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

by David Evans

  “Who doesn’t.”

  Ormerod took a photograph from inside his coat. “Is this Mr Brannigan’s car, do you think?” He placed a still image from the CCTV footage from the Friday night in front of the youth.

  A split second of recognition spread over his face before he became suspicious. “What’s this about?” he asked. “You’re police, right?”

  “We’re just trying to help Mr Brannigan in an insurance matter,” Strong joined in. “Now, do you think this is his BMW?”

  The youth studied the photograph. “It could be his. But can’t you enhance this, or whatever you do and get the number plate? That’s what they do on the telly.”

  Strong looked to Ormerod. “He’s a bright lad, Luke.” Turning back to him he said, “No, you see mate, not all cameras are that good – cost savings and all that.”

  The lad sat back from the desk. “Like I say, it could be. It’s definitely a 5 series.”

  As Strong and Ormerod came into the station through the door from the car park, Trevor Newell spotted them.

  “Ah, guv,” he said. “I’ve just been back to the hairdressing salon where this Felicity woman works. You know the one identified by Thompson’s neighbour as having been seen with him the day before he died.”

  “Yes Trevor,” Strong said, leading the group up the stairs to the CID room.

  “Well, according to her boss, Sharon, Felicity Barrett, as she’s called, has suddenly left. No notice, just rung in yesterday to say she wouldn’t be coming back.”

  Strong paused at the door to the Incident Room. “Felicity?”

  “That’s right. Name mean anything to you?”

  Strong was thoughtful. “Maybe. And no previous indication she’d do something like this?”

  “No, guv. She’d had a few days off at the beginning of the week then just dropped this on her out of the blue. Left her in a bit of a mess, apparently. Felicity was quite popular and had a lot of women booked in.”

  “Do you have a home address?”

  Newell flicked open his notebook. “A flat on College Grove View.”

  “Right. Get over there and see what you can find out. Be discreet with neighbours if you can.”

  42

  It was early afternoon when Strong and Stainmore walked out to his Mondeo to take the shirt back to Annabel. As they set off, she asked how he and Ormerod had fared with the visit to Brannigan. Strong told her of the conversation with the youth.

  “So he’s still a person of interest then?” she said.

  “It would seem so,” Strong replied. “But I’d like to see the car in the flesh first. It’s just a pity the quality of the images is so poor. It might be worth trying to have them enhanced but only if we can find something distinctive about it.”

  They fell silent for a few miles before Stainmore spoke again. “So, how do you plan broaching this one, guv?”

  “I thought we’d suck it and see. I just told her I was returning her husband’s shirt and we’d be in the area.”

  “Again?”

  “Not beyond the bounds of possibility.”

  Stainmore merely gave a shrug.

  This time the rain was lashing down when they stopped outside the Monk’s abode. Mrs Monk spotted them from the living room window, drawing to a halt outside. She opened the door as they walked up the path, inviting them straight in. After making a pot of tea, they all sat down in the front room.

  “Was it useful? Did it work for your forensic colleague?” she asked as Strong handed over the garment in a brown bag.

  “Perfectly,” Strong replied. “That’s given him a valuable control sample for a two-year period.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, taking the shirt from the bag and holding it close for a second. “At least something useful has come out of Richard’s passing.” She placed the shirt on the chair arm and looked across at Strong. She could tell there was something else. “Is everything okay?”

  He hesitated then said, “This is a bit difficult, Mrs Monk,” he began.

  “Oh, Mrs Monk’s a bit formal,” she said, “I thought I was Annabel to you.” The nervous smile evidenced her feeling of unease.

  “Well, Annabel,” Strong said. “When I asked if I could take Mr Monk’s shirt, I wasn’t being entirely open with you regarding the reason.”

  A puzzled expression appeared on her face. “I don’t understand.”

  He took a deep breath before he continued, “As part of Gary’s joining process you know he had to agree to us taking fingerprints and DNA samples …?”

  Annabel stiffened. “Go on.”

  “What that threw up was something I needed to check.”

  “Which was?”

  “Gary’s profile provided a familial match to another sample we already had on our database. Do you know what that means?”

  Strong could see the turmoil behind her eyes but pressed on. “It means a close relative of your son has had their DNA sampled before.”

  Annabel said nothing but her eyes became moist.

  “However …” Strong paused for a moment.

  The woman wiped the back of her hand across her face and looked away. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

  Strong remained silent. The atmosphere in the room was almost claustrophobic.

  Finally, Annabel looked back at Strong. “Richard wasn’t Gary’s father, was he?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Strong looked over to the framed photographs by the side of the fireplace for a second. “I’m thinking that isn’t really a surprise to you?”

  She stood up. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Excuse me a moment.” She covered her face with her hands and walked from the room.

  “Christ,” Stainmore said softly after the door closed. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

  “I know Kelly, but we need to find out who Gary’s real father is.”

  “Biological, you mean,” she said. “No doubt in Annabel’s and Gary’s minds that Richard was his proper dad.”

  Strong nodded. “Quite right,” he said.

