Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (25 page)

“So this is why you’re avoiding Colin,” Jean surmised when Souter had finished. “You’re keeping this Carlisle thing back from him.”

“That’s right.”

“But why? I thought you two were mates; shared everything. So why not share this? It might be the missing link that ties everything together. You know, like they say on Crimewatch,” Jean went on, imitating a TV announcer’s voice, “
no matter how insignificant it may seem, your information could be vital.
”

Souter took a deep breath. “Look, Jean, I’ve just got this new job here. I’ve got to prove their faith in me. If I can come up with a real humdinger of a story, I’ll feel more secure. Also, I’ll feel better going to Colin with the full picture, knowing for sure there is a positive connection to the Carlisle case. At the moment, it’s only conjecture.”

“But …”

“Don’t worry, I won’t go into print unless I’ve got a good bit more than I have now. And I’m not going to mention anything that’ll put any of my sources in jeopardy. But, don’t forget, there’s also a man in prison for something that I’m more and more convinced he didn’t do. The evidence to prove it was discovered in that box. Now, all I want to know is whether or not it’s likely that there’s at least one more crime – the worst of all crimes, murder – that could have its solution here.”

“So if the evidence to clear this man has already surfaced, then why isn’t he being released?”

“It’s all politics. I’m sure if it was down to Colin, wheels would already be set in motion. But that’s why I’m best helping him by finding out as much as I can, unofficially, without rocking the boat.”

Jean appeared to be digesting all her brother had said. “Look, you say you’ve got photos of some missing items from a Carlisle newspaper. I can’t just show him those and ask him if they’re the same ones found in the flat.”

“No, I know that, Jean, that’s why I’m not even showing them to you.” Souter leant forward in the armchair and took hold of his sister’s hands in his. “Now, what you told me before was that they found a broken silver chain, a silver charm bracelet and some other items. What I’d like you to do is find out, if you can, what those other items were.” Souter paused as he considered he was on the brink of success as far as convincing Jean to help him was concerned. “If I’m right, I think one of them was a ladies’ cigarette lighter. Possibly that might be the most distinctive thing to identify. I don’t know … maybe get the conversation round to how you don’t see proper cigarette lighters anymore … you know, they’re all these cheap throw-away ones these days.”

Jean pulled her hands away from his. “I can’t promise anything.”

“I know. But it is important.”

“Well … I’ll try. That’s all I can say.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

“But I’m not going to do or say anything to screw this … relationship up. Just when I seem to be getting my life back together. So, if I can’t get anything for you, I can’t get it, okay?”

“Okay.” Souter held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I won’t press it. And thank you. Now, when are you next seeing him?”

Jean selected another cigarette from the packet. “He said he’d ring me tonight.” She lit up. “Perhaps go out for a quiet drink somewhere. It just depends on his work.”

Souter collected the coffee mugs and Jean’s breakfast plates. “Sounds ideal. Just see how it goes” He disappeared into the kitchen and washed up the dishes, leaving them to dry on the draining board.

“Right,” Souter said, after a few minutes. “I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

He closed the front door behind him and wondered what Jean was thinking. He was sure she wouldn’t be comfortable with the plan. Subterfuge was never one of her traits, unlike that shit she’d married. But, he was confident she’d do her best.

38

With crisp sunshine brightening up the day making an overdue break from what seemed like months of dull, damp, grey depression, Strong enjoyed the drive over to the coast. Laura had declined the opportunity of a Sunday afternoon at the seaside, preferring instead to work on some lesson preparation. They had just been finishing a traditional Sunday roast with all the trimmings when the phone rang.

Amanda dashed for it, expecting a call from one of her friends, and couldn’t hide her disappointment when she shouted back from the hall, “It’s for you, Dad!”

Ormerod had returned to the unit that morning, relieving Trevor Newell who had covered the night shift in the company of one of Scarborough’s uniformed officers. Luke reported that Kenny Stocks had initially regained consciousness around midday but had drifted off again. Now, around two o’clock, he seemed to be stable and awake. DS Franklin and his sidekick were questioning him and Ormerod suggested Strong get over there as soon as possible. Franklin had sent the clothes Stocks was wearing at the time of the assault to Forensics and Ormerod had organised a similar fate for the remainder of his charming wardrobe.

