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

by David Evans

  “Sheila Montgomery died three years ago. The big C.”

  “Shit! Hang on.” Strong dropped the phone onto his lap. A few seconds later he picked it up again. “Sorry, mate, some arsehole in an artic decided to pull out. No indication, nothing. Foreign plates and all. I should pull the bastard over.”

  “Look, I don’t want you wrapping yourself up because you’re talking to me. Where abouts in Manchester will you be?”

  “It’s at the Sedgley Park Centre, off Bury New Road in Prestwich, why?”

  “Just thought you might fancy a pint at lunch-time that’s all?”

  “I dare say they’ll be putting lunch on for us but …it’s a bit out of your way, though.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Jimmy Wilson’s covering the game at Maine Road for the Star. Sheffield United are the visitors. He’s invited me along. Should be just like old times.”

  “But what’s the good news?”

  “Oh, yes. Sheila Montgomery had a sister, one Mary McDougal as was, now Mary Burns, living with her man and mother-in-law in Paisley.”

  “Well done, Bob. Got the details?”

  “I’ve got an address and phone number. I’ll fill you in when I see you. What time’s lunch?”

  “Twelve-thirty till two, I think.”

  “I’ll give you a ring just after half-twelve.” Souter ended the call.

  Strong was now on the descent on the Lancashire side of the Pennines and conditions were improving. He put the radio back on and smiled to himself as Johnny Nash declared he could see clearly now the rain has gone.

  20

  The events of that rain-soaked November night a little over three years ago were still an open sore in Irene Nicholson’s memory. She had been walking home along Westgate in Wakefield around midnight when she had the distinct impression she was being followed. Although the street was fairly busy with late night drinkers making their way to clubs or curry houses, it was a feeling that increased with every stride. They passed by, paying her little attention. She clutched the collar of her coat tightly up to her neck against the weather. Twice she’d turned around sharply to check for anyone close behind and twice she saw that everyone behind her was making their way in the opposite direction. By the time she reached the road leading to her estate her pace had quickened, almost to that of an Olympic walker. Leaving the comparative safety of the sodium streetlights behind for the dimmer versions of the council estate, her uneasiness grew. Almost within sight of home, she took another glance behind her. With no one visible, she began to calm herself and reduce her pace to a normal walk. She told herself she was being stupid. A couple of times recently, she’d done exactly the same thing to herself. Panic attacks, she thought. Should have taken a taxi really. The landlord gave her the fare on top of her wages but she was saving up to get married the following year. The final corner and she would be back on her own street. Thoughts of a warm drink to thaw out. Suddenly, a gloved hand closed around her mouth. She struggled but was subdued by a sharp punch from behind to her kidneys. She gasped for breath. She remembered being bundled through a gateway and into an overgrown garden. Then the curtains of unconsciousness closed around her.

  As she put the brush through her hair, Kelly Stainmore studied the lounge of her one-bedroomed first-floor flat. A solitary glass and empty wine bottle stood on the occasional table by the side of the sofa. Her collection of books and videos were also cluttering up the place. Perhaps a separate piece of furniture might be the answer, some shelves maybe. As she had to go into Leeds anyway, she decided she’d have a look for something suitable there. She’d bought the place about a year ago, having rented a number of flats since her transfer from Huddersfield in 1996. It was convenient, being about a ten-minute walk from Wood Street or a five minute drive. This morning, she’d leave her car in the police station car park and walk to Westgate railway station. Driving into Leeds had become a nightmare in recent years; traffic congestion and parking. Trains from Westgate were frequent and only took around fifteen minutes. She slipped on her coat, picked up her handbag and a plastic bag full of empty bottles for the recycling bin downstairs, and set off for Wood Street.

  A five minute walk from Leeds City Station and, at just after ten o’clock, she was on the escalator in Lewis’s department store on the corner of Briggate and The Headrow. An awkward telephone call had set up the meeting with Irene Nicholson. This wasn’t an interview she was particularly looking forward to.

