Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (4 page)

“So,” Wilson said, once they’d settled in to the picnic table seating that aided the illusion of being outdoors, “a top job at the Post. Good luck to you, Bob. I always thought you’d make it.” He raised his glass to Souter.

“Thanks, mate. How’s life been treating you?” Not that well by the look of you, he thought, as he took in Wilson’s bloated face, double chins and straggly thin grey hair.

“Not too bad, I suppose, if you ignore the fact that Wednesday will probably get relegated this season and I can’t see United making it back to the Premiership, so Sheffield could be a bleak city next season.”

“Still, look on the bright side - that would mean two local derbies.”

“True.”

The conversation paused as two young women who had sat down at the next table struggled to relieve themselves of their coats. Finally breaking free, one strained to contain her ample breasts beneath a low-cut, red lambswool jumper. The other, not quite so well endowed, wore a sheer white blouse.

“Absolutely bloody lovely," Wilson said under his breath. “Like two bald blokes fighting under a blanket.” He’d frozen, glass held halfway to his mouth, eyes fixated.

Souter watched his friend, bemused and just managed to avert his gaze when the red top became aware of the attention she’d created. “Pervs,” she said to her mate.

Wilson turned back to Souter. “I can’t help it, I don’t get much pleasure in life these days, not since …. well, never mind.”

Souter laughed and shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, Jimmy. Still the same old lecherous sod.”

“Hey, less of the old. Anyway, you haven’t done too badly for yourself in your time. What about Jennifer from the office? I was sorry to hear that didn’t last long, but there again, you did put it about a bit. Didn’t you once have one of the barmaids from here?”

“Well, that was a long time ago. Plenty of water under the bridge since then.”

They sat in silence for a while. They were painful thoughts for Souter, but Wilson couldn’t know just how painful.

“How’s that wee boy of yours?” Wilson asked. “He must be growing up … fast …” His voice trailed off as he saw the expression on Souter’s face.

“Adam. His name was Adam,” Souter said, struggling to keep control. “And he died last August. In Canada. Jennifer and that fucking shithead she went off with took him over there.” Souter’s eyes glistened. “He would have been eight last week.”

“Aw, Jesus, Bob. I’m … oh but how, I mean …?”

“He drowned.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Shit, I’m sorry, mate.” The old hack paused awkwardly. “Shall I get us another in?”

Souter stood up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “No, you’re all right.” He wiped his face and blew his nose. “I’m just off for a pee. I’ll get them in on the way back.”

When he returned about five minutes later, Souter felt brighter. “So, what’s all the latest gossip then? You’ve generally got your finger on the pulse, Jimmy.”

“Where do you want me to start? Football? Then how about the Premiership star who spends a fortune shoving white powder up his nose at sex parties in Huddersfield?”

Souter laughed, “Huddersfield? Since when did Huddersfield become the centre of the raving world? No, sport’s outside my remit these days – Crime and Home Affairs, that’s what I deal with now.”

“Okay,” Wilson retorted, “how about the traffic cop based in Leeds who left his wife of ten years last month for a boutique owner from Harrogate?”

“Blokes are having it off with other women every day. That’s hardly big news.”

“It is if the boutique owner’s called Tristran.”

Souter spluttered on his beer. “Fucking Hell, Jimmy, where did you get that from?”

Wilson tapped the side of his nose. “Contacts,” he said, “contacts.”

Souter just shook his head.

“Listen, if you fancy it, I’ve got to cover the game at Maine Road on Saturday. Come with me if you want. Cheer you up. I know it’s only Man City against Sheffield United but … be like old times for you.”

Souter thought for a second. “Yeah,” he said, “I might just do that. I’ll let you know.”

They sipped some more of their beer before Wilson asked where Souter was staying.

“I’m just crashing at my sister, Jean’s, house in Wakefield for a week or two.”

Wilson looked thoughtful. “Wakefield? That’s where that DCI’s based. Cunningham, isn’t it?”

“What are you on about?”

“That last case you reported before you left. Summers, wasn’t it? Sexual assault on that barmaid. I’m sure it was Cunningham that put him away?”

