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

  “And you’ve no idea who the victim is?” Sammy asked.

  Susan shook her head. “Not yet. Bob will no doubt be on to Colin for more information. Mavis, who found him, didn’t recognise him. We gave her a lift home but there wasn’t anything else she could add.”

  “Look, I know this is all so interesting for you,” Alison said, “but can we drop this gory subject.”

  “So what’s for tea?” Souter asked.

  Alison threw a cushion at him then closed her eyes.

  Whilst Souter thumbed through the collection of take away menus that had been accumulated, pinned to the cork board in the kitchen, Susan spoke quietly to Sammy.

  “You know you’ve got a certain reputation,” she said.

  Sammy’s eyes opened wide.

  “Your internet skills in finding people,” Susan added quickly.

  “These two lads?” Sammy responded, “The ones who found Claire’s body?”

  Susan nodded.

  “You’ve got names?”

  Susan handed her friend a piece of paper.

  “No problem, leave that with me.”

  “How about a pizza?” Souter said, emerging from the kitchen with a menu in his hand. “Segundo’s?”

  26

  By the time Strong got home, it was gone eight o’clock. He’d spent a difficult hour, along with Luke Ormerod, at Mark Thompson’s mother’s house to break the bad news and gather some initial information. He hated these visits. Leaving an experienced Family Liaison Officer with them, they would be back the following day.

  Laura had kept a meal warm for him in the oven. He’d been ravenous. Now replete, he was lying on the settee in the living room, eyes closed, thinking.

  “Dad, do you want a cup of tea?” Amanda shouted from the kitchen. She then appeared in the doorway. “Mum’s asking.”

  He opened his eyes. “Great. Thanks, love,” he replied, then before she could disappear again, “Hey! How’s the course going?”

  Home for the weekend from Manchester where she’d started her course last October, she stood for a second, studying him. “It’s okay, but you look tired, Dad.”

  “Do I?”

  “Everything alright?”

  “Just things to think through, that’s all.”

  She put her hands on her hips, but her look was soft. “You made the right decision, you know; to carry on.”

  “I know.”

  She turned and left.

  He knew she was right. But he also knew he couldn’t have carried on without the family’s support. He realised he was being selfish by even considering moving abroad, but he did like Gran Canaria, and the villas they’d been shown last December were outstanding. But he also realised his was a knee-jerk reaction to all that had happened in September. And then there was Laura, his rock. She loved her job and she was now in line for the headship at the school where she’d been deputy for the past five years. Also it would have been intolerable to have disrupted Amanda’s studies. She was obviously enjoying the experience of student life. Then there was Graham, in his final year at Hull on a History course

  A few minutes later, Laura walked in with two mugs. “Here, she’s right you know, you do look exhausted.”

  He sat up and made space for her on the settee while she handed him his drink. “It’s just these cases,” he said. “It’s been a while since we had two murder investigations running at the same time.”

  She sat beside him and cupped her mug in both hands. “And the other two, Flynn and Hemingford they’re nowhere to be seen?”

  “Well the DCS is down in London. That’s a long-standing arrangement I knew about but Rupert is in Manchester, apparently. I only found out today. ‘Every confidence in you,’ he says, ‘just keep things on an even keel until Monday.’” Strong’s tone implied exactly what he thought of those remarks.

  Laura raised her eyebrows and sipped her drink. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but you mentioned something the other day about him not being interested.”

  “Did I? Well, yes I suppose I did … I mean do.”

  “And that’s what’s testing you?”

  “Amongst other things, yes.” He took a drink, placed the mug on a mat on the table beside him and rubbed his eyes. “Anyway, are you prepared for Tuesday?” he asked, referring to her interview for the headship.

  “As well as I can be.”

  “You’ll walk it. They’d be daft not to give it to you. You know the place inside out; you’ve acted up when the head was away.”

