Speechless
by Stephen Puleston
~~~~~~~~
Speechless
This book copyright © Stephen Puleston
First edition published 2013 by Stephen Puleston
The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Contents
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Stephen Puleston
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Speechless is the first Inspector John Marco mystery. The story is based in Cardiff the capital city of Wales.
After a degree in Theology from London University I trained as a solicitor. For many years I worked as a solicitor/lawyer in a small practice representing clients in the criminal courts and doing divorce work all of which has given me valuable raw material for my novels. I live and work in North Wales.
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Inspector Drake Series
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Chapter 1
Grey clouds drifted over the early-morning sky as the city stirred. Looking out over the Bay I warmed to the prospect of my first day off in a week: lunch with my parents, which meant my mother’s ravioli con funghi, enquiries about my health and complaints that I didn’t visit enough.
Yesterday’s unread supplements sat on the worktop behind me, and two tickets for Cardiff’s Premiership game against Chelsea that afternoon were propped against the Gaggia coffee machine, which made a comforting hissing sound. After the match I’d have dinner with Trish, tell her about lunch and roll my eyes, describing my mother’s comments and then we’d return to the flat and freshly laundered sheets.
It promised to be a typical Sunday until Boyd rang.
‘Boss, there’s a floater in the Taff.’
‘Who’s the duty inspector?’
‘Detective Inspector Hobbs and he’s investigating a rape in Grangetown. He told me to ask for you.’
‘Is there nobody else?’
‘Sorry, boss.’
I fumbled for a pen in the drawer under the worktop before tugging at a piece of paper from a notepad and writing down the details.
‘The ambulance and the fire brigade are on their way,’ Boyd said.
‘When will they arrive?’
‘Half an hour.’
I looked at my watch and knew that after the body had been fished from the Taff and the formalities concluded in the morgue I’d be at my parents’ home in good time for lunch.
I was chewing on a piece of toast and watching the espresso dribbling into a cup when my mobile rang. Trish’s number appeared on the screen.
‘Missed you last night, John.’
‘And me you,’ I said. ‘But I was so tired I couldn’t walk straight. Your mum okay?’
‘Yeh, she’s fine. Are you still all right for later?’
‘I’m looking forward to it. But I’ve just had a call about a body in the Taff.’
‘I thought you were off duty?’
‘So did I but I should be finished mid-morning. How about coming with me for lunch?’
‘I wouldn’t want to come between an Italian boy and his mother now, would I?’
I rang off and swallowed the last of the cold espresso. I tidied the kitchen and checked around the flat. I chose a pair of well-pressed denims, a red cotton shirt and, from the bottom of the wardrobe, a pair of brogues with a deep-brown shine. Before I left I picked up the remote for the television and fiddled with the controls until I’d pressed the right button to record Top Gear. By the mirror near the apartment door, I drew a hand through my hair and pulled on a light fleece before walking down to the car park.
I found an Elvis CD in the glove compartment of my Mondeo and pushed it into the player. I turned the volume up and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ filled the car as I fired the engine into life. The traffic was quiet as I passed the tinplate works, thin plumes of white smoke drifting from its chimneys. A patrol car – lights flashing, siren blaring – shot past me, followed by a couple of taxis heading for the hotels in the Bay.
I stopped at the traffic lights by the prison, a dark Victorian relic, and watched as a couple of joggers ran in front of the car. I turned towards the centre of the city and overtook a council refuse lorry crawling along the street collecting the Saturday night rubbish. Eventually I spotted the fire engine as it drove down into Wood Street and I followed it towards the Taff and the Millennium Stadium. The tender flashed its lights before stopping behind an ambulance and I pulled up on the pavement a little way behind it. I walked over towards two paramedics standing by the railings, peering down into the river.
Boyd walked towards me, sipping from a takeaway plastic cup. Empty burger boxes and chip papers blew around the concrete; a chilling wind whipped around the stadium and cut through my fleece.
The fire tender’s reversing alarm sounded and the paramedics stopped their chatter and turned to watch. I stepped up to the railings and looked down into the Taff.
The body was floating face down, caught by a piece of wood wedged against an outfall that was dribbling a dirty-coloured liquid into the river. A heavy, fishy smell hung in the air. The tender finished its manoeuvre and parked by the railing. The fire crew and paramedics were joking and talking as though fishing a dead body out of the river was an everyday occurrence.
‘There it is, boss.’
