Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (6 page)

“Sorry, Doug,” Strong extended an arm to the new arrival, “you’re right on cue. For those of you who don’t know, this is Doug Norris our Scenes of Crime expert. Hopefully, you’ve got something of interest for us.”

“Thanks, I’ve just got this hot off the press.” Norris passed an envelope to Strong who leaned against a desk. “The full report’s here but if I give you the edited highlights …”

Strong pulled the document from the envelope and began to thumb through the pages as Norris addressed the group.

“As you probably noticed last night, a serious attempt had been made to clean up the flat. However, despite that, some important clues were left behind. If we take a look at this.” Producing colour photos from another brown envelope, he attached them to the pinboard on the wall behind him. “These traces of blood, here,” his pen indicated minute spots picked up by the photographer, “and here, were found on the living room wallpaper. The pattern is consistent with the fine spray that would be produced by impact wounds to the head, as suffered by the victim. At the moment, we’re waiting for the test results to compare the blood type with that of Williams. We should have that later this morning.”

“Where exactly in the room did you find this blood?”

“Ah, that’s another thing, this was behind the sofa. Now, head wounds, as you may know, tend to bleed profusely. So when we moved the furniture out of the way and lifted the carpet … bingo, a lovely big stain on the concrete floor. The carpet had been scrubbed but blood had seeped through. The interesting thing is, when we studied the marks from the furniture on the carpet, the whole room seems to have been rearranged. Whether this was just an attempt to disguise where the attack appears to have taken place, or for some other reason, I’m not sure at the moment.”

“Like what?” Strong asked.

“I don’t know. But another unusual aspect was that someone had made an extra special effort to make the place look tidy. There was nothing in the waste bin in the kitchen, in fact it had been washed out with disinfectant. All the cutlery and crockery had been washed and put away and, more to the point, all the surfaces had been wiped down. As far as prints are concerned, plenty on the electrical equipment in the wardrobe and some on the lounge and bedroom doors which I’ll bet will probably belong to the officers first on the scene…” Norris paused for effect.

A loud groan went up and, in an instinctive move, all eyes glanced quickly round to the back of the room where Rawlings and Johnson were shaking their heads in denial.

“Apart from that, nothing. Not even on the toilet flush. Whoever they were, I wish they’d come round to ours and give that the once over.”

“Obviously, they weren’t interested in the stuff in the wardrobe, as I assume they’d have discovered that lot fairly easily. Any idea when we might get some positive ID’s from prints there?”

“We’re on with that now but if they’re on record, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Williams’ dabs must be all over them but I’ll bet we find some other little scrote’s as well,” Strong suggested. “What about personal belongings?”

“His wallet was still in the right hand trouser pocket containing fifteen pounds. In the left hand pocket there was a card-holder with two credit cards, one store card and a video shop membership card, all in the victim’s name. Also four pounds twenty-seven in loose change.”

“One for you, John,” Strong said, over his shoulder to DC Darby. “See when he last used his cards – bank and video shop.”

John Darby, in his mid-thirties and from Nottingham, raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“Thanks for now, Doug.” Strong stood up and faced the group. “So what have we learned? Was the perpetrator trying to cover his tracks?”

“Then why attempt to clean up the scene of the crime so methodically and yet still leave the body there?” Kelly Stainmore mused from the back of the room.

“Disturbed? Too risky to move it from the flat?” Atkinson suggested.

Luke Ormerod stroked his black bushy moustache, resembling a huge hairy caterpillar, then joined the discussion. “Unless, as Doug here suggested, they were searching for something and, rather than leave the place a mess, tidied everything up to cover that fact.” Ormerod was thirty-eight and, although not particularly tall, was powerfully built.

“You might be right, Luke,” Strong said. “but we’ll keep an open mind on that. The ferocity of the attack and the fact that some of the furniture had been moved around must have generated some noise.

“Malcolm, you bagged up the unopened post behind the door last night. What does that tell us?”

