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

by David Evans

  “Any joy, lads?” Strong enquired.

  “Could be, guv,” Ormerod replied. “Mrs Lockwood did hear some sort of commotion next door. Apparently it was just after Coronation Street on the telly. From what she was watching afterwards, we reckon it was Friday, December the tenth.”

  “That fits with the last confirmed sighting of Williams the day before – and the unopened mail.”

  “That’s not all. About a day or two before that, she passed a man on the corridor walking away from Williams’ door. Only got a brief glance. He was wearing an anorak and just before he passed her he pulled the hood up, as though he didn’t want to be spotted. I think she felt a bit intimidated, thought he might mug her or something, which was why she remembered him. From the photos we showed her, it definitely wasn’t Hinchcliffe; she’d seen him a time or two with Williams. And it couldn’t have been Montgomery either; too young.”

  “Could it have been Stocks?”

  “Maybe, but we’re just going back with a few books of likely mug shots, see if she recognises any of them. Stocks is in there. Failing that, we’ll get her to come in and try for an E-fit.”

  Strong was cheered up. “Hopefully, we might be getting somewhere,” he said. ”In the meantime, can you manage on your own, Luke? I’d like to borrow Malcolm for an hour.”

  “Should do,” Ormerod nodded.

  “I think Luke’s pulled anyway, guv,” Atkinson said. “Apparently, Luke reminds her of her son.”

  “Piss off!” Ormerod exclaimed.

  Strong laughed. “That’s all right, Luke, it probably helped you get the information we needed. Come on, Malcolm, let’s go.”

  “So why are we talking to him again, guv?” Atkinson wondered, as the pair strode along the rambling corridors of Pinderfields Hospital. “We know he couldn’t possibly have murdered Williams.”

  “There’s something else that’s been nagging at me ever since that first interview we conducted with him, Malcolm.”

  Strong always felt uncomfortable in hospitals. It wasn’t just the smells – antiseptic, over-cooked food or stale urine, depending on which department you happened to be near – the temperature always seemed to be about ten degrees higher than was healthy. He exhaled loudly and unbuttoned his coat. “Why do they insist on keeping these places so bloody warm,” he said, mostly to himself but also to distract Atkinson from questioning his motives further. “It’s no wonder they’re full of superbugs. The place is a breeding ground. I tell you I could save the NHS a fortune on their heating costs alone.”

  They walked into the Intensive Care Unit and spotted a nurse behind the tall Formica clad reception counter. As they approached, she looked up. “Yes, can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Displaying their warrant cards, Strong introduced Atkinson and himself and wondered whether they could have a word with Billy Montgomery. Before she could respond, all hell broke loose. Alarms sounded and the nurse looked down to see which light was flashing on the indicator panel built into the desk.

  “Sorry,” she said. ”Can you wait here, please, I’ll be back when I can.” She turned and ran off to a room further up the corridor.

  Strong angled himself into a position to see the files she had left on the desk in her haste. Suddenly, the double doors behind him burst open. Three white-coated men pushing a trolley with equipment he didn’t recognise rushed passed.

  “What are you doing, guv?” Atkinson asked in hushed tones, looking concerned.

  “Keep an eye out, Malcolm.” Strong walked round behind the nurse station. “I just want to check something.” He nudged the top file on the pile to one side to reveal another. ‘Montgomery, William J.; date of birth - 27/08/36’ leapt out at him.

  “Guv?”

  “Just do it, will you,” Strong snapped. He shifted the file on top to reveal more information. He felt a rush of adrenaline as the box with Montgomery’s blood group appeared with a large ‘B’ written in it. Type B, he thought, the same as the hoaxer. There are just too many coincidences for this not to be him. Only hope those alarms weren’t due to Montgomery breathing his last. He had to talk to him again. There were too many unanswered questions.

  “Guv!” Atkinson hissed. “She’s coming back.”

