Torment

by David Evans

  “I hear you’ve had contact with the poor sod recently.”

  “We interviewed him on Tuesday night, not under caution, just exploring what involvement he might have had with stolen cars,” Strong said. “We were more interested in his younger brother, Gary. He has a lot of previous.”

  “Well,” said Halliday, “he must have been involved in something fairly heavy. This has all the hallmarks of a professional hit. Take a look.”

  Behind a large green screen, a dark blue Rover was hidden from any possible public view. The driver’s door was open and Baker’s body was half out onto the footpath. His head was tilted to the right and a small trail of blood had trickled down his neck. When he knelt down to look more closely, he could see the small entry wound in his hair line. He stood up and exhaled.

  “You’ve seen him recently,” Halliday said, “I don’t suppose there’s any doubt about who he is? I wouldn’t want to upset relatives unnecessarily …”

  “From what I can see, that’s Chris Baker.”

  “The car is registered to him and I’ve got officers on their way to see his wife.”

  “Is there anything unusual in the car? Anything to give a clue as to what he was doing here?”

  “Nothing apparent at the moment.” Halliday nodded at the black private ambulance reversing towards them. “We’re about to have him taken away. We’ll have a quick look here but the car will be stripped when we get it back to Leeds.” He excused himself to speak to the new arrivals.

  Strong turned to Stainmore. “We’ve got to be missing something here, Kelly.” They began walking slowly back to the cordon. “I can’t believe involvement with stolen cars would attract a professional hit, because that’s undoubtedly what this was.”

  “I’ll chase up that paperwork from Dave Pratt.” Stainmore had spoken briefly to the lorry driver the previous evening on his return from Cardiff. He confirmed he had made several trips from Meadow Woods Farm to Felixstowe over the past month or so. He would receive a call from ‘Chris at Yorkshire Exports’ to collect a container and make the delivery. He promised to forward copies of his invoices which he issued to an address in Outwood. So far, he’d been paid promptly and had no reason to be suspicious.

  “What’s the betting this ties back to our victim there?” Strong said, as his mobile began to ring. Souter’s number came up. He made excuses to Stainmore and took the call.

  “Hello, mate,” Souter said, “Are you busy?”

  “I’m a little bit tied up at the moment, why?”

  “This Garforth murder, is it your case?”

  “Er, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Look to your left behind your car.”

  Strong turned and saw a familiar figure raise a hand.

  “Do you know who the victim is?”

  “I can’t really tell you much at the moment. I’m going to have to go.”

  “Before you do, I could do with a chat about something else I think might interest you. How about a pint tonight?”

  “Depending on how the day pans out, that sounds good.”

  “I’ll ring you.”

  “So, DCI Strong,” Halliday said, pronouncing Strong’s new title in a deliberate and somewhat condescending manner. “Just so there’s no confusion, this is my case coming under the jurisdiction of the Leeds Murder Squad. Got that?”

  “Whatever Chief Superintendant Flynn says,” Strong responded, turning away and walking back to his car. “Pompous fucking arsehole,” he said under his breath loud enough for Stainmore to hear, then added in mocking tones, “Excuse my language.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Souter returned to the archive room and focussed his attention once more on the disappearance of Jennifer Coyle. The story ran for about two weeks before it appeared to fizzle out with no progress being made in the enquiry, no apparent leads or likely suspects named. He made copious notes of the reporting, details of the family and the investigation. He was now determined to track down the story of the other missing girl, because he felt sure Mary existed also.

  It was gone seven and he had fielded two calls from Alison, when his persistence paid off. He could feel the adrenaline surge; was aware of the change in his body chemicals. He’d flipped through reports of various transport disasters; the Clapham rail crash and Lockerbie in December 1988, closely followed by Kegworth in early January 1989 and another train crash at Purley in March. What a dark period those few months were, he thought. Then, there it was, 7th March, a report of missing schoolgirl, Mary Duggan. The eight year-old was last seen in a park in Pontefract on the Monday afternoon. She was dressed in her school uniform. A picture showed her with short-cropped hair.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ!” he said, louder. He felt sick. This was too much of a coincidence for it not to be genuine. But how? How does a young woman falling through a rotting floor come across … not only come across but actually speak to … two schoolgirls, one missing for over fourteen years, the other nearer twelve?

  He copied the published photos of Jennifer and Mary and made a call to Alison to apologise and tell her he’d be working late. He’d see her tomorrow.

  Half an hour later, he rushed into the Intensive Care Unit at the LGI with ten minutes of the visiting time remaining. The nurse told him Susan had been transferred to an orthopaedic ward on the next floor down.

  By the time Souter located the ward, it was five to eight.

  Gillian was at Susan’s bedside when he approached. She got up and looked at him with a quizzical frown.

  “Look, I know this is unusual but I need to speak to Susan.”

  Gillian looked back to her sister.

  “Hello, Mr Souter.” Susan said.

  Gillian sat back down and he made his way round to the other side of the bed.

  “Hi. How are you?” he asked her.

  “Feeling a lot better, thanks. No grapes then?”

