Talisman (The Wakefield Series Book 3) Read online

  “Bollocks,” Strong said, startling her.

  She turned to see him standing in the doorway, dressed in a forensic suit similar to her own. “What?”

  “They’re false bollocks. And there are a number of these in the bathroom cupboard too.” He held a sponge phallus aloft in a gloved hand, like he’d just won a trophy. “Denise has been living as a man for some time. Denis, the neighbours said, according to the constable downstairs.”

  She walked over to the wardrobe and opened both doors. Male suits, shirts and ties were on one side, whilst a small number of female jackets and trousers were on the other.

  Stainmore shrugged. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.” She closed the doors again. “You’ve spoken to Dr Symonds, obviously?”

  “He’s passing it on to Forensics to get the body out.” He put the piece of sponge on the bedside table next to the book. “First impressions?” he asked.

  She shuffled a few items on the dressing table, appearing not to hear.

  “Kelly, I said first impressions?”

  “Sorry, guv. I was just thinking … how could someone go unnoticed for over a year? In this day and age.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people in this country never see anyone else from one week to the next. Loneliness is a big problem.”

  “Like when they say you can be alone in a crowded room, you mean?” She turned to face him and seemed to recover her professionalism. “No sign of forced entry – apart from us, no disturbance in any room, no obvious sign of anything missing or intrusion. So, unless anything comes out in the PM, I’d say it was just another tragic case of someone dying alone and unnoticed.”

  “And if she didn’t have gas, she could have lain there forever.” Strong scratched his temple. “Despite that big pile of mail behind the front door. You’d have thought someone would have started to wonder …”

  “I’ll bag it up and go through it all back at the station.”

  “Okay, Kelly, take a statement from those two in the van. I’ll have a quick look round before we go. But, I agree. Inform the Coroner’s Office and we’ll log it as unexplained, pending the PM.”

  5

  Warm summer sun presented the Yorkshire Post building in its most flattering light. Normally, the concrete panelled structure looked dull, grey and depressing. With its digital clock visible to trains approaching from the south and the west, it had been a Leeds landmark since it opened in 1970.

  At his workstation in the newsroom, Bob Souter was studying his computer screen, reviewing what he’d written. He had settled in well as Crime and Home Affairs Correspondent since his move from the Glasgow Herald in January last year. A number of exclusive headlining stories had eased his transition. The Deputy Editor, John Chandler, had been his boss previously at the Sheffield Star, and it was his approach that had coaxed him to return south.

  Things had been fairly quiet on the news front for a few days. He’d had a bit of fun with John Prescott, the MP for Hull who’d straight jabbed a bloke after having had eggs smashed on him; a brawling MP was always good for a headline. Then there were serious concerns over the imminent rise in petrol prices and whether the psychological ceiling of £4.00 a gallon (87p/litre) would be broken. At the moment, though, he was reworking some agency news to keep the hunt for Damilola Taylor’s murderer on the front page when the phone on his desk rang.

  “Souter,” he said.

  “Is that Bob Souter, used tae be on the Glesga Herald?” enquired a male voice with a strong Glaswegian accent.

  “It is. How can I help you?”

  “Ah unnerstan’ ye hae a new retail park development just near Leeds aboot tae be announced?”

  Souter had heard rumours that something was in the offing, involving land owned by Wakefield District Council, but so far nothing official. “You have something of interest on this, Mr er …”

  “Ah’d rather you didnae know whae this was. It’s safer that way.”

  “For you or me?”

  “Maybe baith. Just check oot the developer. If he’s cairryin on like before, he’ll hiv some important people in his pocket. He disnae like tae lose.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s mentioned any developer yet. Who are you talking about?”

  “Brogan. Kenny Brogan. He rins Thistle Developments up here. Nasty bastard.”

  “What exactly do …” Souter stopped, the caller had hung up.

  Phone back in its cradle, he ran both hands through his dark hair, scratched his scalp and considered the conversation. For ‘up here’ that can only mean Glasgow, he thought. The best person to give him the industry low-down on Thistle Developments would be Sandra, Sandra McKenzie. That might be a bit awkward, bearing in mind their two-year involvement and subsequent acrimonious split about eighteen months ago. She was an architect he’d met at a barbecue, not long after he’d joined the Glasgow Herald. Later that night, they’d ended up in bed. As he used to say, it was lust at first sight. Within a short time they’d moved in together. It was blissful for a while and he began to think that she might be the one. God knows, he’d made a mess of plenty of relationships before that. Then she found herself a new position with a larger architectural practice. She began working more hours and late evenings, but he discovered she was having an affair with the principal, Frank Buchanan. All that coincided with the phone call from John Chandler offering him a new position of his own, back in Yorkshire. Serendipity.

  He wheeled his chair backwards to check behind the low partition to the next workstation. It was empty. Janey Clarke would normally be there. A smart young woman of twenty-two, she was a promising journalist whose work had impressed him. He was about to ask someone else where she was when she walked back into the office.

