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

himself up any further. “It’s like a steam room in here with all these damp shoppers sheltering from the weather. Besides, I’ve got to get back. Walk with me.”
    They both rose to leave. Almost immediately, a young mother with a toddler on the hip and a baby in a push chair moved in to take their place. Outside, the rain had stopped and the air was fresher. Strong took a deep breath and headed down the slope in the direction of the cathedral.
    “They’re obviously keeping you busy, Col,” Souter said, once they were on the move. “I hear you’re investigating this murder from the other night.”
    “It’s funny, you know, but murder always sounds a more severe crime in Scotland, especially when, like you did just now, it’s pronounced in a Glaswegian accent.”
    “Personally, I blame Jim Taggart,” Souter quipped, in his best Glaswegian twang.
    “Very good,” Strong laughed. ”You’re talking like a native of the place now.”
    “I suppose it’s easy to slip into. Mind you, I had been up there for over three years.”
    “Christ, was it that long? Now you’re going to tell me it’s been more than a year since we last met up.”
    “Nearer two,” Souter said, “But Ah can still talk like thee when ah’ve a mind to,” delivering this in a perfect West Yorkshire accent.
    “Thanks. You’ve just reinforced my theory.”
    “What theory’s that?”
    “Oh, just something that came up recently about accents.” They turned left before reaching the cathedral, heading towards the Bullring. “Anyway, how did you know I was involved in this murder case?”
    “Well I know it doesn’t have the same shock effect as it might have done thirty or forty years ago but murder does still make the papers.”
    “And, of course, that’s your business.”
    “Like I said, I don’t officially start until next week but my boss wondered, seeing as I’m here, whether I’d like to hit the ground running, so to speak.”
    “There’s not a lot more I can add to what’s already in the public domain. The victim’s been identified as Fred Williams, well-known to us for petty crime – burglary, shoplifting, handling – you know the type.”
    “What about motive?”
    “Nothing that jumps out at you.”
    “Method?”
    “Head injuries. And that’s about all I can say at the moment. What we’re looking for are any known sightings of him from early December through to Christmas.”
    “He’d been dead for some time then?”
    “Oh yes. We’re hoping to narrow it down once the boffins finish their work. Apparently, scientists can tell from the insect life on a body how long it’s been deceased.”
    “So there’s no other interesting little snippets you can tell me?”
    They were now waiting for the lights to change to cross over to Wood Street.
    “Not at the moment, mate. But listen, with your Glasgow connections, there’s something you could do for me.”
    “Go on,” Souter said, with mock reluctance.
    “I’d like you to find out what you can about one, Sheila Montgomery nee McDougal.”
    Souter took out a notebook and pencil and began to write as Strong set off across the road when the green man lit up. He jogged a few paces to catch up.
    “Married in June 1957 to a William James Montgomery. Lived at addresses in Govan throughout the sixties, and from memory, I think one was a public house known as the ‘Hole in the Wall’.”
    “Is this connected with the Williams murder?”
    “No. And this is unofficial.”
    “So you can’t go investigating through your colleagues at Strathclyde then?”
    Strong stopped and turned to face Souter. “No …but you could. You must have made a few useful connections in your years up there.”
    “What’s the story on this one, Col?”
    “I’m not really sure if there is one yet.”
    “So there’s no mileage in it for me … yet?”
    Strong resumed walking. “Maybe not at all. I’ve just got a niggling feeling about a character I interviewed earlier this week.