Never Dead

by Wonny Lea

  ‘Where the hell are my camera crew when I need them?’

  Laura Cummings was using the video facility on her phone to capture the comings and goings of the helicopter at Woodcanton Hall. She’d notified her editor about what was happening, and he’d promised her a backup crew of photographers and soundmen as soon as he could round them up from the local stations. Meanwhile she and her friend waited outside the main gates, and waited, and waited.

  Twenty minutes later Laura’s patience was rewarded as a van pulled up, containing a team of people who quickly started hauling media equipment out of the back. She joined in their banter but was frustrated by the lack of activity from the other side of the gates. It had crossed her mind that there could be more than one entrance to an estate of this size, but she’d been promised a tip-off so she’d just have to keep waiting.

  As if he was reading her thoughts, she received call from DCI Phelps.

  ‘The number for the keypad is 1970 – in you go, DCI Mortimer is expecting you.’

  ‘Seriously? We can just go in? Nobody’s going to arrest us or anything?’

  Martin laughed. ‘It’s not like you to be so circumspect! Guess I’ll just have to watch for breaking news to see how you get on.’

  ‘You’ve got it … and thanks … I think!’

  Laura’s friend Tricia was standing by the keypad and entered the numbers as Laura called them.

  ‘You stay here just in case there’s any trouble.’

  Tricia shook her head and squeezed into the back of the transit van. ‘Not on your nelly! This is exciting, and now I’ll really have something to brag about at my next WI meeting!’

  The van was met by the ubiquitous young officer, who told Laura that when the police cars had left DCI Mortimer would be happy to be interviewed. Laura was about to ask questions when the front door opened and Charles Ferguson was led out in handcuffs. He declined Laura’s invitation to ‘smile for the camera’ and kept his head down. She shouted a few questions relating to his political position, of course receiving no reply.

  Laura was so intent on the team getting the best shots of the soon to be ex-MP that she almost missed the second handcuffed person flanked on either side by a police officer.

  ‘Bloody hell – oh bloody hell! What a scoop!

  The crime reporter couldn’t believe her luck as she watched both men being guided into the waiting police cars and driven away.

  ‘Did you get that? Did you get that, boys? Did you get some good shots?’ The cameramen nodded emphatically.

  ‘You know who that second man is, don’t you? You know he’s the one I’ve been banging on about for the past few days? Take some shots of the two police cars leaving – it’ll make a great ending for my news item. DCI Phelps, I don’t just love you – I adore you!’

  Half an hour later a much more composed Laura Cummings stood, microphone in hand, in the area where the helicopter had attempted to land.

  ‘I’m here at Woodcanton Hall near Malmesbury with DCI Graham Mortimer of the Wiltshire police. DCI Mortimer, some incredible scenes here in the last couple of hours, and as I understand it you’ve arrested someone in connection with not only the murders of both Edward and Catherine Ferguson, but also in connection with the murder of a young Somali boy in Cardiff eleven years ago?’

  Mortimer answered Laura’s questions as far as he could, and he couldn’t resist grinning as he confirmed the arrest of Charles Ferguson MP.

  ‘Well, DCI Mortimer, you must be very pleased with the result you’ve achieved today. I’m sure the public will be equally pleased to see these arrests, to say nothing of proving that the Establishment is subject to the same rules as everybody else.’

  DCI Mortimer kept his own counsel in relation to the reporter’s last comment, but added a few words of his own. ‘I’d like to credit my colleagues from Cardiff, without whom we’d never have been able to obtain some crucial evidence. It’s a good reminder that criminals should never rest easy in their beds. We’ll get them eventually, even if it takes eleven years or longer – and in this case there can be no truer saying than we’ve left no stone unturned.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘Thanks for the public accolades – they were much appreciated. It looks as if we missed out on some fireworks your end, though.’

  Martin, Matt, and Alex were having a ‘speaker on’ telephone conversation with Graham Mortimer, and both forces were basking in their current glory.

