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

by David Evans

  “Well, no, of course not. What could a character like that possibly do for me in business?”

  Stainmore shrugged. “You tell us. It’s just we have reason to believe you employ him on a, shall we say, casual basis.”

  Carr folded his arms again. “No.”

  Kirkland then joined in, “What about as a customer? Has Kenny Stocks ever borrowed money from you – like Fred Williams?”

  Carr made a point of giving the question some thought. “He may have done but I can’t be sure.”

  “Well, would you like to check your records and let us know?” Kirkland asked.

  “I’m sure my client is prepared to give you all the information you may need, constable,” Atherton responded.

  “Tomorrow will be fine.” Stainmore jotted down a few notes. ”How much did Fred Williams pay you back on that five hundred pound loan?”

  “I ... er ...” Carr stumbled.

  “That’s okay. As I said, tomorrow will be fine.” Stainmore stood up. “Well thank you for your time, Mr Carr. Mr Atherton. DC Kirkland will show you out.”

  Carr and Atherton exchanged looks, then rose from their seats.

  27

  “Look at this, £4.75 for a bowl of soup and a roll! I tell you, if anything in this world’s criminal, the price of food at motorway services definitely is.”

  “So why don’t you do an exposé on it, then?”

  “I might just do that,” Souter said, opting for a jacket potato instead. “But first, I’ve got the Summers investigation to bottom out.”

  Strong ignored that comment and collected two individual pots of tea from the bored-looking young girl behind the counter and placed them on the tray Souter was guiding round the shelf. “I’ll get this,” he said. “You can get them next time.”

  It had been a drive of just over two hours for Strong to arrive at the service area on the A1 where he and Souter had agreed to rendezvous. A fairly stressful journey had been made even more so by the incessant rain and the spray, particularly from the lorries. He’d passed two accidents on the way up from West Yorkshire and would bet this combination was a major factor in both cases.

  Souter, on the other hand, related his drive up to Newcastle for a nine-o’clock interview with some European Union minister who was visiting the area with a view to deciding the level of European grant that might be made available to the north east in the forthcoming financial year. It would be a challenge to write a piece that would grip the average reader.

  They arrived within a few minutes of one another and, once parked, made their way to the cafeteria. They chose a table by the window and squeezed into the immovable seats.

  “How do they ever expect fat buggers to sit at these tables?” Strong thought aloud.

  “At these prices nobody’s going to get fat in here anyway,” Souter said.

  “There you go, another aspect of motorway life for your article.”

  Souter struggled with the foil seal on the top of the plastic milk pot, poured it into his tea then looked at Strong with a serious expression. “So, what progress on the Nicholson case?”

  Strong took a mouthful of his cheese and tomato sandwich. “Well, tell me what you know and I’ll see if I can fill in some of the gaps.”

  “Piss off, Col! Stop holding out on me. If it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t be here. You owe me something.”

  “Okay.” Strong decided Souter was right. He couldn’t expect any further cooperation without giving him some snippet of recent events. “For what it’s worth, I’m beginning to suspect Summers didn’t commit the attack on Irene Nicholson.”

  “So what’s happened to make you change your mind?”

  “Look, this is strictly confidential. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

  “Come on, if we’re going to work together on this, there’ll be Brownie points in it for both of us.”

  “You can’t use any of this in print.”

  “Well not yet anyway,” Souter acknowledged. “But trust me, Col.”

  Strong’s expression indicated that trust might not be the feeling he had in his friend at the moment but he decided he had to give Souter something. “All right. During the course of another enquiry, we found something belonging to Irene Nicholson. As it turns out, it was an item of jewellery she was wearing on the night of the attack that, for some reason, she didn’t realise she’d lost until much later.”

  “So what was it?” Souter looked exasperated. “Christ it’s like pulling teeth!”

  “A silver chain.”

  “And let me guess, you found it in Fred Williams’ flat.”

  “You obviously heard about that.”

  “Of course, it’s my job.” Souter took a drink of his tea. “Was there anything else found at the same time?”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Listen, there’s not that much difference between our jobs. I always try to ask questions where I’m pretty sure of the answers as well, you know.”

  Strong looked puzzled. “Where the hell are you getting your information?”

  Souter just tapped the side of his nose. “I never reveal my sources. You should know that.”

  They ate the rest of their snacks in silence. At last, Strong drained his cup. “Come on then, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Sunnyside Residential Home turned out to be an impressive Edwardian house converted for the purpose in the sixties. Situated in an elevated position about a mile inland from the coast, it would, on fair days, enjoy panoramic views over the North Sea. Today, the leaden sky merged with the grey sea making the horizon scarcely discernible.

  Both cars pulled onto the gravel driveway and followed the signs to the rear for the visitors' car park. Strong pulled on his overcoat and watched Souter zip up his leather jacket and jog over to him.

  “Now listen, Bob, if this book-writing story of yours starts to go sour,” Strong warned, “I’ll resort to making it police business, all right?”

  “It’ll be all right, trust me.”

  Strong wasn’t as confident as his friend appeared to be.

