Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) by David Evans
Authors: David Evans
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back to Strong, “That’s okay, if it means I can get out of here sooner, that’s no problem.”
Strong reiterated the last four dates; August 23 rd , September 4 th , October 14 th and November 28 th .
The previous answers were repeated and, after the last date, Strong told him he was free to go.
Hinchcliffe appeared surprised. “Is that it?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up on his nose.
“For now. But before you leave, we’ll want the name and address of your brother-in-law’s shop. Detective Constable Ormerod will see you to the front desk.”
The details of the conference were on Strong’s desk when he returned to his office. He quickly scanned them; nine-o’clock registration on Saturday, lunch provided and dinner in the evening, ten-o’clock start on the Sunday and a finish by four. That meant, if nothing untoward occurred, he shouldn’t upset plans at home on Sunday evening. Laura had asked friends round for supper.
Ormerod knocked on the door and entered, dispelling all thoughts of the weekend. “What do you reckon on that little performance, then, guv?”
“He’d seen that case before, that’s for sure.”
“No mistaking that,” Ormerod agreed. “I’ve got the details of his brother-in-law’s place, I assume you’ll want me to follow that up?”
“Yes, thanks, Luke. Keep me informed. You’ve got my mobile number. I’ve told Kelly to keep the team up to speed while I’m away. I’m only over the hills, though. If anything develops, I can be back here within the hour. Organise the troops for a briefing eight o’clock Monday morning.”
“Okay.”
Ormerod was half way out the door when Strong thought of something else. “Oh, and Luke, I don’t suppose there’s any more news on the whereabouts of Kenny Stocks?"
“No sign. We’re still trying but no one’s had sight nor sound for a good few days now.”
Strong was thoughtful. “That’s bloody strange. Someone somewhere in this town must know where he is. Rattle a few cages, Luke. At the very least we need to eliminate him.”
19
The M62 motorway linking Yorkshire and Lancashire boasts Britain’s highest motorway summit near Saddleworth Moor; the place forever associated with Ian Brady and Myra Hyndley. Somewhere through the low cloud and drizzly rain that had enveloped the road many miles back, Colin Strong approached the summit.
The day had promised much; the sky was clear and the first shafts of the new dawn were creeping from the east when he’d set off from home just after half-past seven. He had made up his mind to enjoy the Pennine scenery but that idea had evaporated not long after the Halifax turn. Now he had to concentrate hard to deal with the poor visibility. Spray from heavy goods vehicles plodding up the grade only exacerbated things.
He passed the spot known colloquially as ‘the little house on the prairie’, the farm where the owner of the time had made a defiant stand against the progress of the new road, refusing to move. The engineers and planners simply routed the carriageways either side of the farmhouse and the building is left to this day as a symbol of the futility of such protests. It always saddened him every time he drove past it. Today, though, he could hardly see it.
Radio Two was keeping him company, Brian Matthew with Sounds of the Sixties to be precise. Amen Corner were posing a question about paradise being half as nice as heaven when some sports car flew past him in the outside lane. “You’ll get there, sooner than you think,” he said quietly to himself.
His mobile phone rang. He hated them but, like the progress of the motorway thirty years before, it was futile to stand in the way of modern technological advances. He switched the radio off, pressed the green button on the phone and put it to his right ear. One day, he thought, this will be classed as dangerous driving.
“Hello,” he said.
“Col, it’s me, Bob.”
“Bob, how are you
Strong reiterated the last four dates; August 23 rd , September 4 th , October 14 th and November 28 th .
The previous answers were repeated and, after the last date, Strong told him he was free to go.
Hinchcliffe appeared surprised. “Is that it?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up on his nose.
“For now. But before you leave, we’ll want the name and address of your brother-in-law’s shop. Detective Constable Ormerod will see you to the front desk.”
The details of the conference were on Strong’s desk when he returned to his office. He quickly scanned them; nine-o’clock registration on Saturday, lunch provided and dinner in the evening, ten-o’clock start on the Sunday and a finish by four. That meant, if nothing untoward occurred, he shouldn’t upset plans at home on Sunday evening. Laura had asked friends round for supper.
Ormerod knocked on the door and entered, dispelling all thoughts of the weekend. “What do you reckon on that little performance, then, guv?”
“He’d seen that case before, that’s for sure.”
“No mistaking that,” Ormerod agreed. “I’ve got the details of his brother-in-law’s place, I assume you’ll want me to follow that up?”
“Yes, thanks, Luke. Keep me informed. You’ve got my mobile number. I’ve told Kelly to keep the team up to speed while I’m away. I’m only over the hills, though. If anything develops, I can be back here within the hour. Organise the troops for a briefing eight o’clock Monday morning.”
“Okay.”
Ormerod was half way out the door when Strong thought of something else. “Oh, and Luke, I don’t suppose there’s any more news on the whereabouts of Kenny Stocks?"
“No sign. We’re still trying but no one’s had sight nor sound for a good few days now.”
Strong was thoughtful. “That’s bloody strange. Someone somewhere in this town must know where he is. Rattle a few cages, Luke. At the very least we need to eliminate him.”
19
The M62 motorway linking Yorkshire and Lancashire boasts Britain’s highest motorway summit near Saddleworth Moor; the place forever associated with Ian Brady and Myra Hyndley. Somewhere through the low cloud and drizzly rain that had enveloped the road many miles back, Colin Strong approached the summit.
The day had promised much; the sky was clear and the first shafts of the new dawn were creeping from the east when he’d set off from home just after half-past seven. He had made up his mind to enjoy the Pennine scenery but that idea had evaporated not long after the Halifax turn. Now he had to concentrate hard to deal with the poor visibility. Spray from heavy goods vehicles plodding up the grade only exacerbated things.
He passed the spot known colloquially as ‘the little house on the prairie’, the farm where the owner of the time had made a defiant stand against the progress of the new road, refusing to move. The engineers and planners simply routed the carriageways either side of the farmhouse and the building is left to this day as a symbol of the futility of such protests. It always saddened him every time he drove past it. Today, though, he could hardly see it.
Radio Two was keeping him company, Brian Matthew with Sounds of the Sixties to be precise. Amen Corner were posing a question about paradise being half as nice as heaven when some sports car flew past him in the outside lane. “You’ll get there, sooner than you think,” he said quietly to himself.
His mobile phone rang. He hated them but, like the progress of the motorway thirty years before, it was futile to stand in the way of modern technological advances. He switched the radio off, pressed the green button on the phone and put it to his right ear. One day, he thought, this will be classed as dangerous driving.
“Hello,” he said.
“Col, it’s me, Bob.”
“Bob, how are you
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