Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Maybe he was just stupid.’

  I mumbled. ‘He would have guessed that we could work out he had printed the letters on his computer. He can’t be that stupid.’

  ‘I suppose…’ Lydia said. ‘So who did print them?’

  I ran a hand through my hair. ‘I don’t know. But let’s keep an open mind. Someone might be wanting to pin the blame on Henson and use his printer to point the finger at him.’

  ‘So it might be someone who knows Henson and wants to set him up?’

  I nodded. ‘Or it could just be Henson. In the meantime we’ve got the Stanway connection to investigate. Over the weekend I’ll talk to Mrs Dolman again and find out about the flat in Nice.’

  ‘I spoke to Mrs Stanway who told me she left for work just after seven. Her husband was fast asleep when she left.’

  ‘So he could have jumped out of bed and travelled into the middle of Cardiff. Better requisition as much of the CCTV footage as you can. And talking about CCTV was there anything from the car park?’

  ‘Nothing, boss. But I could recheck them.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Let’s get as much CCTV as we can get for all the streets in the immediate vicinity of the Royal Bell car park. And we need a mobile telephone number for Henson and Cleaver. We might track their movements.’

  ‘They’ll be using pay-as-you-go that’ll make it impossible to pin down their locations.’

  ‘What did Deborah say about the bank? She thought there were problems.’

  ‘Not enough to prevent him buying a flat in Nice.’

  I stepped back from the board and read the names of the Dolman family. ‘I know it doesn’t make sense. How could he afford it?’

  Lydia returned to her desk and sat down. She drew a notepad from a drawer.

  ‘I want to know as much as we can about the Dolman family. I need background checks on them all and I need you to double-check their movements on the morning Matthew Dolman was killed. Both men had parked their cars that morning. I need to know when they arrived at work. I’ll call Boyd Pierce and get him to research the shareholding of the bank.’

  Lydia finished making notes and looked up, expecting me to say something else. ‘What about the other group of activists?’

  I heaved a sigh. Chasing one set of shadows was bad enough but we already had two to go after. And they were all probably clever enough to use pay-as-you-go mobile telephones and applications that made it hard to trace their communications.

  ‘I’ll concentrate on Henson and the others.’ My reply didn’t sound convincing.

  When I got back to my office it smelt stuffy so I opened the window a fraction and a sharp cold draught blew across my face so I pushed it closed. As I found Boyd Pierce’s number I thought about Tracy and found my mobile among the papers on my desk. I tapped out a message. Busy later? Mexican or Italian? J. The reply came immediately. Don’t know any Mexicans. Suppose an Italian will have to do Tx. I smiled to myself. She had a sense of humour that my father would appreciate and I wondered what my mother might make of her.

  Then I called the economic crime department.

  ‘Sergeant Pierce. Economic Crime.’

  ‘Hello, Boyd. How’s life in the fraud squad?’

  I heard a gentle, impatient exhalation of breath from my former sergeant as I used the old-fashioned title for his new department. Although he had enjoyed working for me, a new baby and pressure from his wife for a regular nine-to-five day meant that Boyd had sought a transfer.

  ‘Hello, sir. How is Lydia Flint fitting in?’

  ‘Good, thanks. How’s the family?’

  ‘Great, although I’m not getting much sleep. And Mandy’s hoping to get back to work next month. How can I help?’

  ‘I need an analysis of the shareholding of the National Bank of Wales.’

  His voice got serious. ‘How urgent is this? Only I’ve got—’

  ‘Today.’

  Another groan. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Then he rang off and I turned my attention to the special branch reports on my desk. After an hour I had found no reference to mobile numbers for Henson or Cleaver. The telephone ringing on my desk was a welcome distraction.

  I recognised the measured tone of Boyd’s voice. ‘The shareholding of the National Bank of Wales is divided between Matthew Dolman who owns fifty-five per cent, a charitable foundation owns twenty-five per cent and the rest is divided equally between Troy and Rex.’

  ‘So does that mean that Matthew Dolman can do what he wants with the bank?’

  ‘Depends on who controls the charitable foundation.’

