by David Evans
“What’s in it for you?” came a voice from the floor. Laughter followed, along with other shouts, some in support of that comment, others obviously annoyed with the intervention. Souter shifted his attention quickly between Faulkner, who was attempting to bring the meeting to order, and Brogan, who was slowly shaking his head. Pitchforth looked uncomfortable.
Eventually, calm reigned once more as Faulkner responded by saying that it was in the interests of Wakefield as a whole that this scheme was approved. More mutterings, waving of arms and shaking of heads from some of the councillors finally died away. After a few speeches from the floor in support as well as against, the proposed scheme was voted on and approved. With that, the meeting formally ended.
Souter watched as Brogan stood, gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the two men on the podium and turned to leave. As he got to the double doors, Souter impeded his exit. “Mr Brogan,” he said.
Brogan looked him up and down. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Souter. I’m a journalist with the Yorkshire Post.”
“So?” He looked as if he had smelt something distasteful. “What do you want with me?” he asked in an educated Scottish accent.
“I just wondered if you had a reaction for our readers on this afternoon’s vote.”
“Why would I?” He moved forward to barge past Souter. “If you don’t mind …”
Souter stood firm. “So your company doesn’t have a vested interest in the outcome of the approval of the Lofthouse Development then?”
Brogan put the palm of his hand into Souter’s chest and pushed him to one side. “Excuse me,” he said, making his way out of the chamber.
Souter followed. “No truth in the rumours that Thistle Developments are earmarked for the project?” he shouted after him.
Brogan turned and took a couple of steps towards him, “What was your name again?” he calmly asked.
Janey Clarke and Susan were standing behind Souter at this point. “Robert Souter,” he answered.
Brogan nodded. “Souter. The Yorkshire Post.” He pointed a finger at him. “I’ll remember you, Robert Souter.”
They stood motionless and watched him walk away.
“Who’s that?” Janey asked.
“Oh, just some …” Souter paused, “… psychotic delusional.”
Janey looked puzzled; Susan seemed unnerved.
* * *
“No, I just felt in need of a pint,” Souter said, once Strong had returned with the beers. “I was in a council meeting over the road from you and I thought, we haven’t had a meet up for a bit.”
They were sitting in the Black Horse on Westgate. One or two office workers were winding down from a day talking on their phones or glued to the screen, tapping out texts. Early doors custom.
“Not surprised you needed a drink.” Strong sipped his beer. “Can hardly be riveting stuff at these meetings.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. The challenge is to make it sound interesting for the readers, even if it’s only filling obscure column inches.” Souter proceeded to down half the pint in one hit.
Strong watched him put his glass back on the table, lean back and close his eyes for a few seconds. “Everything okay, Bob?”
He opened them again. “What? Yeah, sorry, Col. It’s just I’m thinking … well, it’s coming up to the anniversary.”
“What, you and Alison?”
“No. Adam.”
“Shit. Sorry.” Strong felt bad. Of course, Bob’s son, taken to Canada by his first wife when she left him just before he took the job on the Glasgow Herald. “It must be … what, three years now?”
“Three years next month, the fifth.”
Strong sat in silence, remembering the day his friend had come to see him distraught at hearing the news of Adam’s drowning.
Souter looked unfocussed at a space on the far wall. “He’d have been ten last Christmas. Growing up into a great lad.” Snapping himself out of his reverie, he lifted his pint. “Anyway, can’t dwell on that now.”
Strong nodded, not entirely convinced. “That was a nice piece your paper put about our body in the bath case last week, by the way,” he said, after a pause. “Kelly thought your reporter hit the right tone.”
“That was young Janey. She’s good. Nothing suspicious about that, was there?”
“Don’t think so. Mind you, the PM was a new experience for Kelly.”
“I can imagine.” Souter smiled.
Strong leaned forward, as if about to take him into his confidence. “Have you ever heard of a ‘Talisman Club’?”
Souter’s brows furrowed. “No,” he said after a few seconds. “Can’t say I have.”
“Not one of your poncy Leeds establishments?”
Souter laughed. “As if I’d know if it was.” Another slurp of his beer. “Where did you hear the name?”
“Oh, it was just a card that turned up somewhere, that’s all. Nobody in the team had heard of it either.”
Souter drained his glass. “I’ll get you another and you can tell me what’s occupying your team at the moment.”
“Just a half for me. I’ve got to drive home.”
* * *
During the journey home from her shift, Belinda felt sick. She’d never been anxious about going home before, but what she’d witnessed that morning had turned her emotions upside down. She parked her car next to Charlie’s so she knew he was in.
“Hi Mum,” Anthony greeted, as she closed the front door behind her. “Dad’s in the lounge. I’m off to bed. I’ve got an interview for a summer job tomorrow.”
She hugged him close. “Of course, Waterstones. Best of luck for that.” She pulled his head down and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, Son. I’m sure you’ll do well.”
“Thanks.” He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, yeah. Just a difficult shift, that’s all.”
