Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (29 page)

“So does Kelly ignore Cunningham and keep going with checking the victims?”

“No. No point in aggravating the situation. We need to establish who owned the case. That’s who killed Williams and carried out the assaults, I’m positive about that. Anyway, stay in touch.”

After ending the call, Strong made one more. It went straight to answer machine. Souter was still avoiding him. He left a message anyway, chasing what progress had been made regarding the murder in Carlisle.

44

At exactly five am the order
‘Go! Go! Go!’
burst through the police radios. Strong didn’t move. He’d let the uniforms have their fun first. A transit van full of them had travelled down from Leeds following the briefing. A burly sergeant seemed to relish the prospect of using a battering ram on the front door. DCI Matheson was leading one of the raids in Harehills while DS Jenkinson shared a car with two other DC’s for the trip to Hemsworth. Strong didn’t fancy sitting with any of the Drugs Squad so he opted to drive himself. He was parked in a field entrance some fifty yards away from Frank Carr’s large detached bungalow which was set behind a brick wall with open gates. With the car window down, he could hear the shouting, amplified through the clear night air as the sergeant satisfied his pent up emotions on the door.

After a few minutes, the protesting figure of Frank Carr, with a coat thrown over his pyjamas was led to one of the marked cars and funnelled into the back seat before being driven off. A woman’s voice was shouting abuse at the officers. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree and he could see activity in virtually every room. He decided it was time to join in. As he walked through the gates he pulled a pair of regulation latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. The front door showed clear signs of the sergeant’s exuberance and a short woman of around fifty pulling her dressing gown tight to her neck was demanding to know who was going to pay for the damage. Jenkinson was trying to calm her down.

“Look, this will be a lot easier if you’d just cooperate, Mrs Carr,” he said. “I do have a warrant to search these premises, but I also need to speak to your son. Now where is he?”

“He’s out, probably with some girl having a life which is what you bastards should get,” she spat.

In the hallway, a plain clothes detective was coming down the stairs carrying a personal computer, closely followed by a colleague with a plastic box full of papers and floppy discs.

“In Barry’s room,” he said, by way of explanation to his sergeant.

Strong drifted past Jenkinson, leaving him instructing a uniformed constable to stay with Mrs Carr while the search was executed. He made his way to the kitchen. He was impressed. The room was bigger than his lounge at home. Two more officers were sifting through the contents of the drawers and cupboards that lined the walls. A central island with an extract hood above housed an extensive hob and oven. Laura would have died for a kitchen like this.

Unnoticed, he went out through a door on the opposite side of the kitchen and into a utility room. A glazed rear door was off to his left whilst a plain door led off to the right. He opened it, expecting to enter the rear of the garage. Instead, he discovered a small office. He fumbled for the light switch and turned it on. A comfortable looking leather chair sat in front of a classical inlaid writing desk. A few papers were neatly stacked on the corner along with a desk tidy containing assorted pens and pencils, paperclips, treasury tags and a rubber. Surprisingly, there was no computer, printer or any other associated paraphernalia. A three drawer filing cabinet was by the side of the desk and against a wall a large bookcase stood almost filled with paperbacks.

Strong tried one of the cabinet’s drawers. Locked. The desk had a central drawer which was also locked. He thought for a moment, looking round the small room. Checking behind the curtains of the window to the side of the desk, he found nothing. Then he picked up the desk tidy, removed the pens and pencils and tipped the rest of the contents out. A set of keys tumbled onto the paperclips. Selecting the smallest key, he tried it in the desk drawer. It unlocked. A leather bound book, the size of an A4 desk diary lay in an otherwise empty drawer. Flicking through the pages, he quickly realised this was Frank Carr’s ledger of all money-lending transactions dating back to his first loan in 1984. He turned towards the back and began taking notes. Working his way through, he noted several surprising entries before placing the book in a large plastic evidence bag.

A noise from the utility room disturbed him and he sealed the bag.

Dave Jenkinson appeared. “Anything interesting?”

