Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (9 page)

It was certainly more enjoyable than the television. He’d watched the news and, spoilt for choice between another boring chat show, an unfunny American sit-com or the latest reality offering of
Big Brother
, switched off. The thought of people sitting in their armchairs at home watching other people nobody’s ever heard of sitting in armchairs in a room somewhere else amused him. Why not save a fortune and replace the television set with a mirror.

He was sitting on the sofa enjoying a can of Tetley’s when he heard the key enter the latch. Jean had arrived home.

A car horn bipped before the door closed.

A quarter-past midnight.

A few drinks with some of the girls from work she’d said. He didn’t believe that. Not judging by the effort she’d made. No, she was definitely out with some bloke. Not that he minded. After all, it was none of his business; she was a free agent again. It just amused him that she didn’t admit the fact. Maybe she wasn’t ready to, not to him anyway.

“Still up?” She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the armchair.

“I’ll be off once this side’s finished.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Every track’s a belter. So how was your evening?”

“Oh, you know.”

He smiled at her non-committal answer, rose and made for the kitchen. “Tea? Or a coffee?”

“There’s the remains of a bottle of Italian white in the fridge. I’ll have a glass of that, thanks.”

When he returned, Jean had moulded herself to the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, lit cigarette in hand.

“Want one?”

He put the glass of wine down on the coffee table in front of her then took a cigarette from the packet, lit it with her lighter and sat back on the sofa. “Who went tonight, then?”

“Just a few of the girls from work.”

“Anywhere nice?”

“What?” Jean drew on her cigarette. “Oh, we went into Leeds. One of those new flash wine bars on Albion Street.” She flicked ash into the tray on the table, nervously he thought. “How’s your day been?”

“Evening’s been a bit boring. Loads of crap on TV. I’ve got some washing by the way, so when you next plan to put the machine on …”

“Oh, thanks,” she said, sarcastically.

He grinned. “Apart from that, I got woken up at eight by a phone call from John, wanting me to start early, cover a story for them.”

“That must have been a bit of a shock, judging by the state you were in last night.”

“I wasn’t that bad. Well, I could have done with a lie in I’ll grant you …”

“What’s the story then?”

He leaned forward. “That’s the thing. You see it prompted me to try Colin again and we ended up meeting for a bite to eat in town.”

“That would have been nice for you. How is he by the way?”

“Fine, yes. Still looks the same as ever. I reckon he’s got a painting in the attic.”

“Some people weather better than others, that’s true.” Jean looked across at him and he was unsure if it was a veiled insult. “Is Colin something to do with your story then?”

“Yes. It seems he’s in charge of this murder enquiry at Hardcastle House. Fred Williams, some petty criminal found with his head bashed in.”

“He’s dealing with that one, is he?” Jean stretched forward to stub out her cigarette. “It was in the papers. Apparently, they’ve found some case with a load of jewellery and stuff hidden in the flat. They reckon it’s some sort of trophy collection.”

Souter looked across at his sister. He wasn’t sure but he thought she’d coloured slightly, as if realising she had said something she shouldn’t have. He was sure there was no mention in the press of anything being found in the flat and certainly Colin hadn’t.

The record finished playing. He got up, went over to the stereo, took the record off and placed it back in its sleeve. “You got tonight’s paper?” he asked over his shoulder.

“In the rack, there.” She finished the last of her wine.

He bent down, picked the paper out and turned to the sports page.

“Right, I’m off to bed.” Jean collected the empty glasses. “I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.”

“Yeah, good-night.” He could hear the glasses being deposited in the kitchen, then her footsteps on the stairs. Turning the paper over, he scanned through the murder report. He’d read the morning edition and knew what had been reported there. He ended up reading it twice. He was satisfied that what Jean had told him wasn’t on general release. And that interested him more than anything.

17

The hubbub of noise from a dozen different conversations died away to a few whispered comments as Strong entered the Incident Room.

“O.K. everyone, we’re in day two of this enquiry, let’s bring ourselves up to speed. Kelly?”

