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

by David Evans

  “I’m not sure. I only got a brief glance.”

  Strong turned to Ormerod. “Luke, do you reckon you could flesh out Mr Pearson’s descriptions here and see if it would be worth trying to create some sort of artistic impression?”

  Pearson grew nervous again. “Look, I’m only on my lunch break. I wouldn’t want to …”

  “We understand. We’ll be as quick as possible,” Ormerod said.

  “There is one other thing,” Pearson added, “The younger man seemed quite nervous. As he approached, he kept switching on a torch and sweeping it round and about.”

  “And after the shorter man spoke to you, what did you do?” Strong asked.

  “I left. I wasn’t hanging around when he seemed so aggressive.”

  “And did you see anyone else?”

  Pearson thought for a moment. “Only some old bloke with a dog.”

  “Okay, Mr Pearson, thanks for coming in.” Strong stood and indicated Ormerod. “My colleague here will be as quick as possible.”

  Strong left Ormerod to it and bounded up the stairs to the CID room. He could see a handful of detectives on the phone or head down on their computers. Kelly Stainmore looked up from her desk as he walked in. She stood and approached him as he studied the board for the Weaver murder.

  “How did you get on, guv?” she asked.

  “Oh, Brannigan?” He looked over to the other whiteboard with the photographs, lines and names relating to the Thompson murder. “Yes, reluctant at first but admitted to ‘looking for Mark Thompson’ because he ‘wanted to do him a favour’, whatever that meant. However …” He turned back to the board in front of him and tapped the comments below Pemberton, the dog walker’s name. “Downstairs, Luke is taking a statement and some descriptions from a witness who saw two men approach the toilet block on Wednesday night shortly before Weaver was murdered. I think he was the solitary individual Mr Pemberton saw.”

  “Sounds promising,” she said.

  He turned away from the board. “So what have you been up to this morning?”

  I’ve been down to Thompson’s flat on South Street.” She thumbed towards the other whiteboard. “First floor in the block. A bit scruffy, second-hand furniture, threadbare carpets and not a lot of personal belongings. SOCO are down there seeing what they can find. Looks like he had female company recently though. A nice lipstick stain on a mug that hadn’t been washed up and some make-up wipes in the bathroom.”

  “No sign of violence there?” Strong asked.

  “No, nothing. We found bank and credit card statements, so I’ve been in contact and they’ll call if there’s any activity on the accounts.”

  “What about nosy neighbours? Anything useful there?”

  “I’ve left Trevor down there seeing if anyone’s around,” Stainmore answered. “Anyway, when do you want to head out to speak to Mrs Thompson again?”

  He studied his watch. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll come and get you.”

  “Fine,” she said and made her way back to her desk.

  Strong meanwhile studied the board for a few seconds longer then walked back to his office and closed the door. As he sat down, his desk phone rang.

  “Strong,” he announced.

  “Colin, it’s Bob. How are you?” the unmistakable voice of his old friend sounded through the earpiece.

  “Up to my armpits in it, mate,” Strong said. “Anyway, how’s that woman of yours?”

  “Last week at work this week. She’ll be putting her feet up for a bit now.”

  “I don’t think she’ll see it that way. No problems though?”

  “So far so good. But I just thought before we get too close to the delivery date, I wondered if you fancied a pint tonight?”

  “Oh I don’t know, we’ve got a lot on at the moment,” Strong responded.

  “Including the body in the bin I stumbled across on Saturday afternoon?”

  “Yep, that too.” Strong glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ll ring you a bit later, I’ve just got to go out but …” He considered for a moment. “We could have one in the Black Horse maybe. Catch you later.”

  32

  Andy stared at the unzipped holdall then looked to Felicity. For the past half an hour, they’d told each other everything. Felicity spoke of her idea to make George Brannigan pay, literally, for the way he treated her mother; the plan she hatched to fake her abduction and, most regretted of all, the involvement of her cousin Mark with such tragic consequences. Andy had paced the room, anger rising and subsiding as she expanded on the details. Andy, for his part, related the events of Wednesday night in the public toilets in the park; the interruption by the man now known to be Marcus Weaver and Brannigan’s actions. Felicity had become incensed at this. Now, they were both calm, Felicity sitting on the bed, Andy standing by the dressing table.

  “We can’t use that money, Felicity,” he said.

  “But this is our chance,” she pleaded. “He owes me for how he treated Mum.”

  Andy shook his head. “This money … it’s tainted. How can we use it knowing what had been lost to get it? Your mother wouldn’t want us to.”

  “My mother suffered at his hands.”

  “And now two more people have suffered.” He turned away, hands on his head and stared out of the window. After a few seconds, he turned back to face her. “Jesus, Felicity, if you can’t see that.”

  “So what do you suggest we do? I’m not giving it back.”

  “You have to. It’s not yours.”

  Felicity had persuaded Andy they needed a break, so here they were in a guest house bedroom in Whitby finally talking. Andy’s boss wasn’t best pleased to get the phone call that morning saying he had a family emergency to deal with. Andy had put a lot in to his job over the past year and so his boss had reluctantly accepted the situation.

