Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3)

by David Evans

  Darby looked up as Strong entered. “All right, guv?” he enquired.

  “Where’s Kelly?” he asked.

  “Out with Luke. I think they’ve got a break on those distractions.”

  “And Jim Ryan not around either?”

  “Court, guv,” Newell answered. “That GBH case. The serious assault on the priest.”

  Strong nodded, disappointed he couldn’t take his preferred detectives with him. “Are you busy at the moment, John?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Well get your jacket and come with me.”

  Darby slipped his arms in the sleeves. “Oh, before I forget, guv, you were asking about a development at Lofthouse?”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not really. Just another big out of town shopping development that’s planned for just off the M62. To be honest, I don’t know how they all survive. I mean, there’s only a limited amount of money people can spend.”

  The conversation progressed as they descended the stairs. “But what stage is it at? I haven’t seen any activity there. But there again, I haven’t been past for a month or two.”

  “Only got final planning approval last month. Not sure when work will start.”

  “You did a bit of building work in the past, John.”

  “Did a bit with my uncle’s building company, yeah.”

  “How much do you reckon a scheme like that would be worth?”

  At the rear door to the car park, Darby paused and sucked his breath through his teeth.

  “You sound like a cowboy builder,” Strong remarked. “I’m not asking for a quote, just your gut feel.”

  “Must be near to one hundred million all in.”

  Previously Strong had walked the short distance to Chamberlain’s office, but today he took a car. On the way, he briefed Darby on the purpose of his visit. And more importantly, for him to keep quiet unless Strong invited him to say something.

  “And resist the temptation to ogle the receptionist’s tits, John,” Strong concluded as he pulled into a visitor slot near the entrance.

  Darby looked put out. He was even more put out when they walked in and he saw the woman behind the desk who looked about sixty with grey hair in a bun. “You were joking?” he said quietly to his boss.

  “Mr Chamberlain, please.” Strong showed his warrant card.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, sir,” the receptionist said, lifting the phone and checking for an extension number. “I’m only filling temporarily.”

  Strong looked to Darby and raised his eyebrows.

  Chamberlain asked her to send the detectives through and met them at his office door. “Inspector Strong,” he sighed. “This is becoming boring now.” He turned back into the room.

  “I’m afraid this is more serious, sir,” Strong said. “We’ve received a serious complaint against you and, as you’ll no doubt be aware, we have a duty to investigate that complaint.”

  Chamberlain flopped down on his seat. “Oh, what is it now?”

  “Two nights ago, that would be Tuesday, the thirty-first of July, did you visit your wife Belinda at home?”

  Chamberlain looked to the ceiling. “Of course, I might have known.”

  “So did you, sir?”

  “You know I did, because she’s told you. He leaned forward. “Look, we had words. It was just another argument. Purely domestic.”

  “That’s not quite how it was put to us. Mr Chamberlain, we’d like to talk to you at Wood Street.”

  Chamberlain looked surprised. “You’re arresting me?”

  “Not unless we have to, sir,” Strong responded, a satisfying feeling spreading through him.

  Chamberlain lifted the phone and dialled a number. It was his solicitor and he asked him to meet him at Wood Street as soon as he could. Satisfied with the answer, Chamberlain stood up and put on his jacket. “Let’s get this over with then,” he said, resignedly.

  * * *

  Stainmore pulled her car to a halt kerbside about fifty yards from Whitaker’s front door. Ormerod sat beside her in the passenger seat. The first thing that caught their attention was the white Ford Transit van parked nearby.

  “So what now?” Ormerod asked.

  “We wait,” she said. After a pause, she continued, “Last time I called here … you know, to talk to Whitaker about his mother, the front door was opened by his son, Frank, I think he said. Anyway, a young lad maybe around twenty.” She looked at Ormerod. “I thought it was just nerves, the way he was guarded when he opened the door to me. And then, when he realised it wasn’t him I’d come to see, he couldn’t get out quickly enough.”

