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

TROPHIES

David Evans

Copyright © 2016 David Evans

The right of David Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

For the two women in my life

Jude & Lucie

Acknowledgements

This journey has been a long and sometimes difficult one. This book would not have seen the light of day were it not for the support and encouragement of Trevor, Nancy, Val, Molly and Pat, collectively a writing group I was involved with when the idea blossomed.

Since then, I have been privileged to meet some amazing people, without whose help, encouragement, support and above all friendship got me through some occasions when it would have been easier to walk away and do something else with my time.

First and foremost, I have to say a huge thank-you to Sally Spedding who was the first in the publishing industry to take my writing seriously. I owe her a great debt for all her continued support and encouragement.

Heather Adams did an inspired editing job which improved this story’s telling.

I am fortunate to have a great little band of writing friends and I would like to thank Sarah Wagstaff, Jan Beresford, Julie-Ann Corrigan, Manda Hughes, Lorraine Cannell, Glynis Smy and Peter Best, all of whom are talented writers in their own right and have made some significant contributions.

I am also fortunate to have the input of Colin Steele, ex-Detective Superintendent of the Essex Murder Squad and Tom Harper, Principal Crime Scene Coordinator for the Kent & Essex Serious Crime Directorate. Both have given their time and guidance generously. Any residual errors here, are all mine.

Finally, Ger Nichol for just loving this series.

Preface

In October 1975, the first victim of the notorious serial killer, later dubbed The Yorkshire Ripper, was discovered in Leeds in northern England. The palpable atmosphere of panic and fear finally evaporated with the arrest, purely by chance, of Peter Sutcliffe in Sheffield in January 1981. By then, thirteen women had been murdered, with many others victims of vicious attacks.

The hunt, however, had taken a tragic turn with the receipt of letters and ultimately a tape in June 1979 purporting to be from the Ripper. This led detectives off at a tangent looking for a man with a distinctive north east accent, referred to as ‘Wearside Jack’. From this point until Sutcliffe was caught, a further three women were murdered. Sutcliffe did not have such an accent.

Against this background, the purely fictional events of this book are set at the turn of the millennium, some eighteen years after the hunt was concluded.

1

December 1999

He watched from the shadows by the bins. The dim orange glow from a solitary streetlamp struggled to penetrate the murky evening. His target shuffled across the car park towards the faceless tower block.

He watched.

Taking one last drag of his cigarette, one last bright red glow, it was dropped into a puddle; a low hiss. Exhaling, the smoke mingled with the mist. He followed the man’s progress between parked cars to the main doors before disappearing inside. Pulling the hood of his anorak over his head, he slipped his hands into leather gloves and jogged off in pursuit. He’d recced the flat a couple of days before and knew the lifts weren’t working, so the man would have to climb the stairs to the tenth floor.

Squeezing through the gap where the doors hadn’t closed properly, he stood in the lift lobby and listened. Off to the left, footsteps made their slow steady progress on concrete treads. A smell of stale urine stung his nostrils. He waited a minute then set off in slow pursuit. His trainers made no sound as he tracked his quarry’s motion on the flights above. Stealth, that was his trait.

Half way up, two other sets of footsteps could be heard descending, fast. He turned and headed down to the next level then scampered onto the corridor, out of sight from the staircase. Breath held. The male tread, the clack of women’s heels and indistinct chatter passed by, ever downward. He relaxed, then walked back to continue his progress upwards.

A few minutes later he stepped onto the tenth floor landing and dived behind a column. His prey was standing in front of the flat’s front door. The target fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a key. Unlocking the door, the man entered, closing the door behind him. He checked his watch. Seven fifty-seven and all was quiet, save for the faint sounds of a television in the flat behind him. Three minutes he would wait before approaching the door. One final check that no one was around then he walked over to the flat and rang the bell.

The man nervously opened the door a crack, a safety chain in place. A brief exchange before the chain was removed and he slipped inside.

Initial conversation regarding televisions and recorders altered darkly when he turned to face the man and the true subject of his visit was revealed. No doubting the man’s reaction; he knew exactly what was being asked for. The man denied any knowledge, of course.

Stupid.

“Don’t piss me about!” He grabbed the man by the lapels and pinned him to the wall. “I know you stole it from me, you little shite, and I want it back. Now, we can either do this the easy way, and you can get on with your seedy little existence,” he sneered. “Or we can do it the hard way.”

The man struggled, but he was younger, stronger.

“The hard way, you wouldn’t like.” His contorted face was inches from the man’s. “Trust me on this. Spineless little shites like you never do.” His grip tightened. “Now, I’m going to give you one last chance. Where is it?”

“Okay, okay,” the man grunted. “Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

“That’s better.” Slowly, the grip was released, the crumpled shirt smoothed.

The man couldn’t hold his stare and dropped his gaze. The decision to make a dash for it was a mistake that was to cost him dear.

An hour and a half later, he closed the door to the flat, carrying two black plastic bags. He took them to the bins where his watch had begun, then disappeared into the darkness.

