Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘I’ve never seen that poster before,’ Lydia said. ‘But I’ve heard the song.’

  ‘Song?’

  ‘“If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next” was a hit for the Manic Street Preachers a few years ago.’

  ‘Really? I prefer Elvis myself.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you to come here. I couldn’t face going to work today.’

  Deborah Bowen had called first thing that morning apologising for her rudeness when we first met and suggesting we visit her at home. She was curled up on a sofa in the sitting room of the sprawling old farmhouse in one of the villages in the Vale of Glamorgan outside the city that had well-maintained pavements, prominent speed bumps and a fancy public house.

  I stared over at Deborah. The puffiness under her eyes had gone up but she still looked pale.

  ‘My doctor gave me something to sleep last night.’

  The same woman who opened the door to us when we arrived came in with a tray and an expensive-looking cafetière with three mugs.

  ‘I know this is difficult but we need to ask you some questions. Any piece of information might help find his killer.’

  She blinked.

  ‘Did Matthew mention the death threats he’d received?’

  ‘He laughed them off to start with but then sometimes I could tell he was worried. But there’s something I have to show you.’

  She reached into the buff folder lying on the table and handed me the plastic envelopes inside.

  ‘These were delivered here when I was at work.’

  I stared at the text. The font was the same size as that on the message on the lanyard on Dolman’s body and those on the messages sent to the bank. ‘When?’ I read the first message – Bankers will pay for their injustices – and then handed the sheet to Lydia.

  ‘The most recent arrived last week and there was one the week before.’

  I knew I was raising my voice. ‘Did you report this to the police?’ I read the second message, the menace in the words was clear – Bankers will pay.

  ‘Matthew didn’t want to. He didn’t take them seriously.’

  Lydia butted in. ‘How did Matthew react? Was he worried? Did he take any precautions?’

  Deborah gave her a quizzical look.

  ‘Did he have any idea who might be responsible? Jamie Henson, perhaps, who took part in the television debate with him?’ I added.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, he never mentioned Henson by name.’

  There was the sound of footsteps on the staircase and then a child’s voice. The door opened and a boy walked in. Deborah smiled at him. ‘Charlie, I’ve got to talk to these two important people. You go to the kitchen. Ask your grandmother to make you some breakfast.’

  He glanced at Lydia and I and then left. Deborah got up and closed the door behind him. ‘He doesn’t know how to react. He knows I’m upset.’

  ‘How long had you been having a relationship with Matthew Dolman?’

  Deborah poured the coffee and pushed our drinks towards us.

  ‘He was going to leave his wife.’ She sat back, curled her fingers around a mug. ‘He was wonderful with Charlie.’

  ‘Was he Charlie’s father?’

  Deborah nodded. ‘After Charlie was born he tried to patch it up with his wife. But things never worked out. We drifted along until recently when he made a final decision to leave her.’

  ‘If there were problems in his marriage why didn’t he split from his wife sooner?’

  ‘Things had been tough at the bank. The recession had caused them problems. But things were improving.’

  Deborah did not seem the sort of person who would have willingly acquiesced in the role of old-fashioned mistress, hidden away.

  ‘Was there anything else going on?’

  ‘Something wasn’t right at the bank although he never told me the details. But there was this trust fund that owned some of the shares. I never knew the details… But his wife controlled the trust.’

  Deborah reached for her coffee, avoiding eye contact.

  Lydia replaced her mug on the tray and sat on the edge of her chair looking over at Deborah. ‘How much time did you spend together?’

  ‘Fridays, I always saw him on a Friday. We might have a take away and watch a film or something.’

  Lydia puckered her brow.

  ‘And we had holidays together. He had just bought this flat in Nice on the Riviera. We had two wonderful holidays there. It was as if we were a real family. He was fantastic with Charlie, taking him swimming, teaching him a bit of French.’

  I stared over at Deborah. She stopped, swallowed hard, and reached a hand to brush away a tear. ‘Did he ever mention any problems at work, other than what you’ve just told us?’

  She pursed her lips, shook her head. ‘He didn’t mention anything.’

  ‘There was a business called Stanway Engineering. Did he ever mention them?’

  She looked blank. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  After another half an hour it was obvious that Deborah had little further she could add. ‘We won’t take up any more of your time.’

  Deborah got up and walked with us to the front door. ‘Inspector. Matthew was a good man. And he loved Charlie.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Standing in the doorway her skin looked drawn and she pulled her arms around her body against the cold morning air.

  *

  I watched the green fields and well-maintained hedgerows of the Vale as Lydia drove back to the centre of Cardiff. Deborah had responded positively to Lydia’s sympathetic tone. It made me realise that she achieved more than I could have done on my own. I recalled a briefing about body language and how important it could be to make a witness feel at ease. My usual approach of asking direct questions and expecting direct replies wasn’t always recommended.

  ‘What did you make of Deborah Bowen?’ Lydia had stopped by some traffic lights on the outskirts of Cardiff.

  ‘She looked better than when I first saw her.’