  Ormerod was nodding, his attention firmly on the street. “So we have a stocky bloke who could have had contact with all the victims and a younger lad … how tall?”

  “About three inches shorter.”

  “A shorter slim lad who gets a bit nervous when police come knocking on the door.” He gave his moustache a stroke. “Interesting to say the least.”

  Before Stainmore could comment, a dark blue Astra approached from the opposite direction and parked in front of the Transit. Patrick Whitaker got out quickly, locked up and hurried to his front door.

  “Do we make a move now?”

  “Give it a minute, Luke.”

  A minute was all it took for Frank Whitaker to emerge from the flat and trot towards the Transit.

  “Stop him,” Stainmore instructed, opening her door.

  Whitaker junior spotted Ormerod approaching, jumped into the van and tried to start the engine but he was too late. Ormerod wrenched open the door and grabbed the keys from the ignition.

  “Not in a hurry, are we son?” the detective said. “Because we’d like a word. Police.” He flipped open his warrant card. “Why don’t you come and join your dad.”

  Frank Whitaker became compliant. Outside the van, Ormerod held him by the arm and locked the door before leading him back to the front door where Stainmore waited.

  “It’s Frank, isn’t it?” she asked. The youth nodded. “Invite us in then.”

  Ormerod allowed Frank to open the door with his key but put a finger to his lips and gripped his arm tighter to indicate he wouldn’t be best pleased if he shouted out to his father.

  Their footsteps sounded on the bare wooden treads as they climbed the stairs to the first floor flat.

  “Frank,” Patrick Whitaker said from above, “I thought I told you to piss off in that van before …” The three figures emerged into the hallway and Whitaker senior broke off. “Shit,” he said quietly.

  “Shit indeed, Mr Whitaker,” Stainmore said. “Why don’t we carry on with our chat from earlier?”

  Whitaker turned and led them into the living room.

  “Not dashing off anywhere important, were you?” Ormerod asked Frank.

  Frank shook his head and said nothing. “He was just going to get a few bits from the shop, that’s all,” Patrick responded.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Stainmore said to the men. “Sit yourselves down.”

  Both complied as Ormerod walked around the room.

  “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to think what you were doing on those dates we spoke of?”

  “ Er … well, in April, I’d have probably been at home …” Patrick stuttered, “… or doin’ some shoppin’ I can’t really remember.” His attention followed Ormerod as he prodded about the detritus on the mantelpiece. “That May date, I think I was in Leeds and the last one a few weeks back, I’d have been fishing.”

  By now, Ormerod was looking at the contents of a fruit bowl that stood on a sideboard. It contained no fruit, just odd keys, receipts, a corkscrew and some opened letters, junk mail mostly.

  “Here, don’t you need a warrant for that?” Patrick asked, growing agitated.

  “We can easily get one, Mr Whitaker … if that’s what you want,” Stainmore replied.

  He turned his head when she responded and Ormerod opened the middle drawer of the
unit. Whitaker heard him do that and jumped up. “Just a minute,” he said, “that’s private.”

  Ormerod pulled out a long box and opened it. He held it up showing a row of medals on display. “A relative of yours?”

  “Er … yes … on my mother’s side,” Whitaker mumbled.

  “And he was Francis Eric Parsons of The Green Howards, was he?” Ormerod looked to Stainmore then back to Whitaker. “I think we’d better continue our discussions at Wood Street,” he said.

  25

  Brenda rushed up the stairs and scurried along the corridor to her office. Opening the door she looked round. Her room was empty but the door to Faulkner’s office was ajar. She walked slowly towards it, her breathing heavy. She stopped and listened. All was quiet except for the faint traffic noise from outside; that and the sound of her own blood pounding through her ears. Another couple of steps and she gripped the handle. She swung the door open, fully expecting ‘Sarah’ to come rushing past her. Nobody. The office was empty. She held her breath and walked over to her boss’s desk and took in the correspondence file she’d been adding to all week, the desk-tidy and the framed photographs of his children. All seemed as it had been earlier that morning. Her hand dropped down and felt the computer stack on the floor below the desk. Warm. So, she had been using it, whoever she is. Brenda finally exhaled and began to relax. Whoever she was had gone and there was nothing she could do about it now. She only hoped that there had been no damage done. A knock on her office door made her jump.

