by David Evans
Cunningham removed his glasses once more and rubbed both eyes with his hands. Finally, he leaned back, took a breath and considered his reply. “So who else knows about these?”
“Only DCI Matheson. I had to show him. He recognised you as well.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Cunningham swung to the side in his chair and seemed to stare at the sporting mementos on the shelf for a few seconds. “He’s a straight up bloke, Jim Matheson. I’m assuming they’re logged somewhere?”
“They’re listed as ‘one packet of six photographs with negatives’ in the evidence log, but I managed to persuade Jim to let me hang on to them for now. But I will have to return them when he needs them.”
Cunningham swung back to face Strong. “You need to believe me that when Summers was sent down, I was sure he was guilty. It’s only his brother banging on about it that makes people start to doubt that. And then that necklace turns up.” He shook his head. “Christ what a mess.”
“Things might not be that bad,” Strong replied. “If the evidence at the time pointed to Summers guilt then that’s how it was. Twenty-twenty hindsight is fantastic but they can’t condemn you for that.”
“Come on, Colin, I know you’re trying to put a gloss on it but when they go back and talk to Irene Nicholson again … well, I’m sure you already have … she’ll tell you how we put pressure on her to confirm Summers identity. All because … well … we wanted a result too much.” Cunningham picked up the photos once more and, after another leaf through, put them back in the envelope. “Here, you best take care of these,” he said, handing the packet back to Strong. “Don’t lose them. I’d hate to think two of us would be ruined because of me.”
“So what happens now?”
“I’ll give Jim Matheson a call. But I think it best you come back to work the Williams case.”
48
Stainmore joined Strong at the station’s rear doorway leading on to the yard. “Was it that bad?” She nodded towards his cigar.
“Put it this way, Kelly, I’m back on the case.”
“That’s brilliant, guv. How did you manage that?”
“Best you don’t know,” he said, avoiding eye contact. He should have felt triumphant, victorious, at the very least pleased with himself. But he felt none of those things. He was disappointed, depressed, sad. Cunningham might be belligerent and awkward to deal with sometimes but Strong had admired him. He would have trusted him to the ends of the earth. He supposed he still did to some extent. Only the stupid big sod had been tempted by the sins of the flesh. And the very attractive flesh of Kathy Sharp at that. Still no excuse for putting an innocent man behind bars for years, though. But the job wasn’t done yet. He still had to find whoever had attacked Irene Nicholson and all the others. Only then would justice be done.
He took a draw of his cigar, dismissed his thoughts then turned to Stainmore. “So, where are you with your investigations?”
“This is back on officially, then?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, I’m trying to trace Denise Draper last heard of in Huddersfield, but we’re going back to 1987. Anyway, what I came to tell you is that Jake Hinchcliffe’s mother is in the front interview room. Says she wants to speak to you. Something about that e-fit in the papers.”
“Ah, well, get her a cup of tea and I’ll be in when I’ve finished this.”
“Already done that, guv. Do you want me to sit in as well?”
“Yes, why not.” Strong took another drag of his cigar.
“While you’re doing that, I’ll let the team know you’re back. They’ll be chuffed.”
Sylvia Hinchcliffe, dressed in another gaudy ill-fitting tracksuit, was huddled over a cup of tea when Strong and Stainmore walked into the room and introduced themselves.
“I understand you have some information for us, Mrs. Hinchcliffe?” Strong began. They sat down opposite.
“You’ve no news on my son, then?” she asked.
“There’s nothing I can tell you at the moment,” Strong said. “Now, you mentioned the e-fit we released to the press.”
“Yes, that’s right. Well, I wouldn’t normally talk to you lot but I’m worried about John and it just seemed too much of a coincidence.”
“Mrs Hinchcliffe, can we start at the beginning, please?”
“Well, it’s him, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“That bloke in your drawing. He called round last week looking for our John.”
Strong and Stainmore exchanged looks before he continued, “Sorry, let me get this straight, you’re saying the man we’re looking for paid you a visit last week?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
“When was this exactly?”
“It was last Wednesday, about twelve. I was just sitting down to watch one of my programmes when there was a knock on the door. I was a bit suspicious at first when he was asking if my son was in. Then, a little later, he repeated his name, John, when I asked him if that’s who he meant.”
“What made you suspicious?”
“Well, there’s only me as calls him John. Everyone else calls him Jake. And if he was a friend of a friend of his like he said he was, then I would have thought he’d have known that. Anyway, he said he had something for our John and, as it was raining, he asked if he could come in.”
“And you let him in?”
“He seemed pleasant enough, well-dressed like, and he chatted away. To tell you the truth, I was glad of the company for the time he was there.”
“Did he say what it was he had for your son?”
