Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3)

by David Evans

  “So you think Faulkner and Pitchforth could be on the take?” she asked when he’d finished.

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  “So how do we do that, then?”

  “We? We? What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “You’ll need some assistance on this. Someone to watch your back.”

  “Don’t even think like that, Susan. Now, promise me you’ll keep what I’ve just told you to yourself.”

  Susan held his stare for a second then nodded. “All right. But don’t take any risks.”

  He smiled. “I won’t. Now, what else are you working on?”

  She pulled out her notebook.

  * * *

  It was ten past twelve when Belinda entered the restaurant. She wasn’t going to rush to meet. In her handbag were two sets of keys to Leeds Road. Charlie was at a table for two against the side wall. There were only four other people in the place. He stood as she approached. He was about to lean forward to kiss her but she swerved away.

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Charlie, do you?”

  He winced and she wondered whether that was due to her rebuttal or the use of his name. Either way she didn’t care and he didn’t comment.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said when they’d sat down.

  She gave a slight nod and then the waiter approached.

  “Something to drink?” he enquired, handing menus to Belinda, then Charlie.

  “I’ll just have a cappuccino, thanks. I’m not hungry,” she replied.

  “Me too,” Charlie said.

  The waiter bowed slightly, took back the menus and headed to the counter.

  “Belinda,” Charlie began, “I’m really sorry for reacting like I did. I shouldn’t have.”

  She said nothing.

  “I can understand why you were suspicious and annoyed. But you must believe me, there is nothing going on between Anita and me.”

  She looked away, not wanting to see him lie as well as listen to it.

  He reached for her hand but she pulled away. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “The reason she was with me was that she helps me clean the place.”

  “Oh, she’s a cleaner now, is she? I can’t imagine Anita as a Mrs Mopp, but there again, maybe that’s your fantasy.”

  “Look, it’s true. The last cleaner I had never came back, not even to collect her wages. That was over a year ago. I’m not letting it out. I don’t want anyone else in there. We try and do that once a week, just to keep things fresh.”

  “Huh,” she snorted. “I can imagine.”

  He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Look, give her a ring if you don’t believe me.”

  “Right,” she said sarcastically. “And I don’t suppose you haven’t worked on her script overnight then?”

  He looked incredulous. “No. I … I just don’t know what else I can say.”

  The waiter returned with two coffees and put them down on the table.

  She watched him retreat before asking, “So where did you spend last night?”

  “At the office. I slept on the couch in reception.” He smiled. “I had to make sure I was up and about before the receptionist turned up.”

  Belinda had noticed the change of shirt and fresh tie since last night. “And your clothes?”

  “I keep a spare set there in case of emergencies.” He lowered his voice. “I could do with coming home to change my underwear, though.”

  She ignored the comment, added some brown sugar to her coffee, stirred it and lifted the cup.

  He sat back in his chair. “How’s Anthony? Did he get off okay this morning?”

  She put the cup back in the saucer. “Yes, no thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll speak to him tonight.”

  “Is that when you come back for a change of underpants? And for what it’s worth, I told Anthony you’d left early this morning, something about an early meeting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “See, I can lie too. But I don’t want to. Certainly not for you.”

  He leaned forward, arms on the table. “Please, Belinda; I am not having an affair with Anita, nor anyone else for that matter. You must believe me.”

  She drained her coffee and checked her watch. “I have to go. I want to be in when Anthony comes home.” She stood up. “What time will you be turning up for some clothes?”

  “But … look … er, about six.”

  “Six it is.”

  She walked out of the restaurant, pleased she had made him squirm for a change. She certainly wasn’t going to roll over that easily. There may be some truth in what he’d told her but she still felt there was more to know. In the meantime, she’d play it cool.

  12

  Monday 23rd July 2001

  It was early the following week before Belinda felt ready to check out the Outwood house for herself.

  Charlie had indeed returned to their home in St John’s Square for some fresh clothes on the evening of their lunch-time meet. He’d spent some awkward time with Anthony, who had given him a disinterested reaction when he tried to reassure his son that all was well between his mother and him. Anthony didn’t even mention that he’d been successful with his job interview and was starting today. Belinda, for her part, had presented a frosty atmosphere, before he left to spend another night on the office sofa. Not until the following evening did she allow him to return, only on the proviso that he slept in Grace’s bedroom.

  She was on a late shift and had given herself time to call in. Driving up Leeds Road, she passed the house and turned left down the now familiar side street. Carefully checking for signs of Charlie’s BMW, she pulled in to a gap between a Ford Ka with a dented wing and an old Triumph 2000. Charlie had told her he was off to Manchester for a meeting that morning, but she couldn’t believe a word he said anymore.

  She got out, locked her car and, with a check to her coat pocket to feel the spare keys she’d had cut, set off back towards the main road. Turning right at the top, she approached the familiar white front door. With a glance left and right, she pulled the keys from her pocket and selected one for the deadlock. It slipped into the lock but wouldn’t turn. A brief moment of panic, then she tried the other. This time, the key did turn. Next one of the Yale keys. Right choice first time on this one. She pushed down on the handle and the door opened. A moment’s hesitation. Taking a breath, she stepped inside, closed the door and listened. She half expected to hear footsteps from above, voices, laughter, but all was quiet.