In contrast to Pinderfields, Scarborough General Hospital gave the impression of being from a much more modern era. The Wakefield unit looked as if the NHS had taken over a World War Two air base; a myriad of Nissan huts, linked by miles of corridor. Scarborough, on the other hand, was brick built and at least appeared to be of the late twentieth century.

When he arrived, Strong found the car parks chock-a-block full, as he half expected – Sunday being a main visiting day. Eventually, he found a space where an elderly man was about to get into an old two-door mark 1 Cortina. The man acknowledged Strong’s presence before struggling into the driver’s seat. He watched as the old Ford was carefully manoeuvred out from between two of its contemporary descendants, Mondeos. The old car had certainly been lovingly looked after and he wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be one owner from new. As he studied the shape of the vehicle, Strong was transported back to the mid-seventies when his father took him out for his first tentative attempts at driving in the family’s four-door version. The kangaroo starts in a lane on the outskirts of Doncaster. Later, his first lustful fumbles in the back with Carol Kingswood.

The red brake lights glowing from the distinctive ‘Y’ shaped rear cluster jolted him back to the present, just in time to stop some chancer sneaking into his spot. Safely parked, Strong opened the door and got out to find the old man at his shoulder.

“Here,” he said. “Can you do owt wi’ this?” He held out his ticket. “It dun’t expire till half nine.”

“That’s great.” Strong smiled. “Much appreciated.”

“Just pass it on when tha’s done. Healthcare might still be free … for now …but the buggers make a bloody fortune out o’ this parkin’ lark. Cheerio, now.” With a wave of his hand, the old man turned and made a slow return to his car.

He felt cheered up. It was surprising how just one small act of kindness by a complete stranger often restored his faith in mankind. And God knew, in his job, he sometimes felt in need of all the reassurance he could get.

Strong had arranged to meet Ormerod in the sub-wait area near the Intensive Care Unit. A few minutes later, he spotted Luke sitting at a low table chatting with a couple of other men Strong assumed to be the local CID officers.

“Ah, guv,” Ormerod said, rising to his feet. “This is DS Peter Franklin and DC Mike Baldwin.” He gestured to the detectives in turn while Strong shook hands and introduced himself.

Franklin was in his early thirties with receding fair hair. Although slight of build, his grip was firm. He was a man who obviously took pride in his appearance and the one-word summation of him that flashed through Strong’s mind was ‘clothes-horse’. Baldwin, on the other hand was a mess. He was slightly younger than his DS but overweight and Strong imagined that no matter what you dressed him in, he’d always look the same. Still, he looked like he could handle himself and he’d rather have him on his side in a brawl than against.

Ormerod’s offer to his boss of a coffee was accepted and he disappeared in search of one.

“So, how is our little friend?” Strong asked the Scarborough men.

“Scared shitless,” Franklin replied. “And very nearly kicked into the same condition.”

“Has he said much?”

“Not a lot. Reckons two big blokes in balaclavas knocked on his bed-sit door in the early hours of Friday morning. When he opened the door a crack, one burst past him, the other pushed him back into the room, shut the door and then proceeded to give him a thorough going over.”

“And, no doubt, he doesn’t have a clue as to what it’s all about?”

“Spot on.”

“Any other witnesses?”

Baldwin took up the reporting. “Nurse upstairs heard the commotion, saw two men running from the front door and jump into a waiting Mercedes C Class, light coloured. She recognised the front of it because her old man has one. Didn’t get the registration and didn’t get any sort of look at the suspects. Unfortunately, the front door to the building just happens to be the furthest away from the street lamps that you can get. Fortunately for our friend Stocks, though, she knew what she was doing when she found him and called the ambulance. Works here in A & E.”

Strong sat back in his seat and thought for a moment. “What’s your take on this, Peter?” he asked the DS.

