Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3)

by David Evans

  “How are they coping?”

  “Still in shock, especially Tom.” With her back to him at the sink, she filled the kettle. “Tea, coffee?”

  “Tea for me, thanks. He’s twelve, isn’t he?”

  Kettle plugged in, she turned to face him. “Yes. Megan’s ten.” She waved at the breakfast chairs. “Please, sit down,” she said then sat down herself opposite him. Head down, she nervously fiddled with a teaspoon. “The police have said they have no motive at the moment and it sounds as though they’ve precious little idea.” Then she looked up at Souter. “So I wondered if you could shed any light on it for me.”

  He puffed out his cheeks. It was a question he knew she’d ask but he still wasn’t sure how he would answer. “The only logical explanation would be if somebody attempted to mug him when he left the pub.”

  Her expression showed she didn’t believe that. “I was hoping you’d be honest with me,” she said.

  He was puzzled. What did she mean? How much of Joe’s work was she aware of.

  The kettle boiled and she rose to make their drinks. “Did he tell you how we met?” She held up a milk carton.

  “Er, yes and … yes,” he responded.

  She put his mug of tea down on the breakfast bar in front of him and stood leaning against the sink, cradling her own. “What exactly did he say about that?”

  This was perplexing. “Well, that he worked for a small consultancy in Leeds and he met you there.”

  A slight smile played on her lips and he could see for the first time how attractive Kathy was. “Let me guess, you think I was a receptionist … or a typist in the same office.”

  Souter felt his cheeks redden. “Well …”

  “Would it surprise you to know I’m actually a qualified civil engineer?”

  “He never told me that.”

  She gazed off down the hallway. “Oh yes. It was a deliberate move on my part when we married that I’d put my career on hold for a bit. The kids and all.”

  Souter nodded and took a drink of his tea. “That was selfless,” he said.

  “But it looks as though I’ll have to resume that now. I was thinking maybe in a year or two, when Megan had gone to secondary school. Joe and I had discussed … well, that’s not important now.” She resumed her seat and sipped her drink. “But what it does mean is that I’m well aware of Joe’s misgivings over this big project he was working on.”

  It was becoming clear for Souter. He thought he might be protecting Kathy from an unthinkable truth, but she probably knew more than he did. “Lofthouse, yes. He showed me plans of the site and spoke about how his findings may have been altered.”

  “No maybe about it. And those drawings were in the envelope that’s never been found?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he give you anything electronically?”

  “A memory stick, yes.”

  She pulled a similar one from her trouser pocket and placed it on the surface. “Like this one?”

  “Yes. He told me he’d left one in his bedside drawer if …”

  “If anything should happen. Yes he told me that too.” She lifted her mug and drank some tea. “So, Bob. Back to my original question, what do you think happened?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Souter had told Kathy most of what he suspected about the old colliery development project and the roles of the main players. He held back on some details, like the incident in his car park and who he thought was responsible for his assault.

  He could see her deep in thought as he concluded his accounts. “So you drew Joe into all this?” she said.

  This pained him. “No. He came to me and said he was uneasy about what had been going on. He told me he was looking for another job because it made him so uncomfortable.”

  Kathy relaxed slightly. “I know. He had a couple of interviews lined up next month.”

  She stood up and took their empty mugs to the sink. When she faced him again, her eyes were moist. “So … at the end … what exactly did he say?”

  When he’d relayed what occurred, she picked up the memory stick once more. “I’ll be talking to DI Strong tomorrow,” she said.

  “I did tell him what Joe had shown me but I didn’t say he’d given me the memory stick. I wanted to see what was on it first.”

  “I’ll be telling him all about Joe’s work concerns and explaining the contents of this. But just so’s you know, I won’t be saying anything about having spoken to you about this.”

  “Okay.”

  57

  Friday 7th September 2001

  “Guv, a Mrs Betty Williamson downstairs to see you,” Sam Kirkland announced.

  Strong was at his desk poring over statements from the pub customers and landlord. “Betty Williamson,” he repeated. “Who’s Betty Williamson?”

  “Something about the stabbing at The Redoubt.”

  “Come on then, let’s hear what she’s got to tell us.”

  Betty Williamson was a short stout woman who looked to be in her seventies. Her heavy patterned coat was unbuttoned. She wore sensible lace-up shoes, had a scarf around her neck and wore glasses. The white hair in a tight perm completed her image.

  “Mrs Williamson,” Strong said, “I believe you’ve got some information for us. Would you like to come through?”

  Strong led the way to the Ground Floor interview room, the woman following and Sam Kirkland bringing up the rear.

  With a refusal for any refreshments, Betty was keen to tell her story.

  “I just thought it were a bit of an argument,” she began. “It wasn’t until I saw the paper this week that I realised what I must have seen.”

  Strong decided that although Mrs Williamson was completely coherent, he might just have to tease out the relevant information. “Can we start at the beginning, Mrs Williamson?”

  “Betty, call me Betty, love,” she said. “Well, I were on the bus into town, I live down bottom of Lupset, you see, and I were going to meet my friend, Mary. I were on top deck on the left hand side and as we slowed down to go round that bit of road around St Michael’s Church, I saw these two blokes in The Redoubt car park. They looked like they were arguing. And then this one punches the other in the stomach. Leastwise that’s what I thought. Until I saw the paper.”