“Mostly junk mail,” Atkinson responded, “but, tying in with what was found in his wallet, there were credit card and bank statements, neither too healthy, and a reminder from Booster Video about overdue hire. The earliest was probably delivered around the 13th December but all were business mail so no help from franking.”

“So, Jim,” Strong said to the uniformed sergeant, “I want you to get round the neighbours. The walls are so thin in those flats, you couldn’t break wind without them knowing. They must have heard something. For the time being, concentrate on the period from early to mid December.”

Dyer nodded acknowledgement.

“Malcolm, all that electrical gear, videos, stereo systems we saw in the wardrobe, what news on them?”

“I’m checking the serial numbers against all the recent reported burglaries at the moment. The first few check out to a house in Batley robbed last September – one of those we put to Billy Montgomery yesterday.”

“That is interesting. Williams with his record could be the burglar working with Montgomery who was fencing the stuff. Okay, carry on with that, Malcolm. You’ve also made a start on checking out Williams’ known associates, yes?”

“Yes.”

Strong then focussed on each officer in turn.

“Luke, I want you to pick that up from Malcolm and run with it. Find out who he’s worked with in the past, those still in circulation, that is. And see if there’s any connection between him and Montgomery.”

DCs Trevor Newell, a tall lanky fellow in his early twenties from Lincoln, and Sam Kirkland, in his early thirties from Leeds, completed his team.

“Trevor, did Williams own a vehicle? If so, let’s track it down.

“Sam, did he have access to a lock-up somewhere? Is there any more of this knocked-off gear around?

“One other thing, Jim, on your house-to-house, see if any of the neighbours spotted him or anyone else carting that lot up to the flat in the first place. If anything comes up, let me know, I’ve got to be in court in Leeds at ten. Right!” he said, gathering up his papers, “let’s get on with it and see if we can’t get a quick result on this one.”

10

At eight o’clock that morning Souter’s mobile phone began a digital rendition of ‘Scotland The Brave’. He was feeling particularly delicate thanks to an extended session in a number of pubs along Westgate followed by a spicy Indian take-away the night before. It took about ten seconds for him to realise it
was
his phone and another five to work out just where the sound was coming from. He stumbled over discarded clothes strewn over the bedroom floor to retrieve it from the pocket of a pair of trousers. His head was pounding and his eyes struggled to focus as he pushed the green button. “He … hello?” he tried to say, as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Bob? Is that you?”
The male voice from the earpiece sounded unsure.

“Yeah. Who’s that?”

“Look, I know this is early, especially as you’re probably re-charging your batteries before you start with us next week but I was just …”

“John … what …?” Souter interrupted.

“Yes.”
John Chandler confirmed.
“I’m sorry to call when you’re obviously taking time out but I was wondering … Where about are you at the moment?”

Souter collapsed backwards onto the bed. “Well, I’m … I’m at my sister’s house. She’s putting me up for a while.”

“Where’s that exactly?”

“Wakefield. Why? What’s up?”

“Perfect. How do you fancy making a flying start to your Post career?”

Souter pulled himself up to a sitting position, yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, John, I had a bit of a rough night last night. What’s going on?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The murder.”

“Murder?”

“Yes but …”
Chandler sounded exasperated.
“Do you have to repeat everything I say?”

Souter was on his feet now and making his way unsteadily to the bedroom door. “Can we start at the beginning? What murder and where?”

Chandler had begun to give an account of the known facts from Hardcastle House the previous evening when Souter interrupted him. “John, can I call you back in about ten minutes,” he said, “I just need to do something.” He terminated the call and rushed into the bathroom.

It was about fifteen minutes before he felt his condition improved sufficiently to return the call.

After repeating a lot of what Chandler had already told him, he concluded his request,
“So, as we’ve no one in the area this morning, I was wondering if you could get down to Wood Street and see what they’re prepared to tell you. The Senior Investigating Officer is DI Strong. You don’t know him do you?”

“As a matter of fact …”

“Good.”
It was Chandler’s turn to interrupt.
“I’ll leave that with you then.”

