Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (15 page)

Forty-five minutes later, Stainmore's car, with Strong in the passenger seat, drew to a halt outside Billy Montgomery’s flat on the Lupset estate. A watery sun was attempting to paint a less depressing wash over the scene with snowdrops in the borders either side of the path trying their best to assist. Strong hadn’t noticed them when he was there last week. Before he could knock on the door, it was opened by a surprised Rosie.

“Oh, Mr Strong, it’s you,” she said, doing up the last button of her coat.

“This is DS Stainmore.” Strong gestured towards his colleague who flashed Rosie her warrant card. “I’m sorry to trouble you but we need to have a word with Billy if he’s in.”

“He’s in bed. He’s not very well,” concern obvious in Rosie’s voice. “The doctor should be round soon. It’s just … I’ve got to nip out for some shopping.”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

Rosie hesitated. “Okay, but don’t go upsetting him, he really isn’t well.” She turned back inside and shouted, “Two people to see you Billy!” Fiddling with the Chubb lock, she spoke to Strong, “He’s in the bedroom, first on the right. I’ll leave the door unlocked so’s the doctor can come straight in.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” Strong and Stainmore stepped inside and closed the front door behind them.

“Hello Billy!” Strong called towards the half-open bedroom door. “Detective Inspector Strong, remember me?”

“Aye,” came a weak voice from within.

Strong hesitated when he saw Montgomery lying in bed, before adding quietly, “and this is Detective Sergeant Stainmore.” The curtains were drawn but Strong could still see that, if anything, Montgomery’s pallor was worse than when he’d interviewed him just a week ago. A chair was on one side of the bed. Strong repositioned a second one from in front of the dressing table alongside.

“Forgive me for no’ getting’ up to make some tea …” Montgomery quipped, “it’s just … you can see how I’m fixed.”

“That’s all right, Billy, we only want a wee chat.”

Montgomery chuckled before breaking into a hacking cough. “No flowers or grapes then?”

“Not lost your sense of humour I see.” Strong sat down.

“Do me a favour will you? Open the curtains for me. It looks pleasant out there.”

Stainmore obliged before joining Strong at the bedside.

“Rosie thought I’d be best off if they were closed. Thing is, I don’t know how many more sunny days I’ve got.”

Strong ignored the sentimentality and went for the direct approach. “When we spoke last week, you spun us a yarn about buying stolen electrical goods from some unnamed man in a pub.”

“Aw, you’re not still goin’ on about that are you? Not a DI and a DS, surely?”

“No, you’re right. Things have moved on since our last discussion.” Strong opened his briefcase and pulled out a brown envelope. “How well did you know Fred Williams?” He passed a photo of Williams to Montgomery. “Take a good look.”

“I’ve seen him around.”

“I think you’ve done more than that. I think he was the man who supplied you with those stolen goods we found here last week. I think you two have been doing business together for some time, isn’t that right?”

“If you say so.”

“No need to tell you what happened to your business partner is there? I’m sure you know all about that by now. The thing is, why? Any ideas on that, Billy?”

Montgomery shrugged. “Perhaps somebody was upset with his after-sales service.”

“Look, I know that keeping your peace is all very admirable, honour among thieves and all that but, come on, a man has been brutally murdered.”

“And d’ye think I’m worried I might be next?”

Strong ignored what he took to be a rhetorical question and selected another photo, this time depicting the mysterious metal case found in Williams’ wardrobe. He held it up for Montgomery to see while studying him for any discernible reaction. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Strong thought a glimmer of recognition crossed Montgomery’s countenance before he broke into another coughing fit. He suspected he was cute enough to use the coughing to disguise his response. Finally, Montgomery said, “No, doesn’t look familiar to me.”

“All right,” Strong sighed, “let’s turn our attention to something else.” He put the photos back in the envelope, replacing it with a couple of files from the briefcase. He passed one file to Stainmore. “Do you frequent, or should I say, did you frequent the White Horse pub on Westgate?”

“I’ve been known to have a pint or two in there, aye. Although, most of Wakefield has been in there at some time or another.”

