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

by David Evans

  “I’ll get a box to pack this stuff. We’ll need to take a closer look at it back at Millgarth,” Jenkinson said, leaving Strong alone in the office once more.

  Other than an instinctive feeling, he could never explain why, he pulled the writing desk’s drawer completely out and began to run his hand first below then above the void. That was when he felt the package stuck to the underside of the desktop. He pulled at it. It held for a second before finally giving with a ‘zip’ sound as the tape holding it released. It was a plain white photograph wallet. He opened the packet. A set of negatives were in the front section. Slowly, he pulled out the half dozen 6 by 4 colour prints from the back.

  “Shit,” he said quietly, realising the subject matter.

  He slid the drawer back in then slipped the packet of photographs into the inside pocket of his coat.

  Jenkinson returned with a cardboard box and began to place the files from the filing cabinets into it. “Don’t forget to log that before you leave.”

  “Oh, this,” Strong said, picking up Carr’s ledger. “I’ll do it now.”

  A couple of minutes later, he’d shown it to the relevant DC and made his way quietly out of the house.

  45

  The last time Strong was here was for his mother, just under two years before. Her ashes were scattered in the Garden of Rest behind the chapel. From there, pleasant views over the distant Pennines provided the backdrop, but not today. The hills were enveloped in low cloud and the high-rise blocks on the edge of the city were beginning to suffer a similar fate. At times like these he detested Yorkshire weather. Early February, and the drizzle was particularly fine, the type that seemed to seep through your clothes and chill you to the bone in no time at all.

  He watched Billy Montgomery’s cortege arrive at the main doors of the crematorium, although cortege was rather too grand a word for the hearse and one car that had drawn slowly to a halt. The mourners of the previous booking had still been shaking hands and expressing regrets to the immediate family at the side door, just out of sight of the new arrivals. The place had the feel of a factory controlled by strict timetables and careful management.

  In the relative comfort of his car, he lit one of his cigars and switched the radio on. As the wavelengths were scanned, he grew more irritated. Meaningless babble from youths barely out of school gave way to what some loosely termed music, others referred to as rap with a silent ’c’; which transformed into amateur-sounding adverts for local plumbers and furniture stores. Exasperation overcame him as he eavesdropped on a medical expert’s advice to some old dear about her bunions on a phone-in programme, definitely not the sort of distraction he was seeking. He switched the radio off and cracked the sunroof open; far enough to allow the smoke to escape but not the rain to penetrate. Normally, he didn’t like to smoke in the car but, today, he felt he had no choice. Smoking helped him think, and he’d certainly got a lot to think about.

  It had been nearly three weeks since Montgomery first came to his attention. From that time, he was drawn ever closer to the conclusion that he was ‘Wearside Jack’. He denied any involvement, of course. Or did he? The more Strong thought about things, the more he turned over his responses in his mind, the more he felt Montgomery had been playing with him, just as the hoaxer had twenty years before. The frustrating thing was there was no categorical evidence to tie this man to the offence. Plenty of circumstantial but nothing concrete. He felt cheated; cheated of the pleasure of putting him away. At least, he thought, he had the satisfaction of knowing who he was. For Strong, that was only half the answer; knowing who but not why. He hated loose ends.

  He took a deep draw on his cigar and watched the smoke spiral up and out through the sunroof. He switched his attention to the Williams’ murder. A lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours. After the early morning raid, he’d driven back to Millgarth. Matheson had returned with the suspects from Harehills and was busy with paperwork in his office. He had readily agreed for him to make copies of Carr’s ledger but Strong wouldn’t be able to question Carr until they’d interviewed all the suspects from the raids. Strong knew that would be the case. The ledger certainly threw up some interesting names but it also demonstrated that, contrary to Carr’s statements, Fred Williams’ debt was still outstanding. Kenny Stocks was also a regular customer, although he did have some interesting entries on the credit side. For Strong, that gave credence to the theory that he worked his passage from time to time. One or two other well-known minor offenders also appeared and, further back in time, a few that were no longer with us.

  However, it was the photos that gave Strong most angst.

  “There’s something else, though, isn’t there, Colin?” Matheson had wondered.

  Strong had closed the office door, sat down opposite then related the finding of the packet of photographs. There was no mistaking what they depicted. He had to admire the skill of the photographer in obtaining the shots in the first place. Their existence certainly explained a lot. “They could be a little delicate,” he had added. “You may recognise the subject.”

  Matheson held out a hand and Strong passed them over. The DCI’s eyes widened as he studied the pictures. He flicked through them, sometimes turning one sideways. Finally, he asked, “Is that who I think it is?”

  “DCI Cunningham, yes.”

  “Shit.” Matheson began to chuckle. “I don’t suppose you know who the woman is?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Job?”

  Strong looked away.

  “Fuck. The silly old bastard.”

  “The thing is, what do we do?”

  “We?” Matheson was puzzled. But Strong pleaded Cunningham’s case and asked if he could keep hold of them for now. Reluctantly, Matheson agreed for Strong to keep possession for a couple of days. They would have to be entered on the evidence log and returned as soon as Matheson requested. He would be interested to know exactly what Carr intended to do with them. And so it was that Strong had the packet in his coat pocket once more.