“Yeah,” Souter remembered, “that’s right. He was a DI then.”

“I didn’t think it would have done his promotion prospects any harm. And do you remember a young bit of skirt working the case with him?”

“I think so, why?”

“Rumour has it he was nobbing it.”

“There you go, I told you blokes are at it every day. She was a bit of a looker, if I remember, lucky bastard. But Summers maintained his innocence, though. His brother, oh I can’t remember his name now, he was always making noises about how it was a stitch up.”

“He might have a point,” Wilson said. “Anyway, she disappeared off the scene pretty quickly after that. Promotion and London, they said. Then he got made up. Slippery bastard. It might be worth keeping him on your radar.”

“Thanks for that.” Souter once again thought of his old mate Colin Strong. “I’ll bear that in mind. Now, one for the road?”

7

Strong was in his office reviewing the files on the case that was due in court the following day when Atkinson knocked on his door.

“Ah, Malcolm, how did you get on with our Geordie Jock?”

“We charged him with handling and released him on bail last night, guv.”

“Did you speak to Rosie Hudson?”

“Yes, she confirmed he was with her on November the 28
^th
and probably on the other dates too but she couldn’t be sure. Also, she claims she knew nothing about the videos and TV’s we found there.”

“And, let me guess, she doesn’t know any of Montgomery’s friends either.”

Atkinson merely nodded confirmation.

“All right then, get a list of his known associates, see how many have been interviewed before and how many have previous for burglary. Check their stories for the nights in question.”

Atkinson placed a small rectangular package on Strong’s desk. “And Sgt. Sidebotham asked me to give you this.”

Strong studied it for a moment but when Atkinson turned to leave, called him back. “Oh, one more thing, see if you can dig up any background information on Montgomery. For instance, it says in his file he’s divorced. See if you can find out from whom; did they have any kids, that sort of thing.”

Atkinson looked puzzled.

“Something wrong, constable?”

Atkinson noted the change of tone. “No, guv,” he replied, closing the door behind him.

Satisfied he’d gone, Strong brought a small cassette player and a copy of Montgomery’s interview tape from the middle drawer of his desk. Unwrapping Sidebotham’s package revealed another tape, which he placed in the machine then pushed the play button. The first words in that familiar, slightly lispy, north-east accent emerged from the player.

‘I’m Jack.

‘I see you are still having no luck catching me …’

This was the notorious message sent to taunt George Oldfield, the senior detective leading the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper in 1979.

When it had finished, he played the copy of Montgomery’s interview, then stopped both tapes at the points he wished to study further.

‘I have the greatest of respect for you, George, but Lord; you are no nearer to catching me now than four years ago.’

The voice from twenty odd years before sounded just as menacing and mocking as he remembered it.

‘
Lord! How many more times, I bought them from some bloke in a pub!’

Billy Montgomery’s voice didn’t sound as similar as he first thought. Truth to tell it was really only his use of
‘Lord’
that could be considered similar. Was he letting his imagination run away with him? Was he likely to embarrass himself? In the end, it
was
over twenty years ago, does it really matter? He took a small cigar from the pack in his pocket, walked over to the window, opened it slightly, then lit up.

Of course it matters. The person responsible for the tape and the previous letters distracted the police enquiries from the true culprit. At least three more victims lost their lives at the hands of Peter Sutcliffe. The perpetrator of the cruel hoax was as responsible as Sutcliffe himself. “Of course it matters,” Strong said out loud.

An hour and a couple of phone calls later, Strong stepped into the office of Dr. Jacob Goldsmith at Leeds University. Dr. Goldsmith was a researcher in the Department of Linguistics and Phonetics. A small man with dark, tightly curled hair, he remembered meeting Colin Strong a year or two before and was explaining that his most recent project was a study into how children acquire accents based on social-sensitivity. The study was focusing on Tyneside.

“Actually, doctor,” Strong said, “I’m interested in an area not far from Tyneside. Wearside actually.”

