Tainted: A DI Colin Strong Investigation (The Wakefield Series Book 4)

by David Evans

  Strong glanced at his watch. “So between eight and eight-thirty. Thanks Andrew.”

  Dr Symonds shook his head and gave a wry smile. He clicked his pen, indicating he’d completed his paperwork. “Once the photos are taken, I’m assuming he can be moved tonight so the pathologist will schedule the PM for tomorrow morning, probably. Will that be you?” he asked.

  “Very likely.”

  The doctor closed up his medical bag. “I can confirm life extinct.” His sharp eyes looked at Strong over his mask. “Goodnight, Colin.”

  “Goodnight, Doc.” Strong watched the man raise a hand and make his way outside.

  Ormerod was at Strong’s shoulder. “First thoughts, guv?”

  “I think we need to keep an open mind.” Strong led the way back out into the gloomy night and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. “The doc mentioned a dog. Who found him, by the way?”

  “A dog walker, Samuel Pemberton.” Ormerod indicated one of the marked patrol cars. “He’s sitting in the warm up there.”

  Strong walked towards the vehicle. “Let’s hear what he has to tell us and get a statement.”

  Pemberton was sitting on the back seats of a Ford Escort, his black and white mongrel dog in the footwell. Strong and Ormerod opened the doors and sat in the front. The man looked to be in his seventies, wrapped up in a coat, scarf and flat cap. Ormerod introduced his DI then asked the man to relate what had happened.

  “Well I were giving Trixie her evening walk. I only live two streets away over there.” The man indicated the park entrance.

  “Is this a regular walk for you?” Strong asked.

  “Aye, but I tend to steer clear of here.” His face was a picture of disgust. “You wouldn’t believe what they get up to in there, not that I’ve ever been in mind.”

  “Until tonight, of course,” Ormerod added.

  “Well, that weren’t my doing,” the man responded quickly. “It were Trixie here. She ran off and wouldn’t come back. She obviously knew something were wrong because she ran straight in. I shouted and shouted her but she wouldn’t come out. So in the end, I had to go in and … Jesus, I’ve never seen ‘owt like it.”

  Ormerod was jotting down notes as Strong probed. “Did you see any activity here tonight, Mr Pemberton?”

  “I think there was some bloke round the other side of the building when we came into the park and another two I spotted walking towards the toilets on my way up past.”

  “Did you recognise any of them? Could you describe them?”

  “Not really, it were dark and foggy. Just three blokes in dark clothing, shoulders hunched and hands in their pockets.”

  “And nothing unusual about any of them?” Strong persisted. “I mean fat, thin, tall, short? Anything at all.”

  Pemberton shook his head. “Not really, just average. But then …” The old man screwed up his face in thought.

  “Go on,” Strong encouraged.

  “As we were coming back round to head home, there was a car, not that big un that’s still there, this were smaller.”

  “What about it?” Ormerod asked.

  “It was driving off. In a bit of a hurry like. And that’s when Trixie went running off down to the toilets. It nearly bloody ran her over.”

  “Do you know what kind of car, Mr Pemberton, colour maybe?”

  “It were small, like a Fiesta or summat like that. And it were dark, that’s about all I could tell.”

  “And when you chased after your dog, there was no one else around here then?” Strong asked.

  “Quiet as the grave. Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t say that.”

  “The other car, the Mercedes, that was there the whole time?”

  “Aye.”

  “And have you ever noticed that car here before when you’ve been walking Trixie?”

  Again another shake of the head. “No, can’t say as I have.”

  “Well thanks Mr Pemberton you’ve been a great help,” Strong said. “If you give your contact details to DC Ormerod here, someone will be round to see you, probably tomorrow for a statement.”

  “So can I go ‘ome now? Mavis’ll be wondering where we’ve gotten to.”

  “Of course.”

  Once Ormerod had jotted down the man’s address, Strong stepped out of the car, pulled the collar up on his coat and opened the rear door for Mr Pemberton to leave. When the old man had gone, he turned to Ormerod. “Let’s have a look at the Merc then,” he said.

