Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “As you probably noticed last night, a serious attempt had been made to clean up the flat. However, despite that, some important clues were left behind. If we take a look at this.” Producing colour photos from another brown envelope, he attached them to the pinboard on the wall behind him. “These traces of blood, here,” his pen indicated minute spots picked up by the photographer, “and here, were found on the living room wallpaper. The pattern is consistent with the fine spray that would be produced by impact wounds to the head, as suffered by the victim. At the moment, we’re waiting for the test results to compare the blood type with that of Williams. We should have that later this morning.”

  “Where exactly in the room did you find this blood?”

  “Ah, that’s another thing, this was behind the sofa. Now, head wounds, as you may know, tend to bleed profusely. So when we moved the furniture out of the way and lifted the carpet … bingo, a lovely big stain on the concrete floor. The carpet had been scrubbed but blood had seeped through. The interesting thing is, when we studied the marks from the furniture on the carpet, the whole room seems to have been rearranged. Whether this was just an attempt to disguise where the attack appears to have taken place, or for some other reason, I’m not sure at the moment.”

  “Like what?” Strong asked.

  “I don’t know. But another unusual aspect was that someone had made an extra special effort to make the place look tidy. There was nothing in the waste bin in the kitchen, in fact it had been washed out with disinfectant. All the cutlery and crockery had been washed and put away and, more to the point, all the surfaces had been wiped down. As far as prints are concerned, plenty on the electrical equipment in the wardrobe and some on the lounge and bedroom doors which I’ll bet will probably belong to the officers first on the scene…” Norris paused for effect.

  A loud groan went up and, in an instinctive move, all eyes glanced quickly round to the back of the room where Rawlings and Johnson were shaking their heads in denial.

  “Apart from that, nothing. Not even on the toilet flush. Whoever they were, I wish they’d come round to ours and give that the once over.”

  “Obviously, they weren’t interested in the stuff in the wardrobe, as I assume they’d have discovered that lot fairly easily. Any idea when we might get some positive ID’s from prints there?”

  “We’re on with that now but if they’re on record, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Williams’ dabs must be all over them but I’ll bet we find some other little scrote’s as well,” Strong suggested. “What about personal belongings?”

  “His wallet was still in the right hand trouser pocket containing fifteen pounds. In the left hand pocket there was a card-holder with two credit cards, one store card and a video shop membership card, all in the victim’s name. Also four pounds twenty-seven in loose change.”

  “One for you, John,” Strong said, over his shoulder to DC Darby. “See when he last used his cards – bank and video shop.”

  John Darby, in his mid-thirties and from Nottingham, raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  “Thanks for now, Doug.” Strong stood up and faced the group. “So what have we learned? Was the perpetrator trying to cover his tracks?”

  “Then why attempt to clean up the scene of the crime so methodically and yet still leave the body there?” Kelly Stainmore mused from the back of the room.

  “Disturbed? Too risky to move it from the flat?” Atkinson suggested.

  Luke Ormerod stroked his black bushy moustache, resembling a huge hairy caterpillar, then joined the discussion. “Unless, as Doug here suggested, they were searching for something and, rather than leave the place a mess, tidied everything up to cover that fact.” Ormerod was thirty-eight and, although not particularly tall, was powerfully built.

  “You might be right, Luke,” Strong said. “but we’ll keep an open mind on that. The ferocity of the attack and the fact that some of the furniture had been moved around must have generated some noise.

  “Malcolm, you bagged up the unopened post behind the door last night. What does that tell us?”

  “Mostly junk mail,” Atkinson responded, “but, tying in with what was found in his wallet, there were credit card and bank statements, neither too healthy, and a reminder from Booster Video about overdue hire. The earliest was probably delivered around the 13th December but all were business mail so no help from franking.”

  “So, Jim,” Strong said to the uniformed sergeant, “I want you to get round the neighbours. The walls are so thin in those flats, you couldn’t break wind without them knowing. They must have heard something. For the time being, concentrate on the period from early to mid December.”

  Dyer nodded acknowledgement.

  “Malcolm, all that electrical gear, videos, stereo systems we saw in the wardrobe, what news on them?”

  “I’m checking the serial numbers against all the recent reported burglaries at the moment. The first few check out to a house in Batley robbed last September – one of those we put to Billy Montgomery yesterday.”

  “That is interesting. Williams with his record could be the burglar working with Montgomery who was fencing the stuff. Okay, carry on with that, Malcolm. You’ve also made a start on checking out Williams’ known associates, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Strong then focussed on each officer in turn.

  “Luke, I want you to pick that up from Malcolm and run with it. Find out who he’s worked with in the past, those still in circulation, that is. And see if there’s any connection between him and Montgomery.”

  DCs Trevor Newell, a tall lanky fellow in his early twenties from Lincoln, and Sam Kirkland, in his early thirties from Leeds, completed his team.

  “Trevor, did Williams own a vehicle? If so, let’s track it down.

