Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (23 page)

“Is that it, then? No remorse? No feelings of regret for everything that you’ve been responsible for?”

“For everything I’ve done wrong … I’ve served my time. For anythin’ else … I’m just about to begin my final sentence. But I’m happy.”

“It was all just a game to you wasn’t it?”

“It still is.” Montgomery closed his eyes and laid his head back onto the pillows. “Interview over,” he said and placed the mask back over his face.

Before Strong could say any more, the door opened and Nurse Finnegan appeared. “Sorry, but Mr Montgomery needs to rest now,” she said, approaching the monitors and pressing various buttons.

“Okay nurse, thanks,” Strong said. “I was just leaving.”

“One more thing, Mr Strong,” Montgomery said, raising himself up on an elbow once more. “When I’ve gone … look out for Rosie … she’s got a lot of respect for you.”

“And you haven’t?”

“There you go … typical bloody copper … still trying to put words in my mouth.”

35

“Mr Whitehead, I’m Detective Inspector Strong, the senior investigating officer on the Williams’ murder enquiry. I believe you have some information for us.”

Phil Whitehead was a large built man in his early thirties with extremely short hair and two days growth on his face, giving a fairly tough appearance. He was sitting at the table in the front interview room, opposite DC Trevor Newell. Strong had been told a few minutes earlier that the barman at the Malt Shovel, one of Williams’ regular haunts, had come in.

“Yeah, that’s right. As I were telling your colleague here, Fred used to come in regular. Anyway, one night, it must have been about the beginning of December ‘cause we’d only just put the decorations up and this bloke came in looking for him.”

Strong remained standing. “And you’d never seen him before?”

Whitehead shook his head. “Nor since. He reckoned he were an old friend of his. Hadn’t seen him for years, he said. Lost touch and wanted to get hold of him.”

“Did you give him any information?”

“Well I told him he lived over in the block of flats, you know, Hardcastle House, but exactly where I didn’t know. I knew it were quite high up because he’d come in sometimes slaggin’ off the vandals for wreckin’ the lifts.”

“You obviously got a good look at him, though?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean he had a pint while he were asking about him.”

“Did he speak to any of the other regulars to ask them at all, do you know?”

“Not that I noticed. I mean, I were talking to him in between serving. He were stood at the bar the whole time.”

“Okay, well have a look at the photos DC Newell here is about to show you and see if you recognise him. Failing that, we’ll get you to work up an e-fit for us, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure,” the barman said, then added thoughtfully, “He were all right were Fred.”

“One more thing, Mr Whitehead, why didn’t you tell us this when our officers called round?”

“You know how it is. In my job you hear all sorts of things the punters wouldn’t want passing on. If I were seen to be talking to you lot, well … you know what I mean.”

“All right, thanks for your help, Mr. Whitehead.”

Back in the incident room, Ormerod and Stainmore were busy typing up reports at their workstations when Strong joined them.

“Kelly, what news of your attack victim, what was her name again?”

“Jane Sedgewick guv. I was just typing up my notes now, but basically, she’s confirmed the silver hair clasp was hers.”

“So give us a reprise of the case then, would you,” Strong prompted.

Darby walked into the room, Strong acknowledged him and Stainmore began to report.

“Well, Jane had finished work at eleven – she worked as a masseuse at the Shangri La massage parlour up on Lumb Lane. She normally parked her car on a bit of waste ground at the back. Not too unusual, most of the punters did and so did the girls. Although it was waste ground where the street behind had been demolished, it was reasonably well lit with street lamps nearby. However, on the night in question, they were out. Obviously, she didn’t know that when she parked there in the afternoon.

“As she walked to her car, she was grabbed from behind. She remembers the attacker wore gloves, leather ones, and then she felt a sharp punch to her lower back and down she went. She wasn’t sure whether she hit her head or was struck by him or whether it was the punch to the kidneys but she passed out. When she came to she was bleeding from a head wound. Also, her top was up around her neck and her trousers had been undone and pulled slightly down exposing herself.”

“But again, there was no rape, is that right, Kelly?”

“No, guv, just interference.”

“Could she give any information at all about her attacker?”

“Well, she’s very tall, around five eleven, so she reckons the man must have been a bit smaller than that by the way she was grabbed. She’d passed out within seconds of it, so there was no chance of seeing anything of him, and by the time she’d come to, he’d scarpered.”

