Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (18 page)

Strong poured out the tea and Sam paused to take a drink.

“Apparently, during one of my trips away, she fell to the gentle persuasion of a travelling salesman from Stoke-on-Trent.” Sam stared into space for some seconds, the smile gone from his face, as he seemed to recall painful memories. “Well, it was all a long time ago now.”

“How did you get on with Sheila, Billy’s wife?”

“Sheila? Oh, she was a bonny lass. Billy did all right there but it didn’t last. They split up back in the mid-seventies. I haven’t seen her since before the bust up. Have you spoken to her?”

“I’m afraid she died about three years ago, Sam. Cancer, I believe.”

“Oh, Christ, I am sorry.” Sam covered his mouth with his hand. “She wouldn’t even have been sixty. It’s always the good ones that go. What about the kids? Any news of them?”

“Sheila’s sister, Mary, told me their daughter, Elizabeth, was in Australia but the son, Alan was it?”

“That’s right.”

“She wasn’t in contact with him.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sam said. “She was always a sour-faced woman was Mary.”

“Have you heard from Alan at all, Sam?”

“No, never heard of him since Billy used to mention him on his visits. I don’t think he got on with his mother after Billy left so he followed him south. Where he is now, I’ve no idea.” Sam looked wistful once again. “Sad how families just drift apart, don’t you think?”

Souter took up the discussion. “Have you always lived up here, Sam?”

“Man and boy, apart from my trips on the ships, and the war, of course.”

“I’ll bet you’ve seen some changes in that time, eh?”

“Beyond all recognition, son. Shipbuilding all gone, docks all turned into fancy apartment blocks for yuppies or whatever they call them and no bloody mining industry left either.”

“The miners’ strike must have knocked all the stuffing out of the community too, just like it did down my way in Yorkshire,” Strong said.

“They were rough times,” Sam remembered. “Police brought in from all over. The London bobbies were the worst.”

“Actually,” Souter said, “I was talking to a mate of mine the other day and he was telling me what an uncomfortable time it was when the police descended on them before that, when they were hunting the Yorkshire Ripper.”

“God, aye, I remember that well. They centred on the village of Castletown, just outside o’ Sunderland, you know. Some experts reckoned the voice on that tape came from there. People were very nervous. I reckon they interviewed every bloke from sixteen to sixty. When they caught Sutcliffe, that turned to resentment because, as it turned out, it was just a bloody big hoax.”

“Still never caught the bastard either did they?” Souter added.

“That’s true, I don’t think they ever have. Funny thing, though, I remember saying to my Betty at the time, the voice sounded a dead spit for my brother, Josh, when he was younger.”

“Oh, yes? And was he interviewed then?”

“They’d have had a job, Josh worked down the pit and he died of silicosis in 1973.”

The wind and rain buffeted Strong’s car, parked at the rear of the residential home. Strong had lit a cigar and Souter a cigarette. They sat in silence for some minutes.

“Well, that’s given us something to think about,” Souter eventually said.

“You know,” Strong said slowly, “every time I think I’m being stupid and start to doubt my theory, something always seems to crop up to reinforce it.”

“So what’s the plan of action?”

“Seems to me the answer lies in the past. Twenty years in the past,” Strong thought aloud, in between puffing his cigar. “So, I’ll have a good look at what happened during the Ripper enquiry. But there’s not enough to open it up outside of this car just yet. What about you?”

“I need to see Donald Summers. See what he can tell me.”

“Just go carefully. I don’t want you jeopardising any police investigations.”

“Trust me, Col.” Souter flicked his cigarette butt out of the window. “Anyway, I best be off. Great journalistic prose to be written.”

“Give Jean my regards,” Strong said.

Souter got out of the car and made a dash for his own.

Strong watched his friend’s car disappear and sat for a few more minutes enjoying his smoke. The number of times he’d asked him to trust him over the past few hours was making him feel uneasy.

28

Strong beckoned Stainmore into his office as he finished a phone call to the British Library’s newspaper section.

“You’ll never guess, guv,” she began.

“Go on, surprise me.”

“Charlotte Deakin, our victim that didn’t fit your Montgomery theory…”

“Yes.”

