by David Evans
She snatched it from him and pressed the red button to cancel the call.
“He’ll be worried too,” Andy said.
“Not just yet,” she countered.
They reached their street and parked up.
Andy waited patiently in the living room of their first floor flat whilst Felicity sorted herself out, beginning in the bathroom, then the bedroom. Finally, in a change of clothes she walked into the room and sat down next to him. She went to kiss him but he pulled away.
“Are you going to tell me what happened? I was so worried,” he said.
She took a deep breath then related her story of how she was walking to work on Tuesday when she became aware of someone approaching her from behind. Just as she began to turn round, a hood was placed over her head and she was bundled into the boot of a car.
“So where was this?”
“O … on Pinderfields Road,” she stammered.
“But where exactly? I mean we could get CCTV, find out who was behind this.”
“No! No, we can’t. He said he knows where I live and if I told the police and started investigating, he’d come back.”
“He? So it was only one person.”
“What? Well I suppose so, there was only the one voice I ever heard.”
“So was there anything distinctive about this voice?”
“No, look, just leave it be. I’m back now, aren’t I?”
“But where did he keep you?”
She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “Please, I’m tired.”
“We’re all tired.”
Felicity opened her eyes again. “And anyway, what happened on the first ransom drop?” She sat up straight. “Things got a bit fraught when that failed.”
Andy coloured. For an instant he’d actually forgotten the events in the park toilets, had blotted them out of his memory. “We got disturbed,” he finally said, head down.
She leaned closer, looking straight at him. “Andy? What happened?” She put her hand under his chin and saw tears run down his cheeks. “Andy? Was it that bad?”
“He …” The sounds of a car drawing to a halt interrupted him.
She ran to the window and peeked through the curtain. “It’s him,” she said.
Seconds later, with the sound of feet on the stairs, Andy stood and composed himself. The door rattled and he opened it.
“Why the Hell haven’t you answered your phone?” Brannigan asked. “Is she safe?” He bundled past Andy and walked into the room. “Felicity, are you okay?”
She was on her feet as he rushed forward and put his arms around her.
“I’m fine,” she said, stiffening slightly.
He turned to Andy. “Why didn’t you bring her back to mine?”
“I just wanted to come home,” Felicity answered for him. “I needed to wash and get a change of clothes.”
“So what happened?” Brannigan looked intently at his step-daughter.
“It was …” she covered her face and began to cry.
“She just told me she was abducted on Pinderfields Road walking to work on Tuesday,” Andy said.
Brannigan looked to him. “Right. There must be CCTV around there. We need to see it.”
“But that would mean the police,” Andy argued. “And …”
“Not necessarily. I could have some private investigator probe.”
“No,” Felicity said. “We can’t risk police or anyone else. He said he’d come back if we did.”
“He? The same bastard who called us?” Brannigan fumed.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Let’s just leave it. I’m back now. I just want to get on with my life.”
“But I’m thirty grand down. Someone’s turned me over and I won’t have that.”
She straightened up. “Is that all that matters to you? Money? Your pride? No one’s going to know about this. Not from us anyway.”
“I’ll want to know everything you can remember,” Brannigan said. “I’ll get the bastards who did this, mark my words.”
Felicity threw herself onto the sofa, covered her face and sobbed.
“Please George,” Andy said. “She needs time to rest and recover.”
Brannigan looked from one to the other, face set hard. Finally, he relaxed slightly. “Okay. But I will want to know details.”
“We’ll talk later,” Andy said.
“We will.” Brannigan spun around and quickly left the flat.
The tension eased from Andy’s shoulders as he heard Brannigan’s footsteps on the stairs. He turned and looked at Felicity, not completely convinced by her act. The sounds of a car door slamming before it sped away drifted up from the street.
15
Friday 15th February 2002
Next morning, the newspapers were full of the Marcus Weaver story. Strong felt sympathy for his widow. Just forty-eight hours previously, she’d kissed him goodbye as she had done hundreds of times before and he’d set off for work in the office. Only this time, he wouldn’t return. This time, her whole world was about to explode. From feeling secure in a marriage with two young children and a husband who provided for them to finding out that their relationship was based on a lie would compound her grief. Not only that, the unsavoury rumours being expounded in the press, mention of the place he’d been discovered, a well-known meeting point for homosexual men, and all the speculation that it brought, might be enough to push anyone over the edge.
Still, as he drove to work that morning, Strong reckoned that aspect of things didn’t add up. His thoughts returned to the shoe prints and that second car. He also felt that McKenzie hadn’t told him everything he could have done.
“Morning, guv,” Ormerod greeted, as he walked into the CID room for the eight o’clock briefing. “Have you seen Kelly this morning? She was looking for you earlier.”
“Not seen her, Luke.”
A few more bodies began to gather; John Darby came in talking to DC Trevor Newell followed by another couple of officers in the team.
Just before eight o’clock, Hemingford appeared, followed closely by Kelly Stainmore. Finally, Doug Norris the SOCO entered.