“Apart from the gloves,” Strong wondered. “Can you remember, did Irene Nicholson mention gloves?”

“Yes, she did, and if you give me a minute, I’ll check the file.” Stainmore selected Irene Nicholson’s case notes from her desk and began to thumb through the papers.

“While Kelly’s looking that up,” Ormerod contributed, “it may or may not be of any significance but, when I brought Mrs Lockwood in to try and work up an e-fit of this mystery caller to Williams’ flat, one of the things she was certain of was his height. He’d walked past close to her so she could tell fairly accurately. And it was the same as me, five nine, give or take an inch.”

“What about the e-fit, Luke?”

He held it up with a look of disappointment. “A bit like those you sometimes see on the telly and people say, ‘does anybody really look like that?’ It’s fairly general, she only got a quick glance before he pulled his hood up so I wouldn’t feel confident using it for anything outside this office.”

“Tell you what, Luke,” Strong said, “Trevor’s downstairs with the barman from the Malt Shovel getting a description of some bloke who was asking after Williams back in early December. If he doesn’t pick anyone out from Rogues Gallery, they’re going to produce an e-fit. When he’s finished, have a look at it and see how it compares. If it looks similar, it might be worthwhile going back to see Mrs Lockwood.”

Ormerod nodded.

“Right,” said Stainmore, looking up from the file. “Leather gloves.”

“Good. So that narrows things down a bit. All we’re looking for now is a male, between five six and five ten, with a penchant for wearing leather gloves.”

“Oh, and one other thing, guv,” Ormerod added. “She didn’t recognise Montgomery, Hinchcliffe or Stocks from the photos I showed her.”

“Even better, another three off the list of possibles.”

“Talking of Hinchcliffe,” Darby joined in, “I went to see his mother yesterday. She still claims she hasn’t seen or heard from him since last Friday, when he came back from being interviewed here. He went out Friday night and, although she reckoned he’d been back later after she’d gone to bed, when she got up on Saturday morning he’d gone.”

“Do you reckon she’s covering for him again, John?”

“Might be, guv, but she does seem genuinely concerned. Anyway, I followed things up with his brother-in-law, Tim Woodhouse, you know, he has Woodhouse Electrical up near Elland Road. Luke gave me the details and I called round there yesterday afternoon. Apparently, Hinchcliffe had turned up at the shop on Saturday morning and asked to borrow the old company van. Woodhouse had lent it to him before, so he didn’t think anything of it and, as it wasn’t going to be needed, he let him have it.”

“Got the details?” Strong asked. The phone in his office began to ring and he turned to Stainmore, “Would you get that for me please, Kelly?”

“A blue Ford Escort van with one white rear door, ‘D’ registered,” Darby replied, while Stainmore walked off to answer Strong’s phone. “I’ve passed this on to traffic and uniform.”

“Good work, John.” Strong was half listening to the brief telephone conversation obviously drawing to a close in the adjacent office. He could hear Stainmore say, “Okay, I’ll tell him. Thanks. Bye.”

She rejoined them in the incident room. “Bad news I’m afraid, guv,”

For an instant, Strong’s thoughts flashed to Jasper. The black Labrador was being taken to the vet’s today. “Was that Laura?”

“Laura? No, it was the hospital. Billy Montgomery died at two o’clock this morning.”

36

The familiar trumpet notes heralding the beginning of yet another episode of Coronation Street came from the television in the lounge. Jean was putting the finishing touches to her make-up with the help of the mirror over the fireplace. Only three months ago she couldn’t have imagined tarting herself up, excited at the prospect of a night out with some man she’d only recently met.

Trevor and Jean had been married for ten years when the bombshell dropped. She’d suspected something wasn’t quite right for some time, although when it did finally surface, everything fell into place; the late nights at the office, the more frequent trips away ‘on business,’ wrong number calls whenever she answered the phone and the lack of interest in anything involving her. In retrospect, she was relieved they hadn’t started a family. At least that complication didn’t exist in the equation. The feeling of rejection was the hardest thing to bear. After the initial shockwaves had subsided following Trevor’s departure with the office ‘bike’, as she called her, she began to feel quite positive about herself. She felt she was still young enough to make a fresh start and she wouldn’t be landing herself with another Trevor, that was for sure.

