Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (21 page)

“No, come on, Luke. Are you sure you’ve not got hold of the wrong idea here?”

“I’m telling you,” Ormerod said, “that’s what he was saying. It would be in no one’s interest to dig all that up again was what he said.”

“All right, Luke, I wasn’t doubting what you’re saying. I just want you to be absolutely clear, that’s all.”

“I just don’t understand why he contacted me, though. He must have known I’d mention it to you. He didn’t say not to.”

Strong was thoughtful. “Well, thanks for telling me, Luke. I’m puzzled why he would try and influence the enquiry now, though. I mean, the connection with Irene Nicholson is already established. And if he wanted to lead the investigation away from that, he’d have taken charge, Leeds fraud case or not.”

Ormerod shrugged. “Seems strange to me too.”

“Do you think he’s contacted anyone else on the team? Kelly, say?”

“She was the one who discovered the Nicholson connection in the first place. But, she’s only been sergeant for about four months, I suppose there could be a bit of pressure there, further promotion chances, that sort of thing. I can’t say she’s given any indication, but it might be something to watch out for.”

“All right, then, Luke. Thanks. Let me know if you’re contacted again.”

“Sure.”

Strong persuaded Stainmore to drive them to Montgomery’s flat and it was some minutes before either spoke. Eventually, it was Strong. “Remember just before we went in to Irene Nicholson’s house … you made some comment, supposedly in jest, about DC Kathy Sharp being … how did you so diplomatically put it now … up Cunningham’s backside?”

Stainmore coloured slightly. “That was just an off-the-cuff remark, guv. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She paused for a second and gave a nervous smile. “And if I had meant anything, I’d have said ‘arse.’”

“Hmm.” Strong watched a young mother struggle along the pavement, one hand propelling a pushchair containing a wrapped up youngster and pulling a toddler along with the other, all the while bent into the prevailing wind. “Funny that, Kelly, because I’ve just heard a similar whisper from a completely different source outside the force which, if I hadn’t remembered your comments, I might have dismissed but …”

“Well, I wouldn’t hold too much store by it. You know how these rumours start.”

“So there were rumours then?”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just … you know … they seemed to spend a fair bit of time together on enquiries.”

“What, like us, you mean?”

“Come on, guv,” Stainmore spluttered. “You’re not worrying about your reputation, are you?”

Strong smiled. “Kelly, I was in Leeds at that time. This is off the record. I need to know what people suspected. Was there anything that might have affected the investigation? People must have raised eyebrows at least when Kathy Sharp left for the Met all of a sudden?”

“Well, I think we were all surprised at the speed of her appointment so soon after passing her sergeant’s exams … and, obviously, the Enforcer would have had to have given her a good reference …”

“Which he would have embellished if he felt she could be an embarrassment to him.”

“Yes, but don’t forget, he got his promotion around the same time too.”

“Not done any harm by putting Paul Summers away for the Nicholson attack.”

“I suppose not.”

“So, back to the original question, Kelly. Do you think they were at it?”

“Well, as I said, there was a bit of silly canteen comment at the time but I don’t think anyone really believed it, you know. It was just a bit of ribbing against Kathy. At least that’s how she played it.”

“But you think there was more to it?”

“It was just little things. The way I sometimes caught her looking at him, when she thought no one else was aware. I don’t know, call it a woman thing, but I don’t think anyone else on the team clocked it.”

“If that’s true, and I don’t doubt you, Kelly, I’d be a bit bloody disappointed, seeing as they’re all supposed to be detectives.” Strong thought for a second. “From what you’ve described, it seems as though she was doing all the running. What about him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was just more careful.”

Strong shrugged, then changed tack. “Has the DCI spoken to you recently?”

“No, guv,” she replied, “Why would he? I’m confused.”

“It’s okay, Kelly. Not a trick question. I just wondered, that’s all.”

They drove in silence for a short while. Finally, Stainmore spoke, “Why are we going back to talk to Montgomery again? I thought he’d been ruled out … as being a murder suspect, I mean.”

“On Williams, maybe.”

Stainmore considered his reply. “Then who else?”

“Ah, here we are.”

