by David Evans
“And what did your dad say?”
“He was in denial. ‘I never touched her,’ he said. ‘She stumbled and fell against the door frame.’ He had both hands on his head, like he was in desperation.”
“What did you do then?”
“Mum was sort of mumbling. I couldn’t get much sense from her, but I got her onto one of the chairs and put her head back. Then I went into the kitchen and got a cloth, run it under the cold tap and took it back into Mum. I helped her hold it to her head. And then I phoned for an ambulance. Well, it was a head injury.”
Strong nodded his approval to this course of action. “And where was your Dad during this time?”
“He’d disappeared. Drove off somewhere I think, because his car was gone when the ambulance arrived.”
“That’s good Anthony, you’ve done well. But one last thing, did you actually see your father assault your mother on that occasion?”
Anthony seemed deflated. “No,” he said quietly.
“That’s all right,” Strong said. “It all adds to the circumstantial nature of the allegations. We’ll see what your mum says and take things from there. Is that okay?”
Anthony nodded, head bowed.
“In the meantime, DC Ormerod here will take a formal statement from you.”
The boy eventually looked up at Strong. “Thanks,” he said.
* * *
“Colin, take a seat.” Hemingford offered a clean, neatly-manicured hand. Strong shook it then sat down opposite the desk and big leather chair he’d inhabited for the past eleven months.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. All good,” the new DCI added quickly.
I’ll bet, Strong thought. Aloud, he said, “I’m sure you’ll learn the rest in due course, sir.”
Hemingford laughed. Nervously, Strong thought. He’d been briefed about his past record, he was sure. “Can we drop the ‘sir’ thing too, Colin. I’m Rupert. I feel it helps to make the team feel comfortable.” Another modern concept, Strong thought. He wasn’t sure how the rest of the team would react.
“Okay, Rupert.” Strong’s eyes quickly took in the few personal items that the new man had brought to the office, most notably a couple of framed awards on the wall behind his head. “How do you think life in the north will suit?”
Hemingford grinned. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine. I know how friendly the people can be.” He shifted his posture in the chair then continued, “I just thought we might have an informal chat … get to know each other a bit. Now I know we had a group get together earlier, for want of a better phrase, but I just wanted to hear how you view the current situation, Colin.”
“What do you want to know?”
Hemingford was sitting forward with both hands on the desk. As he spoke he used them to accentuate his various points. “Well, Detective Superintendent Flynn tells me the number one case the team are looking into at the moment is this spate of distraction burglaries involving elderly people.”
“That’s right. DS Stainmore and DC Ormerod are leading that one. We’re looking at the possibility that someone from Pinderfields Hospital is involved.”
“And what’s the logic behind that?”
Over the next few minutes, Strong explained how they had arrived at that decision.
When he’d finished, Hemingford asked what he thought of Kelly Stainmore and Luke Ormerod.
Strong’s hackles rose. “I’m a firm believer in people making their own minds up. I’m not going to comment on any of my team in that respect.”
“Look, I see you as my right hand man, Colin,” he responded. “I’m just trying to hit the ground running, so to speak. But I respect your view. I’ll be talking to all the team individually over the next day or so.” He leaned back in the chair. “Anyway, what’s occupying your attention at the moment?”
Strong related his dealings with the Chamberlains and how Belinda had made an accusation of serious assault against her husband.
“Always a bit messy, these domestics, Colin.”
“No more than any other assault.”
“So what’s your next move?”
“I’ll be interviewing Charles Chamberlain under caution and review the matter after that.”
Strong could see Hemingford’s expression change. Flynn’s already had a word with you on ACC Wadsworth’s behalf, he thought. “I’m not sure if that’s wise, Colin,” he said.
“I’m not sure Mrs Chamberlain would agree with you, Rupert,” Strong replied sarcastically. “Especially if you had seen her face last week.”
Hemingford sighed. “I’m sure you’ll be diplomatic.”
“Never anything else, Rupert.” Strong stood up. “If that’s all, I want to make some phone calls.”
Hemingford also got out of his chair and held out his hand once more. “I understand your disappointment, Colin, but let’s try and work together.”
Strong looked at the proffered hand for a beat, shook it, turned and left the office.
23
Thursday 2nd August 2001
Sammy was well aware she’d only get one chance at this. One attempt to obtain the information that may or may not shed light on exactly what dark deeds were taking place at the council with regard to the Lofthouse Development.
Susan had observed Faulkner’s secretary’s lunch breaks for the past two days and hoped she was the creature of habit she appeared to be.
Just before twenty-five past twelve, Susan looked to Sammy who took a deep breath to steady her nerves and nodded back. The drizzly rain had been coming down all morning and they quickly crossed the road to step inside the town hall building. Sammy shrugged off her coat and handed it to Susan. If her subterfuge was to succeed, she had to give the impression of having arrived internally.
A couple of minutes later, Sammy knocked on the door to Bernard Faulkner’s office and opened the door. Brenda, his secretary, had tidied her desk, was on her feet, arm out, about to take her coat off the stand.
