Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (30 page)

“You took your time, Keith,” he said to the caller.

“It’s not as easy as you think. I have to time my search right so as not to arouse suspicion,”
Keith responded.

“All right, so what have you got?”

He gave him an address in Ossett, a small town on the outskirts of Wakefield.

“Ossett?” Souter repeated. “That would make sense.”

“One more thing, there’s no record of any National Insurance contributions for nearly a year, so don’t be surprised if he’s moved.”

“You’re a star, Keith.”

“So are we even?”

“We’ll see.” Souter ended the call.

Janey Clarke took her cue and bobbed her head above the half-height partition that separated her workstation from the others in the open-plan office. “Don’t forget, you’ve got to be in the Crown Court for eleven. The French teacher and the two sixteen year-olds, remember?”

“Oh, shit,” he said, “I don’t suppose you could cover that, could you, Janey?”

She brightened up. “Ooh, thanks, Bob. I thought you’d want to keep hold of that one. I could just imagine you enjoying yourself with the headlines and quotes. You know, full of innuendo.”

He laughed. “I would have, but I need to do a bit more on these drugs raids this morning. Jim Fowler from the Manchester Evening News wants to compare notes with the raids over there.”

Janey grabbed her bag and put on her coat. “What puzzles me is how she got caught in the first place. I mean, two testosterone overloaded lads with the opportunity to indulge their fantasies. I can’t imagine they’d report her.”

“Before you say it, Janey, like all blokes, they couldn’t keep quiet about it, they had to tell their mates. Then
they
got pissed off because
they
weren’t getting any share of the action, word got out and one of the parents picks up on the conversations and goes berserk.”

“As if I’d class all men the same.”

“And listen, I want
all
the details, the ones you can’t print.”

“Perv,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the door.

47

“I hate bloody journalists,” came the unmistakable voice of Darby from within the CID room. “They’re just like dogs.”

“What, you mean, never giving up? Like with a bone?” Newell responded.

“No,” came the measured reply. “They’ve always got their noses in other people’s shit.”

At that moment, Strong made his entrance. “Your eloquent use of the English language never ceases to amaze me, John,” Strong said, prompting stifled laughs from the CID officers gathered in the incident room that died quickly to an embarrassed silence.

Stainmore broke it after a few seconds. “The Enforcer’s looking for you, guv.”

“I know, Kelly, thanks. So what’s the big development?”

Again, a few nervous looks and officers shuffling their feet.

“Come on, what?”

“You haven’t seen this, then?” Ormerod asked rhetorically, as he handed Strong a copy of that morning’s Yorkshire Post.

‘Another Miscarriage of Justice,’
the headlines blazed out. Strong felt a knot form in his stomach. He spotted the small credit below the main title,
‘Robert Souter, Crime Correspondent’
, and a quick scan of the text confirmed his thoughts – Donald Summers’ latest effort to bring his brother, Paul’s, case back into the public eye. No wonder Souter had been avoiding him.

And now, Strong thought, this was why Cunningham had called him back to the station in such a sharp manner. Strong was annoyed on two counts. Firstly, he had wanted to find out more about the unidentified man who had obviously upset Rosie Hudson at Billy Montgomery’s funeral. Secondly,
he
wanted to choose the timing of his next meeting with Cunningham. Still, he would see what his boss had to say and play things by ear. The most important thing was to get himself back on the Williams enquiry and move it on in the right direction. Above all, he told himself, just keep calm.

A terse ‘Come,’ answered Strong’s knock on Cunningham’s office door. Walking in, newspaper in hand, Strong noted DCI Cunningham was seated behind his desk with a copy of the same article spread out in front of him.

Cunningham glanced up over the top of his reading glasses before resuming his study of the newspaper. “You’ve seen it then,” he snarled.

“Just now.” Strong deliberately omitting ‘sir’.

“What the hell’s going on, Colin? I told you to keep a lid on things. We didn’t want all this blowing up again. And this.” He prodded the paper with his forefinger. “This … Souter character. Where’s he getting all his information from? It’s got to be from your team.”

