by David Evans
“Would you like some tea?” Monk offered. “I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
Strong and Stainmore accepted the offer. “Actually Gary,” Stainmore said, “we could probably conduct the interview in the kitchen, if that’s okay.”
“Well, about that …” Gary looked puzzled. “I don’t quite understand. I had some DS from Dewsbury come and speak to me back in August.”
“So I believe but the paperwork isn’t on file and they want me to conduct the home interview again, just to complete the process.” Stainmore rolled her eyes. “I tell you, the HR department are useless.”
Strong chuckled. “You’ll find that out for yourself soon enough Gary, once you’ve had a few years in. I’ll stay here with your mum, if that’s okay.”
A few minutes later, with Gary and Stainmore in the kitchen, Strong was seated on the settee in the living room with Mrs Monk on one of the armchairs, mugs of tea in front of them.
“How do you feel about Gary being in the police, Mrs Monk?” he asked.
“Please, call me Annabel,” she said. “I worry, of course but it’s what he really wants to do, so ...” She sipped her tea and looked to some framed photographs on a unit by the side of the fireplace. “I suppose after Richard died, it sort of focussed his mind on what he wanted out of life.”
Strong followed her gaze. “Richard was your husband? Gary’s dad?”
“Yes. He was only fifty.”
Strong stood up and walked over to the unit. “May I?”
She nodded and got to her feet. “That was one of the last photos of us together,” she said as Strong picked up one of the frames. “Christmas 1999; in this room. We’d decorated it like we always did. Gary loves Christmas, always has done.”
Strong studied the image of Annabel leaning in towards a fair-haired man with a chubby face, both wearing paper hats, no doubt pulled from a Christmas cracker. “What happened?” Strong asked. “Sorry,” he added quickly, “I quite understand if you don’t want to …”
“That’s okay,” she replied. “Sometimes I find it quite cathartic you know, talking about him. I miss him every day.”
Strong looked at her and placed a hand on her arm. “I can understand that,” he said.
“It was his heart,” she went on. “He had an undiagnosed weakness. He liked his food, as you can probably tell.” She smiled at the photo. “He was carrying a bit of excess weight.” She looked off into nowhere, seemingly drifting into an unseen distance before returning to the living room. “He’d just got back into his car at work to leave for home and collapsed. The paramedics reckoned he was dead instantly.” She looked up at Strong. “I suppose the only good thing was that he hadn’t set off driving. He might have taken some other poor innocent souls with him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Annabel. Fifty’s no age.”
“No, it wasn’t. But that’s the hand I’ve been dealt,” she said philosophically, resuming her seat.
Strong put the photograph back where he’d found it. “You keep a very tidy garden, I’ve got to say,” he said glancing to the front window.
“Actually, that was Richard’s pride and joy. I try to keep it as he would have liked. The back was our little oasis. Would you like to see?”
Strong thought for a second. “Yes. Yes I would,” he replied. “My Dad is big into gardening and he does a bit for me, but I’m always interested in other people’s ideas. What grows well for them.”
“It’s not at its best at the moment but there again, it is only February. I’ll be getting back out there and preparing for the season next month.” She led the way out into the hallway and past the door to the kitchen before unlocking the back door and stepping out into the garden.
The plot was long. Another neatly trimmed lawn with a pathway down one side led to two large empty vegetable plots, a greenhouse, a cold frame and a large potting shed at the far end.
Strong followed her down the path.
In the kitchen, Gary sat at the small table opposite Stainmore with his back to the window, Stainmore had run through a few of the standard questions when she paused, catching sight of Mrs Monk and Strong walking down the garden path.
Gary turned, following her gaze. “That’ll be Mum showing Mr Strong her pride and joy. She loves the garden, although Dad was the prime mover, she always got involved.” He turned back. “Since he’s gone, she’s sort of thrown herself into it. Almost as if she’d be letting him down.”
“I was sorry to hear about your father, Gary,” Stainmore said. She watched as Mrs Monk opened the door to a shed at the bottom of the garden and led Strong inside.
“Thanks,” was all he said.
“So, as I was saying, we normally run through a few scenarios and check that your responses are appropriate for a police officer, but seeing as how you’re now, what, two weeks into the job, it seems a bit irrelevant.”
“Beginning of the month, yes,” he confirmed.
“So what are your first impressions of the real thing?” Stainmore’s attention was caught by Strong’s re-emergence from the shed, clutching what looked like an old shirt.
“Well, a bit of excitement the other night, of course,” Gary responded. “I was at the park murder in Wakefield then helped with some door-to-door enquiries.”
Stainmore smiled at the man. “It’s not all as high-profile as that.” She began to tidy up her paperwork.
“No, I realise that. But I like my mentor and I think I’ll enjoy the job.”
“Any longer term ambitions?” Stainmore asked as she noted Gary’s mother and Strong arriving at the back door.
“CID, I suppose, or Traffic.”
“Best of luck then, Gary. No doubt we’ll come across each other from time to time.” She held out her hand and he shook it.