He turned and climbed the stairs, not noticing her sweeping the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe away some moisture.
She took a deep breath, entered the lounge and closed the door.
Charlie was sitting in his favourite chair, whisky on the side, watching the television on low volume.
She studied him for a second. “So what have you got to say for yourself?”
He looked up slowly. “What do you mean?”
She walked over to the settee, put her bag down but remained standing. She wanted to have all the psychological advantage that she could. “All that crap this morning about meter readers. You were there with her, weren’t you?”
His best bewildered look. “Who?”
“Don’t give me that innocent shit. I saw her.”
He rose to his feet. “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw but whatever it was, it wasn’t.”
She fiddled with her wedding ring. Slowly and deliberately, she said, “I saw Anita leave the house and then you drove her away. She was in the front seat.”
He turned away and stood in front of the false fireplace. “It’s not what it seems.”
“Seems pretty plain to me.” She folded her arms and the thought struck her that a psychologist would have a field day with her body language. “How long has this been going on?” Continuing her train of thought, she paid close attention to his actions.
He threw his arms wide in a gesture of innocence. “There’s nothing going on. Okay, okay, she was there. But I didn’t want you to see her because I knew that’s what you’d think. Believe me, there’s nothing going on between us. She’s just our friend.”
“Our friend. Our friend!” she exploded. “How do you make that out? She used to be my friend but not anymore. And I can see she’s more than just a friend to you.”
He took a step forward. “She’s not. This is why I tried to keep it quiet. I knew you’d go off like this.”
“Well can you blame me? You’ve just lied and lied. Ever since I discovered those deeds. And for all I know you’ve been lying t
o me for years.”
Another step forward and his face had turned red. “Christ’s sake, Belinda, will you just shut the fuck up and let me get a word in!”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”
“Look.” He grabbed hold of her upper arms. “You’re not listening to me.”
She struggled. “Let go!”
He shook her then raised his hand. “Just listen …”
“Dad! What’s going on?” Anthony was at the door, a shocked look on his face. “What are you doing to Mum?”
Charlie froze then slowly released his grip and turned to face his son. “Nothing … nothing, we were just having a discussion.”
“I could hear you in my room. Didn’t sound much of a discussion to me.”
Belinda moved away from her husband, towards the kitchen.
“Just mind your own business, Anthony,” Charlie said.
“You were going to hit Mum.”
“No. No, I was just trying to calm her down. I would never hurt your mother.”
“Whatever.”
Charlie looked from Anthony to Belinda then back again. “I’m going out.”
“Where do you think you’re going at this time of night?” Belinda asked. “You’ve had a drink.”
“Anywhere. I don’t care.” He shoved his way past Anthony and Belinda heard the front door open then slam.
Anthony rushed to his mother and put his arms round her. “It’s okay, Mum,” he said.
From outside they could hear a car fire up and drive away.
11
Wednesday 18th July 2001
“Belinda … can we talk?” Charlie sounded contrite. She had no doubt he’d practiced that tone before he rang.
Anthony had set off for his interview and she was sitting gazing out the window onto St John’s Square when her phone rang. She remained silent.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry last night.”
She took a deep breath. “You did though. And Anthony had to witness it.”
A moment’s silence. “I know. I’m ashamed.”
“You’ve got some making up to do with that boy. I’m not sure you can make things right with me though.”
“Belinda, don’t say that. Look, can we meet up? I know it’s your day off today. Hows about that new Italian place on Northgate? Bit of lunch maybe?”
“I’m not hungry. Besides, it’ll take more than a bit of lunch.”
“Whatever you want. Just a coffee then. Let me explain.”
She gave it a bit of thought. At least it was in public and somewhere neutral. “Okay,” she said quietly.
“Twelve?”
She checked her watch. “All right.”
“See you then.”
She felt tired; hadn’t slept much last night after the big argument. Anthony had made her a hot drink before she insisted he went to bed. He needed to be fresh for this morning. It was only a part-time holiday job, but he loved books and was excited at the prospect of working in a bookshop. Charlie hadn’t returned. God knows where he’d spent the night. Probably with his trollop; she’d begun not to care. Their marriage had been dying for years. She’d thought long and hard about what she should do. Anthony was her priority now. She needed to guide him through his exams and on to university, if that’s what he wanted to do. She knew she’d have a battle on her hands if she went down the divorce route, Charlie being a lawyer. He’d have sharp friends who specialised in divorce. What was she saying – if – more likely to be when, the way she was feeling at the moment.
But then, she didn’t need to make any rash decisions. For the time being, she felt she had to gather evidence. She wandered through to the bedroom. She’d have to be clever; at least as clever as Charlie. She looked round the room, taking in her bedside unit, her chest of drawers, still with piles of pennies and two-pence pieces on top; the dressing table and the large wardrobe, his chest of drawers and finally his bedside cabinet. Another glance at her watch. It was a five minute walk to their rendezvous. Just gone eleven now, so a comfortable forty minutes to carefully search through his things. What she was looking for she wasn’t sure, but she’d know if she found anything of use.
