Tainted: A DI Colin Strong Investigation (The Wakefield Series Book 4)

  TAINTED

  DAVID EVANS

  Copyright © 2019 David Evans

  The moral right of David Evans to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978 1 9996 106 4 7

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born and brought up in and around Edinburgh, David Evans graduated from Manchester University and had a successful career as a professional in the construction industry before turning to crime … fiction that is and writing thereof.

  TAINTED is the fourth in his Internationally Best Selling Wakefield Series.

  THE WAKEFIELD SERIES:

  TROPHIES is the first in the series

  TORMENT, the second, was shortlisted in 2013 for the CWA Debut Dagger Award.

  TALISMAN is the third

  All are available in ebook and paperback formats.

  His other novel currently available is DISPOSAL, the first of a planned series set in the Tendring area of North Essex.

  Find out more by visiting David’s website at www.davidevanswriter.co.uk

  or follow him on Facebook at

  www.facebook.com/davidevanswriter

  and Twitter @DavidEwriter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been privileged to meet some amazing people, without whose help, encouragement, support and above all friendship got me through some occasions when it would have been easier to walk away and do something else with my time.

  First and foremost, I have to say a huge thank-you to Sally Spedding who was the first in the publishing industry to take my writing seriously. I owe her a great debt for all her continued support and encouragement.

  I am also fortunate to have a great little band of writing friends and I would like to thank Sarah Wagstaff, Jan Beresford, Julie-Ann Corrigan, Manda Hughes, Lorraine Cannell, Glynis Smy and Peter Best, all of whom are talented writers in their own right and have made some significant contributions.

  I am also fortunate to have the input of Colin Steele, ex-Detective Superintendent of the Essex Murder Squad and Tom Harper, ex-Principal Crime Scene Coordinator for the Kent & Essex Serious Crime Directorate. Both have given their time and guidance generously. Any residual errors here, are all mine.

  Thanks to Bernie Steadman, author of the successful DI Dan Hellier books set in the West Country, who agreed to her cameo role within these pages, following a competition in 2017.

  Finally, a huge thank-you to the various bloggers and readers who have supported this series over the past few years, especially Caroline Vincent who organised various tours for me.

  For all the readers, without whom,

  none of this would be worthwhile.

  TAINTED

  David Evans

  1

  Wednesday 13th February 2002

  The heady mix of sexual excitement, anticipation and tension along with percolating fear hung around her like the thickening fog. She pulled the Ford Ka to a halt alongside the familiar Mercedes. Looking over, she saw his outline sitting in the driver’s seat. She unclipped her seat belt and opened the door. Her black stilettos sank into the damp grass as cold air swirled around her legs, her short black dress offering little protection. He liked hold-ups, so she was wearing the black lacy ones.

  Opening the passenger door of the Merc, she quickly climbed in, shivering.

  “God it’s cold out there tonight,” she said, rubbing her hands together before leaning over and kissing him.

  “I thought you were going to stand me up,” he said.

  She gave him a broad smile and placed her hand on his crotch. “As if.”

  “How long have we got?”

  “Plenty of time.” She grinned. “He’s gone to the game, so as long as I’m home for ten, I’ll be fine.”

  He turned and kissed her, running a hand up her leg. When he reached the top of her thigh he stopped and pulled his head back a couple of inches. “Ooh my favourites.” His hand moved again. “But have you forgotten something else?” He was like a small boy who’d just found his hidden Christmas present.

  “I thought it would save time taking them off.”

  He began to play and she began to moan.

  Without warning, she tensed.

  “What’s up?” He drew back and looked at her.

  “There’s someone out there.” She indicated towards the windscreen into the darkness.

  “Don’t be daft. No one comes here at this time of night.”

  “I tell you Marcus, I saw a light. A torch.” She pulled her dress down and sat on her hands, suddenly cold. “I’m not into this dogging lark, so if you’ve brought me here to …”

  “No way.”

  She gave a shudder then focussed on the toilet block about fifty yards away. “Must be over there,” she said.

  “Look, there’s no one …” He stopped abruptly as two silhouetted figures appeared against the white rendered wall of the building.

  “This is making me feel nervous.”

  He turned to her and smiled. “I thought you liked that edge; the risk of discovery?”

  “This is freaking me out.”

  “I’ll check.” He placed a hand on the door handle.

  “Wait!” She grabbed his other wrist. “Let’s find somewhere else.”

  He turned back towards her. “But there is nowhere else. Not without driving around for ages, and that’s just wasting time. No, it’ll be fine. I just want to see what’s going on.” He opened the door and climbed out, then leant back in. “Won’t be long.”

  “No, wait …”

  The door closed and she watched him disappear into the dark blanket of a moonless night. Now alone, she hugged herself, trying to become as small as possible.

  Inside the car, ticking sounds from the cooling engine; it had been switched off for at least ten minutes. She checked her watch; four minutes since Marcus had left. She looked for any movement outside but saw nothing.