  “Hello.”

  Brenda recognised the woman’s voice as her accoster of a few minutes ago out in the street.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” Susan called from the doorway, as Brenda walked back into her own room, “but I was wondering if you could direct me to the Head of Planning’s office?”

  Brenda shrugged off her coat. “Er … yes. Of course.”

  Susan adopted her best concerned look. “Is everything okay? You seem a bit flustered.”

  “No. It’s just that … oh, nothing. Never mind.” The secretary hung her coat on the free-standing wooden coat rack behind the door and ushered Susan outside. “Planning is next floor down. I’ll show you.”

  As Susan turned away, a flash of movement from inside Brenda’s office caught her attention. She put a hand to her eye and rubbed it, hoping Brenda hadn’t noticed her surprise.

  They began to walk along the corridor towards the main stairs.

  “I’m sorry if I seem to be taking up a lot of your time …” Susan purposely walked slower than Brenda. “You must be busy.”

  Brenda gave a nervous smile. “Yes. But I’ll be busier next week when Mr Faulkner’s back.”

  By the door to the Ladies toilet, Susan stopped and faced Brenda. Over her shoulder she caught sight of Sammy’s head popping out from the office doorway momentarily. “I just need to call in here,” Susan said. “There’s no need to show me where Planning is.” The slim figure of Sammy crept out of the office down the corridor and disappeared in the opposite direction to take the rear stairs. “Next floor down, you said. I’ll find it. And thanks a lot.”

  “If you’re sure.” Brenda appeared distracted once more.

  “You’ve been really helpful. Thanks.” Susan pushed open the door to the toilets stepped inside and checked she was on her own. She ran a tap, looked at herself in the mirror and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Christ that was close,” Susan said. They were back out on the street and Susan was helping Sammy put on her coat. The rain had stopped but it was still cool.

  A big grin was on Sammy’s face. “I’ve been in tighter scrapes than that. Besides, you need a bit of stress to make life interesting.”

  They began walking down the street in the direction of Westgate railway station. “But not that interesting. I’ve had enough stress to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.” Susan was quiet for a few seconds. “She’d obviously thought about things and worked out something was wrong. I don’t know how but she must have realised you weren’t who you claimed to be. Anyway, how come she never spotted you?”

  “Rule one, Suz, when you enter somewhere unfamiliar, always suss out where you can hide if you need to. A bit like you see in films where the characters always need to sit facing the door.”

  “So, go on, where did you find?”

  “There was a big cupboard on the side wall. It was a bit tight but I managed to squeeze myself below the middle shelf and hold the doors closed. I must admit I thought she’d hear me breathing … but then someone came knocking on the office door and she left.”

  It was Susan’s turn to smile. “Glad I was of use. I wondered if you’d had time to get out. She was in a rush.” She turned to look behind them, still nervous that Brenda might also have worked out a connection between the two of them. But there were only some shoppers and a few office workers returning from their lunch breaks. “So what did you find out?”

  Sammy unzipped her bag and pulled out the memory stick. “Here, you’ll need to check this out. There’s plenty on there.”

  Again, Susan looked around before secreting the stick in her pocket. “I’ll have a look when I get back to the office.” She increased her pace. “Come on. We need to catch the ten past.”

  26

  Strong drew to a halt in the car park to the rear of Wood Street police station as Stainmore and Ormerod turned up with the Whitakers.

  Strong got out from the driver’s seat and opened the rear door to let Darby and Chamberlain out. As he did so, Stainmore did likewise for Ormerod and her suspects. Stainmore and Chamberlain exchanged glances.

