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

television. He’d watched the news and, spoilt for choice between another boring chat show, an unfunny American sit-com or the latest reality offering of Big Brother , switched off. The thought of people sitting in their armchairs at home watching other people nobody’s ever heard of sitting in armchairs in a room somewhere else amused him. Why not save a fortune and replace the television set with a mirror.
    He was sitting on the sofa enjoying a can of Tetley’s when he heard the key enter the latch. Jean had arrived home.
    A car horn bipped before the door closed.
    A quarter-past midnight.
    A few drinks with some of the girls from work she’d said. He didn’t believe that. Not judging by the effort she’d made. No, she was definitely out with some bloke. Not that he minded. After all, it was none of his business; she was a free agent again. It just amused him that she didn’t admit the fact. Maybe she wasn’t ready to, not to him anyway.
    “Still up?” She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the armchair.
    “I’ll be off once this side’s finished.”
    “It’s good, isn’t it?”
    “Every track’s a belter. So how was your evening?”
    “Oh, you know.”
    He smiled at her non-committal answer, rose and made for the kitchen. “Tea? Or a coffee?”
    “There’s the remains of a bottle of Italian white in the fridge. I’ll have a glass of that, thanks.”
    When he returned, Jean had moulded herself to the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, lit cigarette in hand.
    “Want one?”
    He put the glass of wine down on the coffee table in front of her then took a cigarette from the packet, lit it with her lighter and sat back on the sofa. “Who went tonight, then?”
    “Just a few of the girls from work.”
    “Anywhere nice?”
    “What?” Jean drew on her cigarette. “Oh, we went into Leeds. One of those new flash wine bars on Albion Street.” She flicked ash into the tray on the table, nervously he thought. “How’s your day been?”
    “Evening’s been a bit boring. Loads of crap on TV. I’ve got some washing by the way, so when you next plan to put the machine on …”
    “Oh, thanks,” she said, sarcastically.
    He grinned. “Apart from that, I got woken up at eight by a phone call from John, wanting me to start early, cover a story for them.”
    “That must have been a bit of a shock, judging by the state you were in last night.”
    “I wasn’t that bad. Well, I could have done with a lie in I’ll grant you …”
    “What’s the story then?”
    He leaned forward. “That’s the thing. You see it prompted me to try Colin again and we ended up meeting for a bite to eat in town.”
    “That would have been nice for you. How is he by the way?”
    “Fine, yes. Still looks the same as ever. I reckon he’s got a painting in the attic.”
    “Some people weather better than others, that’s true.” Jean looked across at him and he was unsure if it was a veiled insult. “Is Colin something to do with your story then?”
    “Yes. It seems he’s in charge of this murder enquiry at Hardcastle House. Fred Williams, some petty criminal found with his head bashed in.”
    “He’s dealing with that one, is he?” Jean stretched forward to stub out her cigarette. “It was in the papers. Apparently, they’ve found some case with a load of jewellery and stuff hidden in the flat. They reckon it’s some sort of trophy collection.”
    Souter looked across at his sister. He wasn’t sure but he thought she’d coloured slightly, as if realising she had said something she shouldn’t have. He was sure there was no mention in the press of anything being found in the flat and certainly Colin hadn’t.
    The record finished playing. He got up, went over to the stereo, took the record off and placed it back in its sleeve. “You got tonight’s paper?” he asked over his shoulder.
    “In the rack, there.” She finished the last of her wine.
    He bent down, picked the paper out and turned to the sports