  Strong approached the front and felt the grille, then the bonnet. “Still a bit warm,” he said. Then, with a latex-gloved hand, he opened the driver’s door. The interior light didn’t come on so he pulled a torch from his pocket to look inside. As Ormerod had told him, the keys were still in the ignition. He leaned across the seat towards the passenger side and sniffed.

  “Anything, guv?” Ormerod asked.

  The DI manoeuvred himself back out of the car.

  “A scent, Luke. A female perfume rather than male aftershave. And it’s not clap cold in there either, so I reckon if he drove here, our first estimate of between eight and eight-thirty is about right.”

  Closing the door, he walked round to the front of the car and looked down at the ground by the passenger door. About four or five feet away were a clear set of tyre marks. Shining the torch closer to the gap in between, he knelt down having spotted something else. After a few seconds, he straightened up.

  “Let’s, get this area taped off. And get Forensics over here. I think our friend Mr Weaver had company earlier. A woman, if I’m not mistaken. Either that or a bloke in high heels.”

  4

  In the semi-darkness of the bedroom, Andy lay awake; the dim glow through the curtains from the streetlamp outside the only illumination. He hadn’t been able to sleep; how could he? In between sessions of rocking back and forth on the bed, he paced the room. He felt sick. How could Brannigan have done that? Despite what he’d been told, he didn’t believe the man in the toilets would be okay. What sort of man was he - to leave him like that? But more importantly, what did all this mean for Felicity?

  The man himself was downstairs; this was his house, the house attached to the business; George Brannigan, Scrap Metal Merchant. Well it made sense for Andy to stay here whilst all this was going on. Almost two days now. Two days since he’d last seen Felicity. Over thirty hours since the first phone call. ‘Thirty grand,’ the voice had said. ‘Used twenties.’ That was just the start of the nightmare.

  Brannigan had quizzed him over every detail. The problem was he had no details. When he left home on Tuesday morning, Felicity was still in bed. That wasn’t unusual; she only had to be at work by eleven. It wasn’t until the phone call at six o’clock on Tuesday evening when his world tumbled upside down.

  Brannigan had taken the second phone call yesterday morning. The demand was repeated, same voice, heavily disguised but definitely male. He took a note of place and time. Then came the hard bit; getting the cash together. That’s where Brannigan came into his own. They’d only got twelve hours, but in his line of business, cash was a ready commodity. Eight o’clock the previous night had been the time for the drop, in that God-forsaken shit-hole; literally.

  The phone began to ring downstairs. Andy glanced at the red figures of the clock on the bedside table; two-seventeen. He darted to the door. The living room door opened and he heard Brannigan make his way to answer the call. Andy dived down the stairs two at a time but the man held up a hand. “Calm down,” he instructed. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Brannigan lifted the receiver and waited for someone to speak. After a moment’s hesitation, the voice on the other end did; Andy could also hear it clearly.

  “Well George,” they said. “You well and truly fucked things up last night, didn’t you?”

  “Listen you piece of shit …” Brannigan began.

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to give me any agro,” the voice interrupted. “I think your arse is on the line now. I hear that temper of
yours came to the surface again.”

  Brannigan looked shocked. “I don’t …,” he stuttered.

  The voice cut in again, “So … let’s be sensible about this. You have one last opportunity, or you’ll never see her again.”

  “Just a minute …”

  “We’ll be in touch.” The line went dead.

  Andy looked at Brannigan and for the first time he saw fear take over from anger.

  “That bloke … What do we do now?” Andy asked, tears leaking down his cheeks.

  “I’ll sort it.”

  “Like you did last night,” Andy responded, not quite able to hold his tongue.

  Brannigan lunged at him and grabbed his shirt lapels. “Last night was an accident. You got that? I thought the bastard was coming to collect.”

  Andy couldn’t hold his stare.

