Another Good Killing
by Stephen Puleston
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Another Good Killing
This book copyright © Stephen Puleston
First edition published 2015 by Stephen Puleston
The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Contents
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Another Good Killing is the second Inspector John Marco mystery. The story is based in Cardiff the capital city of Wales.
For many years I worked as a solicitor/lawyer in a small practice representing clients in the criminal courts and doing divorce work all of which has given me valuable raw material for my novels.
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Chapter 1
An Aston Martin DB9 is as good a place to die as any. Maybe better.
I peered into the car and noticed a plastic envelope attached to a lanyard draped over the driver’s head. Printed in large font on a sheet of paper inside it were the words GREEDY BASTARD. The man wore a dark suit with a subtle check pattern, was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed. Instinct made me press two fingers into his neck and feel for a pulse but from his limp head and the dark red stain on his white shirt I knew he was dead.
I scanned the inside of the car, the sumptuous seats, and the dashboard with the sat-nav screen flickering above the Bang & Olufsen sound system that looked like something from a Star Trek film. I wondered if there was any identification in the man’s jacket but rifling through it without latex gloves would be risky. I knew that the crime scene investigators were only minutes away.
Level 7A of the Royal Bell car park had more luxury cars than I had ever seen together in one place. A deep blue Series 6 BMW was parked on one side of the Aston and a Lexus 4x4 filled the wide slot on the other. I stepped back towards Lydia Flint who had her mobile pressed to her ear, dictating the car registration number to central operations. She finished the call and put her mobile back into a pocket.
‘I told them it was urgent,’ she said.
I nodded.
We had arrived at the car park only minutes after I had taken the call. Two uniformed officers were waiting by the entrance; the older of the two had given me a frightened look as I’d barked instructions for him to secure a perimeter around the building.
Car parks always seem cold unwelcoming places and a chill wind scoured my cheeks as I looked over the centre of Cardiff. Then I heard a bump and the squeal of tyres as a Scientific Support Vehicle reached us, drawing to a halt behind the Aston Martin. In the distance I heard an ambulance approaching too. I stood up and saw Alvine Dix emerge from the passenger side. She was a tall woman with an awkward gait; she walked like a boxer preparing for a fight.
‘Might have guessed it would be you, John.’
‘Good morning, Alvine.’
‘I hope you haven’t contaminated the crime scene.’
‘I hope so too.’
She gave me a brief intense stare then walked over towards the driver’s side door and peered in.
‘We’ll need to establish a perimeter.’
‘I want to see the lanyard around his neck.’
She glared at me. ‘It’ll take as long as it will take. You know that.’
I sighed. I hated it when Alvine was this obstructive. ‘And I need an ID. The least you can do is to take a look in his pockets.’
She gave me an exasperated look and moved back towards the Scientific Support Vehicle. An unfamiliar crime scene investigator was standing nearby holding a white one-piece suit for Alvine.
‘This is Tracy Jones,’ Alvine said as she struggled into the protective clothing.
I smiled at Tracy. She smiled back; it was a difficult smile to ignore. She had thick wavy hair that brushed the collar of the CSI outfit and eyebrows that crowned two delicate, almost playful, eyes.
‘John Marco,’ I said, holding out a hand.
‘Just be careful Tracy. Looks can be deceiving, Detective Inspector John Marco may look Italian but his father is from Aberdare.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. I was brought up in Pontypridd,’ Tracy said, glancing first at Alvine and then over at me. I smiled again.
‘Let’s get to work,’ Alvine said, fastening her zip.
After a few minutes, Alvine emerged with a wallet and some personal identification that she dropped into an evidence pouch.
‘Once you’ve got a name, don’t touch anything else.’ There was more aggression in her voice than she needed.
I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and rifled through a thin black leather wallet. Inside were an AMEX platinum card in the name of Matthew Dolman, two Visa cards in the same name and a neatly folded receipt from the restaurant of the Vale of Glamorgan Racquets Club alongside five twenty-pound notes.
Next to me Lydia’s mobile rang and I heard her responding in monosyllabic terms to the caller as she jotted down the details of the car owner.
I replaced everything and secured the evidence pouch.
