the suspects. “Those are the best likenesses she could provide when she tried to think back. It was only when she went into the flat and found Winnie in a state of confusion that the daughter started to piece together what had happened. Of course, by this time Little and Large are nowhere to be seen. Daughter thinks about twenty pounds had gone from the drawer in the dresser that she’d put there two days before. Also her mother’s gold watch, a present from her late father has disappeared.”

  “These items have genuinely gone, Luke?” Strong put in. “Not doubting the daughter but people with dementia do hide things.”

  “No, she’s not that bad, guv. Besides, the daughter searched the whole flat.”

  “Okay, so after some time off, our friends decide to return. So, where have they been in the meantime? Luke, have you checked with other forces, South or North Yorkshire, Greater Manchester?”

  “On it.”

  “Can we revisit the neighbours of all four victims? Did they see anyone suspicious, maybe matching the descriptions of … I like that, Luke … Little and Large. Any strange vehicles parked nearby, not necessarily at the time of the distractions. They may have been recceing the places. Okay, you all know the routine. Let’s have a big effort on this one. We all have, or have had parents or grandparents that could be vulnerable to this sort of crime. Let’s get these shits before they have the chance to upset somebody else’s mother or father.”

  Strong paused at Stainmore’s desk on the way out. “Everything okay, Kelly?”

  “Yeah, guv. They reckon Thursday for my evidence.”

  “The rape trial?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  He’d begun to walk on when Stainmore added, “Oh, Denise Whittaker, I’ve got her GP surgery ringing back with next of kin details and I’m waiting on a couple of solicitors to get back to me.”

  “Well don’t waste too much more time on it,” Strong said before indicating the display board. “These scum are our priority.”

  * * *

  About a hundred yards from Wood Street police station, Souter, Janey Clarke and Susan walked up a few steps and into Wakefield Town Hall, following the directions for the Council Chamber. Up the stairs, they entered through some double doors and found themselves at the rear of the chamber, raised up from the main council area. Three rows of solid oak panelled seating were set aside for the public. About a dozen or so people, sitting in ones and twos, were already there when they entered. Souter, Susan and Janey sat on the rear row towards the centre.

  As he settled onto the uncomfortable seat, Souter, influenced by the surroundings, allowed his thoughts to drift. Whitewashed walls with exposed stone details to the staine
d glass feature windows and doorways gave a citadel feel to the light and airy space. He took in the chamber itself. On a podium, like some throne, large wooden seats were placed before a long desk with a lectern built in. The councillors themselves were treated to padded wooden seats with armrests. Around twenty or more of them had begun to congregate, men and women of all ages. He imagined meetings of the last century where only men would have been present. Victorian characters with large mutton chop whiskers, top hats and morning coats perhaps. The building would have hardly changed in all that time. If only it could speak, what kind of secret deals and skulduggery had gone on in decades past? More to the point, what underhand shenanigans were going on now?

  After a few minutes, he was brought back to the present with a request for the assembly to stand as the chair of the meeting took his seat on the podium like some High Court judge. The chair, a tall, bordering on obese man with thinning dark hair and rimless glasses, announced that he was the Leader of the Council, Bernard Faulkner. Souter knew he was fifty-two and imagined too many social lunches and charity dinners had contributed to his appearance. The slightly shorter, slim figure of the Head of Planning, Michael Pitchforth, accompanied him onto the dais. According to Souter’s information, he was fifty-seven and looked healthy for his age. A full head of white hair and a deep tan helped with that analysis. Whilst remaining on their feet, a prayer was said, reinforcing the ethereal atmosphere.

  The meeting proper began with a few building projects briefly discussed and, for the most part, approved. Fifteen minutes in, the double doors behind Souter opened and a shortish, well-dressed man quietly entered the chamber and took a seat in the front public row, near the door. Kenneth Brogan had arrived. Souter watched his body language. Confidently, Brogan relaxed in his seat and his gaze swept round the councillors present before his attention fixed on Faulkner and Pitchforth.

  A councillor from the floor was speaking but Souter spotted the signs of recognition of Brogan by both men on the podium. Finally, the Lofthouse development was announced. Faulkner outlined the potentially huge advantages of such a scheme to the council, not least regenerating old mining land and bringing it back into use. Once he’d concluded his contribution to the meeting, it was Pitchforth’s turn to address the council. He confirmed his department had scrutinised the proposals and were very much in favour of the scheme going ahead.