“Admits now it was all false. She made it up to avoid getting into trouble with her parents and things just got out of hand. Apparently it was just a bit of rough and fumble with her then boyfriend.”

Strong’s face lit up.

“They got married the following year. She was shocked the case was still open. Thought we’d have lost interest years ago.”

“Which we had done until this came up,” Strong said.

Ormerod appeared at the door. “Guv, we went round and saw Ronnie Mason yesterday and …”

“Hang on a minute, Luke,” Strong interrupted. “It seems we’ve got quite a few things to report on so, Kelly, can we round the troops up in five minutes and let’s share all this intelligence. I think we need to take stock and see where we’re headed.”

Assembled in the CID incident room, Strong and the team reprised progress to date. As well as repeating her findings concerning the Charlotte Deakin assault, Stainmore reported on her interview the previous day with Frank Carr. She was expecting further information from him later in the day.

Ormerod then reported on his visit to Ronnie Mason. “Sad sight, I suppose,” he said. “Obviously been a big strong bruiser of a bloke …. reduced to that. His wife looks after him at home. A bit of a heroine if you ask me. She has to feed him, wash him, everything. I asked her if she felt any bitterness because he didn’t seem able to react to anything, but she reckoned responses were there, if you knew what to look for. Said he’d have done the same for her but … I don’t know.”

“So, last November you said he had this stroke?”

“That’s right, two days after his place was burgled.”

“Well, I guess that takes him out the frame for Williams. I don’t suppose his missus could …?”

“No, guv.” Ormerod laughed, “She’s only about five foot three. Besides, I think she had more on her mind in December than trying to find out who robbed them.”

“Kelly, you were visiting another victim yesterday, weren’t you?” Strong said

“That’s right, Lorraine Popplewell, a nineteen-year-old from Castleford, attacked walking home from the bus after an evening out in Doncaster visiting friends. She was approached from behind and bundled into an alleyway where he ripped her top and fondled her before knocking her unconscious.”

“Anything taken during the attack?”

“No, apparently he was disturbed. A man walking his dog saw the attack and shouted to them.”

“Did he get a good look at him?”

“Afraid not. Describes him only as ‘average build and height wearing dark trousers and an anorak with a hood.’ He was a good fifty yards away on the other side of the street. He ran towards them but, by the time he got there, the man had fled and she was slumped on the ground.”

“But definitely nothing stolen? Nothing that she didn’t realise at the time?”

“I showed her the photographs of the items from the box but she was quite sure she’d lost nothing and didn’t recognise anything either.”

“Christ, so we’re no further forward on that, then? Still only Irene Nicholson’s chain positively identified.”

No one said anything.

“Okay, Kelly, who’s next on the list?” Strong began shuffling through his papers.

“Tracy Elliot.”

“Right.” Strong read from his notes. “Twenty-one year old prostitute attacked in a multi-storey car park in Doncaster. It says here she reported a gold ring with a single imitation diamond missing. That could be one of the items. See what she has to say. And then the next one back in time – Ilana Vaughan, a thirty-year old shop assistant returning home after a girlie night out in Leeds. See what you can dig up there.”

Stainmore nodded.

“Which brings us back to Fred Williams.” Strong began to pace slowly around the room listing the various actions and enquiries that so far had brought no breakthrough. Eventually, all comments dried up. “Come on, we’re getting nowhere here!” he bellowed. “Kenny Stocks. Still no sign of him?”

Mumbled replies of, ‘No, guv.’

“Right. Priority one for everybody. Along with everything else you’re doing, we need to find Stocks. His seem to be the only suspect prints, for God’s sake.” Nobody said anything as Strong rested his backside on the edge of a desk. “And another thing, someone must have seen or heard something. What about the next-door neighbour – Mrs Nosy Parker or whatever her name is?”

“Mrs Lockwood,” Ormerod said.

“Let’s get back and talk to her. I don’t just mean talk to her, Luke – humour her, be patient, tease out whatever she knows. If Williams was being knocked about through the wall, I don’t believe that she didn’t see or hear something.”

“Okay, shall I take Kelly with me?”