As Strong pulled away from the kerb heading back towards the main road, Stainmore looked at him. “Go on then, what’s the story with the old shirt?”
Strong gave a short laugh. “I couldn’t believe it myself, Kelly,” he said, pausing to check for a gap in the traffic on the main road. A car flashed its lights to let him in and he held up a hand in acknowledgement before accelerating away. “She insisted I view the garden, which was a labour of love, I must say.” He glanced at Stainmore. “And when she showed me the potting shed and said how her late husband Robert used to keep everything in neat order and that she hadn’t been able throw anything out or even remove his favourite shirt he used for gardening, well… The thought just came to me.”
She looked over to the back seat where the plaid shirt had been placed in a plastic evidence bag on the rear seats. “What did?” she asked.
“I heard myself make up some tale about how our senior SOCO is conducting research into how long, in practical terms, DNA can be obtained from clothing after the wearer has discarded it.” Strong couldn’t help smiling to himself.
“But if she was so attached to her husband’s possessions, how come she let you take that away?”
“I suppose she trusts me. I told her it would only take a day or two and she would have it back unharmed. The fact that we can pinpoint that it was almost two years to the day since he last wore it means that it would provide a very useful fixed measure for our forensics team,” he said. “In this research project they’re working on,” he added quickly. “It may help in some small way on future cases.”
Stainmore raised her eyebrows. “And she believed that guff?”
Strong moved his head towards the back. “It’s there, isn’t it?”
“And what if it does prove that Richard Monk was responsible for the rape and murder of Claire Hobson?”
Strong drew a deep breath before answering. “Well then I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“Gary won’t be fooled by that load of old bollocks though, will he?”
“Maybe not, but the important thing is we’ll know for sure.” He looked across at Stainmore briefly. “What happens then can be for Flynn to decide.”
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“So where to now?”
He glanced at his watch. “I think we should return to Weaver’s office and hear what Bill Crossley has to say.”
18
“You didn’t have to come back just to give me a lift in to work, you know.” Felicity checked her teeth and lipstick in the vanity mirror on the car’s sun visor.
“Look, it was the last time you walked in to town when you were grabbed, so there’s no way I’m letting you go on your own today.” Andy was driving them in his VW Golf towards the centre of Wakefield.
Felicity looked across at him. “What about your work?”
“It’s lunch time.” Andy appeared stressed. “As long as I’m back for half one, it’ll be fine.”
He drew to a halt outside the salon. A few heads under dryers were visible and he recognised a couple of Felicity’s fellow stylists.
She leaned over and kissed him. “Love you,” she said then wriggled in the seat and undid her seatbelt.
“Love you too.” He hoped he sounded sincere; still far from satisfied with her sketchy account of what had occurred. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She stepped out of the car and he watched her walk to the salon. She turned and waved before disappearing inside.
On the other side of the street, George Brannigan looked in the window of a shop. Reflected in the glass, he watched the touching scene play out; the final turn and wave before Andy pulled away from the kerb. She seemed calm, he thought, too calm for someone who’d just been freed from a recent kidnap situation. He needed to talk to her – on her own without Andy interrupting. She definitely knew more than she was letting on, he was sure of that. He’d let her settle in then call into the salon and confront her there.
As Brannigan watched, another vaguely familiar figure approached the hairdresser’s. He racked his brains to remember who it was. A young lad, younger than Andy but taller and with darker hair. He was carrying a small holdall. He glanced around before entering the shop.
Felicity had taken off her coat in the staff room at the rear of the shop and was making a coffee before bracing herself for the perm Mrs Crowther would want when she turned up for her appointment in about fifteen minutes. It wasn’t carrying out the hairstyle that she was dreading, more the endless chatter telling her how successful her eldest daughter was.
She came out from the back and glanced up as the salon door opened. Mark appeared, furtively looking around. He spotted her and she beckoned him over.
“It’s my cousin,” she said by way of explanation to Sharon, the owner. “Just bringing something in for me.”
Sharon continued combing and cutting the hair of her client, paying no further attention.
Mark followed Felicity through to the staff room at the rear.
“I thought you were coming later,” she hissed. “After dark to avoid being seen as much as possible.”
“I just want to get rid. I’m getting worried about this.”
She checked no one was within earshot then continued in hushed tones. “Look, everything’s fine.”
“Yeah but you’re not the one walking round with a load of cash.”
“I didn’t want to leave it in here for too long either.” She held his gaze for a second. “Okay, let’s sort it now.” She took the holdall from him and unzipped it. Her face lit up in a broad smile when she saw the banknotes inside. “Have you checked it?” she asked him.
“Of course.”
“And it’s all there?”
He nodded.
“Have you separated your share?”
Mark pointed inside. “That’s it there in the plastic bag.”
She pulled the bag out from the holdall. “Thanks Mark,” she said and passed it over to him. “Put that out of sight and we keep a low profile for a while.” She zipped the holdall back up then placed it in one of six lockers against the rear wall of the staff room. She locked it and put the key in her pocket.
