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

by David Evans

  “I’ve got to come into town – the library. We could meet there, in an hour?”

  The officer placed an envelope on Strong’s desk and quietly left.

  “The main one on Balne Lane, you mean?”

  “No, the one on Drury Lane, I’ve got to take Billy’s books back. I’ll wait by the travel section. That’s towards the back.”

  “Not thinking of leaving us are you?”

  “In an hour, Mr Strong.” With that the connection was broken and he was left with the buzzing tone.

  Intrigued, he opened the large brown envelope that had just been delivered and pulled out the contents. On top was a hand-written note from DS Franklin in Scarborough. Apparently, they’d been alerted by Traffic to the enclosed speed camera photographs because the vehicle involved bore false plates and he thought Strong might be interested. That was an understatement.

  “Kelly! Luke!” he shouted through his open office door into the CID room. “In here, please!”

  The photos had been taken by one of the new forward facing speed cameras only recently installed on a dual carriageway section of the A64 just outside Scarborough. The speed limit was fifty but the vehicle had been recorded at seventy-four. They were timed at 01:43 on the morning of the attack on Kenny Stocks. Apart from the timing of the images, the car being driven was a light coloured Mercedes C Class. Stocks had still refused to make a statement regarding the assault, leaving Franklin unable to take any action. However, he thought Strong might be able to do something with the photos, one of which he’d enhanced to show clearly the driver and front seat passenger.

  “What do you make of these?” Strong asked Stainmore and Ormerod, placing the photographs on the desk in front of them.

  “Gerry Fitzpatrick and … who’s the passenger?” Stainmore asked.

  “Barry Jubb, otherwise known as Baz,” Ormerod added. “Various assault charges, including one of GBH a few years ago, if my memory serves.”

  “And,” Strong continued, “both employed as ‘security’ at Frank Carr’s nightclub in Leeds, as I found out, delving into the mire that constitutes his business interests.”

  “So, shall I organise for them to be picked up?” Stainmore wondered.

  “No, not yet. They can wait for a bit. Luke, how’s our friend Kenny Stocks doing?”

  “Improving. He came out of ICU yesterday. DS Franklin’s organised a side room off the main ward to make it easier to keep tabs.”

  “Then I think it’s time we had another little chat.” Strong paused as he looked at his watch. “I’ve just got to nip out for an hour, but I’ll see you back here then.”

  * * *

  Rosie Hudson replaced the handset after her call to Strong and inserted the sealed envelope inside another addressed to her sister, Janice. She considered it an insurance policy. Not that she’d benefit personally in any way but she felt better that it existed. She sealed the flap down and stuck her last stamp on the front. She’d have to get some more when she went into town shortly. The ring of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Her elderly neighbour, Mrs Swithenbank hadn’t been well these past few days and Rosie had told her she would call to collect her shopping list on the way. The old dear had probably become anxious that it would be forgotten. Rosie chuckled to herself, wondering if she’d get like that in a few years, panicking about being let down the way some old people do.

  As her hand released the Yale lock, the door burst open. The impact knocked her up the hallway and onto her back. He stormed in and slammed the door shut behind him. A wave of nausea swept through her. The pain from her elbow seared its way to her brain.

  He stood over her. “You won’t keep it shut.” His tone was menacing.

  She struggled to reply but it caught itself somewhere in the back of her throat.

  “Don’t bother. I won’t believe anything you tell me anyway.”

  In one swift move, he doubled over, grabbed a handful of her jumper by the neck and yanked her onto her feet.

  She screamed out in agony.

  “Shut up!” he yelled.

  She sobbed.

  “You’ll blab,” he said, back in quiet tones. “Your type always do.”

  She was breathing fast but managed to concentrate great effort into denying his accusation. “I won’t … I promise … I …” She was cut short as his grip tightened and he pushed her up against the wall.

  “You see, Rosie … I’ve been thinking … whilst he was alive, you had an interest in keeping schtum. You said yourself last time I was here, you’d only do it for his sake. But … he’s gone now … and well, like I said, I’ve been thinking. There’s no incentive for you anymore.” His face was close to hers; his breath foul. “In fact, you could say it’d be in your interest to tell what you know. I’d be out of the way then. I’m right aren’t I?”

  “N …no … please.”

  “Please? Please what? I can’t trust you, Rosie. Not you. Not what you were. Or maybe even what you are, eh? A lifetime on the game. Not doing anything unless it was for money. I bet you could still earn a living. You know, some men go for the older woman. Admittedly, in your case, it might be stretching it a bit, but you could create your own little niche market … an old slapper like you.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, you disgust me. How could he take up with the likes of you?” He spun her round to the opposite wall, banging the back of her head against the plaster. She yelped but he continued as if nothing had happened. “But, at the end of the day, you’ll blab. Then that’ll be the end for me … and I can’t have that. That’s why it’s got to stop. Right here, right now.”

  His grip tightened even further and, launching her once more to the opposite side of the hallway, he smashed her head against the bedroom door frame. A sharp crack resounded and her eyes glazed over. He could feel her body go limp. He was about to project her up the hallway when the doorbell rang. He froze. All was silent for a second then Rosie began to make a strange gurgling noise.

