Torment (38 page)

Darby returned with the crowbar and jemmied the doors. He pushed them open and, taking a torch from his pocket, stepped inside, Ormerod just behind. They were in what had once been a reception area. Ormerod flashed his torch around to reinforce what little natural daylight was now coming through the windows. The parquet floor was covered in dust and stones and broken glass. Some sections had lifted and oblong pieces of timber were scattered around. There were also some discarded needles. “Careful where you stand,” Ormerod warned.

“What’s that smell?” Darby asked.

Ormerod’s torch beam scanned the floor to the sides and picked out three piles of shit.

“Dogs? In here?” Darby queried.

“I don’t think so.”

Overhead, the light fittings had been ripped out and wires dangled down, catching Darby unawares. “Fuck,” he said, “That could have been live.”

“Not very likely,” Ormerod chuckled.

They made their way past the reception desk, thick with dust. A calendar on the wall announced it was still July 1995. Ormerod pushed open a door to the left and carefully walked into a corridor. There was a different aroma here. Only slight at first, but definite. On up the corridor, they proceeded carefully. A door to the right was open. There was enough daylight coming in through the window, augmented by the street light outside, to see it was empty. Yet more stones and broken glass. The next door to the left was closed. Ormerod paused and pulled on some gloves before opening it. This had been the gents’ toilet. It stank of stale urine and excrement. A quick flash of the torch indicated it was empty, apart from the smashed basins, urinals and cubicle partitions. He closed the door.

“It should be the next room on the right,” Ormerod said, carefully picking his way along the corridor once again. The aroma was strengthening. “I don’t like this, John,” he said. “I’ve smelt this before.”

“Smells like something’s died,” Darby offered.

Ormerod ignored the remark and walked to the next door. It was partly open. Shining the torch around the floor, he found what they’d been looking for.

Outside in the fresh air of the yard, Ormerod made the call that would bring reinforcements. Darby struggled to keep his last meal down, but he did, the colour slowly returning to his face.

Within fifteen minutes, Kelly Stainmore and Trevor Newell had arrived with Scenes Of Crime officers turning up about five minutes after that. Dr Andrew Symonds, the duty medical officer, pronounced life extinct and emerged into the yard for a cigarette.

Standing next to Stainmore and Ormerod, he said, “Poor kid.”

“Any initial thoughts, doctor?” Stainmore asked.

“I’ll need to check toxicology, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d taken something but I would say, unless any other injuries become apparent when I get her back to the mortuary, it looks like she probably had a fit and choked on her own vomit.”

Ormerod looked at Stainmore then to the doctor. “If there was someone with her, do you think she could have been saved?”

Symonds exhaled some smoke. “Usually in these cases, simply putting them in the recovery position and keeping their airways clear, and getting help of course, means people suffering a fit, survive. But, like I say, I’d like to check to see if there was anything else going on before I can say for definite.”

Doug Norris, one of the senior SOC men joined them in the yard with something in a plastic evidence bag. “Thought you might want to see this as soon as,” he said. “A small clutch handbag with two twenty pound and one ten pound notes inside and some loose change.”

“So she wasn’t robbed,” Ormerod concluded.

“But more importantly,” Norris continued, “a Matalan card in the name of Maria Brownlow. I think you have your missing girl.”

Ormerod turned away and walked to the far side of the yard. Taking out his phone, he dialled a number.

“Hello,”
Souter answered.

“We found her. She’s dead.”

Souter exhaled.
“How?”

“Choked on her own vomit, we think, but won’t know for certain until the PM.”

Souter was silent for a while.
“Thanks,”
he eventually said,
“Appreciate the call.”

62

Wednesday

Two days later, Strong in DCS Flynn’s office was sitting opposite the man himself.

“Are you sure you should be back so soon, Colin?” Flynn asked.

Heavy bruising coloured his jaw and his speech was slightly affected. “I’m fine, sir. Nothing broken, just a bit sore for a while that’s all.”

Flynn nodded approvingly.

