by N Williams
‘The guy shot on the mountain?’
‘Yup! Haven’t confirmed it yet, but I think two murders in one day suggests they’re connected, don’t you think?’
Mann nodded. ‘I suppose so. Be hell of a coincidence if they weren’t.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence. These are connected, but I can’t see why an old man and a museum curator would be murdered.’ Boyce closed his eyes, and took slow deep breaths.
‘Do you think it’s drugs, boss?’
Boyce shook his head. ‘I have no idea. I’d doubt it but then you can never be certain in this game, can you?’
‘Perhaps it’s like that Da Vinci Code - museum curator killed and some secret code hidden in a Michelangelo?’
Boyce shook his head. Mann could be thick as shit sometimes. ‘Leonardo Da Vinci, you tosser! That’s why it’s called the DA VINCI Code.’
Mann shrugged his shoulders and took another drag.
Boyce scowled at the huddle of reporters at the bottom of the hill. He wondered what they knew. ‘The press is all over this already. Top brass are having a fit. We’ve got to nail this quickly. The longer it goes on unsolved the less chance we’ll have of catching the bastard.’
Mann sucked on the last half-inch of his cigarette. Every detective knew the chances of catching a killer diminished with each passing hour. The first forty-eight were always seen as critical because most murders are solved within that time. Anything over that time period usually suggested a case far more convoluted, and generally meant the chances of detection dropped with each passing day.
Boyce stared at the uniformed officer standing at the door to the victim’s house, clipboard in hand. ‘Who’s the P.C. at the door?’
Mann pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket. ‘Er, some probationer, I think.’
Boyce was not impressed. ‘Get one of our boys on it. Never understood why green kids are given crucial jobs like that.’
‘Because they’re fucking mind-numbingly boring and it’s a good way to learn the ropes,’ Mann scoffed.
‘It’s also a good way to fuck up a case. We need someone with experience to control the scene and record the comings and goings properly. It’s the critical link in continuity of the evidence. He can learn by watching one of our boys doing it properly.’
Mann dropped his cigarette and walked over to the uniform. The young man had his radio handset stuck to his ear.
‘Roger. I’ll inform the D.S. He’s with me now.’ The constable stood smartly and dropped his clipboard arm stiffly to his side. ‘Just had a call from P.C. Judy Morris. Says there’s a woman with her who knows the victim. Works with her in Cardiff. Says she came to check on her because she hadn’t had a reply to her calls.’
‘Where is she now?’
The constable pointed down the hill to the policewoman and an attractive red-haired woman standing next to her.
Mann smiled. ‘Mm, looks like a job for the Maaann,’ he drawled.
*
Sally could tell by the walk and the sour expression of the policewoman next to her that the approaching suit was full of shit. She could sense some previous between the two officers. As soon as Detective Mann of Dyfed Powys Police opened his mouth to introduce himself her assessment was confirmed.
‘Detective Sergeant Mann; Mann by name and MAN by nature.’ He held out his hand. ‘So what brings a lovely lady like you to Ystradgynlais? Never seen you before. I’m sure I’d have noticed you,’ he leered.
Bloody hell. This creep was hitting on her at the scene of a murder. How sick was that?
Sally kept her cool. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend. I need to check on her. She hasn’t answered her phone.’
Sally thought about the video message on the disc Rachel had sent her that had triggered her concern, but her friend had told her not to involve the police. This was looking grim. Please God, let this all be a mistake. Don’t let the victim be Rachel.
‘What's your friend's name?’
‘Rachel...Rachel Powell.’
Mann's face was impassive. ‘Do you live near here?’
‘No. I live in Cardiff. The last time I heard from her she sounded upset. Very upset, but wouldn’t tell me why.’ Rachel carefully omitted mention of the disc she’d received through the post. ‘She sounded scared. So when she didn’t reply I thought I’d better come and check on her.’
The detective did a poor job of faking regret. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid your friend was the victim of an attack last night...I'm afraid she’s dead.’
Sally felt angry at herself for bursting into tears in front of the arsehole. He probably got off on watching a likkle-wikkle helpless woman in floods of tears.
Mann took a small black cover notebook from his jacket pocket, clicked the top of his pen and patted Sally unconvincingly on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry...so, what’s your name, your address and - most important - what’s your telephone number?’ The predatory smile made Sally feel like throwing up.
*
It took a few moments before Sally’s eyes adjusted to the dark interior. The curtains were drawn on all ground floor windows, and the front office desk was littered with papers and a scatter of pens and pencils. She'd waited for nearly two hours before the police had given her the “okay” to enter the house. A rectangular space amongst the cluttered desk suggested the absence of Rachel’s laptop.
The detective sergeant stood in the doorway, seemingly more interested in the view of Sally bending over the desk than any potential evidence.
‘She wasn’t the tidiest of women, was she?’ he said.
Sally tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘That’s what surprises me. She’s always...she WAS always so neat and tidy at work.’
Detective Mann walked over to Sally and stood too close for her comfort. ‘There’s no sign of a break in. The mess on her desk doesn’t seem to contain anything relevant. Found a wet towel on the floor in her bedroom; looks like she left in a hurry. Any idea why?’
