Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Any other bodies?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  * * *

  I walked through to one of the interview rooms at the custody suite and, passing Glanville Tront, told him I was going to talk to Lucy Prince on my own. His mouth dropped open and I heard him tell the custody sergeant he wanted his complaint noted.

  A night in a cell had messed up her hair and her make-up was smudged. None of her false eyelashes flickered. Her eyes didn’t well up. There was no handkerchief dabbed to her cheek. She didn’t blink.

  Lucy took the news of Frankie’s death as though she’d been given the latest turnover figures for the Four Seasons.

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘I told him not to get involved.’

  ‘Involved with who?’

  She gave me a long look. Maybe there was the start of a tear in one eye.

  ‘He wanted to make lots of money. He didn’t tell me the details. I didn’t want to get involved, but I didn’t like those men from Poland. They always smelt and their clothes…’

  I left her sitting in the room by the plastic table with the tape recorder and the walls lined with cork and found Glanville still standing before the custody sergeant’s desk.

  ‘We can bail her for now,’ I said to the sergeant. ‘We’ll interview her again.’

  Glanville glared at me, ‘What did you say to her? This is quite improper.’

  I turned and left.

  * * *

  I smoked two cigarettes on the way home. By the time I pulled into the car park by the apartment, tiredness hit me like a train. I was yawning heavily and my eyes were burning. I’d tried Trish earlier, but there had been no reply so I’d sent a text but she hadn’t replied. I turned the mobile through my fingers, thinking I’d text my mother but I doubted my ability to tap in the right words. She sounded worried at first but then relieved, and after telling her I was going straight to bed she made me promise to call her in the morning.

  I scrubbed my hands in the bathroom sink and noticed the traces of blood in the soapy water. Frankie’s blood or maybe Lech’s or Janek’s. I stepped over into the shower and set the temperature to high. The water poured over my face, I scrubbed my fingers hard, and then my face until the last traces of anything from today, the blood or flesh or body bits, was gone.

  I didn’t even watch any Top Gear.

  I sat on the bed and then fell asleep.

  Chapter 42

  I stood at the back of the neighbourhood watch meeting wearing my new suit.

  Superintendent Cornock sat by Hobbs’s side and the Assistant Chief Constable, a woman with broad shoulders, a severe haircut and comfortable shoes, chaired the meeting. I was on hand ready to fill any gaps and press the flesh after the meeting was over.

  Dave Hobbs gave me the occasional nervous glance as he explained that the WPS was still no further forward with the complex investigation. Different threads had to be followed up. Murmurs of approval and nodding of heads followed Hobbs’s reassurance that enquiries were still ongoing.

  It helped that Jason Brown had pleaded guilty to a sneak-theft charge involving a handbag from a kitchen table. Now he was in Cardiff prison enjoying three meals a day, regular exercise, daily showers, a warm bed and television in his cell.

  There were a couple of awkward questions about policing policy and whether regular patrols would be commenced in the streets of Cyncoed, which the ACC answered with the sort of diplomacy that justified her pay packet.

  Once the evening had finished I sipped on an orange juice, ate some chicken wings and sandwiches that a woman, with a loud voice, told me were home-made. I recognised the faces of magistrates and solicitors and their wives with careful hairdos and immaculate manicures.

  I made my way over to Wing Commander Bates and when I had the chance, I took him to one side. He went an odd colour when I showed him the photographs, before giving me a pathetic, pleading look, designed to appeal to my human decency. What he didn’t know was that there was nothing I could do. But he’d never have that certainty and it was comforting to think that I could keep the images for an emergency.

  I left him standing at the makeshift bar drinking two glasses of wine, one after the other. Later I saw him talking to Judge Patricks who gave me the briefest nod of acknowledgment. I found Dave Hobbs refilling his glass, his cheeks already flushed and a contented look on his face.

  ‘How’s it gone, Dave?’

  ‘Very well indeed. I think they all appreciate how much effort I’ve put in to the investigation,’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Judge Patricks is very pleased.’

  Before I could reply Cornock was standing by my side, his dress uniform recently pressed.

  ‘John,’ he paused. ‘Thought you might like to know that Wing Commander Bates is withdrawing the complaint. He thinks it’s inappropriate in the circumstances. He went out of his way to praise the work you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Always good to be appreciated.’

  I smiled at Hobbs.

  Cornock continued, ‘And the ACC wanted me to congratulate you as well.’

  I gave a slow, regal nod.

  * * *

  I noticed that the aquarium looked newly cleaned as I walked into Cornock’s office. I sat down without being asked. He looked me straight in the eye.

  ‘Meeting went well last night, don’t you think?’ Cornock said.

  ‘I thought Detective Inspector Hobbs spoke very well.’

  Cornock narrowed his eyes for a second and turned to the papers on his desk.

  ‘So you didn’t arrive until after all the shooting?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Anna thinks she saw men in combat fatigues.’

