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

  “Hey!” she responded from the kitchen through the back.

  He put his briefcase down by the side of the settee, looked up to the mantelpiece and saw the Valentine’s cards they’d given one another this morning. He took in the sounds of a Joe Cocker album playing on the CD then saw the bouquet of flowers arranged in a vase on the dresser.

  Alison emerged, wiping her hands on a towel.

  Souter smiled and nodded towards the flowers. “Do you like them?”

  She followed his gaze. “They’re lovely, thank you.”

  “Specially for my special girl.” He approached her, holding out both hands to gently feel her stomach. “How’s our bump?” he asked, kissing her.

  Arms around his neck she pulled her head away to look at him. “Our bump?” She grinned. “At the moment it’s solely mine and it’s been pretty lively. I wish you could take over for me now and again.”

  He ran his hands down her back and gently squeezed her bum. “I can’t wait to meet him or her,” he said.

  She pulled away and playfully slapped his arm. “And you can stop that sort of behaviour Mr Souter. That’s what got us into this situation in the first place.”

  “I know.” He gave her a cheeky look. “It was great though, wasn’t it?”

  “Well calm down, Sammy and Susan will be here anytime.”

  “So what delights have you got for tea?”

  “I’ve done a meat and potato pie.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I suddenly had this urge for pastry,” she explained. “Now go and get freshened up. I’m just going to check on the veg.”

  Ten minutes later, Souter and Alison were relaxing on the settee when the front door burst open and Sammy and Susan tumbled in, chattering away like they’d not seen one another for months.

  “What’s all the excitement, you two?” Souter asked.

  “Take your coats off first and have a drink.” Alison got to her feet, moved forward and gave the pair a hug.

  “How are you?” Susan asked.

  “We’ve brought you some grape juice.” Sammy held out a bottle. “You can pretend it’s red wine.”

  “Thanks,” Alison said in a mock disappointed tone. She took hold of the present. “I’m looking forward to my first glass of Chianti once this is all over,” she quipped.

  Susan and Sammy shrugged out of their coats, Sammy hanging them up in the cupboard by the side of the front door. “You’ll never guess,” she said, running both hands through her blonde hair.

  “Just listen to this,” Susan joined in.

  Souter laughed. “Slow down you two and just tell me.”

  “Well Alison, have you heard?” Sammy called through to the kitchen where Alison had disappeared with the bottle.

  Alison re-appeared in the doorway. “What?” she said, a broad smile on her face.

  “You know the victim of the murder in the park last night? You know the one that’s been all over the news?”

  “Yes,” Alison responded slowly.

  “You’ll never guess who it is.”

  “Go on then.”

  “Only Marcus Weaver. You know him, don’t you? Quite a good-looking bloke works in that department under McKenzie on the next floor up from us.”

  Alison put a hand to her mouth. “No.”

  “It’s true, we had your mate in this afternoon,” Sammy said, turning to Souter.

  “Who? Colin?”

  “Yeah, and that detective who was shot last year, Kelly Stainmore.”

  Souter’s thoughts immediately shifted to the news conference he’d just attended at Wood Street. Colin and Kelly hadn’t appeared. DCI Hemingford and DCS Flynn were put up alongside the Force’s media relations person, some thirty-something stern-faced dark-haired woman he’d not seen before. He didn’t learn much more than he already knew. It seemed they were keeping a lot of cards close to their chest. All that was stated initially was that a thirty-nine-year old married man from the Leeds area had been found dead in the park the night before and police were treating his death as murder. They were appealing for help from anyone who was in the vicinity between the hours of seven-thirty and eight-thirty to get in touch. One hack Souter knew pressed them on the exact location which then prompted some speculation as to whether the murder had been sexually motivated. A bland response of looking at all possibilities was all that was forthcoming. Souter irritated the officers when he asked if there were any unusual circumstances in which the victim had been found. Again, the answer was non-committal, although the expression on Flynn’s face was one of concern that perhaps Souter knew far more than they would have wished.

  “Would he have been thirty-nine and living in Leeds?” Souter asked.

  Alison looked across at him. “I’d think he’d be around forty, yes,” she said. “And I think he comes in from Horsforth. Always seemed a nice guy. God, I can’t believe it. What do you know, Bob?”

  “Only what I’ve been told at the press conference just before I came here.”

  “Come on then, spill,” Sammy said excitedly.

  Souter gave a brief summary of what he knew, omitting any details that old man Pemberton had given him.

  “That place has a right reputation,” Susan joined in, once he’d finished. “Do you think he was … you know, batting for the other side?”

  “He was married, Susan,” Alison said. “I think he’s got a couple of kids too.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Sammy said. “Sometimes married men like to try something different.”

  “Look, can we just stop this conversation right now.” Alison put her hands on her hips. “I want to enjoy my meal.”

  “So what are you working on at the moment, Bob?” Susan asked. “Not including our friend in the public toilets.”

  Alison left for the kitchen and could be heard opening and closing cupboards and moving plates around. Sammy joined her. “Can I give you a hand with anything?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied. “Everything’s under control.”

