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

by David Evans

  He lit up, took a deep drag and exhaled. “It wasn’t me who cocked things up.”

  She calmed down. “I know. I’m sorry to drag you into this.”

  “Oh it’s okay. If it helps you two I’m fine with it.” He flicked ash into a tray on the chair arm. “Have the salon tried to contact? They would have expected you on Tuesday.”

  She picked up the mug from the floor and wrapped her hands around it. “I don’t know. I’ve kept my phone off, if you remember.” She sipped some more. “What about you? Have you heard from Andy?”

  “Me? No. Why should he try to call me?”

  “Looking for me, of course. I’d have thought he’d try some of my contacts.”

  “I did tell him not to speak to anyone about this, apart from your step-dad, of course.”

  She nodded and drained her mug. “And this time, make sure he goes on his own. I don’t want the bastard sending Andy and keeping a lookout himself.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “I’ll make sure Andy has to stay at the house. He’ll have to wait there for the message telling him the drop has been made and where to pick you up.”

  “Well go on then,” she said, agitation in her tone. “Make the calls.”

  Mark stubbed out the cigarette and retrieved his mobile phone from his shirt pocket.

  10

  Ormerod had surprised Strong when he reported back from the post-mortem. The actual cause of death was a myocardial infarction. But he’d suffered an intra cranial bleed shortly before death, where he’d been struck on the left temple. The bone was thinner than expected at that point. That would probably have proved fatal in any event.

  “What did the pathologist reckon to that?” Strong asked.

  “His take was that our victim was struck once to the side of the head and was rendered unconscious,” Ormerod responded. “He suffered the heart attack and would have died minutes later. The plastic bag over the head was just a prop to make us think he’d suffocated; plus it wasn’t airtight anyway. In actual fact, he was already dead.”

  “Christ, so what are we dealing with here? A lucky punch? Someone with some kind of martial arts training … or army?”

  Ormerod shrugged. “Not sure. But as Dr Symonds thought last night, there were no signs of any sexual activity despite how he was found.”

  “You mean the trousers and underpants pulled down?”

  “Yes, guv. So either the perpetrator was disturbed or …”

  “Or some form of humiliation,” Strong continued.

  They were both left wondering what sort of creature was capable of that. And more puzzling, why?

  Later that afternoon, Strong spotted Kelly Stainmore taking off her coat in the CID room. She looked healthier than she had last year. She’d lost most of the weight she’d put on then. Her skin and hair looked far better and there was no evidence of the lethargy she’d been suffering from. Only just before the shooting had she told him that tests had revealed the problem was down to an underactive thyroid. Medication would put things back on an even keel. She certainly looked a whole lot better now, despite her traumatic experience; more like a healthy thirty-four-year old. Short blonde hair framed a face that positively glowed. He stood at the door, caught her eye and beckoned her towards his office. She made a mime of a drink and nodded towards him. He shook his head and returned to his desk.

  A few minutes later she appeared at the doorway, polystyrene cup in hand. Strong asked her to close the door behind her.

  “How did you get on?” he asked.

  “Mrs Weaver was in a desperate state, as you can imagine.” She sat down opposite her boss and placed her drink on a mat on his desk. “No idea why her husband would be in a Wakefield park last night. She thought he was meeting clients in Leeds. That’s what he’d told her anyway.”

  “What does he do, this Marcus Weaver?”

  She bent down and pulled a notebook from her bag. “He’s a senior manager in an insurance office.” She flicked over a few pages. “Been there nearly fifteen years.”

  “And the home situation?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, family, what does she do?”

  “Oh, they’ve got two kids, a girl who’s ten and a boy, eight.” She paused to take a drink. “Her mother collected them from school and brought them back while John and I were there. Mrs Weaver works part-time in the accounts office of a small building firm nearby.”

  “And what sort of feel did you get from Mrs Weaver, about their marriage, that sort of thing?”

  “Hard to gauge much, guv. She was distraught.” Stainmore closed her notebook and dropped it back into her bag. “The Family Liaison Officer Leeds have allocated, was there. She explained that at some point an official identification would be necessary. I think she’s trying to organise that for later this afternoon but that’s only if she thinks Mrs Weaver’s up to it.”

  Strong proceeded to tell Stainmore what Ormerod had reported following the post-mortem.

  “So the way the body was left was just to put us off?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

  “Possibly, or some message of humiliation,” Strong considered. “I still think Mr Weaver was meeting a woman.”

  The conversation stalled as Stainmore drained her coffee before Strong leaned forward onto his desk and looked at her earnestly. “Listen Kelly,” he began, “I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you much about … well, what happened last year …”

  She put up a hand to stop him. “It’s okay, guv. There’s no need to treat it like an elephant in the room. Honest.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I think you might.”

  He leaned back again and sighed. “But if I’d known the full picture, I’d never have let you come with me.” He grimaced as the events of that rain-soaked night the previous September at the abandoned offices of the Lofthouse Colliery flashed through his mind.