“Seems to have kept a ledger listing all his money lending operations. There are some records relevant to my enquiries so, if you don’t mind, I’ll take this with me and clear it with Jim Matheson when I get back.”

“As long as you list it with my DC, sure.” Jenkinson shrugged. “What about this?” He indicated the filing cabinet.

“I was just about to check it out.”

“Let’s have a look, then.”

Strong handed him the bunch of keys. “Be my guest.”

Jenkinson unlocked the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. It was stuffed with brown hanging files each tagged with a label in alphabetical order. The contents appeared to be invoices from suppliers in connection with Carr’s nightclub in Leeds. The second drawer was similar, while in the bottom drawer some loose papers and a petty cash box completed the inventory.

“I’ll get a box to pack this stuff. We’ll need to take a closer look at it back at Millgarth,” Jenkinson said, leaving Strong alone in the office once more.

Other than an instinctive feeling, he could never explain why, he pulled the writing desk’s drawer completely out and began to run his hand first below then above the void. That was when he felt the package stuck to the underside of the desktop. He pulled at it. It held for a second before finally giving with a ‘zip’ sound as the tape holding it released. It was a plain white photograph wallet. He opened the packet. A set of negatives were in the front section. Slowly, he pulled out the half dozen 6 by 4 colour prints from the back.

“Shit,” he said quietly, realising the subject matter.

He slid the drawer back in then slipped the packet of photographs into the inside pocket of his coat.

Jenkinson returned with a cardboard box and began to place the files from the filing cabinets into it. “Don’t forget to log that before you leave.”

“Oh, this,” Strong said, picking up Carr’s ledger. “I’ll do it now.”

A couple of minutes later, he’d shown it to the relevant DC and made his way quietly out of the house.

45

The last time Strong was here was for his mother, just under two years before. Her ashes were scattered in the Garden of Rest behind the chapel. From there, pleasant views over the distant Pennines provided the backdrop, but not today. The hills were enveloped in low cloud and the high-rise blocks on the edge of the city were beginning to suffer a similar fate. At times like these he detested Yorkshire weather. Early February, and the drizzle was particularly fine, the type that seemed to seep through your clothes and chill you to the bone in no time at all.

He watched Billy Montgomery’s cortege arrive at the main doors of the crematorium, although cortege was rather too grand a word for the hearse and one car that had drawn slowly to a halt. The mourners of the previous booking had still been shaking hands and expressing regrets to the immediate family at the side door, just out of sight of the new arrivals. The place had the feel of a factory controlled by strict timetables and careful management.

In the relative comfort of his car,
he lit one of his cigars and switched the radio on. As the wavelengths were scanned, he grew more irritated. Meaningless babble from youths barely out of school gave way to what some loosely termed music, others referred to as rap with a silent ’c’; which transformed into amateur-sounding adverts for local plumbers and furniture stores. Exasperation overcame him as he eavesdropped on a medical expert’s advice to some old dear about her bunions on a phone-in programme, definitely not the sort of distraction he was seeking. He switched the radio off and cracked the sunroof open; far enough to allow the smoke to escape but not the rain to penetrate. Normally, he didn’t like to smoke in the car but, today, he felt he had no choice. Smoking helped him think, and he’d certainly got a lot to think about.

It had been nearly three weeks since Montgomery first came to his attention. From that time, he was drawn ever closer to the conclusion that he was ‘Wearside Jack’. He denied any
involvement, of course. Or did he? The more Strong thought about things, the more he turned over his responses in his mind, the more he felt Montgomery had been playing with him, just as the hoaxer had twenty years before. The frustrating thing was there was no categorical evidence to tie this man to the offence. Plenty of circumstantial but nothing concrete. He felt cheated; cheated of the pleasure of putting him away. At least, he thought, he had the satisfaction of knowing who he was. For Strong, that was only half the answer; knowing who but not why. He hated loose ends.