  ‘Can you find out—’

  ‘You’ll have to ask the trustees of the charity. And without knowing exactly who runs the foundation it’s impossible to know what the legal position might be.’

  ‘Thanks, Boyd.’

  It was late in the afternoon when I noticed Lydia leaving the Incident Room, suit bag in hand. It must have been half an hour later when she returned and stood in the door to my office. The blusher made her face look thinner, the high heels made her taller and her navy blue dress lay in smooth folds over her flat stomach.

  ‘Night at the opera?’ I said.

  ‘Carmen.’

  ‘You look very smart.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lydia bowed her head and as she smiled, I noticed a dimple on her right cheek.

  *

  By eight that evening I was standing with Tracy outside my mother’s favourite restaurant in the brewery quarter. I stopped, tugged at Tracy’s elbow and stepped towards the menu displayed in the window. One of the waiters gave me a brief smile of acknowledgement.

  ‘You’ll like this place,’ I said.

  She stood by my side; I could smell her perfume, it had rose petals combined with citrus.

  ‘What’s the food like?’

  ‘My mother thinks it’s the best Italian in Cardiff.’

  An endorsement from an Italian woman did the trick. We stepped inside, the waiter shook my hand and welcomed me as a friend and then led us to a corner table. After fawning over Tracy he left, returning moments later with menus.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Water,’ I said automatically. And I wondered if Tracy had already heard about my past.

  ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ she said, giving me a glance that confirmed she did.

  After a scan of the menu I chose Tuscan soup and lasagne. The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered. The subdued lighting complemented her hair that occasionally she brushed away from her face.

  ‘So you were brought up in Pontypridd?’ I said.

  ‘My parents lived in the same house for twenty years. The only house I remember.’

  ‘You remember the Marco café in the middle of town?’

  Tracy nodded.

  ‘It was my grandfather, Nonno Marco, who ran the place originally.’

  ‘So what does your family do now?’

  I explained that my father – papà – was the industrious brother, the one who worked hard building his ice cream business. She sipped on her drink and looked interested as I talked about my family and my mother’s home in Lucca. The Tuscan soup arrived with Tracy’s pâté and I discovered why she had joined the Wales Police Service after a degree in criminology.

  ‘I didn’t want to be a police officer,’ she explained. ‘Like a lot of CSIs I just love the analysis side of the work. So how long have you been in the WPS?’

  Her leg brushed my trousers. I didn’t move and she kept her leg exactly where I hoped she would.

  ‘It feels like a long time. After leaving school I drifted for a while, spent time in Italy with my family and then joined the old South Wales Police Force.’

  I told her about my time in Merthyr Tydfil as a constable, the two years as a custody sergeant in Pontypridd before my promotion to CID. She didn’t ask about my family, and it made me think that Alvine had already told her all about me, all about Jackie and
Dean.

  The restaurant was quiet for a Friday night. Our main course arrived and Tracy talked about working with Alvine.

  ‘So have you got any suspects for Dolman’s death?’ She finished a mouthful of carbonara.

  ‘There’s a list of persons of interest.’

  ‘And do you think the stiletto fits in?’

  ‘Somebody must have been practising the movement needed to kill Dolman.’

  ‘Really?’ She leant a little further over the table, and opened her eyes; they were a warm turquoise colour. ‘Is it one of those extremists from the YouTube video? So what was the motive?’

  I shrugged. The waiter returned after clearing away the main courses and we ordered ice cream – another recommendation from my mother.

  ‘Are you looking into the death threats against Matthew Dolman?’ Tracy said, her eyes wide.

  ‘At the time they were investigated fully. Nobody took them seriously, but now everything is being looked into.’

  Tracy made no objection when I paid the bill.

  ‘I’ve got a great coffee machine.’ It had to be the cheesiest line ever. She gave me another smile. We walked over towards Mary Street in the hope of a taxi.

  I dawdled and she was a few steps in front of me. ‘I wouldn’t recognise most CSIs without their boiler suits, in the flesh, so to speak,’ I said, hailing a taxi.