  A couple of minutes later, Annabel returned, eyes red and puffy. She sat down in the armchair, dabbed her eyes with paper tissue, then spoke. “I hoped this day would never come,” she said. “I always suspected. In fact, probably, deep down, I knew. When Gary was growing up, I’d look at him … and I knew. Richard never did, I’m sure of that. He could easily have been Richard’s.”

  Strong sat back on the settee where he was sitting alongside Stainmore. They both remained silent, allowing the woman to tell her story in her own time.

  Annabel took a deep breath and began to recount. “I was on a night out with some work colleagues. I was working in an accountant’s office in Leeds back then. This would have been 1979. A group of us had gone out for the night. I’d just started seeing Richard.” She paused, blew out through her mouth and smiled nervously. “We’d … you know, done it the once.” She looked to the ceiling. “Sorry,” she said. “This is difficult.”

  “I understand,” Stainmore said.

  “Really?” Annabel snapped before her expression softened. “No, I’m okay.” Another pause. “I suppose it was my own fault. It was a good night and we’d had a lot to drink. I remember getting in this minicab along with two of the others. The driver seemed nice at first. You need to remember this was when the Yorkshire Ripper was still on the loose. Women were frightened to be out alone. Anyway, the way it worked out, I was the last drop.” She fiddled with the shirt on the chair arm. “Oh God, it’s at times like these I wish I still smoked.” A quick nervous smile flashed across her face. “I think I must have been a bit drowsy because the next thing I knew, the car had stopped. A quiet lane near Low Laithes Golf Club, I think. He got into the back seat … and …” Annabel could hold it together no longer.

  Stainmore got up, knelt down by the woman’s chair and placed her hand on her arm. “He raped you?” she asked in a gentle voice.

  Annabel nodded then broke down in sobs. “Yes,�
� she said, barely above a whisper. She looked down at Stainmore. “And it was my fault.”

  “No it wasn’t Annabel. You mustn’t think that.”

  “But if I hadn’t had so much to drink …”

  Stainmore gently shook her arm. “You didn’t give consent and you were attacked against your will.”

  “But …”

  “So, the taxi driver, Annabel …” Strong interrupted.

  Her attention switched from Stainmore to the DI.

  “Can you tell us anything about him?”

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I remember he spoke about having been in the army. I think he hadn’t long left and had managed to get himself the driving job.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember which taxi firm he was working for?”

  She shook her head. “No, but it must have been one based in Leeds.”

  “I know it’s a long time ago but is there anything you can tell us about him? Some sort of description?”

  “He was short; shorter than Richard anyway. Stocky, muscular like. It was easy to imagine him having been a soldier. Short hair; brown, I think. A smoker too. His breath was …”

  “That’s good,” Stainmore said. “Any idea how old he might have been?”

  “Perhaps a few years older than me, maybe early thirties?”

  “Anything else that might help identify him?” Strong added.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds and shuddered.

  “I do know this is difficult,” Stainmore said.

  Finally, Annabel opened her eyes again. “I think he had a tattoo,” she said. “Here.” She indicated her left forearm.

  “Can you remember what it was?”

  “Not exactly, but it looked like some sort of coat of arms.”

  “That’s good. That might be something we can work with.”

  She wiped her hand across her face and composed herself. “This man,” she said, “What’s he done? It must be something serious for you to be so interested; to take so much trouble over DNA and suchlike.”

  “I can’t tell you exactly, Annabel,” Strong replied. “But as you suspect, it is a serious historical crime we’re looking into.”

  Realisation spread over her face. “So if I’d reported this all those years ago, whatever you’re looking into might never have happened?”

  “We can’t possibly say that.” Strong said.

  “Oh God, it gets worse.” Annabel began to cry once more.

  Stainmore stepped in again. “You can’t think like that.” She looked to Strong then back to Annabel. “What about your friends who were with you that night?”

  “I never told them. I was too embarrassed.”

  “But have you stayed in touch? Could they give a more detailed description of the driver? Remember the cab company even?”

  “No, I’ve not seen any of them since I got married. I can’t even remember their second names. We just worked together briefly and had a couple of nights out. I never went out with them again after that. And I don’t think the company’s still there either.”

  Strong stood up. “You’ve done really well, Annabel. We have some solid material we can work with. But please, as Kelly here says, you can’t blame yourself for any of this.”

  She looked up at Strong, a dark expression on her face. “Gary will have to know, won’t he?”

  “That’s not up to me, Annabel, but I can assure you he won’t find out from me … or Kelly.”

  43

  Susan and Sammy walked into The Shepherds Arms at twenty-five past seven to find the pub reasonably full. They’d driven there in Susan’s ever reliable Nissan Micra. Various tables had diners sitting enjoying meals. At the bar, Susan ordered a couple of soft drinks for them whilst Sammy grabbed a table for four near the door.

  Sammy picked up a menu as she waited for her friend to join her.

  “Look at this, Suz,” she said, as Susan sat down. “The food seems quite good. We should have eaten here instead of rushing something at home.”

  “Very professional.” Susan said, taking a sip of her J2O. “Sitting here stuffing our faces trying to conduct an interview.”

  Sammy scanned the customers as best she could. “Anyway, have you any idea what Kenny Green looks like?”