  Lydia drove off once the lights had turned to green. ‘I am surprised that as an intelligent woman with her own career she tolerated such a second-hand relationship with Dolman. She must have loved him very much.’

  The simplicity of her remark was striking. Deborah had tolerated a relationship because she loved Dolman and now he was dead. The father of her child would not be around ever again. And I wondered what Dean would think when I wasn’t around anymore.

  Lydia continued. ‘Some people make relationships too complicated. At least he saw his son regularly which is more than a lot of fathers manage.’

  I wondered how much she knew of my circumstances. And how little in reality I had seen Dean. ‘Have you got any family?’

  She glanced at me. She looked rather puzzled as though I should really know if she had any children. We had reached the Culverhouse Cross roundabout and she slowed as she negotiated the junction and the various traffic lights.

  ‘No kids if that’s what you mean. And you, boss?’

  ‘Dean lives with his mother in Basingstoke.’

  An awkward silence followed. I wanted to add something profound but all I could think of was my mother’s last comments about me seeing Dean more often.

  ‘How old is he?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘Eight.’ I could sense Lydia wanting to ask me how often I saw him. I could feel the reproach in her silence. The imminent Easter weekend would be the opportunity I needed to feel more like a real father. She accelerated away down the slip road into the A4232 link road from the M4 into the city. We sped along towards the Grangetown Link, the short elevated section, before we reached the city itself. Passing the junction with Penarth, I realised that this was the same route that Dolman had taken on the morning of his death. It must have been a journey that he had taken dozens, maybe hundreds of times, and if the killer had been following him, Dolman would have been oblivious to any car trailing behind.<
br />
  ‘We’ll need to get these letters to forensics as soon as possible,’ Lydia said.

  I nodded. ‘First though let’s go and check out Stanway’s employer.’

  Our progress through the city traffic was painfully slow. Every traffic light seemed to turn red as we approached, every pedestrian crossing had a stream of mothers with buggies and elderly people taking their time to cross the road. Eventually we drew up alongside the pavement near the Pizza House. Three small vans were parked further up the road with the takeaway’s logo covering every available square inch of the bodywork.

  I got out of the car and a thick warm doughy smell filled the air. We walked over towards the main entrance and, stepping inside, the pungency and sweetness of oregano assaulted my nostrils. The telephone rang incessantly and a small girl wearing an apron with the restaurant’s name printed in bold red letters jotted down the orders. There was a long counter along one side and at the back I noticed a few tables. This wasn’t a place of fine Italian dining. One girl behind the counter was grating mozzarella, another chopping various vegetables. I leant over the counter and flashed my warrant card. ‘I need to see your boss.’

  She carried on slicing red peppers barely taking her gaze away from the chopping board and then she nodded towards the rear of restaurant. ‘Back there. In the office.’

  I glanced over at the girls hard at work: it was probably minimum wage contracts, maybe even the zero hour contracts the politicians love to debate. Hot air hit us as we passed the enormous pizza ovens. I rapped my knuckles on the office door. I didn’t wait for an invitation, we just barged in.

  I was expecting a swarthy Italian-looking man but the woman sitting by the desk had shocking red hair. She drew heavily on a cigarette and didn’t seem at all surprised that strangers had appeared in her office.

  She squinted at my warrant card but didn’t bother with Lydia’s.

  ‘Detective Inspector Marco,’ I said.

  ‘How can I help?’ The voice was thick and gravelly. Her accent would have been completely at home in the Rhondda valleys.

  ‘We are investigating the murder of Matthew Dolman.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s been all over the newspapers.’

  ‘Don’t read the papers, love.’

  ‘And on the television.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘One of the people linked to the enquiry is George Stanway. I understand that he works for you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She glanced at a board on the wall by her desk. It had names along the top and dates printed down the left-hand side. ‘He’s not working today.’

  ‘Was George Stanway working on Monday morning, between eight and ten?’

  ‘He normally does the pizzas in the evening. Works late at night. We have somebody else in the morning that does the breakfasts.’

  ‘Well then, tell me, was he working that Sunday evening?’

  She stood up and ran a finger across the board from last Sunday along the columns of names. ‘He was working all right. He likes doing the Sunday night because it’s so busy.’

  ‘When did he finish?’

  She turned towards me, a narrow plume of smoke crawling up her face. She dragged on the cigarette. ‘Can’t say love, between one and two I’d guess. You know how it is if things get busy. I can check from his time logs if you want.’

  I glanced at my watch knowing we had wasted enough time. Lydia thrust her card towards the woman. ‘Please check your records and give me a ring once you can confirm the time he finished working.’ She even gave her a brief smile.

  We left the Pizza House and retraced our steps to the car.

  ‘I’ll go and see Mrs Stanway,’ Lydia said before jumping into the car. I followed and as she pulled out into the traffic, my mobile buzzed into life. I recognised the voice of the receptionist in Queen Street. ‘There’s some fancy lawyer in reception wanting to see you.’

