Checking the address on a gazetteer, she discovered that the street was in an area not far from the centre of Wakefield. Despite a series of low-paid jobs, Susan had managed to acquire three possessions of which she was proud. One was the little six year-old silver Nissan Micra sitting in the street. The second was a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and the third was the second-hand computer and printer which sat on a desk in her bedroom. That would be essential for her to fulfil her dream of becoming a journalist. Grabbing the mobile phone and a jacket she set off in her Micra.
Chapman’s address turned out to be a small mid-terraced house in a group of four, built sometime between the wars. It was near dusk and a light was on in the front room. There were cars parked on both sides of the street but she managed to find a space to squeeze into about fifty yards away. She switched off, killed the lights and waited. For what exactly, she wasn’t absolutely sure. The initial excitement she had when she made her call to Chapman earlier had begun to give way to the major misgivings she felt now. She could be exposing herself to incredible risk. So? How else was she to get to the bottom of it? Her anxiety grew. Doubting the sanity of pursuing this alone, she pulled the mobile from her jacket pocket, deciding to call the police. Before she could make the final connection she was disturbed.
A white Ford Escort van came down the street from behind and drew to a halt outside Chapman’s house, the driver bipping the horn. The light in Chapman’s room went out, the front door opened and a man dressed in a dark anorak appeared. Stockily built, he had an unusual bouncy gait as if there were springs in his heels. He paused before opening the passenger door to glance quickly up and down the road. With the benefit of a street light, Susan saw his face. He was clean-shaven with dark hair and looked to be around thirty. As soon as he got in and shut the door, the van drove off.
She started up the Micra’s engine and followed. She knew that following someone undetected by car was not as easy as they made out on television and in films. Allowing the Escort to open up a considerable gap before it approached the junction with the main road, she then had no alternative but to come up behind it as it waited for an opportunity to merge into the heavy traffic. Fortunately, from what she could see, the two occupants were engaged in animated conversation and paid no attention to her car behind. Eventually, the van pulled out and headed east. Three cars later, she was able to do the same.
After five or six miles, they were on a minor country road with just one vehicle between them. They had crossed the A1(M) and were somewhere to the north of Doncaster when the van turned off onto a farm track to the left. Susan pulled into a field entrance just beyond and watched the red lights make their way up a hill. The brake lights glared out across the open fields momentarily, then died along with the headlights as the vehicle came to a halt and the engine was switched off. Briefly, she just had time to make out a group of dark unlit buildings. Moments later, a dim glow appeared from a window.
She stepped from the car and pulled on her jacket. She couldn’t risk driving up the track, so she set off on foot, reassured that there were bushes and hedgerows on either side so she could hide should another vehicle suddenly appear. As she walked, she heard two trains passing close by, the ground vibrating, and guessed the East Coast main line was on the other side of the rise where the buildings lay. Eventually, she found herself in what appeared to be an abandoned farmyard. The old farmhouse to the right looked derelict. The light she had seen from the road came from a large building opposite. She reached the window and listened. Muffled men’s voices but the sill was too high to see in. A quick look round revealed an old bucket. As quietly as she could, she tipped out the stagnant rainwater. Placing it below the window, she steadied herself. Carefully, she stood on it and peered inside.
At last, she could see the object of Chapman and his companion’s attention.
Just then, she heard a car crunching its way up the gravel track. She panicked. Looking round, she instantly decided on the old abandoned farmhouse. Dashing into the porch, she squeezed past the front door that hung precariously off its hinges. She turned to watch. The headlight beam swung across the front of the building. She stepped back to avoid it. That’s when her luck finally ran out. Her feet met the limited resistance of rotting floorboards before the timber finally gave way. Her legs straddled a joist before that too failed, plunging her into the bowels of the basement. She heard the crack and felt the sharp pain as the bones in her lower left leg snapped. Things seemed to happen in slow motion. As she tumbled into the darkness, the events of the past few hours replayed in her head.
Another London-bound express rattled its way past, the noise drowning out her yell and the sounds of splintering timber. Blackness. Then silence.
2
Monday
Wakefield; eight-thirty in the morning and the city was awake. In the market place, stalls were laden. Above the hubbub of dozens of conversations and yells of greeting, the shouts announcing bargains rang out. Early shoppers, mostly elderly, milled around.
In the bus station, shop and office workers were disgorged and fanned out, some pausing to buy a paper or cigarettes, others rushing to where they had to be. The warm weather of the past fortnight was breaking and large blobs of rain turned the pavements mottled. Umbrellas began to appear.
Nearby, on the second floor of Wood Street Police station, Acting Detective Chief Inspector Colin Strong felt decidedly awkward as he eased his six foot frame into the big leather chair he’d sat opposite many times before. He’d often wondered what it would be like to sit in his old boss, DCI Cunningham’s seat but he never expected it would happen; let alone how.
“Who knows,” Chief Superintendent Flynn had said, “play your cards right and it could be yours permanently.”
But don’t hold your breath, Strong had added silently.
On balance, Strong liked Cunningham. True, he’d had a few run-ins with him in the past but he’d always found him to be pretty straight. His part in Cunningham’s suspension still felt like betrayal, even though they both knew it was the right thing to do.
Strong sighed, swivelled in the chair and looked round the office. The bookcase was empty and the photographs and trophies marking Cunningham’s rugby-playing days had gone. All evidence of the room’s previous occupant had disappeared, except for the dent in the wall where he had thrown a glass paperweight at a young Detective Constable. Strong smiled at the memory.
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.”
“F
eelings 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 coup
é
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.