Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (12 page)

Strong let the last comment go. “Well,” he eventually said, “what have you got for me?”

Before Souter could respond, the waitress arrived with their meals.

“Steak and ale pie?” she queried.

“That’ll be me,” Strong answered.

She put the plate in front of him and the lasagne in front of Souter.

“Thanks,” he said.

Strong waited until the waitress had left. “Come on, then. What have you found out?”

“Oh, right,” Souter seemed to hesitate. “Well, as I told you, Sheila Montgomery died, but I’ve got details of her sister, Mary Burns. She lives at this address in Paisley. I’ve written the telephone number down as well.” Souter passed over a folded sheet of paper.

Strong studied it for a few seconds, folded it again then put it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks for that.”

“So what’s this all about, Col? Why couldn’t you get this yourself? What was so sensitive about this Sheila Montgomery, or even William Montgomery?”

Strong stopped eating. Souter could see he was turning things over in his mind; deciding whether or not to confide in him. Much to Souter’s annoyance, the waitress returned to ask if everything was okay with their meals.

“Lovely. Thanks, love, yes.” Strong began eating again.

“What did you mean, I’d reinforced your theory?” Souter asked.

“What?”

“When we met up on Thursday, when I said I could still talk like you, in a Yorkshire accent, you said I’d reinforced your theory.”

“Oh that. It’s just something I’m looking into.”

“Come on, Col. We’ve always been straight with each other, haven’t we?”

“Within reason, I suppose.”

“Well, I reckon the least you can do is tell me what this is all about.”

“Okay, Bob.” Strong placed his knife and fork slowly down onto his plate. He seemed to be giving himself a final few seconds to consider his thoughts, judging whether the time was right to take his friend into his confidence. “But I’m trusting you to keep this just between us.”

Souter gave a look that suggested incredulity at the thought that he would be anything other than discreet.

Strong glanced around the restaurant. At the nearest occupied table, a couple in their thirties had their hands full with two children around four and six years old. Next to them, a middle-aged couple with an elderly woman were waiting for a desert.

Strong leaned forward and kept his voice low. “You remember the Ripper enquiry?”

“Of course, Peter Sutcliffe.”

“Right. But you also remember, part way through that enquiry, George Oldfield received letters and a tape, supposedly from the Ripper.”

“The man with the Sunderland accent, yes.”

“Well, we never ever found out who he was.”

“I remember there were all sorts of theories ranging from some nutter with a warped fixation about the case and a modicum of knowledge of the original Whitechapel murders, all the way through the spectrum, including an inside job. You know, someone on the team, out to stitch up George Oldfield.”

“Your accent is predominantly what? Yorkshire or Scottish?”

“People down here detect Scottish but while I was in Glasgow, they thought I was English.”

“Just say our man was born and brought up in the area of Sunderland they thought the hoaxer was from. Then, he gets married and lives in Glasgow for twenty years. You were only there three and you’ve picked up the accent. He probably sounded as though he’d never been out of the place but … like you, when he wanted, he could still talk like a native of where he’d lived in his formative years.”

“You think you’ve found him don’t you?”

Strong took a drink from his glass.

“Christ!” It was Souter’s turn to look round and make sure no-one heard him. “That would be a story to tell. Can you prove it?”

“That’s the problem. It’s only instinct at the moment but I’ve got this strange feeling about him. I contacted the language experts at Leeds University but they felt that what I’d given them was inconclusive. As things stand, I haven’t got enough to take it further. Officially.”

“So why not let me give you a hand?”

Strong looked sceptical. “Get real, Bob. Whoever heard of the police and journalists working hand in hand on a case?”

“Come on, I can dig around in areas you probably can’t, not without drawing unwanted attention.”

“You’ve got a point there … but what would you want in return?”

Souter raised his eyebrows.

“Of course you’d want the story but what if it all comes to nought?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Okay,” Strong said, finishing his pint. “Get your notebook out and the next round in.”

Souter came back with the drinks and over the next ten minutes, as they finished their meals, Strong filled Souter in on Billy Montgomery.

