Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (5 page)

Strong smiled. “How’s that boy of yours?”

“Gets married next year, thank God. Off our hands at last.”

“Don’t you believe it. So, what have we got then?”

Len Bradshaw was his usual succinct self. “Suspicious death; tenth floor. Environmental Health called to investigate a foul smell reported by the neighbours. They couldn’t achieve entry, became suspicious and called us in.”

“Been there some time then?”

“Not very pleasant.”

“Do we know the identity?”

“According to the neighbour, he’s Fred Williams, otherwise known to us as Frederick Charles Williams.”

He was about to press the lift button.

“I wouldn’t, sir.”

Strong’s expression said it all. “Tenth floor, you said?”

Bradshaw nodded.

“Bollocks! Why don’t you lot do something about the little shits round here?”

“Flat 106, sir.” The constable ignored his superior’s rhetorical question. “The duty Inspector is up there with the doctor. Sgt. Rawlings and PC Johnson are there too; they were first on the scene. SOCO have turned up. Oh, and your DC Atkinson as well.”

Strong’s chest felt tight when he finally stepped out onto the tenth floor. He made a mental note to give up smoking his favourite small cigars. As it might be the last chance he’d get for a while, he took a few gasps of the chill night air before making his way through the knot of onlookers that had gathered by the stair well. A young uniformed constable was standing with his clipboard by the taped off area of the corridor leading to the flat. Even in the artificial lighting, he looked a ghastly shade of grey. Strong showed his warrant card. “Your first one, son?”

“Yes, sir,” the constable replied, noting Strong’s identity and time of arrival.

He picked up a set of protective white clothing from the box at the officer’s feet and began to put it on. “It does get easier,” he said, “but you never forget your first.”

“Sir.”

Finally, he produced a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket before making his way to the flat’s door. Atkinson, clad in similar fashion met him there and indicated inside. “He’s in the bedroom, guv. The Inspector is with Doctor Symons. Just going through the formalities.”

“I’ll bet Doc Symons is pleased at being called out this time of night,” Strong quipped.

With that, the doctor emerged at the end of the hallway. He was a tall, slim man, in his late fifties. He pulled his mask clear of his thin, deeply-lined face that always seemed to have a permanent tan. “Colin,” he said, “I thought I recognised your voice.”

“Andrew, a bit unpleasant this one, they tell me.”

“Put it this way, I think I’m on fairly safe ground to certify life extinct.”

“Any idea how long?”

“Well, you’ll need a detailed forensic report to be more specific, but I’d guess four to eight weeks.”

“What gives you grounds for suspicion?”

“Apart from the state of his face, you mean? Notwithstanding the state of decomposition.”

Strong gave a wry smile.

Another white-suited figure emerged from the sitting room. “You copped for this one as well then, Colin?” the uniformed Inspector inquired.

“Short straw again. How are you, mate?”

“Can’t complain, you know.”

With a handkerchief to his face, Strong edged past the doctor and made a quick study of the room. The body lay face up on top of the bed, fully clothed. The curtains were drawn and the main light was on. A utility dressing table with mirror was directly in front of the window, a lace cover gracing the top with only a hairbrush on view. A matching wardrobe, the type with a blanket drawer at the bottom, stood against the wall opposite, its doors closed whilst a chest of drawers was against the other wall, near the foot of the bed.

A SOCO photographer was recording the scene.

He could see what the doctor meant. The head certainly looked to have suffered severe trauma. He turned round as Atkinson joined him in the bedroom.

“Is this exactly as he was found, Malcolm?”

“I think so, guv, except the light was off.”

“What’s that?” Strong indicated an old brown leather suitcase sticking out from under the bed.

Atkinson bent down to have a closer look.

“Bring that out and let’s take a look.”

With latex gloved hands, Atkinson pulled the suitcase carefully clear of the bed. Releasing the two catches and lifting the lid exposed two piles of pornographic magazines.

“Looks like he was studying to become a gynaecologist in his spare time. Anything else under there, Malcolm?”

“That looks like it.”

“Right, let’s have everyone else out and leave Scenes of Crime to do their job.”