Boyd leant over the railings and pointed towards the Bay. The sound of the outboard was clear and we watched as an inflatable bobbed up and down. A diver dropped into the water from the small boat and, once he’d secured the corpse, waved a hand to the crew above him.
The tender hummed and the cradle lifted clear of the river, a stream of water cascading onto the surface. The fire crew lowered it onto the concourse, and I stepped towards the body. I looked down and then up at the troubled faces of the paramedics.<
br />
* * *
‘I have never seen anything like it.’
Dr Paddy MacVeigh, the Home Office pathologist, sounded as though he had something else to say so I stood and waited. The paunch that strained at Paddy’s white coat suggested that late-night curries and too much lager had gone into developing the spiders of burst blood vessels on his face. He looked down at the corpse in front of him: the clothes were sodden and small pools of brown water had gathered on the mortuary slab. He leant forward and looked up at me.
‘Have you seen his mouth?’
I shook my head and looked down at the bloated features of the face.
‘The tongue’s been cut out.’
‘Are you sure?’
He gave me an exasperated stare.
‘Of course I’m sure. We found the tongue in his pocket.’
‘What?’
‘It was cut out somehow. I’ll show you.’ He turned to a trolley by his side.
I held up a hand. ‘Thanks, Paddy, but you keep it.’
I felt a tacky sensation in my mouth. I drew my tongue over my lips and realised that without my tongue, I couldn’t eat, or speak, or wet my lips, or…
‘Can you tell if it was cut out before he was killed?’
‘Should be able to, once we’ve finished the tests,’ he said, without any emotion. Then he reached over, picked up the dish with the tongue, and looked at it as though it were a rare orchid on the verge of extinction.
‘The tongue is really fascinating,’ he said, tilting his head to one side. He opened his mouth to continue.
‘I need a smoke,’ I said, making my way towards the door.
‘But we haven’t really started.’
I pulled the door open and as it closed behind me I heard him say that I had to stay, as the senior investigating officer, and that I should know better. I found the small office at the end of the corridor, opened a window, and let the fresh air fill the room. From my rear pocket I took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and placed the first of my five-a-day between my lips. I sparked my Zippo, just as Paddy came through the door.
‘You know it’s illegal to smoke in here.’
‘So call the police.’
‘Very funny,’ he said, sitting in the chair by the desk. ‘I’ve never seen that sort of injury. Must be some sort of ritual.’
The mortuary assistant came in, clutching a tray of belongings that he dropped onto the table before turning his back and walking out.
‘Michal Dąbek,’ Paddy said, switching on his computer.
‘Is that his name?’
‘Polish identity card and driving licence in the pocket with the tongue.’
I felt relieved that someone else had found the identification. The Poles had moved to Cardiff by the thousand once the regulations allowed. The hotels and bars were full of them and the factories paying minimum wage couldn’t survive without them. I looked down at the tray and wondered what else there was to his life.
I started picking at the contents of the tray. There was a leather wallet, a Polish identity card and driving licence and some loose change. The mobile was an old Nokia, its sides scratched. A red handkerchief was a sodden mess.
‘Any chance of forensics from the body?’ I asked, still pushing at the contents of the tray with a biro.
Paddy shrugged. ‘Difficult to tell. Depends how long he’s been in the water.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Strangulation would be a wild guess.’
‘OK, OK… You know how it is.’
I drew on the last of the cigarette and tossed the butt-end out of the window. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves, opened the leather wallet, and emptied the contents. A wedding band and a cross on a chain fell out. Tucked under a flap in a small pouch was a brass key. There was a membership card for the Rumney library, a season ticket to the sports centre, also in Rumney, an old cinema ticket and then a family photograph taken by a bench in a forest. I could make out two men and a woman all in their thirties, drinking from tall bottles of beer, broad smiles on their faces. A young boy sat at the end of the table with a girl younger than him, both smiling self-consciously.
‘Is this him?’ I asked.
Paddy mumbled a reply.
I turned the image round in my hand. I tried to guess who the people might be, but the rear didn’t help – no date, or name. The clothes looked modern and I guessed the younger man was Dąbek.
From the inside compartment of the wallet I pulled out a slip of paper but as I unfolded it the damp material tore. I cursed under my breath and laid out the remainder on the office table. The words were faded and all I could make out were figures in various columns.
Paddy finished on the computer and stood up.
‘You coming to watch?’
‘Give me a minute – I’ve got an urgent call.’