“And that’s as much as I know at the moment,” Strong concluded, wiping his mouth with the napkin and placing it alongside the cutlery on his empty plate, as if to reinforce the fact that he’d finished the story too.

“Alright, leave it with me, I’ll see what I can dig up.” Souter closed his notebook. “You did surprise me with that one,” Souter said in a matter-of-fact fashion, “I really thought you were going to mention something about the Nicholson case.”

“The Nicholson case? How do you make that connection?”

“You tell me.”

Strong seemed puzzled. “No, you tell me. We got a conviction on that.”

“Yes, but was it the right one?”

“You crafty bastard, you know more than you’re letting on, don’t you?”

“That makes two of us, then,” Souter replied.

Strong’s brows furrowed. “You reported on it for the Star just before you went to Glasgow, didn’t you?”

Souter just smiled.

“So come on then, what do you know about it?”

“Nothing, really. Only I’ve had it mentioned to me twice now within the space of a few days. I just wondered if this little unofficial assistance with information you wanted might have had something to do with it.”

“Who’s mentioned it?”

“I’ve had Paul Summers’ brother, Don, contact me. He remembered, as you did, that I covered the story for the Star at the time. Anyway, he seems to have the impression that the way I reported the case, I was a bit sceptical of the strength of the evidence.” Souter paused while he took a swig of his beer. “Must admit, I’d forgotten much about it at first but, in talking to him, things started to come back. As I recall, the conviction hinged on the identification evidence of Irene Nicholson herself, didn’t it?”

“I’ll be honest with you, at the time I was seconded to Millgarth in Leeds. That series of armed post office raids, if you remember? I wasn’t involved in the investigation itself.”

“Summers wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d got no alibi. Apparently, he’d visited the pub where Irene worked on the evening of the attack, visited a few more then walked home. Living alone and being a bit of a loner, he’d got no one to vouch for him for any of the relevant times. Turns out, he’d got previous for indecent exposure … long time back, though. Donald Summers seemed to indicate there’s been fresh developments. Is that right?”

“I don’t know where he got his information from…”

Souter shrugged.

“But it’s true, I’ve asked to look at it again in the light of some other enquiries.”

“Come on,” Souter said, “you sound like a press release.”

“Look, that’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

“Okay, Col, I hear what you say. It’s just I wasn’t sure if there was any new evidence but I said I’d talk to him again.”

“Listen, I’d best get back,” Strong said. “And you, too. You’d best be on your way if you want to make Maine Road by two.”

Souter checked his watch. “Yes, you’re right.”

Strong produced a pen and a business card from his jacket pocket and began writing on the back. “Before I forget, I know you rang me earlier, but only call me on my mobile number with any information you come up with. Don’t call Wood Street.”

“You’d better take mine too.” Souter gave Strong one of his cards as they made their way out to the car park. At Souter’s car, they stopped. “Do you know why we always played so well together in the same teams?”

“Of course, Bob. We had a good understanding. All about anticipation.”

“I could read your game like a book, Colin Strong. I knew you wanted me to get involved for you.” Even though you haven’t told me everything, he thought.

Strong only smiled and began to walk away.

Souter got into the car, closed the door and dropped the electric window. “Hey!” he called out, “Remember you asked me what I’d want in return?”

Strong turned and walked back a pace.

“You just keep me up to date with the Nicholson case. See you next week.”

The window went up and Souter waved as he drove off.

22

Strong sat in his car considering the conversation he’d just had with Souter. It never ceased to amaze him how information from an enquiry leaked out. But this time …what was it he said, twice within the space of a few days the Nicholson case had been mentioned. Once, obviously by Donald Summers, but who else? And how would Summers know, as he put it, there had been fresh developments? And all that talk of their days playing football together; true Souter could pick him out with a pass into the space he would run into. He could anticipate what Strong would do. But he also knew that he held back sometimes. When it was the obvious pass to make, he didn’t always make it. And Strong would anticipate that too.