  Although the rain had ceased, now they were this near to the coast, a biting wind was trying its best to cut them in half. They made a dash for the main entrance.

  Once inside the storm doors, their ring on the bell was answered by a smartly dressed middle-aged woman. Souter introduced themselves and confirmed his earlier telephone conversation with Samuel Montgomery.

  She smiled at the mention of his name. “A bit of a character is our Sam,” she said with a knowing look. Ushering them through the hallway and past the right hand side of an elegant wooden staircase, she brought them to a door marked ‘Lounge’.

  The door led into a large oak panelled room with, at one end, a feature fireplace housing a gas-fired imitation coal fire and, to the side, French windows revealing extensive gardens. Four occasional tables each with two or three comfortable chairs stood around the room. Three elderly ladies sat playing cards at one whilst a grey haired man with glasses sat at another reading a copy of the day’s Telegraph. The man looked up at the interruption of their entrance.

  “That’s Sam there.” The woman indicated the old man. “I’ll leave you to get on.”

  “Mr. Montgomery?” Souter said, as he and Strong took seats at his table. “Thanks for agreeing to see us.”

  “Please, call me Sam, everyone else does.” He folded his newspaper. “Besides, I don’t get much in the way of visitors these days. When you get to my age, the first thing you do is check the paper to see if anybody you know has passed on. I’ll be bloody upset if I ever read my name there.”

  Strong half smiled.

  “So how can I help you?”

  “Well,” Souter began, “I’m Robert Souter and this,” he paused slightly, looking at his friend, “is my colleague, Colin Strong. As I said on the phone, I’m writing a book on recidivists, you know, serial offenders.”

 
; “I do know what a recidivist is, Mr Souter,” Sam interrupted.

  “Sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean any offence. And, please, call me Bob.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard but, far from bein’ a recidivist, I’ve never even had a parking ticket in my life.”

  The room door opened and a woman in her twenties dressed in a green overall entered and approached them. “Can I get you and your friends some tea, Sam?”

  “That’d be lovely, Karen, thanks pet.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes then.” She smiled at the three of them and took her leave.

  “D’you know, she’s a smashin’ lass that,” Sam said, studying her legs. “Big improvement on the last one we had. Although she did have a couple of good points, if you know what I mean. Every time she came in the room all us lads would sit up and pay attention. It was like a dead heat in a zeppelin race. Trouble was she’d got a right attitude on her as well.”

  Strong looked away to hide his amusement whilst Souter struggled to keep a straight face. If Strong had any concerns over the old man’s sanity, they’d been well and truly dispelled. He was beginning to enjoy this meeting.

  “If I can just explain, Sam,” Souter continued, “the subject of the book will be the study of repeat offenders and why they became such. I’m looking into the backgrounds of several examples to see if there are any common influences or significant events which may have guided them on their chosen path of full-time crime, so to speak.”

  Strong was impressed with that little speech but hid it well.

  “Ah, let me guess,” Sam seemed enlightened. “You’re talking about our Billy.”

  “Well,” Souter hesitated, “he has had a fairly full criminal career but … yes I am. Obviously, anonymity is a given. Is that okay, Sam?”

  “I haven’t seen our Billy for years, not since he used to visit his mother and she’s been dead since 1982.”

  Strong joined in. “Perhaps you could tell us about Billy when he was younger, Sam.”

  “Well, he was a typical wee boy, you know. He was always laughin’ and jokin’. He’d got a great sense of humour. He was a great mimic as well, always takin’ people off. He used to get into a bit of trouble with that now and again. Not serious, just upset people if they overheard him takin' the pee out of them.” Sam paused and chuckled slightly. “I don’t know, maybe it was nothin’ to do with how things turned out for him but, I suppose you could say, lookin’ back, I wasn’t there for him.” Sam became serious. “You see, I was a marine engineer and that meant I used to go to sea with the ship conducting all the commissioning operations before we handed her over to the owners. That was when we had a shipbuilding industry in this country, mind. Well, I used to be away for six or eight weeks at a time, maybe three or four times a year.”

  The door opened again and Karen came in with a tray of tea. When she headed towards Sam’s table, she was subject to some banter from the old ladies playing cards, wondering what they had to do to get the same sort of service.

  “It’s only what we do for all visitors, Mary,” Karen retorted, as she set the tray down in front of Sam. “You’ll get yours at the usual time in about half an hour.”

  “Take no notice, Karen, pet,” Sam teased. “They’re only jealous of our little understanding. And anyway, when are you coming up to see me in my room?”

  “You’re terrible, Sam,” she laughed. “Besides, me mam always told me I’d got to be careful.”

  “You’ve got no worries there, pet. I’ve told you before, you won’t get into trouble with me. I’m perfectly safe. One of life’s natural vasectomy victims me, you know.”

  “Away with you.” She walked away laughing, her rear view attracting Sam’s admiration once again.

  “D’you know,” he said, “if only I was ten years younger…”

  “If you were ten years younger,” Mary called out from the nearby table, “you’d be seventy-six, ya daft old bugger!”

  “Selective hearing working perfectly well again, I see Mary,” Sam responded, drawing huge guffaws from her friends.