  “I’ll not let Felicity down, Andy. Now you just remember that.” He tapped Andy’s face then let go of him, walked back into the sitting room and closed the door.

  5

  Thursday 14th February 2002

  For many, 11th September 2001 changed lives forever. Colin Strong was no exception. On that day, he almost lost a close colleague in a near fatal shooting for which he blamed himself. It had been a difficult decision for him to continue as DI in Wakefield’s Wood Street CID team, he’d been sorely tempted to pack it all in. After the traumatic events of last September, it seemed as if he was drifting through life until Detective Chief Superintendent Flynn suggested, although it was more like an instruction, that he take some time off. For three weeks before Christmas, he’d holidayed on Gran Canaria and given serious consideration to a complete change of lifestyle, even looking at buying property there. But a combination of support from his wife Laura, son Graham and daughter, Amanda and encouragement from the members of his team, especially the victim of the shooting, DS Kelly Stainmore, had persuaded him to continue.

  At eight that morning, the team assembled in the CID room to be briefed by DCI Rupert Hemingford on the events of the previous night. Hemingford was a tall, slim, thirty-seven-year-old; a graduate entry fast track high-flyer who had joined West Yorkshire from the Cambridgeshire Constabulary back in August last year. He was another reason Strong had thought long and hard over his future. After twelve months in an acting-DCI capacity, Strong was passed over for the permanent role.

  As Hemingford began to give an overview of where the investigation into the murder of Marcus Weaver stood, Strong was sitting at a spare desk next to Luke Ormerod and Kelly Stainmore. After a minute or two, Strong was invited to go through the details and mark up a whiteboard with what they now knew.

  Strong stood up and pointed to the name of the victim written on the board. “Marcus Weaver,” he began, “thirty-nine years old, married and living at this address in Horsforth.” He wrote the additional details next to the name. “At eight thirty-nine last night, Luke and I attended the male public toilets in the park where the body had been discovered in one of the cubicles.”

  A few groans and muttered comments greeted this information.

  Strong held up both hands. “I know, I know,” he said. “This location has a certain reputation but for now, we’re keeping an open mind on this one. We’ll know more following the PM which is scheduled for ten o’clock at Pinderfields. Luke and I will attend.”

  “Does the widow know?” DC John Darby asked.

  “Leeds sent a couple of uniforms for the ‘agony visit’ last night but I’d like Kelly and yourself, John, to call there after we’ve finished,” Hemingford responded. “You know the score,” he continued, addressing Stainmore. “Get a statement; when did she last see him, anything worrying him, that sort of thing. And we will need a formal ID.”

  “I’ll let you know when that can be done, Kelly,” Strong added. “Hopefully this afternoon.”

  “Anything else we should know, Colin?” Hemingford seemed to be in a rush to conclude the meeting.

  “There are a couple of things,” Strong said, “First, our dog walker told us on his outward journey he saw three characters in the vicinity of the toilet block before his dog discovered the body on his return; one by the toilets and another two approaching. Nothing to distinguish them, so I’d suggest we do the usual pull of all the local nonces.”

  Another round of mutterings.

  “And second ...” Strong put a finger up to his chin as if in thought. “I think, contrary to what first impressions we may have … I think our friend here was with a woman last night.” He tapped Weaver’s name on the board then moved back to the desk he’d been sitting at and picked up a brown envelope. “I’ve just got these in from SOCO.” He began to remove some photographs. “I asked them to study an area near Weaver’s Mercedes. It looks like there was another car parked next to it. Our dog walker spoke of a small dark car, possibly a Fiesta or similar, driving away from the scene just before his dog found the body.” He stuck the pictures on the board as he spoke. “Also, between the cars there were some shoe prints; female with stiletto heel marks, size six our forensics boys think. They’re also looking at what type of car may have left those tracks.”

  “What about Weaver’s car itself?” Hemingford asked.

  Strong walked back to the desk and leaned against it. “SOCO are doing the full monty on it. It would be interesting to see what they get from the front passenger area. That’s where I detected a slight smell of perfume.”