  “Hello?” An insistent elderly female voice from the other side of the front door. “Are you still there, Rosie?”

  Adrenaline pumped around his body making normal breathing difficult. Thrusting the palm of his hand over Rosie’s mouth, he whispered into her ear, “Shut up. Shut up you stupid old tart.”

  “Rosie?” came the voice again. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  Shit, he thought, got to get out of here. He released his grip on Rosie and she slowly slid down the wall into a crumpled heap on the hall carpet. As he dashed for the kitchen at the far end of the hallway, he heard the letterbox flap open. Grateful the flat was on the ground floor, he was halfway out the window and into the back garden when he heard the voice shout, “Rosie! Are you all right?”

  * * *

  Drury Lane library was a five-minute stroll from Wood Street station. Situated in a lovely 18th Century stone building, Strong always preferred it to the faceless concrete structure of the main library on Balne Lane. It had been some years since he’d visited the place, and he was pleasantly surprised to see that computers had been installed, allowing the public access to the internet.

  Rosie was right, the travel section was to the rear, but she was nowhere to be seen. He checked his watch. He was a few minutes early, so he decided to browse the True Crimes section. As he did so, he remembered that Souter hadn’t been in contact with him since last week, despite the terse message he’d left on his voicemail the previous day.

  He wandered out to the front vestibule and dialled Souter’s number on his mobile phone. After a couple of rings, the voicemail kicked in. “Bob, it’s Colin again. Look, you need to come back to me. As you can guess, you’ve cranked things up with that front page of yours. Thanks for the warning, by the way,” his tone ironic. “It’s been nearly a week since we last spoke. I need to know what you’ve got for me on that Carlisle murder. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  Strong had been watching for Ros
ie but she still hadn’t turned up. He checked his watch again and decided to have one more scout around the library to make sure he hadn’t missed her somehow. That was all he’d got time for; he wanted to set off for Scarborough. The time was right to try and squeeze the rest of the story out of Kenny Stocks. There was no sign of Rosie. She was now fifteen minutes late, so he left.

  * * *

  Olive Swithenbank still had the key she’d been given for emergencies when Billy Montgomery was so ill. Although her eyesight wasn’t as good as it once was, when she peered through the letterbox, there was no mistaking the form of Rosie Hudson lying on the hallway floor. Olive forgot how poorly she had felt now she had something to focus on. She rushed home as quickly as she could, retrieved the key and returned next door to let herself in. She had been a nurse during the war and recognised instantly that Rosie was in serious trouble. She was still alive but her breathing was shallow and noisy. Managing to roll her over into the recovery position, Olive checked her airway and made for the telephone.

  As she made the 999 call for an ambulance, Olive spotted the letter, stamped up and ready to be posted to Janice Roberts at an address in Sandal. Posh part, she thought and decided she’d help poor Rosie out and post it for her. She put it in her coat pocket and went back to check on her patient while she waited for the paramedics.

  51

  Souter was at his desk preparing a follow up story on the drugs raids in Yorkshire and Manchester the previous day. The focus had shifted towards the ease with which recreational drugs had become available in recent years as well as exploring the latest fashionable drugs of choice. Prior to her departure to report on the second day’s events at the Crown Court, he had also been enjoying Janey’s entertaining account of developments in the fascinating case of the gorgeous twenty-five year-old French teacher and the two lucky bastards she was accused of having sex with. She had done a good job yesterday, he thought, a young woman with obvious talent for reporting.

  The mobile phone burst into life and he checked who was calling. Colin’s name came up. For the time being, he’d rather avoid direct contact so he switched the phone over to voicemail. Just then, the land line phone on his desk began to ring and he wondered if Colin had become frustrated trying to make contact by mobile phone and had resorted to calling his office number. After the third ring, he decided that, if it was, there was nothing to be gained by avoiding the issue any further.

  “Souter,” he answered.

  “Mr Souter,” the female voice at the other end said, “it’s Alison Hewitt here.”

  He tried his best to disguise his surprise. “Hello, I didn’t …”

  “I know. You didn’t expect to hear from me … after last night, I mean.”

  “No … it’s just … well, yes actually, I didn’t,” he laughed.

  “After you left yesterday, my brother, you know, Mark, I mentioned him before, well he rang me up to ask me if I’d seen it. When he’d hung up, I suddenly realised why you’d come to see me.”

  Souter was intrigued. “Oh, yes.”

  “Yes. It was that artist’s impression, wasn’t it? The one in the papers the day before. I hadn’t seen it. I only buy a paper on a Saturday, mostly for the TV programmes. I haven’t really got time to read one every day. Oh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be saying that sort of thing to you, should I? Not with you doing what you do.”

  “That’s all right. But what do you mean about the e-fit?”

  “Well, it’s him, isn’t it?”

  It was as if someone had opened the venetian blinds to a room on a sunny day. He felt like blinking his eyes. “Er … well, I didn’t like to say anything,” he bluffed.