  “They’d sold out.”

  “That’s alright, I was only joking.”

  “Sorry Susan, but I haven’t got a lot of time before they’ll want me to go. I’ve been looking into what you told me yesterday.” Souter pulled the photocopy sheets from his pocket. “Did you tell Gillian?”

  Gillian nodded. “If you mean about the girls, yes. But I think she might have been hallucinating.”

  “You’ve found something, haven’t you?” Susan asked.

  He unfolded the first sheet and held it out to her.

  Susan’s eyes widened. “I knew it,” she whispered. “That’s Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer Coyle.” Souter unfolded the second sheet and showed it to her.

  “Mary,” Susan said, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t imagine it.” She turned to Gillian. “I didn’t!” She looked at both girls’ pictures, then to Souter. “What happened to them?”

  Before he could reply, a bell rang out and a disembodied voice told the visitors their time was up.

  “Jennifer disappeared in April 1986 and Mary in March 1989.”

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know, Susan.”

  Souter emerged into the fresh air, thought about a cigarette but decided against. As he walked past the A & E entrance, a familiar imitation leather coat caught his eye.

  “Sammy?”

  The girl looked up.

  “What happened?”

  She turned away. “Sorry, Mr Souter.”

  He gently held her shoulders and turned her to face him. She kept her head down. “What’s all this ‘Mr Souter’ business? We’re friends aren’t we?”

  “Sorry, Bob.”

  He lifted her chin and saw her cut and bruised face, several steristrips above her right eye. “Who did this?” His voice firm and even.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “A punter? Your pimp?”

  “I said it doesn’t matter.” She looked down once more. A rucksack was at her feet.

  “Is this yours?”

&
nbsp; She gave a small mirthless chuckle. “All my worldly goods.”

  “Have they finished with you here?” Souter nodded towards the A & E Department.

  “All patched up, yes.”

  “Can I give you a lift back to your place?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible any more.” She looked up at him, her eyes watery. “They’ve chucked me out.”

  “What do you mean ‘they’ve chucked you out’? Who has?”

  She gave no answer and turned her head away.

  “So where are you going to now?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”

  Souter bent down and picked up her bag which was surprisingly light. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a bedsettee. You can park yourself there tonight.”

  She stood still. “I can’t do that.”

  He turned back. “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right. What would your girlfriend say?”

  He smiled. “How do you know I have a girlfriend?”

  “Well you’re not married; no ring, or sign of a ring. I notice these things. I can always tell the married ones. You’re not bent.” Souter grinned at this. “But you have a love interest, so she has to be a girlfriend. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Have you ever thought about studying psychology?”

  It was Sammy’s turn to smile. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

  “Yes, there is someone I’m seeing,” he said. “But it’ll be fine. I did say a bedsettee and only tonight. And anyway, where else can you go?”

  He turned away again and walked towards the car park. After a few seconds, Sammy followed.

  21

  The dark saloon car drove slowly down Agbrigg Road. There was a high proportion of Asian residents in this part of Wakefield, just off the Doncaster Road. It was dusk and groups of men were gathered on street corners, some in trousers, others in the white thawb, the traditional full-length robe. Two women dressed in black abayas, with a child in tow, were walking past. At the next junction, a shop offering exotic fruit and vegetables for sale was open for custom; on the opposite corner a Chinese take-away vied for business with the fish and chip shop next door. Some white youths were trying to decide between the two. A couple of old men were walking towards the pub about a hundred yards further on. They’d lived here long enough to see many changes in their district. But there was no uneasy atmosphere. This was integrated living in practice.

  The driver was looking for the street signs off to the right and the left. Finally, he spotted the road he was looking for and turned to the left. On both sides were large three-storey terraced houses. Eventually, the car drew to a halt outside number twenty-one. He waited until a young white woman of around twenty walked past, dragging strongly on a cigarette.

  Reaching into the glovebox, he pulled something out and slid it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Stepping out of the car, he cast a quick glance up and down the quiet street. Satisfied no-one was around he approached the front door. Another check to the right and left. A stroke of luck. The main door was ajar. Whoever had last passed through hadn’t closed it properly.

  In the hallway, all was quiet, apart from the sounds of a television coming from a room upstairs. The room he was seeking was to the right on the ground floor. He put his ear to the door. Silence. The object was retrieved from his jacket pocket. He tried the handle. Locked. Turning and holding the handle once more, he braced himself and thrust his shoulder to the door, level with the lock. The lock’s keep flew off and the door swung open.

  The curtains were open, allowing the only illumination to come from the streetlamp outside. It was obvious no-one was home. An unmade bed was in the middle. Scattered on it were the upturned drawers from the chest against the opposite wall. A table was in front of the window and behind the door, a small wardrobe, its doors open, revealing only empty hangers.

  Whoever lived here had cleared out, and in a hurry, by the looks. He swore below his breath and turned to leave. His luck had held. There was still no-one around. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the door handle and pulled the door closed behind him. Back in the car, the gun was placed once more in the glovebox. He fired up the engine and made a three-point turn before leaving the area behind.

