Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (10 page)

Still, there’s a bit of luck. A couple of days out in Manchester for some conference on Forensic Policing. As the boss had said, just the opportunity to learn a bit about the latest advances in the science. Might see a few old friends as well if things pan out.

Strong was almost back at his office when Luke Ormerod turned into the corridor just ahead with a file in his hand.

“Ah, guv, the very man. Everything all right with the boss?”

“Yeah, he just wanted to download, that’s all.”

Ormerod followed Strong into his office.

“He wants me to go to Manchester tomorrow and Sunday for some conference. Great piece of timing, right in the middle of this lot. Anyway, what can I do for you, Luke?”

“Well, I think I’ve identified Williams partner in crime.” Ormerod opened the file and placed it on the desk.

Strong began to study it. “Ah, is he back in circulation, then?”

“Apparently so. He was released from Strangeways just over a year ago.”

“Our old friend John Reginald Hinchcliffe, Jake to his friends,” Strong read out loud. “More convictions than a bus load of religious fanatics. Have we not already interviewed him about these burglaries?”

“Jim Ryan’s had him in twice now. Alibied both times by his mother.”

Strong rolled his eyes. “Well that’s him out the frame, then, isn’t it?”

“The description given to uniform ties in fairly well,” Ormerod
continued, “mid to late forties, about five six, medium build, scruffy appearance with collar length greasy hair, going grey and ‘Buddy Holly’ glasses. Plus, his dabs are on two videos and a television set recovered from Williams’ wardrobe.”

“Not on the box?”

“No, they’ve not been able to identify any others apart from Williams.”

“Okay, pull him in.”

“Sam and John are on their way now.”

Strong closed the file and handed it back to Ormerod, “Good. Let me know when they get back. I’ll be interested to hear what he has to say. In the meantime, have we tracked down Kenny Stocks yet?”

“Not yet, guv. The last known address we had for him – a rented place on Dunbar Street – he moved out of a few weeks ago. No forwarding either. Apart from that, he doesn’t seem to be hanging around his usual haunts. No one’s seen him for a couple of days.”

“Okay, Luke, keep at it.” Strong looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ve got some organising to do for tomorrow.”

18

It was lunchtime when Sam Kirkland and John Darby arrived with Hinchcliffe. Strong was just finishing a jacket potato filled with chilli and topped with cheese in the canteen when Ormerod spotted him.

“Forensics have just confirmed Hinchcliffe’s prints were found in Williams’ van, guv,” Ormerod said in response to Strong’s enquiry on progress. “He’s downstairs now and we’re just waiting on his brief.”

“That’ll give him time to gather what few thoughts he may have before we start.” Strong wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “As I recall, he’s not the brightest bulb in the circuit. How did he seem on the way in?”

“Cocky, Sam said.”

“And on the ball enough to want his brief,” Strong added, as he took the cellophane wrapper off one of his small cigars, “Anyway, I’m going to enjoy one of these with my tea before I come down and join you.”

When Strong entered the interview room, Hinchcliffe was seated next to his solicitor. Sam Kirkland was correct, he was certainly exuding a very confident air, leaning back in the chair, chewing gum as obviously as he could. His lawyer, introduced as Dominic Clayton, looked to be in his mid-twenties, dressed in a trendy crumpled suit with slicked-back gelled hair and an earring in his left ear. Strong wondered whether he was a rising star in the practice or just a junior they could spare at short notice. He hoped for the latter.

It had been decided that Luke Ormerod would take the lead and, after the usual preliminaries, he began by going over the details previously covered in the earlier interviews. Not surprisingly, Hinchcliffe rolled out the same responses; on the nights in question, he was at home with his elderly mother, watching television. A few more dates put forward by Ormerod and he couldn’t really remember, he’d have to check. Ormerod thought it time to change tack.

“How well do you know Fred Williams?”

“Who?”

“Fred Williams,” Ormerod repeated.

Hinchcliffe made a great performance of trying to trawl his memory. “Oh, hang on a minute, isn’t he that poor sod found with his brains bashed in?”

Ormerod smiled. “Very good, Mr. Hinchcliffe, but not quite good enough to qualify you for an Equity card.”