  “Looking for me, Bob?” she asked.

  He stood up. “Yeah, Janey. You’ve been following that story on the new retail park just off the M62, haven’t you?”

  “The Lofthouse scheme, you mean? Yes. Why?”

  He stretched his six feet two frame and heard a few cracks from his back.

  “That sounds painful,” she quipped.

  ”Sitting at these desks for too long. Anyway, how far down the line is it? I mean, have they appointed a developer or anything?”

  “Not as far as I know. It got initial planning approval last month. It goes back in a few weeks for some referred matters, I think they said. It’s a bit controversial and it was quite a fiery meeting. Apparently, there’s a lot of funding floating around on that one. It’s on old mining land and there’s grant money from the EU for cleaning up the site, as well as some central government funding.”

  He resumed his seat. “So it might be fairly attractive financially?”

  Janey nodded “Not quite sure how it works but with all those money sources, there’s always someone involved who’s likely to trouser something they shouldn’t.”

  He raised his eyebrows then turned back to his desk.

  “You heard something, then?” she persisted.

  “Maybe,” he said over his shoulder. “Need to check a few things first.”

  She held out her hands in a show of exasperation and was about to respond but her desk phone rang, so she sat down to answer it instead.

  Souter took out his wallet and found the business card he wanted. He read Sandra McKenzie’s name then lifted the phone and dialled her office number.

  “Buchanan Associates, how can I help you,” came the nasal-sounding West Coast accent of the female receptionist.

  “Could I speak to Sandra McKenzie, please?”

  “Ah you mean Sandra Buchanan? I’m afraid she won’t be in until this afternoon. Can I take a message and get her to call you?”

  Souter hesitated. He was thrown by the news that she had presumably married Frank Buchanan. “Er, no. No message. Thanks.”

  He slowly replaced the receiver as his thoughts drifted back two years to a period in time when he thought she might consider becoming Mrs Souter. Before he could explore the memory further
, Scotland the Brave struck up from the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. He retrieved it and saw that Alison was calling.

  What the fuck are you thinking, he told himself then answered the call. “Hello, sex bomb,” he said in quiet tones.

  “Whoah, down boy. I hope you’ve been taking your medication,” Alison chuckled.

  God, he loved it when she laughed. It was such a turn-on for him. He’d met Alison in February last year. A year before that, she’d been involved with someone he was investigating. Later, their relationship blossomed. Last summer, Alison had also been very understanding when he met Sammy Grainger, a young street girl who had approached him for help in finding her missing friend. Initially suspicious, Alison had taken her in and even helped find a job for her with the firm where she worked.

  “Hi,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  “Of course. I just wanted to let you know that Sammy’s calling round tonight. I thought it might be an idea if both she and Susan came for a meal. My place.”

  Although they were in an intimate relationship, Bob and Alison valued their independence and, for the time being, had decided to keep their own accommodation. She had a cosy stone-built terraced house in Ossett, about five miles to the west of Wakefield whilst he retained a one-bedroomed modern flat near Westgate railway station.

  Susan Brown and Sammy had become good friends following Susan’s accident last year. She was now in her first year studying Broadcast Journalism at Leeds University and the girls shared a flat together.

  “Sounds good. I haven’t seen them for ages.”

  “About seven then? You haven’t got any ground-breaking scoops on the go that means you’ll be working late?”

  Souter laughed. “I wish. No, it’s all very quiet just now. I’ll see you then.”

  When the call ended, he sat for a moment and thought how lucky he was. He loved Alison. She was gorgeous. Why did he even think back to Sandra?

  He leaned forward again, picked up the phone and dialled another number.

  “Ritchie,” another Scots voice answered.

  “Charlie, how’s it goin’, my man,” Souter responded, dropping into a Scottish accent.

  “Bob! Bloody Hell, long time no hear.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what are you up to? Any interesting stories?”

  “Actually, there is something I’d like to pick your brains on,” he replied.

  6

  Colin Strong turned the key in the lock of his modern 3-bedroomed detached home and opened the door. Amanda came bounding down the stairs and hugged him.

  “Hi, Dad. Mum told me your news. But in my opinion, you’re still the best policeman ever.”

  She was eighteen and in that nervy period of having just finished her A Levels and hoping the results would be good enough for her first choice of university.

  Strong pulled his head back then kissed her forehead. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  “Dad.” Graham emerged from the lounge and joined in a group hug.

  “Hey! What is all this? I’m fine. I’m a big boy now, you know,” Strong responded.

  “Tell me about it,” Laura smiled, arms folded, standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Oh, please. Too much information.” Amanda made a face in mock disgust.

  He chuckled. “Seriously, I’m okay.”

  “Come and sit down,” Laura said. “I’m making spag bol. Be about half an hour.”

  Amanda disappeared back upstairs whilst Strong took off his jacket, fetched a beer from the fridge and joined Graham in the lounge.

  “How’s the job?” he asked, sitting on the settee next to his son.