Strong gingerly nursed a cup of coffee to his lips. This was a rare treat; coffee from his boss’s personal percolator. “Besides, there seems to be a lot that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours.”

“Certainly has.” Flynn was relaxing in his chair hands clasped over his stomach. “You’ll be pleased to know that your assailant is safely locked up,” he continued. “He’s been charged with the murders of Chris Baker and Helena Cryanovic plus a number of other charges related to sex trafficking and offences associated with the girls and the parlours.” He leaned forward and grinned. “Where did you pull that rabbit out of the hat? They found his car in the lock up in Leeds and the handgun in the glovebox. Forensics are having a field day. Lots of trace evidence to substantiate that the girl was in the boot.”

“It was just good timing of information received.”

“Good work though, Colin.”

“And Szymanski?”

“He’s been charged too. So overall a good result.” Flynn paused a moment, growing serious. “But tragic news about your other Misper.”

Strong nodded grimly. “Maria Brownlow. Yes, Luke told me last night.”

“Sad end to a sad life, I gather. The PM Results confirm natural causes but she might have been okay if she’d had help at the time. And then Essex police tell us they’d detained our two likely lads, Baker and Chapman down in Clacton of all places. Anonymous tip off apparently.”

“They’re back here now aren’t they?”

“Kelly and Luke are conducting interviews,” Flynn confirmed. “I expect they’ll be charged in connection with the vehicle thefts later today.”

Strong tensed. “A pity we can’t do that little shit for leaving Maria to die.”

“I know.”

“On that subject, sir.” Strong stood up and placed his coffee cup onto its saucer. “I said I’d be at the mortuary this morning.”

*    *    *

Half an hour later, Souter and Alison were standing alongside Sammy as they waited in the designated area of the Mortuary when Strong entered.

Souter stood and the two men hugged one another. “How are you feeling, Col?” he enquired.

“I’ll be fine.”

Alison looked up at his face. “It’s certainly colourful,” she commented.

“Honestly, I’m okay.” Strong shook her hand then looked to Sammy. “Are you sure you can do this?” he asked.

Sammy, eyes red with crying, nodded.

Souter knew they’d made Maria as presentable as possible but it would still be another traumatic event for Sammy to experience in such a short life.

After Sammy had formally identified Maria, all four went to a nearby café. Strong bought them coffees.

“Thank you, Sammy,” Strong said, as he stirred some sugar into his drink. “I know it’s never easy.”

“At least I know what happened to her. It must have been terrible for the families of Jennifer and Mary to go years before finding out. Some families never find out.”

Alison gripped her hand.

Sammy looked at her then to Souter. “The only way I can think of it is, that it’s the end of a chapter. And I hope … I’m sure, the next chapter will be much better.”

“I’m sure it will, Sammy,” Strong smiled, then flinched.

“How is it?” Souter asked.

“I was lucky, I suppose. No break just bruising and gave my teeth a good rattle.”

Sammy chuckled and the mood seemed to lighten.

63

Tuesday 4
^th
October 2000

Strong was at his desk working on some paperwork when the phone rang.

“Colin, it’s Peter, Peter Walker in Pontefract.”

“Hello, Peter.”

“How’s the jaw?”

Subconsciously, his free hand rubbed the spot Mirczack had caught. “Still aches on a night but it was a lucky punch. No real damage.”

Walker chuckled.
“When’s the trial?”

“Early December.” Strong sat back in his seat. “Anyway, how are your investigations coming along?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’ll remember I told you we’d sent Enid Collinson’s old pick-up for forensic tests? Well, we got some interesting results.”

“Go on.”

“They found trace evidence in the rear seats matching the remnants of both girls’ clothing.”

“So they’d both been in the vehicle.”

“At some point. But also, I said we’d sent off samples taken from the bodies to the DNA lab, we got a hit on that too.”

“Did you now? Anyone we know?”

“Not directly. What we got was a familial match against a sample taken from a drink driver four years ago.”

“Meaning it’s not them but someone closely related.”