From his pocket, he pulled the piece of paper with Mary Burns details written on and studied it. Finally, he decided to make the call. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello.”
A female voice in a strong Glasgow accent answered.

“Mrs Burns?”

“Aye”

“My name’s Detective Inspector Strong …”

“If it’s Mr Burns you’re after, he’s no’ in,”
she interrupted.

“No, Mrs Burns, it’s not your husband I’d like to speak to, it’s you.”

“Me? What do the polis want wi’ me?”

“I’m from West Yorkshire CID.”

“York-shire?”
She put the emphasis on the second syllable.
“I canny remember ever bein’ there.”

“It’s nothing to do with you as such, Mrs Burns. I just wondered if you could help me with a bit of background information on someone you may know.”

“Who’s that?”

“William, or Billy Montgomery.”

“That wee shite. What’s he done now?”

This brought a smile to Strong’s lips; not just her graphic description but, in his mind’s eye, he began to form a picture of the woman he was talking to. A rotund woman of around sixty with a head of pure white thick hair had materialised.

“At the moment, we’re not free to say, exactly. Enquiries are still taking place.”

“Must be something serious to warrant you ringin’ me up on a Saturday?”

“It’s just routine and I’ve drawn the short straw.”

“You know he pissed off and left my sister wi’ two bairns tae bring up?”
she said.

“If you could just start at the beginning, Mrs Burns.”

“What d’you want to know?”

“When did you first meet Mr Montgomery?”

“Sheila, my sister, met him at Butlin’s in Ayr. Must’ve been what, 1955, no 1956. She worked there for the summer after leaving school that year. I remember her comin’ back an’ tellin’ me all about this English bloke she’d met. Anyway, he starts writin’. The next thing she wants tae go down tae Sunderland for Christmas. Well, Mum went spare.”

“She didn’t approve?”

“Sheila was only sixteen! This was the Fifties. People haven’t always behaved like they do now. She was a bit headstrong in those days. Later, he knocked it oot o’ her.”

“He was violent towards her?”

“Oh, aye. I’ve seen her black and blue after one o’ their rows.”

Again, Strong’s imagination worked overtime. He could see Mary Burns face mirroring the obvious mixture of disgust, distaste and anger he could hear in her voice. This was the face Bob Souter had described as being perfected by Scottish women of a certain age and capable of turning milk sour. He’d made Strong chuckle by explaining that it was one of his earliest memories as a little boy back in Scotland before moving south. It was best demonstrated by old women with towels on their heads like turbans covering hair festooned in curlers. For the first time, Strong knew exactly what his friend had been describing.

“Sorry, I’ve interrupted your flow, he said, “Did she go down to Sunderland after all?”

“She had one hell of an upper an’ dooner wi’ Mum an’ Dad. In the end she got her own way. Told them as she was old enough to get married there was nothin’ they could do to stop her goin’ doon there.”

“And they eventually did get married?”

“The next year, June 1957.”
She paused and Strong thought he heard her light up a cigarette.
“Things had calmed doon by then. Billy got a job in the shipyard in Govan and they got themselves a council flat soon after.”
Definitely smoking; he heard the sounds of her taking a long drag then exhaling loudly.
“They seemed quite happy at first. Alan came along about a year after they got married and Lizzie, Elizabeth, although we always call her Lizzie, two years after that.”

“Where are they now, Mrs Burns?” Strong was writing a few notes down on the small pad he had balanced on his lap, the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

“Lizzie got married and emigrated to Australia about fifteen years ago. Doin
’ well for herself. Got a flower business in Adelaide. She writes regular.
Always liked oor Lizzie. Such a polite wee lassie.”

“And Alan?”

“Never heard o’ him for years,”
she said sharply
. “He became a right handful at school. Left home as soon as he could. I think Sheila was glad to be rid in a funny sort o’ way, not that she’d ever admit it. Mothers’ love and a’ that.”
Her voice softened again.
“It’s funny though, I think the break up affected him much more than Lizzie.”

“So was it the violence that caused Sheila and Billy to break up?”