Torment (23 page)

“Very cosy. Listen, something else I wanted to ask. Have you come across some scumbag by the name of Jed Robinson?”

Strong’s brows furrowed as he trawled his memory. “Robinson? Are there two of them? Couple of small time pimps, if I recall correctly. Why?”

“Just wondered. The name came up recently. Have they got a violent reputation?”

“Not sure, mate. Not that I know of, but probably to the girls they run. You haven’t upset them, have you?”

Souter laughed nervously.
“No, don’t worry. Anyway, don’t forget to keep me up to speed with developments out there.”

“See you, Bob.”

42

Mrs Clay bid Strong sit down in one of the solid kitchen chairs placed around the old pine table. The Yorkstone floor, white painted rendered walls and wooden furniture gave the room a friendly, warm atmosphere. Adam Clay was in his fifties, around five feet ten inches and solidly built. His face was deeply lined and tanned through long hours spent outdoors. He was scrubbing his hands in the Belfast sink, rinsed them then turned, drying them on a white towel. “Must be summat serious,” he said. “Simon told me you were all up there this afternoon. The full team; boiler suits, lights, the lot.”

Strong was intrigued that, although Clay senior had a distinctive local accent, it wasn’t nearly as pronounced as his son. “It is, Mr Clay, but for reasons I hope you’ll understand, I can’t reveal any details at the moment.”

Clay nodded as his wife pulled the source of the delightful aroma from the Aga. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” he asked, “There’s enough to go round.”

Strong was sorely tempted. The lamb casserole that now sat on the hob looked every bit as tasty as it had smelled when he first entered the farmhouse kitchen. “That’s very kind of you, Mr Clay but I’ve got a meal waiting for me at home.”

“Please, call me Adam,” the big farmer said, sitting down next to his guest. “Now, how can I help you?”

“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Adam, Mrs Clay, so please carry on with your meal, don’t mind me.”

“Call me Jean, please.” The farmer’s wife wiped her hands on her pinny front and began to dish up the meat and vegetable gravy into two bowls along with mashed potatoes. “Mrs Clay sounds so formal.”

“I was wondering what you could tell me about the last residents of Meadow Woods Farm.”

“Simon said you were asking about the Collinsons,” Adam said. “Wilf and Enid. You used to get on well with Enid, didn’t you, love?”

“She were lovely,” Jean replied, placing the two bowls on the table. “We used to go out together, maybe three or four times a year – to the pictures or the theatre if there was something good on. She was good to have a laugh with.” She stared into nowhere for a split second before continuing, “But then the cancer came. Two years she lasted. She was in a dreadful state at the end. It was a blessing when she were finally took.”

“When was this?”

“Ooh, let’s see,” she pondered, “It must have been ’84 or ’85.”

“It was 1985, Jean.” Adam broke off some bread and buttered it. “It was the year Simon did his GCSE’s.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Jean agreed.

“So after Mrs Collinson died, what happened then?”

“It hit him hard, old Wilf.” Adam said. “He was about ten years older than Enid. I think he just gave up. Stopped looking after himself. He tried to keep up with the farm but that lad of his, he weren’t interested.”

“That was Stanley, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Did they have any other family?”

“No, just the one lad,” Adam replied. “He was about twenty-six when his mam died.”

“What was he like?”

The farmer smiled and shook his head. “He seemed all right growing up but he became more and more odd after Enid had gone.”

“How do you mean, odd?”

“He just seemed to laze about the place, not that he was ever much of a help to his dad. He’d dress scruffy, let his hair grow for months on end. I used to call on old Wilf from time to time, try and keep him going but … I don’t know, like I said, he seemed to give up. After a year or so, he’d resent me going.”

“That’s a bit unfair, Adam,” Jean interrupted. “Different people handle grief in their own way.”

“Well at the end, he told me not to bother wasting my time calling again. So I didn’t.”

“And how long after Mrs Collinson did Wilf die?” Strong asked.

“He finally went in 1990. Just about this time of year.”

“And from what you said, young Stanley wasn’t interested or possibly capable of carrying on?”

