Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (35 page)

Thank you again,

Yours,

Rose Hudson.’

Janice watched as he re-read parts of the letter before she interrupted his concentration. “Is it important, Mr Strong? Does she tell you who it was?”

He measured his reply. “Well, I think it could be significant but I need to look into this further.” He stood up as if to leave but stopped, as he thought of something else. “Tell me, Mrs Roberts, when you were at Billy’s funeral the other day, who was the man who upset your sister?”

“Oh, him, that was Billy’s son, Alan. Nasty little … I’ve never liked him,” she scowled. “But how did … were you there? Has he got something to do with all this?” She became agitated.

He put both hands up to placate her and sat back down. “Please, I’m only trying to piece together a full picture of your sister and her home life. Do you know where he lives?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Did Rosie tell you what their little contretemps was all about?”

“No, she wouldn’t say. It’s him, though, isn’t it?” She began to fluster. “That’s what you think. Rose told you as much in there, didn’t she?”

“Look,” he said in calming tones, “as soon as I can tell you any more, I will but I promise you this, Mrs Roberts, I’ll find whoever did this to your sister.” He stood and opened the door. “In the meantime, I assume you’ll want to get back to the hospital?”

“Yes, I came here on the way.” She stood to leave.

“Can we arrange a lift for you?”

“That’s okay, thank-you, I have my car.”

Strong showed her out and rushed back up the stairs, two at a time to the CID room. It was a hive of activity but Ormerod wasn’t at his desk. He swept the office for him before asking Darby, who was at the nearest table, “Seen Luke, John?”

“Gone for a piss, I think, guv.”

He turned to head for the toilets and collided with his man in the doorway. “Sorry, Luke, you said you’d had an anonymous call, naming our e-fit?”

“That’s right.” Ormerod returned to his desk and rummaged through his notes.

“Let me guess,” said Strong, “would it be Alan Montgomery?”

“How did you know that, guv?”

He just smiled. “You also said an address?”

“Yes.” He picked up the slip of paper and handed it to Strong.

“Right, come with me Luke,” he said, then headed off towards Cunningham’s office.

55

Calder Street was an archetypal northern street. The river giving rise to its name ran behind the brick-built terraced houses on one side, whilst similar streets ran in a grid layout behind identical houses on the other. The front doors opened directly into the living rooms from the street whilst ginnels ran down behind giving access to small rear yards.

Souter received no answer from number twenty-seven and walked back to his car. He’d prepared himself for a long wait, parking between a transit van behind him and an estate car in front. This afforded him a view up Albert Street, which ran into Calder Street at right angles between numbers thirty-three and thirty-five. From there, he could watch for any activity to and from the ginnel at the rear of the houses as well as the front door and up the street in front of him.

Half an hour later, Strong and Ormerod arrived. Cunningham had seemed as excited about the latest developments as Strong and readily concurred with his decision to bring Alan Montgomery in for questioning. They pulled up outside the house, hoping he hadn’t already fled. Ormerod went round the back whilst Strong knocked on the front door. He peered in through the room window. From what he could see through the net curtain, Montgomery’s possessions were still there. After several minutes, Ormerod returned and shrugged a negative to Strong.

Back in the car, Strong contacted the incident room and instructed Darby and Kirkland to come down and keep watch on the house from a discreet distance. Ten minutes later, the two DC’s parked their Ford Focus about fifty yards down on the opposite side. Satisfied their colleagues were in position, Strong and Ormerod pulled away and headed off to Pinderfields. As well as checking on Rosie’s progress, he had an important question that required an expert medical opinion.

Souter observed all the police activity, culminating in Strong performing a U turn before departing. He suspected Alison Hewitt had informed them about Montgomery, only she’d given him a slight advantage by telling him yesterday. However, what benefit he had, had evaporated now that the police were on the scent. From the time Strong had spent in the car after his initial approach to the house, he knew another team of detectives would be further up the street keeping a close watch. He couldn’t see them, several vehicles, including a large old van, obstructed his view, but he could sense them. He’d be surprised if Montgomery didn’t return. After all, there was nothing fresh in last night’s papers to suggest any connection between the attack on Rosie Hudson and the e-fit that had been published on Monday. Besides, all his possessions seemed to be inside. It was a risk. He didn’t know how Montgomery would react. However, he needed to speak to him before CID arrested him if he was to get a story. And that, after all, was his job.

