Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (7 page)

“Hello Rosie.”

“Well, well, well. Mr Strong, long time no see,” she greeted him, removing her glasses.

Strong thought this was more down to vanity than necessity. “Good to see you too.”

She studied his clothes. “Done well for yourself, I see. What is it now, DCI?”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Not that well then.”

“Perceptive as ever, Rosie. Do you mind if I come in?”

“I don’t do that sort of thing any more,” she jibed, “not that you ever asked me before.” She opened the door wide allowing him to pass.

“Not lost your sense of fun, I see.” He made his way up the hallway, passing the bathroom to his left and the open door of the main bedroom on his right, as she closed the front door. He noticed the bedroom looked neat and tidy. Walking on into the sitting room, he looked around at the décor and furnishings as he waited for her to follow. The gas fire was on low with one of the three elements glowing, a romantic novel lay open face down on the arm of a comfortable looking armchair while a packet of cigarettes and a lighter rested on the other.

“Sit yourself down,” she said. “Can I get you a drink of something, tea, coffee? I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger, but there again, you’re on duty I assume.”

“No thanks.” He took a seat in the middle of the three-seater settee. “I just wanted a little chat that’s all.”

She sat in the armchair and crossed her still quite shapely legs. Her time on the streets had taken its toll on her facial features, Strong thought, which was a pity, because when he’d first met her, nearly twenty years ago now, she was a real looker.

“I suppose this is about that little business yesterday,” she mused.

“Which business would that be?”

She stiffened a little. “Why
are
you here, Mr Strong?”

“I just wanted to ask you a bit of background about Billy. Like how long have you two been together?”

“Look, Billy’s been good to me. You know my past as well as anybody in this town. Not many men would have taken me on with that baggage. He trusts me. I’m not going to betray that trust.”

“I’m not asking you to betray him, Rosie, I just want to understand what he’s like.”

As he was talking, she opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. He declined.

“I can see the bald statistics from his record,” he continued, “but that doesn’t tell me who he is.”

She lit up, took a long drag on her cigarette and considered her answer. “We met about four years ago now, in The Chantry. I’d given up my previous job and was pulling pints there.”

Strong was amused by this reference to her old profession.

“Billy was just another regular, in the pub, I mean. He’d come out the nick not long before. He was still a good-looking man back then, it’s only in the last year or so he’s aged. You know about the cancer, of course?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “It’s obvious he’s ill, but not exactly what.”

“Well, the doc. gave him twelve months. That was about six months ago. He doesn’t know I know, although he probably suspects I do. I just try to treat things as normally as possible.”

Strong indicated two framed photos on top of the television. “That’s you and Billy on there but who’s the other woman with you on the right?”

“That’s my sister, Janice.” She stood up, walked over and picked up the photograph. “It was taken in Tenerife three years ago, just after her bloke ran off with some tart from the bookies. They moved to Mirfield, apparently.”

“You’re still close to her, obviously?”

“We meet up for a few drinks now and again. The kids are all grown up and left home. She’s never bothered taking up with anyone else. It was his bad luck too. She had a decent win on the Lottery last year, bought herself a nice place in Sandal. We’ve always looked out for one another, so I suppose, yes is the answer to your question.”

He made a point of looking round the room. “No sign of any of Billy’s family, though. Does he have any relatives?”

Rosie looked down and stubbed her cigarette out nervously in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of her. “Never seen anyone. He told me he’s been divorced but hasn’t had any contact with her since the early seventies.”

“Any children?”

She stood up and went over to the window to look out. “No,” she answered with her back to him.

“Sure?” Either Malcolm’s information from Strathclyde police was wrong or she was being economical with the truth.

She turned back to face him. “Not that he’s ever mentioned.”

He let her answer hang in the air a moment. “Have you ever seen him lose his temper? Or has he ever been violent towards you?”

She looked indignant. “Never! He’s always treated me with respect. I’d never stand for it if he didn’t. I’ve seen too many women put up with all that sort of nonsense. No. It’s just not in his nature.”

