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

relieve themselves of their coats. Finally breaking free, one strained to contain her ample breasts beneath a low-cut, red lambswool jumper. The other, not quite so well endowed, wore a sheer white blouse.
    “Absolutely bloody lovely," Wilson said under his breath. “Like two bald blokes fighting under a blanket.” He’d frozen, glass held halfway to his mouth, eyes fixated.
    Souter watched his friend, bemused and just managed to avert his gaze when the red top became aware of the attention she’d created. “Pervs,” she said to her mate.
    Wilson turned back to Souter. “I can’t help it, I don’t get much pleasure in life these days, not since …. well, never mind.”
    Souter laughed and shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, Jimmy. Still the same old lecherous sod.”
    “Hey, less of the old. Anyway, you haven’t done too badly for yourself in your time. What about Jennifer from the office? I was sorry to hear that didn’t last long, but there again, you did put it about a bit. Didn’t you once have one of the barmaids from here?”
    “Well, that was a long time ago. Plenty of water under the bridge since then.”
    They sat in silence for a while. They were painful thoughts for Souter, but Wilson couldn’t know just how painful.
    “How’s that wee boy of yours?” Wilson asked. “He must be growing up … fast …” His voice trailed off as he saw the expression on Souter’s face.
    “Adam. His name was Adam,” Souter said, struggling to keep control. “And he died last August. In Canada. Jennifer and that fucking shithead she went off with took him over there.” Souter’s eyes glistened. “He would have been eight last week.”
    “Aw, Jesus, Bob. I’m … oh but how, I mean …?”
    “He drowned.” A tear trickled down his cheek.
    “Shit, I’m sorry, mate.” The old hack paused awkwardly. “Shall I get us another in?”
    Souter stood up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “No, you’re all right.” He wiped his face and blew his nose. “I’m just off for a pee. I’ll get them in on the way back.”
    When he returned about five minutes later, Souter felt brighter. “So, what’s all the latest gossip then? You’ve generally got your finger on the pulse, Jimmy.”
    “Where do you want me to start? Football? Then how about the Premiership star who spends a fortune shoving white powder up his nose at sex parties in Huddersfield?”
    Souter laughed, “Huddersfield? Since when did Huddersfield become the centre of the raving world? No, sport’s outside my remit these days – Crime and Home Affairs, that’s what I deal with now.”
    “Okay,” Wilson retorted, “how about the traffic cop based in Leeds who left his wife of ten years last month for a boutique owner from Harrogate?”
    “Blokes are having it off with other women every day. That’s hardly big news.”
    “It is if the boutique owner’s called Tristran.”
    Souter spluttered on his beer. “Fucking Hell, Jimmy, where did you get that from?”
    Wilson tapped the side of his nose. “Contacts,” he said, “contacts.”
    Souter just shook his head.
    “Listen, if you fancy it, I’ve got to cover the game at Maine Road on Saturday. Come with me if you want. Cheer you up. I know it’s only Man City against Sheffield United but … be like old times for you.”
    Souter thought for a second. “Yeah,” he said, “I might just do that. I’ll let you know.”
    They sipped some more of their beer before Wilson asked where Souter was staying.
    “I’m just crashing at my sister, Jean’s, house in Wakefield for a week or two.”
    Wilson looked thoughtful. “Wakefield? That’s where that DCI’s based. Cunningham, isn’t it?”
    “What are you on about?”
    “That last case you reported before you left. Summers, wasn’t it? Sexual assault on that barmaid. I’m sure it was Cunningham that put him away?”
    “Yeah,” Souter remembered, “that’s right. He was a DI then.”
    “I didn’t think