Stainmore stopped the car at the verge and turned to face Strong. “Guv, you’re avoiding the question.”

He grinned, undoing his seatbelt. “Absolutely right, Kelly. Prerogative of rank. Come on, let’s see what he can tell us.”

For the third time in two weeks, Strong walked up the path to the front door of Montgomery’s ground floor flat. But for the first time, his rings on the bell went unanswered. He stepped across the border onto the postage stamp of lawn and peered in through the bedroom window.

“There’s no one in,” a voice from his left called out.

Strong turned to see a small, elderly, grey-haired woman in a heavy overcoat standing on the step of next-door, key in one hand, carrier bag loaded with shopping in the other.

“They took him away this morning,” she added, turning the key in the lock.

“Who did, Mrs er …?” Strong asked.

“Ambulance. And he didn’t look too clever either.” She stepped inside. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t come home. Cancer, you know.” With that, the door closed.

“What now, Guv?”

“Back to the ranch, I suppose. See if you can track down where he’s gone. I still need to ask him a few questions.”

33

“Hello, John.”

“Who are you?”

“Or is it Jake to your friends?”

“What do you want?”

“Okay, let’s just stick to John for now …” He placed the flat of his gloved hand on Jake’s chest and pushed him backwards into the caravan. “Until we get better acquainted.” He slammed the door shut behind them.

It hadn’t been easy to locate. Black Top Farm was spread over a large area. Although marked on the Ordnance Survey map, it had taken several attempts to tie the actual van’s location down, based on the details he recalled from the photograph.

He’d spent the best part of the day studying the area surrounding the site. The smoke from the caravan’s stove-pipe chimney had lightened to a faint grey as if expectant of a papal announcement. The old dark blue Ford Escort van had returned just after two o’clock. He’d recognised Hinchcliffe from the photographs at his mother’s house.

Hinchcliffe had looked around nervously but didn’t spot the figure dressed in a camouflage anorak, crouched behind the dry stone wall. His every move had been observed. Grabbing two Tesco carrier bags full of groceries from the passenger seat, he had quickly disappeared inside the caravan.

From the push, Hinchcliffe stumbled backwards, eventually ending up slumped on a bench seat. The stranger stood over him, face set hard. “I think you know what I’m looking for.”

“I’ve no idea, honestly.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “Honestly? Well let me give you a little clue. 27, Calder Street. Ring any bells? The night of the 6
^th
of December – remember what you were doing?”

“It … it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, come now, John.” He paced slowly round the small living area, taking in the meagre contents. Hinchcliffe’s mother was right, the solid fuel stove in the far corner certainly did keep the caravan warm. “I know all about you and your good friend, Williams’ activities.”

“Look, it wasn’t my idea.”

He spun back to face him. “Ah, so your memory’s returning. That’s good. For a minute there, I thought I might have to administer some … therapy … just to help you.”

“Yes … it was Fred’s. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Oh but I have. Unfortunately, his memory appeared to be worse than yours. He didn’t respond to treatment.”

“Oh, Christ!” Hinchcliffe pressed himself back on the bench cushions in a vain attempt to shrink away from the threatening figure before him.

“Oh, I don’t think He can help you, Jake.” He was leaning right over him now, his face only inches away from Hinchcliffe’s. “That’s totally down to you.”

“What do you want?”

He straightened up and resumed his slow tour of the caravan. “You have something that belongs to me … and I want it back.”

“I haven’t got anything here. Fred stored it all. He had all the TV’s, videos and music centres. He sorted out getting rid of them. I only helped with anything that was broken - wanted repairs. My brother-in-law, you see ...”

“Shut up!” In one swift movement, he grabbed Hinchcliffe by the lapels and pulled him to his feet, anger personified. “Now, stop pissing me around, John. You know exactly what I mean, and we’re not talking TV’s and videos.”

“I don’t, honestly … I …”

“Well let me remind you, you little fucking weasel.” His grip tightened. “Remember a metal box? Jewellery inside?”

“Ye … yes.”

“Call it a family heirloom. The thing is, I want it back!” he shouted, throwing Hinchcliffe back onto the bench seat.