“Got to be a professional job. There are one or two characters in Scarborough who could have done this, but the word is, it was an out of town assignment. Whoever your mate upset, he’s more scared of them than he is of us. Personally, I don’t think we’ll get any further with this. Now, my guess is that the problem lies back on your patch.” Franklin paused as he spotted Ormerod returning through the double doors. “I know you said you wanted to talk to him in connection with a murder enquiry. That sounds serious enough to me to warrant someone being given a good smack.”

“It does to me too but … aah, thanks, Luke, that’s great.” Strong broke off as Ormerod placed a plastic cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. “Actually,” he said, “that’s not bad for an institutional beverage.”

“It’s not out of a machine, guv. I came across a lovely Irish nurse in one of the side rooms up there making some for herself and a colleague. A little bit of the blarney from me … and there you are." Ormerod said, grinning.

Strong shook his head and took another sip before returning to the subject of Kenny Stocks. “The thing is, I don’t think our man here is capable of what we saw in Williams’ flat. He’s got no record for any violence.” He paused a moment and turned his attention to Ormerod. “Oddly enough, that’s just like another character we interviewed in connection with the case who, incidentally, seems to have gone missing as well. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn up in the same condition.”

“Well, if there’s nothing else,” DS Franklin said, getting to his feet, “we’d best be off.”

“Right. Thanks for your help, Peter.” Strong offered a hand. “Mike.”

“Pleasure. And if there’s anything else we can do, just give us a call.”

Strong and Ormerod leaned back in their seats and watched Franklin and Baldwin leave. Ormerod seemed lost in thought when Strong glanced towards him. “Everything okay, Luke?” he asked.

He turned slowly and looked at his boss. “I can’t work it out, guv. Why does the Enforcer keep pumping me for info on this case?”

“He’s been at you again?”

“This morning. I mean, you’re in charge of the case, right?”

Strong nodded.

“So if he wanted to take charge then he could, yes?”

“Perhaps he will when he comes back next week,” Strong said, philosophically.

“Wouldn’t you be a bit pissed off if he did, guv?”

Strong ignored the question. “What did you tell him?”

“That we’d located Stocks and that he’d regained consciousness and we were about to interview him today.”

“Did he ask about the trophy case?”

“Yes. He wanted to know if we’d found out any more.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Only that Kelly’s working on it but I hadn’t heard if she’d made any progress.” Ormerod looked down at his shoes. “I feel awkward. Holding things back, though guv.”

“I know, Luke, but it’s in the best interests of this inquiry.” Strong drained his coffee. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do.”

Kenny Stocks’ head resembled a maroon watermelon. Purple bruising was coming to the surface, his face was virtually round with swelling and both eyes were slits, making it difficult to tell his state of consciousness.

“You can have ten minutes,” the nurse told Strong. This seemed to be a standard warning all medical staff issued to police before allowing patients to be interviewed. “He needs rest. And your colleagues have already spoken to him.”

Strong approached the bed, prompting a grunt from Stocks.

“Mr Stocks,” he announced. “I’m Detective Inspector Strong, Wakefield CID.”

“I know who you are,” Stocks interrupted, as if through clenched teeth.

“And this is Detective Constable Ormerod. We’d like to have a word, if you feel up to it.”

“I’ve already told your mates all I know.” Stocks facial injuries made it difficult for him to form the words.

“The doctors said injuries to your head might impair your memory recall. Perhaps that’s what’s happened.”

“Eh? Oh, right. Very clever, Inspector.”

“How are you anyway? In yourself, I mean?”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, there must be something worrying you, Kenny.”

“Me? No, not a thing. Everything’s hunky-dory.”

“Oh, come on. Someone’s been very annoyed with you. From what I hear, if it hadn’t been for your neighbour upstairs, you might not be here talking to me right now.”

“And I’m supposed to be grateful for that?”

“That’s up to you but you must be concerned that whoever did this to you might come back. Finish the job, even.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How come you’re so sure? Is it a case of ‘message received and understood’? Whoever sent the heavies, because I think they were subcontracted - whoever sent them has certainly got you running scared.”

“I’m not scared of anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”