‘How often do you speak to my mother?’
She paused and stared at me. ‘She made contact with me. Told me she missed Dean and wished things could be different, and suggested he might go to the party with you. It might be an idea, just an idea, that you take him bowling. Get to know him. You need to rebuild your relationship with your son.’
The surly waitress came back, bringing with her the smell of second-hand tobacco and two plates with our food. We ate in silence, but there was noise all around us as the place filled with the sounds of lunchtime shoppers. After we finished, and Jackie had shaken her head at the prospect of a pudding, I thought about paying. I wondered if Leon had paid for Dagmara and I thought about what the waitress had said – that he always chose the cheapest food. What would I think if Dean went to live in a foreign country and found a bed-sit in a backstreet and a job that paid minimum wage?
‘That’s settled then,’ Jackie said. ‘Pick him up from my mother’s place at tomorrow – go bowling and then back by eight.’
I walked back to Queen Street, surprised that I was annoyed with myself for being a lousy father.
* * *
The same tall, thin man opened the door, without ceremony, to Gerek’s flat.
The temperature inside was still hot. The piles of clothes hadn’t been moved. And Boyd looked disappointed when the Hungarian girl didn’t appear.
The room was the same as we had left it last time but now nobody would complain when we entered, no protocols broken, no regulations breached. Boyd had made certain we had the landlord’s written consent to enter Gerek’s room. When I stripped back the curtains from the windows, light filled the room. The sound of children outside drifted in once I’d opened the latch.
I lost count of the T-shirts Gerek owned. They were hanging in neat rows, all ironed and clean.
After an hour we had the contents of Gerek’s flat neatly piled in various heaps: clothes in one corner, bedding in another and then the remains of his paperwork set out on the bed. There were bank statements from Poland and from one of the banks in the city. Boyd had assembled a stack of papers, no more than till receipts and as I sorted through them I wondered why Gerek would keep them.
Then it struck me that I’d seen them before, at least what was left after seawater had done its worst.
* * *
Boyd’s laughter at some lame joke made blanking out the noise from the Incident Room impossible. There was a pile of paperwork on my desk that I had to read through, but instead of tackling statements and reports I dug through a drawer until I found a sheet of paper. I wrote the names of Michal and Leon in the middle and then Kamil, Gerek and Dagmara to the right hand side. I carefully drew a circle around their names and then lines to connect them to Michal and Leon. It looked pretty. I hoped it was going to work.
After spending a couple of hours on the exercise I was more confused than when I’d started. I had interconnecting black lines leading to the name of Frankie Prince whose photograph was next to a sheet with Lech’s name printed in a large bold font.
The murder manuals and management directives couldn’t help me now, so I decided to go back to the beginning and look again at Michal Dąbek. I cleared my desk and laid out Michal’s personal belongings.
I fingered the photograph; it looked the sort of normal domestic scene that filled family albums. I put it down and reached over for the scraps of paper from Michal’s wallet. I struggled to read the faded sets of numbers and letters. Alongside them I put one of the slips of paper from Gerek’s flat and I felt the first flush of success when the faint print matched.
From the box with Leon’s personal possessions I took out the photograph and laid it alongside the one from Michal’s wallet. Leon’s had been taken in a bar, the background lights blurred against the flash, grinning faces tilted upwards towards the camera, half-empty glasses raised in salute.
I needed to know what the till receipts related to, so I picked up the telephone and punched in Kamil’s number.
‘Yes.’ The voice sounded impatient.
‘John Marco.’
‘What you want?’
‘I need to talk to you again. It’s important.’
Another hour passed before Boyd and I sat opposite Kamil in the interview room. He was wearing a long face; the three days’ growth on his chin was a reddish colour.
‘I late for work,’ he complained.
‘Won’t take long.’
I pushed across the scrap of paper in a plastic pouch.
‘Any idea what this could be?’
He gave me an irritated look and glanced at his watch. ‘It is paper from money transfer man.’
‘Who?’
‘Man in Polish shop. He send money home for Polish people. It is very cheap.’
After he gave me the address and telephone number I slid over the photograph from Michal’s wallet.
‘You show me this last time,’ he complained.
‘Where was it taken?’
He shrugged. ‘I told you before. No idea.’
‘What about this then?’
I showed him the image of Michal and Leon and Dagmara smiling at the camera. Kamil straightened in his chair, picked up the glossy image and opened his eyes a little wider.
‘Where was it taken, Kamil?’
‘Her again,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s bad. No good for Michal.’
A momentary flash of worry crossed my mind.
‘No good for Michal?’ I tried to sound unfazed.
‘She always interfere. Always making things difficult. She tried to help but only make things worse.’
‘Were she and Michal lovers?’ I got straight to what was on my mind.
Kamil looked up and gave me a wide-eyed, hurt stare. ‘I know Michal had wife. And before that girlfriends. But he was happy with me. Maybe Dagmara years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘I not know. Michal kept secrets.’
