“I suppose you laughed your bollocks off when I went over that fence,” he said, approaching the car. “Chris? What the fuck are you fiddling about with down there?” Altering course, he walked up to the driver’s door and opened it. “Come on,” he said, giving his brother a shake. The corpse rolled to one side and half fell out.
He gasped. “Oh Christ. Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”
20
Thursday
It was the early hours of the morning when the phone rang in the house Chapman rented. Veronica had moved in with him about four months previously. She mumbled something incoherent then turned over as Chapman got up to answer it.
He picked up the handset in the living room. “Hello?” he said.
“Oh Christ, Steve, it’s fucking terrible.”
Chapman recognised the voice of his friend, Gary Baker. “Gaz, calm down,” he said.
“What are we going to do, Steve? What the fuck are we going to do?”
“Look, it’s half one in the morning. What’s so important it can’t wait?”
After considerable effort, he managed to get the full story of the tragic events of the past few hours. Slowly it dawned on him what a serious situation they had managed to get themselves into. Not one to easily panic, Chapman began to sweat and shake uncontrollably. In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face in a desperate bid to calm his nerves. His heart rate rose again when he heard Veronica moving around in the bedroom.
She appeared at the bathroom door, bundled past him and sat on the toilet.
“Who was on the phone this time of night?” she asked, pulling toilet tissue from the roll.
“Oh, that. Breakdown.” He dried his face on a towel and took a breath. “I’m going to have go out.”
She looked at her watch. “At this time?”
“Apparently, he’s a good customer.”
She splashed her hands under the tap. “I’m off back to bed,” she said and padded out.
Chapman got into the garage’s van he used and drove out to Garforth railway station. Gaz had managed to get there, that’s where he’d called from. Chapman went over the conversation he’d just had with his friend time and again. There was only one reason he could think of why Chris would have been killed. And that involved him … and Gaz. They couldn’t stay around here. They would have to get away. As he drove, an idea began to form.
* * *
The wagon driver woke at half past four and began preparations for his early morning delivery in Beeston. He’d noticed the Rover parked further up and wondered when it had arrived. It certainly wasn’t there when he’d bedded down.
He completed his checks all round the wagon then climbed back into the cab. By this time, it was fully light and he looked again at the car. There was something about it that didn’t appear quite right. The driver’s door was open and there seemed to be a bundle behind it. Firing up the engine, he checked his delivery papers and directions but his attention kept returning to the car. He stared long and hard. Putting the lorry into gear, he set off slowly, drawing to a halt alongside the Rover. Shuffling over to the passenger seat, he looked down through the car’s sunroof. It was a few seconds before he realised the full horror of what he saw. Reaching for his mobile phone, he made the call that meant the drop in Beeston would be considerably delayed.
Fifteen minutes later, the lay-by was a hive of activity. Police had secured the crime scene, various unmarked vehicles had arrived and white overall-clad personnel were going about their business.
* * *
Ten past eight and Souter was back in the archive room. The previous night, in his mind, he tried to narrow the search field. Over a decade earlier it was hard to pin down exactly what happened when. He tried to pinpoint certain events – 1984 his move to the Sheffield Star; two years later, his marriage to Margaret. 1988, they split up. He didn’t remember the name but it was definitely when he was with Margaret he recalled a missing schoolgirl in Yorkshire. On that basis, he decided to start his search in January 1986.
By ten to ten, he was reviewing April 1986 and had just read reports of the kidnapping of John McCarthy in Beirut on the seventeenth when his mobile rang. It was John Chandler.
“Bob,”
he said,
“forget the Secretary of State. He’s cancelled his appointments. Something to do with a Commons vote tonight. But something bigger’s come up.”
As Chandler was speaking, the front page he had been searching for flashed up on the screen in front of him.
‘FEARS GROW FOR MISSING SCHOOLGIRL’
“Shit,” he murmured.
“Don’t sound too disappointed, there’s been a murder, a nasty one too.”