  “It’s okay, for the summer, I suppose.” Graham, at twenty, was in his second year at Hull University, studying History. He had managed to find a position at The National Mining Museum about seven miles away.

  “I thought you said it’d be useful for your studies. The mining industry, an important part of the Industrial Revolution.”

  “It is. It’s just I was hoping for something a bit more challenging than working in the cafeteria.”

  Strong laughed. “At least it’s a job.”

  Graham nodded then studied his father. “Dad, are you all right? With this situation at work, I mean.”

  Strong puffed out his cheeks. “Well, there’s not a lot I can do about it. But, it’s disappointing, to say the least.”

  “When does the new bloke come in?”

  “Beginning of the month.”

  “Are there no other opportunities for you? Leeds maybe?”

  “I’ve got a good team here. I won’t make any kneejerk decisions but … I suppose there might be other openings.”

  “There’s bound to be good teams elsewhere. Look at me. We had a good football team at school. I didn’t think we could get that same camaraderie again, but the lads at Uni, from all over, we all gel together.”

  Strong smiled at his son. “Graham, you should be studying philosophy.”

  The pair laughed.

  Half an hour later, they were all seated around the dining table. This was the first time they’d been together as a complete family since last Christmas.

  The conversation had drifted through Graham’s time at Hull and the choices Amanda had selected for her university courses. They’d finished the meal and Graham and Amanda had departed to do their own things. Laura made a mug of tea for them both and brought the subject back to her husband. “So how have the rest of the team taken the news; Luke, Kelly?”

  “It’s not been formally announced. But I’m a bit worried about Kelly. There’s something going on I don’t know about.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something going on’?”

  “Health wise, I think.” He took a drink. “She looks washed out. I think she’s bulked up a bit too. And when we went to that unexplained death today, it seemed as though it affected her. She was a bit distant at times.”

  “Well you can’t sort everyone’s problems out, Colin. You’ve got enough on your own plate with what’s going on for you.”

  He sat back in the chair. “No, I know. It’s just that she’s a good officer and if there’s something wrong and it can be sorted … well, you know what I mean. What if one of your teaching staff showed some worrying signs? You’d be concerned, wouldn’t you?”

  Laura sighed. “I know. Has she not given any clue?”

  “I’ve offered; said if there was anything troubling her, if she ever wanted to talk to anyone, I’d listen …”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “No doubt she will when she feels ready.”

  * * *

  Souter let himself in to Alison’s house with his key, the front door leading directly into the living room.

  “Hello, Bob.” Susan looked up from the settee where she was reading a magazine.

  Sammy waved, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, flicking through Alison’s CD collection.

  Souter smiled, returned the wave, then turned to Susan. “How’s the leg?”

  The twenty-four year old had broken her left leg when she tumbled into a deserted building’s basement nine months ago. It was Souter who had found her.

  “Just about back to normal, thanks.” Her attention returned to the article. “Got signed off from physiotherapy last month. Back to see the consultant in a few weeks and that should be me clear.”

  “That you, Bob?” Alison shouted from the kitchen.

  “’Tis I.”

  “Great timing. I’m about to dish up.”

  “Smells good.” He looked to Sammy. “Your job working out okay?”

  Sammy was nineteen with long blond hair. She looked far healthier than when she’d first come to speak to him in the Yorkshire Post offices last year. She’d overcome her lifestyle problems successfully, with the help of Alison and himself. “Great, yeah. They’re sending me on a course next week. Dire Straits any good?” She held up the Brothers In Arms album.

  “Of cours
e,” he said. “Another milestone in your musical education.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  “Come through, you lot!” Alison yelled from the back room.

  Souter led the way to the kitchen diner, bottle of wine in hand. He gave Alison a hug and big kiss then joined the others sitting down at the table. As he opened the wine and began to pour four glasses, the bass riff of the first track, So Far Away From Me, closely followed by Mark Knopfler’s distinctive lead guitar kicked in.

  With gloved hands, Alison placed the Creuset pot onto the wooden mat on the table, before returning with a couple of Pyrex dishes full of steaming vegetables. “Get stuck in,” she instructed.

  “This’s lovely, Alison,” Sammy said, dishing up the goulash onto four plates.

  Over the course of the next half hour the conversation drifted effortlessly from recent news stories, concerns over more cases of CJD and having a laugh at the expense of John Prescott. Then there was the knowing look Sammy gave Alison when she mentioned the case of the fifty-six year-old woman who had just given birth to twins.

  “Any more of that and I’ll stop your pocket money,” Souter joked.

  By the time he was asking Susan how her Journalism course was going, he was feeling warm and mellow, so grateful he knew these three women and could enjoy their company.

  “Actually, I was wondering, Bob …” Susan hesitated.

  “Yes,” he replied slowly.

  “I was wondering if … if there might be a chance of …”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Susan,” Sammy interrupted, turning to Souter, “She wants to know if there is any chance of a job at the Post for the summer.”