  “I can’t approach it that way,” she replied. “I thought they should have made your acting DCI role permanent but they didn’t. And I wasn’t the only one to share that opinion.”

  “Oh … well,” was about all he could say. He leaned back again and thought how bitterly disappointed he’d been last year when, after acting up as DCI for almost a year, the powers that be had brought Rupert Hemingford in as DCI from outside. That was another factor that had caused him to consider his future in the job.

  He stood and picked up his drink. “Look, I’m going up. I’ll need to be up and about early tomorrow with all that’s happening.”

  “Go on,” she said, “I’ll not be long.”

  Laura watched her husband leave and heard his slow footsteps on the stairs.

  27

  Sunday 17th February 2002

  “Why don’t we go out for a drive, Andy?” Felicity was lounging on the settee in the flat on Sunday morning. She’d avoided giving him any further details surrounding her ordeal.

  Andy wandered in from the kitchen, still in pyjamas, scooping some cornflakes into his mouth from the bowl he was carrying. He sat down at the small dining table by the window. “Is that so we’re not in when George comes calling?”

  “No,” she said indignantly.

  “Because he will. He’s still looking for answers.” Another mouthful of cereal. “And so am I.”

  “I just thought it would be good to get away from this place for a while. I mean look,” she pointed to a corner by the side of the window. “That wallpaper has been peeling off for the best part of a year at least. And I’ll bet it’s damp. She sat up straight, looking alert. “Have you never thought how good it would be to get our own place. I don’t mean one we rent but actually buy?”

  Another mouthful of cornflakes. “Of course, that’s why we’re saving up isn’t it?”

  “But have you never wondered how it might be to leave all this behind? Move right away where nobody knows us and start again. Somewhere new. A fresh start.”

  He gave a disparaging laugh. “Oh yeah, great. We just walk out with no job, no place to stay, no friends.”

  “We haven’t got that many friends here. Besides, you can get a job anywhere in construction. They’ll always need someone like you. And I can style hair anywhere.” She snapped her fingers. “London. There’s always plenty going on down there.”

  “And how much do you think we’d need to be able to make that move? We’ll end up in a shit hole down there that’ll make this place look five star and paying double what we do here.” He put another spoonful in his mouth. “Anyway, as I said before you tried to divert me, I still want some answers for what happened to you.”

  “Oh Andy …” She laid back and closed her eyes. “I’ve told you all I know. I can’t remember any more details.”

  He scraped the bottom of the bowl. “Not even where you were held; a warehouse, a garage, a flat? You must have some idea.”

  “I think it was a flat. He sat me on a chair for most of the time.”

  He looked over to her. “What about going to the toilet.”

  “I was allowed …” She stopped as her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen and pressed a button. “Aunty June, how are you?” she said.

  Andy watched her expression change from one of delight to one of concern then one of fright. He stood and took a pace towards her. ‘What’
s up?’ he mouthed.

  She held up a hand. “When was this?” then, “Oh God, have they said what happened?”

  Andy could hear the indistinguishable voice talking through the phone. Finally, it stopped.

  Felicity moved her mouth to speak but no sound came out. A tear ran down her cheek. Eventually, she said, “Thanks for letting me know.” She pressed another button then buried her face in her hands and began to sob uncontrollably.

  Andy moved forward and wrapped her in his arms. “Felicity … love … what’s happened?”

  Her body rocked and loud gasps emerged between large howls.

  “Come on, you can tell me,” Andy persisted.

  “It’s … it’s Mark.”

  “Your cousin? What about him?”

  “He’s dead.” More sobs. “They found him … in a waste bin at the back of the convenience shop … on Dewsbury Road.”

  “God, Felicity. In a waste bin? Does that mean …?”

  “Someone murdered him.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed. “And I’ve a good idea who.”

  28

  “Mrs Thompson … June,” Strong addressed the distressed woman in front of him. “Can you tell me the last time you saw Mark?”

