by David Evans
Souter took the offered file. “Look, I don’t want to distract you from what you’re supposed to be doing,” he said.
“I’m bored with that. I’d rather do something interesting.” Her face lit up with a big smile as she clipped her file into one of the readers.
Earlier that morning John Chandler, the newspaper’s Deputy Editor, had called Souter up to his office. “I’ve got something of interest for you, Bob,” was his opening line.
Souter had been intrigued.
“I know you’re bored regurgitating stories about Princess Margaret,” he’d gone on, referring to the death of the Queen’s sister the previous week.
“Just a bit, John,” Souter had responded.
“Well, I’ve been contacted by Louise Hobson and I think this would be a great campaign story. The boss has agreed.”
Souter had looked blank, so Chandler outlined his thoughts to bring the story of murdered schoolgirl, Claire Hobson, back to the public’s notice, refresh memories, see if any new evidence would come to light and prod the police into some sort of reaction. The twentieth anniversary of the crime was looming.
“So research the case, go and talk to Mr and Mrs Hobson then do a piece on them, their ongoing anguish, all that sort of stuff.”
“‘All that sort of stuff’?” Souter had quoted back incredulously.
“You know what I mean, Bob. Now off you go but keep me informed.”
Suitably dismissed, Souter had made his way down to the Archives.
Twenty minutes later, Phyllis gave a shout. “Here! It’s here.”
Souter stopped his search and walked over to the other machine. She stood up to let him sit down and study the edition.
Monday 8th March 1982.
MISSING GIRL
BODY FOUND ON RAILWAY WASTELAND
He scanned through the article, opened his notebook and began scribbling down a summary of what was known at that time.
The body of a young girl had been found on land that had some old railway sidings at Horbury, just outside of Wakefield. Two boys aged ten and nine had been exploring some of the still extant sidings, which stored old coaches and wagons, when they’d made the grim discovery. Described as trainspotters, they were shocked to make their discovery just after 10:30 on Sunday morning. Police had yet to confirm identity but it was speculated that it was fourteen-year-old Claire Hobson who had been reported missing from her home on Friday night after failing to return from her friend’s house on Wakefield’s Lupset Estate.
Souter flipped through the pages to the updated reports in the next day’s paper. By then the girl’s identity had been confirmed and photos of Claire and her distraught parents accompanied an appeal for information from the Detective Superintendent in charge of the murder enquiry.
Phyllis had been looking over Souter’s shoulder and tutted. “Shocking,” she said. “Such a young girl. And her parents were in an awful state.” She looked down at him. “You just can’t imagine losing a child, can you? I mean, it’s not supposed to happen that way round, is it?”
Souter’s guts turned upside down. Phyllis didn’t know it but he really did know how that felt. The anguish and grief he experienced for Adam, the seven-year-old son he lost, rushed through his system. Taken by his first wife to Canada, he had drowned in August 1999. That had screwed his emotions inside out during those hours when he thought he’d lost not only Alison but his unborn baby in New York.
“No,” Souter struggled to say. “It isn’t supposed to happen.”
He stood up and walked to the door. “Sorry, Phyllis, I just need to …” And he was gone, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket.
7
Detective Chief Superintendent Flynn slipped quietly and unnoticed into Strong’s office. It was only when he closed the door behind him that Strong looked up from the paperwork on his desk.
“Ah, sir. Sorry I didn’t …”
Flynn held up a hand. “No, don’t worry. I wanted a quiet word, Colin.” A tall, slim man with a rim of black hair around a bald pate, he walked over to sit in the chair opposite the DI.
That was when Strong saw the file Flynn had brought with him. He sat back in his seat. “Something wrong?”
Flynn looked down at the file then across to Strong. “This is a little delicate,” he said. “Have you come across a new recruit constable by the name of Monk, Gary Monk?”
Strong screwed up his face in thought. “Oddly enough, I think he was on the cordon last night when I attended the body in the toilets. Took my name; didn’t know who I was. Why? What’s up?”
Flynn took a breath before continuing, “You’re aware of the new regulations for recruits these days; the systematic taking of fingerprints …”
Strong nodded.
“… and now DNA.”
Strong leaned forward, arms on his desk. “Something strange?”
“You could say that. Do you remember the Claire Hobson case?”
Strong felt his heart rate rise. “Fourteen years old, raped and strangled, found on old railway land in Horbury.”
“That’s right. Spring of 1982. The bastard’s never been caught.”
Strong was ahead of Flynn. “But PC Monk would only have been about two or three …”
“Not an exact match, a familial one.”
“Familial?”
“Yes. Apparently it’s a new technique the scientific bods at the DNA Lab are developing, looking at certain aspects of matching. If we get a result from this and it gets to court this will be the first time this type of science will have led to a conviction.”
Strong puffed out his cheeks. “Christ,” he said quietly. “But how come his DNA has been compared to … what exactly? I mean two things here, sir. Firstly, I thought all police personnel profiles were held on a separate section of the National DNA Database. What do they call it, the Police Elimination Database. I didn’t think any comparisons could be run without the authority of a management board police request.”