“Yeah but …” was all Souter could manage, the line had gone dead.

A shower, a shave and two paracetamol later, he felt able to make some calls. The taste in his mouth, however, would take a bit longer to dissipate.

11

It was almost twelve when Strong’s mobile rang. The morning had been a complete waste of time. As near an open and shut case as you could find but the little scrote had pleaded ‘not guilty’. One-and-a-half hours later, as it had become even more obvious he was guilty, his brief threw in the towel and changed the plea. Strong could now get back to some real work. He resented the fact that the smug little toe-rag had known all along he wouldn’t get off but thanks to our generous legal aid scheme, he was just rubbing the taxpayers’ noses in it.

“Guv, where are you?”

He recognised Stainmore’s voice. “I’m on my way back to Wood Street, Kelly, why, what’s up?”

“Can you divert to Hardcastle House? I think there’s something you should see.”

“I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

Curiosity mixed with disappointment as Strong wondered what had been discovered and then remembered he’d probably have to climb those ten flights of stairs again.

Kelly Stainmore met him on the landing to tell him that SOCO had discovered something else in the wardrobe once the electrical goods had been removed. Doug Norris was in the bedroom with a SOCO photographer.

“What have we got, then, Doug?”

“Well, it was after the briefing this morning. It got me thinking about somebody searching for something in this flat and cleaning it up to avoid any signs of a search. Supposing they didn’t find what they were looking for. Anyway, I came back for a closer look, see if we’d missed anything.”

“All right, you’ve got yourself a pat on the back. Now, what did you find?”

“You see this?” He pulled out the blanket drawer from the bottom of the unit and slid it along the side of the wardrobe. “A good nine or ten inches shorter than you’d expect. Put your hand in and there appears to be a false back. Then, when we open the doors, you see this?” He pointed out a line towards the rear of the floor of the clothes section. “Push on the back half and … it opens.” The flap rose to reveal a well-disguised compartment.

Leaning in, Strong shone a torch into the void and satisfied himself it was empty.

“So what did you find?”

With latex-gloved hands, Norris pulled a small metal case from the other side of the wardrobe and placed it in front of Strong.

“See what you make of this.”

The case itself appeared to be of aluminium and was about fifteen inches long by eight inches wide by six inches high, looking like a samples case.

Carefully, using the end of a pen, the SOCO man released the locks and pushed the lid up slowly. Strong studied the insides. The case was lined and subdivided with foam into twelve equal sections. Four sections were empty.

“Is this exactly as you found it, Doug?”

“Exactly. I got my colleague here to record everything on film.”

Strong prodded a pencil into the first section and picked up a silver chain, its clasp intact but the chain itself broken as if snatched from the wearer’s neck. Another section contained a ladies’ cigarette lighter and yet another, a ladies’ wristwatch. Flicking the lid shut with his pencil, “Souvenirs,” he thought out loud.

“Sir?” Stainmore puzzled.

He straightened up. “Bag this and get it over to the lab. See if they can get anything from either the box or the contents and get me some photos of these items. This could be more serious than we thought.”

12

Strong had been sitting in his car some fifty yards from Montgomery’s ground floor flat on Wakefield’s Lupset estate for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Built between the wars, he always felt there was something depressing about the place. Almost all council owned, there were one or two isolated pockets of home ownership in evidence, as new front doors gave notice of their changed status. Needless to say, Montgomery’s flat wasn’t one of them.

Strong was about to give up and return to the incident room when Montgomery finally emerged. With his coat collar turned up and a flat cap pulled down to shield his face from the incessant rain, he gathered the old shopping bag he was carrying closer to him. He looked up and down the road before crossing over then slowly disappeared down a footpath between the houses opposite, no doubt on his way to the main road to catch a bus into town.

Strong waited a couple of minutes before making his way to the flat’s front door. His ring on the bell was answered a few seconds later by a female voice asking what he’d forgotten now. As the door opened, a woman in her fifties with dyed blonde hair and glasses stood before him, a surprised expression on her face.