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

by David Evans

  “It does to me too but … aah, thanks, Luke, that’s great.” Strong broke off as Ormerod placed a plastic cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. “Actually,” he said, “that’s not bad for an institutional beverage.”

  “It’s not out of a machine, guv. I came across a lovely Irish nurse in one of the side rooms up there making some for herself and a colleague. A little bit of the blarney from me … and there you are." Ormerod said, grinning.

  Strong shook his head and took another sip before returning to the subject of Kenny Stocks. “The thing is, I don’t think our man here is capable of what we saw in Williams’ flat. He’s got no record for any violence.” He paused a moment and turned his attention to Ormerod. “Oddly enough, that’s just like another character we interviewed in connection with the case who, incidentally, seems to have gone missing as well. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn up in the same condition.”

  “Well, if there’s nothing else,” DS Franklin said, getting to his feet, “we’d best be off.”

  “Right. Thanks for your help, Peter.” Strong offered a hand. “Mike.”

  “Pleasure. And if there’s anything else we can do, just give us a call.”

  Strong and Ormerod leaned back in their seats and watched Franklin and Baldwin leave. Ormerod seemed lost in thought when Strong glanced towards him. “Everything okay, Luke?” he asked.

  He turned slowly and looked at his boss. “I can’t work it out, guv. Why does the Enforcer keep pumping me for info on this case?”

  “He’s been at you again?”

  “This morning. I mean, you’re in charge of the case, right?”

  Strong nodded.

  “So if he wanted to take charge then he could, yes?”

  “Perhaps he will when he comes back next week,” Strong said, philosophically.

  “Wouldn’t you be a bit pissed off if he did, guv?”

  Strong ignored the question. “What did you tell him?”

  “That we’d located Stocks and that he’d regained consciousness and we were about to interview him today.”

  “Did he ask about the trophy case?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know if we’d found out any more.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Only that Kelly’s working on it but I hadn’t heard if she’d made any progress.” Ormerod looked down at his shoes. “I feel awkward. Holding things back, though guv.”

  “I know, Luke, but it’s in the best interests of this inquiry.” Strong drained his coffee. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do.”

  Kenny Stocks’ head resembled a maroon watermelon. Purple bruising was coming to the surface, his face was virtually round with swelling and both eyes were slits, making it difficult to tell his state of consciousness.

  “You can have ten minutes,” the nurse told Strong. This seemed to be a standard warning all medical staff issued to police before allowing patients to be interviewed. “He needs rest. And your colleagues have already spoken to him.”

  Strong approached the bed, prompting a grunt from Stocks.

  “Mr Stocks,” he announced. “I’m Detective Inspector Strong, Wakefield CID.”

  “I know who you are,” Stocks interrupted, as if through clenched teeth.

  “And this is Detective Constable Ormerod. We’d like to have a word, if you feel up to it.”

  “I’ve already told your mates all I know.” Stocks facial injuries made it difficult for him to form the words.

  “The doctors said injuries to your head might impair your memory recall. Perhaps that’s what’s happened.”

  “Eh? Oh, right. Very clever, Inspector.”

  “How are you anyway? In yourself, I mean?”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, there must be something worrying you, Kenny.”

  “Me? No, not a thing. Everything’s hunky-dory.”

  “Oh, come on. Someone’s been very annoyed with you. From what I hear, if it hadn’t been for your neighbour upstairs, you might not be here talking to me right now.”

  “And I’m supposed to be grateful for that?”

  “That’s up to you but you must be concerned that whoever did this to you might come back. Finish the job, even.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How come you’re so sure? Is it a case of ‘message received and understood’? Whoever sent the heavies, because I think they were subcontracted - whoever sent them has certainly got you running scared.”

  “I’m not scared of anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All right, you don’t want to discuss whatever it is you’ve been given a good hiding for, that’s your choice. But let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Strong sat down in the chair by the side of the bed. “Let’s talk about Fred Williams.”

  “Right. I thought that’s why you might be here.”

  “And why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Let me guess, someone saw me there? At his flat.”

  “So you admit being at his flat?”

  “You know bloody well I was.”

  “When were you there?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. Just before Christmas. A Thursday night, early hours of Friday morning.”

  Strong reached into his inside pocket, pulled out his diary and flicked it open. “So, when do you think it was? We’ve got Thursdays the 9th, the 16th or the 23rd.”

  “It wasn’t that close to Christmas Eve. It would have been the week before.”

  “Not two weeks before?”

  “No. Definitely the 16th.”

  “What exactly were you doing there?”

  “You know what I was up to.”

  “Look, I appreciate your injuries are making it difficult to talk but you need to start giving some straight answers here. As I’m sure you know, we’re investigating a murder.”

  “It wasn’t me.” Stocks winced as his forceful answer caused a sear of pain through his head. “He was already dead,” he said, after a pause.

  “You’ll have to do a better job of convincing me than that. Why should I believe you?”

  “It’s true, I’m telling you.” Stocks tried to sit up, flinched again, then relaxed back onto his pillows. “Look at my record. I’ve never been violent. Breaking and entering, that’s my game.”