“Normally, you’re quite right.”
“Don’t tell me someone had grounds to get that request?”
“No, Colin. It would seem this happened due to a complete cock up on our part – and by our part I mean some pillock in Huddersfield Police Station mixed up his sample. When they were supposed to take Monk’s sample with the rest of his cohorts, the technician was called away, so he had to make separate arrangements later. Huddersfield was more convenient for him, so that’s where he went. And his sample was included with a batch of detainees and hence found its way onto the main database.
“But then, in 1982, they wouldn’t have identified any DNA profiles from the crime scene. That didn’t come in until a year or two later with, who was it now, the Colin Pitchfork case in Leicestershire.”
Flynn nodded. “A landmark case, yes. But thankfully the Claire Hobson enquiry is one they decided to keep the evidence from. It was last reviewed ten years ago in 1992 under some cold case initiative. No new evidence came to light then but they did manage to obtain full profiles from the material they have.”
“So you say it’s proven to be a familial match?”
“Yes. He doesn’t have any older brothers and the lab think it’s most likely to be his father.”
“So why me? Why not DCI Hemingford?” he asked.
Finally, Flynn placed the file on the desk. “Local knowledge, Colin. Plus, I think you’d be the right man for the job. Discretion is paramount. If the media get hold of this, it could be disastrous; and not just for the West Yorkshire Force. We need to investigate but we need to do it with tact and diplomacy.” He tapped the file. “This is a copy of PC Monk’s personnel file. I don’t need to tell you to keep this secure, away from any prying eyes.”
Strong spun the file round and opened it. “I’ll keep this somewhere safe.” He scanned down the first page. “But …hold on.” Strong frowned then looked up at Flynn. “It says here his father died two years ago.”
“That’s right. And before you s
ay it, that doesn’t mean we don’t investigate. The Hobson family still need answers.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Strong closed the file. “And I’m with you on the family being entitled to know what happened to Claire. But am I to do this single-handedly?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well it means I’ll have to interview Mrs Monk for a start … without alerting her. I’m just thinking that might benefit from a female touch.”
“Kelly?” Flynn said.
Strong nodded.
“How’s she coping, by the way? After … you know.”
“She seems okay.”
Flynn pursed his lips. “Good,” he considered. “But no one else. Not without my express permission. We need to keep a firewall round this.”
“Understood.”
Before Flynn could leave, Strong spoke again. “The DCI,” he said, “Is there something I should know?”
Flynn looked slightly on edge. “No, why do you ask?”
“Well I heard what you said about me having local knowledge and being discreet when it comes to Gary Monk’s situation but …” Strong paused, trying to gauge Flynn’s reaction. “I couldn’t help but get the feeling DCI Hemingford didn’t really want to be in the briefing this morning.”
Flynn walked to the door. “No, everything’s fine, Colin,” he said and closed the door behind him.
Strong suspected there was something more but shook it from his head and opened Monk’s file. For the next few minutes, he studied the contents. How the Hell could he probe this without alerting the family?
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, he could see Luke Ormerod through the glass panel standing outside, coat on looking at his watch. Closing the file, he casually slipped it into his top desk drawer and beckoned him in.
“We need to get going, guv,” he said.
“Do you think you can handle the PM on your own Luke? It’s just something’s come up I need to deal with.”
Ormerod looked surprised. “Sure. Everything okay? Only I saw the Chief Super come in a bit earlier.”
“No, everything’s fine. He just wants me to have a look at something for him.”
“I’ll be alright. I’m a big boy now.” Ormerod smiled at his boss.
“Let me know what’s found.”
“Sure.” Ormerod turned to leave
Strong stopped him. “Oh Luke, is Kelly still around?”
“No, guv. She’s gone off with John to see Mrs Weaver.”
“Okay, not to worry, I’ll catch up with her when she gets back.”
8
Souter called Alison to check she was okay. She was at home in the stone-built terraced house she had owned for the past ten years. Bob had moved in with her just before they married and was renting out his one-bedroomed apartment near Wakefield’s Westgate railway station. Alison’s house was more homely, plus the flat in town was a better bet for rental, so the decision had been made.
“What’s up, Bob?” she asked. “You don’t normally call me in the day.”
“Oh nothing,” he responded. “I just wanted to hear your voice and know you were alright.” He certainly wasn’t going to mention his upset at what Phyllis had said. It wasn’t the old girl’s fault; she wasn’t aware of the sad events in his past.
Alison told him that Sammy and Susan were calling round that evening. That cheered him up. He’d grown to love those two, like younger sisters, or possibly daughters. He rescued a badly injured Susan from a derelict farmhouse basement in September 2000. She was twenty-four at the time. At that same point, a nineteen-year-old Sammy walked into the Yorkshire Post offices and entered his life when she sought his help. Over the course of Susan’s hospital stay, Sammy and Susan became firm friends. They now shared a flat in Leeds. Susan was in her second year of a degree course in Broadcast Journalism at Leeds University. Sammy meanwhile had been helped to sort her life out by Bob. Alison had also assisted Sammy in securing a job in the office where she worked. With the baby due in about five weeks, Alison had dropped her hours to three days a week but would still be keen to hear what was happening in her place of work from Sammy.