“My team? Since the last time I was in this room I thought they were your team.”

Cunningham flushed up. “Now don’t you be such a smart arse! You were running this investigation for the first ten days or so, I’ve only been back since yesterday.”

“Well maybe so, but the point to make is that it may not be our team,” Strong replied. “It could be any one of a number of sources – forensics, uniform – you know how it is, an overheard conversation in the canteen, anything.”

Cunningham looked disbelievingly. “However he got it,” he said slowly, “when I find out who was responsible … well, you know what I’m saying.”

“The other thing to bear in mind is that this is all froth.” Strong opened up his copy and searched for the phrases that had caught his eye earlier. “‘
A source close to the enquiry hinted,’
” he quoted. “
‘It has been suggested’
…
‘Rumours abound …’
Hardly what you’d call full of substance is it?”

“Doesn’t matter, the objective has been satisfied – to get the story back on the front page and start casting doubts in the public’s mind.” Cunningham leaned back in his seat, removed the half-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God knows we’ve got enough problems getting cooperation from Joe Public as it is without stories like this reappearing at regular intervals.”

Strong remained silent.

“Anyway, you say there’s no substance to it but, this bit here,” glasses back on, “
‘a significant find during the course of an ongoing investigation has cast serious doubts over the validity of Paul Summers’ conviction.’
Now what else can he be talking about except that bloody metal case you and Stainmore keep rattling on about. I tell you, he knows what we’re up to, Colin. And that information can only have come from within the investigation team.”

The adrenaline pumped through Strong’s veins and he only hoped he hadn’t coloured up. Although he knew he hadn’t told Souter about the trophy case, if it became known that the two of them were close, no one would believe that. Souter had known all sorts of things before he’d spoken to Strong, that was plain, but whether he’d obtained his knowledge through Donald Summers or some other third party was still a mystery. But Cunningham was right, Souter had a good source.

Strong took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he considered exactly how to continue the discussion.

“Something else on your mind?” Cunningham asked.

“Look, there’s no easy way to ask this, but have you ever considered that Summers might not be guilty?”

Again, the colour intensified in Cunningham’s cheeks as he slowly rose from his chair. “Are you deliberately trying to wind me up, DI Strong?”

“Look, you might not believe it but I’m trying to help you here.”

With both massive fists resting on the desk as he leaned forward, Cunningham looked Strong straight in the eye. “What makes you think I’d need any help from you?”

“You are aware whose property was raided by the Drugs Squad this morning?”

Cunningham look puzzled. “What the Hell are you going on about?”

Another sharp breath then Strong went on, “Was Frank Carr blackmailing you?”

“Frank Carr, that jumped up little bastard? What the fuck … I don’t believe you just asked me that.”

“If he wasn’t already, I think he may have had plans to.”

Cunningham snorted. “Me? What could that weasel possibly have on me?”

“His was one of the properties raided and I was there.” He drew a breath. “Hidden in a drawer in his office, I found these.” Strong pulled the envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk in front of the DCI.

Cunningham sat back down in his chair. He put his glasses back on, opened the envelope, and pulled out the six photographs. As he flicked through each one his flushed cheeks grew paler and shock registered on his face.

“What the … How did … I …” Cunningham struggled for words.

“Now, I know it might not be your best side but I don’t think you could be mistaken for anyone else,” Strong couldn’t resist commenting. “And, if I’m not mistaken, that looks pretty much like Kathy Sharp, although I’ve never seen her in that state of undress before.”

Cunningham looked up at Strong. His lips moved but no sound came out.

Strong sat down in the chair in front of the DCI’s desk. “Look, Jack,” he said quietly, “You’re a good copper. One of the best. You’re not the first to let your groin rule your head. And I’m not here to hang you out to dry. All I’m concerned with is whether an innocent man is in prison for something he didn’t do. I just want to be allowed to investigate this fully. I’ll do everything I can to play down your part – if indeed that proves to be the case. I might be totally wrong here but I’ve got to find out.”

Cunningham removed his glasses once more and rubbed both eyes with his hands. Finally, he leaned back, took a breath and considered his reply. “So who else knows about these?”