  She put the keys back in her pocket and looked around the room. The curtains were closed but thin enough to allow in sufficient light. An imitation coal fire was set into the fireplace on the right hand wall. On the mantle, the mechanism of a small carriage clock, spinning one way then the other caught her eye. As on her previous visit, her attention was drawn to the framed print of the abbey ruins hung on the wall. The unusual thing that had struck her before was that it was similar to one hanging in their sitting room at St John’s Square. An imitation leather three-piece suite took up most of the room whilst a second-hand dresser was against the wall opposite the door. A passageway led from the left hand side of that wall. The carpet seemed a cheap thin option from one of the national chains. No photographs were on display, giving an impersonal feel.

  Stepping through the passage led to a rear kitchen diner. Stairs led up to her right and she would explore them shortly. Another comfortable but old three-seater settee was in this room with no sign of a dining table. The cheap carpet ended at the kitchen area where sheet plastic flooring took over.

  The kitchen itself was fitted out with basic white melamine floor and wall units. The stainless steel sink and drainer was empty. Through the window above she could only see a brick wall. The half-glazed rear door was to the left hand side and she saw the same security arrangement as the front; a deadlock and a Yale. She wandered over, unlocked it and looked out.

  A metal bin stood in the co
rner of the unusually clean rear yard, surrounded by a six foot high brick wall with a timber gate for access. She couldn’t resist stepping out and lifting the bin lid. Empty.

  Back inside, door locked and secure, she opened the cupboards. The only contents were a few cheap looking mugs and drinks glasses. Some tea, coffee and sugar were in another. Below the sink, only some cleaning materials.

  Ambling to the connecting passage, she paused and looked up the stairs. If there was anything to see, it would be up there she told herself. Slowly, she climbed the steep flight. At the top, was a door to her right. She turned the handle but it was locked. Digging out the spare keys from her pocket once again, she tried both deadlock keys. It was worth trying but neither, as she suspected, fitted. She bent down and strained to peer through the keyhole. Pitch black. It either had a cover on the inside or a total blackout curtain fitted to the window.

  Turning to her left, a short corridor led to a door facing her with another door to her right. She walked ahead and chose the door facing. A bright and airy bathroom, toilet, bath, shower and wash basin looked clean and fresh. The obscure window looked over the rear yard, she guessed.

  Leaving the bathroom, the last remaining door was opened. It revealed a narrow bedroom with a single bed taking up most of the floor space. The curtains to the window were closed. The mattress was covered only by a black silk sheet and a single pillow, clad similarly. She was about to close the door again, but hesitated. Dropping to her knees, she looked under the bed. Not even dust. She almost missed it. Looking again, she saw something small towards the wall. Shuffling down the side of the bed, she put her hand underneath and felt something small and tube-like. She grabbed it at the second attempt and brought it out. It was a 35mm film container. Everything had been wound back into it, so she suspected it was an exposed roll. She slipped it into her pocket, then made sure the bed was as she had found it. Closing the door, she made her way to the top of the stairs. Before descending, she tried the locked door once more. No surprise; same result. Whatever he was hiding, she was sure it would be in there.

  Downstairs once more and into the living room. A large television with video player below was sitting on a unit in one corner next to the window. With trepidation, she opened the cupboard. About a dozen pornographic videos were lined up. She took in the titles and wondered if Anita shared her husband’s tastes? Presumably, during her ‘cleaning sessions’ she must have seen this collection. She felt sick. Closing the door again, she turned her attention to the dresser. Quite a few bottles of wine and spirits were in the bottom cupboards. Checking the drawers drew a blank. Unconsciously, she rubbed a finger along the top of the mantelpiece where the carriage clock stood. No dust. At least they had done some cleaning, she thought. But she’d had enough. Checking her watch, it was time to go.

  * * *

  Sammy and Susan had become good friends the previous year when Sammy visited Susan in hospital after her accident.

  Sammy had been brought up in a children’s home after her mother failed to cope; drinking and a succession of men friends, one of whom had taken an unhealthy interest in Sammy. After she left the home, she drifted into street prostitution. She’d met Bob Souter last year after seeking help to find her friend who’d gone missing. Souter, and then his girlfriend, Alison, helped her out. She was a bright girl with a talent for computers. Alison had arranged for a successful job interview where she worked. Sammy was indebted to Alison and Bob for having faith in her and giving her back her self-respect.

  Susan was rescued by Souter after she had fallen through a rotting floor into the basement of a remote farmhouse. She didn’t like to dwell on it but she felt it was not an exaggeration to think that, if he hadn’t discovered her when he did, she may not have survived. She had also had a difficult few years prior to the incident; her mother a cancer victim when she was fourteen and her father developing dementia. Eventually, he had to go into a home. Only then could Susan concentrate on her A levels. Finally, last year, she began her Broadcast Journalism course at Leeds University.