“Oh sorry,” Sammy said, “are you off out?”
“Can I help you?” Brenda asked.
“I’m Sarah from IT. I’ve got a report of a fault on Mr Faulkner’s PC. I know he’s back on Monday and we were scheduled to come then but I’ve finished my other tasks and I thought I’d come and take a look now, if that’s okay?”
“Well, I’m not sure … with Mr Faulkner still on holiday …”
“I just thought if it could be rectified now, then when he’s back next week, it would be less disruptive.”
“I can see that … it’s just …”
“He won’t know I’ve been in.”
Sammy could see Brenda weighing up her options. “Well …I suppose it’ll be all right,” Brenda finally said. She opened a desk drawer, took out a key and unlocked the door into Bernard Faulkner’s inner sanctum.
“Could you just lock his door again and leave the key in here” Brenda indicated the top drawer of her desk.
“Sure, no problem.” Sammy smiled and indicated the coat stand. “You’ll need your umbrella; I think it’s still raining.”
With Brenda gone, Sammy walked into Faulkner’s office and took in the room’s interior. In contrast to the plain walls and single plain window of Brenda’s office, this room was different class. Oak wood panelling lined the walls and the two windows were finished with genuine leaded glass. A large oak desk and leather chair were the focal point; four other chairs were dotted around the room. She sat down in his seat, fired up his computer and waited for it to come to life.
Out in the street, Susan, tucked into a doorway, observed Brenda leave the building, open up an umbrella and walk down the street towards the centre of town. She watched until she disappeared from view then took out her mobile and texted Sammy.
The computer was slow and finally prompted Sammy to enter a password. She looked around the tidy desk then opened a drawer. On a post-it note stuck to a diary was what she’d hoped to find. So much for security measures, she thought. She tapped in th
e symbols and waited. Another message appeared to let her know the password would expire in six days and did she want to change it now? She grinned and began typing. Her new password was accepted and, she thought, IT help or no on Monday, he would have problems accessing his files.
A text announced itself on her phone and she read what Susan had sent. If she was as much a creature of habit as Susan suggested then Sammy would have thirty-five minutes before her return. Not a great deal of time if there was a lot of material to copy.
The screen settled down and Sammy opened up Faulkner’s email. Plugging in a blank memory stick she began the lengthy process of copying the various folders of his emails. Whilst that was happening, she pulled out a notebook from her bag and began to look through his drawers for any other useful bits of information. The desk diary yielded several nuggets. She noted down one or two email addresses, family birthdays and other personal information that may help should she need to second guess any other passwords. A card with an odd symbol and the words Talisman Club was between a couple of pages. She turned it over. The rear was blank. It was an establishment she’d never heard of but imagined it was probably some private members’ gambling club. A message appeared on the screen indicating the copying exercise was complete. She dismissed any further thoughts on the card from her mind and carefully placed it back in the diary.
Brenda had reached the sanctuary of The Ridings shopping centre. Under cover and reasonably warm she wandered aimlessly into Primark to see if anything jumped out at her. She’d bought a paper in Smiths and would aim for Morrison’s at the far end to pick up a few bits of shopping and a sandwich she would eat at her desk when she got back. A couple of tops looked interesting but she couldn’t find one in her size. She checked her watch and decided to leave and make her way towards the supermarket. As she strolled along the walkway, not paying much attention, a voice called to her. “Hi Brenda.”
She looked over and saw a man she recognised from work. “Hello, Tom,” she greeted. She was about to walk on when she hesitated and turned to him. “Oh Tom, thanks for sending down one of your young girls just now.”
Tom looked puzzled. He ran the Council’s IT department. “Sorry, you’ve lost me,” he said.
“Sarah turned up just before lunch.”
“Sarah? We don’t have anyone called Sarah.” Tom frowned. “I’ve got Carl pencilled in for Monday morning on Mr Faulkner’s computer fault.”
Brenda could feel her cheeks colour. “Oh, ignore me,” she flustered. “My mistake. You’re IT aren’t you? Sarah’s from another department altogether.”
Tom gave a nervous smile before continuing on his way.
She felt sick. Who was that who had talked her way into her boss’s office? More importantly, what was she doing? She had to get back, and quick. If anyone found out about this, she’d lose her job. And she liked her job. She liked Mr Faulkner.
Sammy was still trawling through the computer files. Whenever she came across anything interesting, she made a copy onto the memory stick. A lot of the folders appeared fairly boring; minutes of meetings, internal memos, expenses. Finally, tucked away in a fairly non-descript folder, she came across a sub-folder labelled ‘TD’. Only when she opened that up did she realise it referred to Thistle Developments. Another one to copy. Then there was the folder headed ‘Personal’. That had to be worth copying, she thought. Just then, the familiar ping of an incoming text message sounded. It was Susan. ‘Get out quick!’ it said. The files were still copying and the message said ‘4 minutes remaining’. God this machine was really slow.
Was Susan panicking? She called her back, “What’s up?” she asked.
“The secretary’s on her way back up the street. You need to get out now,” Susan hissed.