“Okay, thanks.” Strong stood up to leave. “Oh, one last thing, has he ever mentioned Fred Williams?”

“Er … no, not that I can remember.”

“How about you?”

“Well …I … I do know a Fred Williams, if it’s the same one. He used to drink in the Flying Horse, lived over in those flats the other side of town.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Why, what’s he done?”

“Oh, nothing much. We found his body in his flat last night.” He could see the colour drain from her cheeks as he continued, “I thought maybe he and Billy might have known each other, that’s all.”

Rosie hesitated. “They… they may have done but Billy’s never mentioned him. But how … I mean …?”

“We’re still investigating.” He made for the hallway then stopped, thinking of something else. “By the way, when was the last time you saw Williams?”

“What? Oh … it must have been last year, maybe November time, something like that. I saw him in Morrison’s in town.”

“Well, thanks again, Rosie. Good to see you looking so well. I’ll see myself out.”

He left, still weighing up her answers. On his way back to the car, he lit up a cigar. He sat inside for a while, smoking and thinking. Strange that the only photos on view had been of Rosie, her sister, Janice, and Billy. After a few minutes, he flicked the half-finished cigar from the window before setting off back to Wood Street.

13

From the telephone box on the corner, he watched Strong leave Montgomery’s flat, cross the road and walk back to the car. A light grey puff of smoke rose into the damp air from Strong’s cigar. He saw him sit in his car for a few minutes, sunroof open a touch, allowing regular clouds of the fumes to drift away. He observed the little cameo that unfolded on the street - the half-finished butt jettisoned from the window onto the grass verge, the detective driving off - a boy of around twelve walking up to where the discarded glowing cigar butt lay, picking it up, drawing on it, coughing and hurrying away past the telephone box, looking pleased with himself.

Satisfied the coast was clear, the man dropped his own cigarette to the ground and trod on it. Leaving the box, he thrust his gloved hands into his coat pockets and made his way towards Billy’s flat. Walking up the short path to the front door he rang the bell. As the door opened, he pushed past Rosie who was taken completely by surprise.

“Here! … What the Hell d’you think …?”

“Shut it, love,” he snapped, finger raised close to Rosie’s face.

“You better not hang around. Billy’ll be back any minute,” she said, trying not to let the panic sound in her voice.

He smiled, although it was more of a sneer than a smile. “Now we both know that isn’t exactly true, Rosie, don’t we?” He slammed the front door shut. “I saw Billy getting on a bus into town not fifteen minutes ago. Probably off to the library, I expect.”

She visibly sagged against the wall.

“Now, what did
he
want?” the man asked.

“Who?”

“The git that just left. Not back to your old ways again, are you?”

“You bast…,” she began, raising an arm to strike that was immediately caught in his firm grip. She yelped in pain.

“Don’t try that with me, not if you want to keep what looks you’ve got left.” He tightened his grasp as he spoke.

“You’re hurting me.”

Gradually releasing the pressure, his face was only an inch or so from hers. “So, who was he?”

“He’s a DI”

“Good.” He relaxed pulling further away from her. “That’s better. I knew that already, I just wanted to see if you’d lie to me.” His expression hardened again. “Now, what did he want?”

“He was asking questions about Billy. You know they had him in yesterday over that knocked off gear he had stored here.”

He started to pace up and down the hallway. “So what did you tell him?”

“Nothing much.”

He was back up close to her again and she could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. “Come on, he wasn’t in here for quarter of an hour for ‘nothing much’.”

“I think he was just after a bit of background.”

“What sort of background?”

“Well … family.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

He began pacing again. “You keep saying that Rosie. Why don’t I believe you?”

“Look, all I said was that Billy was divorced, that was it. I told him where we met and how long we’ve been together.”

“Anything else?”

“He mentioned Fred Williams.”

He stopped dead in his tracks at the far end of the hall. “What did he mention?”

“That he’d been found dead.”

He returned to her as she stood by the front door. “Why should he tell you that?”