  The wipers, on an intermittent setting, once again swept across the windscreen removing the accumulated raindrops and bringing his thoughts back to the matter in hand. The chapel doors opened and the undertaker’s assistants appeared like night-club bouncers in ill-fitting suits. Strong amused himself with the thought that they were probably fully paid-up members of the black economy, moonlighting to earn some extra cash for a family holiday or salt away from the creeping tentacles of the Child Support Agency. He’d known a few risk their police career in this role. As soon as the suits appeared, they melted away, ready for the next performance.

  Next out was the vicar, closely followed by Rosie Hudson. The cleric took her hands in his and offered a few perfunctory words before she positioned herself beside him, as protocol dictates, to accept the condolences of the others as they left. Strong watched closely as a younger man emerged. After shaking hands with the vicar he stood in front of Rosie for a moment. Leaning towards her, he appeared to say something in her ear. Too far away for her facial expressions to be read, Rosie’s body language told Strong she was shocked and upset. Meanwhile, another woman he couldn’t make out clearly had engaged the vicar in conversation. The man turned away and, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, strode out purposefully across the car park. Strong followed his progress for a few seconds before returning his gaze to the chapel exit. No other mourners had emerged and, by this time, Rosie was being consoled by her female companion. With a clearer view, he was sure she was her sister, Janice, although the grey hair in the photo he’d seen in Montgomery’s flat was now brown. The vicar gave the two a quick glance before taking his leave.

  Just then, Strong’s mobile erupted into life, with Wood Street station’s number displayed on the LCD.

  “DI Strong, I don’t care where you are,” DCI Cunningham’s voice barked in his ear, “get your arse back here now!”

  “But …”

  �
�My office, fifteen minutes tops!”

  “What’s the …?” Strong stopped, recognising further enquiry was futile, the line had gone dead.

  46

  Souter had a mouthful of croissant ready to be washed down with a slurp of coffee from the machine when his phone rang. Sitting at his desk on the first floor office of the Post building, he was typing a report onto his computer.

  “You took your time, Keith,” he said to the caller.

  “It’s not as easy as you think. I have to time my search right so as not to arouse suspicion,” Keith responded.

  “All right, so what have you got?”

  He gave him an address in Ossett, a small town on the outskirts of Wakefield.

  “Ossett?” Souter repeated. “That would make sense.”

  “One more thing, there’s no record of any National Insurance contributions for nearly a year, so don’t be surprised if he’s moved.”

  “You’re a star, Keith.”

  “So are we even?”

  “We’ll see.” Souter ended the call.

  Janey Clarke took her cue and bobbed her head above the half-height partition that separated her workstation from the others in the open-plan office. “Don’t forget, you’ve got to be in the Crown Court for eleven. The French teacher and the two sixteen year-olds, remember?”

  “Oh, shit,” he said, “I don’t suppose you could cover that, could you, Janey?”

  She brightened up. “Ooh, thanks, Bob. I thought you’d want to keep hold of that one. I could just imagine you enjoying yourself with the headlines and quotes. You know, full of innuendo.”

  He laughed. “I would have, but I need to do a bit more on these drugs raids this morning. Jim Fowler from the Manchester Evening News wants to compare notes with the raids over there.”

  Janey grabbed her bag and put on her coat. “What puzzles me is how she got caught in the first place. I mean, two testosterone overloaded lads with the opportunity to indulge their fantasies. I can’t imagine they’d report her.”

  “Before you say it, Janey, like all blokes, they couldn’t keep quiet about it, they had to tell their mates. Then they got pissed off because they weren’t getting any share of the action, word got out and one of the parents picks up on the conversations and goes berserk.”

  “As if I’d class all men the same.”

  “And listen, I want all the details, the ones you can’t print.”

  “Perv,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the door.

  47

  “I hate bloody journalists,” came the unmistakable voice of Darby from within the CID room. “They’re just like dogs.”

  “What, you mean, never giving up? Like with a bone?” Newell responded.

  “No,” came the measured reply. “They’ve always got their noses in other people’s shit.”

  At that moment, Strong made his entrance. “Your eloquent use of the English language never ceases to amaze me, John,” Strong said, prompting stifled laughs from the CID officers gathered in the incident room that died quickly to an embarrassed silence.

  Stainmore broke it after a few seconds. “The Enforcer’s looking for you, guv.”

  “I know, Kelly, thanks. So what’s the big development?”

  Again, a few nervous looks and officers shuffling their feet.

  “Come on, what?”

  “You haven’t seen this, then?” Ormerod asked rhetorically, as he handed Strong a copy of that morning’s Yorkshire Post.

  ‘Another Miscarriage of Justice,’ the headlines blazed out. Strong felt a knot form in his stomach. He spotted the small credit below the main title, ‘Robert Souter, Crime Correspondent’, and a quick scan of the text confirmed his thoughts – Donald Summers’ latest effort to bring his brother, Paul’s, case back into the public eye. No wonder Souter had been avoiding him.