  “Have you spoken to your Aunty June since she called to tell you?” Andy asked.

  “No,” Felicity said. “I suppose I should really.” She took her mobile phone from her handbag. “Christ,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “Three missed calls from him; Brannigan.”

  Andy checked his phone. “Me too. He’ll be round to the flat soon, if he hasn’t been already.”

  Felicity dialled a number and waited.

  Andy listened to one side of the conversation between Felicity and June Thompson. A few surprised and shocked expressions passed over her face during it.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Andy mouthed several times only to be waved away.

  Eventually, the conversation ended. Felicity, leant back on the bed, put the phone down and sighed.

  Andy, standing in front of her, was growing impatient. “What did she say?”

  “He’d been round.”

  “Who?”

  “Brannigan, who do you think?”

  “What, looking for us?”

  “No, you idiot. On Friday night looking for Mark.”

  Andy sat down on the bed next to her. “Christ,” he said quietly. “That’s who you meant when you said you thought you knew who had done it.”

  “Well who else can it be? Within hours of him turning up trying to find Mark, Mark ends up dead.” She looked across at Andy. “Shit, we can’t go back now. He’ll be after us. He must know.”

  “But let’s be sensible, Felicity, we’re not going to get far on thirty grand now, are we?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I gave a thousand to Mark.”

  33

  The Black Horse pub on Westgate was pretty full. Strong and Souter were standing in the middle of the main room, pints in hand. Normally they’d prefer to sit down. They’d already decided to move on somewhere quieter for the next one.

  “So you must be up to your eyeballs then, Col,” Souter said. “Two murders on the go.”

  “It’s a bit hectic, I must admit.”

  “Have you made any progress?”

  Strong grin
ned at his friend. “Only what you read in the papers.”

  “Still not found the woman then?” Souter threw in before taking a mouthful of his pint.

  “What woman?”

  “The one with … oh, what’s his name now?” Souter made a point of appearing to trawl his memory. “Weaver. On Wednesday night.”

  “How did you know …” Strong should have guessed by now that nothing ever surprised him at what his friend could find out. “I don’t suppose you have?” he asked.

  “Not exactly but I do know who might.”

  Strong shook his head and took a sip of his beer. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me?” He gazed over his friend’s shoulder to the bar.

  Souter rocked his head from side to side. “Mmm, might do,” he said. “Depends what you’ve got for me.”

  Strong looked back to Souter and gave a wry smile. “So what are you working on?”

  “Apart from your same two murder cases …” Souter paused. “Well, actually … I don’t know if I should tell you.”

  .“Come on, Bob, don’t be a prat all your life.”

  “Okay,” he said, took a gulp of beer then continued, “Do you remember Claire Hobson?”

  Strong felt his heart rate quicken and the colour flush his cheeks. “I do actually,” he said. “What about her?”

  “Is there something going on I should know about, Col?” Souter had probably worked out he’d hit a nerve.

  Strong drifted off, his attention focused towards the bar. He’d noticed the short blonde woman frequently looking over at them. He was puzzled; he knew her from somewhere but couldn’t think where.

  Souter followed his friend’s gaze. “You pulled?” he said.

  After another glance and a word with the man she was standing with, the woman walked over to them. She gave a quick glance to Souter. “Nice stilettos, Bob,” she said before locking onto Colin, “but Colin, Lurex is so last year.”

  A huge grin broke out over Strong’s face. “Bernice, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, laughing. “Bernice Fowler, as was but I prefer Bernie now, Bernie Steadman.”

  “I thought you looked familiar.”

  Bob’s expression told her he’d remembered her too. He looked her up and down then leaned in closer. “Listen Bernie, don’t take this the wrong way but, if I were you, I’d get my money back for the sex-change operation.”

  She slapped his arm. “You always were a cheeky beggar, Bob Souter. Anyway, I see you doing well; name in print regularly.”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “And you, Colin. You’re in CID now, they tell me.”

  “And they’d be right. But what about you? Where have you been for the past twenty-odd years?”

  “It’s a long story but …”

  “Are you with that bloke over there,” Souter interrupted, indicating the man standing at the bar. “He seems to be a bit agitated.”

  The man in a smart jacket she’d been speaking to earlier was looking over and pointing at his watch.

  “That’s my husband,” Bernie said. “Sorry boys but I’ve got to go. We’ve got tickets for the Theatre Royal over the road. Been great to see you both. You’re looking well.” With that, she turned and walked back towards the bar. Linking arms with her husband, she left the pub without a backward glance.

  Souter looked at Strong. “Well that was a surprise,” he said. “Little Bernice Fowler. She was a nice little looker at school; too short for us though.” Strong didn’t react. “I said too short …”

  Strong was deep in thought. “Didn’t she have an older brother?” he finally pondered.

  “I think so, but I didn’t fancy him.”

  “What?” Strong glanced at his friend, slightly annoyed. “No I mean, she had an older brother. Now he looked nothing like her or her parents.” He was thinking back to a different time. “I seemed to remember rumours ...”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about, Col.”

  Strong stared at his friend. “Like Mr Fowler wasn’t her brother’s real dad.”