‘What did you mean, making things difficult?’
He sank back into his chair after tossing the photograph back at me. ‘I saw them together.’
‘When?’
‘First time three weeks ago, maybe. Then I saw them again, always together. I followed Michal. He see her in restaurant.’
Before he finished I was scrolling my mobile for Dagmara’s number.
Chapter 20
‘Congratulations.’
I held my grip on the handset of the telephone as though my life depended on it. I thought I heard the muffled sound of another voice in the background and the movement of a hand over the mouthpiece.
‘I’m sure you’re very pleased,’ Wing Commander Bates continued.
It wasn’t the voice I’d have chosen to hear first thing that morning but at least he sounded sober.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘Everybody on the neighbourhood watch will be delighted.’
‘Good.’
All I had was a Scotsman, who only had a passing resemblance to a human being, and the investigation into establishing his guilt had a long way to go.
Before Bates rang off I heard a female voice in the background reminding him to tell me about the neighbourhood watch meeting. I made an attempt at sounding interested and confirmed I’d be there.
Boyd stood by the door as I put the telephone back on the cradle. I waved at him, picked up my mobile, and scrolled the numbers, looking for Dagmara’s details. She’d been blanking my calls since my conversation with Kamil and I was getting more annoyed with every message that I left asking her to contact me.
‘Got the report you wanted,’ Boyd said, thrusting a sheaf of papers over the desk.
I nodded and pressed the phone to my ear only to hear again the slow, warm tones of her voice inviting the caller to leave a message. Do Polish girls sound sexy to Polish men I wondered? Boyd had sat down and I decided against leaving a message.
One thing I hated was management paperwork. At my last a
ppraisal Cornock used words like team player and finding a balance before he got to the subject of my inadequate paperwork.
‘No point kicking against the system,’ Cornock had said. ‘You’ve got to get the paperwork done properly, John.’
But I never could and I looked at the report addressed to the ACC. I flicked through the pages and realised I needed an hour at least when I was in a better frame of mind.
‘Well done,’ I said to Boyd absently.
He gave a contented smile.
‘Seems a good report. It’s long enough… I’ll read it through… But we’ve got things to do. Priorities, Boyd. We always need to prioritise…’
* * *
We drove down Bute Street into the docks, passing the rows of terraces stranded by the modernity of the high rises in the Bay beyond. We pulled into a parking space by the small arcade of shops. A young boy on a bicycle finished sipping from a straw and tipped the container into an overflowing bin that spilled it onto the street.
Boyd and I walked down the arcade, the boarded windows daubed with graffiti, an echo of the once-thriving shops. We passed a run-down Post Office with thick metal mesh covering the window and, high enough to be out of reach, a CCTV camera pointing downwards. An old man emerged from a newspaper shop and stepped into the adjacent betting office. The noise from the commentary inside faded to a dull thudding as the door closed behind him.
We rounded the corner and at the end of a row we saw a couple standing outside the Polish shop, talking and smoking.
A vinegary and salty smell hung heavily in the air when we entered. The aisles were stacked with bottles of gherkins of all shapes, packets of biscuits and dried goods that I’d never seen before.
We walked up to the counter and saw a man with dark stubble and high cheekbones sitting on a stool, watching the Polish channel on cable. He gave us a lazy, disinterested look and I thrust my warrant card under his nose.
‘Detective Inspector Marco,’ I said, before introducing Boyd.
He stared at the card and then looked up at me. ‘What you want?’
‘This your place?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stan.’
He turned to watch the television.
‘Spell your full name please,’ I asked.
‘Stanislaw Verkanski,’ he said slowly.
‘Date of birth.’ I guessed there’d be nothing on the Police National Computer. Boyd scribbled down the details.
‘Who else works here?’
‘Lots of people.’
‘Anybody else here today?’
‘Nobody. Just me.’
I produced the receipt from the folder under my arm and pushed it over the counter in front of him. The television programme had taped laughter and seemed to be a cross between Big Brother and X Factor.
‘This yours?’ I asked.
He barely moved his head from the television.
‘Give it a good look, Stan,’ I said forcefully.
He narrowed his eyes and peered down onto the paper. ‘Sure.’
My mobile beeped and I fumbled in my pocket for the handset before reading the message for me to contact the station urgently. It could wait.
‘Do you have records for the transaction?’
He shrugged.
‘What sort of records do you keep?’
‘Proper records, Mr Policeman.’
Big mistake.
I could feel the temperature rising around my collar.
‘Well, Stan.’ I counted to ten. ‘You’ve got a choice. Either you cooperate now or I nick you for obstruction and we can talk about it in Queen Street police station. And turn that sound down.’
He pointed a remote at the television, heaved himself off the stool and stood by the counter.
‘And either way, don’t fucking call me Mr Policeman. It’s Detective Inspector Marco.’
‘What you want to know?’
‘What’s this receipt for?’
‘Money transfer.’