Alan Montgomery had initially panicked when he made good his escape from Rosie’s flat. Things had definitely not gone to plan. How come those two tossers Williams and Hinchcliffe picked his house to do over in the first place? More amazingly, why did his father have to be involved with them? Still, no sense in dwelling on that now, top priority was what he’d been good at all his life, survival.

He had spent the rest of the previous day organising somewhere to rent in Sheffield, a bed-sit in the Crookesmoor area. Not ideal, but it would do for a week or two until he found somewhere more suitable. More to the point, it gave him somewhere to get his head down and away from where all the activity might be. He spent a restless night going over everything he thought the police might have to go on. There was nothing to connect him with Williams’ place but he was annoyed at the publication of that e-fit. It must have been from the bloke behind the bar in the Malt Shovel. He didn’t think the old dragon that interrupted him at Rosie’s yesterday had spotted him. According to the latest newspaper reports, the slag was still clinging on. If she regained consciousness and told her story, he was done for. Now, he drove back for one last visit to collect his things and move on; not for the first time in his life.

Strong recognised Johnson. He was the young constable who, along with Sergeant Rawlings, had made the grim discovery in Williams’ flat at what seemed like an age ago. He was on victim watch at Pinderfields ICU.

“What’s the latest?” Strong asked him.

“No change, sir. That’s her sister in there.” He nodded towards the doors of the room. “And the doctor’s just gone in.”

Through the vision panel in the door, Strong saw Janice Roberts seated by the side of Rosie’s bed, holding her sister’s hand. The female doctor was checking the displays on various machines and monitors that surrounded the patient. She engaged in a brief conversation with Janice and, after a few minutes, came out.

“Excuse me, doctor,” Strong said, displaying his warrant card. “Can I have a quick word?”

“If it’s about Ms Hudson, I’m afraid I can’t discuss any details of her condition with you, apart from what you can see. She still remains unconscious and on the life-support systems.”

“Yes, I know. It doesn’t look promising, does it?” he said, rhetorically. “But I’d like to ask you a medical question, not directly related to this case.”

“If it’s quick and you walk with me, I’ll do what I can. I’ve got to go down to A&E.”

“Thanks.” He co-ordinated his stride with hers. “What I’d like to know is, is it possible for a son to have the same blood group as his father, regardless of what group his mother was or how rare that blood group might be?”

“Well, yes, it’s definitely possible.”

“So, if it’s possible, what’s the probability?”

“If the mother has a different blood group to the father, it’s fifty per cent but, if the mother is the same as the father, then it would be one hundred per cent.”

He was thoughtful.

“I don’t know if that’s of any use to you?” she went on.

“Oh, yes. Thank you doctor. That’s very helpful.”

They had reached a set of double doors. Strong held them open but obstructed the doctor’s progress. “Look, I know you told me you couldn’t discuss Rose Hudson’s condition but she’s not just a victim to me. Rosie and I go back a long way.”

The doctor studied him as she considered her reply. “Seeing as you’re so keen on percentages, I’d put it significantly less than fifty.”

Alan Montgomery prided himself in the fact that he was careful. Recent lapses concerned him. He thought it best to avoid the front door, even driving down Calder Street itself. For one thing, if the police were on to him, they’d be watching for his arrival. For another, the curtain twitchers may have their own suspicions and call the police when they see him. He drew to a halt in Albert Street. There were no suspicious-looking vehicles parked nearby. All the cars seemed empty and the only van that could have housed a police surveillance team belonged to the bloke from the television rental company who was rumoured to be giving one to the tarty piece at number forty-two.