  Souter drained his glass and shrugged. “I don’t really remember. Another?”

  “Go on, then,” Strong responded. “There’s a table over there, people have thinned out to go to the theatre. I thought it was unusually busy.”

  When Souter came back with the drinks, Strong carried on the conversation. “Why did you ask about Claire Hobson just now?”

  Souter carefully centred his glass on the mat then proceeded to tell Strong about the commission he’d been asked to carry out for the paper.

  “So you’re basically doing a, what do they call it now, a human interest perspective on how the murder affected the family?”

  “Exactly that. Plus, of course, the usual appeal for new information.”

  Strong took a sip. “So when is this likely to hit the streets?”

  “I think Chandler’s looking for it to coincide with the twentieth anniversary at the beginning of March.”

  “I’d best mention it to the DCS then,” Strong said. “Are you going to be talking to him?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. I mean, he wasn’t here twenty years ago. But I suppose if I’m making a request for new information, it would make sense to speak to him.”

  Strong folded his arms and studied his friend. “So who knows who this mystery woman is then, Bob?”

  “Ah well, this Marcus Weaver character worked at the same place as Alison … and Sammy, of course.”

  “Ah …”

  “Sammy saw you and Kelly Stainmore come in the other day. But you didn’t notice her. I thought you were detectives?”

  “Piss off.” Strong sipped his beer. “So Alison – or Sammy – has told you who it is.”

  “Well no, not exactly. I heard them talking about it the other day and how Sammy thinks she knows who it might be. She’s not sure, but you know what she’s like, she will find out.”

  “So I’d best interview Sammy then?” Strong said, a smile breaking on his face.

  * * *

  Sammy sat down at the small table that doubled as a work station in the flat she and Susan rented in Leeds. Susan had made the meal that they’d eaten earlier that evening and they were now keen to do something productive.

  Sammy produced the piece of paper Susan had given her on Saturday. “So, these names you want me to find, Suz?”

  “Oh, yeah, hold on.” Susan rummaged in her handbag for a notebook then flipped it open. “I’ve got a couple more on here for you,” she said and pointed to a list.

  “Right,” Sammy said, firing up the laptop they shared. “I can’t really do this on the computers at work anymore.” She sipped a coffee Susan had fetched from the kitchen. “They’ve clamped down on what sites we can visit and they’ve got some new virus and spyware software, so they’d know.”

  Susan walked over to the settee and flopped down, feet up. “Be interesting to see what you come up with. Bob and I will need to talk to them about Claire Hobson.” Susan picked up a book, found her place and began to read.

  After a few minutes, Sammy looked over at her friend. “Well, here’s the last address for Kenneth Green,” she said, jotting down the details next to his name in Susan’s notebook.

  “We worked out he must be twenty-nine now,” she threw over her shoulder.

  “Spot on.” Sammy continued writing. “Looks like he’s married and, this could be handy, he lives in Ossett.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Sometime later, Sammy spoke again. “This is weird,” she said.

  “What is?” Susan asked.

  “I can find no record of Paul Nichols since 1990.”

  Susan placed her book open and face down on the floor to keep her place. “He would have been eighteen then,” she said thoughtfully, rising to her feet.

  “Last known address back then in Horbury.” Sammy made a note.

  Susan studied the list with the updates written on. “I think you’ll find that one is London s
omewhere,” she said, pointing to one name. “But she should be local.”

  “Okay, onwards and upwards,” Sammy sighed. She looked up at her friend and grinned. “Another coffee might help.”

  Halfway through her drink, Sammy had indeed confirmed a London address for the name she had. But not long after that, she stopped and leaned back in the chair. “Oh, bloody hell,” she said softly.

  Susan put her book down and sat up. “What do you mean, ‘Oh, bloody hell’?”

  “Come and have a look at this.”

  Susan swung her legs off the sofa and walked over to where Sammy sat in front of the computer screen. She pointed to a name and address.

  “What about it?” Susan asked.

  Sammy then explained.

  34

  Tuesday 19th February 2002

  “George will be looking for us you know?” Andy lay on the bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. He’d also been following the progress of a spider in the corner above the wardrobe.

  Felicity sat on an old chair in front of the 1950s dressing table mirror, applying her make up. “Let him. He won’t find us.”

  He sat up. “Please Felicity, you have to give it back.”

  She glanced at him in the mirror and continued with her mascara. “I didn’t go through all that for nothing.”

  “Go through what?” Andy’s raised his voice slightly. “You haven’t been through anything. While you were with Mark, I was worrying myself sick with your odd-ball step-dad.” He stood up. “And you didn’t see what he did to that bloke,” he added in a quieter voice.

  “And neither did you from what you told me earlier.”

  “No, but I saw the results. And don’t forget, he roped me in afterwards.”

  She spun round. “He’s a shit. And that’s why I’m keeping this.” She tapped the bag at her feet below the dressing table.

  He looked at his wife as if he didn’t recognise her. “I’m going out.” He picked up his coat from the back of a chair and put it on. “I need some air,” he said, opening the door.

  “Where are you going? I’ll come with you, if you give me a minute.”

  “I need to clear my head. I’ll see you later.”