Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (16 page)

“Yes, sir.” Strong sat down following Cunningham’s nod to the chair at the other side of the desk.

“The only reason I’m not taking charge of the Williams’ enquiry myself is because upstairs want me to follow this building society fraud through to the bitter end.” He tapped the file on his desk. “That means working out of Millgarth for the rest of this week.”

Thank you very much for that vote of confidence, Strong thought. Still, every cloud has a silver lining if the Enforcer’s going to be based in Leeds for a while. Aloud, he said, “Well, the post mortem on Williams tells us death was caused by multiple injuries to the head. Forensic evidence suggests he was attacked in the living room. There’s nothing to support any theory that he crawled onto the bed by himself – the trauma would have been too severe – so he must have been placed there. Also, the flat had been thoroughly cleaned. The estimated time of death is between December 9
^th
when there was a confirmed sighting of him and 13
^th
when we think the post started to mount up.”

Cunningham frowned. “Anything on motive yet?”

“Well, it wasn’t robbery, at least not in the conventional sense. He’d got a load of knocked-off TV’s, videos and other stuff in the wardrobe. The flat had been searched, and mostly wiped clean. I say mostly, because we did get some good prints from the lounge and bedroom door handles belonging to Kenny Stocks.”

“Delightful little turd. Brought him in yet?”

“Seems to have taken a holiday. No one’s seen him for several days. But apparently the word is he’s been associating with Frank Carr recently.”

“Well let’s get
him
in!”

“Kirkland and Darby are onto it now. However, my guess is that whoever attacked Williams was after the metal box we found hidden at the back of the blanket drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe.”

“Ah, the metal box.” Cunningham leaned back in his chair. “How do we know that whoever was searching the flat was looking for it? Indeed, do we even know they knew about it?”

“We don’t.”

“Any idea as to whether it belonged to Williams or was it part of the proceeds of one of his burglaries?”

“Not yet, but we’re obviously asking questions to cover both scenarios.”

“And anyway, Colin, just how many items have been identified from that case?”

“One definite and a couple of probables, so far. I’ve got Kelly tracing current addresses for the victims of various assaults that have occurred throughout the north since 1981. She’s located five up to now. She and Malcolm Atkinson will be re-interviewing them.”

“And the definite is Irene Nicholson?”

“Yes.”

Cunningham bent forward, arms on his desk. “Funny how she didn’t mention anything stolen at the time.”

“I don’t think she realised her chain had disappeared until months later and even then didn’t make the connection. She only twigged it when Kelly interviewed her on Saturday and showed her the photograph of it.”

“And now she also changes her mind over the identification of Summers?”

“Says she couldn’t recognise her assailant, sir. However, she did remember Summers being in the pub earlier that evening.”

“I don’t bloody like it, Colin. That bastard was guilty.”

Strong remained silent.

“Have you found any real connection between all these assaults? Because, as I see it, until we get some positive identification on any of the other items, there
is
no real connection. How do we know they’re not random, perpetrated by just as many different men?”

Strong began to count on his fingers. “They were all carried out late at night, single assailant. Two of the girls worked as prostitutes, the others either worked in a pub or had been out for a drink and were returning home alone. All were approached from behind. Although some were interfered with sexually, none were actually raped. But they were physically assaulted, clothing disturbed, and certainly left in a traumatic state.”

“All sounds a bit ‘iffy’ to me. What about Williams’ known associates?”

“We’ve checked a few out. The best bet is some little scrote by the name of Hinchcliffe.”

“Jake Hinchcliffe, you mean?”

“The very same. I’m sure he and Williams were involved in the burglaries but he denies any involvement with the murder. Personally, I can’t see him as the violent type but I’m keeping an open mind on that.”

“No, you’re probably right. Always seemed a bit of a weasel, scared of his own shadow sometimes.”

“The other one is Billy Montgomery. Used to be a career thief but now confined to fencing. Health letting him down. We found more items from the spate of burglaries in his flat. Again, I can’t see him being physically able to carry out any sort of attack on Williams, let alone haul him through to the bedroom afterwards.”