‘I have no idea at all,’ she said truthfully. ‘I work on the same projects as Rachel. I can't think of anything that would make her a target for something like this. Perhaps if I take her work notes with me I might be able to check for something that’s irregular...if that’s alright?’
‘I don’t see a problem.’ He puffed up his chest in a show of importance. ‘I’ll get the stuff recorded first. Make sure you can make it available if we need to see it again for any reason. Don’t be afraid to call me at any time.’
It was becoming patently clear that the detective had allowed access to the house to get more time alone with Sally. Busying herself with sifting through the papers she shuddered as the detective placed his hand on her shoulder.
‘If there’s anything you need...just ask.’
Sally wondered if his interviewing technique was as effective as his chat-up lines. He’d be a piss-poor copper if it was. She forced a smile as he continued his slimy routine.
‘Sometimes it’s good to talk...to someone you don’t really know...over a drink or something...’
It took ten uncomfortable minutes of dodging the detective’s advances before Sally walked back to her car and cried. The notes and documents from the desk were in a Tesco carrier bag, along with the detective’s private number - several digits she did not intend to dial - ever.
CHAPTER 12
A light breeze had blown in off the sea. Zac awoke from a troubled dream as the first strips of light drew patterns on the bedroom carpet through the slow waltz of the curtains.
He lay still for a moment, gathering his thoughts, separating reality from the vivid fiction his memories had concocted during the last few nights.
Pouring a glass of water from the jug beside the bed, he dropped in two soluble codeine tablets. A swirl of the glass, to make sure he got every last bit of the painkiller before he threw on his joggers, sweat top, pair of Nike’s, and set off on his early morning run.
He followed his usual r
oute out from the apartment, five miles along the cycle path to the ice cream parlour in Mumbles and back again. Today he decided a coffee at Verdi's would be a good way to start the day.
The run would take him just over forty minutes and was something he did whatever the weather. With the break for coffee and a walk along the front to watch the weekend sailors prepare their vessels for the waves, it would add another hour to the run.
The sun was succeeding in breaking through the dark rain-laden clouds.
At fifty-one, Zac looked better than many men twenty years younger. His six-foot lean frame lacked any signs of middle-aged spread and his collar length wavy brown hair had just started to show the first signs of grey. Many of his former colleagues had retired to garden allotments and were struggling to squeeze into their trousers, but Zac wasn't ready to join their ranks just yet.
He pushed himself hard over the last half-mile, arms and legs pumping as he tore up the cycle track past the massive half-empty council building and entered the foyer of the Meridian Tower. He walked across the Italian marble floor tiles to the Italian marble reception desk – the only thing the place needed was an Italian marble concierge.
‘Morning, Mr Woods…came by courier a few minutes ago,’ said the flesh-and-blood concierge as he handed him some letters and a small yellow parcel.
Nodding his thanks, he walked past the residents’ lift. He sometimes wished he could take the quick route to his apartment, but he had almost convinced himself that the run up to the twenty-first floor had become part of his training regime.
He checked his watch; quicker today. He felt good. Not much in the way of mail: a statement from Barclays Bank and the small yellow Jiffy bag. On the rear of the envelope was a return address; Rachel Powell, Flat 3a, Brecon Road, Ystradgynlais, Powys. Zac was stunned.
The opulent marble bathroom was an optional extra he had ordered from the plans when he bought the apartment several months earlier, and wouldn't have looked out of place in a five-star hotel. The whole place was decorated to the highest specification and the walls were hung with a collection of Welsh art to rival the local gallery.
Towelling himself down, Zac heard the sound of his house phone. He dropped the towel and walked naked to the living room.
‘Mr Woods?’ The woman’s voice seemed timid and apologetic.
‘Yes. Who's calling?’
‘My name is Sally Walker. I’m a work colleague...I was a work colleague of Rachel. She told me a bit about you…about your time together…’
‘There’s not a lot to tell.’
‘Look, this is a bit awkward. Have you heard the news about Rachel?’
Zac swallowed hard. ‘Yes! Saw it on Sky News. Any idea what happened?’
‘Not really. All I know is that she was murdered.’
‘Why would someone do that?’
There was a brief pause before Sally replied. ‘Actually, that’s why I’m calling you. I received a package through the post this morning, from Rachel.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it’s a disc with some encrypted files. There’s also a video clip. She looked extremely frightened and asked me to make sure I contacted you to give you the disc.’
‘It’s obviously no coincidence that I got something from her this morning too. Just picked it up. I haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Rachel was scared, Mr Woods.’
‘Please, call me Zac.’
‘Thank you! I’m terribly worried, Zac. Do you think that the disc could be the reason she was killed?’
‘I have no idea. Without seeing it, your guess is as good as mine. What was she working on - was she involved in something dodgy?’
‘No! Definitely not! Rachel was straight down the line. She’d never do anything wrong. You should know that.’
‘To be honest with you I probably know a lot less about her than you do. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over thirty years. For all I know she could have become public enemy number one.’
There was no reply from Sally.