I paused and looked at him. I needed more details and if we were going to have to extract every detail in slow motion it was going to be a long meeting.
‘Let’s have the details, Stan. Not just the highlights.’ I stepped towards the counter. ‘Who sent the money?’
He managed another shrug before telling me it would take time to get the computer working. He heaved his shoulders and made a sullen look when I asked about the business, explaining how the Polish population of Cardiff sent their money home through him.
‘Why not use the banks?’
‘They know me. Trust me. I give good rate.’
‘So, how does it work?’
‘Polish people give me money to send home. I give good rate better than banks.’
‘How do you make money?’
‘More money I have, better for me. I get better rate.’
I nodded. I could see how it worked and with a large Polish community there would be a regular source of customers for his service. He peered at the computer screen and then clicked the mouse a few times before uttering a sort of contented sigh.
‘It was Michal Dąbek,’ he said. ‘I know him.’
I couldn’t decide if he really didn’t know about Michal or not.
‘He’s dead. Don’t you read the newspapers or watch the television?’
Another shrug. The Polish language television was enough for them. They weren’t staying in Wales long enough to get involved in the community or read the newspapers. I asked about Michal.
‘He was from Warsaw,’ Stan said. ‘He was regular and buy lots of food.’
‘Any friends?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You must know a lot about what’s happening in the Polish community. You get lots of people coming into the shop. What are the favourite food Polish people miss living in Wales?’
‘Sauerkraut. We sell lots in bottles. You like to try?’
I shook my head. ‘Are there other Polish shops in Cardiff?’
‘Sure. But nobody does money transfer like me. I am number one.’
The mobile in my pocket beeped another message that I was needed urgently back at Queen Street so we left and headed back for the car.
* * *
‘Shouldn’t we get back?’ Boyd gave me a strained look.
I flicked open the pages of a street finder. The spine had been broken in several places and once I’d found the right street I gave Boyd directions.
‘Won’t take long,’ I replied eventually.
He didn’t look convinced, but he followed my directions until we came to the first street where Jason Brown said he’d been living. It was a long terrace of houses with heavy net curtains on the front windows. I found the number Jason had given us and pressed the bell. There was a faint sound in the back of the property and I heard a yelp of a dog and a muffled shout.
A minute or so passed until the sound of the dog got nearer and I heard a hand struggling with the lock.
‘Who is it?’ the voice said, before the door opened.
‘Walter Philips? It’s the police,’ Boyd said loudly.
There was no reply but the door opened and the face of a small man with a large beard and skin the colour of old pastry stood by the door.
Boyd pushed his warrant card into the man’s face.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Pierce and this is DI Marco.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ the man said, holding onto a Jack Russell terrier that was straining at its collar.
‘Are you Walter Philips?’
The man nodded.
‘We need to talk to you about Jason Brown,’ I said.
He let the door open and we walked through into a small room at the front of the house.
‘Do you live here alone?’ Boyd asked.
‘Yeh. Got Buster,’ he said, patting the dog on the head.
‘Does Jason live here?’ I asked, rubbing my hand over the damp material of the chair.<
br />
‘No. Why do you think that?’
Buster gave Boyd’s trouser leg a hungry look and Walter tugged again at the leash.
‘When did you see Jason last?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Can’t remember.’
Boyd tucked his legs to one side, away from Buster. ‘Last week? Last month?’ Boyd said, keeping an eye on the dog.
‘Not last week. Must have been last month. No. Come to think of it, haven’t seen him for months.’
‘So he stayed with you a few months ago?’
‘What? No. Down the pub. That’s where I saw him.’ He ruffled Buster’s head. ‘That’s where I always see him. Down the pub.’
We left after it was clear Philips wasn’t concentrating on our questions and Buster had begun to sniff around Boyd’s shoes. There was another address on the list and we threaded our way through the backstreets of Butetown and Grangetown. He drew the car to a standstill outside the second address. We pushed an iron gate and took a couple of steps up to the front door. This time we gave the doorbell a loud ring and the sound of footsteps in the hallway followed.
We had our warrant cards ready. I did the introductions and Derek Jones nodded slowly before inviting us in. He was in his fifties and had a round, kindly face. We sat in a small lounge that smelt clean and declined an offer of tea.
‘I know Jason. I work in the homeless shelter and I’ve seen him there. He followed me home one night. A couple of months back.’
We were making progress and Jason’s story might just be adding up.
‘He stayed here the one night.’
‘One night only? Not regularly then?’ I asked.
‘No. We’re not supposed to encourage them to be friendly with us.’
I gave him a quizzical look.
‘In the shelter,’ he explained.
‘But he said you were friends.’
Jones shook his head.
‘And that he stayed with you,’ Boyd added.
‘Jason’s friends aren’t the talkative sort.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He alternates between a bench by the Taff near the Millennium Stadium and various graveyards. His only company are the gravestones and bottles of cider.’
* * *
‘You’re in shit so thick you can’t move your arms.’
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