Stainmore stood up in front of a large white-board with photos of the victim and the murder scene attached. “First of all,” she began, “the official PM on Williams confirms death caused by the severe injuries to the victim’s face and head. Next, he was discovered, as you can see here,” pointing to one of the photos, “face up on the bed. We believe the attack took place in the living room, as evidenced by the blood found on the floor here and the spatter on the wall here.” She leaned over and indicated two more pictures on the board. “Because of the severity of the injuries, it would have been impossible for the victim to have crawled there himself. So, we believe the perpetrator placed our victim on the bed in the position found. Another interesting fact is that the flat appears to have been thoroughly cleaned. According to the post mortem, Williams had been dead for between four and six weeks; that puts time of death anywhere between December the 6
^th
and the 20
^th
. Now, we can narrow that down a little bit further because a neighbour confirmed a sighting of him on the stairs on the morning of the 9
^th
and from the post behind the door, probably before the 13
^th
.”

“That’s right,” John Darby added, “uniform reported the same witness also spotted him on the evening of the 8
^th
carrying a television up the stairs. Thought nothing of it, apparently. He was always carting a TV, video or other piece of electrical gear around. Also, the last transaction on his cards took place on the 9
^th
.”

“Trevor,” Strong asked, “any joy on Williams’ transport?”

“A Ford Escort van, guv. Parked round the back of the flats. It was empty but Forensic are giving it a going over now.”

Strong sought out Kirkland. “Sam, anything on the lock-up front or are we saying Williams stored his ill-gotten gains in the flat?”

“Nothing yet, but we’re still checking.”

Strong turned to Ormerod at the back of the room. “Luke, what have you got on Williams’ known associates?”

“Page three on the notes, guv.”

He flicked over the pages of notes that all officers had been issued with and began skimming the names on the third page. “Some neighbour mentioned visitors, didn’t they? Have we been able to identify any of them from this list?”

“I’ll be on with that this morning.”

“What about the prints found in Williams’ flat? Any positive ID so far?”

“Uniform are delighted that none were down to them,” Kirkland stated, causing a ripple of hilarity to spread through the ensemble. “However, on the door handles we got some lovely examples belonging to one Kenny Stocks.”

“Kenny Stocks, eh?” Strong repeated quietly. Stocks was well known at the station. He had previous convictions for theft, breaking and entering as well as possession of cannabis. Not particularly bright, he was the type to be easily influenced. Strong thumbed through the notes again. “He doesn’t appear on the list of Williams’ known associates.”

“We don’t think he was,” Ormerod said.

“Well let’s wheel him in, then, and see what he has to say for himself. All right, Kelly, carry on.”

Stainmore moved over to an adjacent board where the photographs obtained from the lab were displayed. “Yesterday afternoon, concealed in the victim’s wardrobe, we discovered this box,” she said, pointing to the relevant picture. “One possible motive for Williams’ murder may have been its recovery. So far, we’ve managed to identify Williams’ prints but we’re still trying for a match on some others we’ve found. The contents all appear to be items of ladies’ jewellery or items normally associated with women. Detailed descriptions of the eight pieces are in your notes, page four.”

Paper was shuffled as notes were turned over to the relevant page.

“Malcolm and I have been trawling the archives for any cases where women have been attacked and items may have been stolen. So far, we’ve come up with twelve examples of unsolved assaults on women in the north of England. These are on page five of your notes.” Stainmore held up the list. “They range from an attack on a prostitute, Norma Thurlow, in 1981 in Headingley, right up to seventeen year old Lorraine Popplewell eighteen months ago, including barmaid, Irene Nicholson, three years ago, here in Wakefield.”

Kirkland interrupted, “Surely the Nicholson case is closed now, Sarge? Summers is serving a four stretch for it.”

“For the time being, we’re looking at that again,” Strong said. “For one thing, Williams was interviewed in connection with the case at the time. Judging by the night-time reading we found below his bed, he had an unhealthy interest in women, or maybe a healthy interest, depending on your point of view. The thing is, did the box belong to Williams and, therefore by implication, was he responsible for these attacks? Or, if it wasn’t his, how come we found it in his flat with his prints all over it? Was he hiding it for someone else? Possible but unlikely. Or, a more probable option, did he steal it on one of his burglary excursions? In which case, let’s look more closely at the victims of these recent break-ins. Any luck tracking down current whereabouts of the women assaulted, Kelly?”