  ‘It could have gone so badly wrong, as of course we knew nothing about the helicopter. Just imagine how we’d all be feeling now if that pickup had gone according to plan. The press wouldn’t be loving us, they’d be eating us for breakfast! I can see the headlines now: “Most wanted killer opts for James Bond escape under the noses of senior police officers!”’

  There was general laughter and agreement.

  ‘Knowing the size of the grounds of Woodcanton Hall, Alex and I were trying to figure out exactly what happened,’ said Matt. ‘If you were all inside the house, it would have been easy for a helicopter to land and take off before you even realised it was on site. The walls of that house aren’t like your normal semi-detached – they’re really thick – and then there’s the distance from the house to the far end of the grounds. How did anyone get there in time?’

  ‘I’m reluctant to say this but it’s one we owe Charles Ferguson. He knew about the arrangements to get Ahmed out by helicopter and he was happy to go along with it. That was until I arrested him and he realised that he was going to have to face the music alone. He took us all by surprise when he sprinted off, either to stop Ahmed getting on board or to join him.’

  ‘Which was it?’ asked Matt.

  ‘At the moment he’s saying nothing about that. It’s either “no comment” or someone else is to blame. His mother was his main target, and I let him hang himself before telling him that I had copies of her papers. To say he’s a consummate liar is the understatement of the year. He denied having the originals and I listened to him lying through his teeth to save his own skin. If we hadn’t photocopied them, he could have got away with many things – but his mother documented everything. We’ve got names, dates, and lots of evidence of money transfers and some of it makes very unpleasant reading for us.

  ‘There are people, who were at quite senior levels in the South Wales force at the time of Dalmar’s death, who received considerable rewards to look the other way. I’m sure you must have suspected something of that sort made the case falter, and then it was conveniently shelved. Do the names DI David Williams and Sergeant Mick Walker mean anything to you? There’s also someone called Stella Powell, but she was just at PC level so I’m not sure what influence she would have had on things.’

  Martin shook his head, but then he remembered the conversation he’d had with Ian Baker. ‘Not to me personally, but they are names that have come to my attention since I’ve been investigating Dalmar’s case. Apart from being corrupt it’s likely, from what I’ve heard, that they were also responsible for ruining the careers of some promising young officers.’

  Mortimer swore. He loudly suggested that everyone on both sides could do with some well-earned rest. As the team filed out, Matt offering to treat everyone to coffee, Mortimer asked to speak to Martin in confidence.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Martin.

  ‘There’s one name in what I’m inclined to call Catherine Ferguson’s memoirs that is politically sensitive. Patrick Stone is one of the senior civil servants in the UK Border Force. According to Catherine he could be relied upon to do some creative accounting for her so-called charity. We’ve already got one political scalp – what do you think?’

  Martin didn’t hesitate. ‘I think you’ve got enough to ask him to help with your enquiries. I’d go and see him at work, that often rattles people. We’ll link up tomorrow morning, arrange how we’re going to do interviews, and report to the CPS. I think Matt and I could spend the day in your neck of the woods – that would make it easier all
round.’

  ‘It’s always a bit of an anti-climax, tying up loose ends and getting the paperwork sorted, but it’s a brilliant feeling when it’s done. It was well worth spending the day with DCI Mortimer and his team but I’m glad we’re on our way home. There’s heavy snow on the way, and I don’t want to be stranded the wrong side of the Severn Bridge.’

  Matt was speaking as he stretched out as best he could in the front of Martin’s car and they compared notes. They’d both interviewed Ahmed Hassan, albeit in relation to two separate and very different murders.

  ‘What did you think of him?’ asked Martin.

  Matt glanced up. ‘What do you mean? He’s a thug and a cold-blooded killer, so that just about says it all, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe, and I thought that when I met Dalmar’s killer I’d hate him on sight.’

