by David Evans
John Darby had taken advantage of the chance to nip out to Morrison’s in The Ridings to buy an individual meal for one, some washing powder, a bottle of red wine and four cans of beer. On the way back to the station, he needed to get some cash. He was removing the receipt for the fifty pounds he’d just withdrawn from the cash machine when he heard footsteps running from the other end of Cross Street. That was quickly followed by shouting as the short stocky figure he recognised as Luke Ormerod came into view. About fifty yards ahead of him, the unmistakeable bulk of Stanislav Mirczack was thundering down the street in Darby’s direction. A young mother pushing a buggy and holding a young girl’s hand screamed and pulled the child in close as he stormed past. A middle-aged woman jumped into the doorway of a restaurant to avoid being knocked over.
For a big man, Mirczack was surprisingly quick. Ormerod was shouting after him, the thought flashing through his mind that there was never a policeman around when you needed one.
Darby gathered up his plastic carrier bag and faced the cash machine, pretending still to be carrying out his business. But he was glancing up the street, keeping an eye on developments. Mirczack was approaching fast. Timing was going to be everything. Then he saw Mirczack half turn to see how much of a gap he had on Ormerod. That was just before he passed by. Darby turned and threw his carrier bag towards the big man’s legs. Mirczack stumbled and tripped over, crashing to the ground. Unable to get his arms out quickly enough, his face struck the road. Darby immediately jumped on his back, grabbing his arms. Ormerod, struggling for breath, joined in and between the two of them, they handcuffed the big Yugoslav.
Two burly uniformed constables caught up with them at that point and dragged Mirczack to his feet. Blood poured from his nose and a deep gash above his right eye. A police transit van, blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, came down the one-way street towards them and another two uniforms got out. Between the four of them, Mirczack was bundled into the back. Ormerod leaned against a wall, hands on his knees, getting his breath back. Darby looked forlornly at the plastic carrier bag trampled onto the tarmac, red frothy fluid seeping from it.
“I wouldn’t mind but I specifically bought a more expensive bottle of Chianti as a treat,” he said quietly, to no-one in particular.
Ormerod pushed himself off the wall, stood up and walked over to his colleague. He put his arm around his shoulder. “I’ll buy you another one, John,” he said. “I don’t think I could have chased him much further at that speed.”
Darby picked up the bag, pulled out the four battered but intact cans of beer and placed the dripping remains into a nearby bin as the police van set off back to Wood Street.
“Come on,” Ormerod said, “best get back there too. I want to see how the guv’nor is. Last I saw he was out like a light.”
Darby looked puzzled and as they set off up Cross Street, Ormerod told him what had led to the chase.
By the time Ormerod and Darby arrived back at the station, a crowd had gathered around the public entrance. An ambulance with blue lights flashing was in the middle of several police vehicles in the street. Strong was being brought out on a patient chair, looking grey and holding a compress to his jaw.
“How is it, guv?” Ormerod asked.
Strong managed to nod and give a thumbs up to Darby.
“I thought you’d gone all Columbo on me in there,” Ormerod said, dropping into character, “You know, ‘Just one more thing, Mr Mirczack …”
Strong tried to smile, then winced. Ormerod patted his shoulder as the paramedics took him down the ramp and into the ambulance. They watched as the ambulance drove off with sirens on and people started to disperse.
Back inside, Flynn greeted them. “Well done you two,” he said. “I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Leeds and they’re organising a SOCO team to conduct a search of that lock-up. Judging by Mirczack’s reaction, we should find some strong evidence there. How did Colin pull that one out of the hat, do you know?”
Ormerod shrugged. “All I know is he took a phone call just as we were releasing him from custody.”
“Excuse me, Luke,” the desk sergeant said, apologising to Flynn, “I’ve got a call for you, says it’s urgent.”
“Go on,” Flynn said, “I’ll see what the doc says about our prisoner’s injuries. He’s seeing to him in the cells at the moment.”
