Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) (8 page)

“No, that’s all right, Kelly.” He hung his coat back up on the hook behind the door. “Let’s have a look.”

Strong studied the images of the various items of female jewellery. As well as the broken fine silver chain with its clasp intact that he had lifted out with his pencil back at Williams’ flat, there were two dress rings, one with blue coloured stones, one with what looked like a single diamond, a ladies’ cigarette lighter, a ladies’ wristwatch with a brown leather strap, a diamanté brooch in the shape of a bird, a silver charm bracelet with Chinese-style letters as charms and finally a silver hair clasp.

“Any prints off any of this?” Strong finally asked.

“There are some, guv. They’re running a check now, I should find out any matches later today or first thing in the morning.”

“All right, in the meantime, I want you to get together with Malcolm. He’s compiling a list of unresolved attacks on women in the past ten years or so. See if you can trace the victims, take him with you, and see if any of them can identify any of this. He thinks he might have a match on two already.”

Stainmore nodded.

“Oh, and Kelly, probably no need to say this to you but tread carefully eh?”

Kelly frowned as if to question Strong’s statement of the obvious.

He held up both hands. “I know,” he said in acknowledgement.

Strong squeezed his way past the queue at the counter for bread and cakes and made his way to the café area at the back of the bakeshop. Souter was seated at a table against the left-hand wall, nursing a coffee. They spotted each other simultaneously.

Souter rose and hugged his old friend. “Hey, Col, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Bob. That’s if it is you.”

“What do you mean?”

Strong looked him up and down and gestured with open arms. “Well, look at you, man. You must have put on two stones since I last saw you.”

“Never. Must be your eyes.”

“And your head – what’s happened to your hair?”

Souter remembered the quip Jimmy Wilson had made as they parted company in Sheffield,
‘A word of advice, Bob – if I were you, I’d change my barber!’
To Strong he said, “Oh, that. I had a run in yesterday with a set of twins down near the market.”

“Not the sheepshearers? They only know one style.”

“Now you tell me.”

An elderly couple, the man carrying a tray with soup and a roll and a scone and butter along with two pots of tea, struggled to pass by. Strong offered an apology and both he and Souter sat down at the table.

“You’re looking well, though,” Souter said. “Laura okay?”

“Fine, yeah. Still deputy head in Morley.”

“And Graham and Amanda?”

“Graham’s at Hull University in his first year and Amanda … well … she’s doing A Levels next year and doing my head in this year!”

“Hard work is she?”

“No, not really. It’s just, if there’s a cause she’s into it. I think it’s animal welfare at the moment. It’ll probably be something else next month.”

“At least she’s got an opinion, unlike some youngsters. Anyway, come on then, what can I get you?” Souter offered.

“Seeing as you’re in the chair, I’ll have a steak bake and a mug of tea, no sugar.”

Strong removed his coat and dropped it over the back of the seat and watched his friend thread his way through the throng of shoppers to the counter. As he waited for him to return, he took in the other occupants of the café. It was a habit born out of the job. He didn’t linger on any one individual but, if asked ten minutes later, he could describe all the main characters in his field of vision. He spotted a couple of faces he knew. Chris Wentworth, a not-particularly bright lad in his early twenties with severe acne and a long record for shoplifting, avoided eye contact as he sat with a pregnant girl who appeared no older than sixteen. Freddy Oldroyd a scruffy individual of indeterminate age, and a useful snout from time to time, looked nervous sitting opposite a large, severe-looking woman with a florid complexion.

Souter eventually came back with a tray supporting Strong’s steak bake and mug of tea along with his own Cornish pasty and replenished coffee mug. He took off his waterproof jacket and hung it on the back of his seat then sat down.

“So what brings you down here, then?” Strong asked, shuffling all the food and drinks on to their table and leaning the tray against the table leg. “I can’t imagine you’d choose Wakefield for a holiday in January.”

Souter was quiet.

Strong looked at his friend. “Is everything all right, Bob?”

“You know, Col, I envy you.”

“What?” Strong laughed then dropped his voice, “Come on. Look around you. I’m a policeman, a profession held in low esteem by most members of the public.”