  Strong quickly returned to the proper side of the counter and leant against it as the nurse returned.

  “Sorry about that.” She gathered up the files from the desk. “But that’s the nature of this department.”

  “That’s okay Nurse Finnigan.” Strong strained to read her name badge. “No need to apologise. We quite understand.”

  She smiled briefly at Strong. “Now then, Mr Montgomery I think you said?”

  “That’s right. If we could just have a word?”

  “Mr Montgomery is very ill. We’ve managed to stabilise him. He’s on oxygen and we have him on strong painkillers, so how coherent he’ll be …”

  “It is important.”

  “Okay. He’s in room 4.”

  She made her way back along the corridor with the policemen in her wake. Stopping outside the room, she turned to Strong. “But only ten minutes. He’ll tire quickly.”

  Montgomery pulled the oxygen mask from his face when Strong and Atkinson entered. There seemed even less of him than Strong remembered from only a few days before. He was wired up to a bank of machines that beeped and displayed all sorts of graphs and numbers. Looking directly at Strong, he gave a weak smile. “I had a feelin’ I hadnae seen the last o’ you.” He coughed and took a breath from the mask.

  “So, Billy, how’s it going?” Strong sat in a chair by the side of the bed. Atkinson remained standing.

  “Where’s my grapes?” Montgomery coughed again and replaced the mask.

  “Still on the vine.”

  “They’ll be a long time comin’, then.” Montgomery broke into another chesty cough then gasped oxygen once more.

  Strong was impressed by Montgomery’s resilient attitude. “When we last spoke, Billy, we talked about various attacks on women throughout West Yorkshire, going right back to 1981.”

  “So you did.”

  Strong noted the use of the singular. “Well, let me take you further back than that. How about 1975? Remember where you were then, Billy?”

  A puzzled expression appeared on Atkinson’s face.

  “Not especially … but I’m sure you’ll remind me,” Montgomery replied.

  “I believe it was Carlisle.”

  “I see,” Montgomery pondered, then caught sight of Atkinson’s expression. “He hasnae got a clue, has he?” His hand waved towards the young DC.

  Strong remained silent.

  “I could really fancy some grapes.”

  “Malcolm,” Strong said. “See if you can find Mr Montgomery some grapes. Take your time.”

  The irony of ‘Mr Montgomery’ wasn’t lost on Atkinson who was about to protest. However, after a slight nod of the head from Strong, he shrugged and left. Strong waited until the door closed before resuming. “Okay, Billy, let’s stop pissing around. I think you’ve got something to tell me.”

  “Maybe I have … and maybe I haven’t.”

  “Come on, we both know what this is about.” Strong stood up and walked around the room. “Remember Carlisle ’75, I think you wrote, didn’t you? And we both know what happened in Carlisle in 1975.”

  “Don’t you want to caution me, first?”

  “That may come later.”

  “You must be fucking joking. Let’s say I did know what you were hintin’ at … I won’t make next week never mind a trial.”

  “So you think this conversation may lead to criminal charges?”

  “Look, pal, … give me some credit … I’m only talking to you now … because we both know … this can’t go any further.” Montgomery seemed irritated and his responses were punctuated with coughs and gasps of oxygen from the mask.

  Strong resumed his seat by the side of the bed, leaned close to Mo
ntgomery and lowered his voice. “Come on, just between us, I need to know that you were the source of those letters and tape that surfaced during the ‘Ripper’ enquiry.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well,” Strong bluffed, “what finally clinched it were the DNA results I got this morning.”

  “What DNA results?”

  “Saliva from the envelopes that contained the tape and letters; and from your tissues I retrieved from the bin back at Wood Street when we had our first little chat.”

  Montgomery grinned. “I’d be interested to see those. For one thing … we both know … that would be inadmissible … in court. You’d have to get … my permission … and take another sample … properly. By the time that happens, … I won’t be here.”

  “Come on, Billy, indulge me. It was you wasn’t it?”