  Chapter 13

  Charlotte Parkinson had already organised neat piles of papers on the table in one of the interview rooms near reception before I arrived. She gave me a professional smile and held out a hand. I had no recollection of arranging a time for the meeting although I could recall an understanding that Charlotte would explain to me the intricacies of the legal case Stanway was pursuing against the National Bank of Wales.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Charlotte said.

  I nodded.

  ‘My secretary rang earlier and she was told that you might be back this afternoon. It’s just that next week is rather busy for me. I’ll be travelling to London on Sunday and then flying to Geneva on business.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I nodded at the papers on the table before her. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain the Stanway case to me more detail.’

  ‘I can leave you with these copies.’ She patted a slim-fingered hand on one of the larger piles. ‘George Stanway has commenced proceedings against the bank using different reasons. One of the first that he tried was a claim for breach of contract. He tried to allege that the National Bank of Wales had an agreement with him that they would support the business through thick and thin. The case wasn’t particularly well argued and the bank was able to get the case dismissed. However, that wasn’t the end of matters.’

  ‘There’s always a but.’

  She smiled.

  ‘He tried four other legal cases before I became involved. Once I started working for the bank we adopted a more active approach to dealing with Stanway.’

  Charlotte spent an hour running through the executive summary she produced of the individual cases that Stanway had commenced against the bank. Sections highlighted in yellow demonstrated the vitriolic and aggressive language he had used in emails and letters. Most of the terminology left me cold. But Stanway was on a one-man mission to seek revenge against the National Bank of Wales and Matthew Dolman. But would it make him a killer?

  ‘I explained before that the final straw for the bank was when Stanway libelled Matthew Dolman on his website.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  Charlotte sat back and gave me a resigned look as though I shouldn’t have to ask. ‘Stanway started proceedings again, this time for negligence.’

  ‘How far did he get?’

  ‘The claim is ongoing. We think he’s got someone helping him. Probably a struck-off lawyer, doing it for a few pennies.’

  ‘So what is he claiming?’

  She sighed. ‘Millions, in damages I mean. And he has applied for disclosure of a lot of the bank’s documentation and internal files.’

  ‘Could that be embarrassing?’

  She shook her head. ‘Of course not. And Stanway knows that full well. Our guess is that he is hoping we’ll try and do a deal. Pay him something to go away quietly.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I reached over and flicked through the first few pages. If her assessment of Stanway’s attitude was correct he certainly had a motive to kill Dolman.

  ‘If I can help in any other way then please contact me.’ Charlotte got up and gathered the various papers that she had used into a neat folder and dropped them into a leather briefcase. She glided out of the interview and I watched her leave Queen Street wondering what on earth she saw in Rex Dolman.

  I had little time to think of an answer as my mobile bleeped with a message. Something important. Contact me AD.

  *

  I found Alvine waiting in her lab. Tucked under my arm was the folder that Deborah had given me with the threatening messages she had received.

  Alvine stood, arms folded, staring at various sheets of paper neatly laid out on the table in front of her. I suppose I should have been doing the same but Tracy was standing by her side and when I had arrived, she had given me a smile that could have melted an iceberg so I was distracted.

  ‘It’s the same printer.’

  That got my attention. ‘What!’

  ‘Pay attention, Marc
o.’ Alvine sounded exasperated. ‘The printer responsible for the leaflet is the same as the one that printed the note you found on Dolman’s body.’

  I stepped towards the table and peered down, recognising the leaflet I had picked up in Henson’s office.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What’s wrong? You’ve got your evidence. Go and arrest the bad guys.’

  ‘It’s not that…’

  ‘This is evidence.’ Alvine raised her voice. Then she tilted her head and glared at me. ‘Of course. This is inadmissible as evidence. Detective Inspector Marco picks up a leaflet and brings it here hoping he’ll make a connection.’ She scowled.

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Then how was it?’

  I fell into an embarrassed silence. Then I passed her the folder with Deborah Bowen’s messages, which she opened and read. ‘And where did you get these?’

  ‘They were sent to Deborah Bowen.’

  ‘And who is she?’

  ‘She’s Matthew Dolman’s mistress. She received them over the last three weeks.’

  Alvine peered at them as though there was a message in invisible ink that she might be able to decipher.

  ‘So you want me to compare these to the original messages?’

  ‘And the one on Dolman’s lanyard. And see—’

  ‘If it matches the printer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Alvine unfolded her arms and rested her palms on the table. ‘You know I’ll have to make a report in due course,’ she added.

  Paperwork, it was always paperwork.

  I marched back to the Incident Room, my pulse beating a little faster and the possibility that we had a breakthrough dominating my thoughts. Now we had something tangible and my excitement at the first direct evidence lifted my spirits.

  *

  Back in the Incident Room, I stood by the board and stared at Henson’s name.

  ‘Do we focus everything on Henson?’ Lydia said.

  I hesitated, my earlier enthusiasm dulled. ‘We must be careful. Some things make little sense.’ I turned to Lydia who was frowning. ‘If Henson was responsible for the letters then why print them on his own printer?’