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

by David Evans

  Strong’s face lit up.

  “They got married the following year. She was shocked the case was still open. Thought we’d have lost interest years ago.”

  “Which we had done until this came up,” Strong said.

  Ormerod appeared at the door. “Guv, we went round and saw Ronnie Mason yesterday and …”

  “Hang on a minute, Luke,” Strong interrupted. “It seems we’ve got quite a few things to report on so, Kelly, can we round the troops up in five minutes and let’s share all this intelligence. I think we need to take stock and see where we’re headed.”

  Assembled in the CID incident room, Strong and the team reprised progress to date. As well as repeating her findings concerning the Charlotte Deakin assault, Stainmore reported on her interview the previous day with Frank Carr. She was expecting further information from him later in the day.

  Ormerod then reported on his visit to Ronnie Mason. “Sad sight, I suppose,” he said. “Obviously been a big strong bruiser of a bloke …. reduced to that. His wife looks after him at home. A bit of a heroine if you ask me. She has to feed him, wash him, everything. I asked her if she felt any bitterness because he didn’t seem able to react to anything, but she reckoned responses were there, if you knew what to look for. Said he’d have done the same for her but … I don’t know.”

  “So, last November you said he had this stroke?”

  “That’s right, two days after his place was burgled.”

  “Well, I guess that takes him out the frame for Williams. I don’t suppose his missus could …?”

  “No, guv.” Ormerod laughed, “She’s only about five foot three. Besides, I think she had more on her mind in December than trying to find out who robbed them.”

  “Kelly, you were visiting another victim yesterday, weren’t you?” Strong said

  “That’s right, Lorraine Popplewell, a nineteen-year-old from Castleford, attacked walking home from the bus after an evening out in Doncaster visiting friends. She was approached from behind and bundled into an alleyway where he ripped her top and fondled her before knocking her unconscious.”

  “Anything taken during the attack?”

  “No, apparently he was disturbed. A man walking his dog saw the attack and shouted to them.”

  “Did he get a good look at him?”

  “Afraid not. Describes him only as ‘average build and height wearing dark trousers and an anorak with a hood.’ He was a good fifty yards away on the other side of the street. He ran towards them but, by the time he got there, the man had fled and she was slumped on the ground.”

  “But definitely nothing stolen? Nothing that she didn’t realise at the time?”

  “I showed her the photographs of the items from the box but she was quite sure she’d lost nothing and didn’t recognise anything either.”

  “Christ, so we’re no further forward on that, then? Still only Irene Nicholson’s chain positively identified.”

  No one said anything.

  “Okay, Kelly, who’s next on the list?” Strong began shuffling through his papers.

  “Tracy Elliot.”

  “Right.” Strong read from his notes. “Twenty-one year old prostitute attacked in a multi-storey car park in Doncaster. It says here she reported a gold ring with a single imitation diamond missing. That could be one of the items. See what she has to say. And then the next one back in time – Ilana Vaughan, a thirty-year old shop assistant returning home after a girlie night out in Leeds. See what you can dig up there.”

  Stainmore nodded.

  “Which brings us back to Fred Williams.” Strong began to pace slowly around the room listing the various actions and enquiries that so far had brought no breakthrough. Eventually, all comments dried up. “Come on, we’re getting nowhere here!” he bellowed. “Kenny Stocks. Still no sign of him?”

  Mumbled replies of, ‘No, guv.’

  “Right. Priority one for everybody. Along with everything else you’re doing, we need to find Stocks. His seem to be the only suspect prints, for God’s sake.” Nobody said anything as Strong rested his backside on the edge of a desk. “And another thing, someone must have seen or heard something. What about the next-door neighbour – Mrs Nosy Parker or whatever her name is?”

  “Mrs Lockwood,” Ormerod said.

  “Let’s get back and talk to her. I don’t just mean talk to her, Luke – humour her, be patient, tease out whatever she knows. If Williams was being knocked about through the wall, I don’t believe that she didn’t see or hear something.”

  “Okay, shall I take Kelly with me?”

  “No, Luke. Kelly’s going to be busy tracking down these victims of assault. Besides, from what I’ve read, this Mrs Lockwood seems frustrated with the responses of women she’s had dealings with on this. No offence, Kelly, but she did report this to some female employees of the council a couple of times before she got any action. Tell you what, take Malcolm with you.” Strong appeared to lighten in mood. “She might go all grand-maternal on him.”

  Atkinson coloured slightly as all eyes turned to him and a few sniggers were heard.

  “All right, let’s look at Williams. What do we know about him? Forget his record, I’m not talking about that, we all know about his petty thieving. What do we know about the man himself?”

  “Well, he had a suitcase full of porn below his bed,” Kirkland offered.

  “Come on, Sam, most single blokes will have a secret stash of girlie mags or videos somewhere – the bottom of a wardrobe, the back of the sock drawer - some married ones as well.”

  “Speak from experience, then?” Ormerod quipped, drawing an outburst of laughter from the assembled officers.

  Strong smiled. “Very good, Luke.”

  “Also,” Newell added, “he’d got no living relatives that we know of and no girlfriends either.”