He buttoned up his jacket and headed back to the mortuary. I found my mobile in my back pocket, tucked against the tickets for the game. The telephone rang a couple of times before my mother answered.
‘John?’
‘Really sorry,’ I said. ‘I won’t be able to see you for lunch. Something urgent came up. A body in the Taff.’
‘But you said—’
‘There was nobody else.’
She paused and I could hear my father in the background asking her what was wrong. She shouted at him not to interrupt her.
‘Look after yourself, John, and make sure you get enough to eat. You’re working too hard.’
My mother always thought I worked too hard.
As I walked over to the mortuary I could hear classical music and when I pushed open the double doors, the sound of an orchestra thundered through loudspeakers.
‘Wagner,’ Paddy shouted. ‘I can’t work without it.’
‘I prefer Elvis myself.’
Paddy gave me a brief smile and got straight back to work. Once he was finished he heaved a sigh and looked up at me with a satisfied look in his eyes, those of a man contented with his lot in life.
He promised to send me the report and warned me I’d have to wait for the results of the forensic tests. I trundled outside, pleased to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the mortuary. The sun was warmer, the wind had died down and the day was beginning to take shape. I had Michal’s possessions in a plastic pocket in my left hand, and the car keys in my right when my mobile rang. I reached the car, put the plastic pocket on the roof and picked up the call.
‘Marco.’
‘Boss, where are you?’
‘By the car.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Get to the point, Boyd.’
‘Is the floater called Michal Dąbek?’
‘How the fu…’
‘I’ve got his boyfriend in the office now.’
Chapter 2
Queen Street police station was long past its demolition-by date but it had a homely feel, like an old jacket you couldn’t face giving to the charity shop. I punched in the security code and let myself in. On the third floor, I pushed open the door to the CID office and met Boyd who was fidgeting with the water dispenser.
‘Dąbek’s boyfriend came in first thing,’ Boyd said. ‘He got suspicious when Michal didn’t return this morning.’
‘Why didn’t he report it last night?’
Boyd shrugged.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Kamil Holter.’
‘How did he take it when you told him we’d found the body?’
‘He went to pieces. He started sobbing and crying.’
I walked over to my office, put the bag of exhibits on the table and slumped down on the chair by the desk. Stale air hung in the room so I got up and opened the window, hoping the smell of chip fat and curry spices from the restaurants in Queen Street hadn’t lingered all night. Working night shift in the summer was worse, when the stink could drill its way right up to the highest reaches of my nostrils.
Boyd had f
ollowed me, notebook in one hand, and water beaker in the other. I knew that Boyd’s every instinct was to wear a suit and tie, so it must have been difficult getting accustomed to my shabby-chic-casual look. That morning he had a pair of navy denims and a white button-down shirt, the sort Marks & Spencer sell by the million, and a tie. A dark-blue version with red spots.
Normally the first thing we had to do was to secure the crime scene and preserve the evidence, but not knowing where Michal Dąbek died made that difficult. All we could do was wait for the forensics results. In the meantime we had a bag of exhibits here and a tongue in the lab.
‘Is that all of the exhibits?’ Boyd asked, pointing at the plastic wallet.
‘And his tongue. It was cut out.’
He grimaced.
‘So what’s the story from the boyfriend?’ I asked.
At six feet Boyd was a couple of inches taller than me, and several inches wider around the waist and chest. Boyd’s straight hair was combed neatly back off his face and it reminded me of how I’d always wanted a fancy haircut to attract the girls, instead of the unruly wavy mass brushing my collar.
‘He tried Michal’s mobile last night but it didn’t answer. Then he called at Michal’s bed-sit first thing this morning. They don’t live together. At least that’s what he said, boss.’
Now we had the basics about his life – where he lived, who his lover was – but the photograph in the exhibits wallet and the key to some cupboard or cabinet might tell us more. I glanced at my watch; I still had plenty of time before the game.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘He’s in interview room three.’
‘Has he eaten anything?’
‘The uniformed lads got him some chips earlier, but he left most of them. He said he wasn’t hungry.’
I drew a hand over my mouth and thought about the ravioli my mother would be making now. The smell of the mushrooms and herbs would linger in the house and I could imagine her shaping the pasta with a lightness that years of practice had perfected.
I guessed lunch for me now would be another bag of chips or a pasty from the chippy down the road. But there was always the burger van by the gate to the City of Cardiff Stadium before the game and I was having dinner with Trish, so maybe I should skip the chips.
Speechless Page 1
