Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (3 page)

He gave a faint smile. “She betrayed me, Jean. I thought we could maybe start a family, especially after ... well, you know.” His eyes were moist. “She reckoned I was after a substitute for Adam.”

She winced. “That was nasty.”

“Anyway, she made it pretty clear that that wasn’t on the agenda.” He started wandering around the room again. “I mean I could live with that. I would have liked to, but … if she didn’t feel ready then …”

Jean rose from the settee, went over to her brother and hugged him. “That’s enough,” she said.

They stood, silently, just holding one another for several minutes.

“Come on, let’s get you something to eat.” She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen. “Omelette all right for you?” She set a pan on the hob. “Some mushrooms and tomatoes in it?”

“Great.” He smiled.

Jean cracked a couple of eggs and prepared the rest.

“Why does it always end in disaster? Is it me?”

She gave him a look that made it plain he’d asked a rhetorical question.

Slowly a broad grin broke out on Bob’s face. “Thanks, sis,” he said, “It’s good to see you.”

She smiled back at him. “Go on, fetch those mugs in and make us another.”

He went back into the living room, picked up the mugs then stood for a moment studying the room. All evidence of Trevor appeared to have been removed since he last visited. Trevor who had pissed off with a young bimbo from the office twelve months ago. Jean’s wedding photograph on top of the TV was replaced by one of their parents at the party to celebrate their silver wedding. He walked over and picked it up and studied their laughing faces. Sadness overcame him as he remembered they’d only had another two years together. His father succumbed to lung disease from a lifetime at the coal face. His mother had followed a year later. Heart, they’d said.

“So how long do you plan to stay?” Jean asked from the kitchen, “not that I want to get rid of you before you’ve taken your coat off, so to speak.”

“I don’t know. A couple of weeks maybe, till I get sorted.”

“When do you start at the Post?”

“Next Monday.”

He was examining the CD collection when Jean returned. “I see he took his country and Western collection, then.”

“Bloody good riddance and all.” She set the tray of food and cutlery down on the coffee table. “All that heartbreaking shit. Drove me bonkers.”

Bob laughed. He’d never heard his sister swear as much.

She ignored him, taking the mugs back to the kitchen. “Do you want another one?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Me neither. I’ll make up the bed in the back room upstairs. Try and keep it tidy.”

“Yes, mum,” he said, mouth full of omelette.

“Sorry, Bob, it’s just I wasn’t expecting anybody to stay. I didn’t mean to sound … well, anyway, you’re welcome to bunk down for as long as you need.”

“Thanks.”

“So what are you going to do with yourself until next week then?”

He lifted the evening paper and began to scan the pages. “Well, I’d like to work on a few things, just so I’m not going in with a blank sheet of paper, if you know what I mean.”

Jean settled back onto the sofa. “I saw your old mate Colin just before Christmas. Any plans to see him?”

Colin, of course, he thought.

They had been best friends ever since a small, dark curly-haired, six-year-old Bob Souter was introduced to his new primary school class. After a brief punch-up in the playground on that first day with a taller fair-haired Colin Strong, they developed a mutual respect and became firm friends. Years together playing for the same football teams meant they had an almost telepathic understanding on the pitch. While Colin went off to university in Nottingham, Bob, after almost making it as a professional footballer, began to mould himself a successful career in journalism. He was Colin’s best man at his wedding in 1980. Bob felt that Colin was the sort of mate you could go months, even years without any more than a Christmas card but still knock on his door in the middle of the night and be welcomed with open arms.

“I said, any plans to see Colin?” Jean interrupted his reverie.

“What? Oh yeah,” he said, thoughts buzzing around his brain, “I’ll give him a call. I haven’t seen him in a long while. It’ll be nice to catch up.” And he wouldn’t be a bad contact to nurture either, he considered.

4

The kitchen was impregnated with the smells of fresh coffee and hot toast. The sounds of a household preparing to face the new day were unmistakeable. From the radio, details of the latest hotspots on the roads were being announced, the kettle was proclaiming its high-pitched importance and Amanda was engrossed in a heated discussion with her mother, Laura, on the rights and wrongs of animal testing. Amanda was seventeen years old; headstrong, full of frustration, full of ambition. Strong set foot into this maelstrom through the back door.