  “Sorry, Sam,” Strong said, stirring the tea in the pot and attempting to bring the conversation back on track. “But did I hear you correctly just now …”

  “Ah, you mean the crack about the vasectomy?” Sam said quietly. Strong nodded and Sam continued in low tones, “Well, that was one of the family secrets, shall we say. You see, Billy isn’t really my son. Don’t get me wrong, when he was born, I thought he was and I’ve always treated him as if he was all through but, it wasn’t till I went in for a minor operation when he was, oh what, twelve, that I discovered I could never have kids. I just thought it was nature’s way, you know, only having the one but, no, they told me my tubes had never been connected in the first place. Apparently, it’s more common than you’d think but, well, as you can imagine, it caused some difficulties between me and Betty, my wife.”

  Strong poured out the tea and Sam paused to take a drink.

  “Apparently, during one of my trips away, she fell to the gentle persuasion of a travelling salesman from Stoke-on-Trent.” Sam stared into space for some seconds, the smile gone from his face, as he seemed to recall painful memories. “Well, it was all a long time ago now.”

  “How did you get on with Sheila, Billy’s wife?”

  “Sheila? Oh, she was a bonny lass. Billy did all right there but it didn’t last. They split up back in the mid-seventies. I haven’t seen her since before the bust up. Have you spoken to her?”

  “I’m afraid she died about three years ago, Sam. Cancer, I believe.”

  “Oh, Christ, I am sorry.” Sam covered his mouth with his hand. “She wouldn’t even have been sixty. It’s always the good ones that go. What about the kids? Any news of them?”

  “Sheila’s sister, Mary, told me their daughter, Elizabeth, was in Australia but the son, Alan was it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She wasn’t in contact with him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sam said. “She was always a sour-faced woman was Mary.”

  “Have you heard from Alan at all, Sam?”

  “No, never heard of him since Billy used to mention him on his visits. I don’t think he got on with his mother after Billy left so he followed him south. Where he is now, I’ve no idea.” Sam looked wistful once again. “Sad how families just drift apart, don’t you think?”

  Souter took up the discussion. “Have you always lived up here, Sam?”

  “Man and boy, apart from my trips on the ships, and the war, of course.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve seen some changes in that time, eh?”

  “Beyond all recognition, son. Shipbuilding all gone, docks all turned into fancy apartment blocks for yuppies or whatever they call them and no bloody mining industry left either.”

  “The miners’ strike must have knocked all the stuffing out of the community too, just like it did down my way in Yorkshire,” Strong said.

  “They were rough times,” Sam remembered. “Police brought in from all over. The London bobbies were the worst.”

  “Actually,” Souter said, “I was talking to a mate of mine the other day and he was telling me what an uncomfortable time it was when the police descended on them before that, when they were hunting the Yorkshire Ripper.”

  “God, aye, I remember that well. They centred on the village of Castletown, just outside o’ Sunderland, you know. Some experts reckoned the voice on that tape came from there. People were very nervous. I reckon they interviewed every bloke from sixteen to sixty. When they caught Sutcliffe, that turned to resentment because, as it turned out, it was just a bloody big hoax.”

  “Still never caught the bastard either did they?” Souter added.

  “That’s true, I don’t think they ever have. Funny thing, though, I remember saying to my Betty at the time, the voice sounded a dead spit for my brother, Josh, when he was younger.”

  “Oh
, yes? And was he interviewed then?”

  “They’d have had a job, Josh worked down the pit and he died of silicosis in 1973.”

  The wind and rain buffeted Strong’s car, parked at the rear of the residential home. Strong had lit a cigar and Souter a cigarette. They sat in silence for some minutes.

  “Well, that’s given us something to think about,” Souter eventually said.

  “You know,” Strong said slowly, “every time I think I’m being stupid and start to doubt my theory, something always seems to crop up to reinforce it.”

  “So what’s the plan of action?”

  “Seems to me the answer lies in the past. Twenty years in the past,” Strong thought aloud, in between puffing his cigar. “So, I’ll have a good look at what happened during the Ripper enquiry. But there’s not enough to open it up outside of this car just yet. What about you?”

  “I need to see Donald Summers. See what he can tell me.”

  “Just go carefully. I don’t want you jeopardising any police investigations.”

  “Trust me, Col.” Souter flicked his cigarette butt out of the window. “Anyway, I best be off. Great journalistic prose to be written.”

  “Give Jean my regards,” Strong said.

  Souter got out of the car and made a dash for his own.

  Strong watched his friend’s car disappear and sat for a few more minutes enjoying his smoke. The number of times he’d asked him to trust him over the past few hours was making him feel uneasy.

  28

  Strong beckoned Stainmore into his office as he finished a phone call to the British Library’s newspaper section.

  “You’ll never guess, guv,” she began.

  “Go on, surprise me.”

  “Charlotte Deakin, our victim that didn’t fit your Montgomery theory…”

  “Yes.”

  “Admits now it was all false. She made it up to avoid getting into trouble with her parents and things just got out of hand. Apparently it was just a bit of rough and fumble with her then boyfriend.”