Hinchcliffe looked puzzled and turned to his solicitor.

Clayton leaned towards him and said in low tones, “I think they’re making a joke, Mr. Hinchcliffe.”

“Oh … I see … well, I’d like to help you gentlemen but, like I say, apart from reading it in the papers … never heard of him.”

Ormerod stroked his moustache as he made a point of studying Hinchcliffe’s file. “Funny that, because from October 1997 until February 1998 you shared a cell with him at Nottingham jail.”

“I’ve shared cells with lots of people, I can’t be expected to remember them all.”

Strong decided to join in. “So how do you explain your prints being found in his flat then, Mr. Hinchcliffe, not to mention all over his van?”

Hinchcliffe stopped chewing but, after a moment, composed himself and recommenced his performance, “Oh, that Fred Williams. God, no, was it him?”

“Cut the crap, Jake,” Strong snapped. “We know you two did business together.”

Hinchcliffe blew out his cheeks and leaned forward. “All right, I did know him but I didn’t have anything to do with his killing.”

“Well that’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it?” Ormerod stated.

“Come on, you can see from my record I’m not a violent man. I’ve never raised a finger to anyone.”

The detectives let his words hang in the air for a few seconds before Strong opened the envelope he’d brought with him and pulled out a collection of photographs. Putting the first down on the table so that Hinchcliffe could view it, Strong asked, “Do you recognise this?”

Hinchcliffe barely glanced at the photo. “Yeah, it’s a Phillips 21 inch with remote controls. Comes complete with Teletext, I believe.”

“And this?” Strong placed the second photo on the table.

“That’s a Matsui fourteen day programmable video recorder.”

After the fifth photo, each one producing a similar response, Strong paused. “You seem to be a bit of an expert on all the latest entertainment technology, Jake.”

“Yeah, well, my brother-in-law’s got a repair shop. I help him out a bit, you know.”

“I’ll bet that’s handy, especially in your line of, dare I call it, work,” Ormerod said.

Hinchcliffe was indignant. “He’s totally legit!”

“We’ll be checking that out.”

Strong leaned forward again. “Let’s try this one, then, Jake.” He placed another photo on the table.

Hinchcliffe relaxed again, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continued with his responses in the same vein. One or two more examples of electrical items followed before Strong, gaze firmly fixed on Hinchcliffe, slipped in the photo of the metal box.

There was no mistaking the reaction, the eyes widening momentarily. He looked from Strong to Ormerod and back again before finally responding, “I’ve never seen this before.”

“Are you sure, Jake?” Strong persisted. “Take a closer look.”

“No,” Hinchcliffe replied after a moment, leaning back in his seat, “I’d have remembered something like this. What is it anyway, a camera box?”

Strong left his question unanswered.

Ormerod filled the silence. “When was the last time you saw Fred Williams?”

“Er … let me think … before Christmas, well before.” Hinchcliffe seemed to be taking the proceedings a little more seriously now. “It must have been a couple of weeks before, I can’t remember exactly.”

“Okay, so if you can’t remember exactly when, how about what you were doing when you last saw Mr. Williams?”

“He asked me to have a look at some gear he’d got. Sometimes I’d do a little repair work just to sort out a fault on a telly or something. Crafty sod actually got me there to help him carry the stuff up to his flat. Bloody lifts are never working.”

This drew a smile from Strong. “Did he say where this gear came from?”

“Never asked.”

“But it wasn’t the product of your nocturnal efforts?”

“Sorry?”

“You and Williams didn’t nick it?” Ormerod clarified.

“Of course not. Like I say, I used to just give him a hand if there were any faults or anything like that. I never asked where he got hold of the stuff. I just assumed he’d been to a boot sale or something and was just trying to make a living flogging it on. It’s not as though ex-cons are spoilt for choice with jobs now is it?”

Strong took things up once again. “Let’s just go back over these dates, Mr Hinchcliffe.”

“Really, Inspector, my client has already answered to these dates to the best of his knowledge,” Clayton interjected.

Hinchcliffe addressed his brief before turning back to Strong, “That’s okay, if it means I can get out of here sooner, that’s no problem.”