  Kelly was well aware that the last thing Irene needed right now was to have to relive those moments with yet another police officer. Since the attack, she had lost most of her confidence to be out on her own. She had given up her bar work but, courtesy of her aunt, now worked in one of the concessions within the department store. This arrangement gave her the comfort of travelling to and from work with someone with whom she felt safe.

  The picture from the case file showed an attractive slightly built twenty-three year old with shoulder length dark hair. Kelly looked round the cafeteria for a young woman resembling the photo. On the third sweep, she saw a possible match. A young woman with short dark hair was sitting at a table in the far corner alongside an older woman. The other woman caught sight of Kelly and leaned over to speak to her younger friend. As Kelly made her way over, Irene Nicholson looked nervously round before quickly turning back to face the older woman and drag long and hard on a cigarette.

  “Irene, is it?” Kelly asked.

  Irene merely nodded and stubbed out her cigarette.

  “I’ll just be over here, love,” her friend said, getting up and making her way to a seat two tables away.

  “I’m DS Kelly Stainmore, we spoke on the phone.” Kelly discreetly showed her warrant card to Irene who flashed a weak smile in acknowledgement. “Can I get you anything … tea, coffee?”

  “No.” Irene shook her head. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve got to be a reminder of what happened to you, Irene, but there are a few questions I need to ask.”

  “Okay,” she said, nervously.

  Kelly took a deep breath. “Irene, can you tell me what you were wearing the night of the attack?” then added quickly, “I don’t mean clothing.”

  Irene looked puzzled. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Well, any items of jewellery, handbag, that sort of thing.”

  Irene looked down at her left hand resting on the table. “This watch,” she said, “I was wearing this.” Then, looking at her empty third finger, “And a sapphire ring.”

  “What happened to that?”

  Irene opened the packet of cigarettes which had been lying on the table, offered one to Kelly, which was declined, took one herself and lit up before answering. “We finished soon after. It was my fault, really. Mike was very understanding, and patient, but I just couldn’t bear to be touched.”

  A waitress approached with a trolley, cleared away Irene’s empty cup and was about to empty the ashtray and wipe the table but was dissuaded by the detective’s stern look.

  “Was there anything else?” Kelly asked once the waitress had moved off.

  “My handbag was over my shoulder but under my coat. I was always careful with that.”

  Kelly nodded.

  “Apparently, in the struggle, it came open but, as far as I can remember, I got all the stuff back.” She took another long drag of her cigarette. The smoke blew over Kelly. “Sorry.” Irene wafted it away with her hand, “I never used to smoke, you know. Until after …”

  “I realise this is very difficult for you.”

  “You know the worst thing about that night?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t remember if I was actually raped or not. I know all the tests proved I wasn’t but here,” she tapped her temple, “inside here, I just don’t know.” She took a last draw on her cigarette, blew out the smoke violently and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray. “I don’t know how long I’d been passed out,” she continu
ed, her voice beginning to break with emotion, “but, when I came to, his hands were here,” she passed her palms lightly over her breasts, “with my top up …” a tear dropped from one eye onto the formica-topped table, “my skirt up … exposed … naked …”

  Kelly put a hand on Irene’s. “You don’t have to tell me all this, you know.”

  Irene brought a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I keep thinking, if I tell it one more time, it’ll go away … but it doesn’t.” She wiped her eyes again.

  “Let me get you a coffee.”

  “No. That’s okay, thanks. We’ve got to be back in just over five minutes, anyway.”

  “All right, Irene, but if you do remember anything else …”

  Her hand inadvertently drifted to her neck. “Well,” she said slowly, “there was one thing … it’s just … I didn’t realise until weeks later.”

  “Yes?”

  “I had a fine silver chain.”

  “A silver chain?” Kelly tried to keep her voice level.