‘A Matthew Dolman owns the car,’ Lydia said.
‘He’s our man. His wallet is full of credit cards.’ I turned to Alvine. ‘We’re going to talk to the staff at the entrance. Let me have a report as soon as.’
She pouted and said nothing. Then I glanced at Tracy who smiled.
We retraced our steps back to the stairwell.
The call to attend the suspicious death had spared Lydia and I all but the first half a
n hour of a carefully constructed PowerPoint presentation from Detective Inspector Hobbs on organised crime and the football hooligans of Cardiff. After ten minutes, Hobbs’ patronising manner annoyed me. But then Dave Hobbs invariably irritated me and I knew the feeling was mutual. He had small piggy eyes that disappeared to almost nothing when he squinted and he’d given me an angry look when I’d excused myself. He was probably thinking that I was sloping off without good reason and calculating how he could complain about me.
Lydia’s recent promotion to sergeant and her natural enthusiasm had resulted in some carefully measured comments expressing her disappointment as we left the meeting along with an inquiry as to whether she would be included in the post-briefing circulars.
She had a lot to learn.
At the bottom of the stairwell, we found a uniformed officer fielding questions from the driver of a Mercedes saloon who was waving his hands and ranting that he was already late for a meeting and that he had nowhere else to park. I stepped over to the driver’s window, flashed my warrant card and leant down.
The driver had small black eyes and a large double chin.
‘This is a crime scene, sir. You must find another place to park.’
His chin dropped slightly and then he scowled before closing the car window.
Both uniformed officers I had seen earlier were busy directing traffic as the ambulance arrived. It was pointless now having paramedics attend; an undertaker would have sufficed. I walked over to the entrance booth. Lydia was talking to two men in navy uniforms with the words Royal Bell stitched into the fabric of their jackets. Images from the various levels of the car park flickered on the two screens on a desk.
‘Who found the body?’ I said.
One of the men nodded. ‘There was a problem with the CCTV. So I went to investigate.’ He hesitated. ‘It was terrible seeing him like that.’
I turned to look at both men. ‘Do you know Matthew Dolman?’
They exchanged a serious glance. The older man replied. ‘He’s… was… I mean, the managing director of the National Bank of Wales.’
Chapter 2
Before we left the Royal Bell car park and headed for the bank’s offices in the commercial centre of the city the attendants had confirmed in deferential tones that both of Dolman’s sons worked with him. I raised a hand when they launched into a detailed description of the Ferrari and Range Rover each Dolman brother owned. The wind whipped around the pavements as we strode through the streets, and Lydia had to raise her voice as a bus pulled to a halt behind me, its engine chugging nosily.
‘Is Alvine always like that?’ she asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Tetchy. Do you two not get on?’
Lydia managed a puzzled look. I had become accustomed to Alvine so I expected her to be grumpy.
‘No, she’s always like that. We should get someone to call and speak to his wife.’ I replied, changing the subject as I fumbled for my mobile. I called family liaison and explained the situation before confirming Dolman’s home address.
The bank was a six-storey building with healthy-looking trees in manicured borders outside two large glass doors. The morning sunshine glistened from the enormous glass windows above. It occupied one side of a small square to the south of the railway tracks that dissected the city. I noticed the name plaques of lawyers and accountants adorning the facades of the other buildings. Ever since more powers and responsibilities had been transferred to the Welsh government from London, companies like the NBW had flourished.
I pushed open the door and marched up to reception, producing my warrant card. ‘I’d like to see one of Mr Matthew Dolman’s sons please.’
The receptionist had make-up an inch thick that made her look like a Russian doll. Her lips barely moved when she spoke. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
There was an implication that unless I could answer in the affirmative there wasn’t a hope in hell of my request being successful.
‘It’s urgent.’
She blinked and picked up the telephone.
A couple of minutes later a glamorous woman with tall heels and a sharp suit glided out of the lift door and gave me a look that said I am-sure-we-can-sort-this-out.
‘I’m Mary Fox. Troy Dolman’s personal assistant. Can I help?’
‘Detective Inspector John Marco and Detective Sergeant Lydia Flint. Is Mr Dolman in the building? Only I understand that he and his brother have both arrived at work.’