Chandler went on.
“You need to get onto it now!”
Souter was silent, staring at the screen in front of him.
“Bob, are you listening?”
“Er, sorry, John. I was just studying something.”
“Whatever it is, leave it and get your arse out to Garforth. There’s a lay-by on the right-hand side just after the White Lion pub. You should see the activity.”
“Okay, got that, John. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and studied the newspaper report for Saturday the nineteenth of April 1986 – ‘Fears are growing for the safety of ten year-old Jennifer Coyle from Pontefract who was last seen getting off the school bus at half past four yesterday afternoon.’ Souter made brief notes then removed the microfiche, put it back on the shelf and hurried off to Garforth.
* * *
It was half past ten by the time Strong and Stainmore pulled into the lay-by. They flashed their warrant cards and had their details noted by the uniformed constable at the taped boundary to the crime scene. Detective Chief Superintendent Flynn had called Strong earlier to inform him that the Leeds Murder Squad would be leading the investigation but, as the victim was thought to be Chris Baker, he would need to liaise closely and pass on all relevant information from his recent dealings with him. The Senior Investigating Officer was DCI Frank Halliday, an experienced detective, not far off retirement. Strong had come across him several times during his career, one of the old school, a hard bastard. But of more significance for Strong, he had been Cunningham’s mentor and, as far as he knew, they were still close.
Halliday, donned in a white SOCO suit, was talking to another officer but broke off when he spotted Strong and Stainmore and came over to speak to them.
“Now then,” he said, “I hear you’ve moved up in the world.”
Strong smiled grimly. “Only temporary, Frank.”
Halliday hesitated with the use of his Christian name. “Aye, and it will be if there’s any fucking justice.
“Sorry,” he said, addressing Stainmore, “excuse my language but stitching up a senior colleague then stepping into his shoes isn’t something I admire.”
“Just …,” she began, before Strong interrupted her.
“It’s okay, Kelly, we all know what happened. DCI Halliday here is entitled to his opinion.” He could have said a lot more - that he’d done all he could to avoid Cunningham’s situation, that he had a lot of time and respect for him - but he could see Halliday had already closed his mind to any alternative view.
Halliday held Strong’s gaze for a few awkward seconds before telling the pair to get kitted up and step inside the cordon. “It’s not a pretty sight,” he added.
Strong and Stainmore fought their way into the standard white suits and overshoes as the conversation continued.
“I hear you’ve had contact with the poor sod recently.”
“We interviewed him on Tuesday night, not under caution, just exploring what involvement he might have had with stolen cars,” Strong said. “We were more interested in his younger brother, Gary. He has a lot of previous.”
“Well,” said Halliday, “he must have been involved in something fairly heavy. This has all the hallmarks of a professional hit. Take a look.”
Behind a large green screen, a dark blue Rover was hidden from any possible public view. The driver’s door was open and Baker’s body was half out onto the footpath. His head was tilted to the right and a small trail of blood had trickled down his neck. When he knelt down to look more closely, he could see the small entry wound in his hair line. He stood up and exhaled.
“You’ve seen him recently,” Halliday said, “I don’t suppose there’s any doubt about who he is? I wouldn’t want to upset relatives unnecessarily …”
“From what I can see, that’s Chris Baker.”
“The car is registered to him and I’ve got officers on their way to see his wife.”
“Is there anything unusual in the car? Anything to give a clue as to what he was doing here?”
“Nothing apparent at the moment.” Halliday nodded at the black private ambulance reversing towards them. “We’re about to have him taken away. We’ll have a quick look here but the car will be stripped when we get it back to Leeds.” He excused himself to speak to the new arrivals.
Strong turned to Stainmore. “We’ve got to be missing something here, Kelly.” They began walking slowly back to the cordon. “I can’t believe involvement with stolen cars would attract a professional hit, because that’s undoubtedly what this was.”