  After a second or two in thought, Sammy spoke. “With Mr Weaver,” she began, “have you heard any rumours?”

  Alison stopped dishing up the pie. “What sort of rumours?”

  “You know, having it about with someone in the office.”

  “Well it’s certainly not me,” Alison laughed. “Not in this condition.” She looked down at her stomach then resumed her task. “Why? Have you?”

  “I’m just thinking back over the past couple of months … since Christmas … I think I’ve seen him with a woman who works in another section.”

  “With a woman? How do you mean? What woman?” Alison said. “And give them a shout.” She gestured towards the doorway.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s probably completely innocent.” Sammy walked away to the living room.

  “You probably won’t remember but you might have heard talk of it,” Souter responded to Susan’s question. “The murder of fourteen-year-old Claire Hobson back in 1982.”

  “I think I have heard of that,” Susan said. “Is that still unsolved?”

  Souter nodded. “Coming up for twenty years now so Chandler’s asked me to do a report on what’s happened in between; a sort of anniversary piece, focus on the family, new appeal for information maybe, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Susan was thoughtful. “Listen, I’ve got a project to do this term … I don’t suppose I could help you on this one, could I?”

  “Oh I don’t know, Susan …”

  “I’m sure Mr Chandler wouldn’t mind. After all, he took me on last summer.”

  It was true, she had somehow charmed her way around his boss, especially when she’d asked for a week’s holiday part way through her temporary job. But then, there did appear to be some sort of unspoken bond between all four of them, Susan, Sammy, Chandler and Bob, when they’d watched events unfold on the television in the deputy editor’s office on that fateful day last September.

/>   Souter hesitated. “I’m not sure …”

  “At least ask him,” she persisted. “Think about it, I could bring a female perspective to any meets you might have with her family.”

  Souter felt as though he’d been ambushed and was being slowly worn down. “I’ll speak to him, that’s all I can do.”

  She clapped her hands, a broad smile on her face. “Thanks.”

  “But I can’t promise anything.”

  “What are you two so animated about?” Sammy wondered as she appeared in the doorway. “Anyway, the food’s ready, so come and get it.”

  13

  Brannigan drew the black BMW to a halt under the streetlamp. He was following the directions given by the caller earlier that afternoon. He checked his watch; five to eight. The wipers swept across the windscreen and he could see the phone box on the corner on the other side of the street. He looked all round but the street was deserted. Not surprising considering the rain lashing down and the temperature only a few degrees above freezing. This was the Lupset estate just to the west of the city. Another check of the watch then he felt for the package under his jacket. Stepping out into the rain, he lifted the hood over his head.

  He pulled on the door to the phone box and was immediately assaulted by the stench of stale urine. He checked the phone was working and held the door open with his foot. At exactly eight o’clock the phone rang. Brannigan lifted the receiver and waited for the other person to speak.

  “I’m glad you’re following orders, George,” the familiar distorted voice said. “I will know if you’re not on your own.”

  “I’m on my tod,” Brannigan responded.

  “Look down the street towards the next road on your right.”

  “What about it?”

  “Walk towards it and after fifty yards you’ll see a green BT junction box. There’s a garage tight up to the pavement and to the left-hand side a gap in the fence. Place the bag through that gap and walk away. You have three minutes.”

  Brannigan repeated the instructions.

  “And make sure you do. Because I will know.”

  “But what about …” Brannigan stopped. The line was dead. “Bastard!” he said and slammed the handset down.

  He walked down the street towards the junction box. At this point, the distance between the streetlamps was at its greatest; combined with the rain, it was pitch dark. He saw the garage. Either side was bounded by a thick privet hedge and a mesh fence. He spotted the gap, large enough only to fit the bag and his hand through. He hesitated. A glance up and down the street told him it was as empty as when he’d first parked up. He bent down and pushed the bag through. Lingering for a few seconds, he stepped back and scanned all round.

  He was about to walk away when he heard something scrambling about behind the fence. Bending down again, he put his hands back through the gap. Nothing. And then the sound of someone running a few paces then the squeak of a bike. Peering through the hedge, he managed to spot a small figure pedalling away down the service road.

  “Hey!” he shouted then ran back to his car.

  Brannigan drove round the streets of Lupset for half an hour before giving up. Apart from some teenage girls walking away from the chip shop and an elderly couple waiting at a bus stop there was nobody out and about. No kids on bikes, which is what he was searching for. He only hoped that this wasn’t a total con. But whatever else happened, he resolved to find out who was behind this. And when he did …

  * * *

  “Let’s have it then, Danny,” Mark said.

  The little kid with the baseball cap turned back to front, dressed in an anorak and jeans looked up at him. “Where’s my money?” he asked.

  Eleven years old and an attitude, Danny had known Mark all his life, living next door to him and his parents on a street not far away until Mark had moved to a flat of his own in town.

  Mark produced a twenty-pound note. “Here,” he said. “Did he spot you?”

  Danny passed over the plastic bag. “Nah. He tried to get it back though; when he heard me pick it up like.”