  “Yes. At first, I wasn’t sure if I’d been wearing it that night but my mum said I had it on when I went out.”

  “Was there anything significant about it? I mean, would you recognise it again?”

  “I think so.” Irene nodded towards her companion. “My Auntie Maureen bought me it for my sixteenth birthday.”

  Kelly brought her bag up to the table and began to search out an envelope of photographs.

  “Oh,” Irene added, “I don’t know if it’d help but my little brother got hold of it one night and was fiddling with it. Anyway, it ended up with a small knot in it. The links were so fine I was never able to undo it.”

  Kelly paused in the process of selecting a photo for a second before pulling one from the envelope. “Can you just take a look at this for me?” she asked, handing it across the table.

  “This certainly looks like my chain,” Irene said, before calling over to her aunt, “Maureen, come and have a look at this.”

  Maureen walked over, looking concerned for her niece. Introductions were dispensed with.

  “What do you think?” Irene asked. “Looks like the one you gave me doesn’t it?”

  “Might be,” Maureen responded, “but I’d need to see it in the flesh.”

  “Could you come in to Wood Street sometime? The sooner the better.”

  “We’ve both got Monday off, so we could do it then.” Maureen looked for confirmation from Irene.

  “I hate that place.” Irene snapped.

  “I quite understand. If you prefer, I could call round to your house, say about ten o’clock Monday morning if you could both be there?”

  “Make it half past, if that’s all right with you, love,” Maureen said, looking at her niece.

  Irene nodded.

  “Well, thanks for your time.” Kelly stood up and began packing up her bag.

  “Just hang on a minute, though.” Maureen put a hand on Kelly’s arm. “Does this mean you’ve found the chain?”

  “That’s what we hope to find out, Mrs er …”

  “Hodgson. Maureen Hodgson. I’m Irene’s aunt.”

  “But if you think you’ve found it, where did it turn up?” Irene asked.

  “I’m afraid, at the moment, I’m not at liberty to say.” Kelly could see the look of disappointment on Irene’s face and was acutely aware of Maureen’s hostility. “I’m sorry, Irene, I promise I’ll let you know more as soon as I can. Thanks again.”

  21

  Souter drew to a halt in the car park of the King George on Bury New Road just before midday. He’d made the trip over the Pennines quicker than expected. The pub was part of a brewery chain that advertised an extensive menu on blackboards near the entrance. Not far from Sedgley Park, he thought it should be convenient to meet up with Strong. He switched the ignition off, undid the seat belt and stretched.

  His plans to listen to the twelve o’clock news on the radio were thwarted when his mobile rang. The name on the display, he knew. “Charlie, how are you?”

  “Aye, no’ bad,” came the reply in a strong Scots accent.

  Charlie Ritchie had been a good friend in Glasgow, as well as a trusted colleague. In fact, Souter had stayed with him for a couple of nights when his relationship with Sandra was disintegrating. It gave him the necessary breathing space he needed whilst he sorted out exactly what he wanted to do.

  “Thanks for all that information you dug out for me, the other day, I really appreciate it.”

  “Och, nae bother. Just hope it was useful.”

  “Definitely. I owe you one.”

  “Well you can owe me another one.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ve had a phone call from some bloke … now where’s the bit o’ paper … anyway, English he sounded. Says he’s been tryin’ to track you down. Somebody on the Sheffield Star gave him this number. Oh, here it is, name of Donald Summers. Hey, you don’t owe his missus, Ann, for any o’ that kinky gear you were wearin’ without Sandra knowin’ do you? That’s no’ why you two split is it?”

  “Very bloody funny. Charlie. Summers you say? That is interesting.”

  “Said somethin’ about his brother bein’ sent down for somethin’ he didnae’ do three years ago.”

  “Yes, that’s what he maintains.” Souter was surprised. This was the second time this week that this case had been mentioned. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No’ really. He just left a phone number.”

  He wrote down the details, thanked Charlie again and ended the call.