  He and Luke Ormerod had returned to the neat semi-detached house on the Lupset estate where Mark Thompson’s mother still lived with her other son and daughter. They’d arrived directly from Pinderfields where they’d both attended Mark Thompson’s post mortem. Strong only hoped the aroma from the chemicals of the mortuary hadn’t lingered on their clothes.

  With her daughter and younger son sitting on the arms of the chair on either side of their mother, protective arms around her, June Thompson struggled with her emotions. “Like I told you last night,” she said, in between sobs, “he called in to see me on Friday tea time.”

  “That’s right,” Becky put in. “He turned up about half five and was gone by seven.” Rebecca – Becky, Mark’s younger sister, was an attractive girl of nineteen. She appeared to be holding things together for the three of them. Edward, Mark’s brother, was fourteen and struggling with the news.

  Mrs Thompson put her arm around her son and drew his head close to hers and the pair cried uncontrollably.

  Becky stood up and suggested they leave her mother and brother for a while and continue the conversation in the kitchen.

  Strong and Ormerod followed her, leaving the female FLO with June and Edward.

  Refusing Becky’s offer of a drink, they sat at the small kitchen table. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions Becky,” Strong said.

  The girl nodded. “It’s fine. Anything that’ll help catch who did this to Mark.”

  Strong leaned forward, hands on the table. “So you were here when Mark visited on Friday?”

  “Yes.” Becky swept her long blonde hair behind both ears with her hands. “He’d spoken to Mum on the phone earlier and brought fish and chips for us. We sat and ate them on our laps watching TV.”

  “And everything seemed as normal?”

  The girl hesitated. “I think so … although …”

  “Something?”

  “He was in here with Mum for a while – before they came in with the food – and, thinking about it now, Mum seemed a bit, I don’t know, uncomfortable, I suppose.”

  “And Mark?”

  She screwed up her face. “I suppose a bit pre-occupied I think I’d describe it as.”

  “You haven’t spoken to your mother about it?”

  “No, it’s only just struck me now.”

  Strong leaned back, thoughtful. “Mark left home a few months ago, I understand?”

  “Just after Christmas. He thought it best to get himself somewhere in town, a bit of independence, he said.”

  “Was that a surprise?”

  “Not really. I mean he is twenty-three …” Becky cracked. “I mean was …” She stood and turned away from the table, pulled a piece of kitchen roll from the holder on the wall and sobbed.

  Strong and Ormerod said nothing, just waited.

  Finally, she wiped her eyes and faced them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think he wanted to be closer to his work and have somewhere with a bit of privacy. He was a healthy boy. It isn’t easy to … to have a private life with all of us living here.”

  “I understand.” Strong gave a brief smile. “Did Mark have a girlfriend, do you know?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, not at the moment.”

  From outside in the hallway, noisy footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. A second later, the door opened and June Thompson entered, the FLO close behind.

  “He’s taken it hard,” she said. “Since their dad walked out, Mark sort of stepped into his shoes. Edward looked up to him.”

  “Do we know where Mr Thompson is now?” Strong asked. “Someone will need …”

  “He died. Six months ago now.”

  Ormerod stood up. “Please, Mrs Thompson,” he said, indicating his chair.

  She gave a swift smile then sat down.

  “Becky here was just telling us about Friday evening,” Strong said. “How was Mark when you spoke then?”

  June Thompson looked sharply at her daughter then down at her hands.

  “Mrs Thompson?” Strong persisted. “Was everything alright?”

  She looked across once again at Becky before standing and walking to one of the cupboards above the worktop over the fridge. She opened a door and reached inside, drawing out a tin box. Opening it, she pulled a wad of banknotes from it. “He gave me this,” she said. “Five hundred pounds.”

  “Mum,” Becky cried out, “Where did he get that?”

  “He said he’d done a favour for a mate,” June said.

  “What sort of favour would be worth five hundred pounds?”