  “Could have been Mrs Weaver’s?” Ormerod pondered.

  “It could, but it’s early days yet.”

  “I agree,” Hemingford said before proceeding to allocate various tasks to the team. “… and then Colin and Luke will attend the PM later this morning,” he concluded. “Right, let’s go to it. Back here at four for an update.” With that, the DCI strode from the room.

  “Couldn’t get out of here quick enough, could he?” Ormerod commented to Strong in a quiet voice, stroking his black bushy moustache which resembled a huge hairy caterpillar. He was one of Strong’s most trusted colleagues, having turned forty late last year. He wasn’t particularly tall but powerfully built; definitely someone you’d want covering your back.

  “Hmm,” was all Strong said in response. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll check through a few things for now then see you in about an hour before we head off for the PM.”

  Back in his office, Strong allowed his thoughts to drift. Whenever he saw Stainmore, he couldn’t help being reminded of how close she had come to death. As well as himself, he’d also partially blamed his best friend since primary school, journalist Bob Souter, for the build-up to those fateful events. Finally, last month, Strong had put his feelings behind him to stand as Souter’s best man at his wedding to Alison. This returned the favour of Strong’s own wedding back in 1980.

  6

  In the offices of the Yorkshire Post on Wellington Street in Leeds, some ten miles from Wood Street Police Station, Bob Souter opened the door to the Archive Room. Situated behind Reception, this was the domain of Phyllis. She seemed as old as the newspaper itself but still took the same pride in her appearance as she did when she worked as a receptionist. She’d retired a few years ago but had come back two days a week to update the paper’s archive. Hair back-combed and lacquered, she sat at a desk, busily transferring sheets to microfiche.

  She glanced up as he entered. “Ah, Mr Souter, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “What’s all this ‘Mr Souter’ nonsense?” He smiled at her. “I’m Bob, remember. But I have been busy, Phyllis.”

  “With that nice young lady of yours, I’m told.” She looked at him over horn-rimmed glasses. “Glad to see you made an honest woman of her.”

  Phyllis referred to Souter’s recent wedding to Alison Hewitt. They’d met during the course of an investigation he’d carried out two years ago. After the events of last September, Souter thought he might have to work hard to persuade his friend, Colin Strong, to be his best man but in the end, he couldn’t let him down.

&nb
sp; “I’d always have done that,” Souter said.

  “I know. So when is the baby due?”

  “21st March is what they’ve told us, but that’s just a guide.”

  “Well I hope you’re taking good care of her. That must have been dreadful for you last year; both of you.”

  He struggled to respond. “It was, Phyllis.” His body shuddered as he took a breath. “It was the not knowing. Those five days before she could make contact. Those were …” his words trailed off as he was reminded of his state of mind last year. He’d thought Alison, the love of his life, was lost, perished in the collapse of the South Tower of the World Trade Centre. Only later had he discovered she had been confined to her hotel room six blocks away, throwing up; the effects of her pregnancy. Souter was totally unaware of her condition until their friend, Sammy, told him as he watched events unfold on TV. That doubled his agony as he initially thought he’d lost his unborn child as well as his lover.

  Phyllis stood and came towards him to place a protective hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bob, I didn’t mean to open up old …”

  He stopped her. “It’s okay. I know.” He nipped his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  She removed her hand, studied him for a second then continued, “So what brings you in here?”

  “Twenty years ago,” he began,” we ran a story about the murder of a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl from Wakefield, found in Horbury.”

  “Oh, God, yes I remember,” she said. “Was it Claire someone?”

  “Very good. Claire Hobson.”

  Phyllis’s gaze drifted as she tried to remember some details. “Did they ever find out who did it?”

  “No they haven’t.”

  She snapped back to the present. “Right. Well let’s start with this one.” She approached the shelves containing the microfiche records and pulled a couple out. “These are from 1982. You check this one and I’ll do the other. We should find what you’re looking for quicker that way.”