After I scribbled down the details of what she could tell me I left and heard the chain being replaced once the door closed behind me. Boyd was waiting for me by the front door.
‘Let me guess – nobody heard anything or saw anything or wants to get involved,’ I said.
‘That’s right, boss.’
I needed to catch up with my five-a-day habit so I stepped outside onto the square of concrete that passed for the front garden. A couple of limp weeds were clinging to life around the edges and the tape marking the outer perimeter of the crime scene waved silently. The road was quiet, too quiet. I saw the vertical blinds on a nearby window flicker as a hand drew them to one side.
‘So. Nobody saw nothing,’ I said out loud.
‘Poland must be a shit place to live,’ Boyd said, kicking some loose pebbles with his shoes.
‘Living in a dump like this can’t be fun.’
‘All the hotels are full of Poles and Hungarians. There must be thousands in Cardiff.’
‘Nothing we can do about it, Boyd. We’re all in the EU together.’
‘I know, but only last week a cousin of mine in Llanelli went for a job interview and all the rest were Poles. Some of them could hardly speak a word of English. And then my cousin was asked in the interview if she could talk Welsh. Something isn’t right…’
I put the second cigarette of the day to my lips and held it between my teeth as I searched for the lighter in my pocket. I glanced at my watch, remembered about the tickets for the game, and knew that Robbie would kill me if he missed the match. There was no way I could leave the scene while Alvine Dix was around. She’d have complained to the Chief Constable that I’d left for a football match – more than my career was worth.
‘Boyd, give one of the uniformed lads a shout.’
He went back into the house, returning a moment later followed by a young constable who looked like he hadn’t yet started to shave. The constable seemed relieved when I explained that I needed him to deliver an important package to Queen Street, and I passed him the football tickets in an envelope.
I finished the cigarette, tossing the butt into the street. Then I fumbled for my mobile and texted Robbie, telling him to collect the tickets at the police station.
After two hours making preliminary house-to-house enquiries I leant against a garden wall, realising it would be a marathon task getting the evidence we’d need. I tried to imagine what Michal must have thought of this place and why he had chosen a life here and not in Poland. I suspected that Kamil was probably the answer. Boyd was walking towards me down the opposite side of the street and I knew from the look on his face that the result of his house-to-house was just as fruitless as mine.
The investigators were finishing photographing and bagging up the exhibits from the scene when I returned to the second floor.
‘There are prints all over the place,’ Alvine began.
I saw the dust covering the surfaces. There were piles of clothes, all stacked into a corner and the furniture had been tidied. ‘Find anything?’
‘What exactly are we looking for?’
I shrugged.
‘Well if you don’t know – how can you expect us to mind-read?’
I left Alvine and found Boyd talking to one of the other occupants. I heard the words civil liberties and human rights. Boyd was looking frustrated – arms crossed, head pitched to one side – but he kept his cool.
‘We’ll be here as long as it takes,’ he said.
‘But I need shit.’ The voice was thick and accented. For some reason there were CSIs working in the bathrooms.
When I saw the time I realised that the second half had just begun, so I sent Robbie a text. Moments later my mobile beeped and, reading his reply, I smiled. It was a goal each and the Chelsea fans were chanting for the manager to be sacked – nothing changes.
In the car journey back to the station I could feel the tiredness aching at the bottom of my back. I wondered if Cardiff had scored again and then I realised that dinner with Trish would have to wait. I tapped out a text to her, explaining about Michal and the reply came seconds later – Indian later? I sent a reply as Boyd pulled into the car park.
We spent another hour notifying the hospitals about the dismembered tongue. It was difficult to imagine someone turning up at Accident and Emergency with their tongue missing. I knew we had a body to find but we still had procedures to follow.
It was after nine when I finally left Queen Street. In the car I retraced my steps from early that morning. Back home I slumped into the sofa and picked up the television control. Top Gear filled the screen and I began to relax as I watched the introduction, trying to imagine what I would do if I could afford a Porsche.
I heard the scratch of the key in the door and then Trish’s voice as she walked in, carrying a takeaway. I told her about my day as she heaped dollops of chicken curry onto a plate, then rice and some chapattis and poured chutney into a bowl. We sat watching television after finishing the meal until Trish gave me a light kiss on the lips.
‘Fancy a shower?’ she asked.
I paused the player. Clarkson could wait until later.
Chapter 5
When I needed breakfast therapy I went to Ramone’s. It was the best greasy-spoon in Cardiff and probably the best in Wales. I raised a hand to Greg, standing behind the counter, and he nodded back. I always had the same order so I didn’t need to remind him. At a table by the window I cleared the condiments to one side and turned to the sports pages of the Western Mail. In the end Cardiff had lost by one goal and the report suggested it might have been more. It was a poor start to their first season in the Premiership and I hoped they weren’t going to be relegated at the end of it.
A waitress in a white apron smiled at me as she put the plate down on the table.
‘All right, John?’
I smiled back.
‘You OK for sauces?’ She sounded tired, even though it was the start of the day. I nodded.