“Did you know a barmaid by the name of Irene Nicholson? She used to work there, evenings, about three or four years ago.” Strong pulled Irene’s photo from the file that was open on his lap and showed it to Montgomery.

“Oh, yes.” Montgomery smiled at the picture. “I remember her. Pleasant wee lassie.” The smile vanished and his face set hard again. “Hang on, wasn’t she the girl that was attacked on her way home one night?”

“That’s her.” Strong put the photograph back in the file.

“But why are you asking me about that? Was there no’ somebody sent down for it?”

“There was, but he’s always protested his innocence.” Strong flicked through papers in the file. “However, we’ve been looking into cases, not just here in Wakefield or even West Yorkshire but across the north of England and, so far, we’ve identified twelve unprovoked attacks on women, many resulting in some form of sexual assault.”

“They’ve got nothin’ to do with me.”

“Okay, then let’s go way back. Let’s cast our minds back to September 1981. Can you remember where you were at that time?”

“Can you, Mr Strong? Because I’ll tell you, not many people can.”

While Montgomery was talking, Stainmore made great play of shuffling through the file Strong had handed to her before she took up the conversation. “Let me just remind you then, Mr Montgomery. It seems, from your records here, you were released from Strangeways in February 1977 with a given address in Headingley, Leeds. Then, unfortunately, it would seem you transgressed again, being sentenced to 12 months in November 1981.”

“Do you know,” Montgomery replied slowly, “when they said that just before you died your life would flash before your very eyes, this wasn’t exactly the scene I had in mind.”

“No?” Stainmore said in mock surprise. “But would there be a scene that includes a prostitute by the name of Norma Thurlow being sexually assaulted in, of all places, Headingley in September 1981?”

“Christ, you’re clutchin’ at straws here if you think you can clear up all your old cases on some dyin’ man.”

“All right, Billy, let’s pick out one or two more,” Strong said. “June 1985, Debbie Sharpe assaulted in Halifax.”

“March 1985,” Stainmore stated, “released from Nottingham after a two-year sentence. Known address, Halifax.”

“February 1990, Samantha Senior, assaulted in Dewsbury.”

“Released, November 1989, again from Strangeways after a three-year sentence this time. Known address, Dewsbury.”

“And so we could go on.” Strong flicked through the papers in the file before looking up at Montgomery. “All these cases unsolved, apart from Irene Nicholson, of course, and all occurred when you were not only out of prison but residing in the area of the offence. Now that’s a bit more than just coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Montgomery pulled himself up on to his elbows with great effort, puffed then caught his breath. “I’m tellin’ you now, on my life, for what that’s worth, I had nothin’ to do with any of that business. Now,” he relaxed back down onto the pillows, “if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted.”

Before Strong could respond, they were disturbed by sounds of the front door opening, closely followed by a voice calling out, “Mr Montgomery? It’s only Doctor Patel!”

“All right, Billy, we’ll leave it there for now.” Strong tidied the files into his briefcase. “We’ll talk again.”

“Oh, sorry,” said the doctor from the bedroom door, “didn’t know you had visitors.”

“That’s all right,” Montgomery said, “they’re just leavin’.”

Strong acknowledged Dr Patel then he and Stainmore left the room.

“Just a minute,” Montgomery wheezed, prompting Strong to put his head back round the bedroom door.

Montgomery beckoned him close. “Mr Strong, believe me, I’ve served time with a lot of men. A few reckoned they’d been sent down for something they didnae do.” He coughed and paused for breath. “Only one I believed. I’m tellin’ you, with me in this state, I’ve got nothin’ to lose. If I thought there was some poor bastard servin’ time for somethin’ I’d done … believe me, I’d tell you.”

Strong did. “See you, Billy,” he said.

“Didn’t expect to see you here today, Dad.”

“Just thought I’d finish off the greenhouse, Son, ready for the tomato plants in a few weeks.” Jim Strong was washing his hands in the kitchen sink and turned towards Colin. “I set off a couple of those bombs yesterday to kill off anything that had survived. I’ll get some growbags next week. That stall on Doncaster market still sells them for 99p. Must be ten years they’ve been at that price. So much for inflation, eh? Here, pass me that towel.”