He got out of the Fiesta, zipped up his anorak and dodged down the alleyway behind his terrace. Once in the house, he started packing the essentials into a couple of suitcases. His passport was a must, along with a couple of photos of his mother. He sifted through drawers containing the other detritus of decades of continual flux between rented properties. He paused when his hand came into contact with a novelty cigarette lighter he had acquired many years ago. It was in the form of a World War Two Luger pistol. Intrigued, he wondered if it still worked. He pulled a packet of Rothmans from his jacket pocket, selected a cigarette and tried to obtain a flame from the lighter.

He jumped, as a sudden knock at the door shot his heart rate off the scale.

Souter was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his surveillance operation. Only the entertainment of an old woman conducting a conversation with what appeared to be an even older dog she was walking kept total boredom from setting in. Finally, he spotted the red nose of the Ford Fiesta drawing slowly to a halt by the alleyway on Albert Street. The driver unclipped his seat belt and cast nervous glances all round. At first, it was difficult to identify the man but once he stepped out of the car, Souter was in no doubt that Alan Montgomery had returned. He watched him quickly slip down the back ginnel.

His pulse quickened as he realised he could be within reach of his goal of interviewing this man before the police. It was a risky strategy but one he felt worth following. He was hoping they wouldn’t have considered the possibility of Montgomery parking on a different street and making his way into the house from the rear. He’d give it a couple of minutes, not only to let Montgomery settle down to whatever it was he’d come back for, but just to make sure the police hadn’t spotted their quarry.

At last, he decided it was time to make his move. He got out and carefully locked the car before strolling across the road towards the house. Keeping his head down, he could see in his peripheral vision at least two men sitting in a Ford Focus parked further up the street on the opposite side.

One last deep breath and he knocked on the door.

Strong parked his car at the top of the street and wandered down towards his colleagues sitting in the Focus. Kirkland was in the driver’s seat with Darby alongside. He opened the rear door and climbed into the back.

“Anything?” he enquired, leaning forward, forearms on the back of the front seats.

“Quiet as the grave, guv,” Kirkland offered.

“Apart from her.” Darby nodded towards the elderly woman chuntering away to an old poodle. The dog was carrying one of his mistress’s gloves in its mouth. “Do you know,” he continued, with more than a hint of irony, “sometimes I feel just like that dog.”

“What are you on about?” Kirkland asked.

“You know, performing no useful function other than being allowed to feel useful.”

“Is that what it’s like with this new bird of yours, then?”

“Oh no, I get to carry more than her glove in my mouth.” Darby smirked.

“Go on then, John,” Strong joined in. “Who is she? Do we know her?”

“I’m not letting you lot anywhere near her.”

“At least give us a name,” Kirkland implored.

“All right, if only to shut you up. She’s called Jean, and that’s as much as I’m saying.”

“So what does she do, this Jean?” Kirkland persisted.

“How old do you think that dog is?” Darby asked.

Strong took pity on him. “Oh, I don’t know, twelve, maybe fourteen.”

“Of course your dog died just recently, didn’t he, guv? How old was he?”

“Old Jasper … he was fifteen.”

“It’s funny, you know,” Kirkland pondered, “they reckon dogs are quite intelligent but I’ve had mine for five years and you’d think by now that when I go to take him for a walk, he’d remember that the front door opens inwards.”

Strong and Darby smiled.

“Every bloody time he goes right up to it and I’ve got to bugger about pulling him back so’s I can get the door open!”

“Have you ever noticed with dogs as well,” Darby said, “every time the doorbell goes, they always think it’s for them.”

“Hey!” Kirkland exclaimed, bringing the sounds of hilarity to an abrupt end. “Who’s that?”

“Jesus Christ!” Strong said between clenched teeth. “What’s he doing here?”

“That’s not him, is it?” Darby asked.

“That,” Strong informed the pair, “is Robert Souter, journalist for the Post.”

Kirkland turned round. “Not the pratt who wrote about Summers the other day?”

“The very same. Bloody Hell, how did he know about this?” Strong paused for a second as a sudden realisation swept through him. “This new woman in your life, John? Jean, you said. She’s not about five eight with short cropped blonde hair? Husband Trevor pissed off with his secretary last year?”