  “I quite understand. The thing is, I did have a forwarding address for him. He pushed a piece of paper with it written on through my letterbox not long after he left. I threw it away, of course, but I can still remember it.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was Calder Street. Number twenty-seven.”

  “Miss Hewitt, that’s a great help, it really is.”

  “Please, call me Alison.”

  “All right, Alison. My friends call me Bob.”

  He could hear her chuckle on the end of the line. “Okay, Mr Souter, save it …for now.”

  He felt a familiar tingling feeling develop. “Listen, Alison, perhaps we could …”

  “Sorry,” she jumped in. “Got to go. Something’s come up.”

  With that the line went dead and he found himself smiling into the handset and saying, “Yes, I know the feeling.”

  52

  The run to Scarborough wasn’t as pleasant as the previous Sunday. Traffic was heavier and an accident on the A64 near Tadcaster added thirty minutes to the journey time. There was no kind spirited soul in the car park either to pass on their ticket, so Strong borrowed some loose change from Ormerod.

  They showed their warrant cards to the constable outside Stocks’ room. The man himself was dozing but woke as Ormerod closed the door behind them. The swelling to Stocks’ face had reduced somewhat and the discolouration had subtly changed from the reds and purples of Sunday to more autumnal hues of yellows and browns. There was a look of disappointment on his face as the two detectives sat down on opposite sides of the bed.

  “Looking after you well enough, are they, Kenny?” Strong asked.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” Stocks said.

  “We’ll take that as a yes, then,” Ormerod quipped.

  “You see,” Strong said, “I’ve been looking through your statement and there seems to be some loose ends. Now I don’t like loose ends, so I’m hoping you can clear them up.” Strong had brought with him a slim brief case, more like a glorified folder. He pulled from it a manila file containing several sheets of paper. “You say you’d heard that Williams was involved in handling stolen property and that, where are we now …” He made great play of finding the exact passage in the statement to quote. “‘I thought there would be easy pickings. He probably had some jewellery and cash that I could get hold of easily.’”

  “That’s what I said, yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

  “In a word, Kenny,” Strong pulled a further file from the case. “You’re lying.”

  “That’s two.”

  “What?”

  “That’s two words.”

  “Well let’s hope you’re as sharp when we’ve finished our little chat, shall we.” Strong took a photograph of the metal box from the file and placed it on the bed in front of Stocks. “You didn’t happen to see this in Williams’ flat, did you?”

  Stocks picked it up, gave it a quick look and handed it back to Strong. “No, I told you, as soon as I saw the stiff, I was out of there.”

  He was disappointed. There was no reaction he could read in his face. “No. That’s because you didn’t find it. But I think that was what you were looking for.”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid. How could I look for something I didn’t know was there?”

  Strong didn’t respond immediately. He let Stocks’ rhetorical question hang in the air for a minute. “The thing is, it wasn’t so much the box itself but what it contained.”

  “You’ve lost me completely, now.”

  “Inside, we found evidence of other, more serious crimes. Crimes that the owner would certainly want to keep hidden. And, if that person was you, and you knew it had been lifted by a known burglar, Fred Williams say, then that would be a pretty good reason to break in and try and recover it.” Strong leaned forward to emphasise what he was about to say. “So what happened? Did Williams disturb you? You probably had a bit of a struggle, it was an accident really, but no one would believe you.”

  “No! No! It was like I said, he was already dead. And I’ve never seen that box before and I don’t know anything about what was in it”

  Strong sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat again. “Well, let’s say I think you’re telling the truth about that bit, and I really wa
nt to, believe me.” He gave a scarcely discernible nod to Ormerod who took up the baton.

  “How well do you know Gerry Fitzpatrick and Barry Jubb?”

  There was no mistaking the reaction on Stocks’ face to that question; confusion at the sudden change of direction, quickly followed by a mixture of fear and panic. “Who?” was all he could muster in reply.

  Strong gave a slight chuckle. “You see, Kenny, we only want to help you, isn’t that right, DC Ormerod?”

  “That’s right,” Ormerod added.

  Strong’s tone of voice hardened. “But we can’t do that if you’re continually pissing us about. Now, Fitzpatrick and Jubb, they were two of the thugs who paid you a visit in the early hours of Friday morning. Probably Jubb and one other, and I think we can work out who, actually came into your bed-sit while Fitzpatrick kept the motor running, am I right?”

  Stocks turned his head away.

  “The thing is, we have evidence that puts them in the right place at the right time and when we get back to Wakefield we’re going to have a little chat with them. I believe they’re waiting for us right now.” Strong glanced towards Ormerod.

  “That’s right, guv,” the DC confirmed.

  “To be honest, I don’t give a stuff if you all beat each other to a pulp because, quite frankly, you’re doing me and my colleagues a favour. Also, when you have the good grace to do it off my patch, even better. But I’m only thinking of you here. When we speak to those two, you know, your friends Fitzpatrick and Jubb, they might get the impression that the old code of honour among thieves has gone out the window. They may, for instance, get the idea that you’ve made a statement, giving us all the details of the assault they carried out on you, naming names and suchlike. They might think that’s why we’ve brought them in for questioning.”