  Montgomery lay back on his pillows with the mask covering his face and began to laugh, a slow painful laugh.

  “Why?” Strong carried on. “You must have known that you were diverting attention from Sutcliffe.”

  “You lot didn’t have a bloody clue. You still don’t. The number of times … I heard your boys say … ‘we could do with him doing another one.’ Christ, you were pathetic.”

  “But more innocent victims died because of that.”

  “Can’t blame me for that. If you’d done your jobs properly …”

  Strong took a deep breath himself. “So what made you write the first one?”

  Montgomery removed his mask to reveal a determined expression. “If I put myself in this person’s shoes, the one you think I am, and I say if … I’d say, ‘I thought I’d have … a little fun. It was easy to see the similarities … with the original Ripper letters. That’s one thing … you lot did spot,’ but … I’m not in his shoes.” He replaced his mask once more.

  Games, Strong thought, the bastard’s still playing games. He decided to press on. “But some of the information in that letter could only have been known to the murderer.”

  “You don’t believe … that holds water now, do you? There was plenty of information … published in newspapers … before then.”

  “Let’s get real here, Billy,” Strong persisted. “You were familiar with the street girls back then. If we’re being honest, you were in the right place at the right time. Carlisle. The one case that Sutcliffe always denied. The case that gave credence to the tape. Your tape. I’ll bet you knew the victim. I’ll bet you were even interviewed about it. Am I right?”

  “I had an alibi. The woman I was livin’ with.”

  “Like Rosie gave you an alibi for those burglaries, you mean?”

  Montgomery seemed to summon up all his strength. “Now look, what she told you was true. I’ve no’ been fit … to go house-breakin’ … for years.”

  Strong held his hands up in a gesture of apology. “Okay, okay. But you thought that writing that letter would tie that murder in with the Ripper and you’d get away with it. You have got away with it. Till now.”

  “I’m tired, Mr Strong. What d’you want me to say? You seem to have it all worked out. But, you’ve got no proof … and if … if you do get any DNA results … you’ll realise what a load of old bollocks this is.”

  “So what made you commit that murder then? Was it a mistake? I don’t believe you intended things to go that far? Did you have an argument? Lose your temper? Was that it?”

  “I’m really enjoyin’ … this bed-time story, you know.”

  “That temper of yours has gotten you into trouble before though, hasn’t it?”

  For the first time Montgomery looked puzzled. “How d’you mean?”

  “Assault on a prostitute in Glasgow in 1972.”

  “She was a rip-off merchant … a pain. She didn’t really want to do it. She just wanted … the money. Gave no feeling. How can you enjoy it … when she’s looking over your shoulder … at her watch? If she didn’t enjoy it … she shouldn’t have been … turning tricks.”

  “That seems to be an area of special interest for you, professional girls, I mean. Glasgow, we’ve mentioned. Then there was a conviction for kerb-crawling in, of all places, Carlisle in, surprise, surprise, 1975, followed by similar charges in Leeds in 1978.”

  “Ah, well I liked them … for the most part. I suppose it was … an addiction then.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You must have seen it happen … before. They say drink, drugs, … and gambling … are addictive. Sex is too, … especially the professional variety.”

  “So how did you manage to quit, settle down? I mean, there are no charges on your record involving prostitutes since 1985; or did you just get careful?”

  “I had an accident.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Motorcycle. Went over the handlebars. Left me … let’s say, without urges … any more.”

  “Must have been traumatic.”

  “But look on the bright side … it saved me a fortune.” Montgomery laughed, then broke into a coughing fit. Another intake of pure oxygen and he managed to stabilise himself.

  “But there was violence in those early days too, wasn’t there? Not just your assault on the prostitute, there was Sheila as well. That’s why she left you wasn’t it?”

  “She hasnae been tellin’ tales … has she?”

  “That would be a bit difficult…” Strong hesitated, studying Montgomery’s face. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “She died three years ago. Cancer.”