“No, Luke. Kelly’s going to be busy tracking down these victims of assault. Besides, from what I’ve read, this Mrs Lockwood seems frustrated with the responses of women she’s had dealings with on this. No offence, Kelly, but she did report this to some female employees of the council a couple of times before she got any action. Tell you what, take Malcolm with you.” Strong appeared to lighten in mood. “She might go all grand-maternal on him.”

Atkinson coloured slightly as all eyes turned to him and a few sniggers were heard.

“All right, let’s look at Williams. What do we know about him? Forget his record, I’m not talking about that, we all know about his petty thieving. What do we know about the man himself?”

“Well, he had a suitcase full of porn below his bed,” Kirkland offered.

“Come on, Sam, most single blokes will have a secret stash of girlie mags or videos somewhere – the bottom of a wardrobe, the back of the sock drawer - some married ones as well.”

“Speak from experience, then?” Ormerod quipped, drawing an outburst of laughter from the assembled officers.

Strong smiled. “Very good, Luke.”

“Also,” Newell added, “he’d got no living relatives that we know of and no girlfriends either.”

“So, he was just a sad, lonely wanker,” Darby said, quietly.

“Just like you, you mean,” came an indistinguishable voice from the rear of the group drawing loud laughter from everyone.

Darby looked peeved.

“Do you know, John,” Strong said, “your powers of summation never cease to amaze me.”

“Guv?” Darby looked puzzled, drawing more raucous laughter.

“All right, children.” Strong put up his hands, trying to refocus the discussion. “Now, what have we learnt about him from his mates?”

“Seemed a fairly inoffensive sort from what we gathered.” Newell looked for confirmation from Ormerod.

“That’s right. Nearly everyone seemed shocked at what’s happened to him. They can’t understand it.”

“Yes,” Strong said, “but what about his usual haunts? Did he have any hobbies, apart from his magazines? Where did he drink?”

Kirkland leafed through his notebook. “He was a member of Alvethorpe Snooker Club,” he said. “Used to spend a fair bit of time there. As for watering holes – all the usual town venues but he was a regular in the Grey Horse and the Malt Shovel.”

“Right. Sam, Trevor, I want you to concentrate on talking to other members of this snooker club and regulars in those two pubs. See if anyone else has been asking about Williams, especially in December.”

Kirkland and Newell affirmed whilst Strong thought of something else and turned towards Darby. “And John, let’s have another chat with Hinchcliffe. He knows more about this than he’s been letting on.”

“Don’t forget we had his mother in here yesterday,” Stainmore put in. “She wanted to report him missing.”

“Now there’s a surprise. What’s the betting he’s decided to lie low for a while?”

A uniformed constable poked his head round the incident room door. “Sorry, sir,” he addressed Strong. “There’s a woman from the Newspaper Library on the phone for you. Said you were expecting her call.”

“Be right with you, thanks. All right,” Strong said, in a final flourish to the team. “We all know what we’re doing. Let’s get to it.”

29

Eventually, he walked up the path between the piles of rubbish that constituted a front garden and knocked on the door. There was no bell. He felt confident that the house was not under surveillance. Twice in the last half hour he’d walked the length of the street, surreptitiously studying every parked vehicle for occupants and every upstairs window for a twitching curtain or the glint of light reflected from a lens. Above all else, he was careful. Careful, neat and tidy, that’s what set him apart. He was proud of that. Satisfied, he made his approach.

Finally, his knock was answered by a large woman whom he guessed to be in her seventies but tried in vain to appear much younger. The dyed yellow-blonde hair and chamois leather face were the instant give-away. Seconds later, when she puffed on a cigarette, he noticed her hands, always a betrayal to a person’s true age.

“Is your son in, Mrs Hinchcliffe?”

“Our John, you mean?”

“That’s right, John yes. Is he in?”

“What do you want with him? You’re not the police.”

This last sentence was delivered in the form of a statement as opposed to a question. It amused him to think that you could go to any council estate in Britain and nearly everyone living on it would be able to tell plain clothes police apart.

“I’m a friend of a friend of his. I’ve got something that I’ve been asked to pass on to … John.” He tapped his coat where the inside breast pocket would be.

She looked puzzled. “He’s not in at the moment. I could give it to him for you, if you’d like to leave it with me, er …” obviously searching for a name from the stranger.