“Morning everyone,” Hemingford said, walking to the whiteboard displaying photos of the victim and the crime scene. “Marcus Weaver,” he began, “what have we been able to find out?”
Darby reported that Mrs Weaver had now made the formal identification. Stainmore then spoke of her visit, along with Darby, to Mrs Weaver yesterday morning before giving an account of the afternoon’s call along with Strong to Weaver’s workplace.
“So the feeling is that our happily married victim was conducting an affair of some sort?” Hemingford suggested. “Possibly something a little unsavoury, bearing in mind the location?”
“I don’t think so,” Strong responded. “I still suspect he met a woman in the car park on Wednesday night.”
“Ah yes, the footprints … and the tyre tracks.” Hemingford turned to Norris. “What can you tell us about those, Doug?”
“We did find footprints next to the passenger door of Weaver’s Mercedes; women’s, size six. Matching soil from outside was found in the passenger footwell too. And having taken measurements and spoken to some motor manufacturers, we think the tyre marks are from a Ford Ka.”
“That would tie in with the dog walker’s mention of a small vehicle driving off in a hurry.” Strong commented. “He said small, like a Fiesta – well that might not be dissimilar to a Ka when he saw it drive off from a distance. He is in his seventies and it was foggy. Dark coloured, he said.”
“No other witnesses come forward?” Hemingford asked, almost in desperation.
Mumbles were the only responses.
“Not surprising,” Strong said, “seeing as the location has a notorious reputation. Why don’t we offer a more sympathetic ear to any of the usual suspects? You know, absolute discretion.”
“You were trawling through all the local nonces?” Hemingford addressed one of the detectives.
> “So far nobody admitting they were there last night, but we’re still working on it,” the officer replied.
“I also checked out the victim’s phone,” Norris said. “Apart from a call to his home number at 17:49 on Wednesday evening, there were no other calls in or out until 23:17 when his home number called him. The phone was in our lab then and his wife … I assume it was her, left a message asking when he was likely to get home.”
“That checks out,” Stainmore added. “Mrs Weaver said she’d called him last night to find out what he was doing.”
“And no other numbers of interest on his phone records?” Strong asked.
Norris shook his head.
Strong contemplated this for a second.
“There is one other thing,” Doug Norris continued, “In the adjacent cubicle to where we found the body, the top to the high-level cistern had been moved.” He pinned a couple of photos to the board to reinforce the news. “Might not be anything to do with last night, but we lifted some prints from the cover. No matches as yet.”
“What about Weaver’s car, Doug? Any news on the forensics sweep?” Strong asked.
“Still on with it,” Norris replied. “We got some prints from the passenger side as well as the interior light switch which were smaller than that of the deceased. Now they could be Mrs Weaver’s but we’ll need hers to compare.”
“John, Kelly, could one of you organise that?” Hemingford instructed.
Darby nodded.
“I’ll speak to the FLO to arrange something,” Stainmore said.
“Make sure she treads carefully, Kelly,” Strong warned. “We don’t want to compound Mrs Weaver’s grief.”
“We can also try and get DNA from some of the surfaces on that side of the car,” Norris went on. “But what we did get was some material from under the finger nails of the deceased’s right hand – nothing on the left – and we’re analysing that now too.”
“How long before we can get some comparisons off the database?” Strong asked.
“Middle of next week, I’d hope.”
“That’s got to be a priority.” Hemingford said. “In the meantime, anything from any work colleagues as to what he might have been up to?”
Strong voiced his opinion that he thought there was more to glean from that avenue and that he intended to speak to another of Weaver’s team later in the day.
Hemingford brought the briefing to a close by quickly summarising duties for the various officers.
Ormerod leaned over to Strong as Hemingford left the room. “That displaced cistern cover, guv,” he said. “I’m wondering if Weaver stumbled across something he shouldn’t have.”
Strong shrugged. “Somebody placing something in the cistern? But what? Drugs?”
Stainmore joined them. “Not heard of drugs being distributed from there, but it might be worth checking with the Drugs Squad in Leeds, Luke,” she suggested.
“I’ll get on it.” Ormerod walked back to his desk.
Stainmore waited until he was out of earshot before addressing Strong. “Don’t forget we’re off to see Mrs Monk at ten.”
16
Souter came back down the stairs from Chandler’s office with a smile on his face. He’d been up to see the Deputy Editor to persuade him that Susan Brown could become involved to help him in the task of speaking to Claire Hobson’s parents and producing some appropriate articles. The only concession Chandler insisted on was having Susan’s university exercise run by him first.
“Good pieces you and Janey have put together on the Wakefield park murder, by the way,” Chandler said as Souter was set to leave his office. “Anything interesting to follow up?”
Souter nodded. “There are a few avenues to explore,” he said.
Back in the newsroom, Souter sat down at his workstation. On the other side of the half-height partition he could hear Janey Clarke busily tapping away on her keyboard.
“Chandler liked our stories,” he said over the top. He heard her stop.
