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

by David Evans

  He studied his watch and thought for a moment. “I suppose I could get over there by, say three this afternoon?”

  “Perfect. This is the address of a garden centre on the A500 about two miles from the centre of town. Give me a call on my mobile when you get there.” Gilfoyle related a postcode.

  Strong made a note of it before thanking him and ending the call. No mention of a name for Nichols, but that didn’t surprise him.

  He was studying his AA Road Map when ACC Mellor appeared at his door. He was surprised. It was unusual for officers of his rank to come to the likes of Strong’s door, unless it meant trouble.

  “Sir,” Strong greeted.

  Mellor waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, Colin,” he said. “Has Joe Gilfoyle been in contact?”

  “Just ten minutes ago.”

  “So you’re going to see Nichols?”

  “We’ve arranged to meet this afternoon. Well, I say ‘we’, DCS Gilfoyle has given me a garden centre address near Stoke and said to call him again from there, so I assume we’ll be meeting Nichols nearby.”

  Mellor nodded. “That’s good. Hopefully you’ll get what you’ve been looking for.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. “Was there something else, sir?”

  “You know we’ll be a senior officer down from Friday … officially, I mean?” Mellor was referring once again to DCI Hemingford.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Applications are open,” he said.

  “I’m aware of that too, sir.”

  “Good,” was all Mellor said before opening the door and disappearing down the corridor.

  62

  For the third time in ten days, Ormerod pulled up by the gates of George Brannigan Scrap Metal Merchant Ltd’s yard and stepped out of the car. At least, this time, it looked as though the man himself would be about. Parked in front of the green portakabin office was a dark blue BMW 5 series. He made a point of walking all round the vehicle. There was nothing he could see that might give him help in matching it to the one seen in the CCTV shots.

  Suddenly, the crane at the far end of the yard dropped a scrap van into the crusher. The noise startled him. Looking down from the cab was the recognisable face of George Brannigan. Ormerod was in no doubt he’d been seen entering the yard but there was no indication that Brannigan intended to break off from what he was doing. The machine began to squeeze its sides together and crush the van that had been dropped in.

  Ormerod approached the crane and waved his arms.

  Finally, Brannigan stopped the engine and swivelled out of the cab. “You again,” he said. “Not brought your mate with you? What do you want now?”

  “Can we talk? In the office?” Ormerod said.

  Brannigan gave a nod and picked up a rag and began to wipe his hands as he walked towards the office.

  Ormerod followed Brannigan through the door. “Thought we’d let you know,” he said. “We think we’ve found Mark’s murderer.”

  “Made an arrest, have you?” Brannigan threw the rag into a bin by the desk.

  “Not exactly. The suspect was discovered dead yesterday.”

  “Can’t very well deny it then, can they?” The man relaxed. “Sorry, it was just … with your previous visits, I wondered if you considered me a suspect.”

  “Until we can rule people out Mr Brannigan …” Ormerod let the sentence hang.

  Brannigan smiled and folded his arms. “But you didn’t really come all the way out here to break the news.”

  “Nice car,” Ormerod remarked indicating the office door and the vehicle that lay beyond.

  “I like it.”

  Ormerod pulled an envelope from inside his coat then a couple of photos from it. “This was you on the Friday night Mark was murdered, wasn’t it?” He showed the CCTV still images to him.

  Brannigan took them and gave them a cursory glance. “Probably, yeah. Times would be about right.”

  “So what about these?” Ormerod took more images from the envelope and passed them across.

  Brannigan paid more attention to these ones. Finally, after flicking through them, he passed them back. “No, not me,” he said. “Dates are wrong. These were from the night before.”

  “And that wouldn’t be you in that area then?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “So where were you on Thursday 14th February when these images were recorded?”

  Brannigan furrowed his brows as if to give the question some thought. “I’d have been here, watching telly probably or listening to some music.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Would they need to?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Well I’m just telling you I was here, at home, alone.”

  “Okay.” Ormerod slowly and deliberately pulled some final images from the envelope. “And this wouldn’t be you driving down Horbury Road the night before that, with someone in the car with you?”

  Brannigan’s expression hardened as he took hold of the next two pictures. Another cursory glance. “Nope. Why do you think that might be me? What happened that night?”

  “Just routine enquiries. It does look like your vehicle, Mr Brannigan.”

  “I suppose it could. But there must be quite a few dark BMWs on the road in West Yorkshire, not to mention further afield.” He gave the photos back to Ormerod. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

  Ormerod slowly nodded his head. “Well, thanks for your time,” he said.

  * * *

  Around the corner, he watched as the detective drove away. He was becoming concerned. George was attracting too much attention. It had been easy to track down his step-daughter. Surely he should have had his money back by now? But George had gone quiet on him. A little seed of doubt was beginning to grow in the part of his brain that looked after his own preservation. He’d owed George. Back in Ulster on that day in 1978, he was a dead man. Until George appeared from nowhere and shot them. It had never been reported, kept quiet by the Army, and never mentioned by the IRA. But he’d repaid George since; debt wiped out. And he certainly didn’t want anyone else to make the connection between them.

