Torment Page 2

  Standing up out of the big chair, Strong swung his briefcase onto the desk in front of him. Opening it up, he took out a framed photograph of the two women in his life and placed it next to the telephone. The picture had been taken on holiday in North Wales five years before; Laura, with fair hair blowing to one side had her arm around a dark-haired twelve year old girl. They were standing in the bubbling waters of a river in bright sunshine. Strong loved that photo. For him, it seemed to capture the very essence of his wife and daughter.

  He picked up the picture again and studied Amanda’s face; innocence personified. Now seventeen and in the throes of ‘A’ Level studies, she would surely be sensible enough to avoid the pitfalls of modern living. Headstrong and a touch impatient, traits she inherited from him, Amanda could be at once frustrating and inspiring.

  He took a second photo from his case, this time a group of footballers laughing at the camera. Elated by obvious success, the captain and the goalkeeper, surrounded by their teammates held a silver trophy between them. Strong studied the picture with pride. His son, Graham, was the goalkeeper, and he’d just made two brilliant saves in the penalty shoot-out that had decided the fate of the schools under-18 knockout cup. There was no doubt about it, he was a useful player but Strong was pleased Graham had decided to go to Hull University rather than try to pursue a career in the game, at least for now. Strong thought back to his own playing days. Never quite good enough himself, like Graham, he’d decided to go to university. That brought his thoughts back to his first meeting with Laura.

  Before his mind could wander anywhere else, a knock on the door interrupted.

  “Come,” he said.

  DS Kelly Stainmore entered, closely followed by DC Luke Ormerod. “Guv, good to have you back,” she said, with sincerity.

  Short blonde hair neatly framed her face which had started to show signs of an unhealthy lifestyle; bags appearing below the eyes and the skin beginning to resemble chamois leather. She was popular with her colleagues, helped, no doubt, by the fact that she could keep up with the best of them in the pub, not to mention tell a good risqué joke.

  “Good to be back, Kelly, although I wish it wasn’t like this.”

  “I know,” she said, “but he did cross the line.”

  “Feelings in his trousers overwhelming those in his head,” Ormerod suggested, referencing the rumours of the DCI’s affair with a female officer. “I’ve got to say,” he continued, grooming his thick black moustache between thumb and forefinger, “she was a looker, though, Kathy Sharp.”

  No doubt about it, DC Sharp was a very attractive woman and Strong could understand how Cunningham would be flattered by her attentions, assuming the stories of her making all the running were to be believed. He could only think that she had another reason for taking an interest in the DCI. Her swift promotion to DS and transfer to the Met shortly afterwards evidence of that theory.

  “Makes you wonder what she saw in him,” Stainmore said.

  “Built like a brick shithouse,” Ormerod added.

  “Can you imagine making love with him,” Stainmore chuckled, “it would be like having a wardrobe fall on you.”

  “With the key still in the lock,” Ormerod quipped.

  Stainmore looked at him questioningly.

  “I’ve played rugby with him and seen him in the showers afterwards.”

  Strong smiled, enjoying the banter but decided it was time to bring the hilarity to a halt. “All right you two. So, what’s been happening?”

  “Someone’s taking a fancy to some nice motors,” Stainmore replied. “Another one knocked off yesterday.”

  “What this time?”

  “A Lexus 400 stolen off the drive of a house up on Princewood Avenue about half-past seven in the morning.”

  “Expensive wheels.”

  “About forty grand,” Ormerod said.

  “How many so far?”

  “Four.” Stainmore counted off on her fingers. “A Range Rover last month, a Subaru sports a fortnight ago, a Mercedes sports coupé on Friday and this one yesterday.”

  “All connected?”

  “Well - all top of the range, sought-after models and all the same MO, stolen from outside the owners’ homes.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Nothing solid yet,” Kelly responded.

  “A neighbour heard the Subaru being driven away but thought nothing of it,” Ormerod said. “Apart from that, nothing. Probably stolen to order. We’ve got the word out but so far, nobody’s heard anything.”

  “Who’s in downstairs?”

  “Nearly everyone, guv.”

  “Okay, Kelly, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Stainmore and Ormerod departed, leaving Strong alone with his thoughts once more. The two week break in Italy seemed a distant memory although he’d only flown back to Manchester on Saturday. The Chief Super had told him of his temporary appointment just before he left, so his couple of weeks in the sun was spent getting used to the idea; mulling over the implications. It was a challenge but he knew he had a good team.

  A few minutes later, Strong swept into the CID room. “Morning everybody.”

  Various welcoming responses came from the assembled officers.

  Before he could say any more, the door opened and DC John Darby strolled in, index finger of his right hand hooked through the loop of his jacket draped casually over his shoulder. His light blue shirt, taut over his stomach, was spattered with darker spots.

  “Either you’ve just won a pissing highest up the wall contest or it’s started raining,” Ormerod remarked.

  The group burst out laughing.

  “Very bloody funny,” Darby retorted as he slumped into a chair by his desk. Darby was in his early thirties, divorced, overweight and desperate for a woman. His previous relationship fizzled out a few months ago. His pillow talk was more open than it should have been, jeopardising an investigation.

