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

also cluttering up the place. Perhaps a separate piece of furniture might be the answer, some shelves maybe. As she had to go into Leeds anyway, she decided she’d have a look for something suitable there. She’d bought the place about a year ago, having rented a number of flats since her transfer from Huddersfield in 1996. It was convenient, being about a ten-minute walk from Wood Street or a five minute drive. This morning, she’d leave her car in the police station car park and walk to Westgate railway station. Driving into Leeds had become a nightmare in recent years; traffic congestion and parking. Trains from Westgate were frequent and only took around fifteen minutes. She slipped on her coat, picked up her handbag and a plastic bag full of empty bottles for the recycling bin downstairs, and set off for Wood Street.
    A five minute walk from Leeds City Station and, at just after ten o’clock, she was on the escalator in Lewis’s department store on the corner of Briggate and The Headrow. An awkward telephone call had set up the meeting with Irene Nicholson. This wasn’t an interview she was particularly looking forward to.
    Kelly was well aware that the last thing Irene needed right now was to have to relive those moments with yet another police officer. Since the attack, she had lost most of her confidence to be out on her own. She had given up her bar work but, courtesy of her aunt, now worked in one of the concessions within the department store. This arrangement gave her the comfort of travelling to and from work with someone with whom she felt safe.
    The picture from the case file showed an attractive slightly built twenty-three year old with shoulder length dark hair. Kelly looked round the cafeteria for a young woman resembling the photo. On the third sweep, she saw a possible match. A young woman with short dark hair was sitting at a table in the far corner alongside an older woman. The other woman caught sight of Kelly and leaned over to speak to her younger friend. As Kelly made her way over, Irene Nicholson looked nervously round before quickly turning back to face the older woman and drag long and hard on a cigarette.
    “Irene, is it?” Kelly asked.
    Irene merely nodded and stubbed out her cigarette.
    “I’ll just be over here, love,” her friend said, getting up and making her way to a seat two tables away.
    “I’m DS Kelly Stainmore, we spoke on the phone.” Kelly discreetly showed her warrant card to Irene who flashed a weak smile in acknowledgement. “Can I get you anything … tea, coffee?”
    “No.” Irene shook her head. “Thanks.”
    “I’m sorry I’ve got to be a reminder of what happened to you, Irene, but there are a few questions I need to ask.”
    “Okay,” she said, nervously.
    Kelly took a deep breath. “Irene, can you tell me what you were wearing the night of the attack?” then added quickly, “I don’t mean clothing.”
    Irene looked puzzled. “What do you mean, exactly?”
    “Well, any items of jewellery, handbag, that sort of thing.”
    Irene looked down at her left hand resting on the table. “This watch,” she said, “I was wearing this.” Then, looking at her empty third finger, “And a sapphire ring.”
    “What happened to that?”
    Irene opened the packet of cigarettes which had been lying on the table, offered one to Kelly, which was declined, took one herself and lit up before answering. “We finished soon after. It was my fault, really. Mike was very understanding, and patient, but I just couldn’t bear to be touched.”
    A waitress approached with a trolley, cleared away Irene’s empty cup and was about to empty the ashtray and wipe the table but was dissuaded by the detective’s stern look.
    “Was there anything else?” Kelly asked once the waitress had moved off.
    “My handbag was over my shoulder but under my coat. I was always careful with that.”
    Kelly nodded.
    “Apparently, in the struggle, it came open but, as far as I can