“I thought you said she doesn’t come back for another …” Sammy looked at her watch. “… fifteen minutes?”
“I don’t know but she’s about fifty yards from the main door.”
Sammy checked the copy message on the computer screen. “I need another five minutes in here. Do something, Suz.” She ended the call and began closing drawers and tidying the desk, making sure everything was back where it was.
Brenda was alarmed. What was she going to find? Should she grab hold of Security? But that would expose her own stupidity. She hurried on up the street, brolly in front of her, shielding her from the worst of the rain. Only trouble was, she kept bumping into passers-by. After the third apology, she folded the umbrella away, faced the drizzle and strode up the street, back to the Town Hall as fast as she could. She was so intent on her own thoughts, she never saw the young blonde woman cross the street in front of her and stop.
“Hi,” the woman said. “It’s Mr Faulkner’s secretary, isn’t it?”
“Er … but yes. Who are you?” She looked from the woman to her goal, the doors of the building.
“I was just wondering when would he be back?” Susan was standing immediately in front of Brenda.
“But … oh, Monday,” Brenda was flustered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late.”
“So would he be available for interview next week sometime?” Susan persisted as they danced around one another on the pavement.
I … I would think so but ring the office on Monday and we’ll see what we can do … er Miss …?”
“er, Hamilton. I’m from Yorkshire Life.”
“Yes, yes, okay. Call us on Monday.” Brenda finally skirted the woman and hurried on up the steps and in through the big doors. She wasn’t sure what would face her. Would the woman still be there? If she was, what would she do? She hoped there wouldn’t be a violent confrontation.
Susan only hoped she’d bought her friend enough time. And that Brenda hadn’t noticed she had an extra coat draped over her arm.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Sammy pleaded with the computer. Finally, the copy was complete and she pulled the memory stick from the machine and set in motion the instructions to shut it down. Her notebook was closed and placed back in her bag just as she heard movement outside.
24
“I tell you, it’s fantastic. Just you and all that nature. Mountains, lakes, not to mention lovely pubs.”
“Burrit’s so bloody boring, Pat. Ah’d rather watch paint dry. I mean what d’you do all day, sittin’ beside an open lake, the wind whistlin’ off the mountain, an’ all you’ve got for company is some bloody orange float bobbin’ on the water.”
The conversation from the porter’s room drifted down the corridor as Stainmore and Ormerod approached the open door.
“It’s a waste of time talking to you,” Patrick Whitaker said to his colleague as Stainmore and Ormerod appeared at the door.
“Can I help you?” the other man asked.
“It’s Mr Whitaker we’d like to see,” said Stainmore. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Can you give us a minute, Billy,” Whitaker said.
“I’ve got to go up to x ray anyway.” Billy stood and hurried from the room. Ormerod thought he recognised the face but focused on their target.
“Is this about my mother again,” Whitaker asked Stainmore.
“I’m afraid we’re here on another matter, Mr Whitaker,” she answered.
He looked nervous as Ormerod closed the door. “Oh yes?”
“Can you tell us what it is that you porters have to do on a daily basis?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, your normal duties. What would they be?”
“All sorts really. We take patients from department to department. From A & E up to the wards, if they’re to be admitted. Take patients who’re not so mobile from some of the outpatient clinics to x ray. Stuff like that.”
“And you’re the sort of bloke who enjoys that kind of work?” He looked puzzled, but Stainmore continued. “You know, interacts with the patients.”
“Mostly they’re okay, yeah. Some welcome a chat, others are a bit past it but … what’s this about?”
Ormerod flick
ed open his notebook. “What kind of vehicle do you drive, Mr Whitaker?” he asked.
“A Vauxhall Astra, why?”
“And could you tell me where you were on 19th April? It was a Thursday.”
“A Thursday? Probably here,” Whitaker responded.
“What about Wednesday 25th April?”
After this and other dates of 3rd May and 16th July had drawn similar responses, Stainmore joined in. “Would it surprise you to know that you were actually off-duty on all these dates?”
Whitaker looked flustered. “Well if I was, I’d either be at home or fishing somewhere. I can’t remember what I were doing back in April on a specific day.”
“Okay, Mr Whitaker. Thanks for the moment.” Stainmore said. “We’ll be in touch if we need any more information.”
Outside in the car park, Stainmore posed the question of Ormerod, “What time does he finish his shift, did his boss say?”
Ormerod checked his watch. “About half an hour. He’s off at two.”
She unlocked her car and they got in. “Right, let’s try one more thing,” she said and started the engine.
* * *
After his meeting with Hemingford yesterday, Strong had called the offices of Chamberlain Associates to be told that Charles was in London for a meeting that afternoon and was staying overnight. He wouldn’t be back in the office until this afternoon. That suited Strong. For a start it meant that Belinda should have an incident free night.
He put his head round the door of the CID Room just after lunch and checked who was there. Malcolm Atkinson was studying his computer screen and Trevor Newell and John Darby were discussing a statement that Trevor had taken from one of those arrested for car theft the previous week.