  ‘Poor kid. She took it really badly.’

  ‘Her witness statement is rather confused.’

  I frowned and shook my head. ‘She’s a wreck. Do you think she’ll be all right, sir?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘I expect some rest and a good holiday will help.’

  He narrowed his eyes again. ‘But she’s adamant that you weren’t there. Said it several times.’

  ‘She must have been relieved to see me after witnessing that carnage.’

  ‘Yes, I expect she was.’

  ‘Could she identify the men involved?’

  ‘It happened so quickly and she covered her face. We’re not going to make much progress. At least the IPCC won’t be involved.’

  ‘And Frankie Prince is dead.’

  Cornock sat back in his chair and clenched his jaw. I’d said what was on his mind.

  ‘He was killed with a Russian made machine pistol. Apparently, it’s commonplace in Eastern Europe.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And the blood and flesh traces found in the house aren’t on the DNA database. We’re waiting to hear from the Polish police about their records.’

  Somehow, I knew what the Polish police would be telling us. The colonel would see to it.

  ‘DCI Banks rang me this morning,’ Cornock continued.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Stanislaw, the Polish guy who runs the shop in Cardiff, has disappeared and the whole business has closed down. Apparently there were other operations in other towns throughout the UK and suddenly they’ve gone.’

  ‘Sounds like a good result all round.’

  ‘The Serious Fraud Office has been on the telephone. Something happened back in Poland. The Polish police just decided not to proceed with anything else.’

  ‘Good news,’ I said. ‘And what’s happening with the girls from the house?’

  ‘The Home Office sent a liaison officer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A couple want to cooperate and they’ve made statements. Five have gone to London to stay with friends – whatever that means – and the rest are going back home to Romania and Hungary.’

  Cornock sat back and smiled. ‘Janet
Helm resigned from the Ember Vale Foundation.’

  ‘I saw something in the newspaper.’

  His smiled broadened as he continued. ‘I’d heard that the leader of her party has given her a dressing down.’

  ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.’

  Cornock grinned. ‘And the CPS have authorised the prosecution of Lucy Prince and Jim White on charges of human trafficking, living off immoral earnings…’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘All the usual stuff.’

  ‘I wonder what Glanville Tront will make of that?’

  ‘Case is GTi-proof. Good work, John.’

  * * *

  I sat in my office reading the messages in my Inbox for the first time in days. A district inspector in Bridgend had emailed asking me to review a case of a man alleging that he’d been assaulted in police custody. A dozen files that needed case reviews had landed on my desk. I read a complaint about ‘strange goings-on’ in a multi-storey car park in the middle of town. It probably meant that the drug squad needed to be informed.

  My telephone call to Jackie had been easier than I’d expected and we finalised the plans for my trip with Dean to see the next QPR game without argument. The tickets were propped against the Gaggia coffee machine at home.

  Boyd stood by the door when I was halfway through deleting most of the emails. I noticed one from Dave Hobbs telling me he was on annual leave in the Scottish highlands.

  ‘Are there midges in Scotland this time of year?’ I said to Boyd.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘New suit, boss?’

  I was wearing my second-best suit; it had recently been cleaned which accounted for Boyd getting confused.

  ‘We’ve got a complaint about groups of youths milling around in that multi-storey car park near the railway station,’ I said.

  ‘Probably drugs.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘And I’m having lunch with my mother at that Italian place near the National Gallery.’

  We agreed a time to meet and I left Queen Street early. It wasn’t raining, nor too cold.

  Also by Stephen Puleston

  Inspector Drake Mysteries

  I hope you enjoyed Speechless the first Inspector Marco mystery.

  Newsletter

  Subscribe to my newsletter at eepurl.com/L2DIr and I’ll send you one of my short stories, The Courgette House, free of charge. And subscribers get advance notification of upcoming releases – including the next Inspector Marco novel due in May 2015. I have a strict privacy policy.

  Inspector Drake Series

  I have also published the first three of a crime/mystery series based in North Wales

  Brass in Pocket

  Worse Than Dead

  Against The Tide

  Brass in Pocket

  You can read the first three chapters of Brass in Pocket here.

  Brass in Pocket

  Prologue

  He watched them leave the police station and drive away. He inched the stolen car out of the lay-by and followed them. An hour into their shift he watched them stop and question a speeding motorist. He knew the driver would get booked, even if he were just over the speed limit.

  Soon, they were on the move again.

  He could set his watch by their routine. He knew where they would be heading halfway through their shift. They parked on the grass verge of a junction on a long, straight section of road, waiting. From his vantage point, he could make out the driver pointing the speed gun towards the oncoming traffic.

  When they drove away, empty handed, he heard them joking with Area Control on his radio scanner. He followed them. When he got too close, he fell back. Sometimes he parked a safe distance from them, listening to the messages.