“Couldn’t wait to get out of the place. Their rent was due in the October and Stanley was gone by then. After that, the Ingleby Estates bought it and have farmed it ever since. They wanted the land but had no use for the house, so it’s been allowed to go to rack and ruin.”

“Any idea where Stanley moved to?”

Adam shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

“Was there ever any girlfriends?”

Again the farmer shook his head.

“Boyfriends?”

This drew a loud chuckle from Adam. “Never seemed to have any friends at all. Not that I’d ever seen visiting, but there again, we’re not past the place very often to notice.”

Strong stood up. “Okay Adam, Jean, thanks for your help.” He took out a card and placed it on the table. “If you think of anything else, like where Stanley might have moved to, give me a call.”

Adam began to get to his feet.

“It’s okay.” Strong put up a hand. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. I’ll see myself out.”

43

It was nearly half past eight when Strong drew to a halt on the driveway of his modest detached house five miles from Wood Street. Mrs Clay’s casserole smelt delicious and it had been a difficult refusal to make. He was ravenous, it had been a long day and he wondered what might be on the menu. He waited until Rod Stewart’s
Maggie May
finished on the radio. For once, it wasn’t cut short, spoiling the mandolin solo.

He got out and was just about to lock up when his mobile rang. A number he didn’t recognise flashed up on the LCD display. “Strong,” he said.

“Colin, it’s Jack,”
came the response. He didn’t need to be told. He recognised the baritone voice of his old boss, DCI Jack Cunningham.

“Jack, you know you shouldn’t be contacting me while you’re still under suspension.”

“I don’t blame you, Colin. I knew you took some risks trying to keep some of my … well, my situation quiet. I appreciate that. That’s why I’m using this mobile that no-one knows about.”

Strong turned and walked back down the drive. “I said at the time you were a good officer, Jack. I still think that. But I had to get to the truth. And Paul Summers didn’t deserve that.” Paul Summers, the unfortunate individual who’d spent four years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

“I know, Colin. I’m sorry you put yourself in a difficult situation with those photos.”

“A pity your mate, Halliday doesn’t agree.”

“I’ve had a word. I only just heard he was giving you a hard time. I think you’ll find him a bit more … accommodating.”

“Thanks.”

“But listen, the reason I thought I’d call you – I hear you were the one to discover those missing schoolgirls’ bodies?”

Strong looked up the road and noticed two pink bicycles belonging to his neighbour’s children propped up against the wall by their front door. How ironic, he thought, they would have been riding up and down the pavement earlier, both around the same ages as Jennifer and Mary. “Not exactly, but we’ve yet to confirm identities. How did …? Never mind, I’m not surprised that word is leaking out.”

“The thing is, I was involved with the original enquiries. Jennifer Coyle back in ’86, I was a detective constable then, and two years later, I was a DS when Mary Duggan went missing. I just wondered if I could be of use to you, unofficially like, now that it looks like you’ve probably found them?”

Strong walked back up his drive and leant against the bonnet of his Mondeo. “I don’t know, Jack. Flynn is bringing in a separate murder squad team from Leeds. I’m only going to be liaising with them as far as anything else I’m involved with.”

“But, like you said to me many’s the time, you need to know the truth. If I feed in what I remember from our enquiries back then – not everything might have been recorded correctly.”

“Christ, Jack, you’re not telling me proper records weren’t kept?”

“No, I don’t mean that, Colin, but if I just throw in some things I remember from the time, maybe a different slant on something, you know what I’m saying.”

“Okay. Thanks, I appreciate that.” There was a short silence before he continued, “Listen, Jack … how’s things? I mean, with you?”

“I’m okay, Colin. Don’t worry, I’m not about to stick my head in a gas oven or jump off the Humber Bridge. I’m fine.”

“And Kathy?” he asked, referring to Kathy Sharp with whom Cunningham had had a relationship.

“With a DCI in Bow. Doing well for herself. I always knew she would. But it was good while it lasted.”
A soft chuckle followed.

“Look after yourself, Jack.”