  The two of them were standing on a service road at the back of a row of shops on Dewsbury Road. Mark put the bag inside his coat and zipped it up. “And all he might have seen is some lad in dark clothing pedalling away on a bike,” he suggested.

  “I did see him drive around for a bit after.” Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I think he might have been looking for me.”

  “But you stayed hidden?”

  The kid grinned. “Nobody knows this estate like me.”

  Mark put a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Good lad. That’s why I knew you’d be the best for the job.”

  “Listen Mark, this isn’t drugs is it?” His face was screwed up with concern. “I don’t get involved in that.”

  “No Danny, I can assure you it’s nothing like that. This is just about teaching someone a lesson.”

  “That bloke?”

  “Best you don’t know. And listen …” Mark continued, “If anyone asks …”

  “I don’t know anything,” Danny said as he prepared to pedal away.

  “You take care now.”

  14

  In a narrow street in a decaying part of Huddersfield, hemmed in between the railway line from Leeds to Manchester and the old canal, the gates to Brannigan’s scrap yard remained closed and locked, as they had done all day. A few old streetlamps gave little light as steady rain poured down.

  In the adjacent house, Andy nervously paced, waiting for the phone call. He only hoped Brannigan had followed instructions this time. If anything happened to Felicity, it would be his fault. Felicity said he was impulsive and a bully. He’d seen that for himself these past few days. But in the end, he had come good with the money.

  Walking into the downstairs bathroom, he ran the tap then splashed his face. In the mirror, a gaunt young man stared back, hair unkempt and patchy stubble apparent. He couldn’t grow a beard, even if he wanted to. The strain and worry of these past few days was etched in his features.

  Drying his face on the towel, he wandered around the ground floor of the house. It should be better than it was. Brannigan was a hoarder. The sitting room had various boxes spread over the floor. He looked inside one; magazines from the 1950s; a lot bought at a recent auction. Another contained a china tea set carefully wrapped in paper. Newspapers were scattered over the sofas and armchairs in the big room.

  Out in the hallway, more clutter. Various ornaments adorned every flat surface, window sill and occasional table. He’d picked one up to look on the bottom for any well-known maker’s mark when the phone rang. Startled, he ended up juggling it in both hands before securing it in his grasp and putting it back in its place, relieved.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Andy?”

  He recognised the distorted voice from the overheard conversation with Brannigan. “Yes.”

  “The back lane with some garages by the side of the Flanshaw Hotel. Half an hour.”

  “But wait …”

  Andy stood stock still for a second, holding on to the handset, hearing the dialling tone before he sparked to life. Slamming down the phone, he grabbed his jacket and dashed out through the front door, banging it behind him. Jumping into his car he started the engine and sped off towards Wakefield.

  The Flanshaw Hotel was easy to find, Andy knew it well. As he drove slowly past, he spotted a back lane to the left hand side of the pub. The lane was unlit. He pulled in. As the headlights swung round into the darkness, a bedraggled figure appeared from between two of the garage blocks. He skidded to a halt and dashed from the car to embrace Felicity.

  “You took your time,” she said “I’m soaked and bloody freezing.”

  Her grim smile cheered him. “What happened? Who did this?”

  “Let me get in the car,” she said.

  “Of course.” He led her round to the passenger side and helped her in.

  He began to drive, heading for the M1.
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  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “George will want to see you safe and well and there’s hot water for a bath.”

  “Sod that, I’m not going there. Take me home.”

  He glanced across, a surprised look on his face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, now get a move on.”

  * * *

  His house was in darkness when George Brannigan returned home. After a fruitless attempt to find the kid on the bike, he’d tried to contact Andy on the landline. When that wasn’t picked up, he tried his mobile. His calls ignored, he was growing angry. Had he been stitched up? Thirty grand he’d just parted with for the supposed safe return of Felicity. Felicity, his step-daughter. And where was her husband now?

  “Andy! Andy!” he shouted as he opened the front door.

  He listened. The only sound was the grandfather clock’s loud slow tick in the hallway.

  Up the stairs, he threw open the door to the bedroom where Andy had been staying. A rumpled, slept-on bed but nothing else to show anyone had been there. Brannigan pulled the mobile from his pocket and speed dialled Andy’s number once more. It rang twice then went to answer message. Redialling to Felicity’s number, the message kicked in immediately that her phone was switched off.

  “Shit,” he muttered. This was more than suspicious.

  Back down stairs, he walked along the hall to the kitchen, checked the dining room then into the lounge. All was as he’d left things a few hours ago. There was only one thing to do. He stormed from the house, climbed back into his car and drove off.

  * * *

  Home for Felicity and Andy was a one-bedroomed rented flat in a two storey Victorian house off College Grove. They’d lived there since they married three years ago, just before her mother died. On the ten-minute journey, Andy tried to probe his wife for details of what had happened to her.

  She gave no meaningful responses, only that she needed to have a good wash and get rid of the residue of duct tape that had bound her wrists and ankles and covered her mouth.

  Andy’s phone rang while he was driving. He gave it a quick glance and showed it to Felicity. “It’s George,” he said.