“Mine isn’t much better, though.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, could be worse, you could have been an estate agent.”

“Look, I’m serious. You’ve got a decent reliable family situation for yourself.”

Strong grinned.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s ironic, really, it’s just that sometimes,” Strong paused while he took a mouthful of tea, “just sometimes, I envy
you
.”

Souter exhaled, as if in disbelief.

“Well, think about it,” Strong went on, still in a jocular fashion, “most married men wonder how it would be if they were footloose and fancy free again. You know, out on the pull, no commitments.”

“Yeah, right. It’s alright when you’re in your twenties and still finding out who you are but there comes a time …” Souter bit into his pasty. “It can be bloody lonely out there too.” Flakes of pastry dropped onto the table.

Strong was puzzled at his friend’s demeanour. “Hang on a minute, Bob, I thought you and Sandra …”

Souter looked down and began playing with the teaspoon.

“Oh, no, Bob, you haven’t screwed things up again? I thought this time …”

“So did I.”

Strong leaned forward on the table. “I’m a good listener, if it’ll help.”

Over the course of the next ten minutes, Souter brought Strong up to speed with events in Glasgow since learning of Adam’s death.

“So,” he concluded, “the outcome is, Sandra’s history and I start officially on Monday as Senior Reporter specialising in Crime and Home Affairs.”

“Well that’s great. I’m really pleased for you. That’s a big step-up for your career. And it sounds as if Sandra wasn’t right for you anyway.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s just … it seems every relationship … I fuck it up.”

“Come on, let’s go.” Strong decided to act before his friend could beat himself up any further. “It’s like a steam room in here with all these damp shoppers sheltering from the weather. Besides, I’ve got to get back. Walk with me.”

They both rose to leave. Almost immediately, a young mother with a toddler on the hip and a baby in a push chair moved in to take their place. Outside, the rain had stopped and the air was fresher. Strong took a deep breath and headed down the slope in the direction of the cathedral.

“They’re obviously keeping you busy, Col,” Souter said, once they were on the move. “I hear you’re investigating this murder from the other night.”

“It’s funny, you know, but
murder
always sounds a more severe crime in Scotland, especially when, like you did just now, it’s pronounced in a Glaswegian accent.”

“Personally, I blame Jim Taggart,” Souter quipped, in his best Glaswegian twang.

“Very good,” Strong laughed. ”You’re talking like a native of the place now.”

“I suppose it’s easy to slip into. Mind you, I had been up there for over three years.”

“Christ, was it that long? Now you’re going to tell me it’s been more than a year since we last met up.”

“Nearer two,” Souter said, “But Ah can still talk like thee when ah’ve a mind to,” delivering this in a perfect West Yorkshire accent.

“Thanks. You’ve just reinforced my theory.”

“What theory’s that?”

“Oh, just something that came up recently about accents.” They turned left before reaching the cathedral, heading towards the Bullring. “Anyway, how did you know I was involved in this murder case?”

“Well I know it doesn’t have the same shock effect as it might have done thirty or forty years ago but murder does still make the papers.”

“And, of course, that’s your business.”

“Like I said, I don’t officially start until next week but my boss wondered, seeing as I’m here, whether I’d like to hit the ground running, so to speak.”

“There’s not a lot more I can add to what’s already in the public domain. The victim’s been identified as Fred Williams, well-known to us for petty crime – burglary, shoplifting, handling – you know the type.”

“What about motive?”

“Nothing that jumps out at you.”

“Method?”

“Head injuries. And that’s about all I can say at the moment. What we’re looking for are any known sightings of him from early December through to Christmas.”

“He’d been dead for some time then?”

“Oh yes. We’re hoping to narrow it down once the boffins finish their work. Apparently, scientists can tell from the insect life on a body how long it’s been deceased.”

“So there’s no other interesting little snippets you can tell me?”

They were now waiting for the lights to change to cross over to Wood Street.

“Not at the moment, mate. But listen, with your Glasgow connections, there’s something you could do for me.”

“Go on,” Souter said, with mock reluctance.

“I’d like you to find out what you can about one, Sheila Montgomery nee McDougal.”