“Only DCI Matheson. I had to show him. He recognised you as well.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Cunningham swung to the side in his chair and seemed to stare at the sporting mementos on the shelf for a few seconds. “He’s a straight up bloke, Jim Matheson. I’m assuming they’re logged somewhere?”

“They’re listed as ‘one packet of six photographs with negatives’ in the evidence log, but I managed to persuade Jim to let me hang on to them for now. But I will have to return them when he needs them.”

Cunningham swung back to face Strong. “You need to believe me that when Summers was sent down, I
was
sure he was guilty. It’s only his brother banging on about it that makes people start to doubt that. And then that necklace turns up.” He shook his head. “Christ what a mess.”

“Things might not be that bad,” Strong replied. “If the evidence at the time pointed to Summers guilt then that’s how it was. Twenty-twenty hindsight is fantastic but they can’t condemn you for that.”

“Come on, Colin, I know you’re trying to put a gloss on it but when they go back and talk to Irene Nicholson again … well, I’m sure you already have … she’ll tell you how we put pressure on her to confirm Summers identity. All because … well … we wanted a result too much.” Cunningham picked up the photos once more and, after another leaf through, put them back in the envelope. “Here, you best take care of these,” he said, handing the packet back to Strong. “Don’t lose them. I’d hate to think two of us would be ruined because of me.”

“So what happens now?”

“I’ll give Jim Matheson a call. But I think it best you come back to work the Williams case.”

48

Stainmore joined Strong at the station’s rear doorway leading on to the yard. “Was it that bad?” She nodded towards his cigar.

“Put it this way, Kelly, I’m back on the case.”

“That’s brilliant, guv. How did you manage that?”

“Best you don’t know,” he said, avoiding eye contact. He should have felt triumphant, victorious, at the very least pleased with himself. But he felt none of those things. He was disappointed, depressed, sad. Cunningham might be belligerent and awkward to deal with sometimes but Strong had admired him. He would have trusted him to the ends of the earth. He supposed he still did to some extent. Only the stupid big sod had been tempted by the sins of the flesh. And the very attractive flesh of Kathy Sharp at that. Still no excuse for putting an innocent man behind bars for years, though. But the job wasn’t done yet. He still had to find whoever had attacked Irene Nicholson and all the others. Only then would justice be done.

He took a draw of his cigar, dismissed his thoughts then turned to Stainmore. “So, where are you with your investigations?”

“This is back on officially, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I’m trying to trace Denise Draper last heard of in Huddersfield, but we’re going back to 1987. Anyway, what I came to tell you is that Jake Hinchcliffe’s mother is in the front interview room. Says she wants to speak to you. Something about that e-fit in the papers.”

“Ah, well, get her a cup of tea and I’ll be in when I’ve finished this.”

“Already done that, guv. Do you want me to sit in as well?”

“Yes, why not.” Strong took another drag of his cigar.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll let the team know you’re back. They’ll be chuffed.”

Sylvia Hinchcliffe, dressed in another gaudy ill-fitting tracksuit, was huddled over a cup of tea when Strong and Stainmore walked into the room and introduced themselves.

“I understand you have some information for us, Mrs. Hinchcliffe?” Strong began. They sat down opposite.

“You’ve no news on my son, then?” she asked.

“There’s nothing I can tell you at the moment,” Strong said. “Now, you mentioned the e-fit we released to the press.”

“Yes, that’s right. Well, I wouldn’t normally talk to you lot but I’m worried about John and it just seemed too much of a coincidence.”

“Mrs Hinchcliffe, can we start at the beginning, please?”

“Well, it’s him, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That bloke in your drawing. He called round last week looking for our John.”

Strong and Stainmore exchanged looks before he continued, “Sorry, let me get this straight, you’re saying the man we’re looking for paid you a visit last week?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

“When was this exactly?”

“It was last Wednesday, about twelve. I was just sitting down to watch one of my programmes when there was a knock on the door. I was a bit suspicious at first when he was asking if my son was in. Then, a little later, he repeated his name, John, when I asked him if that’s who he meant.”