She studied herself in the mirror and considered she didn’t look bad for thirty-five; scrubbed up well, in fact. She smiled to herself as that phrase passed through her head. She’d made a conscious effort to change her appearance and very much for the better, she thought. Her hair was cut short in a modern style and she’d spent money on new clothes; like the white top and figure hugging short black skirt she was wearing tonight. Yes, she was quite happy with her figure. Maybe that was one of the reasons why Trevor had gone off with someone else; she hadn’t made the best of what she’d got.

Her brother entered the room, glanced at his sister and picked up the TV paper. “Off out again tonight?”

Jean didn’t look at him. “You sound more like Dad every day.”

Souter sat down on the settee and contemplated what he could watch during the evening that might pass for entertainment. “Same bloke?”

Jean turned to face him. “What are you saying?” she asked sharply.

Souter seemed surprised at her reaction. “Nothing. I was just wondering if you were going out with the same guy from last night, that’s all.”

“You think I’m just throwing myself at any man that happens to come along?”

“No.”

“Hey, listen, that bastard I was stupid enough to marry just upped and pissed off with some bimbo he’d been shagging for months. Have a go at him, not me.”

“I’m not having a go, Jean,” Souter placated.

“I’m a free agent again so I’ve decided I want to have a bit of fun myself before it’s too late. Nothing wrong with that is there?”

“Don’t bite my head off, I was only taking an interest.”

Jean visibly sagged as she realised how confrontational she had just sounded. “Sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean to be so aggressive, it’s just I’ve had my fair share of criticism from well-intentioned ‘do-gooders’ these last few months.” Jean resumed her preparations.

“Forget it. You deserve a good time.” Souter began channel-hopping with the TV remote control. “You going to bring him back some time?”

“What, to be vetted by you? I don’t think so. Besides he doesn’t have a lot of time for journalists.”

“Now you’re trying to wind me up.”

“It’s true. He’s had a few run-ins in his jo...” Jean let the sentence fade away, realising she’d said more than she intended.

“So what does he do, this er … actually, you haven’t even told me his name.”

“No, you’re right, I haven’t.” She closed her make-up bag and headed towards the hall.

“Is his job that bad then that you’re ashamed of it?”

She ignored him, opened the cloak cupboard and put on her coat.

“I wonder what it could be?” Souter continued from the lounge, “Who’s more despised than a journalist? A politician? Estate agent? What about a clap doctor, is that what he does?”

Jean laughed and appeared at the room doorway just as the phone rang. “I know what you’re up to Robert Souter and you’ve got no chance. I’m telling you no more.”

She disappeared back into the hall to answer the phone. “Hello.” The male caller asked for her brother. “It’s for you!” she shouted over her shoulder to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t wait up.” With that the front door closed and she was gone.

Souter rose from the settee, satisfied he knew who her new love interest was. Well not who exactly but at least what he did. No one else could have told her all about the box full of trophies found in Williams’ flat. The level of detail she’d spoken of still hadn’t made the papers. He wandered out of the lounge and picked up the phone. “Souter,” he said.

* * *

Strong had spread himself out on the settee in his sitting room after their evening meal and was relaxing with a small Glenlivet. He didn’t often drink whisky but when he did he preferred the quality of a single malt. A Joe Cocker CD was quietly playing on the music centre and Laura was snuggled in beside him. It had been a traumatic day and he knew she felt the need to be comfortable, safe and warm. The empty basket in the kitchen had been a tangible reminder of Jasper’s passing. Amanda had cried. She wasn’t so upset that she cancelled her night out with friends, though.

Strong finally broke a long silence. “I’m going to miss him, you know.”

“I know.”

“He was a character. I only had to reach out for his lead and he was there.” Strong mirrored the movement by leaning over to the occasional table and lifting his whisky glass. “Even when he was ill, he’d struggle to the back door, still keen for a walk.” He took a sip of the malt and replaced his glass. “They say dogs are only capable of one expression but that isn’t true. I used to take him up the farm lane and I’d guarantee every time they’d cut that hawthorn hedge, he’d get a thorn in his paw.” He smiled to himself at the memory. “And when he did, I tell you, he’d perfected that pathetic ‘I need help’ expression.”