‘Hello…you still there?’ Zac realised he was sounding less than sensitive. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound as if I don’t care. It’s just that when Rachel and I split it wasn’t under the best of terms.’
‘I know.’
Zac felt a flush of embarrassment. ‘Oh? So, you see I have no idea how Rachel turned out in later years or what had become of her. I had a shock to hear on the news that she had a Ph.D and was curator of the museum.’
‘She was good at her job. Great to work for.’
Zac could hear Sally’s voice begin to break as she fought back sobs.
‘Look, I honestly have no idea why Rachel would contact me after all these years. I was surprised she knew my address, I've only lived here a couple of months, and I’m even more surprised she’d send me something after all this time.’
‘I called at Rachel’s house to check on her this morning, that’s when I discovered she was... dead,’ Sally paused for a moment before she could continue. ‘The police let me take some of the papers we’ve been working on - curating a touring exhibition of Babylonian artefacts. I suppose I’ll have to take responsibility for that now she’s gone.’
‘Do you think that has anything to do with her death?’
‘No. Certainly not! But it’s a monumental project which has to be sorted out.’
‘I’m surprised they let you have access to her house.’
‘I think it was more to do with the lecherous sergeant trying to impress me.’
Zac wasn’t surprised. He had met many detectives who found the perceived glamour of their job enhanced their chances of a shag. ‘Would it be okay to meet up with you somewhere later?’
*
Zac walked into the open plan kitchen, past the large Keith Bayliss paintings and Sarah Hopkins prints, and poured a coffee from the percolator he had set to brew before his run. The pack of soluble codeine tablets lay open on the counter. Zac popped two into a glass and splashed on a shot of water.
He was looking forward to meeting Sally Walker. He hadn’t been out with a woman in a while. Okay, this wasn’t exactly a date, but it beat the hell out of drinking with hairy-arse coppers in the Adam and Eve.
Carrying his coffee and the fizzing painkillers across the spacious lounge, through the floor-to-ceiling patio windows onto the balcony, he sighed at the sight of the dark clouds ganging together and riding in on the breeze like vaporous villains. The weather was certainly taking a turn for the worse again.
Zac sat on the white plastic-framed patio chair and ripped open the top of the Jiffy bag to find a DVD case inside.
He flipped open the case and found a yellow post-it note enclosed: Zac. Hope you are well. Please keep this safe. Speak to you soon. Rachel.
Why contact him now? He hadn’t seen or spoken to Rachel Powell for thirty years. They hadn’t split on particularly good terms either. Indeed, the last time he had seen her she had told him she never wanted to see him again and she had kept to her word.
Loaded into his MacBook, he waited for the disc to open. He clicked on the "enter" button, and a new page appeared with a placeholder for a flash video clip alongside a folder, which was like Sally's; encrypted.
He clicked the play button and a decidedly different still picture of Rachel appeared. She looked a lot older - that was to be expected after all these years, but she also looked seriously stressed. The image came to life, and Rachel began to speak.
“Zac, I’m sorry to get in touch with you like this, after all these years, but you are one of the few people I can trust. I’ve got myself into big trouble and I don’t know what to do...” her eyes began to well up, and she choked back a sob.
“My uncle Ben called me out of the blue. I haven’t seen him for months. He’d found a diary, written in English and Italian, which I think was written by Adelina Patti. From the little bit I can understand, Patti says that she was involved in secretly bringing relics into the country; things that it see
ms many people are trying to get their hands on, and will stop at nothing to get. I’m scared Zac. If it falls into the wrong hands…I dread to think what might happen. Ben stumbled onto something controversial that got him killed, and I think they are trying to get me too. I saw him die, Zac. They shot him…now they're trying to kill me. I’ve encrypted the file just in case they get hold of it, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to open it. You need to find the diary. Ben hid it again, along with an old wax cylinder recording, somewhere in the castle, but didn't tell me where. It’s essential you find it first because if the pages I’ve read are true, and the relics become public knowledge, then I dread to think what will happen. It truly is that frightening, Zac.
“Sorry to involve you in all this, but I just don’t know where to turn. By the time you get this, I should be in Ireland, and I’ll give you a call from there. If you don’t hear from me, a friend will be in touch. I’ve sent her a copy of the disc too. Her name is Sally, Sally Walker. You can trust her.
“Thanks, Zac. Please take care."
He switched off the laptop just as the phone began ringing. He checked the caller I.D., Handel Fenwick. He lifted the handset.
‘Hi mate. How are you?’
‘I’m just calling to check on you.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before, been a bit busy. But I heard, after you left your party rather suddenly, that a friend of yours had been killed.’
‘Yeah. It’s no big deal,’ he said too casually.
‘I just thought you might like to talk,’ he offered. ‘Be good for you to fly up in one of those paper planes sometime. You know the Shobdon airstrip is only a couple of miles away from me, and I can pick you up for tea.’
‘I might just do that.’
Zac thought about telling his friend about the disc. Zac trusted Fenwick, and if anyone could crack the encrypted file - with his connections in the Cyber Crimes Unit - he could. Or at least he’d know someone who could do it. ‘Do you know anything about encrypted computer files?’