“Thanks, Colin. Oh, before I forget, I don’t know how much of it you’ll find on the records but what came back to me when I heard the news was that during the search for Jennifer, several witnesses reported sightings of an old maroon pick-up, one of those Japanese things, spotted in the area of Pontefract where she was last seen getting off the school bus. And when we got involved in the search for Mary Duggan, a similar vehicle had been seen around the park where she was last seen. As far as I know, despite an intensive search, we never did trace that vehicle – assuming they were one and the same.”

“Thanks for that, Jack. If I need to get in touch with you, is this the best number?”

“Yes. But don’t log it as me, just in case someone checks your phone contacts.”

“See you,” Strong said, ending the call. He straightened himself up and stretched. It
had
been a long day. He walked to the front door, turned the key in the lock and opened it. The welcoming smell of beef stew drifted out to greet him.

44

Thursday

Chapeltown, Leeds. A once prosperous area when the industrial revolution was in full swing. Now an area with a disreputable reputation, it had become squalid.

The street they were on bore an air of decay at one end. Some of the brick-built terraced houses looked abandoned but as they drove along, signs of regeneration were evident. Some properties were undergoing renovation, the obligatory white van and skip left outside. Elsewhere, scruffy cars were parked, leaving only a few spaces available. The unit Strong wanted had once been a corner shop. Now, the windows either side of the doorway had been replaced with solid black panelling and, out of hours, a roller shutter would protect the door from any vandalism.

Stella looked up from the magazine she was reading when Strong and Stainmore entered the small reception area of Sweet Sensations. She was seated behind a glazed screen and small counter. Recognising him, she moved a hand towards a button to the side.

Strong held up a hand in an emphatic ‘Stop’ command then put a finger to his lips. “Szymanski?” he whispered.

She held up four fingers and he nodded towards the door into the place itself. Slowly and deliberately, she reached for the button she had gone for before, mouthing, “Okay?”

The electric lock clicked and both officers stepped into a short dimly-lit corridor. It opened out into a lounge area where two sofas were placed against opposite walls. Immediately, a young dark-haired girl dressed only in bra, pants, hold-up stockings and high-heeled shoes stood up from the right hand one and approached Strong. The broad smile on her face melted into a look of concern as Stainmore appeared behind him.

Moving quickly past him, she ushered the girl back down onto the sofa, motioning her to keep quiet. “Police,” she said quietly, flipping out her warrant card. “You have nothing to fear. You understand?”

The girl looked frightened but nodded.

“Room 4?” Strong asked.

She pointed to the corridor to the right of a wall-mounted flat screen television which was showing a large-breasted blonde girl being taken from behind by a black man over a kitchen table. The moans and groans from the soundtrack didn’t match the action and seemed to have been added later.

“Can we kill that?” Strong said, thumb towards the screen. He set off down another dingy corridor. Halfway towards the emergency exit at the very end, doors led off both sides. Behind door 3 to the left, the familiar rhythmic creaking accompanied by moans that did sound genuine, could be heard. Door 4 to the right seemed quiet. Putting his ear to it, he thought he could hear a male voice speaking quietly.

Taking hold of the door handle, he slowly turned it. Slight pressure revealed it was locked somehow from inside. He took a deep breath and hoped Stella hadn’t let him down. Shoulder to the door, he burst in. Szymanski was sitting on the side of a massage couch, trousers at his ankles whilst a skinny blonde girl was in the middle of performing oral sex on him. She jumped back and began to scream hysterically.

“What the fuck ...”Szymanski began.

“Stefan Szymanski,” Strong stated, holding up his warrant card, “I’m DCI Strong and I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Nadia,” he said to the still screaming blonde.

Almost instantly, she did.

“If you’d care to join your colleague in the lounge,” Strong told the frightened girl, “my fellow officer will take care of you.”

“You mind if I get myself dressed, officer,” Szymanski said.

“Be my guest.” Strong then escorted Nadia out of the room.

As he did so, Szymanski, trousers quickly back up, barged past Strong and bolted for the fire exit. He shook his head as the Pole burst through the door and out into the daylight. The sounds of a brief scuffle could be heard before Ormerod, a broad grin below the familiar thick black moustache, appeared, dragging a now handcuffed Szymanski back inside. “Lost something, guv?” he asked.