  “DS Stainmore,” Chamberlain acknowledged.

  Patrick Whitaker stood up behind her, Ormerod supervising Frank Whitaker on the other side of the car.

  “We meet again, Mr Chamberlain,” Stainmore responded before looking at Patrick intending to lead him into the station. His puzzled expression interested her. “Something wrong?” she asked him.

  His face quickly resumed normality. “No.”

  With Patrick and Frank Whitaker booked in and sitting in separate interview rooms, and Chamberlain safely ensconced in another awaiting his solicitor, Stainmore took the opportunity to tell Strong why they’d brought their suspects in.

  “Great,” he said. “Get yourself a search warrant and see what else you can turn up. And don’t forget the van.”

  Stainmore nodded. “I see you’ve got something interesting on our esteemed friend Charles?” she asked.

  “An assault complaint from his wife.”

  “Bastard.”

  “I’ll see what he has to say when his solicitor turns up.”

  * * *

  With the search team going through Whitaker’s flat, Stainmore and Ormerod began their interview of Patrick Whitaker. A duty solicitor had been called and was sitting at the suspect’s side. The sealed evidence bag containing Frank Parson’s war medals lay on the desk between them.

  “Mr Whitaker, can you tell me how these medals came to be in your possession?” Stainmore began.

  Whitaker drew a breath then responded, “I found them.”

  “Really? So why was your first reaction to their discovery that they belonged to a …” she opened her notebook and ran her finger down to the appropriate point and began to read, “… relative on my mother’s side?”

  “I was confused.”

  “So if you found them, where about exactly did you come across them?”

  “When I were fishin’. A couple of weeks ago. Down by Newmillerdam.”

  Newmillerdam was one of Wakefield’s best known beauty spots. There was a large lake with wooded surround and paths all around that were popular with dog walkers, ramblers and families. On the road that passed by, a number of cafes, pubs and ice cream vans were poised to cater for visitors. You could also fish in those lakes.

  “How did you find them exactly?”

  “Well …half way round the big lake … that’s one of my favourite spots … when I
was setting up my chair and rods, I just saw this box, in the long grass near the edge. So I picked it up and looked inside.”

  “And you didn’t think to hand it in?” Ormerod joined in. “You didn’t think Mr Parsons might be missing them?”

  The solicitor put a cautionary hand on his client’s arm.

  Whitaker gave him a quick glance then shook his head nervously. “I didn’t think.”

  Ormerod smirked. “Do you really expect us to believe that?”

  He wrung his hands and looked down to the desk. “It’s what happened.”

  “And can anyone confirm that?” Stainmore asked.

  Before Whitaker could answer a knock on the door interrupted them. Trevor Newell’s head appeared and indicated the corridor.

  Stainmore made the appropriate announcement for the tape suspending the interview, followed him outside and closed the door.

  “Call from Whitaker’s flat,” Newell said, “they’ve found some jewellery they think could be a match for a couple of the victims.”

  “Good. How long before we can get confirmation on that?”

  “Possibly later this evening. But that’s not all …in Whitaker junior’s van, a flat cap and … a false moustache.” Newell grinned.

  Stainmore smiled and nodded. “Little and Large.”

  Back in the room, she resumed the interview. “Okay, Mr Whitaker, let’s stop the fairy stories, shall we.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “We’ve found items of jewellery in your flat that we suspect belong to a number of victims of distraction burglaries.” She paused and stared at him. “Furthermore, in the van parked outside and registered to your son, Frank, we discovered a flat cap and a false moustache.”

  Whitaker looked down onto the floor.

  “The description we have for the lead perpetrator of those burglaries matches you, wearing a flat cap and moustache. The second perp is a close match to Frank. What can you tell me about that?”

  “I think, sergeant, some time with my client would be appropriate,” the solicitor interceded.