“Thanks, sir.” Then to the sergeant, he said, “I’ll take it upstairs.”
In the CID Room, when Ormerod took the call, Souter introduced himself.
“I remember,” Ormerod said, “you were involved at Calder Street earlier this year, an old friend of the guv’nor.”
“That’s right. But listen, what’s going on? I spoke to Colin about fifteen minutes ago. Since then, I’ve tried to get hold of him again and it’s ringing out and going to answer machine.”
“Did you just give him some information about someone we had in custody?”
“Mirczack? Yes.”
Ormerod hesitated. “Well, he’s not available at the moment. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“You’re dealing with the Maria Brownlow disappearance, I believe?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well I’ve got something for you. You need to check it out as a matter of urgency …”
61
Ormerod took Darby with him when he set off for Thornes Lane. They found the building that Souter had detailed fairly easily and pulled into the entrance, almost opposite the pub. The sun had just dropped over the horizon but there was still a bit of daylight left when they stepped out of the car and studied the abandoned warehouse building. Since Baker had last been there, someone had secured the gates with a chain and padlock. Ormerod checked that there was no other means of entry.
“Get the bolt croppers,” he instructed Darby, who opened the boot and grabbed the tool.
Across the street, on their way into the pub, two men stopped to study the activity.
Ormerod pulled his warrant card from his pocket. “It’s okay,” he said, “Police business.”
The two shrugged and turned into the pub, a beer more interesting than what was happening over the road.
Darby cut the chain, put the croppers back in the boot and locked the car.
Ormerod opened the gate and they marched into the yard. A door on the right into the building, Souter had said. Up three steps, a set of timber double doors could only be what he meant. They made their way across to them. The doors were closed and when Ormerod tried, appeared to be locked.
“You sure this is right?” Darby asked.
“Only one way to find out, John. There’s a crowbar in the boot, fetch that will you.”
As Darby walked off to the car once more, Ormerod walked down the side of the stone-built building. Most of the windows had been smashed and some graffiti adorned the walls. It was a good few years since this was a bustling hive of activity.
Darby returned with the crowbar and jemmied the doors. He pushed them open and, taking a torch from his pocket, stepped inside, Ormerod just behind. They were in what had once been a reception area. Ormerod flashed his torch around to reinforce what little natural daylight was now coming through the windows. The parquet floor was covered in dust and stones and broken glass. Some sections had lifted and oblong pieces of timber were scattered around. There were also some discarded needles. “Careful where you stand,” Ormerod warned.
“What’s that smell?” Darby asked.
Ormerod’s torch beam scanned the floor to the sides and picked out three piles of shit.
“Dogs? In here?” Darby queried.
“I don’t think so.”
Overhead, the light fittings had been ripped out and wires dangled down, catching Darby unawares. “Fuck,” he said, “That could have been live.”
“Not very likely,” Ormerod chuckled.
They made their way past the reception desk, thick with dust. A calendar on the wall announced it was still July 1995. Ormerod pushed op
en a door to the left and carefully walked into a corridor. There was a different aroma here. Only slight at first, but definite. On up the corridor, they proceeded carefully. A door to the right was open. There was enough daylight coming in through the window, augmented by the street light outside, to see it was empty. Yet more stones and broken glass. The next door to the left was closed. Ormerod paused and pulled on some gloves before opening it. This had been the gents’ toilet. It stank of stale urine and excrement. A quick flash of the torch indicated it was empty, apart from the smashed basins, urinals and cubicle partitions. He closed the door.
“It should be the next room on the right,” Ormerod said, carefully picking his way along the corridor once again. The aroma was strengthening. “I don’t like this, John,” he said. “I’ve smelt this before.”
“Smells like something’s died,” Darby offered.
Ormerod ignored the remark and walked to the next door. It was partly open. Shining the torch around the floor, he found what they’d been looking for.
Outside in the fresh air of the yard, Ormerod made the call that would bring reinforcements. Darby struggled to keep his last meal down, but he did, the colour slowly returning to his face.