As Atkinson left the room, Strong couldn’t resist opening the wardrobe doors. The few clothes had been pushed to one side, the remaining space filled with televisions and video recorders.

“Malcolm, just come and have a look at this,” Strong called out.

Atkinson looked surprised. “Well now, this looks similar to the find we had at Montgomery’s flat yesterday.”

Strong closed the door and made his way back into the hall. “Apart from Doctor Symons, has anyone else been in here?”

“Only Rawlings,” the uniformed Inspector responded from the corridor. “Young Johnson didn’t get past first view from the bedroom door.”

“I hope they kept their hands in their pockets, the pair of them,” Strong chided. “You do know the first one to have his dabs found at the scene buys drinks all round for the team?”

The uniformed Inspector merely shook his head and turned away, a slight smirk on his face.

Strong walked into the kitchen, taking in the details before addressing Atkinson, “What do we know so far?”

“We believe him to be Fred Williams.” Atkinson referred to his notebook. “But fingerprints or dental records should confirm that. Lived here on his own, apparently. He’s got a record, mostly minor stuff, shoplifting, burglary, bit of handling, that sort of thing. However, we did have him in for questioning on the Nicholson case about four years ago.”

“Oh, yes. I was on a special assignment in Leeds when that went down.” Strong was taking a cursory glance round the living room. “Nasty sexual attack. We put that perv Summers away for it in the end though, didn’t we?”

“Continues to deny it, though, and his brother keeps trying to campaign on his behalf,” Atkinson reminded him. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to one or two of the neighbours. Kept himself very much to himself. Nobody had seen him since before Christmas, but that wasn’t unusual, they reckoned.”

They were back on the outside corridor taking in some welcome fresh air. Doctor Symons was enjoying a cigarette.

Strong gestured towards the assembling crowd and spoke to Rawlings, “Get them further back out of the way, will you, Sergeant. Give ourselves a bit more room.”

Rawlings joined Johnson to disperse the curious, delighted to put some distance between himself and the flat.

Strong pulled out a small cigar from the packet that seemed to be constantly in his inside pocket. The doctor lit it for him.

“I must admit you’re a great advert for the medical profession, Andrew.”

Symons drew on his cigarette. “Everybody needs a little vice, Colin.”

“Hope this didn’t interrupt anything special?”

“Not really, just a take-away in front of the TV. Onion Bhajis, basmati rice, delicious.”

Strong smiled and shook his head as Atkinson’s expression changed to one of slight disgust. At times like these, Andrew Symons took great delight in trying to wind up police at the scene, especially the new boys.

“So,” Strong considered, “what do you make of this, Malcolm?”

“If you’ll pardon the pun, I thought something didn’t smell quite right when I arrived. But when Dr Symons confirmed the injuries to his head, I called you.”

“I can see why you had initial doubts,” Strong said. “The state of decomposition camouflages the injuries to some extent. The other thing is the position of the body. If you were going to bed, you’d take your clothes off and get under the sheets. Alternatively, if you were just going for a lie down, you’d at least take your shoes off. And if you were pissed, you probably wouldn’t lie down on your back as if you were being laid out in a coffin.

“There’s no evidence of any great blood loss in the bedroom that’s immediately apparent so I think it’s safe to say that he didn’t die where he was found. Someone moved the body and placed him on the bed after death, I’d say.”

“Despite putrefaction, I’d say that’s fair comment,” Symons agreed, “but, there again, you’re the detective.”

“Thanks, Andrew,” Strong responded ironically.

Symons had finished his smoke and was checking that all his equipment was back in his bag.

“Presumably, you’ll be conducting the post-mortem tomorrow?”

Symons nodded. “As soon as we get the body back to the mortuary. I’ll liaise with your SOCO chaps first.” The doctor set off to consult with them.

The uniformed Inspector joined them. “I’ll get my lads organised on some house to house. See what comes up.”

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked away.

Strong, enjoying the rest of his cigar, stood leaning on the walkway balustrade alongside Atkinson. “Didn’t the bedroom strike you as very tidy, apart from that old suitcase, of course?” Strong wondered. “I’ve seen a lot of places where blokes like him lived. They were always shit-holes for the most part. Then there was the kitchen and the living room – they were the same.”