“So who are we left with? What about the burglary victims themselves? Is it possible one of them worked out who was responsible, decided to go round and get their gear back, bit of a heated argument then …?”

“Luke Ormerod is working his way through the list. No one of any interest so far.”

“Any connection between Williams and Summers? Have they served any time together? Did they know each other before Summers got sent down?”

The words grandmother, eggs and suck flashed through Strong’s mind. “Still checking that out.”

“What about Hinchcliffe and Summers?” Cunningham stood up and walked round in front of the desk. “And where do Kenny Stocks and Frank Carr fit in?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Come on, get focused on this, man.”

Bollocks, give me time, Strong thought. He took a deep breath. “Well, I did spot a correlation between Billy Montgomery, his time out of prison, known addresses and the assaults.”

“Christ, Colin, don’t disappear up your own arse with these assaults!” Cunningham’s face was only a foot away from Strong’s. He turned away, rubbed his face with both hands then turned back to face Strong. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you weren’t telling me everything here. Following your own agenda are you?”

If I didn’t know you better
, crafty sod. Strong didn’t want the full extent of his interest in Montgomery to come to the surface, not just yet, anyway. He tried his best innocent look. “Of course not, sir.”

“Hmm,” was all Cunningham said. He appeared deep in thought for a few seconds. When he spoke he seemed calmer. “Okay then, Colin, let’s get stuck in on this and see if we can’t get it wrapped up quickly.”

“Sir,” Strong acknowledged and turned for the door.

As Cunningham sat back down at his desk, he called Strong back. “By the way, keep the lid on this metal box, Irene Nicholson thing. No pun intended. I don’t want that little shit-stirrer Donald Summers getting wind of it and agitating for an appeal for his brother again. And don’t forget,” he said, emphasising the point with a finger, “that bastard
is
guilty.”

Strong just closed the door behind him.

“How was the Enforcer, guv?” Stainmore was retrieving a drink from the vending machine in the corridor as Strong swept past.

He turned round. “Ah, Kelly. As you’d expect, he wasn’t too pleased at the renewed interest in the Irene Nicholson case.”

“Sorry, did you want one?” Stainmore indicated the cup in her hand.

Strong screwed up his face and shook his head. “Jesus, do you know exactly what that is?”

“Supposed to be coffee but we’ll know more when we get the forensics results.”

“Come on,” he said, leading the way back to his office. “Walk and talk. Bring me up to date on your efforts to track down these victims.”

“I’m off later on this afternoon to see our odd one out, Charlotte Deakin. Her mother still lives in Morley at the address we had on file.”

He held the fire door open for Stainmore half way along the corridor.

“Thanks. She’s married, lives in Huddersfield and works in the library. I’ve arranged to see her there.”

“What about the others?”

“The latest victim was Lorraine Popplewell and I’m going over to Castleford to visit her at tea-time.”

“Good work, Kelly.” They had arrived at Strong’s office. ”Let me know as soon as you find out anything interesting.”

“Sorry, guv.” Ormerod approached them from the opposite direction with a file in his hand. “I think you might find this interesting.”

“Right, come in a minute, both of you, and let’s see what you’ve got.” Strong opened his office door. Stainmore and Ormerod followed while Strong checked the yellow stick-it notes various people had left on his computer screen.

“I’ve been re-checking the reports on these burglaries.” Ormerod opened the file he’d brought with him on Strong’s desk. “Five in all since last July. Nothing much of any great interest …” He ran his finger down a list before stopping near the bottom of the page. “…until we get to this one, the last, on November the 28
^th
.”

Strong’s eyes lit up. “Well, well, well. Ronnie Mason, eh? Now there’s a name from the past.”

Stainmore looked puzzled. “Who’s he?”

Ormerod stifled a laugh, prompting Stainmore to shoot him a look that equated to a knee in the groin.

Strong explained, “Ronnie Mason was a big star for Trinity in the seventies. Bad tempered bugger and all he was. I saw him sent off three times that I can remember and in those days you had to go some to get yourself dismissed from a rugby league game. He’s also got form for GBH. Put some poor sod in hospital after a night-club fracas about ten years back.”

“Sounds a delightful character,” Stainmore said.