She started with his bedside cabinet. It was as she had left it a few days before; no documents relating to Outwood. Next, the chest of drawers. She pulled out the drawers one at a time and carefully felt all round, below his underpants in the top one and his socks in the next. Nothing unusual, but there again, she was the one who put those items in there after washing. The bottom drawer contained scarves, gloves and winter woollies. At the back, her hand touched a small cardboard box. She pulled it out. Condoms, large. Ha, that was a joke. But why would he have condoms? She’d been on the pill since Anthony was born. Bastard. That meant only one thing in her view.
Next, the wardrobe, his side. She rummaged through the pockets of his suits, jackets and coats, looking for receipts, notes, anything. Nothing. And then she felt something solid in the pocket of a suit jacket. Keys for a Yale and a deadlock on a ring with a tag. She pulled them out and read the small label. “Leeds Road”. Had to be. She glanced at her watch again; eleven-thirty.
She quickly closed the wardrobe doors, making sure everything was as she had found it, then made herself ready. If she got a breeze on, she’d have time to call in on the shop near The Bullring that mended shoes and cut keys.
* * *
Strong was in his office when Detective Superintendent Flynn’s head popped round the door. “Colin,” he said.
“Morning, sir,” Strong greeted.
The rest of Flynn followed, closing the door behind himself. “Sorry we haven’t had a chance to catch up since but I was wondering how the troops took the news?”
Strong put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “Disappointed, I think.”
“Understandable. They’ve been with you a fair while.” Flynn remained standing. “Did you tell them when DCI Hemingford was starting?”
“Beginning of the month. But I didn’t say who it was or anything about him.”
Flynn nodded. “I’ll introduce him to the team then.”
A knock on the door preceded the appearance of Kelly Stainmore.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” she said and was about to close the door again.
“That’s all right, Kelly. I was just leaving anyway,” Flynn said. “I’ll catch you later, Colin.”
Flynn departed and Stainmore approached Strong’s desk. He leaned forward. “So, what news?” he asked.
“Denise Whitaker. Her surgery gave me a name of next of kin. Then Bennetts, one of the solicitor’s in town, came back with the same information. Denise has a son, Patrick and he’s the sole beneficiary of her estate apparently, such as it is.”
“Is he anyone of interest to us?” Strong closed the folder on his desk.
“Bit of petty stuff years ago, shoplifting, but nothing significant. Apparently, he’s a porter at Pinderfields.”
“Must live locally, if he works there. Still, one for the solicitors to sort out now.” Strong stood up and opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet before placing the folder from his desk into one of the files. “Any developments on those distraction burglaries? Flynn never mentioned them but I’ll bet he will next time I see him.”
“Jim found out there’d been two in and around Barnsley in the period between Winnie Haywood in Sandal and Frank Parsons in Ackworth. Similar descriptions, same MO.”
“Any further information from there that helps us?”
“He’s getting the DS in charge to email the files as we speak.”
Strong closed the cabinet drawer and faced Stainmore. “Has anyone checked to see if there’s anything to connect our victims,” he pondered.
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know … do they all have meals delivered, by the same people, say? Do they have carers visit from the same care company? Do they play bingo at the same hall? Just another avenue to explore.”
&nb
sp; “Okay, I’ll look into that, guv.”
“Thanks, Kelly.” Strong sat back down in his chair as Stainmore left his office.
* * *
“Come on then, who was that you challenged at the meeting yesterday?” Janey Clarke was standing, hands on hips, trying to look her most formidable.
Susan stood behind her, a slight smile playing on her lips.
“I thought you were on top of this story, Janey?” Souter responded.
“Obviously not.” She turned to Susan. “Do you know more about this?”
“Hey, I’m just the trainee,” she said.
“Right,” Janey said in a condescending manner. “Well I’m off to court now. On my own. So have fun, the two of you.” With that, Clarke put on her jacket and left the newsroom.
Susan pulled up a seat and sat down next to Souter. “She has a point, though. She was supposed to be covering the Lofthouse Development story. I think I’d be a bit teed off if another journo hijacked it.”
Souter turned to face Susan. “I haven’t ‘hijacked the story’, as you so dramatically put it. I just haven’t told her all I know.” He paused a second. “Look, if she was any sort of journalist, she’d know who that was yesterday.” He shook his head. “No, sorry, that was unfair. Janey’s good at her job. It’s just …”
“You think this could be a bit dangerous, right?”
“Well … no, not really.”
“Come on, Bob. I was there too. That was a threat. He might not have said anything threatening, but it was meant as such.”
Souter rubbed his face with both hands. “You’re right. It was a bit of a … warning, I suppose.” He thought for a moment, then drew his chair closer to Susan. “Okay,” he said, “that man was Kenneth Brogan. He owns Thistle Developments.” Over the course of the next few minutes, he told Susan all he’d heard about Brogan’s rumoured involvement with the Lofthouse Project.
