by David Evans
Belinda shook her head and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “No. He’s not here. But what are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”
“Half day today.” Anthony sat on the floor alongside his mother and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ll sort it.”
She looked up at him. “How? How can we sort this mess?”
“For a start, he’s not coming back in here. We’ll change the locks.”
“But this place is his.”
Anthony pulled his arm away and faced her. “It can’t be just his? It must be yours too. You’ve put as much into this house as he has, probably more. You were always here when I was growing up. You made this a home.”
Belinda looked at her boy, wise beyond his years. Her tears began to fall once more. “Oh, Anthony,” she managed through sobs. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
They held each other for a few minutes before he stood and helped her to her feet.
“Come on,” he said, leading her through to the lounge and sitting her on the settee. “I’ll make you some tea.”
Belinda wiped her face once more. “Thanks.”
He paused at the kitchen door. “Have you spoken to Grace?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to distract her. She’s got her job in Southampton. She doesn’t need to know all this.”
He took a step back into the room. “She does, Mum. She will find out what’s been going on … what Dad’s really like.”
“Not just yet, eh? Now where’s my tea?”
He frowned then made his way into the kitchen.
While Anthony made them both a drink, Belinda pulled out her mobile phone and checked the screen. It was on ‘silent’ and there had been three missed calls, all from Charlie.
“I hope you’re not thinking of ringing Dad?” Anthony appeared with two mugs.
“He’s been trying to call me.”
He gave one mug to his mother and sat down cradling his own. “I hate him.”
“Don’t say that Anthony.”
“It’s true Mum. I wish he was dead. He’s spoiled everything.”
Belinda sat rigidly on the sofa. “I know you’re angry, but I know you don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” He put his mug onto the table and stood up.
“Anthony?”
“We’ll see.”
“Anthony!”
He ignored her and stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, the front door slammed.
16
Strong parked in Wood Street station car park. Up in his office, he collected the pack of photographs and made his way to the CID room. The office was empty, apart from Darby typing on his keyboard. “Is Kelly not in?” he asked.
Darby glanced towards Stainmore’s desk then looked up at Strong. “Think she’s gone to the bog, guv.”
“Can you do something for me, John?”
“Sure.”
“Can you see what you can find out about a proposed development on the old Lofthouse Colliery site?”
Darby nodded. “Okay.”
“And when Kelly gets back, tell her …” He stopped as she appeared behind him. “Ah, Kelly, come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To rattle a cage.”
They left Wood Street station on foot and headed for town before turning off to the right down several narrow streets and walkways. Names associated with the capital and the legal profession, like Chancery Lane and Crown Court. They walked between some interesting Georgian and Victorian properties housing recruitment consultancies and estate agents. Crossing various side streets, they finally arrived at the offices of Charles Chamberlain Associates. Pushing open the glass door, Strong approached the reception desk, Stainmore close behind.
“Good morning,” the attractive young receptionist greeted.
With a discreet flash of his warrant card Strong asked to speak with Mr Chamberlain.
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment and said he wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“That wouldn’t be with his PA, Ms Matthews, Anita, would it?”
“… er, yes, but …”
“I’ll just go straight through.” Strong strode towards a door to the side of the reception counter.
“But wait … you can’t …”
Stainmore caught up with him before the receptionist could move from behind her desk and they found themselves in a short corridor, glazed partitioning down one side and several doors leading off. The first door was open revealing a meeting room. The second had Chamberlain’s name on it, the venetian blinds closed in the screen at the side.
Strong knocked as the receptionist appeared at the end of the corridor.
“Wait,” she cried.
Too late, Strong opened the door and discovered Chamberlain and an attractive woman in her mid-forties sitting opposite one another at a table. Their held hands sprung apart when the door opened.
“What? … Who? … Oh, it’s you,” Chamberlain said.
“I’m sorry, Mr Chamberlain,” the flustered receptionist said from behind Strong. “I told them you were in a meeting …”
“That’s okay, Kate. This man is a policeman, I believe. I’m assuming the young lady is police too.”
On cue, they both produced their warrant cards.
“We’d like a word, Mr Chamberlain,” Strong announced, “… if you don’t mind.”
The woman stood to leave. “I’ll be in my office,” she said.
“Oh, no need to leave on our account, Ms Matthews.”
“It’s Mrs,” she retorted.
“Still … we’d like you to stay as well.”
Anita exchanged bewildered looks with Chamberlain and slowly sat back down at the table.
Chamberlain leaned back in his chair. “Look, if this is anything to do with my wife, it won’t involve Anita.”
Strong ignored the comment and glanced round at two spare seats against the office wall. “May we?” he asked.
Chamberlain exhaled noisily. “If you must.”
Once Strong and Stainmore were seated around the table, Strong produced the wallet of photographs. “I wondered what you’d like to tell me about these.” He took out the first picture and placed it on the table in front of Chamberlain. It depicted a man in his fifties with an ecstatic expression on his face.