  22

  Souter settled Sammy in and told her he couldn’t avoid going out again. He knew it was a risk to leave her alone in his apartment, a relatively unknown young woman with a dubious recent past, but something told him he could trust her. He hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. He also hoped Alison would understand.

  It was half past nine when he entered The Eagle on Flanshaw Lane. Scanning the interior, he took in the barmaid, perched on a stool behind the bar avidly reading a magazine. Two young lads and their girlfriends were nursing drinks at one table. A man in his sixties with a comb-over that would have done Arthur Scargill proud was standing at the bar, silently whistling accompaniment to the tune on the jukebox. He spotted his friend sitting at a corner table with two pints of John Smiths and a couple of bags of crisps.

  “I got you one in,” Strong said, “and dinner on me.”

  “Good man.” Souter sat beside him, raised the glass and took a large pull on his beer. “Lovely. I needed that.” He looked round the place. “Bloody quiet in here,” he said.

  “I think it’s been going downhill for a while. Beer’s alright, though.”

  Souter opened his crisps. “Bit of a shocker for you this morning, Col?”

  Strong shook his head. “Tell me about it. Of all the people, it had to be him.”

  “Especially just having interviewed him on Tuesday.”

  “What?” Strong paused and studied his friend busily munching crisps. “I’m not talking about the victim, I mean that shit head Halliday.”

  “You two don’t get on then?”

  “He bears a grudge about Cunningham. Blames me, obviously.”

  “So much for police working together then.”

  “Anyway, how did you know about Baker being interviewed?” Strong stared at Souter for a second then looked down to open his crisp bag. “I suppose it’s your job. Couldn’t really keep that under wraps.”

  “He was involved in the Meadow Woods Farm operation, wasn’t he?”

  “Exactly what, we don’t know. It was more his younger brother and his mate.”

  “What are they saying about it?”

  “Don’t know. We can’t find them.”

  “Do you think they had something to do with this morning?”

  “Look, I’ve probably said too much already. But in strictest confidence … no. I think this has scared the shit out of them and they’ve decided to disappear.”

  “Seems there’s a lot of disappearances at the moment. How’s your missing Albanian girl?”

  “Still missing.”

  “Same with my young street girl. Last seen in the Market Square getting into a white van with rust along the bottom of the passenger door. Not much to go on, is it?”

  Strong thought for a moment. “Do you remember a skinny kid with glasses in our class, played football with us for a few games at under 16’s, Jeremy Bullen?”

  “Did we used to take the piss, call him Jezza?”

  “That’s him. Not a bad winger, but was too small. Like you say, used to get picked on.”

  “What about him?” Souter asked, mouth full of crisps again.

  “He’s not so small and skinny now. He’s built like a brick shit house. Must work out in the gym. Doesn’t wear glasses either.” Strong broke off for a drink, leaving Souter puzzled.

  “Was that it, then?”

  “I was just going to tell you that he works for the council, quite high up in security. I’ve spoken to him a few times recently, quite helpful.”

  Souter was becoming frustrated. “Am I missing something here?”

  “Obviously,” Strong said. “He controls all the CCTV in the city. Why don’t you have a word and see if you can spot a
nything from the Market Square last week.”

  “Based at the Town Hall, is he?”

  Strong nodded as he crunched some crisps.

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.” Souter licked his fingers, folded up his crisp bag and tied it in a knot.

  “So what did you want to speak to me about?” Strong asked. “You said you had something interesting this morning before all this crap broke.”

  Souter had lifted his drink to his lips but, without taking a sip, put the glass back down, carefully centring it on the beer mat. Now he was about to talk about it, he started to doubt just how sane it would sound. “Do the names Jennifer Coyle and Mary Duggan mean anything to you?”

  Strong sat back, brows furrowed for a few seconds. “Schoolgirls from Pontefract way. Went missing back in the late eighties, I think.”

  Souter pulled the photocopied sheets from his pocket and unfolded them one at a time on the table.

  Strong picked up the first one. “Jennifer Coyle … ten years old … yes, I remember now,” he said. “And Mary, eight, a couple of years later. Never been found.” He looked at Souter. “What are you telling me? You got new information?”

  Souter pulled out a packet of cigarettes, took one and lit up, inhaling deeply. Immediately, he realised what he’d done. “Sorry, Col,” he said, wafting the smoke away from his friend. “I forgot you’d given up the cigars.”

  “Nearly three weeks now.”

  “Sorry, it’s just … I don’t really know how to relate this.” He turned to face Strong. “You visited Susan the other day?”

  “Yes. I wanted to know how she ended up where she did.” Strong broke into a grin. “Listen, you’re not telling me that she’s really Jennifer and she’d been kidnapped and brought up by another family?”

  Souter leaned back and exhaled, a serious expression on his face. “She didn’t tell you then?”

  “Tell me what? What are you on about?”

  “Okay, this going to sound stupid … illogical … any other word you care to use, I don’t know but …” Souter faced his friend again. “When she was in the basement, Susan saw Jennifer and Mary.”