  “And a bit of drugs,” Ormerod added.

  “That’s all behind me. I’m clean. Have been these past two years.”

  “Drugs can do funny things to people’s personalities,” Strong suggested.

  “Look, you’ve got to believe me. All right, I admit I broke in. I heard there might have been something worth nicking.”

  “Is that right? Who told you that?”

  Stocks began to talk more coherently, giving Strong the impression that he had been maximising the effects of his injuries to spare him the worst of the police interest. Now, the way the questioning was developing demanded his full attention. “You know how it is, people talk,” he said. “I’d heard he stored the proceeds of his jobs in the flat so I thought it’d be easy pickings. Not the big stuff, tellies and things, but maybe cash, jewellery, that sort of thing.”

  “So it was well known that Fred Williams was into thieving?”

  “Like I said, word gets out.”

  “All right, Kenny, if you’ve got any chance of convincing me, you need to tell me everything you did, starting from approaching the front door that night.”

  Stocks appeared to consider his position for a moment or two before deciding to tell his tale. “The place was in darkness, no-one around. I picked the lock, it was easy, and let myself in. I didn’t put the lights on, I’d got this small torch. There was a funny smell, I remember. I thought he'd just forgotten to flush the bog, or left a take-away in the kitchen. Anyway, I went into the living room.”

  “Was the door op
en or closed?”

  “Closed. I opened it. Aah, I get it. You got my prints off the door handle, didn’t you?”

  “Carry on.”

  Stocks, with some difficulty, drew a deep breath to compose himself. “It all looked neat and tidy. Before I started looking round for anything worth lifting, I thought I’d just check to see if he was in the flat. I slowly opened the bedroom door a bit. Another set of prints, yes?” Stocks paused, as if delving deep into his reserves. “The smell seemed worse in there. I went in. I had the torch off. There was just enough light coming through the curtains. I could see the shape on the bed, so I knew he was there. For a few seconds, I just listened. You can tell a lot from how a person’s breathing. I listened. I couldn’t hear anything.” Stocks’ own breathing had shortened considerably. “I took a step or two nearer. I still couldn’t hear anything. Something didn’t seem right. I could see he’d got his clothes on and he was lying there on his back. I thought that was odd. I decided to risk the torch. I started at his feet. He’d got his shoes on. Slowly, I panned the light up his body. His hands were folded on his chest. Then I saw his face. I nearly shit myself. It was horrible. He’d had a right pasting. Although his face was a mess, I could see his eyes were open, just staring. I nearly dropped the torch. I just turned and got the Hell out of there.”

  “So you saw no one either on your way in or on your way out?”

  “No … just … that.” Stocks attempted a grimace but drew a sharp intake of breath.

  “And you didn’t take anything from the flat?”

  “I tell you, Mr Strong, I just wanted to get as far away as possible.”

  “So why did you disappear after we found the body?”

  “I knew what you’d think. How could I tell you I’d broken in and just found him like that? You wouldn’t have believed me. You probably don’t believe me now, but it’s true.”

  “All right, Kenny, that’ll do for the moment. I’ll get one of my officers to take a formal statement when you’re more up to it.”

  39

  Souter had done a lot of thinking over the past twenty-four hours. Initially, he had thought of paying Irene Nicholson a visit. Ultimately, he decided there probably wasn’t a lot more to learn from her. Strong had already confirmed that her silver chain had been one of the items found in Williams’ flat. Besides, if he were to call round, she’d probably be on the phone to the police straight away.

  For the time being, it served Souter’s purpose to keep a low profile in that regard. He did still have the source information he’d obtained for Strong; Mary Burns address and telephone number, so he made the call on Sunday morning. After some initial suspicion on her part, he managed to persuade her to part with more or less all the information she’d told Strong. Souter had also forged some good relationships with a few Strathclyde Police officers in his time north of the border but it was a retired DC who filled him in on the details of Billy Montgomery’s time in Govan. Souter’s best contact, Ron Boyle, a serving DS, wasn’t on duty but he left a message for him to call back. He needed to know what Montgomery had been up to from leaving Glasgow until turning up in Wakefield. Souter was confident the detective could supply the answers.

  Jean was still in bed when Souter left the house late morning after making his phone calls. He drove to Sheffield to renew a connection with the South Yorkshire force. Jimmy Murray, another exiled Scot, had been a DC when Souter was at the Star but was now a DS. Sunday lunch-time was always a good session in the pubs of the north and they’d arranged to meet in one in the Darnall area where a live jazz band pulled in a good following. If the opportunity arose, he might even sound Jimmy out as to what he knew, if anything, of Fred Williams, Paul Summers or Billy Montgomery.

  Souter was lucky. DS Stainmore from the Williams’ investigation team had been in touch asking about an old indecent assault case. The victim, a prostitute of thirty-five at the time of the attack in 1983, had since died in a house fire in 1995 and Jimmy had drawn the short straw to trawl the archives for details. Stainmore was interested if any items of jewellery had been reported stolen from the victim. Whilst research found nothing, for Souter, it was an indication that Strong’s team were taking the possibility of a trophy offender seriously.