  Intrigued, he rang Donald Summers. The call didn’t last long. Summers had been reluctant to discuss much over the phone and wanted to see Souter face to face. He reckoned the police were looking at the case again but he wasn’t willing to elaborate. Souter agreed to call him later. He spent some time mulling over the possibilities. He also noted down all he could remember of Paul Summers and the case he’d covered when he was at the Star.

  It was twenty-five to one when he called Strong. Ten minutes later, his friend had joined him at the bar. Pints in hand, food ordered, they made their way to a table by a window overlooking the deserted beer garden and sat down.

  “I suppose we stick this in here,” Souter said. He was taking the lead from the other tables, placing the wooden spoon with the painted number twenty-three into the clayware bowl that was positioned in the middle.

  “Laura sends her love, by the way,” Strong said, as he unwrapped the cutlery from the paper napkin. “Hopes everything will work out well for you in the new job.”

  “That’s nice. Tell her thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Strong nodded. “So, got yourself a freebie to the game, then?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to meet Jimmy Wilson at two. He still does sport for the Star as well as local radio in Sheffield. It’ll be good to see a live game again.”

  “Did you not see anything while you were in Glasgow?”

  “I went to a few games but I’ve not been for a while. Sandra didn’t like football.”

  Strong let the last comment go. “Well,” he eventually said, “what have you got for me?”

  Before Souter could respond, the waitress arrived with their meals.

  “Steak and ale pie?” she queried.

  “That’ll be me,” Strong answered.

  She put the plate in front of him and the lasagne in front of Souter.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Strong waited until the waitress had left. “Come on, then. What have you found out?”

  “Oh, right,” Souter seemed to hesitate. “Well, as I told you, Sheila Montgomery died, but I’ve got details of her sister, Mary Burns. She lives at this address in Paisley. I’ve written the telephone number down as well.” Souter passed over a folded sheet of paper.

  Strong studied it for a few seconds, folded it again then put it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks for that.”

/>   “So what’s this all about, Col? Why couldn’t you get this yourself? What was so sensitive about this Sheila Montgomery, or even William Montgomery?”

  Strong stopped eating. Souter could see he was turning things over in his mind; deciding whether or not to confide in him. Much to Souter’s annoyance, the waitress returned to ask if everything was okay with their meals.

  “Lovely. Thanks, love, yes.” Strong began eating again.

  “What did you mean, I’d reinforced your theory?” Souter asked.

  “What?”

  “When we met up on Thursday, when I said I could still talk like you, in a Yorkshire accent, you said I’d reinforced your theory.”

  “Oh that. It’s just something I’m looking into.”

  “Come on, Col. We’ve always been straight with each other, haven’t we?”

  “Within reason, I suppose.”

  “Well, I reckon the least you can do is tell me what this is all about.”

  “Okay, Bob.” Strong placed his knife and fork slowly down onto his plate. He seemed to be giving himself a final few seconds to consider his thoughts, judging whether the time was right to take his friend into his confidence. “But I’m trusting you to keep this just between us.”

  Souter gave a look that suggested incredulity at the thought that he would be anything other than discreet.

  Strong glanced around the restaurant. At the nearest occupied table, a couple in their thirties had their hands full with two children around four and six years old. Next to them, a middle-aged couple with an elderly woman were waiting for a desert.

  Strong leaned forward and kept his voice low. “You remember the Ripper enquiry?”

  “Of course, Peter Sutcliffe.”

  “Right. But you also remember, part way through that enquiry, George Oldfield received letters and a tape, supposedly from the Ripper.”

  “The man with the Sunderland accent, yes.”

  “Well, we never ever found out who he was.”

  “I remember there were all sorts of theories ranging from some nutter with a warped fixation about the case and a modicum of knowledge of the original Whitechapel murders, all the way through the spectrum, including an inside job. You know, someone on the team, out to stitch up George Oldfield.”