“I’ve addresses for five so far, and one, Susannah Walker, assaulted in Sheffield in 1983, died in 1995.”

“Any more possible matches for those items of jewellery, Malcolm?”

“Just the two up to now but we hope to make progress on that when we start re-interviewing the victims.”

“Carry on with that but start the process by having a little chat with Irene Nicholson. See if she recognises anything. Also, try the description of Williams again.” Strong turned and addressed the whole team. “Right, you all know what you’re doing! Let’s get on with it.”

As they all rose, Ormerod approached Strong. “The DCI won’t be happy with you digging around Irene Nicholson again, guv,” he said, quietly.

“Let me worry about that, Luke.”

A young uniformed officer knocked and poked his head round the door. “Sir,” he spoke to Strong, “DCI Cunningham wants to see you.”

“Bollocks,” Strong said, then turned to Luke Ormerod, “You sure he hasn’t installed a bloody web cam in here?”

“I’ll let you worry about that, guv,” Ormerod quipped, a grin breaking out below his moustache.

Detective Chief Inspector Jack Cunningham was known by all and sundry in CID as ‘The Enforcer’, ever since the former cabinet minister of the same name came to prominence. A big bull of a man, at six feet five and around seventeen stones, he was an imposing figure sitting behind his desk. He’d played rugby and cricket for many years, to a good standard too, and his office was littered with photos and mementos of games past. An old brown rugby ball stood on a display stand on the middle shelf of the bookcase, a crystal bowl on his filing cabinet and a number of statues of cricketers were lined up on the window cill behind his chair.

Strong wondered what fate he had in store. He’d gone over all the recent cases in his mind. Had Cunningham heard about him wanting to dig into the Irene Nicholson case again? Was he in for a bollocking? Or was he about to be landed with some crap duty that The Enforcer wanted to download? As it turned out, it was the latter.

“But sir, Manchester?” Strong protested, “Can’t someone else go?”

“No. I want
you
to go, Colin. Forensic science is the up and coming tool for us. The twenty-first century fingerprints. Look on it as a nice little ‘freebie’.”

“It’s the sort of ‘freebie’ I can do without at the moment, though.”

“I know it’s short notice but you never know, you might learn something.”

Strong looked to the ceiling.

“Look, I appreciate you’ve got your hands full with this Williams case but Ryan can progress that for now.”

“Ryan’s on paternity leave.”

“Paternity leave? What the Hell’s the force coming to?” Cunningham almost exploded.

“I’ve got Kelly Stainmore on the team, though.”

Cunningham calmed down. “Ah, well, she’s bright enough and it’ll give her some good experience.”

“Sir.”

“Anyway, it’s only Saturday and Sunday. You’ll be over there in under an hour. Home every night. I’d have gone myself but something’s come up. I’ve got a meeting in London.” The DCI leaned back in his black leather chair. “How
is
this murder enquiry progressing?”

“You know we found what appears to be a trophy case in the flat?”

“I had heard something.”

“Whether it’s relevant or not we’re keeping an open mind. In the meantime, we’ve got a couple of leads we’re exploring. Kelly’s just informed us we found prints belonging to Kenny Stocks in the flat.”

Cunningham leaned forward onto his desk. “That makes more sense. Probably some argument between two low-lifes. No, you’ll probably find that it’s just a case of thieves falling out. Don’t go creating a fuss over it. Williams is hardly any great loss.”

Strong hoped his expression didn’t give away his incredulity at what the DCI had just said. In Strong’s opinion, this was the sort of attitude that was rotting the police force from the inside. Never mind the latest buzz-phrase of ‘institutional racism’, this was dinosaur policing.

“Go on then, organise yourself for the weekend and I’ll hear all about it on Monday morning.” As if to reinforce the dismissal, Cunningham opened a file and put his reading glasses back on.

Outside, he replayed Cunningham’s words.
‘Something’s come up. I’ve got a meeting in London.’
Some connection’s produced a ticket for the big game at Twickenham this weekend, he thought, that’s what’s come up.