  Strong looked to Kirkland and, for the first time in this investigation, he wondered if he was about to get a break. “Can you describe the two men, Betty?”

  “The one who were punched … well stabbed, I suppose, he looked about forty, smart haircut, average height and build. He’d got a brown jacket on. The other, he had his back to me, so I didn’t see his face. He were shorter and thinner, maybe skinny, you might say. And he were in jeans and a black leather jacket.”

  Strong leaned forward onto the table. “And what time was this?”

  “I were meeting Mary at the top of Westgate at seven, and I got on the bus at twenty-five to, so it’d have been around quarter to seven on Monday.”

  “And what exactly did you see.” She looked irritated, so he held up a reassuring hand. “I know what you said just now but I want to be sure you tell me every last detail, because it’s vitally important, Betty. Take your time.”

  He saw her sit up straighter in the chair, obviously feeling good about herself and no doubt flattered that she was contributing crucial information to a murder enquiry.

  She continued, “As we got to the pub and the bus slowed, I glanced over and saw the man in the leather jacket rush up to the other one. He looked a bit surprised. I think he’d just come out the side door. Then the one in the leather jacket makes to grab something that the other one has tucked in his jacket.”

  “Did you see what it was?”

  Betty gave the question some thought. “It might have been an envelope. I think it was something brown, like his jacket.”

  “Did the smaller man get hold of this envelope?”

  “Not at first. So then he seemed to punch the other man. The last I saw, the man, you know the on
e who got stabbed, he fell back.”

  “And then?”

  “Well that were all I saw. The bus had moved on past The Redoubt and was turning the corner. And where they were, they were in the car park at the other side.”

  “I know you said this man in the leather jacket was shorter than the man who was attacked, but did you get any impression of his age?”

  The woman frowned. “Maybe the same as the other man. As I said, he had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face.”

  “And did you notice anything about the attacker? Anything at all, I mean, you say he rushed at the victim, was there anything in the way he moved? Did he have a limp, that sort of thing?”

  Betty shook her head. “No, nothing like that. The only thing I thought at the time was that he was fast. I think he’d have taken that man by surprise. I don’t know, maybe he’d been a boxer, lightweight, you know.”

  Strong stood. “Mrs Williamson … Betty, you’ve been a great help. Do you think you could just give a formal statement to my colleague here?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Later that day, Kathy Webster called in to Wood Street to speak to Strong. She’d rung earlier to tell him she had something important to show him.

  He listened intently to what she had to say and looked at the contents of the memory stick. With her professional knowledge, she took him through the drawings and figures contained in the files. When she finished, she gave him permission to copy the files onto another device so he could log it as evidence.

  “Does this help?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s circumstantial but it may be crucial if we can connect other things here. I can tell you we have located a witness who has made a statement on what she saw from a passing bus at the time of the attack and we’re pursuing that as a major line of enquiry at the moment.”

  With a promise to keep her informed of all developments, he escorted her back to the reception area.

  As he climbed the stairs again, Luke Ormerod called from along the corridor. “Guv, you need to see this,” he said, heading back to his desk.

  Strong joined him and looked over his shoulder at his computer screen.

  “Strathclyde just sent me this.” Ormerod leaned back so his boss could get a clearer view. “Photos of William Kennedy, for the past two years, thought to be working for Kenneth Brogan, principal owner of Thistle Developments.”

  Strong read out loud the text on the screen. Height, five feet eight; weight, eleven and a half stone. And if I’m not mistaken, it looks like he’s wearing a black leather jacket.”

  58

  Monday 10th September 2001

  The rain was drumming on the roof as Souter and Sammy sat in his Ford Escort in a pull-in almost opposite the gated entrance to the long-abandoned Lofthouse Colliery. The heavy clouds had helped to bring a premature darkness to the end of the day. It was cold and miserable outside but the engine was running in an attempt to maintain some heat. The lights were off and the wipers intermittently swept the screen so they could watch for any activity.

  “Are you sure this is where they meant?” Souter asked. “It looks derelict and desolate over there.”

  “It’s what the message said, and I don’t think there’s any other way in.” Sammy pulled her coat tighter around her neck.

  Souter checked his watch again. Five past eight and another double-deck bus whooshed past, rocking the car and sweeping a wave of water up and over the driver’s side window. When the vision cleared, a large dark Mercedes saloon drew to a halt by the entrance gates. He gave Sammy a gentle nudge.

  A large man in a long dark overcoat stepped from the driver’s seat, rummaged in a pocket and approached the gate. He unlocked the padlock and pulled the chain free before pushing one of the gates open. Dashing back to his car, he drove through, leaving the entrance clear.

  Sammy reached for the door handle but Souter placed a hand on her arm. “Hold on,” he said. “That looked like Faulkner. There was someone else with him but I couldn’t make them out.” He looked across at her. “I think that’s only half the delegates. We wait.”

  A few minutes later a large black 4x4 slowed and turned into the entrance. After a moment’s stop, it drove on up the tarmac driveway and into the darkness.