‘Neither Troy nor Rex Dolman are available. They are very busy.’
‘So am I. I need to see them. Now.’
She sighed, raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Fox looked surprised when we followed her towards the lift. On the sixth floor, we stepped out onto a luxury carpet. Fox strode over to a large oak door that had the NBW logo prominently displayed. She punched in a security code and we followed her in. She stopped alongside two large leather chesterfields, opened her mouth before realising that inviting us to sit down was pointless. We walked through an open-plan office set out along a tall glass window, and in an office at the end I could see a group huddled around a table. A man with a shaven head looked up, narrowed his eyes, and frowned. Fox pushed open the door and I heard her say something about the police wanting to speak to them.
Apart from the two men that I guessed were the Dolman brothers, the others gathered their papers and left. The crisp sweet smell of freshly cut roses filled the air. Breaking bad news never got easier no matter how often I had to do it.
‘This is Detective Inspector Drake and Sergeant Flint,’ Fox said before introducing both Dolman brothers.
She left and pulled the door closed behind her. It thudded smoothly into place.
‘What’s all this about?’ Troy Dolman stared.
I tried to guess his age. A square jaw and broad shoulders made it difficult. He must have been a little over six feet and two or three inches taller than his brother standing next to him who was my height. Troy had a classic film star appearance and I settled on early forties and supposed that his brother was younger. Rex had the build of a man who ate an apple for breakfast, an orange for lunch, and a salad for dinner. In contrast to his brother his face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.
‘I have some bad news. I think you might need to sit down.’
Troy’s frown deepened, but Rex sat and leant over the desk.
‘I’m afraid your father was killed this morning.’
There was a brief silence and both men stared at me. Troy Dolman sat down heavily. ‘Jesus Christ. There must be a mistake. I spoke to him last night. He…’
‘How did this happen?’ Rex ran a hand across his neatly trimmed hair.
‘We had a report of a disturbance at the Royal Bell car park. His body was found in an Aston Martin.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Troy mumbled.
Rex started chewing on a nail. ‘Does our mother know?’
‘Someone’s trying to contact her at the moment.’
‘She’ll be at home. We’ll have to go to her.’
‘We’ll need to speak to all the family in due course and speak to your staff. Did your father have any enemies?’
Both men exchanged a glance.
‘A few months ago we had hate mail…’ Rex said.
Troy cut across him. ‘He thought it was nothing.’
‘Did you keep the letters?’
‘The originals were given to the police.’
Lydia turned to Troy. ‘What sort of letters were they?’
‘A lot of comments about greedy bankers.’ He shrugged and waved a hand in the air as though he were swatting a fly. ‘How we were the parasites of modern society.’
I thought about the words on the lanyard as I glanced at Lydia who nodded an acknowledgement of their significance now that we knew of the hate mail. I looked over at Troy.
‘What happened when you reported this?’
‘An officer came to investigate.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Just a moment.’ He reached for his smartphone on the table and scrolled through the numbers. ‘Inspector Hobbs.’
Chapter 3
Queen Street police station had been included in every modernisation package I could remember. But the old building had been lost in the reorganisation that followed the creation of the Wales Police Service. We threaded our way through the old corridors and narrow staircases to the second-floor Incident Room. Lydia dropped her bag onto a desk and shrugged off her jacket, hanging it on a stand nearby.
I strode over to my office which felt humid; no fancy air conditioning here, so I heaved open one of the old casement windows. The radiator behind me gurgled so I gave it a gentle tap which did the trick, temporarily at least.
I sat down and noticed Lydia standing by my door. ‘There was something odd about the Dolman brothers,’ she said, and I noticed that despite the mugginess she had the ability to look fresh at any time of the day. Her long auburn hair had a glossy, newly washed appearance that skirted one side of her face. She had a smooth curve to her upper lip with a perfect little ‘v’ in the middle. Flicking back her hair exposed all of her face and I could see more clearly her dark intense eyes. It had only been a few months since she had replaced Boyd Pierce after his transfer to a specialist unit in the economic crime department, and like Boyd she had a keenness for doing things correctly. I suddenly realised that I hadn’t spent enough time getting to know her.
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