  “So, he was just a sad, lonely wanker,” Darby said, quietly.

  “Just like you, you mean,” came an indistinguishable voice from the rear of the group drawing loud laughter from everyone.

  Darby looked peeved.

  “Do you know, John,” Strong said, “your powers of summation never cease to amaze me.”

  “Guv?” Darby looked puzzled, drawing more raucous laughter.

  “All right, children.” Strong put up his hands, trying to refocus the discussion. “Now, what have we learnt about him from his mates?”

  “Seemed a fairly inoffensive sort from what we gathered.” Newell looked for confirmation from Ormerod.

  “That’s right. Nearly everyone seemed shocked at what’s happened to him. They can’t understand it.”

  “Yes,” Strong said, “but what about his usual haunts? Did he have any hobbies, apart from his magazines? Where did he drink?”

  Kirkland leafed through his notebook. “He was a member of Alvethorpe Snooker Club,” he said. “Used to spend a fair bit of time there. As for watering holes – all the usual town venues but he was a regular in the Grey Horse and the Malt Shovel.”

  “Right. Sam, Trevor, I want you to concentrate on talking to other members of this snooker club and regulars in those two pubs. See if anyone else has been asking about Williams, especially in December.”

  Kirkland and Newell affirmed whilst Strong thought of something else and turned towards Darby. “And John, let’s have another chat with Hinchcliffe. He knows more about this than he’s been letting on.”

  “Don’t forget we had his mother in here yesterday,” Stainmore put in. “She wanted to report him missing.”

  “Now there’s a surprise. What’s the betting he’s decided to lie low for a while?”

  A uniformed constable poked his head round the incident room door. “Sorry, sir,” he addressed Strong. “There’s a woman from the Newspaper Library on the phone for you. Said you were expecting her call.”

  “Be right with you, thanks. All right,” Strong said, in a final flourish to the team. “We all know what w
e’re doing. Let’s get to it.”

  29

  Eventually, he walked up the path between the piles of rubbish that constituted a front garden and knocked on the door. There was no bell. He felt confident that the house was not under surveillance. Twice in the last half hour he’d walked the length of the street, surreptitiously studying every parked vehicle for occupants and every upstairs window for a twitching curtain or the glint of light reflected from a lens. Above all else, he was careful. Careful, neat and tidy, that’s what set him apart. He was proud of that. Satisfied, he made his approach.

  Finally, his knock was answered by a large woman whom he guessed to be in her seventies but tried in vain to appear much younger. The dyed yellow-blonde hair and chamois leather face were the instant give-away. Seconds later, when she puffed on a cigarette, he noticed her hands, always a betrayal to a person’s true age.

  “Is your son in, Mrs Hinchcliffe?”

  “Our John, you mean?”

  “That’s right, John yes. Is he in?”

  “What do you want with him? You’re not the police.”

  This last sentence was delivered in the form of a statement as opposed to a question. It amused him to think that you could go to any council estate in Britain and nearly everyone living on it would be able to tell plain clothes police apart.

  “I’m a friend of a friend of his. I’ve got something that I’ve been asked to pass on to … John.” He tapped his coat where the inside breast pocket would be.

  She looked puzzled. “He’s not in at the moment. I could give it to him for you, if you’d like to leave it with me, er …” obviously searching for a name from the stranger.

  “Well, I could really do to speak to John myself, Mrs Hinchcliffe.” He looked heavenwards as the rain, which had stayed away for most of the morning, was now becoming heavy. “Look, do you mind if I come in for a moment … only, you can see … it’s pretty wet out here.”

  She looked him up and down. “All right then, but only for a minute. I’m due to go out soon.”

  It was only when she turned to lead the way down the hallway that he realised just how inappropriately dressed she was. With an apron of fat and errant breasts that should have been kept firmly under control, she wore a brightly coloured loose fitting top together with equally loud tight fitting leggings that seemed to betray every dimple and crease. He felt ill.

  She led him into the small sitting room, which seemed to be lost in a fug of cigarette smoke. Looking at the scruffy three-piece suite, he declined the offer to sit down, fearing he’d leave with more than he bargained for.

  “So,” she said, flopping down on the settee and taking up most of the two seats. “This friend of my John’s, why couldn’t he come and bring whatever it is himself?”

  “Well, I’m afraid, Mrs Hinchcliffe …”

  “Don’t tell me, he’s still inside.”

  “Actually, he’s passed on. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry about that but how come you know him? You don’t look as though you’ve been inside yourself.”

  She might look as much of a tip as her house, he thought, but she’s certainly not thick. He answered slowly. “No … it’s a bit of a long story … but, tell me, have you any idea how long he’ll be?”

  “John, you mean? No, I haven’t and it’s starting to worry me.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the settee. “I’ve even been to the police.”

  “The police? What did they say?”

  “Didn’t want to know. Basically fobbed me off. Looked at me as though I was simple and told me that he was a big boy now. Sarcastic bastards!”

  “Useless.” He began to tour the room, taking in any details he felt may assist him in his quest. “Why would you want to contact them anyway?”

  “They pulled him in last Friday.”

  “Oh?”

  “Some nonsense over burglaries … I don’t know. He seemed pretty upset when he came back, though.”