  “Okay,” Souter said, “Now we go, but phones on silent.”

  They crossed the road and made their way through the gate and up the drive. They could make out the two cars they had seen enter at the end of the road, parked outside the old brick building he assumed was once the main offices. They kept to the right-hand side where a number of brick structures lined the route which would offer cover should other vehicles appear.

  By the time they reached the old offices, a number of lights were shining inside. The windows had timber battens fixed across from the outside to deter vandalism. That was to their advantage as they could peer in without much chance of being spotted. Souter recognised Bernard Faulkner and Sam Appleyard, Joe Webster’s old boss, sitting on some chairs around a large table. Neither looked happy.

  If they were to learn anything, they needed to get inside so they could hear what was being said. Route one by the front doors the main players had used was too risky. Souter indicated the side of the building and led the way around the back. As he made his way round the perimeter, he kept looking up at the various windows they passed. All were in darkness and all seemed secure. Finally, he stopped at one that was gently flapping in the wind. It looked like the size of a toilet window. He glanced at Sammy and pointed to it. She nodded then stood with her back to the brick wall and held out her clasped hands at knee level.

  “You’re kidding,” Souter whispered.

  “Get yourself in and you can pull me up,” she replied so quietly he struggled to hear.

  He shrugged then carefully placed his left foot in her hands, gently pressed down then launched himself towards the sill. At the second attempt, he pulled himself over the edge and paused, half inside, half out. A torch from his coat pocket revealed a scene of devastation. It had obviously been the gents but the cubicle partitions were smashed from the walls and the pans and cisterns were in pieces. The only fortunate aspect was that boxing, presumably to conceal pipes, ran immediately below the window where the wash hand basins had once been fixed. That appeared to be intact. Carefully, he twisted himself inside and managed to turn himself around before lowering first one leg then the other onto the top of the timber boxing. Slowly, he let his weight settle onto it. It held. And now he was in the reverse position of where he had been a few moments ago, half inside, his stomach on the sill with his upper body outside and his arms stretched out. In this position, he pulled Sammy towards him and gradually in through the window.

  Once safely inside, he allowed himself a smile and mouthed to her, “I’m glad you’re not fat.”

  She punched him gently on the arm.

  A stale stench from the open drains permeated the room. Torch off when they got to the back of the door, he listened. Silence, so he gingerly opened it. Outside, the corridor was in complete darkness in one direction but, towards the front of the building, a dim glow could be seen. Slowly, silently, they headed that way. They could hear a murmur of indistinct voices. At the corner, those voices became clearer.

  * * *

  Susan was becoming increasingly worried. She’d had a bad feeling about the situation from the time she listened to the voicemail on Bernard Faulkner’s mobile phone. It had been left by Kenneth Brogan confirming a meet at the old colliery, the site of the new development. ‘Things need to be sorted,’ he had said. She was pacing the lounge of the flat, turning things over in her mind.

  One night, over ten years ago now, she heard her mother’s voice asking her to keep an eye on her Dad. The only thing was, her mother had died of cancer a few months before when she was fourteen. She began to suspect she was more receptive than most to phenomena she couldn’t explain or understand. Two years later her Dad displayed the
first signs of the dementia that was to eventually envelop him. Last year she encountered two young schoolgirls who spoke to her after she had fallen into the basement of a long-abandoned farmhouse. Their bodies were later discovered hidden in another section.

  This feeling was the same, but different. Nobody was speaking to her; she just had an overpowering feeling of dread. Ever since Bob and Sammy decided they would go to the venue for the meeting. She told them it was a bad idea. But when they insisted it was the only course of action, she told them to be careful. Now they’d been gone for over an hour with no word, her anxiety and sense of foreboding was increasing.

  She promised Bob she wouldn’t but she felt she had to try and call him on his mobile. She dialled the number and heard the ringing tone. It rang for several seconds before the call was cut. Next she tried Sammy’s. Same result. Now she was panicking.

  * * *

  “I want out of this,” an unfamiliar male voice could be heard.

  “It’s a bit late for that now, Sam,” was the reply from the unmistakeable cultured Scottish accent of Kenneth Brogan.

  Souter realised Sam must be Sam Appleyard.

  “Just give me my fee and we can forget all about it,” Appleyard went on.

  “But you altered the survey. In fact, as it stands, you’re the only one who has done anything wrong.”

  “Don’t give me that. I had nothing to do with Chamberlain.”

  “Ah, Charlie, the deviant. But you were there, my friend.”

  “I had nothing to do with his death. It was your moron here who set the fire.”

  “Who are you calling a moron?” a rough Glaswegian voice joined in.

  The sounds of a brief scuffle were heard before Brogan spoke. “Calm down, Wullie. This’ll get us nowhere.”

  Souter and Sammy looked at each other. She pointed to him. “That’s who …” she silently mouthed. Souter nodded and put his finger to his lips. A dim flashing light in his pocket drew his attention. Moving back around the corner, he pulled his mobile from his pocket, spotted Susan’s name on the screen then cancelled the call. Back with Sammy, the conversation proceeded.