“Please, call me Jacob.” Dr. Goldsmith adjusted the small rectangular-lensed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Those two areas are very interesting. They’re similar but markedly different, if you know how to listen. So how can I help you? I assume this is official police business?”

“Well, actually, I’d prefer it if this was just between ourselves for now. It may become official later but, for the moment …”

“I quite understand,” Dr. Goldsmith said. “Now, what have you got for me?”

Strong produced the two tapes from his jacket pocket. “I’d like your opinion on these if you would. If you could listen to this one first, I think you may be familiar with it.”

The expert took the ‘Ripper’ tape and placed it in the equipment on the desk behind him. As soon as it began, he nodded. “Yes, I understand we did considerable work on this, oh, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

“1979, yes.”

“That was before my time here, obviously, but the data should still be available somewhere.”

“Now this one please. Recorded yesterday.”

Dr. Goldsmith repeated the operation for Montgomery’s interview tape and when that had finished, he was silent for a moment. “You think this may be the same man?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Well, the time differential will be significant. People’s accents can change, especially over such a long period; they age for one thing, lose teeth, or have false ones.” Dr. Goldsmith was thoughtful. “This man, the one on the second tape, he’s travelled widely in Britain. Predominantly he speaks with a Glaswegian accent which is very powerful and tends to swamp others. People from that area tend not to lose their accents as easily as other Scottish regions, Edinburgh, say. He has also lived in West Yorkshire for some time, that is evident too.” Strong nodded, as Dr. Goldsmith continued, “But, I can see why you have some suspicions. I won’t be able to give you a full opinion until I run some tests. Can you leave these with me?”

“Of course.” Strong handed his business card across the table. “As I said before though, if this could be kept strictly between ourselves …”

“Sure. I’ll give you a call.”

On his way back to the car, Strong switched on his mobile phone. He detested them in some ways but they were now a necessary part of the job. Almost immediately, it rang.

“Atkinson here, Sir. I’ve got some info for you on Montgomery as you requested.”

“Go on.”

“It seems he was married to a Sheila McDougal and had two kids, a boy and a girl we think, but not a hundred per cent on that one. They divorced in 1973.”

“Well done, Malcolm. Where did you get all this by the way?”

“In Montgomery’s notes, I dug up the names of the arresting officers for his first offences back in Glasgow. A quick call to Strathclyde Police and I discover one of them is now a sergeant, still at Govan and due to retire in a couple of months. He was very helpful.”

“Good work.” Smart lad, Strong thought.

8

The house was in darkness when Strong arrived home. Steady rain forced a quick dash to the front door. Once inside, he switched on the hall light and took off his coat. On the table next to the phone was a note from Amanda to say she had walked Jasper and gone off to the pictures. Laura obviously wasn’t back yet.

In the kitchen, he opened the freezer and had a quick look at what was available to eat. Some frozen chilli prepared at the weekend looked interesting.
Not hungry enough to do it justice just yet, he decided a beer from the fridge was what was required. Jasper looked up from his basket, thumped his tail twice then went back to sleep.

He paused in the hallway and reflected. What a contrast to the hubbub at breakfast time this morning. There was nothing more depressing than an empty house that’s normally full of people, especially a large house. Three bedrooms, but soon only one would be in regular use. Amanda was still at home, sure, but the day was fast approaching when she’d be making her own way in the world. Graham was at Hull University and no doubt would never be resident again. Too busy enjoying himself, lucky sod, all those nubile students. Good luck to him.

Sitting down in the lounge with his drink, he began to wonder what sort of relationship Billy Montgomery had with his children. Did they keep in touch? Were they close or had they ever been close? Had they made more of their lives than their father?

He must have drifted off because the shrill notes from his mobile phone brought him sharply awake.

Strong pulled in to the open courtyard between a pair of faceless concrete tower blocks. Hardcastle House was to the left. Two marked police cars were already there alongside a dark blue transit van. As he ran through the heavy rain towards the main entrance, he was met by a uniformed constable sheltering in the doorway.

“Now then, Len, how are we doing?”

“I’m not so bad, Colin, it’s every other bugger that’s the problem.”