  Her body began to shiver involuntarily. What was she doing here? Thirty-two years old, no kids, married to a husband who never gives her any attention. And then he came into her life. It was the office Christmas lunch when she first noticed Marcus. There again, she didn’t have much choice in the matter as she’d been placed next to him in the restaurant. Those sideways glances, the warm feel of his thigh against hers, the flutter in her stomach. She was sure he felt the same, his face told her that. He admitted it afterwards too. Then that first time, in the cleaner’s cupboard of all places. After so long, someone who really wanted her. But now, was this all she had to look forward to? Stolen evenings freezing your tits off in a remote car park?

  There!

  Suddenly, she was sure she saw it. Yes! A torch beam scanned the building, fuzzy through the mist then swung around towards the trees. Instinctively she ducked down just before a weak beam of light swept through the car. A minute passed with no sign of any further activity. She risked peeking out through the windscreen. All seemed quiet. What was he up to? Where had Marcus gone?

  Another check of her watch; almost ten minutes since he’d left. She couldn’t stop the shivering. And then she heard it; the vibration of her mobile phone fr
om her handbag. Rummaging inside, she grabbed it. The display told her it was her husband. Shit.

  “Hello,” she answered quietly.

  “It’s me,” he said, as if she didn’t know.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s this fog. The referee’s only called the bloody game off, hasn’t he?” In the background she could hear the murmur of voices then an indistinguishable tannoy announcement.

  Her heart rate quickened. “So what does that mean?”

  He gave a snort. “It means they’re emptying the ground, so I should be home in an hour.” There was a pause. “Why don’t we go out for a drink? I was thinking we don’t seem to do much together these days. What do you think?”

  She looked towards the building once again. “Yeah, okay,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Of course.” Trying desperately to stop the shaking from affecting her words, she took a breath. “I’ll see you when you get home,” she said, ending the call abruptly.

  Sod this, she thought and, as quietly as she could, opened the door. The interior light came on. Instantly, she raised a hand to switch it off. Sitting still for a few seconds, she peered through the fog that seemed to be thickening, listening intently. The only sound was the incessant dripping of moisture from the trees.

  She fumbled in her bag for her car key. Toying with the fob, she braced herself in readiness for her next move. At last she scurried from the Mercedes and jumped into her Ka. Firing up the engine, she put the car into gear and drove off the grassed parking area. Accelerating away along the tarmac lane, she had to brake sharply as a dog raced across in front of her. Her nerves already jangling, she drove on towards the exit then finally made her escape onto the main road. Whatever Marcus was playing at, she’d had enough. She had to get home within the next forty-five minutes if she wasn’t to be caught out. Was it worth it, she was thinking; was it really worth it?

  2

  George Brannigan parked his BMW by the north gate of the park. As he stepped out, a taller younger man did the same from the passenger side.

  Brannigan glanced at his watch. “Time to go, Andy,” he said.

  The two made their way into the park as they’d been directed. Andy’s head was swivelling, afraid they might be ambushed in the darkness as they made their way to the rendezvous. It was obvious Brannigan didn’t share his concern, striding out confidently. He’d spent twelve years in the army. One of the fittest bastards Andy had ever come across. He might be getting on a bit, well over fifty anyway, but he was solid muscle. He also indulged in his love of martial arts. But one thing did concern Andy about Brannigan; tonight he was wound up like a coiled spring.

  The mist swirled around them as they walked through the park. At various points, Andy switched on the torch and swept the beam all around. When they reached the building, he did the same again.

  “Put that fucking torch out,” Brannigan said, obvious irritation in his tone.

  A lone male figure in a hooded top emerged from the gloom. He looked at the two of them and smiled.

  “Fuck off weirdo,” Brannigan snapped.

  The smile evaporated from the man’s face and he scurried off.

  Inside the toilet block, in the dim fluorescent light, Brannigan led the way past the urinals to the cubicles. One of the fittings flickered, the tube beginning to fail. “Here,” Brannigan instructed Andy, holding out the sealed plastic bag he’d brought with him. “End cubicle. Get up on the pan and place this in the cistern.”

  As Andy did so, he heard another set of footsteps enter.

  “You come for it then,” he heard Brannigan say. “So where is she?”

  There was a mumbled reply before the sounds of a scuffle then a thud.

  Andy stepped back down off the pan, still with the bag of money in his hands, to see a well-dressed man crumpled in a heap on the floor. “What the …?” he started.

  Brannigan was bent over the man feeling for a pulse before looking up at him, a surprised expression on his face. “I thought he’d come to collect.”

  Andy glanced at his watch. “Not yet; eight o’clock they said. He’s probably only some poof come for a meet.”

  “In that case, let’s not disappoint,” Brannigan’s face hardened. “Give me that spare plastic bag you brought,” he ordered.