He took a deep draw on his cigar and watched the smoke spiral up and out through the sunroof. He switched his attention to the Williams’ murder. A lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours. After the early morning raid, he’d driven back to Millgarth. Matheson had returned with the suspects from Harehills and was busy with paperwork in his office. He had readily agreed for him to make copies of Carr’s ledger but Strong wouldn’t be able to question Carr until they’d interviewed all the suspects from the raids. Strong knew that would be the case. The ledger certainly threw up some interesting names but it also demonstrated that, contrary to Carr’s statements, Fred Williams’ debt was still outstanding. Kenny Stocks was also a regular customer, although he did have some interesting entries on the credit side. For Strong, that gave credence to the theory that he worked his passage from time to time. One or two other well-known minor offenders also appeared and, further back in time, a few that were no longer with us.

However, it was the photos that gave Strong most angst.

“There’s something else, though, isn’t there, Colin?” Matheson had wondered.

Strong had closed the office door, sat down opposite then related the finding of the packet of photographs. There was no mistaking what they depicted. He had to admire the skill of the photographer in obtaining the shots in the first place. Their existence certainly explained a lot. “They could be a little delicate,” he had added. “You may recognise the subject.”

Matheson held out a hand and Strong passed them over. The DCI’s eyes widened as he studied the pictures. He flicked through them, sometimes turning one sideways. Finally, he asked, “Is that who I think it is?”

“DCI Cunningham, yes.”

“Shit.” Matheson began to chuckle. “I don’t suppose you know who the woman is?”

“I think I do.”

“Job?”

Strong looked away.

“Fuck. The silly old bastard.”

“The thing is, what do we do?”

“We?” Matheson was puzzled. But Strong pleaded Cunningham’s case and asked if he could keep hold of them for now. Reluctantly, Matheson agreed for Strong to keep possession for a couple of days. They would have to be entered on the evidence log and returned as soon as Matheson requested. He would be interested to know exactly what Carr intended to do with them. And so it was that Strong had the packet in his coat pocket once more.

The wipers, on an intermittent setting, once again swept across the windscreen removing the accumulated raindrops and bringing his thoughts back to the matter in hand. The chapel doors opened and the undertaker’s assistants appeared like night-club bouncers in ill-fitting suits. Strong amused himself with the thought that they were probably fully paid-up members of the black economy, moonlighting to earn some extra cash for a family holiday or salt away from the creeping tentacles of the Child Support Agency. He’d known a few risk their police career in this role. As soon as the suits appeared, they melted away, ready for the next performance.

Next out was the vicar, closely followed by Rosie Hudson. The cleric took her hands in his and offered a few perfunctory words before she positioned herself beside him, as protocol dictates, to accept the condolences of the others as they left. Strong watched closely as a younger man emerged. After shaking hands with the vicar he stood in front of Rosie for a moment. Leaning towards her, he appeared to say something in her ear. Too far away for her facial expressions to be read, Rosie’s body language told Strong she was shocked and upset. Meanwhile, another woman he couldn’t make out clearly had engaged the vicar in conversation. The man turned away and, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, strode out purposefully across the car park. Strong followed his progress for a few seconds before returning his gaze to the chapel exit. No other mourners had emerged and, by this time, Rosie was being consoled by her female companion. With a clearer view, he was sure she was her sister, Janice, although the grey hair in the photo he’d seen in Montgomery’s flat was now brown. The vicar gave the two a quick glance before taking his leave.

Just then, Strong’s mobile erupted into life, with Wood Street station’s number displayed on the LCD.

“DI Strong, I don’t care where you are,”
DCI Cunningham’s voice barked in his ear,
“get your arse back here now!”

“But …”

“My office, fifteen minutes tops!”

“What’s the …?” Strong stopped, recognising further enquiry was futile, the line had gone dead.

46

Souter had a mouthful of croissant ready to be washed down with a slurp of coffee from the machine when his phone rang. Sitting at his desk on the first floor office of the Post building, he was typing a report onto his computer.