  “What are you up to then, John?” Strong asked.

  “I’m looking into this plant scam, guv.”

  “Plant scam? What sort of plant scam?”

  “You know, building plant.” Darby adjusted the crotch of his trousers, another habit that did nothing to endear him to the opposite sex. “Some herberts are ordering plant to be delivered to a site, giving a squiggle for a signature and that’s the last anyone sees of it.”

  “What sort of things?” Ormerod wondered.

  “So far, three concrete mixers, six transformers, two breakers and a vibrating poker.”

  “What the hell’s a vibrating poker?” Stainmore joined in.

  “Thought that’d interest you,” Derby grinned.

  Stainmore groaned. “P..l..eease!”

  “They use them to make sure all the concrete’s compacted when they make a pour - you know, like a cake - make sure there are no air pockets in it when it finally sets.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the subject,” Strong surmised.

  “Me uncle had a small building business back in Nottingham when I were growing up.” Darby’s Midlands accent strengthened. “I used to work for him in the school holidays, labouring and that, so I picked a lot up.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got the right man on the case then.”

  A rumble of thunder overhead and a sharp crack of lightning drew everyone’s attention to the windows. It looked like a total eclipse outside as the heavens opened and people in the street below scurried for shelter.

  Strong turned his attention to his other DS. Jim Ryan was standing by his desk, sheaf of papers in hand, alongside DC Malcolm Atkinson.

  “What’s keeping you two off the streets then?”

  “Misper, guv,” Ryan answered. ‘Misper’ meaning missing persons enquiry.

  “You look puzzled, Jim.”

  “Well, I just don’t know how seriously to take this.” Ryan handed Strong the file he was holding.

  Strong studied the contents for a moment. Helena Cryanovic, he read, asylum seeker from Albania. Twe
nty-three years old and reported missing by her sister, Magda, on Friday.

  “Avoiding the system?” he asked.

  “Maybe, but I think there might be something more to it. She had a boyfriend - big sod by the name of Szymanski – Polish, I think.”

  “Anything on record?”

  “No, but he’s rumoured to be involved with an Eastern European mob with connections to clubs and the vice trade in Leeds.”

  “Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “We’ve only just got an address for him this morning, so we’re off there now.”

  “Let me know how you go on.”

  Strong looked around then focussed on Ormerod. “Where are Sam and Trevor?”

  DC’s Sam Kirkland and Trevor Newell completed Strong’s team.

  “Looking in to the case of the dud fivers, guv.”

  Strong expressed surprise. “Wouldn’t have thought it worth anybody’s while to forge five pound notes.”

  At the desk behind them a phone rang; Stainmore took the call.

  “That’s why they’ve been so successful. People don’t pay too much attention to a fiver. Tens or twenties, yes, fifties definitely, but not fivers.”

  “I take your point. So where are they now?”

  “Interviewing shop staff who’ve had them passed on over the past week.”

  “All right. Ask them to give me an update when they get back.”

  Stainmore put the phone down and looked across at her boss. “Guv,” she said, “Chief Super wants to see you.”

  Strong rolled his eyes and left the room.

  3

  Angular, and straight from the 1960’s school of architecture, the Yorkshire Post building to the west of Leeds city centre was bathed in early September sunshine. That looked to be under threat from the dark clouds rolling in from the south over Elland Road, home of Leeds United football club.

  “There’s a young … lady in reception for you, Mr Souter.” Patricia on the front desk had developed the ability to convey much more in a message than the actual words she spoke.

  “Who is it?”

  “She won’t give her name.”

  “Well, did she say what she wants?”

  “Only that it’s important.”

  Souter sighed. “All right, Patricia, tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Bob Souter had just turned forty-three. He’d come down to Leeds from Glasgow to join the staff of the Yorkshire Post a few months before. Although born and brought up in Scotland until he was six when his family had moved south to Doncaster, he felt more at home in the north of England than anywhere else.

  Patricia nodded towards the girl sitting on a chair at the far side of the reception area, nervously chewing her nails. Although Patricia’s gesture repeated her earlier disapproval, there was the hint of a smile mixed in, betraying her curiosity.

  The ‘young lady’ Patricia referred to wore a cheap-looking, short imitation leather coat over tight fitting jeans and a low cut top. Her white shoes had seen better days, the heels of which were flared out like a rag-man’s trumpet. Her bleached blonde hair, parted roughly in the middle, fell over her eyes and straggled down to her shoulders. As he introduced himself, he took in her face, heavily made up to give the appearance of being older than he suspected she actually was. She would only give her name as Sammy. Souter presumed it was short for Samantha but wouldn’t trust that it was her real name anyway. He sat down facing her across a low table strewn with that morning’s newspapers.

  “What can I do for you, Sammy?”

  “It’s about my friend, Maria.” She flicked hair away from her eyes. “She’s disappeared.”

  “So why me? Why not go to the police?”