“Really, Inspector,” Chamberlain protested, “this has nothing to do with my assistant here.”
A second picture was placed on the table. “Sure about that?” Strong looked directly at the woman opposite. This time, no mistaking a laughing Anita Matthews looking downwards and appearing to be topless, although no naked breasts were on view.
She blushed and looked away.
“So, Mr Chamberlain … again, what can you tell us about these photographs?” Strong dealt the contents of the wallet onto the table like a pack of cards. “As you might be aware, these are selected views. The originals displayed … how would you describe it,” he looked to Stainmore, “more details?”
“Certainly more flesh,” Stainmore agreed.
“Okay. This is just a bit of harmless fun between consenting adults,” Chamberlain said. “It shouldn’t have even been brought to your attention.”
“But it has. And now that it has, we have a duty of care to ensure that it is what you say it is. And by that I mean that it does only involve adults …”
“God’s sakes, man,” Chamberlain interrupted. “We’re not into under-age.”
“… and that those adults were consenting and no crime was being committed,” Strong continued.
“Well there wasn’t.”
“We’ll need the names of those participating,” Strong persisted.
“I don’t think so,” Chamberlain retorted. “This was a private gathering of friends and what we get up to in private is nobody’s business but ours.”
“I was hoping for a bit more cooperation from you, Mr
Chamberlain.” He looked to Anita. “What about you, Mrs Matthews. Are you prepared to help us?”
“As Charles just said, this is a purely private matter.”
“And what would Mr Matthews say about this?” Strong waved a hand over the photographs. “Or is he one of those participating?”
Anita pulled back, her expression turning stony. “That would be difficult. Bill died ten years ago.”
“I’m really sorry about that.” Strong looked from Anita to Chamberlain. “But we do need to check your version of events.”
Chamberlain stood, walked to the door and held it open. “I’ve told you what those photos were about. I don’t need to tell you anything else. If you really thought there had been a crime committed, you would have arrested me. Unless you plan to do that, I’d like you to leave. I have work to deal with.”
Strong looked to Stainmore, then Anita as she also stood up.
“Just one other thing,” Stainmore said, folding her arms and remaining seated. “Do you know a Denise Whitaker?”
“What? Who?” An exaggerated puzzled expression formed on Chamberlain’s face.
Anita, by contrast, looked away.
“Denise Whitaker.”
Chamberlain made a point of giving the question thought. “No, I don’t think so. She’s not a client, I’m sure. I don’t recognise the name.”
Strong had been studying Anita. “What about you, Mrs Matthews?”
She looked edgy. “It’s not a name I’ve heard before.”
After a moment’s awkward silence, Strong gathered up the pictures and placed them back in their wallet. “If you’re sure.”
“Anita will see you back to reception,” Chamberlain said.
Strong and Stainmore rose and walked towards the corridor. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing by the door, “how did your wife come by those injuries?”
“She drinks.” Chamberlain looked from Strong to Stainmore. “Sometimes she has accidents. Good day.” With that he closed the door and walked over to his desk. Picking up the phone, he dialled a number. After a few rings, a male voice answered.
“Giles, it’s Charles,” he said. “Are you well? … Good … Listen; I have an irritating problem I think you could help me with …”
At the end of the corridor, before Anita could open the door into reception, Strong placed a hand on it. “We will identify everyone, you know. It would be easier if you cooperated. We could handle things discreetly.”
She looked pointedly at his hand on the door, waited for him to release it then opened the door. “You know your way from here,” she said.
He held her gaze for a second then stepped through into the reception area, Stainmore in his wake.
Outside, making their way back to Wood Street, Strong finally had the opportunity to ask Stainmore, “What was all that business about Denise Whitaker?”
“I just thought I’d throw it in and see what reaction I’d get,” she said, both hands in her coat pockets. “Remember I told you I checked her phone records and there was a call from his office?”
“That’s right, yes, you said. You thought it might have been a misdialled number but your instinct’s telling you something else?”
“Just thought it was worth a punt.” She stopped and looked to her boss. “Did you clock the reactions though?”
“Oh, yes. She, for one, knows more than she’s telling. Very nervous when you mentioned the Whitaker name.”
“And he was definitely hiding something too.” They resumed walking as Stainmore continued, “And at the end of the day, I still haven’t found out where the other set of keys is for.”
Strong said nothing.
“Are you really going to track down and visit those guys?” she asked.
“No. It’s not worth it. They all look well above the age of consenting adults … I just want to make the bastard sweat a bit.”
Stainmore smiled. “Not just any old bastard though, an arrogant bastard.”
That brought a chuckle from Strong. “That’s the first time I’ve seen a happy expression on your face for some time, Kelly. Is everything all right with you?”
“Yeah. Just feel a bit tired, that’s all.”