“I … I haven’t got it.”

“I’m getting sick and fucking tired of this, you little cretin! Now where the fuck is it?”

“The police have it.”

He could feel the colour drain from his face. This wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “You’re pissing me around again.”

“No … no, honestly.”

Grabbed by the lapels once more, Hinchcliffe was on his feet up against the opposite wall of the van. “How did they get hold of it?”

“I don’t know … but they showed me a photo of it … asked me if I’d ever seen it before.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“Never seen it before in my life.”

“But you had, of course.”

Jake nodded.

“Shite! Do you know what you pair of arseholes have done?”

“I’m sorry,” Hinchcliffe squeaked pathetically. “Please don’t hurt me …”

His grip on Hinchcliffe tightened again. “You make me sick. Useless scavenging bastards like you and that tosser Williams. Breaking into people’s houses, taking things that don’t belong to you … opening up worm cans you can’t possibly understand. You useless piece of shite!”

In a final flurry, he punched Hinchcliffe in the face. He was unconscious before he landed on his backside over the top of the grocery bags. His glasses flew off and he ended up sprawled in the corner against the bench seat. “Bastard!” he yelled at the unhearing figure.

His stomach turned and a wave of panic swept through him. Taking a few deep breaths he struggled to compose himself. It was all going horribly wrong. What should have been a simple exercise to retrieve the box had become so complicated. He looked down at Hinchcliffe’s form. He believed the little bastard that the police had the case. No point tearing this place apart. Create too much mess. It was scruffy enough as it was. The trouble was, Hinchcliffe knew where they’d stolen the box and that would lead back to him. He couldn’t let that happen.

Through one of the plastic bags, he could see the unmistakable shape of a whisky bottle. He grabbed it, opened it and spread some down Hinchcliffe’s front and onto the carpet. Then he placed the bottle in his hand. He walked to the door and slowly opened it. All was quiet, save for the bleating of sheep from the next field. Closing the door again he went back to the stove and opened the doors. With the poker, he pulled some embers out onto the carpet. They began to smoulder. Finally, on his way out, he turned on the gas to one of the cooker plates. He slammed the door shut behind him and carefully retraced his steps.

He stayed close to the stone wall bounding the field until he reached the sanctuary of his car. Trying to regulate his breathing, he carefully scanned the countryside in vain for any signs of human life. He closed his eyes for a minute, calming himself. Opening them again, his attention focused on the caravan. The tell-tale orange flicker could be seen through a window. Then, the outline of a human form was silhouetted against the glazed panel of the door; frantic arm movements before a petrified face pressed up close to the glass. A split second later, the dull boom of the exploding gas tank disturbed the sheep.

34

“He’s in Pinderfields, guv. They’ve got him in ICU. Apparently, they want to transfer him to Cookridge once they stabilise him.”

Strong was just finishing a cheese roll in his office when Kelly Stainmore knocked and entered with that information. He seemed to have difficulty swallowing the last bite. Mention of the specialist cancer hospital for the Leeds area brought dreadful memories back for Strong, not least of all, the unique hospital smells. Barely two weeks his mother had lasted in that unit. He didn’t relish a visit to the same establishment again if Montgomery was transferred there. Washing the roll down with the last of his tea, he managed to respond, “Did they say when we can talk to him?”

“Depends on how things go.”

“Right, best get over there and see for ourselves.” Strong rose from behind his desk.

“Well, the thing is, I’ve managed to track down Jane Sedgewick to Bradford. She was number eight on the list. Assaulted on her way home from the massage parlour where she worked in November ’95. I spoke to her on the phone about half-an-hour ago and said I’d see her at home before she’s got to pick her kids up from school.”

“Go on, then, I’ll see if someone else is around.”

Stainmore paused on her way out of his office. “Oh, and one other thing, she reckons she lost a silver hair clasp that night.”

“Like the one from the box?”

“Could very well be.”

“That does sound promising. Okay, on your way, Kelly, I’ll hear how you get on.”

Strong grabbed his coat off the hook behind the door and breezed into the CID room. Luke Ormerod and Malcolm Atkinson had only just returned, judging by the fact that they’d still got their coats on.