  Patrick Davidson stepped out of the car, dropped his cigarette on the ground and trod on it before walking through the scrapyard gates.

  Brannigan appeared from the office when Davidson was about ten yards away.

  “Patrick,” Brannigan said, a surprised look on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I thought I’d just come and see how you were.”

  Brannigan held his arms apart and gave an awkward smile. “I’m well, as you can see.”

  “A nice mug of tea would be good,” Davidson said, indicating the office.

  “Sure.” Brannigan turned and led the way inside.

  As Brannigan fussed around the kettle, putting tea bags in mugs, he was aware of Davidson looking around the walls of the office, eyes flitting from the glamour calendar to a notice board with registration numbers written on.

  “Did you speak to Felicity?” Davidson asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I did, thanks for that. No idea how you tracked her down so quickly.”

  “Training, George.” The man finally settled onto a chair. “So did you get your money back?”

  The kettle clicked off and Brannigan poured water into the mugs. “No.” he answered. Facing his ex-colleague, he continued, “I changed my mind.”

  Davidson looked at Brannigan for a moment and smiled. When he replied, it was in quiet, measured tones. “You should have involved me sooner.”

  When he spoke like that, it always unnerved Brannigan. In the army, when Davidson had dropped into those quiet tones, he knew there was a storm coming. Although he’d saved him that day, he had always wondered how Patrick had found himself in that situation in the first place; on a remote farm on a quiet country road near Armagh. Purely by chance on a clandestine patrol, he’d come across the situation. Two men dead and a dash for the barracks followed. A
nd shortly after, Patrick Davidson was back in Yorkshire, out of the game, as he put it. And nothing more was ever said about the incident.

  Brannigan brought the drinks over to the desk where Davidson was sitting.

  “What did he want?” Davidson asked, gently stirring his tea.

  “Who?”

  “That detective.”

  “Oh, him. Did he see you?”

  Davidson’s expression told him that was a stupid question.

  “He came to tell me they thought they’d found who was responsible for Mark’s death.”

  Davidson sipped his tea. “Anyone you know?”

  “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But whoever it was, they’re dead.”

  “Convenient.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  “George,” Davidson said disdainfully. “What do you take me for?”

  “You can’t blame me for wondering.” Brannigan put his mug to his lips.

  “Anyway, why’ve you not recovered your money?”

  Brannigan put his mug back down on the table. “I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past couple of weeks. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so important. Other things rank higher.”

  “Such as?”

  “Family.”

  “But she’s only your step-daughter, not a blood relative. And she tried to tuck you up.”

  “Maybe so. And maybe I had some part in how she viewed things,” Brannigan said before looking away. “Anyway, I did manage to speak to her and told her what I thought. The rest is down to her.” He looked back at Davidson. “But I’d like to see her reconcile with Andy.”

  “Ah, the youthful Andy.” Davidson appeared thoughtful. “You do know he’s the weak link?”

  “How so?”

  “He was with you in that grubby toilet block. He witnessed what you did.”

  “He didn’t actually see anything.”

  “A moot point. The fact is, he can place you at the scene of a death. A death the police are classing as murder.”

  “Andy’ll be fine. He won’t say anything. Especially if Felicity patches things up.”

  Davidson raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of ifs and reliance on others. Have you forgotten our training? You can’t necessarily rely on anyone else outside of the ‘team’.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting anything?”

  “Merely pointing out the facts, George. But bear in mind, nothing links you and I.”

  “Nothing does.”

  “Good.” Davidson stood. “Thanks for the tea,” he said and left.

  63

  Gary Monk was sitting in the patrol car with his mentor colleague PC Dennis Tate. It had been Dennis who had called in the discovery of Mark Thompson’s body. They were having a quiet ten minutes, Tate reading that morning’s Yorkshire Post.

  “What’s so interesting, Dennis?” Monk asked.

  “Just remembering this,” he responded. “But you won’t remember, it’s twenty years ago now.” He looked up into nowhere. “Bloody Hell, twenty years.” He turned to the young PC. “It seems like yesterday.”

  Monk looked across. “What does?”

  “This murder case.” Tate prodded the paper with his finger. “Never got anyone for it.”

  Monk closed his eyes. “Must be loads of unsolved cases,” he said. “Especially from that long ago.”

  “This was in Horbury. The young lass was off the Lupset estate. Claire Hobson,” Tate said quietly. “I remember it well. I was about eighteen then. I suppose, thinking about it, that might have been one of the things that made me want to become a policeman.”

  Monk opened his eyes. “Sorry, who did you say?”

  “I said it might have been one of the things …”

  “No, the name?”

  “The girl? Claire Hobson. Why? You didn’t know the family, did you?”

  “No, I’m from Denby Dale.” Monk could feel himself flush and his heart rate quicken. CH, he thought. “Here, let me see that Dennis,” he said.

  “Didn’t think you were interested.” Tate passed the paper across.

  Monk began reading but before he’d read more than a few lines, their radio sparked into life and relayed a message about a burglary in progress near where they were parked. Tate fired the engine into life and they set off with blue lights flashing.

  * * *

  “That’s great news, Bob,” Sammy said. She and Susan had called in at the house in Ossett.