Within fifteen minutes, Kelly Stainmore and Trevor Newell had arrived with Scenes Of Crime officers turning up about five minutes after that. Dr Andrew Symonds, the duty medical officer, pronounced life extinct and emerged into the yard for a cigarette.
Standing next to Stainmore and Ormerod, he said, “Poor kid.”
“Any initial thoughts, doctor?” Stainmore asked.
“I’ll need to check toxicology, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d taken something but I would say, unless any other injuries become apparent when I get her back to the mortuary, it looks like she probably had a fit and choked on her own vomit.”
Ormerod looked at Stainmore then to the doctor. “If there was someone with her, do you think she could have been saved?”
Symonds exhaled some smoke. “Usually in these cases, simply putting them in the recovery position and keeping their airways clear, and getting help of course, means people suffering a fit, survive. But, like I say, I’d like to check to see if there was anything else going on before I can say for definite.”
Doug Norris, one of the senior SOC men joined them in the yard with something in a plastic evidence bag. “Thought you might want to see this as soon as,” he said. “A small clutch handbag with two twenty pound and one ten pound notes inside and some loose change.”
“So she wasn’t robbed,” Ormerod concluded.
“But more importantly,” Norris continued, “a Matalan card in the name of Maria Brownlow. I think you have your missing girl.”
Ormerod turned away and walked to the far side of the yard. Taking out his phone, he dialled a number.
“Hello,” Souter answered.
“We found her. She’s dead.”
Souter exhaled. “How?”
“Choked on her own vomit, we think, but won’t know for certain until the PM.”
Souter was silent for a while. “Thanks,” he eventually said, “Appreciate the call.”
62
Wednesday
Two days later, Strong in DCS Flynn’s office was sitting opposite the man himself.
“Are you sure you should be back so soon, Colin?” Flynn asked.
Heavy bruising coloured his jaw and his speech was slightly affected. “I’m fine, sir. Nothing broken, just a bit sore for a while that’s all.”
Flynn nodded approvingly.
Strong gingerly nursed a cup of coffee to his lips. This was a rare treat; coffee from his boss’s personal percolator. “Besides, there seems to be a lot that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Certainly has.” Flynn was relaxing in his chair hands clasped over his stomach. “You’ll be pleased to know that your assailant is safely locked up,” he continued. “He’s been charged with the murders of Chris Baker and Helena Cryanovic plus a number of other charges related to sex trafficking and offences associated with the girls and the parlours.” He leaned forward and grinned. “Where did you pull that rabbit out of the hat? They found his car in the lock up in Leeds and the handgun in the glovebox. Forensics are having a field day. Lots of trace evidence to substantiate that the girl was in the boot.”
“It was just good timing of information received.”
“Good work though, Colin.”
“And Szymanski?”
“He’s been charged too. So overall a good result.” Flynn paused a moment, growing serious. “But tragic news about your other Misper.”
Strong nodded grimly. “Maria Brownlow. Yes, Luke told me last night.”
“Sad end to a sad life, I gather. The PM Results confirm natural causes but she might have been okay if she’d had help at the time. And then Essex police tell us they’d detained our two likely lads, Baker and Chapman down in Clacton of all places. Anonymous tip off apparently.”
“They’re back here now aren’t they?”
“Kelly and Luke are conducting interviews,” Flynn confirmed. “I expect they’ll be charged in connection with the vehicle thefts later today.”
Strong tensed. “A pity we can’t do that little shit for leaving Maria to die.”
“I know.”
“On that subject, sir.” Strong stood up and placed his coffee cup onto its saucer. “I said I’d be at the mortuary this morning.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Souter and Alison were standing alongside Sammy as they waited in the designated area of the Mortuary when Strong entered.
Souter stood and the two men hugged one another. “How are you feeling, Col?” he enquired.
“I’ll be fine.”
Alison looked up at his face. “It’s certainly colourful,” she commented.