  ‘And didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly fall for his brutish charms, but I didn’t feel the same loathing as when I interviewed Charles Ferguson. There could never be any excuses for him, but there is an element of self-preservation involved. You could perhaps understand how he ended up that way. Ferguson, on the other hand, was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and had every opportunity to do something good with his life. For me he’s the more evil of the two!’

  Matt thought for a moment. ‘It’s his sister I feel sorry for. How the hell is she going to cope with everything? Both her parents are murdered, she finds a daughter she hasn’t seen since she was a baby, and now her brother is in prison. And all in the space of a few days!’

  ‘It’s incredible, really, but I think she’ll be OK. She was upset by her father’s death, but as far as her mother and brother are concerned they’ve been distant for a very long time. I only hope she gets herself a decent solicitor, and that they get her father’s will properly actioned before her brother finishes whatever stretch he’s given. There are a lot of charges being thrown at him but some will be difficult to prove. I’m hoping a good leftie judge will use him as an example, put him away for a long time, but I’m not holding my breath. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we! People that the public should be able to look up to and respect are sentenced, and in no time at all they’re back out to resume a life of leisure. I’d like to lock him up and throw away the key.’

  Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought I disliked the man, but he’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he? What about the others mentioned by Catherine Ferguson?’

  Martin handed over the toll for the Severn Bridge crossing and they headed for Goleudy. ‘Every one of them will be followed up, even those currently out of the country, but I’m glad to say it’s a long and tedious job for someone other than us.

  ‘Talking about us, what’s next, d’you think? Are you going to continue investigating specific unsolved cases, or has the chief super got other plans?’

  ‘Nothing he’s shared with me, but then we’ve both got a debriefing session with him later so perhaps he’ll tell us then. I still can’t believe we came up with the same killer in both cases – teamwork or kismet?’

  Their expected debriefing with Chief Superintendent Atkinson was postponed, as he’d been called to an emergency meeting.

  ‘It’s late, so let’s call it a day,’ suggested Martin. ‘Dalmar’s funeral is tomorrow and I’ve got to sort out something other than a suit to wear. I’ve asked Shelley to see if she can find out exactly what Basra meant by that.’

  ‘It usually means that the funeral isn’t going to be sombre – more like a celebration of life. People who attend wear colourful clothing – no black allowed!’

  ‘That’s a new one on me. Have you been to one?’

  ‘No, but Sarah has. I do remember seeing an amazing send-off when I was on holiday in San Francisco. There was a New Orleans-style brass band, and on top of the hearse was a smiling photograph of the deceased surrounded by flowers. It looked as if he was enjoying his last journey. That’s the way I’d like to go!’

  ‘Well, OK, mate. If I’m still around when you pop off I’ll ensure you get your wishes!’

  Matt laughed. ‘Is it just you going tomorrow?’

  ‘No, Basra has issued a general invitation to anyone who’s ever shown an interest in her quest to find her brother’s killer. I know for certain that Sergeant Evans is going and so are Alex and the Prof. You’d be welcome, I’m sure.’

  Matt grinned. ‘Funerals aren’t really my thing – but in the interest of never passing up on a new experience, why not!

  Cardiff had seen its share of stately and well-attended funerals but this one was unique. The small suburban chapel had never seen such activity. People had flocked from all over Cardiff and beyond to say goodbye to Dalmar. After a few days of high-profile reporting on the interlinked cases, Laura Cummings had turned the public’s attention to the human interest story that had started it all off. She’d said that sort of reporting wasn’t her bag but she was attracting a lot of interest.

  Laura had captured the public imagination with the story of a brother and sister who’d been let down by people they should have been able to trust. She had been unable to reveal details of why the original police investigation failed, as that was under internal investigation, so the focus of her reports had been on what she called the circle of stones, and how Basra’s yearly pilgrimage to Dalmar’s shrine had been the key to finally bringing his killer to justice. There was a brief mention of Martin in her reports and it amused him to realise that it was probably back to business as usual between him and the press.