  And now, Strong thought, this was why Cunningham had called him back to the station in such a sharp manner. Strong was annoyed on two counts. Firstly, he had wanted to find out more about the unidentified man who had obviously upset Rosie Hudson at Billy Montgomery’s funeral. Secondly, he wanted to choose the timing of his next meeting with Cunningham. Still, he would see what his boss had to say and play things by ear. The most important thing was to get himself back on the Williams enquiry and move it on in the right direction. Above all, he told himself, just keep calm.

  A terse ‘Come,’ answered Strong’s knock on Cunningham’s office door. Walking in, newspaper in hand, Strong noted DCI Cunningham was seated behind his desk with a copy of the same article spread out in front of him.

  Cunningham glanced up over the top of his reading glasses before resuming his study of the newspaper. “You’ve seen it then,” he snarled.

  “Just now.” Strong deliberately omitting ‘sir’.

  “What the hell’s going on, Colin? I told you to keep a lid on things. We didn’t want all this blowing up again. And this.” He prodded the paper with his forefinger. “This … Souter character. Where’s he getting all his information from? It’s got to be from your team.”

  “My team? Since the last time I was in this room I thought they were your team.”

  Cunningham flushed up. “Now don’t you be such a smart arse! You were running this investigation for the first ten days or so, I’ve only been back since yesterday.”

  “Well maybe so, but the point to make is that it may not be our team,” Strong replied. “It could be any one of a number of sources – forensics, uniform – you know how it is, an overheard conversation in the canteen, anything.”

  Cunningham looked disbelievingly. “However he got it,” he said slowly, “when I find out who was responsible … well, you know what I’m saying.”

  “The other thing to bear in mind is that this is all froth.” Strong opened up his copy and searched for the phrases that had caught his eye earlier. “‘A source close to the enquiry hinted,’” he quoted. “‘It has been suggested’ … ‘Rumours abound …’ Hardly what you’d call full of substance is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter, the objective has been satisfied – to get the story back on the front page and start casting doubts in the public’s mind.” Cunningham leaned back in his seat, removed the half-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God knows we’ve got enough problems getting cooperation from Joe Public as it is without stories like this reappearing at regular intervals.”

  Strong remained silent.

  “Anyway, you say there’s no substance to it but, this bit here,” glasses back on, “‘a significant find during the course of an ongoing investigation has cast serious doubts over the validity of Paul Summers’ conviction.’ Now what else can he be talking about except that bloody metal case you and Stainmore keep rattling on about. I tell you, he knows what we’re up to, Colin. And that information can only have come from within the investigation team.”

  The adrenaline pumped through Strong’s veins and he only hoped he hadn’t coloured up. Although he knew he hadn’t told Souter about the trophy case, if it became known that the two of them were close, no one would believe that. Souter had known all sorts of things before he’d spoken to Strong, that was plain, but whether he’d obtained his knowledge through Donald Summers or some other third party was still a mystery. But Cunningham was right, Souter had a good source.

  Strong took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he considered exactly how to continue the discussion.

  “Something else on your mind?” Cunningham asked.

  “Look, there’s no easy way to ask this, but have you ever considered that Summers might not be guilty?”

  Again, the colour intensified in Cunningham’s cheeks as he slowly rose from his chair. “Are you deliberately trying to wind me up, DI Strong?”

  “Look, you might not believe it but I’m trying to help you here.”

  With both massive fists resting on the desk as he leaned for
ward, Cunningham looked Strong straight in the eye. “What makes you think I’d need any help from you?”

  “You are aware whose property was raided by the Drugs Squad this morning?”

  Cunningham look puzzled. “What the Hell are you going on about?”

  Another sharp breath then Strong went on, “Was Frank Carr blackmailing you?”

  “Frank Carr, that jumped up little bastard? What the fuck … I don’t believe you just asked me that.”

  “If he wasn’t already, I think he may have had plans to.”

  Cunningham snorted. “Me? What could that weasel possibly have on me?”

  “His was one of the properties raided and I was there.” He drew a breath. “Hidden in a drawer in his office, I found these.” Strong pulled the envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk in front of the DCI.

  Cunningham sat back down in his chair. He put his glasses back on, opened the envelope, and pulled out the six photographs. As he flicked through each one his flushed cheeks grew paler and shock registered on his face.

  “What the … How did … I …” Cunningham struggled for words.

  “Now, I know it might not be your best side but I don’t think you could be mistaken for anyone else,” Strong couldn’t resist commenting. “And, if I’m not mistaken, that looks pretty much like Kathy Sharp, although I’ve never seen her in that state of undress before.”

  Cunningham looked up at Strong. His lips moved but no sound came out.

  Strong sat down in the chair in front of the DCI’s desk. “Look, Jack,” he said quietly, “You’re a good copper. One of the best. You’re not the first to let your groin rule your head. And I’m not here to hang you out to dry. All I’m concerned with is whether an innocent man is in prison for something he didn’t do. I just want to be allowed to investigate this fully. I’ll do everything I can to play down your part – if indeed that proves to be the case. I might be totally wrong here but I’ve got to find out.”