Strong reiterated the last four dates; August 23
^rd
, September 4
^th
, October 14
^th
and November 28
^th
.

The previous answers were repeated and, after the last date, Strong told him he was free to go.

Hinchcliffe appeared surprised. “Is that it?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up on his nose.

“For now. But before you leave, we’ll want the name and address of your brother-in-law’s shop. Detective Constable Ormerod will see you to the front desk.”

The details of the conference were on Strong’s desk when he returned to his office. He quickly scanned them; nine-o’clock registration on Saturday, lunch provided and dinner in the evening, ten-o’clock start on the Sunday and a finish by four. That meant, if nothing untoward occurred, he shouldn’t upset plans at home on Sunday evening. Laura had asked friends round for supper.

Ormerod knocked on the door and entered, dispelling all thoughts of the weekend. “What do you reckon on that little performance, then, guv?”

“He’d seen that case before, that’s for sure.”

“No mistaking that,” Ormerod agreed. “I’ve got the details of his brother-in-law’s place, I assume you’ll want me to follow that up?”

“Yes, thanks, Luke. Keep me informed. You’ve got my mobile number. I’ve told Kelly to keep the team up to speed while I’m away. I’m only over the hills, though. If anything develops, I can be back here within the hour. Organise the troops for a briefing eight o’clock Monday morning.”

“Okay.”

Ormerod was half way out the door when Strong thought of something else. “Oh, and Luke, I don’t suppose there’s any more news on the whereabouts of Kenny Stocks?"

“No sign. We’re still trying but no one’s had sight nor sound for a good few days now.”

Strong was thoughtful. “That’s bloody strange. Someone somewhere in this town must know where he is. Rattle a few cages, Luke. At the very least we need to eliminate him.”

19

The M62 motorway linking Yorkshire and Lancashire boasts Britain’s highest motorway summit near Saddleworth Moor; the place forever associated with Ian Brady and Myra Hyndley. Somewhere through the low cloud and drizzly rain that had enveloped the road many miles back, Colin Strong approached the summit.

The day had promised much; the sky was clear and the first shafts of the new dawn were creeping from the east when he’d set off from home just after half-past seven. He had made up his mind to enjoy the Pennine scenery but that idea had evaporated not long after the Halifax turn. Now he had to concentrate hard to deal with the poor visibility. Spray from heavy goods vehicles plodding up the grade only exacerbated things.

He passed the spot known colloquially as ‘the little house on the prairie’, the farm where the owner of the time had made a defiant stand against the progress of the new road, refusing to move. The engineers and planners simply routed the carriageways either side of the farmhouse and the building is left to this day as a symbol of the futility of such protests. It always saddened him every time he drove past it. Today, though, he could hardly see it.

Radio Two was keeping him company, Brian Matthew with
Sounds of the Sixties
to be precise. Amen Corner were posing a question about paradise being half as nice as heaven when some sports car flew past him in the outside lane. “You’ll get there, sooner than you think,” he said quietly to himself.

His mobile phone rang. He hated them but, like the progress of the motorway thirty years before, it was futile to stand in the way of modern technological advances. He switched the radio off, pressed the green button on the phone and put it to his right ear. One day, he thought, this will be classed as dangerous driving.

“Hello,” he said.

“Col, it’s me, Bob.”

“Bob, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Where are you? You sound like you’re on the move.”

“I’m nearly over the top on the M62. I’ve been landed with some conference to attend over in Manchester.”

“Manchester?”

“Yeah, and it’s lovely weather for the trip. Anyway, have you got anything for me?”

“Well, I might have,”
Souter deliberated.
“There’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“Let’s have the bad news first.”

“Sheila Montgomery died three years ago. The big C.”

“Shit! Hang on.” Strong dropped the phone onto his lap. A few seconds later he picked it up again. “Sorry, mate, some arsehole in an artic decided to pull out. No indication, nothing. Foreign plates and all. I should pull the bastard over.”

“Look, I don’t want you wrapping yourself up because you’re talking to me. Where abouts in Manchester will you be?”

“It’s at the Sedgley Park Centre, off Bury New Road in Prestwich, why?”

“Just thought you might fancy a pint at lunch-time that’s all?”