  Later, they stopped for petrol. He parked in the shadows, out of sight of the CCTV cameras on the forecourt. From the car he saw them laughing and joking with a girl behind the counter. An open-topped sports car drew up and a tall woman wearing a short skirt stepped out. He watched as they eyed her filling the car. Then they pulled off the forecourt; an indicator light pulsed as they stopped at the kerb. He saw the driver scanning for traffic, before driving away.

  He lingered a few moments before firing the engine into life.

  After the pubs closed, they drove on, past the boarded-up buildings and fish and chip shops, full of hungry customers, before parking and waiting for drunk drivers. He parked his car as near as he dared. He sat patiently, counting down the time to his first telephone call. He could feel his pulse increasing with anticipation.

  * * *

  He picked up one of the mobiles sitting by the MP3 player on the passenger seat. On the scanner he heard a voice relaying a message and moments later they pulled away. It was dark now as he followed them over the long causeway and, fearful they might notice him, he slowed and watched as the taillights of their car moved away from him. To his left, through the darkness, he saw the moon’s reflection on the surface of the estuary and on his right the dark shadow of the causeway wall.

  After a few miles they pulled into a lay-by. When he passed them, he listened to their crackled speech on the scanner, complaining about the hoax.

  He pulled into a junction and made another call.

  He heard them receive the message from the Area Control Room. He drove on to the Crimea Pass through the narrow streets of the deserted town. The road out was clear. He sensed the presence of the mountains towering either side of him as he accelerated towards the top of the pass.

  He parked and got out of the car, opened the boot and reached for the long coat, carefully threading his arms through the sleeves. He leant down again and moved a blanket to one side, before closing his fingers round the cold metal.

  Far down the valley, he saw the lights of their vehicle approaching. Soon, very soon, they would arrive. His mouth was dry; his heart pounded.

  As they approached, he knelt by the rear tyre, out of sight.

  Their car slowed, the hazard lights flashed, and they parked exactly where he knew they would. He walked to the front of his car and then towards them.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday 1st June

  After the fourth ring Ian Drake hauled himself out of the warm bed and picked up the phone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the night air chilling his skin. It must be a domestic, he thought.

  ‘Drake.’

  ‘Inspector Drake?’ He didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘Area Control Room. We’ve got two officers down on the Crimea Pass.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Two officers have been killed. Responding to a routine call.’

  He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was a little after two and he had slept for barely an hour. Beside him Sian was stirring.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Call just came in, sir, from the local station.’

  ‘Who’s the senior officer on duty?’

  ‘Superintendent Price. He’s on his way.’

  ‘What are the details?’

  ‘Sir, I was just asked to call you.’

  ‘But you must have more details…’

  The news curled a knot in his stomach, but he knew that Area Control staff just made the calls; he would have to talk to Price.

  ‘There’s a car on its way, sir.’

  The phone went dead.

  Drake scrambled about the bedroom, dragging on clothes discarded earlier. He mis-timed thrusting his leg into his trousers and fell to the floor. He sat on the side of the bed, struggling with his shoelaces.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sian mumbled.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Her hand dragged the duvet from her face.

  ‘Two officers have been killed on the Crimea Pass.’

  ‘Policemen?’

  Drake nodded.

  His wife sat up, hair dishevelled, eyes wide. ‘It can’t be true.’

  Before Drake could conti
nue, the front doorbell rang, followed by a loud banging.

  ‘That’ll be the car,’ Drake said, as he ran for the stairs.

  The young officer standing outside the front door – head shaven, high-visibility vest – looked tense and alert, his eye contact direct. He turned and Drake followed him down the drive to the white BMW idling on the road. Opening the rear door, Drake mumbled an acknowledgment to the driver before closing the door behind him. He listened to the first officer radioing confirmation of their location and as the light in the cabin dimmed, Drake saw the flickering lights of the dashboard and noticed, with approval, the clean, sanitised smell. On the A55, the main trunk road that crossed North Wales, the driver accelerated hard. Drake checked his safety belt as they passed the occasional lorry and slowing car, pulling over to let them past. He fumbled through his jacket, knowing he had calls to make.

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Caren Waits woke moments before the alarm clock went off and reached out to silence it before the noise disturbed Alun, sleeping by her side. He had been up three nights running and now it was her turn. Padding downstairs, she pulled on a pair of old boots and grabbed a torch before walking out over the fields. She drew the zip of her fleece up under her chin, thrust her hands into the warmth of the pockets and saw the outline of the shed against the moonlight. Then she saw the long necks of the alpacas moving slowly in front of her. The animals had not been well but were improving, and, once she had checked them, she would be back to the comfort of her bed. She ran her hand down each alpaca’s warm, woolly back, the light from her torch reflecting in their eyes, before returning to the farmhouse, pleased that Alun could sleep on undisturbed.

  Her mobile rang as she closed the back door. The screen said DI Drake.

  ‘Morning, sir.’ She made a point of sounding wide awake.

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘I was awake.’

  ‘Two officers are dead on the Crimea Pass.’