  It was late afternoon when Souter returned to Jean’s house and she was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal.

  “Ah, you’re back,” Jean said, when she heard her brother come in. “You can peel these potatoes for me.”

  “What are we having, by the way?” He nosed around the cooker.

  “Chicken’s in the oven. It’ll be about an hour.”

  “Brilliant, our kid.”

  “And before I forget, some bloke by the name of Boyle rang for you about an hour ago. Said you’d left a message for him this morning and he was returning your call.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Apparently he’s off out tonight but he said he’d give you a ring tomorrow. I gave him your office number.”

  “Thanks.” Souter opened the fridge and studied the contents for something interesting to drink. He settled for a bottle of diet Coke with a twist of lemon. He poured himself a glass. “How did you go on last night?”

  “What you really mean is did I find out anything for you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “It wasn’t easy. I hope you realise you owe me big time for this.”

  “I couldn’t ever repay you.”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  He laughed. “Well? What did he tell you?”

  “Bear in mind I couldn’t get actual identification of any of this.”

  “Any of what?”

  Jean put the knife down she was using to chop onions. “There was a ladies lighter found in that box.”

  Souter grinned. “I knew it. I told you I was on to something.”

  “Hold on, though. It doesn’t mean that it’s the same one you’re talking about. That could just be coincidence.”

  “I know that. But did he describe it?”

  “Robert!”

  “Okay, okay. So how did you broach the subject?”

  Jean resumed the vegetable preparation. “Well, we were talking and we got on to the subject of how things were at work and I asked him if he was still involved in the murder case he’d told me about the other week. He said they still hadn’t got the breakthrough they were looking for. They’d got one or two in the frame, as he put it, but he didn’t reckon any were serious contenders. He didn’t go into detail.

  “Anyway, I asked him if there was any connection with that box full of jewellery items they’d found. He said he wasn’t sure. I think he was just being cagey. So I took the initiative and asked him again what the box had contained exactly – said I could put a woman’s perspective on things. I thought I’d blown it then, because he went quiet for a while. Finally, he said that if he told me, I couldn’t go around repeating anything because it wasn’t public knowledge.”

  “See, that’s what I said to you, wasn’t it?”

  “I know you did. Now hold on, where was I, oh, yes, the box. He said there was a broken silver chain and a silver hair clasp. Apparently, they’re the only ones that have been identified so far. Also in there was a silver charm bracelet, a diamanté brooch of an eagle, a gold ring with a single imitation diamond, the lighter and … oh, what was it now …I can’t quite remember. I think there were another couple of items. It’ll come back to me. Anyway, when he said diamanté brooch, I said I immediately thought of someone elderly but then, when I thought about it a bit more, it might have been worn by somebody much younger. Maybe someone a bit bohemian.”

  “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”

  “Look, shut up a minute. Then I said what you’d said. You know, about not having proper lighters anymore. Everybody has these three for a pound jobs that you throw away when they’re done. And he says …”

  “Who?”


  “John, of course. Oh, shit! You did that on purpose.”

  Souter’s face split into a broad grin. “Jean, don’t worry. I’m not interested in him. I just did it to see if I could get you to let it slip. But go on, what did he say?”

  She frowned. “Well, he reckoned that it could be significant and that it might mean that it came from a victim quite a while back, maybe ten, even twenty years ago.”

  “See, you’ve probably helped the investigation in some small way already.”

  “Don’t bloody patronise me. And by the way, I’ve just remembered, there were eight items in all. The last two were a ladies’ wristwatch with a leather strap and another ring with a three stone cluster.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “Never mind.” He took her head in his hands. “Jean, I love you.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “You’re a star. Wait there.”

  A minute later he reappeared. “Look at this. These are photos of the missing items I had faxed over from Carlisle.” He flicked through each of the sheets in turn as he described them. “A ladies’ cigarette lighter, a wristwatch with a leather strap and a ring with a three stone cluster.”

  40

  Monday morning found Strong sitting quietly in his office, mulling over the facts of the Williams’ case as he saw them. The e-fit Trevor Newell had worked up with Phil Whitehead from The Malt Shovel had been released to the press. Williams’ neighbour, Mrs Lockwood, hadn’t initially recognised the likeness as the mystery caller she’d passed on the corridor. That changed when Newell had the bright idea to superimpose a hood like the one worn when he hurried past her.

  As far as suspects went, true, there were a couple of outside bets if you considered Jake Hinchcliffe and Kenny Stocks, neither of whom bore any resemblance to the e-fit. God alone knew where Hinchcliffe was but Strong imagined that his disappearance was probably due more to what he and Williams had been involved with prior to Christmas than anything more sinister. As for Stocks, Strong believed his version of events in discovering the body, but knew he had far more to tell than he was prepared to for the time being. For one thing, he didn’t believe his story about thinking there would be easy pickings to be had in the flat. He wouldn’t mind betting that Stocks’ rumoured connections with Frank Carr would turn out to be a relevant factor.