  It was her turn to lean forward. “But you didn’t. And I insisted on going. I wasn’t going to let you go on your own either. It’s fine.” They were silent for a moment before she continued, “Look, if it wasn’t for what you did for me after it happened, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “But if I hadn’t …”

  “No, guv.” She was insistent. “You can’t say that. Now, it’s fine. Let’s move on.”

  “Okay,” Strong said, with a grim smile. “So how is everything … with the wound and your thyroid?”

  “Yeah. It’s all good.”

  “You certainly look great.”

  She flushed a little. “Thanks.”

  “Anyway,” he continued quickly, “There’s something else I need to speak to you about. It’s confidential and a bit delicate.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  Strong spent the next few minutes explaining what DCS Flynn had asked him to investigate. “I thought it would be prudent to have a female perspective on this too,” he concluded. “And Flynn agreed, provided we … and he, are the only ones who know about this.”

  He brought the copy of Gary Monk’s file from his drawer and let Stainmore read it through. When she’d finished she looked up.

  “So how do we approach Mrs Monk without alerting her or Gary that something isn’t right?” Strong wondered.

  Stainmore thought for a moment. “What about a home visit?”

  “Well, obviously, but we can’t just go …”

  “No, I mean the home visit that he should have had as part of the vetting process before he joined. I know, there was one but, as we all know, the HR department aren’t always that efficient. I mean, let’s say the report has been misplaced and we need to repeat it. A mere formality, of course, but something that has to be done.”

  Strong slowly smiled. “A box-ticking exercise, you mean. Brilliant, Kelly. I knew you’d be the right person for the job. If you set it up, I can come along with you on the pretext that we’ve both been out to look at s
omething nearby and rather than drop me back off at the station first, I’m just sitting in. How does that sound?”

  She leaned down to her bag and retrieved her notebook. “I’ll give her a call,” she said, noting down a telephone number from the file before closing it and handing it back to her boss.

  “You can make that call from in here, if you want. We need to be discreet.”

  “Of course.”

  “And then,” Strong continued, “I think we need to visit Weaver’s place of work and see what we can find out.”

  11

  Strong drew his car to a halt by the barrier to the car park of the building where Weaver spent his days and dropped the window to speak into the box on the post. Stainmore was sitting alongside. After a brief exchange with a remote male voice, the barrier lifted and Strong found a spare space in a group of four marked ‘visitors’.

  On the run to Leeds, Luke Ormerod had called to inform them that the briefing scheduled for four had been cancelled. DCS Flynn had arranged a press conference for five and the next team briefing would be held at eight tomorrow morning.

  After signing in at reception, the detectives had only a minute or so to wait before a man, introducing himself as Duncan McKenzie, Marcus Weaver’s director, arrived to escort them to an upper floor. McKenzie, around six feet tall, spoke with a cultured slight Scottish accent and appeared to be in his mid-forties with well-groomed salt and pepper hair and dressed in an expensive suit.

  “This is dreadful news,” he said as they rode in the lift. “His wife must be devastated.”

  “Do his work colleagues know?” Strong asked, annoyed that word had leaked out of Weaver’s demise before his arrival. His identity had not yet been made public.

  “You know how these rumours spread,” McKenzie said. “They know he hasn’t turned up for work today.” He stopped talking as a ping announced their arrival on the fifth floor.

  As the doors opened, a young blonde-haired woman holding some files stood to the side to let them walk out. A flash of recognition crossed her face before she dropped her head, keen to avoid the visitors. She quickly stepped into the lift as McKenzie, Strong and Stainmore passed through the fire doors and onto the main floor.

  McKenzie’s office was situated at the far end of an open plan area. Strong could feel the eyes of a dozen people on his back as he was led towards it. Once inside, door closed, with the detectives sitting on comfortable chairs, the director offered them coffee from the percolator sitting on a long cabinet. He handed cups to Strong and Stainmore before taking his own to sit in the leather chair behind his desk.

  “So how can I help you, Inspector?” he asked.

  “Mr Weaver, Marcus,” Strong began, “was found dead yesterday evening In Wakefield, as you’ve heard.”

  McKenzie nodded his head.

  “We understand he was supposed to be meeting clients here in Leeds last night?”

  A brief smile flashed across McKenzie’s face before a sombre expression returned. “It’s not something I’m aware of.” He opened an A4 book on his desk and scanned the page. “This is Marcus’s desk diary, and I’ve checked his online diary too and there’s no mention of any meeting yesterday, let alone last night. I wouldn’t expect him to meet clients after office hours anyway.”

  Strong turned to Stainmore who was taking notes. They exchanged looks.

  “If we could have a look at that, Mr McKenzie.” Strong leaned forward. “We can let you have it back in due course.”

  The director handed the diary to Strong as he spoke. “If there was any evening entertaining, and it doesn’t happen very often, that would be conducted by myself or my fellow directors.”

  “I gathered from your expression just now that you were …” Strong searched for the correct word. “…amused by what Mr Weaver was supposed to be doing? It didn’t seem a surprise that he might have used this as an excuse at home, although he was somewhere else?”