The bacon was perfect, the hash browns crisp and the beans sweet and tomatoey. The waitress came back a second time and left a mug of tea by my plate. I was sweeping a piece of bread around the plate, gathering the last of the tomato sauce and egg when I saw Terry walking towards the café. He had a lopsided gait and kept darting his head from side to side, as though he expected a car to mount the pavement and collide with him. He pushed open the door, gave me a hesitant smile, and made his way over to my table. He eased himself into the bench seat opposite me.
‘Do you always have to sit in the window?’
‘It’s the best place. I can see the world go by.’
‘And the whole fucking world can see us.’
The waitress reappeared and Terry ordered a full breakfast.
‘So, what’s the story?’ Terry asked.
‘A floater in the Taff last night.’
Terry shrugged. ‘So. Thirty pints of lager and he can’t walk straight.’
I gave him an executive summary – just enough for him to know more than he’d learn from the television news, but nothing prejudicial to the inquiry. The waitress returned with Terry’s meal and a mug of tea. He turned three spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming liquid and began shovelling the food into his mouth.
‘So why call me?’ he said, mumbling through a mouthful of bacon and egg.
‘Frankie Prince.’
Terry stopped eating and gave a furtive look out of the window. He took a tissue from the dispenser on the table and dabbed the corner of his mouth, removing a drop of ketchup.
‘Frankie Prince,’ he repeated slowly, as though the name itself was contaminated. ‘What’s he got to do with a body in the Taff?’
I raised my eyebrows. He knew I couldn’t tell him any more.
‘I want to know what the latest is about him.’
‘The latest?’ Terry spluttered. ‘He’s into everything. Drugs, property, massage parlours, nightclubs.’
‘Nothing new?’
‘You wa
nt me to start asking around about Frankie Prince?’ His eyes widened, incredulity in his voice.
‘That’s it. You owe me, remember.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘I’ve got a good memory. And I bear a grudge.’
Terry stopped eating for a second. ‘For fuck’s sake. I’d better check my life insurance. In fact I haven’t got any fucking life insurance. And I quite enjoy not being dead.’
Terry finished the last of his beans and took a large slurp of the sweet tea.
‘It’s important, Terry.’
‘Yeh. Of course, of course,’ he replied. He sidled out of the seat and threw the paper napkin onto his plate before leaving. Through the window I watched him put a mobile to his ear as he picked up the pace of his stride. After paying, I raised a hand to Greg, thanked him for breakfast and promised to be back soon. Outside, a cool autumn breeze blew along the road and a group of students in thin T-shirts and jeans snaked down towards the university.
When I arrived at the station I nudged my Mondeo into a narrow space between a patrol car and a Scientific Support Vehicle. I took the staircase to the third floor at a leisurely pace, the sound of muffled conversations and one-sided telephone calls filling the stairwell. I ignored a glance from Hobbs that said late again and made my way to my office.
* * *
Boyd had been working with me for the last three months. At first I hadn’t been sure what to make of him. He always wore a suit, shirt with a tie and shoes that kept themselves clean. His personnel file said he’d studied law at Swansea University and that he was committed to a career with the Wales Police Service. Because I became a policeman by accident when I was twenty I didn’t understand how he could have wanted his whole life carved out in careful steps. He’d married young and Mandy now wanted children. But he was conscientious and I could rely on him.
He knocked on my door and I waved him in.
‘Have you heard from the factory where Michal works?’ I asked as he sat down.
‘Not yet.’
‘Then call them again. We need to find out everything about his friends and work colleagues.’
Boyd nodded. ‘What do you make of Kamil?’
‘If they were lovers, then he’s our best chance of finding someone with a motive for Michal’s death. And we need to talk to the Polish community in Cardiff. Is there a community centre?’
‘There’s a Polish pub down the docks.’
I’d seen some of the intelligence reports on the place. No drugs, just industrial-scale boozing; and they sorted out any trouble themselves.
‘I thought there were Polish shops in Cardiff.’
Boyd nodded. ‘And there’s one in Newport. They sell massive jars of gherkins, funny-shaped biscuits and dark rye bread.’
‘How do you know so much about Polish cuisine?’
‘I had a Polish girlfriend in college.’
‘Really.’ I wondered whether Mandy knew. ‘And is there a Polish priest?’ Even I knew that Poland was a Catholic country. ‘We need to get into the Polish community. Somebody must know something.’
‘This could take a long time.’
Before I could agree, the telephone rang.
‘Is that Inspector Marco?’ It was a whiny tentative voice. ‘This is Matt Lloyd. I’m Michal Dąbek’s supervisor. You left a message yesterday. It was Sunday.’
‘You’ve heard about Michal?’
‘Yes, of course. Terrible. I can see you this morning if it helps. But I’m going on holiday this afternoon. My wife and I have booked two weeks in the Canaries. We always go this time of the year. And the weather—’
‘We’ll be there as soon as.’
I heard him say something about the traffic jams as I put the telephone down. I grabbed the car keys and shouted to Boyd.
After twenty minutes we turned into the industrial estate off the link motorway and eventually we found the car park of the electronics factory. I ignored the small notice saying Reserved Braggins screwed to a pole in the ground and we walked over to the office.