“I’ll chase up that paperwork from Dave Pratt.” Stainmore had spoken briefly to the lorry driver the previous evening on his return from Cardiff. He confirmed he had made several trips from Meadow Woods Farm to Felixstowe over the past month or so. He would receive a call from ‘Chris at Yorkshire Exports’ to collect a container and make the delivery. He promised to forward copies of his invoices which he issued to an address in Outwood. So far, he’d been paid promptly and had no reason to be suspicious.
“What’s the betting this ties back to our victim there?” Strong said, as his mobile began to ring. Souter’s number came up. He made excuses to Stainmore and took the call.
“Hello, mate,”
Souter said,
“Are you busy?”
“I’m a little bit tied up at the moment, why?”
“This Garforth murder, is it your case?”
“Er, no. Why do you ask?”
“Look to your left behind your car.”
Strong turned and saw a familiar figure raise a hand.
“Do you know who the victim is?”
“I can’t really tell you much at the moment. I’m going to have to go.”
“Before you do, I could do with a chat about something else I think might interest you. How about a pint tonight?”
“Depending on how the day pans out, that sounds good.”
“I’ll ring you.”
“So, DCI Strong,” Halliday said, pronouncing Strong’s new title in a deliberate and somewhat condescending manner. “Just so there’s no confusion, this is my case coming under the jurisdiction of the Leeds Murder Squad. Got that?”
“Whatever Chief Superintendant Flynn says,” Strong responded, turning away and walking back to his car. “Pompous fucking arsehole,” he said under his breath loud enough for Stainmore to hear, then added in mocking tones, “Excuse my language.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Souter returned to the archive room and focussed his attention once more on the disappearance of Jennifer Coyle. The story ran for about two weeks before it appeared to fizzle out with no progress being made in the enquiry, no apparent leads or likely suspects named. He made copious notes of the reporting, details of the family and the investigation. He was now determined to track down the story of the other missing girl, because he felt sure Mary existed also.
It was gone seven and he had fielded two calls from Alison, when his persistence paid off. He could feel the adrenaline surge; was aware of the change in his body chemicals. He’d flipped through reports of various transport disasters; the Clapham rail crash and Lockerbie in December 1988, closely followed by Kegworth in early January 1989 and another train crash at Purley in March. What a dark period those few months were, he thought. Then, there it was, 7
th
March, a report of missing schoolgirl, Mary Duggan. The eight year-old was last seen in a park in Pontefract on the Monday afternoon. She was dressed in her school uniform. A picture showed her with short-cropped hair.
“Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ!” he said, louder. He felt sick. This was too much of a coincidence for it not to be genuine. But how? How does a young woman falling through a rotting floor come across … not only come across but actually speak to … two schoolgirls, one missing for over fourteen years, the other nearer twelve?
He copied the published photos of Jennifer and Mary and made a call to Alison to apologise and tell her he’d be working late. He’d see her tomorrow.
Half an hour later, he rushed into the Intensive Care Unit at the LGI with ten minutes of the visiting time remaining. The nurse told him Susan had been transferred to an orthopaedic ward on the next floor down.
By the time Souter located the ward, it was five to eight.
Gillian was at Susan’s bedside when he approached. She got up and looked at him with a quizzical frown.
“Look, I know this is unusual but I need to speak to Susan.”
Gillian looked back to her sister.
“Hello, Mr Souter.” Susan said.
Gillian sat back down and he made his way round to the other side of the bed.
“Hi. How are you?” he asked her.
“Feeling a lot better, thanks. No grapes then?”
“They’d sold out.”
“That’s alright, I was only joking.”
“Sorry Susan, but I haven’t got a lot of time before they’ll want me to go. I’ve been looking into what you told me yesterday.” Souter pulled the photocopy sheets from his pocket. “Did you tell Gillian?”
Gillian nodded. “If you mean about the girls, yes. But I think she might have been hallucinating.”
“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” Susan asked.
He unfolded the first sheet and held it out to her.