“Now you come to mention it, not really. He kind of touched his coat pocket, as though he had something there, but he never said what it was and he didn’t want to leave it with me. I told him I was worried about John, how I hadn’t seen him for a few days, which was unusual. He’d heard about Fred Williams, though; reckoned he’d read about it in the papers.”
“Who brought the subject up?”
“Er … I think I did. Well, no, that’s not quite right. I think I said that John’s mate had ended up with his head bashed in and he asked if I meant Williams.”
“What else did he talk about?”
“He seemed keen to see John. Asked me if I’d any idea where he might be.”
“And did you offer any suggestions?”
“Well, no, I had no idea. I still haven’t … unless he’d gone to the old caravan where you said they found Tim’s old van.”
“Did you mention the caravan to this man?”
She thought for a moment. “No … only he was looking at the photographs on the sideboard. He picked the one up with Jack, that’s my late husband, me and John that was taken outside the caravan years ago. He asked me where it had been taken and I told him.”
“Did you tell him you still had access to it?”
“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d forgotten. It’s been ages since we’d been up there. It was only when he was asking that I realised we probably still did.”
“Can you describe how he was dressed?”
“Very neat. He had one of those dark grey overcoats, like a Crombie, dark trousers and black shoes. I could tell he wasn’t one of your lot but I also knew he’d not been inside. You can tell these things.”
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation and Darby appeared. “Can I have a word, guv?” He bobbed his head towards the front desk to indicate in private.
“What’s up, John?” Strong asked, once they were in the corridor.
“The body in the caravan in Pickering … it’s been identified as John Reginald Hinchcliffe. Dental records provided by the Prison Service clinched it.”
Strong sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to tell her now. Any news on cause? Are they still classifying it as suspicious?”
“Officially, yes. There’s no evidence so far of anyone else having been there but, off the record, they told me he was
found behind the door. There was a whisky bottle inside and the doors to a solid fuel stove were open. They reckon a burning ember dropped out, that was the seat of the fire. And then, of course, the propane tank went up and … there you go, no need for a cremation!”
“Yes, all right, thank you John,” Strong said, a look of distaste on his face. “Don’t be offended if I don’t let you break the news to his mother.”
Darby put on a serious expression before turning to make his way back along the corridor. Strong could imagine him breaking into a broad grin.
Strong rejoined Stainmore and Sylvia Hinchcliffe in the interview room. He hated moments like these. Despite having broken bad news to relatives hundreds of times before in his career, it never became any easier. A few minutes later, Jake’s mother was distraught.
“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “If I’d told you sooner about this bloke, my John would still be here."
“At the moment, it looks like a tragic accident. This mystery caller has probably nothing to do with events in Pickering,” Strong suggested, even though he suspected it was too much of a coincidence. However, unless there was any evidence to suggest otherwise, they would probably be left with the current theory.
Sylvia Hinchcliffe drew herself straight in her chair. “No, you’re right. It was your fault. If you hadn’t hounded him, he wouldn’t have needed to disappear up to the caravan. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve done this.” She cried hysterically then crumpled over the desk.
Strong shook his head to Stainmore who was about to offer some comfort to the distressed woman. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to have composed herself and pulled a cigarette from the packet she had brought with her. Strong lit it, ignoring the no-smoking rules. She drew on it a couple of times and then said, “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Hinchcliffe.” Strong said, “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I’ve got two kids myself and I don’t know how I would cope if anything happened to them.” He paused while she took another few drags on her cigarette, timing his next question. “I’m really sorry about John. For what it’s worth, I never thought he had anything to do with what happened to Fred Williams. But, if we’re to get to the truth in all this, I’m going to need your help. I know I would do everything to protect my children and I can understand you trying to help John before but … I need you to tell me the truth now.”
Another drag of the cigarette precipitated a quiet “Yes” from her.
“Now, when my officers spoke to you before and asked you where John was on certain dates, you gave him an alibi and said he was at home with you.” She dropped her head to avoid eye contact. “That wasn’t true, was it?”
“No,” she said softly.
“You knew he was working with Fred Williams, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Strong pulled a notebook from his pocket. “We were talking about these dates; August 23rd, September 4th, October 14th and November 28th.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and looked straight at Strong. “I can’t remember them all but, if it helps, I know he was out on the last two.”
“Now, this is important … was he also out with Fred Williams on at least one further occasion after November 28th?”
“Yes.” She wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “It was a Monday, about a week later.”
Strong consulted his pocket diary. “That would be December 6th.”
“If you say so.”
“Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
“No. He never told me and I never asked.”
“Okay, Mrs. Hinchcliffe. Thank you. Now, is there anyone we can call for you; a relative, a friend?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll organise a lift home.”