“Well, yes, now you come to mention it. But there are some people who live on their own who are fastidiously tidy.”

“No dirty pots and pans, beer cans? Then why leave that suitcase where it would be found?” Strong was thinking out loud. “They must have seen all that electrical gear in the wardrobe. So robbery wasn’t the obvious motive, unless other stuff has gone missing. No doubt, we’ll find out if his wallet and money are still in his pockets.”

Atkinson said nothing.

Strong stubbed out his cigar, “You reckon Williams lived alone, Malcolm?”

“Apparently. Now and again though, he had the odd visitor – very odd sometimes the neighbour said.”

“Do we know who?”

“Not really. They didn’t go into any great detail, only that one or two were a bit unsavoury. There again, that’s all subjective and I suppose Williams himself could be described as pretty unsavoury.”

“Well, let’s find out who he or they might be. I want a list of all known associates.”

“Right.”

Atkinson wrote a few notes in his book then set off to speak to Rawlings.

Strong had a few words with the Scenes of Crime officers. A briefing meeting to review the findings of the SOCO search of Williams’ flat and all other information on the case was scheduled for eight o’clock the following morning back at Wood Street.

Deciding there was nothing further to be gained at the scene for the time being, Strong left and drove home through the centre of town. Despite being after midnight and the rain, which had eased, the place was bustling. He was observing the climax of the weekly northern ritual known colloquially as ‘grab-a-granny’ night. Hundreds were on the move, from pubs and clubs to curry houses or other establishments, known for their ‘after hours’ facilities. Some were involved in the search for taxis for the journey home, or someone else’s home if their luck was in. Uniforms in transit vans were keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.

Strong’s house appeared deserted when he arrived back home. At that hour, Laura and Amanda would be in bed. He used the back door to avoid disturbing them. As he opened it, a different smell let him know exactly what was waiting for him in the kitchen. An apologetic Jasper looked up from his bed, his tail thumping the floor a couple of times. It wasn’t his fault. No one had heard him to let him out. The old dog’s health was obviously deteriorating more quickly than he had first thought. The only positive aspect was that Jasper had had the good sense to deposit on the tiles rather than the carpeted area. Most of his career had been spent clearing up someone else’s mess.

9

“Bit of a messy one for you last night, Colin?” Sidebotham’s cheery face beamed from behind the front desk at Wood Street next morning. Strong looked puzzled so he continued, “Williams … last night.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, Bill, I thought you meant … Thanks for that tape yesterday, by the way.”

“Yes, I was wondering …” Sidebotham attempted to continue the conversation but Strong had already tapped in the security code to the door lock and disappeared into the bowels of the police station.

Breezing through a set of double doors and up the stairs to the first floor, he could hear the chatter emanating from the briefing room. A crescendo of laughter rose in response to some punch line as he entered.

“All right, you lot! Listen up!” The noise level died away as Strong looked round the room. “Frederick Charles Williams,” he began, “deceased of this parish; the reason we’re all gathered here this morning. Now you should all have had the chance to review his illustrious career.” He paused for effect. “But that shouldn’t make our enquiry into his death any less rigorous. Kelly, any news on the P.M.?”

Kelly Stainmore was thirty-two and had only been a Detective Sergeant for around four months. Apart from Strong, she was the highest ranking detective currently available for the enquiry. Flicking a stray strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear, she responded, “We should have a detailed report later this morning, but as you know, initial findings suggest death was caused by severe trauma to the head, indicating some form of sustained attack.”

“Right. Can you chase that up, please? I assume his identity has been confirmed?”

“Yes, fingerprints gave a positive match.”

“Good. I’d hate to think we were investigating the wrong murder.

“Malcolm, anything interesting from SOCO?”

“I believe they’re on their way in now, guv.”

With that, the door opened and a tall, bespectacled, balding man entered.

“You must be psychic, Malcolm,” Strong commented. Muffled chuckling slightly embarrassed the officer who had entered carrying a file and envelopes.