“I’ll bet they didn’t know it was his place before they broke in,” Ormerod suggested. “Just as well they didn’t get caught on the premises. We’d probably be arresting him for murder.”

“We might still do, Luke,” Strong said. “Have a word with him and see if he gives anything away to suggest he might have worked out who turned his place over. Take Atkinson with you, it’ll be good experience for him.”

“Guv.” Ormerod turned and left.

“I’m off out shortly but I’ll hear how you get on later.”

Stainmore followed Ormerod out the door then returned a few seconds later. “Oh, nearly forgot, Jake Hinchcliffe’s mother’s downstairs. She wants to see you.” She paused a moment. “Reckons her little boy’s gone missing.”

Strong looked heavenwards. “Do me a favour, Kelly. Tell her I’m out and just note the details.”

She exhaled loudly as she left.

Ten minutes later, down at the front desk, Stainmore had done her best to reassure Mrs. Hinchcliffe that they were taking her son’s disappearance seriously and were making enquiries. However, the probability was that he’d gone off with friends without telling her. She could tell Sylvia Hinchcliffe wasn’t convinced as she watched her shuffle out through the doors. When it came down to it, she wasn’t convinced either.

About to return upstairs to the CID room, the desk clerk attracted her attention. With a gesture towards two men sitting at the other side of the reception area, she said in low tones, “Frank Carr and his solicitor, Mr Atherton are waiting to see DI Strong. Apparently CID want to speak to him?”

Stainmore glanced across and had no problem distinguishing the legal representation from his client. Peter Atherton was a well-known figure in the town. With salt and pepper hair setting off a deep tan, she guessed he was in his mid-fifties. Dapperly dressed in a dark grey, heavy overcoat covering a pin-stripe suit with the cuffs of a blue shirt protruding at the wrists, he was sitting with legs crossed to reveal expensive-looking black leather shoes. His whole air exuded success. Frank Carr on the other hand, was slightly bent forward in his seat with his hands on the knees of his brown cord trousers. His
leather jacket was zipped halfway up, exposing a checked shirt. With thinning brown hair and a thick greying moustache he was possibly five years younger than his brief. Heavily built, she’d gleaned from his file that he’d been a miner and had used his redundancy money to start his business activities about ten years ago. One of those activities was money lending, primarily to those unfortunates living on the town’s council estates who were zero-rated by other credit institutions.

“Mr Carr.” She approached the pair. They both stood revealing the almost comic contrast in their respective heights. Peter Atherton was around six feet two, whereas Frank Carr was no more than five feet four.

“That’s right,” Carr grunted.

“I’m DS Stainmore.”

Before either could say any more, Atherton interrupted and thrust out a hand. “Peter Atherton, Sergeant. I represent Mr Carr.”

“Mr Atherton,” Stainmore responded, shaking his hand.

“My client has come here today voluntarily because he had heard your Detective Inspector Strong wished a word. Is he available?”

“I’m afraid he had to go out but if you’d like to take a seat for a few minutes, I’ll arrange for us to have a little chat.”

Stainmore managed to grab Sam Kirkland and five minutes later they, along with Frank Carr and Peter Atherton, were seated in Interview Room 2.

“As I said, Sergeant,” Atherton began, “my client has come here voluntarily today.”

“Very commendable, Mr. Atherton,” Stainmore replied. “I’m sure we all appreciate that. You will note that Mr Carr is not under caution and this interview is not being taped.”

“So how can my client help?”

“Mr Carr, do you know Fred Williams?”

Carr blew out his cheeks as he considered the question. Finally, following an almost imperceptible nod from his solicitor, he responded, “I know a lot of people in my line. Can’t say as I know a Fred Williams.”

“Perhaps I can point you in the right direction. This particular Fred Williams has had a fair degree of publicity recently in that he was found dead in his flat at Hardcastle House a week ago.”

“Well, yes I’d heard about that but I didn’t know the man.”

Sam Kirkland leaned forward. “You never had any ‘business’ dealings with him?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Exactly what kind of business do you run, Mr Carr?” Stainmore followed up.

“Really, Sergeant, my client is not here to have enquiries made about his business interests, surely,” Atherton interrupted.