  “What time are you collecting them?”

  “About ten.”

  “I bet you can’t wait,” Susan said, as she came in from the kitchen with mugs of coffee.

  A broad grin spread over Souter’s face. “What do you think?” He took a mug from her and put it on the low table in front of him.

  Sammy was in a comfortable chair, legs tucked beneath her. “So you’re up and running with the articles then?” she asked.

  “Chandler seems pleased,” Souter responded.

  “Are you still going ahead mentioning the new piece of evidence?”

  “That’s in Friday’s article.” Susan sipped her drink as she sat on the sofa next to Souter. “But we had Wood Street contact us this afternoon when you’d gone,” she looked over at Souter. “We’re doing a fresh appeal for witnesses to the Weaver murder in the park. Janey was working something up when I left.”

  “They must be struggling then,” Souter suggested.

  “Probably. Has anyone spoken to Wakefield CID about what we’re running?”

  “I called DCS Flynn on Monday and said we were running this series of articles,” Souter offered. “I asked him if they were actually conducting a cold case review but he dodged that one.”

  “We’ll take that as a ‘no’, then,” Susan quipped.

  “Anyway, you two, I still haven’t had a proper explanation as to how you stumbled on a body on the allotments.”

  “Ah, that was Danny.”

  Souter took a drink. “Who’s Danny?”

  “The lad on the bike who was hanging around the shop when we stumbled over the Mark Thompson murder.” Susan put her mug on the coffee table.

  “I didn’t know you’d been in contact.”

  “That time we went to see Mr Chandler … on my way out, I got a message from him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “To be honest, Bob, you had other things on your mind.”

  “So when did you see him?”

  “That evening.”

  “On your own?” Souter’s eyes narrowed.

  “I was careful.”

  “Like when you went to the farm, you mean?” Souter was referring to the incident, nearly eighteen months ago now, that had been the catalyst for their meeting in the first place. “Sorry,” he said, thinking better of it. “I know you’d be careful.”

  Susan glared at him for a second. “It was obvious he wanted to tell somebody what he’d seen the night Thompson was attacked,” she said. “But he was scared. We were going to tell you … and Colin, but I just wanted to check the facts of what he’d told me first before I took it to him. Christ, I didn’t know they were on the same track. You could have knocked us over with a feather when he and his team turned up just as I opened the shed door.”

  “I can just imagine Colin’s reaction when he saw you two.”

  “Not sure who was more surprised,” Sammy said, “him or us. But he let me phone in sick to the office.”

  “He’s alright with you now?” Souter looked from one to the other.

  “I helped persuade Danny to come in and make a statement,” Susan said. “That seemed to tie things up for him.”

  “I’ll bet the young lad was relieved.”

  Susan paused.

  “Is there something else?”

  “Well …”

  “Go on.”

  Susan then related what Danny had told her of his involvement with Mark and the man dropping the bag through the hedge and how the man ha
d spent a fair bit of time trying to track him down afterwards.

  “And it wasn’t this character found dead in the shed?”

  Susan shook her head. “No, this man was a lot older, fifties maybe.”

  “So the lad’s still on edge about this?”

  “I suppose so.”

  * * *

  “We’ve done as much as we can for tonight, Gary,” Denis Tate said. “SOCOs will test what they can and CID will take it over.” He looked at his watch. “By the time we get back to the station and write up our reports, it’ll be time to knock off.”

  Monk was only half listening.

  “I said, it’ll be time to knock off.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The pair were on their way back to Wood Street having attended a break-in at a building site where the offices had been ransacked and expensive tools and equipment stolen.

  Monk left Tate finalising his report on the burglary and managed to slip upstairs and onto the CID corridor. Once again outside the Incident Room he paused. Trying the door handle, it was unlocked. His heart was hammering against his chest wall. If he was caught up here, it would certainly be a disciplinary.

  Some light came in through the windows from the streetlights, enough for him to get his bearings. Carefully, he closed the door behind him. Nothing would be more suspicious than an open door on the corridor. He approached the whiteboards he’d seen before. Taking out his torch, he scanned the first board, the one concerning the murder of Mark Thompson. This had new lines drawn indicating links to someone named as William Pollock with the nickname below given as ‘Billy the Fish’. That must have been the character discovered in the allotment shed yesterday, he thought.

  Switching off the torch for a moment, he listened. All seemed quiet. Moving along to the Weaver murder boards, he began to study more closely. The lines and links to Weaver showed someone called Charlotte Watkins with a note that caused him to take a step back before bending forward and following the line from Charlotte to a box with the initials CH.

  Christ, he thought, this can’t be a coincidence. What had he heard during his training? There’s no such thing as coincidence. So what is this woman, Charlotte Watkins’ relationship with Claire Hobson? The more he studied the lines and brief notes, the more he felt the answer to his real father’s identity was here. But where? Surely not that the victim, Marcus Weaver was his father? No, he’d be too young. Was there some DNA evidence found at the scene of this crime which matched his? Come on Gary, think. But it couldn’t be, the timing was wrong. Whatever it was had to have been discovered before this case, otherwise it wouldn’t have had time to make it onto the DNA Database.