“Honestly, I’m okay.” Strong shook her hand then looked to Sammy. “Are you sure you can do this?” he asked.
Sammy, eyes red with crying, nodded.
Souter knew they’d made Maria as presentable as possible but it would still be another traumatic event for Sammy to experience in such a short life.
After Sammy had formally identified Maria, all four went to a nearby café. Strong bought them coffees.
“Thank you, Sammy,” Strong said, as he stirred some sugar into his drink. “I know it’s never easy.”
“At least I know what happened to her. It must have been terrible for the families of Jennifer and Mary to go years before finding out. Some families never find out.”
Alison gripped her hand.
Sammy looked at her then to Souter. “The only way I can think of it is, that it’s the end of a chapter. And I hope … I’m sure, the next chapter will be much better.”
“I’m sure it will, Sammy,” Strong smiled, then flinched.
“How is it?” Souter asked.
“I was lucky, I suppose. No break just bruising and gave my teeth a good rattle.”
Sammy chuckled and the mood seemed to lighten.
63
Tuesday 4th October 2000
Strong was at his desk working on some paperwork when the phone rang.
“Colin, it’s Peter, Peter Walker in Pontefract.”
“Hello, Peter.”
“How’s the jaw?”
Subconsciously, his free hand rubbed the spot Mirczack had caught. “Still aches on a night but it was a lucky punch. No real damage.”
Walker chuckled. “When’s the trial?”
“Early December.” Strong sat back in his seat. “Anyway, how are your investigations coming along?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’ll remember I told you we’d sent Enid Collinson’s old pick-up for forensic tests? Well, we got some interesting results.”
“Go on.”
“They found trace evidence in the rear seats matching the remnants of both girls’ clothing.”
“So they’d both been in the vehicle.”
�
��At some point. But also, I said we’d sent off samples taken from the bodies to the DNA lab, we got a hit on that too.”
“Did you now? Anyone we know?”
“Not directly. What we got was a familial match against a sample taken from a drink driver four years ago.”
“Meaning it’s not them but someone closely related.”
“Correct. And that driver is Stanley Collinson. So the samples from the girls could only have come from Collinson senior, Wilf. There are no other family members we can find.”
“You got an address?”
“Sure have. According to our investigations, Stanley now lives in Rotherham, quite near the town centre. We’re heading off there now and I just wondered, seeing as you were in at the beginning so to speak, if you wanted to come along.”
Strong checked his watch. “Give me forty minutes?”
“Perfect. We’ll pick you up at Wood Street, it’s on our way. See you then.”
Strong got into the rear seat of Walker’s Volvo. DS Tim Miller was driving with Walker himself in the front passenger seat. On the way down the M1 Walker and Strong talked about various criminals they’d come into contact with over the years and some of the stupidity they’d displayed, much to the amusement of Miller. Eventually, the conversation drifted to Strong’s most recent case.
“So with this court case against Mirczack and Szymanski coming up in December,” Walker commented, “how did you manage to get them to drop that smooth-talking poncy bastard Peter Atherton from their defence team?”
Strong smiled as he remembered the telephone conversation he’d had with Atherton a week ago. Being the sort of high-profile, publicity seeking individual that he was, Atherton had taken part in some television news item earlier in the year about the taking of DNA from anyone charged with an offence. Although speaking out against the routine taking of samples, he’d agreed to put himself up as a guinea pig to show how it would be done. The samples were supposed to have been destroyed afterwards. Unbeknown to most, they hadn’t, but had found their way onto the national DNA database instead. Strong was shocked when Jim Ryan had told him that the forensics team had discovered some interesting matches from the ground floor room of Luxor Grove where the sex parties had taken place. One of those belonged to Peter Atherton. Naturally, because the original sample hadn’t been taken in accordance with correct procedure, nothing further could be done with it. It did, however, provide him with a satisfying encounter with the solicitor, culminating in his agreement to drop Mirczack and Szymanski as clients.