“I suppose you claimed total responsibility?” Janey was on her feet looking over at him.
“As if I would,” he said with his best innocent look. “No, seriously, he made some positive noises. It was a good source finding out the victim’s identity ahead of the pack.”
“Hmm,” she said, clearly not impressed. “So why didn’t you use some of the details your old dog-walker told you?”
“Thinking ahead. I didn’t want to piss West Yorkshire off too much.” He thought of Colin. “I’ve also got some other angle I want to check out first.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you sharing that then?” she asked.
“Correct,” he said, turning back to his computer screen.
“Arsehole,” he heard her say under her breath as she sat back down. That brought a broad smile to his face.
After dealing with a few emails, Souter made his way to the Archive Room.
As soon as his head appeared round the door, Phyllis pounced. “Ah, Mr Souter … I mean Bob,” she said.
He was amused that although he insisted she call him by his first name, old habits die hard. Phyllis was a different generation who wasn’t used to informality.
“Yes Phyllis,” he said.
She stood up and picked a pile of sheets from her desk. “I thought you might appreciate these.” She held them out to him. “After your last visit, I thought you might be doing something to mark the twentieth anniversary in a few weeks.”
Souter looked at the top sheet; a print-out of the front page of the Yorkshire Post from Monday 8th March 1982. Flicking through some more, he saw that they appeared to be subsequent reports on the progress of the murder enquiry as it unfolded back then. He looked up and smiled. “This is great. I was just coming in to look all this out.” He took a step towards her, leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You’re a star. Thanks.”
“Oh, well …” she flustered, coloured up then walked back to her desk.
Souter sat down and began to study the sheets, making notes as he went.
After half an hour, he tidied everything up and walked out to the car park. He needed to make a couple of calls.
17
Stainmore knocked on Strong’s office door just after ten past nine.
He beckoned her in.
“I’ve spoken to the Leeds FLO and she’s arranging for Mrs Weaver’s prints to be taken. Just routine to eliminate hers from his car, I told her.”
Strong raised his eyebrows. “This FLO, she doesn’t know we think there was someone else in the car with him on Wednesday night, does she?”
“I only said we were looking at the possibility of others trying the door handles when it was parked.”
“You know the more I think about it, the more I think he was having an affair with someone he worked with.”
“I know that’s a possibility,” Stainmore responded, “but what makes you more certain?”
“The phone records. If he was arranging to meet there would have been a call, either received or made, to confirm or arrange the meet. But if he worked with them, then he would have fixed it up at the office.”
“Fair point, guv.”
Strong was thoughtful for a second, before focusing on the Monk enquiry. “So whereabouts are we actually going?”
“Denby Dale. Just off the main A636.”
He glanced at his watch. “I suppose we better head off.” Closing the file he’d been studying, he opened a desk drawer, placed it inside then locked it. “Don’t want anyone to start wondering what I’m doing with a copy of a personnel file,” he said.
At that time of the day, despite the rain, it was a pleasant drive to Denby Dale. The town itself was famous for baking pies at various points in history since 1788.
“Did you know,” Strong was saying, “They hold the record for the largest meat and potato pie in the world.”
“Amazing,” Stainmore said, feigning boredom.
“Yep, and the last one was bak
ed in 2000 to celebrate the Millennium. The first slice cut by Barnsley cricket umpire Dickie Bird.”
“Who?”
He smiled as he glanced over to Stainmore. “You’ll be glad of that one day if you’re ever asked in a pub quiz.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, but he could see the grin form on her face.
Traffic was light as they passed through Clayton West then Scissett before turning off the main road to the right as they entered Denby Dale itself. By the time they got there, the drizzle that had been steadily falling all morning had stopped and a couple of breaks had appeared in the clouds.
Annabel Monk’s house turned out to be a neat semi-detached bungalow in a quiet street on a small estate of similar properties. The front garden had small manicured lawns either side of the path separated by borders containing pruned rose bushes, all clear of weeds.
The knock on the door was answered by a woman they knew to be forty-eight.
“Mrs Monk?” Stainmore enquired. “I’m DS Kelly Stainmore. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Yes, come in,” the woman said.
“And can I introduce my superior, Detective Inspector Strong.” Stainmore smiled at the woman. “Normally I’d conduct these visits on my own but, as I said yesterday, we were planning to be nearby on other business, so it made sense.”
“That’s okay,” she said, standing to one side to allow the officers to enter, “Gary’s just putting the kettle on.”
“Mrs Monk,” Strong greeted.
As they passed, he noticed that she was a couple of inches shorter than Stainmore.
Annabel Monk showed them into a neat comfortable living room with a lit gas fire on a low setting.
A moment later the tall dark-haired figure of the young man Strong recognised as the constable he’d spoken to on Wednesday night appeared.
“Hello Gary,” Strong said, holding out a hand,
Monk shook it. “Sir,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“I’ve just been with DS Stainmore on some other business over Holmfirth way and she’d organised to call in on the way back to Wood Street.”