Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

her. She had experienced this aroma on several previous occasions. For the present, she gave no indication of her suspicions to her assistant. She also noticed the curtains to the window were pulled shut and, more significantly, a number of bluebottles were crawling over the inside of the glass. As she rang the bell, the door to the adjacent flat opened and an elderly woman looked out.
    “You from the council?”
    “Environmental Health.” Eileen showed her identity card to the woman.
    “Humph!” the old lady grunted. “About bloody time.”
    Eileen rang the bell again. “Have you seen anyone coming or going recently, Mrs. er…?”
    “Lockwood. And I keep myself to myself.”
    Eileen smiled grimly before kneeling down to peer through the letterbox. She closed it sharply, turning away from her colleague to conceal the fact that she wanted to retch. After a few seconds, she had composed herself. “Come on,” she said to the young lad, “I think we need some assistance here.”
    “Is that it?” the old woman called.
    “We’ll be back, Mrs. Lockwood, don’t worry.”
    “Humph!” she said again and closed her door.
     

 
    6
     
     
    Souter had risen late, determined to catch up on lost sleep from the past few days. The sound of the letterbox snapping shut as mail dropped onto the hall carpet around eleven thirty had been the significant factor in drawing his slumber to a close.
    After showering, shaving and dressing, he rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for some breakfast. He’d upset himself by standing on Jean’s bathroom scales and pushing the reading to just under sixteen stones. He reasoned that at six feet two this was quite acceptable. However, the bit of a gut he’d developed over the past few months seemed to destroy that argument.
    Two mugs of coffee, three slices of toast and butter and two cigarettes later, he felt ready to deal with whatever the day would bring.
    First task was to ring his old friend Colin Strong. He found the Wood Street number but when he was put through, he was told Strong was out. Declining the offer to leave a message, he then tried a few old journalist contacts from his Sheffield Star days. For the time being, he decided against calling John Chandler, his old editor at the paper, and soon to be his new boss at the Yorkshire Post. Next on the list was Stan Johnson who was off ill, but Jimmy Wilson, his old sports reporter colleague, was delighted to hear from him. They arranged to meet in the Stonehouse pub, near the cathedral in Sheffield, at half-past three. That would give him time for a quick haircut in town before travelling down the M1.
     
    The Stonehouse was a large city-centre establishment with a traditional open bar room leading directly off the street. Through to the rear was a vast enclosed area surrounded by chintzy shops made to look like a courtyard. Souter was not surprised to see Jimmy Wilson already at the bar with a half finished pint. Wilson was a short man of fifty-six, shabbily dressed in an old brown suit that he remembered from three years back. He bought Souter a pint and a fresh one for himself before they drifted around searching out a seat.
    “So,” Wilson said, once they’d settled in to the picnic table seating that aided the illusion of being outdoors, “a top job at the Post. Good luck to you, Bob. I always thought you’d make it.” He raised his glass to Souter.
    “Thanks, mate. How’s life been treating you?” Not that well by the look of you, he thought, as he took in Wilson’s bloated face, double chins and straggly thin grey hair.
    “Not too bad, I suppose, if you ignore the fact that Wednesday will probably get relegated this season and I can’t see United making it back to the Premiership, so Sheffield could be a bleak city next season.”
    “Still, look on the bright side - that would mean two local derbies.”
    “True.”
    The conversation paused as two young women who had sat down at the next table struggled to