Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘There’s a burglary on Rodium Crescent. The householder has reported a man with tattoos in his garden.’

  I grabbed my watch and realised I’d been asleep for only an hour. I could feel the grit gathering in my eyes; I stammered something down the telephone, and the line went dead. I padded into the bathroom, threw cold water over my face, and brushed my teeth mechanically – Trish complained that my teeth could be rancid in the morning. After I’d dragged on some clothes, I bent over the bed, thinking about kissing Trish, but she turned over and drew the duvet over her head.

  After pouring a glass of juice – no time for a coffee – I called Boyd.

  ‘On my way, boss.’

  I pulled the door behind me quietly and walked downstairs to the car park. The yellow glow from the streetlights shrouded the car with a soft neon haze. Everything looked still and quiet. A fox walked past the entrance and stopped to look at me, its bushy tail moving slowly. There was a noise from a car braking in the distance and the fox trotted away. I took out the cigarettes from the inside of my jacket and stuck one between my lips. My five–a-day rule was modified if I was working at night – it only seemed fair that I could have at least one or two more if I had to work long hours.

  I powered the car through deserted streets towards town. Rodium Crescent was in Cyncoed on the northern side of Cardiff. A couple of coaches passed with London displayed in letters above the driver.

  A Scientific Support Vehicle and a patrol car were parked outside the house, so I drew the car into the kerb a couple of houses away. Boyd was standing by the front door holding a chocolate bar in one hand, a satisfied look on his face.

  ‘I thought you were off the junk food?’ I said to him, as he walked towards me, crumpling the wrapper in his hand.

  ‘Christ’s sake, boss. It’s the middle of the night.’

  The house was detached with two large bays and a drive leading to a double garage with electronic shutters. All the downstairs lights were blazing and I could hear voices from the rear of the house, as Boyd and I approached the back door. By a clean, well-polished table in the kitchen an elderly couple were sitting, two uniformed officers keeping them company. The man stood up and stretched to his full height. He had a thin white moustache hanging above narrow lips and his hair was short and cut almost flat on the top. His wife sat by the table nursing a glass that had a tired-looking slice of lemon floating in the final few centimetres of the clear liquid. She lifted her head in a slow, weary sort of way and then looked at me before taking another sip. Her skin looked tired too – it had an odd orange tint.

  ‘I’ve got a photograph,’ the man said defiantly, pointing at the mobile telephone on the table. ‘Proper camera wouldn’t work. Too damned complicated.’

  ‘Gerald, don’t be such an arse.’ The accent was Home Counties, but the slurring was from a gin bottle.

  ‘I can show the inspector the photograph,’ he said.

  ‘Wing Commander Bates caught the burglar in the act, sir,’ said one of the uniforms with the faintest of smiles.

  ‘I’ve been waiting up. Only a matter of time until he came around this street.’

  ‘How…?’ I asked.

  ‘Done Claudia Avenue. Every damn house – probably feeding some drug habit. Next street along. Stood to reason.’

  ‘But there’d be no way of knowing…’

  ‘I’ve seen it all before, Inspector. They don’t know the meaning of respect and hard work.’

  He sounded like an editorial from the Daily Mail so I stood up. ‘Better show us where it happened.’

  Bates led us through into a rear lounge that had expensive furniture and a large flat-screen television in full view of the French doors leading onto the patio area.

  ‘I was at our neighbourhood watch meeting last night in the home of Judge Patricks. That’s why I was awake. Half-expecting him tonight.’

  ‘You were waiting up?’ I asked.

  ‘Good thing I was.’

  I cast my eye around the room and saw the tripod with an expensive camera screwed to the top and a whisky bottle half hidden by the edge of a chair. I could see the headline – Retired Wing Commander catches burglar red-handed.

  ‘We were all ready. Can’t allow this sort of thing to happen. Not in this street.’

  ‘What do you mean, ready?’ I asked.