2

Tuesday, January 24
^th
2000

Wakefield; home of Double-Two shirts, Trinity Rugby League, two railway stations and a cathedral. A city with strong connections to crime; home of the highest grade prison on mainland Britain as well as West Yorkshire’s Police Training College. The cathedral was once the haunt of a choirboy by the name of John George Haigh, who gained notoriety in the late nineteen-forties as the Acid Bath murderer. Behind the cathedral and opposite the Town Hall stands Wood Street police station, a four storey stone building, battered by the wind and rain of another bleak January day.

In his first floor office, Detective Inspector Colin Strong stared into his empty sandwich box. Half past twelve and he’d finished the contents an hour ago. After the indulgences of Christmas, Laura decreed he’d have to go on a diet to repair the damage. It wasn’t that he was overweight especially but she considered that, at the age of forty-two, he was at the time of life where, if they weren’t careful, men could go to seed. True enough, he’d known one or two in the job in recent years who hadn’t made a rich and rewarding retirement. DS Matt Walker, a big, fit-looking specimen of forty-eight, had dropped dead early last year with a heart attack. Only afterwards did they link this to his excessive drinking. All part of the job someone had said. No, Laura was probably right. All the same, the thought of a canteen fry-up was pretty enticing. He looked out of his office window and struggled to see the Town Hall through the driving rain. Sod it, he thought, closing the lid on the box, in this weather I need something more than salad sandwiches to keep me going.

Minutes later, he was alone in the gents’ toilet drying his hands, en route to the canteen. He caught his reflection in the mirror. How true, he thought, that the older you get the more your father stares back from your reflection. He felt a wave of depression sweep over him. Surely this wasn’t the mid-life crisis people talked about?

Suddenly, the door burst open and a young detective constable appeared, apologised then asked him if he would sit in on an interview he was about to conduct with a suspected burglar, Billy Montgomery.

“I’m just off for a bit of nosebag,” Strong said. “What’s up with your guv’nor, Sergeant Ryan?”

“He’s just got a call from Maternity, his missus is having their first.”

“She’s finally gone in then? She seems to have been pregnant for ever.” Strong balanced images of an all-day breakfast and a hospital bed alongside a session in an interview room with a suspect. “All right then, Malcolm, let’s go.”

DC Malcolm Atkinson was a keen, likeable lad of twenty-four in his first year in CID. His wide-eyed expression displayed genuine interest in the job as he brought Strong up to speed on the man he had in for questioning. A few years in and that enthusiasm would soon dull, no doubt. The interview concerned an on-going enquiry into four burglaries that had taken place in the area since July.

William James Montgomery, Billy to his mates, was seated at a table, both arms on its surface with a paper tissue clutched between his hands. He looked to be well into his seventies, with thin grey hair and a heavily lined face. He coughed frequently. He was alone, having declined legal representation.

Interview rooms had moved on since Strong’s early days. Now dark blue carpet and pastel coloured walls were designed to give a less intimidating atmosphere. The furniture was more comfortable too, no more rickety units that seemed to have been rescued from a long-closed church hall of yesteryear. Ashtrays, which used to be full to overflowing, even ten years ago, had disappeared, the buildings being no-smoking these days. Strong tended to ignore this in the confines of his own office, opening the window to enjoy one of his favourite small cigars. Political correctness and health and safety brigade bollocks, he thought.

Atkinson seated himself at the table opposite Montgomery whilst Strong took a seat slightly behind the detective. Introductions of those present, date and time were confirmed for the tape and then the young constable’s questioning commenced.

Strong, meanwhile, opened Montgomery’s file and was surprised by the entry on the first page; date of birth, 27
^th
August 1936. He hadn’t weathered at all well for sixty-three. His yellow pallor suggested serious liver or kidney trouble. Alongside obvious chest problems, Strong didn’t think he had a lot going for him.

“Can you tell me how you came by the items on this list?” Atkinson began. “For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Mr. Montgomery item G1, the typed list of electrical goods found earlier this morning at Mr. Montgomery’s flat.”

The suspect coughed before responding in an odd mix of Scots and Yorkshire accents, “I’ve told ye, I bought them from some bloke in a pub.”

“And has this ‘bloke’ got a name?”

“He didnae tell me.”

“A description then?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Very convenient, Mr. Montgomery.”

He coughed violently into his tissue, lobbed it into the waste bin by the side of the table and drew a fresh one from his jacket pocket. “When you get tae my age, son,” he continued, “your memory for detail goes.”

“Which pub?”

“Let me see now, it might’ve been the Mason’s Arms or maybe the Grey Horse, I cannae quite remember.”

“Look,” Atkinson said, “you do realise that all these items can be identified as property stolen during two burglaries within the West Yorkshire area in the past three months, and that these burglaries have been linked to various others that have occurred since July?”

The old man coughed again. “You mean I’ve been stitched up by some thievin’ little sod that’s sold me a load o’ bent gear? That’s terrible. Somethin’ should be done about that.”

“Well if you could remember who sold it to you perhaps we could.”

“Like I said, son, I’d like to but I cannae remember.” Another fit of coughing overcame him.

Throughout the interview, Strong scanned Montgomery’s file, bemused by the accents that pervaded his speech. Various addresses during the late fifties and sixties confirmed the predominance of Glaswegian, alongside a fair smattering of Yorkshire from his time since. But something else was mixed in there too. He had been born in Sunderland and despite all the influences since, he couldn’t disguise the way certain words were pronounced.