  The public had taken on board the ‘no black allowed’ theme with relish. It was a freezing cold day, but even with the temperature at or just below freezing point there was no sign of the usual dark overcoats with upturned collars. Guests wore sweaters, bobble hats, scarves, and gloves of every imaginable colour, and in spite of having the appearance of a carnival there was complete respect and dignity.

  The chapel was packed to capacity and the crowds filled the surrounding streets. Laura Cummings had been allowed inside the chapel for the service and the whole thing was broadcast live. The service was simple, but made memorable by the few words spoken by Basra.

  ‘From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you all for giving my brother Dalmar the send-off he deserved. If someone you love has been wronged, never, never give up the fight to get justice for them.’

  The songs that rang out in that normally quiet area of the city ranged from upbeat songs from Mamma Mia and Hairspray to soulful numbers made famous by Shirley Bassey and Tom Jones. Basra had taken absolutely to her new Welsh roots, but her devotion over the past eleven years showed that she’d never forgotten her past. With the guests in full voice, a small party moved through a door beside the altar and into the graveyard, where a corner plot had been prepared to receive Dalmar. No television cameras followed, as this was for Basra and her new family only.

  As requested, Martin had sat near the family for the service but he’d not even considered being part of the graveside party. When Basra turned back and requested that he join them he felt unable to refuse but stood back from the family group. Martin hadn’t been formally introduced to them but he guessed that the elderly Somali woman who stood close to Basra was Elmi. The others he guessed were Elmi’s husband and son, possibly the one who had been punished to ensure her silence some years ago. Craig’s parents and what looked like his brother and sister made up the rest of the group.

  The first things his eyes rested on in the graveyard were the smooth stones that were carefully laid out alongside the plot. They were no longer in a circle, no longer in the desolate spot where her brother’s body had been callously dumped. He suspected that they would soon occupy a place of honour on top of Dalmar’s grave, and that her future visits to the stones would not be the lonely ones she’d endured for eleven long years.

  Basra showed the first signs of her pent-up grief as Dalmar’s body was lowered into the ground, and her fiancé hugged her. It was such a private moment
that Martin took a few more steps back, and at that moment he felt the vibrations of his phone. Most people knew that he was attending the funeral and so he wasn’t expecting any calls. He walked to the edge of the path, checking to see if he recognised the caller’s number. He did.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Martin. Until I heard the tone of your voice I’d forgotten where you are. I take it you’re in no position to speak, and I’ve no wish to be disrespectful, but I’ve got something that can’t wait.’

  It was obvious from Atkinson’s voice that he was excited.

  ‘I take it Matt Pryor is there with you. As soon as you can both politely leave I’ll be waiting for you in my office. I’ve got something to say that’s going to keep you both out of mischief for some considerable time!’

  Author Inspiration

  Some of my more cynical readers may think that I spend my time roaming the most beautiful areas of South Wales looking for somewhere to place my next body! Thankfully, my experience of crime is only on my pages, and in reality I always enjoy the fantastic Welsh coastline, the parks, the castles, and the stunning countryside – all close to my home.

  One of my favourite places is Roath Park, and each time I visit I get the feeling of being transported from the hustle and bustle of Cardiff city centre back to a quieter period of our history. The park is surrounded by some splendid Victorian houses, and the layout of the park itself reflects that period. The people of Cardiff can thank the third Marquess of Bute and other landowners for bequeathing the land upon which the park was built. The whole area was originally marshland, and made an ideal foundation for the construction of a lake.

  A major feature of the lake is a lighthouse, built in 1915 and dedicated to the memory of Captain Robert Falcon Scott. Scott sailed from Cardiff in 1910 on board the Terra Nova, but their mission to be the first group to sail to the South Pole was ill-fated. On January 17th 1912 they did reach the Pole, only to discover that Roald Amundsen’s expedition had beaten them to it. Scott and his men all perished on the return journey, and the lighthouse, a well-loved feature of Roath Park, stands in fitting tribute to him and his comrades.