Strong’s father enjoyed his gardening and Colin, never having enough free time himself, didn’t complain when he offered to help him out with his own. In sharp contrast to Billy Montgomery who’d looked fifteen years older than his sixty-three years, Jim Strong could easily be mistaken for fifty-five. He was a specimen of health. Since retiring last year he took great pride in producing his bus pass whenever challenged. Colin had often wondered at what point people stop knocking years off their age and start being proud of it. Somewhere around sixty he thought.

“How are you getting back? Do you want a lift?”

“Dad’s staying for tea, Colin,” Laura said, setting the oven for the shepherd’s pie. “Why don’t you two have a sit down in the lounge? I’ll give you a shout when this is ready.”

“Frank from next door said he’d pick me up about eight,” his father replied. “We’ll probably have a pint in the Miner’s Club when we get back.”

“Just one big holiday for you, this retirement lark, isn’t it,” Colin quipped, leading the way into the front room.

“Wait till you’re my age and on your own. You’ll soon see what sort of holiday it is.”

He collapsed on the settee while his father sat down in an armchair. “I know you miss her, Dad. We do too.” He rubbed his eyes.

“It’s just when you’ve been with someone for forty-four years, planning what you’ll do when you retire and then … snatched away from you … three painful months…”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap back at you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Colin stretched his arms above his head and yawned before adjusting his position on the sofa. “Put the TV on if you want. News should be on.”

“That’s all right, I think it’s just nice to have a bit of peace and quiet for a change.”

Colin closed his eyes.

“Oddly enough, since I retired, I prefer the radio.”

“It’s good for the imagination.”

“Is everything all right with you?” Jim asked.

“Just a bit tired that’s all.”

“I suppose it’s this murder business.”

Colin knew that Jim took a great interest in crime in general and his own work in particular. He watched all the reconstructions on television and liked to give his own theories on many well-known cases. An intelligent man, he sometimes surprised Colin with his incisive thoughts.

Eyes still shut, Colin responded with a question. “What do you remember of the Yorkshire Ripper enquiry, Dad?”

Jim seemed to take a few seconds to consider his answer. “Well, they interviewed Sutcliffe a number of times. Information was logged in the system and that’s as far as it got. I think there was just too much information floating around by the time they were two or three murders in, so to speak.”

“Of course, we’ve got the Home Office computer system now, that’s supposed to help.”

Jim sat up straight in the chair. “But nobody took a step back and looked at the whole picture. They couldn’t see the wood for the trees. The one thing I vividly remember was sitting down one Sunday afternoon reading a two page spread that one of the broadsheets produced. And this was a good few months before they caught Sutcliffe.”

Colin opened his eyes, now paying full attention.

“I seemed to remember they got into a lot of trouble for publishing this article. Anyway, they’d set out a table outlining all the attacks that they thought had been committed by the Ripper at that time, complete with all sorts of details.”

“Something rings a bell about that. I think I remember you telling me about it. I was in Nottingham at the time.”

“That’s right. Well the thing that struck me - it seemed obvious when you saw all the information set out like that - was that it wasn’t just the one man responsible for all of it. Of course, in the end, they found out that one of them, a murder in Carlisle I think, had nothing to do with Sutcliffe. He always denied any involvement and the police never charged him with that one.”

Colin Strong sat up rigid.

“What’s up? Have I said something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just mention of Carlisle …”

“Apparently, it was comments in one of those letters about the case in Carlisle that made the police think that she was one of the Ripper’s victims. As it turned out, the letters and the tape, remember that notorious Geordie voice?”

“Sunderland it was.”

“Whatever. Well that’s what led you lot up a blind alley.”

“You know, sometimes I think you were wasted in mining engineering, Dad. You should have joined the police.”

“That would have been fine and dandy during the miners’ strike wouldn’t it?”

26

“The Super wants an update, Colin,” DCI Cunningham growled from behind his desk where he sat reading through some case notes. Apart from a quick glance when Strong entered his office, he had barely acknowledged his presence. Finally, Cunningham closed the manila folder on his desk, removed his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “And so do I.”