Souter took out a notebook and pencil and began to write as Strong set off across the road when the green man lit up. He jogged a few paces to catch up.

“Married in June 1957 to a William James Montgomery. Lived at addresses in Govan throughout the sixties, and from memory, I think one was a public house known as the ‘Hole in the Wall’.”

“Is this connected with the Williams murder?”

“No. And this is unofficial.”

“So you can’t go investigating through your colleagues at Strathclyde then?”

Strong stopped and turned to face Souter. “No …but you could. You must have made a few useful connections in your years up there.”

“What’s the story on this one, Col?”

“I’m not really sure if there is one yet.”

“So there’s no mileage in it for me … yet?”

Strong resumed walking. “Maybe not at all. I’ve just got a niggling feeling about a character I interviewed earlier this week. I could do with a little background digging up. Discreetly.”

“Unofficially like?”

Strong stopped again and thrust out a hand. “Thanks Bob. You’re a pal.” Souter shook hands, almost automatically. “Give me a call when you get anything.” With that, Strong turned the corner and headed into the police station.

15

Two o’clock in the morning and the lounge door opened. Strong was sitting on the settee, remote control from the music centre in hand, listening to alternate snatches from the hoax tape and Montgomery’s interview set up in the double tape deck. He’d retrieved them from Jacob Goldsmith’s office that afternoon.

Laura walked in. “Colin, what’s going on? What are you doing down here at this time of the morning?”

He stopped the tapes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just something I’m curious about.”

She moved towards the settee. “Is that what I think it is?”

He looked up. “The Yorkshire Ripper hoaxer, yes.”

“Why are you listening to it now, though?”

Strong considered for a moment before playing the section of the hoaxer tape he thought most closely matched Montgomery’s. “Now listen to this.” He played a section of Montgomery’s interview. “What do you think?”

Laura took a deep breath and sat down beside him. “That’s why you were interested in Jenny Goldsmith the other morning, or her husband to be more specific.”

“Well, yes.”

She sat back. “This second one, is this someone you’ve come across recently?”

“We interviewed him on Tuesday.”

“So we’re talking about a gap of, what, twenty years between them?”

He nodded.

“His accent, this second one, seems a right old mix. Mostly Scottish isn’t it?”

“Predominantly.”

“So what did Jenny’s husband make of it? I assume you’ve spoken to him?”

He repeated Jacob Goldsmith’s verdict.

“There you go, then,” Laura dismissed. “The real culprit’s probably dead by now.”

“Not necessarily. If he was in his thirties when he made that tape, he’d only be in his fifties now.” He re-primed the Montgomery tape. “Anyway, just listen to how he pronounces
‘Lord’
.”

She indulged him to play the relevant sections of both tapes once more. When they’d finished, she looked at him. “Is that it?” she said. “That’s what you’re going on? One word?”

“It’s the way it’s pronounced. He’s reverted to a north-east accent. He’s originally from Sunderland, you know.”

Laura stood up. “Do you know, this little scene reminds me of that dramatisation we saw on TV last year where that detective was sitting up listening to the tape at all hours of the morning because it got under his skin.”

“You mean George Oldfield.”

“That’s him.”

He decided to lighten the conversation. “Listen, if I start developing facial tics, you will let me know?”

“Come on Colin, come back to bed.”

“Oh, all right.” He took the tapes out of the player. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

She paused at the door. “Look, I know you well enough by now, Colin Strong. And I know you don’t like things left unresolved. You need to have answers but, I don’t want to see something like this take you over.”

“Don’t worry, Laura, it’s just my instinct’s telling me, at the very least, I’ve got to run with this a bit longer.”

“Don’t let it consume you, just like it did George Oldfield.”

He turned off the room lights on the way out.

16

David Bowie’s
Hunky Dory
album was playing on the stereo. Souter discovered it in Jean’s collection and had forgotten just how good it was. He was impressed by some of the material he had to choose from. She had an eclectic taste, ranging from one or two classical albums, some modern stuff and some classic sixties and seventies material. Fortunately, Trevor had taken his obscure jazz and country & western collection with him.