Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) by David Evans Page A

doing?”
    “I’m fine. Where are you? You sound like you’re on the move.”
    “I’m nearly over the top on the M62. I’ve been landed with some conference to attend over in Manchester.”
    “Manchester?”
    “Yeah, and it’s lovely weather for the trip. Anyway, have you got anything for me?”
    “Well, I might have,” Souter deliberated. “There’s good news and there’s bad news.”
    “Let’s have the bad news first.”
    “Sheila Montgomery died three years ago. The big C.”
    “Shit! Hang on.” Strong dropped the phone onto his lap. A few seconds later he picked it up again. “Sorry, mate, some arsehole in an artic decided to pull out. No indication, nothing. Foreign plates and all. I should pull the bastard over.”
    “Look, I don’t want you wrapping yourself up because you’re talking to me. Where abouts in Manchester will you be?”
    “It’s at the Sedgley Park Centre, off Bury New Road in Prestwich, why?”
    “Just thought you might fancy a pint at lunch-time that’s all?”
    “I dare say they’ll be putting lunch on for us but …it’s a bit out of your way, though.”
    “Don’t worry about that, Jimmy Wilson’s covering the game at Maine Road for the Star. Sheffield United are the visitors. He’s invited me along. Should be just like old times.”
    “But what’s the good news?”
    “Oh, yes. Sheila Montgomery had a sister, one Mary McDougal as was, now Mary Burns, living with her man and mother-in-law in Paisley.”
    “Well done, Bob. Got the details?”
    “I’ve got an address and phone number. I’ll fill you in when I see you. What time’s lunch?”
    “Twelve-thirty till two, I think.”
    “I’ll give you a ring just after half-twelve.” Souter ended the call.
    Strong was now on the descent on the Lancashire side of the Pennines and conditions were improving. He put the radio back on and smiled to himself as Johnny Nash declared he could see clearly now the rain has gone.
     

 
     
    20
     
    The events of that rain-soaked November night a little over three years ago were still an open sore in Irene Nicholson’s memory. She had been walking home along Westgate in Wakefield around midnight when she had the distinct impression she was being followed. Although the street was fairly busy with late night drinkers making their way to clubs or curry houses, it was a feeling that increased with every stride. They passed by, paying her little attention. She clutched the collar of her coat tightly up to her neck against the weather. Twice she’d turned around sharply to check for anyone close behind and twice she saw that everyone behind her was making their way in the opposite direction. By the time she reached the road leading to her estate her pace had quickened, almost to that of an Olympic walker. Leaving the comparative safety of the sodium streetlights behind for the dimmer versions of the council estate, her uneasiness grew. Almost within sight of home, she took another glance behind her. With no one visible, she began to calm herself and reduce her pace to a normal walk. She told herself she was being stupid. A couple of times recently, she’d done exactly the same thing to herself. Panic attacks, she thought. Should have taken a taxi really. The landlord gave her the fare on top of her wages but she was saving up to get married the following year. The final corner and she would be back on her own street. Thoughts of a warm drink to thaw out. Suddenly, a gloved hand closed around her mouth. She struggled but was subdued by a sharp punch from behind to her kidneys. She gasped for breath. She remembered being bundled through a gateway and into an overgrown garden. Then the curtains of unconsciousness closed around her.
     
    As she put the brush through her hair, Kelly Stainmore studied the lounge of her one-bedroomed first-floor flat. A solitary glass and empty wine bottle stood on the occasional table by the side of the sofa. Her collection of books and videos were