  Susan shook her head. “Not a clue. All he said was he’d be in at half seven. I told him I was mid-twenties, dark hair and would be with my blonde-haired colleague.”

  “Do you know what you hope to gain by this interview,” Sammy asked.

  “I’d like to hear what he has to say about when they discovered the body and, I suppose, what effect, if any, it might have had on them.”

  “And don’t forget, I wasn’t able to track down the other one, Paul Nichols.”

  Conversation paused while they sampled their drinks.

  Sammy looked up as a couple entered the pub. He was about six feet tall with dark curly hair, reminding her of a younger Kevin Keegan but with glasses. The woman clinging to his arm was about four inches shorter with straight shoulder length blonde hair and a fringe.

  He glanced round then made eye contact with Sammy. “Susan? Susan Brown?” he asked.

  She indicated her companion. “This is Susan,” she said. “I’m Sammy Grainger, Susan’s colleague.”

  He smiled nervously. “Of course. Sorry, I forgot, she said you were blonde and she was dark haired.”

  Susan turned and stood. “Mr Green?”

  He nodded. “Kenny, please. And this is my wife, Abigail. I hope you don’t mind?”

  They shook hands. “Not at all,” Susan said, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “You’re all right,” Kenny said. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine thanks, just got these.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll just get one for us,” he said, making for the bar.

  Abigail sat down next to Susan. “Kenny’s told me all about that day,” she said. “I think it had a huge effect on his life really. So if I think it’s getting a bit difficult for him, I’ll interrupt.”

  Susan held up a hand. “I quite understand,” she said. “Probably more than you think.” Her thoughts momentarily travelled back to the time she found herself trapped and injured in a derelict farmhouse basement eighteen months ago; her strange encounters with Mary and Jennifer, before the truth emerged.

  Kenny reappeared with a pint of bitter for himself and a vodka and tonic for Abigail. “You’re putting together an article for the twentieth anniversary of Claire’s murder, you tell me?” he began.

  “That’s right,” Susan said. “We’re looking at two angles. Firstly what effect it’s had on her family and those most associated with it. And secondly, we’ll be appealing for any new information.”

  Kenny nodded. “Okay, where do you want me to start?”

  Susan flicked open her notebook. “You were with your friend, Paul Nichols that morning, I understand.”

  Kenny sipped his beer. “That’s right. We were best mates then. We were interested in railways, especially anything with a bit of history. We used to meet up and go to the model shop on Dewsbury Road, you know the one near Morrisons?”

  Susan nodded. “A bit of a mecca, I believe.”

  “We’d go there on a Saturday and look at all the models of the old engines and things for sale. Spend hours there.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, on a Sunday, we used to go to a few places where there was some real old stock, coaches, wagons and that, to see what we could identify. So that day, we went to the old sidings, just the other side of town here.” He waved a hand symbolically. “Sundays were good because nobody was ever around so you could wander up and down the tracks and not be bothered.” He paused for a second and downed some more of his beer. “I remember I’d just spotted an old LNER Gresley coach …” he saw that Susan was puzzled. “LNER, London And North Eastern Railway … anyway, I remember thinking, this thing is older than my dad. We climbed up. It had been used as a crew van but was withdrawn from service, waiting to be scrappe
d, like most of the stuff there. We poked about a bit then got down and crossed from that siding to another and that’s when Paul suddenly stopped. I thought it might have been railway police, but he just stood there looking up the side of this coach. It took me a couple of seconds to register and then … well.” Kenny screwed his face up before carrying on, “At first I thought it was just one of those tailor’s dummies dressed in old clothes that someone had dumped.” His eyes became moist. “But then I was in no doubt. I stood behind Paul as he took one step then another towards her. I stayed where I was. I could see she was lying on her back. She was wearing jeans … except they’d been pulled down to her ankles. Her black puffa jacket was open and her T shirt was up.” He indicated this with his hands, “The one thing that sticks with me was her white pants. They’d been ripped … and …” He stopped. “Sorry,” he said.

  Abigail put a hand on his arm and gently squeezed, a grim expression on her face.

  Susan stopped writing and looked from Abigail to Kenny. “Are you okay, Kenny?” she asked.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes before continuing, “I’ll be fine. It’s just I haven’t thought about any of this for so long.”

  After a moment’s silence, Sammy joined in. “What happened next?” she asked.

  “Er, well, I remember Paul walked closer. I stayed where I was. He approached her, bent down for a second then stood up again. ‘We’d best get police,’ he said. So we ran back to the road.”

  “And you both ran for help together?”

  “Yes. We got to the road and spotted a phone box, so Paul dialled 999 and that was it. We stayed by the box as they told us to, until the first patrol car came then we led the copper down to where … to where she was.”

  “Did you know Claire?”

  “No. We went to school in Horbury. We found out later she went to one in Wakefield.”

  Susan paused taking notes and looked directly at the man. “What effect did that day have on you, Kenny? I mean looking back after nearly twenty years.”

  “Phew.” He considered his answer for a few moments. “I had nightmares for a bit. I always worried that whoever did it would come after us. And I never went nosing around the railway after that.”