“That’s great,” he responded. “I’ll look forward to seeing those two tonight.” With that, he ended the call.
About to start re-reading the notes he’d made from the newspaper reports at the time of Claire Hobson’s murder, Janey Clarke bobbed her head over the screen dividing his workstation from hers. Janey was a smart young reporter of twenty-seven who had been at the Post for five years. He was impressed by some of the stories she’d written since he’d been back in Yorkshire.
“Heard about what happened in the park in Wakefield last night?” she asked.
He looked up. “No. What’s gone on?”
“One up on you then.” She said, then sunk behind the screen again.
He was about to stand up and continue the conversation when his desk phone rang. A few minutes later, he did stand and walked round to Janey’s desk.
“Pretty nasty by the sounds of it,” he remarked, giving the impression it was to no one in particular.
Janey smiled but concentrated on the piece she was writing. “Finally found out then?” she asked.
“The local murder?”
Eventually, she turned from her computer screen. “A bit more than that.”
“So what’ve you heard?”
Janey leaned back and tapped her teeth with a pencil. “You first.”
Souter considered for a second. “Okay, I’ve just spoken to someone who reckons they found the body.”
Janey raised her eyebrows. “Impressive. Did he say who the victim was?”
Souter leaned against her desk. “No, only the description of what he found and where. A well-known cottaging haunt, apparently.”
“I’ll bow to your superior knowledge.” She made a face. “Well, I have an idea who the victim might be.”
“And how do you know that?”
“A witness told me they’d taken a car away from the scene, under wraps and on a low loader.”
“So how does that help you if it was covered up?”
“Ah, well, you see, before they did that, he saw what vehicle it was and the registration number.” Janey grinned. “A call to my friendly contact with access to the DVLA database and …”
Souter pushed himself back upright. “I am impressed. So what’s our next move?”
She laughed. “Our next move? I don’t know about you but I know what I’m going to do next.”
“Come on Janey, we can work this together.”
She was on her feet shrugging into her coat, all good humour vanished. “Like you kept me in the loop with that Lofthouse Development scandal we were supposed to be working together last year, you mean?”
Souter held both arms out in an apologetic gesture. He’d got no counter-argument. He had kept information from her.
“I don’t think so,” she said and headed out through the door.
Souter smiled to himself. The girl’s learning, he thought.
Back at his desk, he dialled a mobile number and let it ring until the answer message kicked in. No surprise that his old friend Colin Strong wouldn’t speak to him at the moment; probably up to his ears on this murder enquiry. A second call to Wood Street Police Station and he found out that there would be a press conference about the case later this afternoon. Until then, the police would be making no statement.
Only one thing for it, Souter decided, he’d have to pay a visit to Samuel Pemberton before the press conference to see if he could wrong foot the team.
9
In a flat in a street not far from Wakefield’s Kirkgate railway station, Felicity Barrett stood in front of a milky mirror and applied mascara. She was an attractive, confident, shapely twenty-six-year old with long dark hair. Normally she would be dressed to impress but today, she wore a loose-fitting top and tracksuit bottoms. She wasn’t going out. The room was tatty, like the
rest of the flat but it was serving a purpose. The curtains were closed. It was daylight outside but there was nothing of interest to see anyway. Besides, the damp grey weather did nothing to encourage her to open them and so the room was lit by a bare sixty-watt bulb.
“What are you doing?” Mark Thompson sounded annoyed as he walked into the room. “You’re supposed to be being held against your will, you can hardly be seen out all dolled up.”
“Chill out, will you. If I’m going to be here in this dump, I may as well make myself feel good. Plenty of time to create the right impression later.”
He relaxed a bit. “Here, tea for you,” he said, holding out a Millennium mug to her. “And I got a copy of this morning’s Post.” He sat down on a matching easy chair and opened out the newspaper.
She put the mug on the floor and slumped into the comfortable old sofa. “So it’s true then,” she remarked, spotting the headlines.
BODY FOUND IN PARK TOILETS
“So it would seem. Fits with what that bloke told me last night at the gates and all the police activity.” His head was down reading the report.
“That’s him,” she said angrily. “All he had to do was follow instructions. I’ll bet he lost his temper with someone. He was always doing that with Mum.”
He looked up from the newspaper and across to his cousin. “We don’t know the details but it doesn’t help the situation.”
“Well get back onto the bastard and fix up Plan B.” She took a large gulp of her tea then pulled a face. “Christ, Mark! How long have you known me?” She stood up. “You know I have two sugars.”
“Sorry.”
When she came back from the kitchen, Mark folded up the paper. “Plan B means little Danny,” he said.
“Danny’ll be fine.” She took a sip of tea. “He knows what to do. All you need to tell him is the time.”
“I’ll call him in a bit.” Mark pulled a cigarette from the packet on the chair arm.
“We need to get this sorted tonight. Christ I only wanted to be out of circulation for a couple of days. I hadn’t planned on this for any longer. The sooner we get things back to normal, the better.”