“Have you been to see a doctor?”
“What was all that about his wife’s injuries?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“I saw her in A & E last night. She was in the bay next to Bob.”
“You didn’t buy that drinking story then?”
“Not in the least.” He glanced towards her. “I can usually tell when drink’s involved. No, I think he’s slapped her about after she told him about those photos.”
“So what the hell’s he liable to do now?”
Strong didn’t answer. He hoped Chamberlain wouldn’t be stupid enough to repeat his actions. There again, he could never be sure.
* * *
As Souter emerged from the stair doors onto the news floor of the Yorkshire Post, a spontaneous round of applause broke out. He’d already had enquiries as to his well-being from Patricia on Reception, but this reaction brought a huge grin to his face. He held up a hand in acknowledgement.
“Trust you to make an entrance,” Janey Clarke said, a smile on her face. “But don’t think I’m going to give you any special treatment.” She sat down behind the screen at her own desk.
After a few seconds, normality reigned; he sat at his workstation and fired up his computer.
Susan appeared. “How are you, Bob?” she asked.
“Bit of a dull headache, but no different from a good session on the beer.”
“What’s the plan of action now?”
He looked over his shoulder and gave her a smile. “You don’t fancy getting me a nice coffee while this thing comes to life, do you?”
Susan raised her eyebrows. “Only this once because of what happened.” She began to walk off to the small kitchen. “I won’t be making a habit of it.”
Various pinging noises indicated new emails and he reviewed the headings. Finally, one from about an hour earlier caught his attention. It was from Charlie Ritchie on the Glasgow Herald.
‘Managed to get an image of Brogan’s heider, Kennedy. Hope of use’, the message said.
He clicked on the attachment and a photograph filled the screen. His heart rate quickened as he studied the subject. The character appeared to be around five feet nine inches tall, slim and yes, as Ron Boyle’s description, he looked a wiry little sod. His dark thinning hair looked greasy and he had a face only a mother could love. Souter recognised the location as Glasgow’s Sherriff Court. No doubt he was making one of his regular appearances. He was giving two fingers to the photographer. But it was how he was dressed that struck Souter; jeans and a leather jacket. Leather. He zoomed in on the face.
“Who’s that ugly looking bugger?” Susan asked, placing a coffee on his desk.
He jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me,” he hissed.
“Come on then, who is he?”
He turned to face her. “You don’t recognise him?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Should I?”
“Remember when we were in the pub yesterday …?”
“Mmm, yes.”
“I think he was sitting at a nearby table pretending to do a crossword.”
She looked from the screen to Souter. “I don’t remember. But you think … no, let me guess, you know he was the one who attacked you?”
“I didn’t see who it was. But look, the leather jacket. It was a leather sleeve that was around my face. That and an uncouth Glaswegian accent.” He looked closely once more at the screen. “I’m sure that was him in the pub.” He clicked the file closed and turned around. “It would make sense.”
* * *
Chamberlain put the phone down, a wry smile on his face. His expression dropped when the door opened and Anita entered.
“Why didn’t you tell me she’d found some photos?” She angrily strode over to his desk. “When were they t
aken? It must have been at least a year ago.”
“I don’t know Anita. But old Geoff’s been dead for six months, and he was pretty prominent. I recognised that scar.”
“And why did that female detective start asking about Denise? I thought you’d sorted that. How come her name has come up again?”
“I have … I mean, I did.” He banged a fist on his desk. “I don’t mean it like that. I thought she’d dropped out of our lives too. Only …”
Anita looked alarmed. “Only what, Charlie? What’s changed?”
He sighed heavily. “You didn’t see it, then? In the paper?”
“Just bloody tell me, what’s going on?”
“She was found dead in her house over a week ago.”
Anita covered her mouth with both hands, then slowly let them drop. “How?”
“Natural causes, I think. But she’d been dead for months, maybe even a year.”
“Don’t tell me you had something to do with it.”
Chamberlain’s eyes blazed. “Of course not.”
“Only you did say you’d sort the problem after she started to want money from you for that operation she wanted.”
“I told you I persuaded her to leave me alone.”
“Weird woman. She was a crap cleaner as well.” Anita walked around the meeting table. “But how did the police make the connection? I didn’t think there was anything to tie her to Leeds Road or the club.”
“I think they were just fishing. If they’d got anything to link her and those bloody photos, they’d have said so.”
“Shit, what a mess.” She slumped into a chair. “So what exactly did you tell Belinda?”
Chamberlain rubbed his face with both hands. “Only that …” He broke off as the sounds of a commotion were heard from the corridor outside. He stood and walked round his desk. “What now?”
The door burst open and Anthony stormed in.
“Anthony? What …” Chamberlain was cut short as his son landed a punch on his jaw. Off balance, he stumbled to the floor.
“That’s for what you did to Mum,” Anthony said.