A girl with straw-coloured hair and a very short skirt sat behind a reception desk with a glass top.
‘I’m here to see Matt Lloyd,’ I said.
‘Have you appointment?’ she drawled. The accent was different from the Eastern Europeans I’d heard yesterday but it still sounded foreign.
I explained about Michal and her lower lip fell slightly.
‘Sit, please,’ she said, before speaking into a telephone.
The reception had magazines about holidays in the sun and the latest gadgets and toys. After a few minutes a door opened at the far end of the reception area and a tall man with a high forehead came out towards us. He smiled, shook our hands and told us his name was Matt Lloyd.
‘Morning, Inspector. Awful about Michal.’
We followed him through various corridors to a small room looking out over the production line. The smell of grease hung in the air and the faint hum of machinery filled the room.
‘What can you tell me about Michal?’ I asked, once we’d sat down.
He shuffled some papers on the desk. ‘He was well liked and conscientious. They all are—’
‘They…?’
‘Poles. Eastern Europeans in general.’
‘What exactly do you do here?’
‘We build components for the electronics industry – plugs, switches, consumer units. All low-tech stuff. We pay minimum wage and the Poles don’t complain. That’s the only way we keep the business here. Otherwise it would have gone to the Far East a long time ago.’
He scribbled on a notepad when I asked for a list of Michal’s work colleagues. From an inside pocket I took out a small plastic pocket with the key we’d found on Michal’s body and showed it to Lloyd.
‘Do you have any idea what this key might be for?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Do you have lockers for the staff?’
‘Yes. But I don’t think this key fits.’
‘Can we see the locker room?’
He found two hard hats from a box behind his desk. ‘Health and Safety.’
As we got up the door burst open and a short man with shiny hair and arms that looked like he’d been hung from a height for a long time walked in. He shouted something I didn’t understand and then threw his wiry arms in the air.
‘Mr Lloyd. The locker room,’ he said eventually, between lungfuls of breath. ‘Come quick.’
Lloyd left the room and we followed him through the shop floor. We threaded our way, passed the machines punching out metal boxes with deafening regularity, until we reached a door that said Staff Room, which he pushed open.
Two girls sat by a table in one corner, comforting each other. One of them wiped away the remains of a tear; the other looked at Lloyd and nodded over at the two open lockers.
Lloyd grabbed a locker door and it squeaked open.
I stepped over towards him and saw the disgust on his face.
I looked into the locker at another dismembered tongue.
* * *
By the time Alvine Dix had finished, she’d found two more.
‘Animals, of course,’ she said.
‘Can you tell what animal?’
‘What difference will it make?’ she asked, an exasperated look on her face.
‘Well…’ I struggled.
Alvine carefully tried every locker but Michal’s key fitted none of them. She piled the contents into an exhibits bag, which she handed to one of the CSIs in her team.
‘We’ve got work to do,’ she said.
After a couple of hours gathering the details of everyone on the shop floor, Boyd and I stood to one side of the yellow perimeter tape by the door to the locker room, looking at Alvine.
‘Are you two finished?’
I nodded.
‘Then bugger off. I’ve had my fill of people gawking at me. All the staff took turns to look at me as though I was a performing seal.’
; Back at the station we sat in silence in my office, Boyd passed me his list of the staff and I noticed Leon’s name from Howick Street. I’d seen him from a distance but he’d looked away, as though he didn’t want anyone to notice he’d recognised me. Now we had five tongues, a dead body and a lot of work to get through.
* * *
The usual post-lunch torpor hung in the atmosphere at Queen Street like a thin sea mist in a horror movie. Yawns were stifled, shoulders rubbed, and arms stretched. I dropped a ham and cheese sandwich onto my desk with a bottle of flavoured water. I ran through the notes on my desk. So much for the paperless office. I gnawed at the sandwich and flushed a large piece of cheddar down with a mouthful of the coloured liquid that was supposed to taste of oranges.
There’d been a voicemail and a text from Cornock telling me he wanted to see me. I couldn’t ignore the requests for too long. I threw the remains of the sandwich into the bin and headed for his office.
When I knocked there was the sound of papers scuffling from inside the office and a loud shout that I took to be an invitation. Cornock was on his knees gathering files that had fallen on the floor. When he stood up, clutching the papers in one hand, he smoothed down an imaginary loose hair with a gentle sweep of his free hand. I’d known Cornock for years but now he was beginning to look old and worn out. His skin was pale and the wrinkles around his eyes creased deeply. The ageing process had hit him hard, and earlier than most, once his daughter became a drug addict and he’d abruptly stopped talking about her nursing career.
‘Sit down,’ he said, nodding at the chair in front of his desk. He cleared his throat. ‘You’d better bring me up to date.’
‘We visited Dąbek’s place of work and there was another tongue in a locker. In fact we found three today – Alvine reckons they’re all from animals.’
Cornock nodded as though he knew it all. He raised his eyes and shuffled the papers some more.
‘How are you, John?’ He managed to give every word more emphasis than he needed to.
I could see where this was going.
‘If you need help with the investigation I want you to tell me.’ He gave me an intense, challenging stare.
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