  McKenzie frowned and clasped his hands on his desk. “You’re right, it didn’t surprise me to hear you say that. Is that what his wife told you?”

  “I’d like you to explain,” Strong said without responding to the question or giving any clue as to who had given him that impression.

  McKenzie sipped his coffee and considered his answer. “I’ve suspected for a little while now that Marcus was having an affair.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “No. We weren’t that close. It was strictly professional,” McKenzie answered. “But it wouldn’t have surprised me. I picked up on a few things in recent weeks.” He drained his coffee, looking from one detective to the other. “This is in strictest confidence?”

  Strong was becoming irritated. “This is a murder enquiry, Mr McKenzie.”

  “What I meant was … Of course. I suppose having been there myself, and I’m not proud of it,” the man added quickly. “I can spot the signs.”

  “Such as?”

  McKenzie took a deep breath. “Taking more pride in his appearance, overdoing the aftershave and generally in a better mood on certain days. More attention to his mobile phone.”

  “Who would be closest to him here in the work place?”

  “Well, Bill and Dan were his close work colleagues; they may well know more than I do.”

  “Was it likely to be someone from these offices?” Stainmore asked.

  The director’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t like to say. As I said, I’ve not heard any rumours as such, much less any names, it’s just an impression I’d formed … that he was possibly involved in a … liaison.”

  “So, these work mates, Bill and Dan, would it be possible to speak to them?” Strong came back.

  “Well Bill Crossley’s on a day’s leave today but Dan Sykes is in. Would you like me to fetch him?”

  “Please Mr McKenzie. And if it would be possible to use your office here so we can speak to him in private, if that’s okay?”

  McKenzie stood up. “Sure. I’ll just go and find Dan.”

  When the director left the room, Strong got to his feet and strolled over to the window to look out. “Impressions, Kelly?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Fits with your spot of the female shoe prints at the scene.”

  Strong turned and leaned against the sill. “But do you think he wouldn’t know who Weaver might have been messing around with?” Strong nodded in the direction of the office door where McKenzie had disappeared.

  “Would you, guv?” she responded.

  “Hmm,” was all he said, as he gave that some thought.

  “What about his phone?” Stainmore added.

  “SOCO have that and we’ll no doubt get a full report on it fairly quickly. That might give us a lead as to who he was meeting last night.”

  “And then …” Stainmore stopped as McKenzie returned accompanied by a rotund man of around forty with thinning brown hair and black framed glasses.

  “This is Dan Sykes,” McKenzie said. “I’ll leave you to talk.” With that, he left his office and closed the door.

  Strong introduced himself and Stainmore then asked Sykes to take a seat.

  “I understand you are a close working colleague of Marcus Weaver,” Strong said, once the man was comfortable in his chair.

  “Well, we’ve worked together in the same team; myself and Bill, Bill Crossley, for something like three years.”

  “So you’d know Mr Weaver reasonably well?”

  “Do we ever know any of our workmates, though,” Sykes responded.

  “Perhaps we could leave the philosophical discussion for another time, Mr Sykes,” Strong said, trying to hide his annoyance. “What we’re trying to establish is some background information on Mr Weaver.”

  “Sorry. Of course. It’s just that the news … it’s been a Hell of a shock. I mean, we were only sitting next to one another this time yesterday.”

  “Did he say anything about what he would be doing after work? Did he plan to go out anywhere?”

  Sykes pushed
his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “No. I think we even talked about what was going to be on the telly. As far as I was aware, it was just another Wednesday.”

  “So he was talking about what would be on TV last night?”

  “We all were.”

  “And he didn’t mention doing anything after work? Going for a drink with anyone, meeting someone?”

  Sykes looked puzzled. “No. Why? Did he?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  The man held out both hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t throw any more light on this.”

  “Okay, thanks, Mr Sykes. And if you think of anything else, something Mr Weaver said in passing, no matter how insignificant you think, give me a call.” Strong handed Sykes his card.

  “Didn’t exactly get us very far, did it, guv?” Stainmore pondered as Strong drove them back to Wakefield.

  “Oh I don’t know. It was interesting that McKenzie suspected Weaver of having an affair.”

  “He’s a smarmy sod,” she offered. “But Sykes was a waste of space. Let’s hope his other colleague is a bit more switched on.”

  “Or at least open to confiding what he might know.” Strong glanced over his shoulder as well as checking his mirror before taking the Mondeo out into the third lane of the M1. “If he was having an affair, my money would still be on someone who works in that office.”

  Stainmore was quiet for a minute.

  “While we’re driving, why don’t you try that number for Mrs Monk.”

  By the time they returned to Wood Street, the press conference arranged for five o’clock was over and Hemingford was in Flynn’s office. Darby had left a post-it note on Strong’s computer screen to say that the FLO had accompanied Mrs Weaver to Pinderfields that afternoon and she’d confirmed identity of her husband’s body.

  With a briefing arranged for eight the following morning and an appointment for Stainmore and Strong to visit Gary Monk’s mother at ten, Strong left the station.

  12

  “Something smells good!” Souter shouted out as he stepped through the front door of the house he shared with Alison.