“He thought Fred and Billy might have known each other.”

“And did you tell him they did”

“I said, not as far as I knew.”

“Good. Now you just remember to keep that shut.” He gripped her chin between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. “Otherwise you might not live to regret it.”

He pushed her head against the wall knocking a mirror crooked. Her eyes were bulging with fear but she didn’t respond. He held her gaze whilst he slowly released her, his face contorted. “Good. Good.”

She flinched as his hands moved either side of her face to straighten the mirror. “Can’t leave things like that.” He reached for the lock of the front door. “And remember, not a word to anyone about me.”

Recovering slightly, she managed to regain enough composure to respond. “If I do or don’t do anything, it’ll be for Billy, not you.”

With the door half open, he turned back to face her, his eyes hard. “Just remember what I said.” Then the door closed behind him and he was gone.

Rosie ran up the hall to the sitting room, grabbed a cigarette from the packet on the chair arm. She fumbled with the lighter, lit it, took a long drag, then burst into tears.

14

Strong arrived back in the office and was removing his coat when his eye caught sight of the yellow ‘post it’ note on his computer screen.
‘Dr Goldsmith – 14.45 – pls call back.’
He sat down at his desk and was about to pick up the phone when Atkinson, carrying an assortment of files, knocked on the door.

“Yes, Malcolm,” Strong beckoned him in. “What have you got?”

“Well, guv, I’ve been going through this lot.” Atkinson flicked through the paperwork. “And I’ve turned up six assaults on women on our patch over the last ten years where the files are still open.”

Strong’s eyes widened.

“In two of them, Tracey Elliott in ’97 and, this one here, Jane Sedgwick in ’95, items of jewellery were reported missing similar to those found in that box.”

“Now then,” Strong said slowly, leaning back in his chair, “this sounds as if we might be getting into something else here.” He sprang forward excitedly. “Good work, Malcolm. Now let’s widen the search. Have a word with adjoining forces and see if you can turn up any similar cases. Of course, some victims might not have reported an attack or any missing items but let’s see what you get. In the meantime, where are the others?”

“DS Stainmore is on her way back from the lab with photos of the contents of the box. Luke and John are out interviewing a couple of Williams’ friends. Sam thinks he’s found a van belonging to Williams and he’s sorting out forensics. Trevor’s searching for any storage facilities he might have had access to, as well as processing the door-to-door results from uniform.”

“Right, let me know if they come up with anything interesting. In the meantime, ask Kelly to see me as soon as she gets back.”

As Atkinson left, Strong picked up the phone and dialled Leeds University. Jacob Goldsmith confirmed what Strong had deep down suspected. With the time differential and the subsequent influences on Montgomery’s accent over the years, it was impossible to state whether the Ripper hoaxer and Montgomery were one and the same. There were some similarities but they were not sufficient for Goldsmith to stand up in court and give categorical evidence in any proceedings. Strong thanked him for his efforts and arranged to collect the tapes from his department later in the day. In the meantime, he had a murder enquiry to conduct.

The phone rang again almost immediately.

“DI Strong,” he answered.

“Christ, you’re a hard man to get hold of.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s me, Bob,”
Souter said.

Strong leaned back in his chair once more. “Bob! Bloody Hell. How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“So where are you?”

“In The Ridings, in Ottaker’s bookshop.”

“You on holiday or what?”

“I’d have to say ‘what’. How about meeting up?”

“Great idea. Actually, I’m starving. I haven’t had any lunch yet. How about buying me some?”

Souter chuckled.
“Cheeky sod. Fine but no ale. I’m still not a hundred percent after last night.”

“Must have been a good one if you’re not up for a pint. Okay then, how about the Baker’s Oven in Little Westgate, a few doors up from Yates’s Wine Lodge.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Done.”

“I have been.”

Strong ended the call and was about to put his coat on when Kelly Stainmore appeared.

“Sorry, guv, are you going out? Only I’m just back from the lab. I’ve got the photos of the box and its contents.”