  Bates leant forward and almost whispered. ‘Prepared. The judge wanted us all to be ready.’

  Judge Patricks was on a one-judge mission to lock up as many burglars as he could after his holiday home near Carmarthen had been broken into so many times he’d lost count.

  I wondered if the thief knew where the judge lived and was going to avoid his house, since he’d also missed out the home of Glanville Tront in the next street. I peered out of the window into the garden but all I could make out were the vaguest shadows of the trees and the roof of a summerhouse.

  I turned to Bates who was rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Let me have a look at the telephone.’

  We went back into the kitchen; he fumbled with the key pad, and his wife got more irate until she drank the final dregs, the lemon slice left sticking to the side of the glass.

  A pleased and satisfied look crossed Bates’s face as he passed me the telephone with an outstretched hand.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘First-hand evidence.’

  I took the telephone in my hand and then laughed loudly. I was looking at the face of Robbie Williams, his smile wide, teeth gleaming.

  Chapter 14

  I heard Trish cursing as she dressed.

  ‘Where’s the fucking alarm.’

  I grunted.

  ‘I am so late.’

  I opened an eyelid and looked for the alarm clock and remembered that the battery was somewhere under the bed. I turned over and dragged the duvet over my head. I couldn’t function on two hours’ sleep.

  Trish crashed about in the kitchen, closing the cupboard doors with enough force to break the hinges before boiling a full kettle and then turning the volume of the radio up high. Eventually she slammed the front door and left. But I couldn’t sleep and I tossed around the bed. I kept seeing the face of Robbie Williams every time I was dropping off to sleep.

  After a shower and a double-double strength espresso I felt more awake. Outside it was another fresh, clear September morning; the wind ruffled the tops of the trees lining the half-empty car park.

  I arrived at Queen Street at the same time as Boyd. The bags under his eyes were neat and clean and turning the colour of tepid coffee. He stared at me and gave me a feeble grin.

  ‘Get any sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve done it twice. Once when I got in, then again this morning. I’m knackered.’

  I thought about the grunt that Trish had given me when I slipped under the duvet at five in the morning and ran my hand up her leg. She’d pulled away into the warmth of the bedclothes as I’d lain there trying to remember when I last had a decent night’s sleep.

  I flicked through some of the paperwork on the desk as a yawn gripped the back of my throat and I thrust my hand to my mouth. From the pile of paperwork I picked up the list of exhibits from Leon’s flat. There was a long list of till receipts from his local supermarket, a loyalty card and some loose change. I read through the list until I noticed the restaurant receipt. I opened the plastic envelope and dragged out the flimsy piece of paper. I noticed the date – it was two days before Michal’s death.

  I shouted over at Boyd. ‘Fancy lunch?’

  Boyd started the car and we threaded our way slowly through the city traffic.

  ‘Do you keep restaurant receipts?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know, boss.’

  ‘I throw them. Once I’ve checked the amounts. What’s the point?’

  Boyd was concentrating on trying to overtake a lorry that had Keep Your Distance in large letters on the rear tailgate. He grunted a reply.

  I took out the receipt as Boyd pulled into the p
arking slot by the pavement near the Gaia Pizzeria. A small van covered in adverts for the best home-delivered pizza in Cardiff was parked in front of us. A young kid, no more than fourteen, was sweeping the rubbish off the pavements into the road and picking up discarded pizza boxes.

  Inside, I searched for the face of authority. The girls cleaning the floors and washing glasses hardly gave me a second glance. I caught the eye of a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and an angry expression.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, with as much enthusiasm as a man attending his own funeral.

  ‘You the manager?’ I flashed my card but it had no effect.

  He nodded. ‘What do you want?’

  I fished out the receipt from a pocket. ‘I need to trace the people who paid for this meal.’

  ‘What is this anyway?’ He sounded defensive.

  ‘We found the receipt on a dead man. We want to know who he was with on the night.’