Mark tucked the plastic bag into an inside pocket of his jacket. “You know he’ll be round to speak to you?” he said.
“It’ll be fine. Anyway, he doesn’t know you were involved.”
Mark’s head was down, talking to his shoes. “He’s one unstable bastard though, from what you’ve said in the past. Then there’s what happened on Wednesday night.” He looked up at Felicity. “Has Andy told you what happened?”
“No, I haven’t pressed him.” She gave a brief smile. “But there again, he hasn’t really pushed me for what happened either.” She sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to talk soon. But I just want to finalise some plans first.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Concern was etched on Mark’s face.
“Trust me, it’ll be fine. Now …” she put an arm on his to guide him out. “You need to go. You can’t be seen here. Just stay out of sight. I’ll contact you when things have calmed down.”
He paused and looked her in the eye. “You take care of yourself now, won’t you?”
“I’ll be fine. Now go.”
19
Souter had called Susan and told her that Chandler had agreed to her involvement in his project. Then he’d called the number Chandler had given him for Claire Hobson’s mother. It turned out to be a work number. She was a receptionist for a doctors’ surgery near the town centre. After a brief introduction, telling her he was following up on what he’d been asked to do by his Deputy Editor, Louise Hobson suggested he call round tomorrow afternoon when both she and her husband, Michael, would be around to talk about the article.
The rest of the morning he spent working through some leads for more information on the Weaver murder and a few other stories he was working on. About to get up and make himself a coffee, his mobile rang. He recognised the number. “Hi Sammy, how’s everything?”
Sammy told him she was meeting Susan for lunch, a celebration of the end of the week and did he want to join them?
He glanced at the clock on the wall; a quarter to twelve, and gave it careful consideration for all of a nanosecond. “Okay, I’ll see you then,” he said, deciding a pint was more inviting than a coffee.
Tucked away on Swan Street, a narrow thoroughfare running parallel to The Headrow, was The White Swan pub, one of Souter’s favourite areas of Leeds. In close proximity was another venue he loved, the delightful Horse and Trumpet; and between the two, the world-famous City Varieties Music Hall.
At just after half past twelve, he strolled in through the doors and spotted Sammy and Susan sitting at a table. The place was buzzing, people standing around, dozens of conversations going on and the odd outbreak of raucous laughter. He caught their eye and mimed the offer of drinks. They both shook their heads, Sammy holding up her glass of white wine and Susan her half of lager.
At the long narrow bar he selected a pint of Leeds Brewery bitter and ordered himself a steak pie chips and peas. Indicating where he’d be sitting, the barmaid said someone would bring his food over.
He made his way through the throng to join the girls at their table and sat down.
“Susan tells me you’ve managed to get her involved in the interview of Claire Hobson’s parents,” Sammy said, once he’d placed his pint on a mat.
“I managed with a bit of persuasion,” Souter said, a wry smile on his face.
Susan leaned forward. “So what do we know?”
Souter summarised what he’d been able to ascertain from the archives. Nobody now on the Post team had been around when the murder occurred in 1982.
“So we’re focusing on the effect that the unsolved crime has had on the family,” Susan said, more of a statement than a question.
“That’ll be one of the aims, yes. The other, of course will be to appeal for new information.”
“After all this time?” Sammy was disbelieving.
The conversation was interrupted by food being brought to the girls. “Yours is just coming,” the waitress said to Souter.
He waited until the waitress had retreated. “You’d be
surprised,” he said. “Situations change. Wives and girlfriends who aren’t close to boyfriends or husbands any more perhaps remember something that didn’t add up around that time. They no longer feel they have loyalties they once had or the need to give them the benefit of any doubts.”
“Yes I can see that,” Susan said.
Another interruption as Souter’s plate was delivered. “Thanks, love,” he said.
“And what about the lads who found her,” Sammy wondered. “Are you planning on speaking to them?”
“They were only nine and ten. We didn’t identify them and Chandler hasn’t said anything about them, only to concentrate on the Hobson family.”
“I’ll bet Colin will know who they are,” Susan added.
“I’m not speaking to him about that,” Souter snapped. “He’s still a bit pissed off with me with that business last year. Besides, I’m not sure he could go digging around an old case like that, not without drawing attention to himself. No, we’ll just do what Chandler has asked.” He took a swig of his pint.
Susan looked at Sammy who gave a small shrug.
“Sorry,” Souter said. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“That’s okay,” Susan said. “I understand if things are still a bit raw.”
Souter chose to ignore her comment and tucked into his meal. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again. “Any further gossip from your office, Sammy? Alison said you thought Weaver might have been having an affair with a woman who works there.”
Sammy lined up her knife and fork having finished her meal and took a sip of wine before answering. “There are a couple of possibilities, thinking about it.”
“Busy man,” Susan remarked.
“No, I’m not saying both of them. But I’ll do a bit more detective work; see what I can pick up.”
The rest of the lunchtime break was spent chatting about what Susan had to do to complete her coursework for the second year of her Broadcast Journalism course and what Alison had to look forward to with the birth of the baby.