  “I don’t know, Becky. I just hope to God this wasn’t the cause of his death.”

  The girl looked at the cash before thinking of something else. “But don’t forget Uncle George turned up later too.” She looked to Strong and explained, “Well, he’s not my real uncle. He was looking for Mark, you said.”

  June made a face. “I told him nothing, horrible man.” She looked at Strong. “He was married to my sister Veronica. God knows what she ever saw in him.” She shook her head. “Veronica died nearly three years ago now. She was only fifty. A brain tumour, but he made her life hell for the last few years.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Thompson,” Strong said.

  “It’s Felicity I felt sorry for. But she did well and got out of there before her mother passed on. Married a nice lad, Andy.”

  “So Felicity is George’s daughter?”

  “Oh no, Felicity was Veronica’s by Dave, but he died when she was seven. Tragic really, Dave was a good man but he was killed in a road accident. No, Veronica took up with George and then married him about ten years before she died.”

  Strong had flipped open his notebook. “And this George …”

  “Brannigan. George Brannigan,” June Thompson answered.

  “… George Brannigan, he turned up here on Friday evening looking for Mark?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what time was that?”

  Mrs Thompson looked to her daughter. “It must have been about … ooh, just gone eight?”

  “I think so,” Becky affirmed. “Maybe about ten past.”

  “Did he say why he wanted Mark?”

  “Only something about having a bit of work for him,” Mrs Thompson said. “He said he might be able to do him a favour.”

  “Someone else who wanted Mark to do a favour for,” Strong remarked. “Becky said he’d moved into a flat in town earlier this year. Did you tell Mr Brannigan that?”

  “No, I wasn’t going to tell him anything. I just said he wasn’t in and was staying with mates. I didn’t want Mark to get involved with the likes of Brannigan.”

  “This George Brannigan, what does he do? Do you have an address?”
<
br />   “I don’t but he has his own scrap metal business over in Huddersfield. Should be easy to find.”

  29

  Monday 18th February 2002

  “Mark Thompson,” DCI Hemingford began, “Discovered on Saturday afternoon in a re-cycling bin behind a convenience store on Dewsbury Road.” He waved a hand past several photos pinned to the action board. “Twenty-three years old, lived in a flat on South Street near Kirkgate railway station. Moved out from the family home he shared with mother, June who’s divorced and still living in the house on Lupset, not far from where the body was found.” Hemingford looked round the assembled team. “So, let’s start with the PM.”

  Strong gave a slight shift of the head in Ormerod’s direction.

  Ormerod took his cue. “DI Strong and myself attended yesterday morning, sir,” he said, producing his notebook. “Cause of death was due to a massive haematoma on the brain produced by a blunt force trauma. Samples of man-made fibres and particles of brick dust found in the wounds to the back of the head, so possibly smacked with a brick and man-handled by someone wearing gloves afterwards.”

  “Or thrust against a wall?” Hemingford pondered aloud.

  “Plenty of them nearby,” Ormerod murmured.

  Before Hemingford could respond, Strong jumped in. “And no material under the fingernails I’m afraid,” he said.

  Hemingford stared at Ormerod for a second before turning his attention to Strong. “So what other enquires have been carried out?”

  Strong listed off the tasks that had been organised since the victim had been discovered – fingertip search of the service yard, a search for any CCTV footage, house-to-house enquiries, a search for potential witnesses and background enquiries. Various members of the team outlined what stage those enquiries were at.

  It was reported that the search of the yard had produced nothing useful and John Darby chipped in that the uniformed team had come up with nothing significant from their door-to-door enquiries. Sam Kirkland had trawled the area for CCTV footage and was working through that with Trevor Newell. He repeated what the shop manager had already told them, that the camera to the rear yard was defective. They’d located several cameras nearby but none from any of the nearby houses, which wasn’t surprising given their council-owned status. So far, nothing of any significance had revealed itself but the process was ongoing.