49
It was just after six when Souter pulled up outside the stone-fronted terraced house in Ossett that Keith’s information had led him to. His ring on the bell was answered by an attractive dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties. She seemed surprised to find a reporter on her doorstep and took a great deal of persuasion to allow him in to talk to her. Finally, he was seated in Alison Hewitt’s comfortably furnished front room. The cat that had made several attempts to settle in his lap had been banished to the kitchen. Alison carried the animal there, affording Souter the opportunity to study her. She was wearing a sheer white blouse with a light blue scarf around her neck and a neat dark blue skirt, partly split up the back, showing off a very shapely pair of legs, he considered.
“But, like I said,” she told him, returning from the kitchen, minus the cat but carrying two mugs of coffee, “he hasn’t lived here since last March when I finally saw sense and threw him out. Where he’s living now, I’ve no idea.”
He took the first taste of his coffee and, having studied the room while she was absent and found no evidence of ash trays, decided he would have to do without a cigarette. “What did he do for a living, Alison?”
“He worked at the bakery. That meant working nights, or at least late evenings through till early mornings. I didn’t mind at first but then I grew suspicious that perhaps not every shift he told me he was working was actually genuine.”
“Oh? Was there anything in particular?” A look of suspicion formed on her face, prompting Souter to add, “I’m not taping any of this. I’m just interested in the background, that’s all.”
Alison considered for a moment. “I suppose it was a combination of things, really. I noticed he was short of money once or twice, you know, needed to borrow from me. Well that struck me as a bit strange, especially as he seemed to be putting the shifts in.” She paused while she took a drink from her cup. “Then, one night, I needed to get hold of him at work, so I rang the bakery. Whoever it was that answered told me he wasn’t down to work that night. I was shocked but managed to laugh it off with them, saying I’d made a mistake and, of course he wasn’t working. Two and two led me to the obvious conclusion he was probably seeing someone else. Ideal opportunity to carry on an affair, don’t you think? Working those hours, I mean. I never found out who it was. Even at the end, he denied he’d ever been with anyone. Anyway, once that initial trust had been broken, other, smaller things took on greater importance.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, look around.” She gestured the room with her hand. “You think this room is fairly tidy?”
He had to agree, the room was all very clean, neat and tidy, no layer of dust visible on any surface; cushions neatly placed in the easy chairs and sofa.
“Well, he would probably classify this as a tip. He was so obsessively tidy, he made my mother, who was a prize cushion-patter, look like a bag lady.”
He grinned, lightening the mood and drawing a laugh from Alison.
“I suppose it is rather funny now,” she said. “But, in the end, I’d had enough. He got on my nerves, so I told him to go.”
“How did he take that? I don’t suppose he was too pleased?”
Her expression grew dark. “No,” she said.
Souter got the impression there was more to tell. “Look, I’m sorry if this is upsetting but, was he ever violent towards you?”
She didn’t respond and, despite her bowed head, he saw a single tear drop onto her lap.
“He hit you, didn’t he?” Souter persisted.
Alison slowly nodded her head. She pulled a paper tissue from the sleeve of her blouse, wiped her eyes and began to compose herself. “Yes, the bastard hit me.”
He said nothing, hoping she would continue when she was ready.
Finally, she did. “My brother, Mark, helped me in the end. He physically threw him out, then all his clothes and things, into the street.”
“And that was last March? You haven’t seen him since?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Was there any indication of violence before that in your relationship?”
“Why do you wa
nt to know all this? I mean, what sort of story are you working on?”
Souter knew he’d probably probed too far and didn’t think there was much more he could learn from her. “It’s just his name came up in relation to something else and I think he could provide some important background information, that’s all.” He could tell she suspected he was being less than generous with the truth and decided to wrap the conversation up. “So, you’ve got no idea where he might have moved to?”
“No, I told you. Have you tried the bakery?”
“I’ll contact them next.”
“Well, I really can’t tell you any more, Mr Souter.”
The formality of her last statement gave him the impression that she too had decided the discussion was at an end. Taking the hint, he rose to his feet. “Thanks for your time, Miss Hewitt. I didn’t mean to cause any upset.”
She also got up from her chair and they moved towards the front door. As she opened it for him, he gave her his card and asked that if she wanted to tell him anything more, to give him a call, anytime.
50
“Guv, phone for you,” Ormerod interrupted.
“Who is it?”
“Dunno. Some woman. Says it’s important.”
Strong left his discussion with Kirkland and went back to his office.
“Strong,” he said.
“Mr Strong, it’s Rosie, Rosie Hudson.”
“Yes, Rosie, what can I do for you?”
Making his way round the desk, he sat down.
“I think it’s more what I can do for you.”
“I thought you’d given that up,” he laughed.
“I’m serious. There’s something you should know, but not over the phone.”
“So why don’t you call in here?”
“No, not a good idea. And I don’t want you coming round the flat again either.”
A uniformed constable appeared at the office door. Strong beckoned him in, as the telephone conversation continued. “So where do you suggest?”