  After he’d scanned the receipt as intently as an invitation to a garden party at Buckingham Palace, he turned on his heels and walked through the restaurant. I nodded to Boyd and we followed him towards a large open-plan kitchen. He called out to a young girl who walked over.

  ‘Lisa, did you serve this table?’ He thrust the receipt towards her.

  Lisa was very thin and the T-shirt she wore hung off her shoulders. She had eyes that seemed to float around in their sockets. She nodded without conviction.

  ‘Do you remember who they were?’ I asked.

  She shook her head slowly before saying. ‘He comes in a lot. Always has something cheap. He was foreign. Russian or maybe Polish or something.’

  ‘Is this him?’ I showed her Leon’s Polish identity card, which I’d shoved into my jacket as we left the station.

  ‘Yeh,’ Lisa nodded. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s dead and I was hoping you could remember who he was with that night.’

  The colour drained from her cheeks and she clutched her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a girl.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  Lisa trawled her memory and told us about the girl’s hair colour and her face and how tall she was. It sounded like Lisa had a thing for Leon and once she’d seen him with a girl she’d paid lots of attention.

  Once she’d finished I knew exactly who she’d described.

  * * *

  A Monday should have meant fresh minds after the weekend, but there hadn’t been time to relax and I was back in the office, my mind losing its grip on the concentration it needed. Woods and Lawson were in the Incident Room with Boyd and I knew we had to make progress, but all I could think of was Dagmara and why we had come across her again in the investigation.

  The telephone had rung out the first time I’d called and at the second attempt it cut into an answer machine. My mobile was sitting on the desk. I was looking at it, not wanting to call her a third time. I bit my lip, picked up the mobile and made the call. Another message. Another notch of worry tightened in my chest.

  ‘Boss, BTP have called.’

  I heard his voice but didn’t listen.

  ‘Boss, the British Transport Police…’

  I looked up and when he knew he had my concentration he stopped.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Sergeant Parkes of the BTP has called. They can’t find Janek. Wondering if we can help.’

  ‘He’s not at home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At work?’

  ‘Not seen since last week.’

  I sat back in my chair.

  ‘Friends, girlfriends?’ I said as Boyd shook his head. ‘Boyfriends?’ I added.

  ‘Apparently his bed-sit has been cleaned out. Wiped down, clothes and belongings gone. He didn’t tell anyone else.’

  I made certain Boyd sent me Janek’s details. Tomorrow I had a meeting with someone who could help.

  Chapter 15

  Colonel Victor Laskus was dressed head-to-toe in a khaki-coloured uniform, the top of his breast pocket adorned with various coloured medals and the pips on his shoulders glistened in the artificial light. I offered tea and coffee. He shook his head. It was a large head to shake and he wore his hair in a style modelled by a blunt lawnmower. He shot out his hand, and when he shook mine I could feel my shoulder blade weakening. I stared blankly at the Polish letters on his business card until he suggested I look on the other side. It said Diplomatic Liaison – Military, which I took to mean he was a spook.

  ‘How can I help?’ I said.

  ‘You are in charge?’ He sounded like a villain from a James Bond movie.

  I nodded.

  ‘Michael Dąbek and Leon Ostrowski,’ he announced. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘They were both murdered. Michal had is tongue cut out.’ I watched the colonel but he barely flinched.

  ‘Very bad. Russian criminals cut tongues out. It is…’ he hesitated. ‘Despicable.’ He said the word carefully as though he’d learnt it on the train that morning.

  ‘We don’t know the motive yet. We know they’d been living in Wales for a couple of years. They seemed to be settled. What can you tell me about their background?’

  He stared at me briefly, as though he were searching for the right answer.

  ‘I understand they were in the Polish Special Forces.’

  He raised his thick eyebrows and they almost met in the middle. It had been a guess but the surprise on the colonel’s face had given me the confirmation I needed.