  “But they let him go?”

  “Of course. They’d got nothing on him. Anyway, next morning, when I got up he’d gone.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  She pulled another cigarette from the packet in her hand and lit up. “He’d normally let me know he was off at least.”

  The stranger walked behind the settee while he kept the conversation going. “Perhaps he’s gone to stay with a mate?”

  “His only mate, if you can call him that, ended up with his head smashed in over Christmas.”

  “Not this Williams character?”

  “You’ve heard about it then?”

  “Been all over the papers.” By this time he was studying the framed photographs on a sideboard in the corner. “So the pair of them were close friends?”

  “You seem to ask a lot of questions for someone who’s just got something to pass on.” She struggled to turn round to see what he was doing. “Exactly who are you?”

  “I’ve told you, Mrs Hinchcliffe.” His expression broke into a smile. “I’m a friend of a friend of your son’s. It’s just I promised my friend that I’d deliver this as soon as I could. Only, I have to give it to him myself, I promised that. Have you any idea where he might be?”

  “If I did, I would have tried there myself.”

  “Is this John?” He picked up a photograph showing a much younger looking Jake and his mother, along with an older man he took to be Mr Hinchcliffe. All three were smiling for the photographer and his father had his arms around Jake and his mother as they stood outside the door to a caravan.

  “Here, let me see that.” She stretched out a hand to take the photo from the stranger. She smiled as she recalled the occasion. “We had some lovely holidays up there.”

  “Where about was that?” he asked.

  “Up near Pickering. You know, on the North Yorkshire moors, not far from where they film ‘Heartbeat’ on the telly.”

  “Oh, yes, I know it. Lovely in the summer but bleak in the winter.”

  “My Jack, that’s John’s dad here.” She pointed to the man in the middle of the picture. “He passed on three years back.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs Hinchcliffe,” he said, kneeling by the side of the settee.

  “It was a blessing in the end, he’d been ill for some time. Anyway, he had this caravan parked up at Black Top Farm for years.”

  “It looks really nice. I’ll bet you wish you still had it.”

  She looked up for a second or two and gazed into the middle distance. “I suppose we still do. Jack didn’t sell it. I think it’s still there.”

  “Still, no good in this weather.”

  “We’ve spent some cold nights up there but there was a coal stove that kept everything cosy.” She stubbed out her cigarette.

  “My parents used to take me on caravan holidays when I was young but we were in these big static jobs on proper sites with rules and regulations and everything. Not like this. I’d have loved to have had holidays in a place like this – all that freedom.” He took the photo back and returned it to its place on the sideboard. “Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. You said you were going out soon.”

  “Did I? Oh, yes, that’s right, I’d forgotten.”

  “So I best be on my way.” As he reached the door, he turned back. “While I think about it, it may be best if you didn’t mention this visit if you speak to the police again,” he said, smiling and tapping his breast pocket once more. “Just in case, if you know what I mean. Tell John, I’ll maybe call again in a few days. Hopefully, he’ll be back by then.”

  “I’ll tell him … er …” She realised he still hadn’t told her his name as she struggled to rise from the settee.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Hinchcliffe,” he said, already out in the hall. “Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.”

  Sylvia Hinchcliffe abandoned her attempt to see the stranger off the premises, as the front door banged shut. She watched him wa
lk back down the path, turn right and disappear behind the next-door neighbour’s overgrown hedge. Settling back into her seat, she drew yet another cigarette from her packet. Lighting up, she studied it and considered the stranger’s visit. Such a polite man, she thought, wondering exactly what he had to pass on to her son. It had been a welcome interlude, which had brightened up her otherwise boring day.

  30

  Donald Summers approached the White Rose café near the old bus station and strained to peer through windows obscured by condensation that seemed ever present, summer or winter. A short, stocky, balding man, he’d worked in a nearby accountant’s office for the past fifteen years. Although perceived by some as a man following a boring routine, he was also seen by a few as a man of passion. He was passionate about the injustice he felt had been handed down to his younger brother, Paul. Some nine years older than Paul, he believed it fell to him to prove his brother’s innocence and his meet with the journalist, Robert Souter was, he hoped, one further step towards that achievement.

  Inside, the babble of voices, hissing of steam and shouts of food orders was almost overwhelming. Initially his glasses steamed up, so he took a few seconds to wipe them clear. Once they were back on his face, he spotted Robert Souter seated at a table towards the rear. He struggled his way between the tables full of elderly women and men, their swollen shopping bags at their feet, young mothers with pushchairs and children sucking drinks through straws and messing about with chips and beans. Eventually, he dropped gratefully into the chair Souter had kept for him.

  “Mr Summers.” Souter held out a hand and smiled. “Good to see you.”

  “Please, call me Don, Mr Souter,” he replied.

  “Okay, Don. Most people call me Bob.”

  A waitress came up and, in response to Souter’s invitation, Summers declined anything to eat but settled for a large cappuccino. Souter ordered another tea. The waitress hesitated a moment with a look of displeasure on her face. She was obviously irritated at them taking up a table for only a tea and a coffee at this busy time but turned to head for the counter to process the order.