“So what do you think, Dad?” Amanda turned to him.

“What I think,” he said, taking off his coat and nodding towards an old black Labrador slowly waddling in behind him, “is that old Jasper won’t be with us much longer. He’s really slowed down since Christmas.”

Amanda rushed over to the dog and hugged him, all lines of argument forgotten.

“What was up with you last night?” Laura focussed on him instead. “Something on your mind?”

Laura should have been a detective, he thought. He was sure she’d slept all night. How he wished he’d done the same.

She thrust a mug of fresh coffee into his hand. “It’s not like you to get up and walk Jasper. Not worried about this court case coming up tomorrow are you? Toast’s on by the way.”

“Court? Oh, the case – no, that should be open and shut. No, I just didn’t sleep very well, that’s all. Thanks, I’ll get it in a minute.”

She gave him a look that told him she didn’t believe him.

He had washed his hands and was searching in vain for the towel that should have been tucked into the handle of the oven door.

“Here.” Laura produced the missing item as if by magic from the worktop behind her. “It’s not like you, though. You can normally sleep for England.”

“Hey, you don’t do such a bad job yourself.” He was drying his hands and keen to move the subject on. “Listen, I wanted to ask you, do you still have that speech therapist visit the school? What was her name, Mrs. Gold something?”

“Goldsmith, Jenny Goldsmith. Yes, she’s coming in tomorrow as it happens. Why?”

“I met her husband at one of the school functions a few years ago didn’t I? Isn’t he at the University? Something to do with studying regional dialects or something?”

The toast made its exit from the toaster in dramatic fashion and he began to butter himself a slice.

“Go easy with that please, you know I’m concerned about your arteries.”

With his back to Laura, he felt safe enough to raise his eyebrows but said nothing. Amanda, who was busy packing her bag at the table, caught the gesture and grinned.

“I think he’s still there,” Laura said. “Why? What are you up to, Colin?”

“Nothing.” His mouth full of toast.

“Here, use a plate. I seem to be the only one that cleans up around here.”

“Right, it’s time I’m off,” Amanda announced. “See you two later.”

“Bit early for you, isn’t it?” He made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his watch.

“I’m calling at Lucy’s on the way. I’ve got some notes to copy,” she answered from the hallway.

“And I want you to clean that room of yours when you get back, young lady,” Laura called after her, “it’s an absolute disgrace.” But it was too late, she’d already gone.

He just shook his head.

“Right, I best be off as well.” Laura slipped on her coat and grabbed her bag. She gave her husband a kiss as she passed. “See you tonight sometime. Don’t forget I’ve got the suits from the Local Authority coming in for a meeting at six, so I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Okay.”

She turned at the door. “And hey,” she said in mock American accent, imitating the well-known line from Hill Street Blues, “let’s be careful out there.”

“And don’t forget,” he joined in, “do it to them before they do it to you.”

The front door closed and he was alone, apart from the radio. The familiar beat of a song took him back to 1979. Nottingham. That was when he had first met Laura. She was at teacher training college while he was studying English at the University. The dance floor in the Student Union was a good hunting ground for him and his mates back then. What was it that had first attracted him? Her waist-length blonde hair? The skin-hugging pink top that displayed her naked midriff? Was it, perhaps, the way she laughed with her friends, her sparkling eyes, so full of life and mischief? No, it was really her gorgeous arse in tight white jeans gyrating with Tina Turner to Nutbush City Limits.

He finished his coffee and wandered over to the message board on the wall by the back door. All sorts of bits of paper were pinned to it, dental appointment cards, Jasper’s vet record. Catching his attention, a photograph of Amanda with a classmate taken during last summer’s school trip to France.

He removed the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He could see Laura’s good looks in his daughter. She’d dyed her hair darker as a lot of her friends had done but the shape of her face, the high cheekbones, the smile, yes that was Laura twenty years ago. Her attitude came from him. Fortunately, the genes hadn’t developed the other way round. Amused at this thought, he pinned the photo back on the board, gathered up his things and set off for work.