  ‘Good men. Good soldiers.’

  ‘Can you tell me about their service history? Were they in the same unit? Who were their friends?’

  ‘Do you have suspects?’

  I suspected that liaison for the Polish colonel meant me telling him everything without any reciprocal exchange of information. We spent another half an hour discussing the deaths of Michal and Leon and the only information he offered was the promise to check the records of the relevant army department.

  ‘Do you have suspects?’ he asked again.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Do other Polish people help?’

  ‘We have interviewed one of two.’

  ‘Who are they? What are their names?’

  ‘I’m sure, Colonel, you know that information is confidential.’

  His lips twitched slightly and he gave me a dark stare. ‘Good relations between our two countries is very important.’

  ‘I need to trace a person of interest for us.’

  The colonel narrowed his eyes as he looked at the photograph I’d pushed over the desk. Then I gave him a piece of paper with Janek’s personal details – all we had was his date of birth and a witness who believed he was from the eastern suburbs of Warsaw.

  ‘Can you help with tracing this person?’

  ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘He’s disappeared.’

  The eyebrows rose again.

  ‘Can you help? Will the police in Poland be able to help?’

  ‘I’m sure that the Warsaw police can help.’ It sounded like he wanted to avoid responsibility.

  ‘Can you make the contacts for me? I want to report to the Assistant Chief Constable after our meeting – she’ll be interested to hear how our liaison is developing.’

  The colonel nodded.

  ‘I will do what I can. I speak to Warsaw police.’

  ‘Thanks. And could you ask them about these two men as well?’ I said, finding another sheaf of paper in the folder on the desk with the names and bare details of Pietrek Nowak and Gerek Kalka. ‘We need to speak to them urgently. If they’ve gone back to Poland then we need to know.’

  The colonel stared at the images.

  ‘Does the name Lech Balinski mean anything to you?’ I asked.

  A glimmer of recognition crossed his eyes, until the spook training cut in.

  ‘I look into it for you,’ he said, scribbling down the name.

 
He stared at me for a few seconds before checking the time and announcing that he had a train to catch. I opened the door and offered to arrange for a taxi to the station, but he shook his head.

  ‘Walking is good.’

  I watched him leave Queen Street and immediately he pulled out a mobile phone, which he pressed to his ear.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve had a complaint.’

  Cornock was running a finger around the rim of a mug that had a large yellow dot on its side. The pile of papers on his desk was as thick as the last time I was in his room and the aquarium hummed silently in the background.

  ‘Wing Commander Bates was on the telephone this morning,’ he continued.

  I waited for him to continue.

  ‘You know the sort, John. Thinks he’s still in charge. He wants to push people around.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He says you were rude and inconsiderate.’

  I let out a long rasp of air and gathered my thoughts.

  ‘He was pissed.’

  Cornock raised his eyebrows. ‘Wing Commander Bates name-dropped Judge Patricks and one of the ACCs, as though they were lifelong friends.’

  I folded my arms before replying. ‘His wife was pissed too.’

  ‘This is Cyncoed, John. The residents need to be treated with respect and courtesy.’

  And the people of Splott don’t.

  ‘The ACC needs a full report on the burglaries, soon as.’

  I wondered how far Cornock lived from Rodium Crescent and whether it would be his street that would be hit next. I had to protest even though it was going to be a waste of time.

  ‘The crime scene investigators were punctual. They went through the house and garden. Alvine Dix was in charge. Maybe she said something,’ I said.

  Cornock took a deep breath. ‘I’ve agreed that we’ll attend the next neighbourhood watch meeting.’ He glanced over at the faded blue colour on my denim shirt. ‘And you’ll have to wear a suit.’

  * * *

  Boyd looked up from his desk as I entered the Incident Room. It smelt stale and humid and he stifled a yawn as he made eye contact. I raised my eyes and nodded towards my office, telling him to follow me.

  ‘All right, boss?’