  After a lengthy stay in hospital, Susan had to give up the family home in Wakefield and the two girls decided to share a rented flat on the outskirts of Leeds.

  It was just after six o’clock when Sammy turned the key in the lock and smelt the aroma of the pizzas warming in the oven. Susan had called her to say she’d be in first and would have something ready for them to eat when Sammy got in from work.

  Half an hour later, they were sitting on the old comfy sofa in front of the TV, meals on trays on their laps.

  “These are really nice, Suz,” Sammy said between mouthfuls of Four Seasons.

  “They were on offer at the supermarket, so I thought, for quickness, you know.”

  “Mmm. So how’s the job going? What’s it like to be on the front line of news reporting? Is Bob looking after you?”

  “Well,” Susan managed before an errant piece of pepper made good its escape from the segment of pizza she was about to put in her mouth. “Sod it,” she said, picking it up off the knee of her trousers.

  Sammy laughed. “I bet you didn’t want that bit anyway.”

  “You know that council meeting we went to last week …”

  “In Wakefield, to do with that M62 Retail Park thingy?”

  “Yes. Well, I didn’t tell you but there was a strange incident as we were leaving.”

  “How so?” Sammy asked.

  “Bob collared this bloke on the way out. He told me today that he was rumoured to be the developer in line for work on the scheme.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I didn’t hear the start of their conversation but I was a bit uneasy with the way it ended.” With prompting from Sammy, Susan related her view of the encounter and what Souter had told her, in confidence, the following day.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if those councillors had their fingers in the till.” Sammy said. “They’re always into that, aren’t they? Little kick backs from all their fancy schemes. Only this one is quite big, isn’t it?”

  Susan nodded. “Yes, but I’m just wary that Bob might be … I don’t know. I’d hate for him to be ruffling the wrong feathers, if you know what I mean.”

  Sammy looked straight at her friend. “Have you had one of your feelings again?” She knew she sometimes had premonitions, for want of a better word, about things not being as they should. Ever since she’d heard her mother’s voice asking her to keep an eye on her father just after her mother had died.

  “It was the way that Brogan bloke looked as he spoke those words to Bob. I just think we need to be aware, that’s all.”

  “And you think Bob might need our help.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Sammy said, “but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  * * *

  Bennetts, Denise Whitaker’s solicitor, had given Stainmore the home address for Patrick, her son. Still disturbed by what she’d discovered of Denise’s death and the fact the woman had been ignored for over a year, she decided to pay him a visit.

  Patrick Whitaker lived in a flat in a block of four on one of Wakefield’s council estates. The front garden was unkempt, an old fridge and a settee gave the only relief to the weeds that grew there. He could be at work but she’d decided to call by in any event.

  About to ring the bell, she paused. A thought struck her and she pulled out the mystery set of keys she’d found in Denise’s house. There was no deadlock but she tried the Yale anyway. Not surprisingly, it didn’t fit. Keys back in her pocket, she did ring the bell. After about a minute, footsteps could be heard on the stairs inside. The door, on a safety chain, partly opened and a youth of around twenty appeared.

  “Yes?” he said, nervously.

  “I’m looking for Patrick Whitaker,” she announced.

  “What’s it about?”

  Stainmore looked at him quizzically. “Are you Patrick Whitaker?”

  “No. No, he’s me dad.”

>   “Is he in?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Look, this is about Mr Whitaker’s mother.” She pulled out her warrant card. “If he’s in, I’d just like a quick word.”

  The door closed and she could hear the youth shout up the stairs. “Dad, it’s police about Gran.”

  After another pause, she heard the safety chain being removed and the door opened wide.

  “Come in,” the lad said.

  Stainmore followed the youth up the uncarpeted staircase to a hallway and was led along a corridor to a sitting room. A taller, heavier man with thinning dark hair, who appeared to be in his early forties was standing in the middle of the room. “Frank says you’re police. Something about my mother?”

  She showed the man her identity and asked if he was Patrick Whitaker, son of Denise.

  “It’s okay, Frank,” he said to the lad. “You can leave us alone.”

  The boy turned and closed the door behind him. Whitaker indicated the settee. She sat down whilst he sat in one of the two armchairs. As they did so, the sounds of Frank’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs before the front door slammed shut.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr Whitaker. Your mother was found dead in her house twelve days ago.”

  Whitaker looked shocked. “What? Nearly two weeks? How?”

  “According to the post mortem, natural causes. A heart attack, we suspect.”

  “They’ve carried out a PM?”

  “It’s usual in these cases.” She studied him for a second. “There was an advert in last week’s Express asking for her relatives to contact us or the Coroner’s Office. Did you not see it?”

  Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered one to Stainmore, who refused. “No, I don’t get the paper.” He lit up and, after an initial puff, he spoke again. “Who found her?”

  “Council workmen needed to carry out the annual gas check.”

  He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “So how long had she been dead?”