  “Sam, did he have access to a lock-up somewhere? Is there any more of this knocked-off gear around?

  “One other thing, Jim, on your house-to-house, see if any of the neighbours spotted him or anyone else carting that lot up to the flat in the first place. If anything comes up, let me know, I’ve got to be in court in Leeds at ten. Right!” he said, gathering up his papers, “let’s get on with it and see if we can’t get a quick result on this one.”

  10

  At eight o’clock that morning Souter’s mobile phone began a digital rendition of ‘Scotland The Brave’. He was feeling particularly delicate thanks to an extended session in a number of pubs along Westgate followed by a spicy Indian take-away the night before. It took about ten seconds for him to realise it was his phone and another five to work out just where the sound was coming from. He stumbled over discarded clothes strewn over the bedroom floor to retrieve it from the pocket of a pair of trousers. His head was pounding and his eyes struggled to focus as he pushed the green button. “He … hello?” he tried to say, as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “Bob? Is that you?” The male voice from the earpiece sounded unsure.

  “Yeah. Who’s that?”

  “Look, I know this is early, especially as you’re probably re-charging your batteries before you start with us next week but I was just …”

  “John … what …?” Souter interrupted.

  “Yes.” John Chandler confirmed. “I’m sorry to call when you’re obviously taking time out but I was wondering … Where about are you at the moment?”

  Souter collapsed backwards onto the bed. “Well, I’m … I’m at my sister’s house. She’s putting me up for a while.”

  “Where’s that exactly?”

  “Wakefield. Why? What’s up?”

  “Perfect. How do you fancy making a flying start to your Post career?”

  Souter pulled himself up to a sitting position, yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, John, I had a bit of a rough night last night. What’s going on?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The murder.”


  “Murder?”

  “Yes but …” Chandler sounded exasperated. “Do you have to repeat everything I say?”

  Souter was on his feet now and making his way unsteadily to the bedroom door. “Can we start at the beginning? What murder and where?”

  Chandler had begun to give an account of the known facts from Hardcastle House the previous evening when Souter interrupted him. “John, can I call you back in about ten minutes,” he said, “I just need to do something.” He terminated the call and rushed into the bathroom.

  It was about fifteen minutes before he felt his condition improved sufficiently to return the call.

  After repeating a lot of what Chandler had already told him, he concluded his request, “So, as we’ve no one in the area this morning, I was wondering if you could get down to Wood Street and see what they’re prepared to tell you. The Senior Investigating Officer is DI Strong. You don’t know him do you?”

  “As a matter of fact …”

  “Good.” It was Chandler’s turn to interrupt. “I’ll leave that with you then.”

  “Yeah but …” was all Souter could manage, the line had gone dead.

  A shower, a shave and two paracetamol later, he felt able to make some calls. The taste in his mouth, however, would take a bit longer to dissipate.

  11

  It was almost twelve when Strong’s mobile rang. The morning had been a complete waste of time. As near an open and shut case as you could find but the little scrote had pleaded ‘not guilty’. One-and-a-half hours later, as it had become even more obvious he was guilty, his brief threw in the towel and changed the plea. Strong could now get back to some real work. He resented the fact that the smug little toe-rag had known all along he wouldn’t get off but thanks to our generous legal aid scheme, he was just rubbing the taxpayers’ noses in it.

  “Guv, where are you?”

  He recognised Stainmore’s voice. “I’m on my way back to Wood Street, Kelly, why, what’s up?”

  “Can you divert to Hardcastle House? I think there’s something you should see.”

  “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

  Curiosity mixed with disappointment as Strong wondered what had been discovered and then remembered he’d probably have to climb those ten flights of stairs again.

  Kelly Stainmore met him on the landing to tell him that SOCO had discovered something else in the wardrobe once the electrical goods had been removed. Doug Norris was in the bedroom with a SOCO photographer.

  “What have we got, then, Doug?”

  “Well, it was after the briefing this morning. It got me thinking about somebody searching for something in this flat and cleaning it up to avoid any signs of a search. Supposing they didn’t find what they were looking for. Anyway, I came back for a closer look, see if we’d missed anything.”

  “All right, you’ve got yourself a pat on the back. Now, what did you find?”

  “You see this?” He pulled out the blanket drawer from the bottom of the unit and slid it along the side of the wardrobe. “A good nine or ten inches shorter than you’d expect. Put your hand in and there appears to be a false back. Then, when we open the doors, you see this?” He pointed out a line towards the rear of the floor of the clothes section. “Push on the back half and … it opens.” The flap rose to reveal a well-disguised compartment.

  Leaning in, Strong shone a torch into the void and satisfied himself it was empty.

  “So what did you find?”

  With latex-gloved hands, Norris pulled a small metal case from the other side of the wardrobe and placed it in front of Strong.

  “See what you make of this.”

  The case itself appeared to be of aluminium and was about fifteen inches long by eight inches wide by six inches high, looking like a samples case.