  A minute later the man had been placed on his knees, face down over the pan, plastic bag placed loosely over his head and trousers and underpants at his ankles.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Brannigan said.

  “But what about …?”

  “They’ll have to get back in touch.”

  “No, I mean …”

  Brannigan cast a backward glance. “He’ll be fine. Come on.”

  3

  The mist that formed earlier had become dense. In the park, flashing blue lights reflected back on themselves, bouncing off the other emergency vehicles parked around the building. A uniformed constable stepped forward and held up his hand to the approaching car.

  Detective Inspector Colin Strong produced his warrant card and stated his name and rank for the benefit of the young lad.

  “Sorry, sir,” the PC said, “I’m new on the team.”

  “And you are?”

  “PC Gary Monk, sir.”

  Strong smiled as the constable lifted the plastic police tape to allow him to pull forward inside the cordon. The white Scenes of Crime vans were already there and a couple of their team were walking towards the building in white coveralls, boots and masks, carrying cases with their equipment.

  As Strong got out of his vehicle, the familiar short stocky figure of Detective Constable Luke Ormerod approached. Hunched in an overcoat, hands thrust deep in the pockets he looked serious.

  “Salubrious surroundings,” Strong commented, indicating the white rendered public toilet block. “Do we know who the victim is?”

  “Not as yet, guv. We’re waiting for the SOCO boys to finish their first sweep before we search his pockets. The only thing to go on so far is the solitary parked car over there.” Ormerod waved a hand into the gloom and Strong could just about make out a shape standing on the edge of the car park below the trees about fifty yards away.

  As they talked, Strong nodded to a couple of officers he knew and crossed to one of the white vans to get himself kitted up in a protective suit. Ormerod followed.

  “So, any clue there?” Strong asked.

  “It’s unlocked and the keys are in the ignition.”

  “It’s a wonder it’s still here then.”

  “Registered to a Marcus Weaver.” Ormerod referred to his notebook. “Address on the outskirts of Leeds.”

  Strong led the way to the Gents’ toilet entrance. He paused at the doorway, looked to his DC and pulled a disgusted face.

  Ormerod merely nodded in response, no words necessary.

  Inside, arc lights had been set up. Even through the mask, Strong’s nose was attacked by the pungent odour of stale urine. “Delightful,” he commented.

  Dr Symonds, the duty doctor turned away from the second cubicle and greeted him. “Colin, another top rate venue you’ve brought me to.”

  “I try my best, Andrew,” Strong greeted as he peered past the medic to catch his first view of the body. A pair of trouser-clad legs with decent shoes poked out. He took a step forward and saw that the trousers and underpants had been pulled down around the lower legs. The body was facing the wall, slumped over the pan with a plastic bag over the head.

  He recognised the familiar form of the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Doug Norris, who was squeezed into the cubicle, carefully placing a plastic bag around the victim’s right hand. A flash of light from the photographer’s camera made Strong blink.

  He turned to the doctor and asked, “How did he die?”

  “We’ll know for sure once we get him back to the mortuary but possibly suffocation?”

  Strong looked bleak. “Some form of sex game gone wr
ong, do you think?”

  “It has been known,” Symonds said. “There was that MP a few years ago, but …” Symonds paused, glancing down at the victim’s rear. “On first inspection, it doesn’t look like he was involved in any sexual practices but, like I say, you’ll know more when the pathologist can examine him properly.”

  “Bloody Hell,” Strong said quietly. “How long before we can do a search? We’ll need to check identity.”

  “I can do that for you now, Colin,” Norris said through his mask. He stood up and shuffled his way out of the confined space before bending down and searching the victim’s right-hand trouser pocket. He pulled out a brown leather wallet which he popped open.

  “Well it wasn’t robbery,” Norris said, flicking through one section and holding it towards Strong so he could see. “There’s … eighty-five pounds in here.” From another section he drew out a driving licence and turned it over so the name and address were visible.

  Strong nodded, the name tallied with what Ormerod had told him; Marcus Weaver, with an address in Horsforth. He noted it down. “Thanks Doug.” Turning to Dr Symonds he asked, “Time of death Andrew?”

  The doctor chuckled. “How long have we known each other, Colin? Ten years at least, I’d say. And you always ask me that.”

  “Best guess?”

  “And what do I always tell you – somewhere between when he was last seen alive and when the body was discovered.”

  Strong shook his head, knowing the answer would probably surface later and in any event, would only be a rough estimate.

  “But,” Dr Symonds went on, “the body is still warm and as you well know, that could be misleading. If he’d been killed some time ago and the body kept warm before being dumped here, but …” He held up a hand. “if you asked me to put money on it, I’d say that if the dog had bounded in here a bit sooner, he’d have found the perpetrator on scene.”

  “So fairly recent then?” Strong persisted.

  “That’s as much as I’d speculate, you’ll have to check your other sources first.”