  “Oh, Jesus! I let her down. Things should have been … so different. How did you … find out?”

  “I spoke to your ex- sister-in-law, Mary Burns.”

  “That vindictive sour-faced bitch!”

  “She sends her love too, Billy, but she told me a lot about you. How you used to like treating Sheila as a punch bag.”

  Montgomery merely grunted.

  “I had an interesting chat with your dad as well.”

  “You have been busy. I should have been to see him but …“His expression softened. “How was he?”

  “He seemed in fine fettle. He also had some interesting things to say about you when you were younger.”

  “So what’s this … little red book time? Have you got … Michael Aspel out there?”

  “He said you always had a sense of humour. He also told me what a good mimic you were. How you used to get into trouble sometimes for it.” Strong paused for effect. “And, oh yes, how the voice on the tape, you know the one I mean, was remarkably like your late Uncle Josh.”

  “Like you say, Mr Strong … it was remarkable.”

  “And what better way to hide your true identity than to copy the voice of your dead relative. So, how near the mark is that?”

  “It’s a theory … I’ll give you that.”

  “Is that it, then? No remorse? No feelings of regret for everything that you’ve been responsible for?”

  “For everything I’ve done wrong … I’ve served my time. For anythin’ else … I’m just about to begin my final sentence. But I’m happy.”

  “It was all just a game to you wasn’t it?”

  “It still is.” Montgomery closed his eyes and laid his head back onto the pillows. “Interview over,” he said and placed the mask back over his face.

  Before Strong could say any more, the door opened and Nurse Finnegan appeared. “Sorry, but Mr Montgomery needs to rest now,” she said, approaching the monitors and pressing various buttons.

  “Okay nurse, thanks,” Strong said. “I was just leaving.”

  “One more thing, Mr Strong,” Montgomery said, raising himself up on an elbow once more. “When I’ve gone … look out for Rosie … she’s got a lot of respect for you.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  “There you go … typical bloody copper … still trying to put words in my mouth.”

  35

  “Mr Whitehea
d, I’m Detective Inspector Strong, the senior investigating officer on the Williams’ murder enquiry. I believe you have some information for us.”

  Phil Whitehead was a large built man in his early thirties with extremely short hair and two days growth on his face, giving a fairly tough appearance. He was sitting at the table in the front interview room, opposite DC Trevor Newell. Strong had been told a few minutes earlier that the barman at the Malt Shovel, one of Williams’ regular haunts, had come in.

  “Yeah, that’s right. As I were telling your colleague here, Fred used to come in regular. Anyway, one night, it must have been about the beginning of December ‘cause we’d only just put the decorations up and this bloke came in looking for him.”

  Strong remained standing. “And you’d never seen him before?”

  Whitehead shook his head. “Nor since. He reckoned he were an old friend of his. Hadn’t seen him for years, he said. Lost touch and wanted to get hold of him.”

  “Did you give him any information?”

  “Well I told him he lived over in the block of flats, you know, Hardcastle House, but exactly where I didn’t know. I knew it were quite high up because he’d come in sometimes slaggin’ off the vandals for wreckin’ the lifts.”

  “You obviously got a good look at him, though?”

  “Oh, yeah, I mean he had a pint while he were asking about him.”

  “Did he speak to any of the other regulars to ask them at all, do you know?”

  “Not that I noticed. I mean, I were talking to him in between serving. He were stood at the bar the whole time.”

  “Okay, well have a look at the photos DC Newell here is about to show you and see if you recognise him. Failing that, we’ll get you to work up an e-fit for us, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Yeah, sure,” the barman said, then added thoughtfully, “He were all right were Fred.”

  “One more thing, Mr Whitehead, why didn’t you tell us this when our officers called round?”

  “You know how it is. In my job you hear all sorts of things the punters wouldn’t want passing on. If I were seen to be talking to you lot, well … you know what I mean.”