  Carefully, using the end of a pen, the SOCO man released the locks and pushed the lid up slowly. Strong studied the insides. The case was lined and subdivided with foam into twelve equal sections. Four sections were empty.

  “Is this exactly as you found it, Doug?”

  “Exactly. I got my colleague here to record everything on film.”

  Strong prodded a pencil into the first section and picked up a silver chain, its clasp intact but the chain itself broken as if snatched from the wearer’s neck. Another section contained a ladies’ cigarette lighter and yet another, a ladies’ wristwatch. Flicking the lid shut with his pencil, “Souvenirs,” he thought out loud.

  “Sir?” Stainmore puzzled.

  He straightened up. “Bag this and get it over to the lab. See if they can get anything from either the box or the contents and get me some photos of these items. This could be more serious than we thought.”

  12

  Strong had been sitting in his car some fifty yards from Montgomery’s ground floor flat on Wakefield’s Lupset estate for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Built between the wars, he always felt there was something depressing about the place. Almost all council owned, there were one or two isolated pockets of home ownership in evidence, as new front doors gave notice of their changed status. Needless to say, Montgomery’s flat wasn’t one of them.

  Strong was about to give up and return to the incident room when Montgomery finally emerged. With his coat collar turned up and a flat cap pulled down to shield his face from the incessant rain, he gathered the old shopping bag he was carrying closer to him. He looked up and down the road before crossing over then slowly disappeared down a footpath between the houses opposite, no doubt on his way to the main road to catch a bus into town.

  Strong waited a couple of minutes before making his way to the flat’s front door. His ring on the bell was answered a few seconds later by a female voice asking what he’d forgotten now. As the door opened, a woman in her fifties with dyed blonde hair and glasses stood before him, a surprised expression on her face.

  “Hello Rosie.”

  “Well, well, well. Mr Strong, long time no see,” she greeted him, removing her glasses.

  Strong thought this was more down to vanity than necessity. “Good to see you too.”

  She studied his clothes. “Done well for yourself, I see. What is it now, DCI?”

  “Detective Inspector.”

  “Not that well then.”

  “Perceptive as ever, Rosie. Do you mind if I come in?”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing any more,” she jibed, “not that you ever asked me before.” She opened the door wide allowing him to pass.

  “Not lost your sense of fun, I see.” He made his way up the hallway, passing the bathroom to his left and the open door of the main bedroom on his right, as she closed the front door. He noticed the bedroom looked neat and tidy. Walking on into the sitting room, he looked around at the décor and furnishings as he waited for her to follow. The gas fire was on low with one of the three elements glowing, a romantic novel lay open face down on the arm of a comfortable looking armchair while a packet of cigarettes and a lighter rested on the other.

  “Sit yourself down,” she said. “Can I get you a drink of something, tea, coffee? I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger, but there again, you’re on duty I assume.”

  “No thanks.” He took a seat in the middle of the three-seater settee. “I just wanted a little chat that’s all.”

  She sat in the armchair and crossed her still quite shapely legs. Her time on the streets had taken its toll on her facial features, Strong thought, which was a pity, because when he’d first met her, nearly twenty years ago now, she was a real looker.

  “I suppose this is about that little business yesterday,” she mused.

  “Which business would that be?”

  She stiffened a little. “Why are you here, Mr Strong?”

  “I just wanted to ask you a bit of background about Billy. Like how long have you two been together?”

  “Look, Billy’s been good to me. You know my past as well as anybody in this town.
Not many men would have taken me on with that baggage. He trusts me. I’m not going to betray that trust.”

  “I’m not asking you to betray him, Rosie, I just want to understand what he’s like.”

  As he was talking, she opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. He declined.

  “I can see the bald statistics from his record,” he continued, “but that doesn’t tell me who he is.”

  She lit up, took a long drag on her cigarette and considered her answer. “We met about four years ago now, in The Chantry. I’d given up my previous job and was pulling pints there.”

  Strong was amused by this reference to her old profession.

  “Billy was just another regular, in the pub, I mean. He’d come out the nick not long before. He was still a good-looking man back then, it’s only in the last year or so he’s aged. You know about the cancer, of course?”

  “I didn’t,” he admitted. “It’s obvious he’s ill, but not exactly what.”

  “Well, the doc. gave him twelve months. That was about six months ago. He doesn’t know I know, although he probably suspects I do. I just try to treat things as normally as possible.”

  Strong indicated two framed photos on top of the television. “That’s you and Billy on there but who’s the other woman with you on the right?”

  “That’s my sister, Janice.” She stood up, walked over and picked up the photograph. “It was taken in Tenerife three years ago, just after her bloke ran off with some tart from the bookies. They moved to Mirfield, apparently.”

  “You’re still close to her, obviously?”

  “We meet up for a few drinks now and again. The kids are all grown up and left home. She’s never bothered taking up with anyone else. It was his bad luck too. She had a decent win on the Lottery last year, bought herself a nice place in Sandal. We’ve always looked out for one another, so I suppose, yes is the answer to your question.”