  “Huh,” she snorted. “Look at me. They don’t take us seriously.” She glanced over Souter’s shoulder towards the reception desk. “I’m not deaf or blind either. I heard how she asked you to come down and I saw her look at you when you did. She thinks I’m a piece of shit you wouldn’t want on your shoe. The police tolerate us, sometimes; nothing more.”

  “But what makes you think I can help you?”

  “I remember how you wrote about that murder a few months ago; Rosie Hudson.”

  Souter’s expression hardened as he remembered the events following Rosie’s death. It was one of the first stories he’d written about when he’d started on the paper.

  “Most of them loved the chance to slag her off – ex-vice girl, former prostitute – that sort of crap. But you … you wrote about her as a victim.”

  He felt flattered. “Well … I was only doing my job,” he smiled.

  “Maybe … but it was how you did it. I liked that.”

  “All right, Sammy, what about this friend of yours. How long has she been missing?”

  “Last night, we worked Wakefield’s market square as usual …”

  “Hold on, are you saying she’s only been missing since last night?”

  Sammy was indignant. “Look, I know what you’re thinking but me and Maria, we work together, we look out for each other, we know each other so well. Christ we were in the same kids’ home together!”

  “All right, Sammy, calm down.” Souter glanced round towards Patricia, wondering whether she’d overheard the last part of their conversation, but she was taking a call. “So, you were in the market square, then what happened?”

  “She went off with a punter and never came back.”

  “Did you see who with?”

  “Not really. I’d just got into a car with one of my regulars. The last time I saw her was when I turned to put the seatbelt on. She was talking to someone in a small van, white, it was.”

  “But you don’t know if she got in it?”

  “Tracey said she had, when I got back.”

  “Tracey? Who’s Tracey?”

  “Just one of the other girls.”

  “So how long had you been gone?”

  “Only about fifteen minutes. Like I said, he was a regular.”

  “And you’ve checked where she lives?”

  “We share a room in a house up on the Woodside estate. She hasn’t been back. I’m worried, Mr Souter.”

  “She wouldn’t have done an all-nighter, would she?”

  “No, not without telling me.”

  Souter took a breath and thought for a moment. “Now don’t get upset with this, but I’ve got to ask …”

  Sammy looked straight at him. “Drugs, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Was Maria involved with anything?”

  “Well, we smoke a bit, maybe some ganja sometimes. Christ, you’ve got to have something to get you through the day … or night, if you get my drift … but nothing heavy.”

  “I’m not judging you, Sammy, it’s just an angle we need to cover. I mean, she’s not likely to have taken anything with someone else …?”

  “No, she wouldn’t, not with anyone we didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t recognise this white van? Could it have been one you’d seen before, previous client maybe?”

  “I don’t think so. They are fairly common, though.”

  “What about this other girl, Tracey, was it? Has she got any idea about this?”

  “She said she didn’t recognise the van.”

  Souter leaned forward in his chair. “So what exactly do you think I can do to help?”

  “Well, there’ve been rumours … this might not be the first time something like this has happened.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard about a couple of girls go missing recently.”

  Souter looked sceptical.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking, street girls just come and go, move on to different territory, whatever. But they were regular girls, worked with mates, kept an eye out for one another, and they just wouldn’t have gone off without letting one of the others know.”

  “Do you know where these others went missing from?”

  She looked away for a second. “
Not sure. It’s just some talk I heard.”

  “All right, Sammy, let me look into this. I might want to speak to your friend, Tracey.”

  “She’s not really my friend, just one of the girls.”

  “Well, anyway, could you arrange that?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “So, how can I contact you?”

  “Can I borrow a pen?”

  Souter pulled one from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She began writing on a blank margin of one of the newspapers on the table. “Here,” she said, tearing off the strip. “This is my address and the number of the payphone in the hallway. You can try that.”

  “Okay, Sammy, I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve found anything out.” Souter got to his feet and, as he put his pen back, drew out a business card. “In the meantime, if Maria does turn up, give me a call.”

  “Thanks, Mr Souter.” Sammy stood up. “I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.” She nodded towards Patricia who was now watching events unfold.

  “That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. You certainly haven’t caused me any.”

  As she disappeared out into the street, the brief smile he gave her dissolved into an expression of concern.

  4

  Gillian Ramsey replaced the telephone handset on the cradle and stared blankly into the space in front of her desk. She was baffled. No, more than that, she was worried. In all the time since her mother died nearly ten years ago, she’d always spoken to her younger sister at least twice a week. Last Wednesday everything sounded normal. Susan had been so excited at the prospect of starting her university course in a few weeks. Gillian was pleased for her. If anyone deserved some luck it was Susan.

  Now, not only could Gillian not get a response from Susan’s land line or mobile, despite leaving a couple of messages on each, but their father’s nursing home confirmed that she hadn’t been to see him all weekend. And that was something she had done religiously since they’d moved him in. Something was wrong, Gillian could sense it. There was nothing for it, she would have to go round to Susan’s flat and check for herself. Gillian’s mind darted around as if in a pinball machine. Susan could be ill … but surely not ill enough not to be able to let her know. That means she must be seriously ill. She could be lying in that lonely flat unable to get help. She might have been there for days. She might even have been …