5

Eileen Waterson stood in the car park and looked up despairingly at the multi-storey tower block. Drizzle had begun to fall. Her young assistant, six months out of school, stood beside her. She wondered how long he would last in the job.

She locked the car and contemplated the climb to the tenth floor. Hardcastle House was one of a pair of identical drab, grey, multi-storey blocks of flats built in the 1960’s. It would be a miracle if the lifts were working. Even when they were, the stench of urine and other disgusting activities was overpowering.

Eileen had been an environmental health officer for the council for over ten years. In that time, she’d witnessed some fairly revolting sights. The levels to which some humanity could descend no longer shocked her.

Environmental Health had taken a phone call from an irate Mrs. Lockwood earlier in the day. No, they hadn’t any note of her previous complaint from yesterday. Yes, it was disgraceful the dozy young girl didn’t listen and, yes, they now had all the details and would send someone round to investigate today.

When Eileen picked up the note to investigate the complaint of a foul smell at 106 Hardcastle House, she’d checked the Housing Department records for the tenancy of the flat. She didn’t have a good feeling about it. The rent was some eight weeks in arrears. That wasn’t unusual for Hardcastle House but previously on this flat, the rent had always been paid promptly.

She had developed a keen sense of smell, so when they approached the flat’s door along the open corridor, the reason for the complaint was obvious to her. She had experienced this aroma on several previous occasions. For the present, she gave no indication of her suspicions to her assistant. She also noticed the curtains to the window were pulled shut and, more significantly, a number of bluebottles were crawling over the inside of the glass. As she rang the bell, the door to the adjacent flat opened and an elderly woman looked out.

“You from the council?”

“Environmental Health.” Eileen showed her identity card to the woman.

“Humph!” the old lady grunted. “About bloody time.”

Eileen rang the bell again. “Have you seen anyone coming or going recently, Mrs. er…?”

“Lockwood. And I keep myself to myself.”

Eileen smiled grimly before kneeling down to peer through the letterbox. She closed it sharply, turning away from her colleague to conceal the fact that she wanted to retch. After a few seconds, she had composed herself. “Come on,” she said to the young lad, “I think we need some assistance here.”

“Is that it?” the old woman called.

“We’ll be back, Mrs. Lockwood, don’t worry.”

“Humph!” she said again and closed her door.

6

Souter had risen late, determined to catch up on lost sleep from the past few days. The sound of the letterbox snapping shut as mail dropped onto the hall carpet around eleven thirty had been the significant factor in drawing his slumber to a close.

After showering, shaving and dressing, he rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for some breakfast. He’d upset himself by standing on Jean’s bathroom scales and pushing the reading to just under sixteen stones. He reasoned that at six feet two this was quite acceptable. However, the bit of a gut he’d developed over the past few months seemed to destroy that argument.

Two mugs of coffee, three slices of toast and butter and two cigarettes later, he felt ready to deal with whatever the day would bring.

First task was to ring his old friend Colin Strong. He found the Wood Street number but when he was put through, he was told Strong was out. Declining the offer to leave a message, he then tried a few old journalist contacts from his
Sheffield Star
days. For the time being, he decided against calling John Chandler, his old editor at the paper, and soon to be his new boss at the Yorkshire Post. Next on the list was Stan Johnson who was off ill, but Jimmy Wilson, his old sports reporter colleague, was delighted to hear from him. They arranged to meet in the Stonehouse pub, near the cathedral in Sheffield, at half-past three. That would give him time for a quick haircut in town before travelling down the M1.

The Stonehouse was a large city-centre establishment with a traditional open bar room leading directly off the street. Through to the rear was a vast enclosed area surrounded by chintzy shops made to look like a courtyard. Souter was not surprised to see Jimmy Wilson already at the bar with a half finished pint. Wilson was a short man of fifty-six, shabbily dressed in an old brown suit that he remembered from three years back. He bought Souter a pint and a fresh one for himself before they drifted around searching out a seat.