“Correct. And that driver is Stanley Collinson. So the samples from the girls could only have come from Collinson senior, Wilf. There are no other family members we can find.”

“You got an address?”

“Sure have. According to our investigations, Stanley now lives in Rotherham, quite near the town centre. We’re heading off there now and I just wondered, seeing as you were in at the beginning so to speak, if you wanted to come along.”

Strong checked his watch. “Give me forty minutes?”

“Perfect. We’ll pick you up at Wood Street, it’s on our way. See you then.”

Strong got into the rear seat of Walker’s Volvo. DS Tim Miller was driving with Walker himself in the front passenger seat. On the way down the M1 Walker and Strong talked about various criminals they’d come into contact with over the years and some of the stupidity they’d displayed, much to the amusement of Miller. Eventually, the conversation drifted to Strong’s most recent case.

“So with this court case against Mirczack and Szymanski coming up in December,” Walker commented, “how did you manage to get them to drop that smooth-talking poncy bastard Peter Atherton from their defence team?”

Strong smiled as he remembered the telephone conversation he’d had with Atherton a week ago. Being the sort of high-profile, publicity seeking individual that he was, Atherton had taken part in some television news item earlier in the year about the taking of DNA from anyone charged with an offence. Although speaking out against the routine taking of samples, he’d agreed to put himself up as a guinea pig to show how it would be done. The samples were supposed to have been destroyed afterwards. Unbeknown to most, they hadn’t, but had found their way onto the national DNA database instead. Strong was shocked when Jim Ryan had told him that the forensics team had discovered some interesting matches from the ground floor room of Luxor Grove where the sex parties had taken place. One of those belonged to Peter Atherton. Naturally, because the original sample hadn’t been taken in accordance with correct procedure, nothing further could be done with it. It did, however, provide him with a satisfying encounter with the solicitor, culminating in his agreement to drop Mirczack and Szymanski as clients.

“Oh, just got lucky, I suppose,” Strong responded.

Collinson’s house was a brick-built mid-terraced house about half a mile from the railway station. Although cars were parked both sides, surprisingly there were spaces. Miller pulled the Volvo into a gap opposite the house they wanted. After about twenty seconds delay, their knock on the door was answered by man Strong assumed was Stanley Collinson. He was forty-one, according to the file but looked older. The balding pate with a dark-haired comb-over didn’t help. He wore thick-rimmed spectacles, a grubby pullover and dark trousers. His feet were in slippers.

“Mr Collinson? Stanley Collinson?” Walker began.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Peter Walker from Pontefract CID. This is my colleague DS Tim Miller and from Wakefield CID, DCI Colin Strong. We’d like to talk to you about your time at Meadow Woods Farm, if we may. Can we come in?”

All three held up their warrant cards for a second.

Collinson seemed shell-shocked. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door wider to allow the detectives to enter.

“Two DCI’s? That’s a bit heavy isn’t it,” he pondered as he closed the door behind them.

Like many terraced houses in the area, the front door led straight into the sitting room. The room itself was furnished with what Strong guessed was furniture he’d inherited from his parents. A solid wooden table was by the front window and a dresser in matching dark wood stood by the wall opposite the fireplace. A well-worn three piece suite filled up most of the room and what could be seen of the carpet would have been fashionable in the seventies. A brown rug lay by the hearth and an unlit gas fire was in the old tiled surround. The only nod to the present day seemed to be the large television sitting on a media unit in one corner. Surprisingly, from Strong’s experience of talking to people in their own homes, Collinson switched it off with the remote control.

“May we sit down, Mr Collinson?” Walker asked.

“Er, sure.”

Walker and Miller sat on the settee with Strong on one of the easy chairs, allowing Collinson to sit opposite the television in the remaining one which seemed moulded to his shape.

Before Walker could say any more, Collinson spoke. “I’ve been expecting you. Well, not you specifically, but someone. It’s about them little girls isn’t it?” He looked pale and his hands were beginning to shake.