  ‘And how much flesh do you like to see, Inspector?’

  Her smile sent me all sorts of signals and stretched my patience during the journey to my apartment. Her skirt rolled up over her knees exposing a few inches of immaculate thigh. I passed the time of day with a driver who gave me the results of Cardiff City’s competitors – it wasn’t good news.

  I scrambled for the right change, giving the driver a generous tip.

  On the stairs to the flat Tracy had taken her coat off, draping it over one arm. I fumbled the key into the lock and then I slammed the door behind us before I threw my jacket into a corner and pulled Tracy towards me. My tongue found hers and we huddled breathless in the hallway. I struggled with the buttons of her blouse as she undid my belt. Then I gasped as she squeezed me, really hard. We left a trail of shoes and clothes before I pushed open the bedroom door.

  Chapter 14

  It was Sunday morning and I arrived early at Queen Street. I had to finish the work that I had started yesterday before I could justify my evening in the Cardiff City stadium watching Cardiff play Fulham. By mid-morning I had a more complete picture of Jamie Henson and an understanding of Neil Cleaver. The name of Paul Youlden, the ringleader of the other activist group in South Wales, had been pinned to the board. The special branch report had been sketchy on the details of the others involved.

  Something niggled about the way the messages could so easily be linked to Henson. I found the printed sheets and scanned them again. Then I turned back to the special branch file and reread the comments about the myriad relationships between the various individuals. I realised it would be difficult to build a complete picture of everyone involved. It didn’t mean I would ignore Henson.

  By mid-morning Lydia appeared at my office door with two cups of coffee and sat down uninvited.

  ‘The Dolman family seem to get everywhere. There is a Dolman charitable foundation that helps disadvantaged children through school, offers scholarships to university. All very philanthropic and funded by the bank.’

  ‘Is it the same trust that owns the bank shares?’

  ‘No. That’s a different one. In fact there are half a dozen and Mrs Dolman gets her name everywhere.’

  I took my first mouthful of coffee. ‘Did you check up on the Dolman brothers on the morning of their father’s death?’

  She nodded. ‘They were both in the bank and at their desks at the time he was killed. I checked with various members of staff who all confirmed the same.’

  Lydia was busy dunking a biscuit in her drink. Sodden bits fell off into the hot liquid. She continued once she’d finished a mouthful. ‘Both Troy and Rex went to fee-paying schools and then on to university before returning to work in the bank. Troy did a short commission in the Welsh Guards. And he’s still in the Territorial Army now. I should have his service record early next week. He’s single, lives alone near Abergavenny and has a box at Cardiff City football club.

  ‘Anything on Rex?’

  ‘Rex has an address not far from his parents in Penarth but apart from a caution for smoking cannabis when he was at university there was nothing to suggest he was anything other than a rich banker.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to them about the charitable trusts. In fact let’s go and talk to Mrs Dolman now.’

  Lydia gave me a surprised look before gathering up both mugs and making for the Incident Room. I stood up and found my car keys. I strode out to the Incident Room where Lydia was gathering papers and a ballpoint before shrugging on a light jacket.

  ‘Do you think we should call in advance?’

  ‘This isn’t a social call.’

  We trooped down to the car park. It was a pleasant enough morning: not raining nor too cold. The odd smell I’d noticed first thing in my Mondeo was still there and I could see Lydia turn up her nose as she scanned the detritus in the foot well. I fired the engine into life and we headed towards Penarth. The traffic was light, the occasional taxi passing us from the Bay.

  ‘How was the opera on Friday night?’ I asked as we drove down Central Link.

  ‘It was wonderful.’ She relaxed for a moment into her seat as though the recollection was calming in itself.

  A few minutes later I pulled the car to a halt at the pavement near the Dolman’s detached property. I stepped out and noticed that the gravelled drive glistened as though each pebble had been hand polished. Then I saw movement by the rear door. I shouted a greeting.

  ‘Is Mrs Dolman at home?’

  A woman dressed in a housecoat, her hair pulled into a knot behind her head, turned towards me. I repeated my question and she walked over.

  ‘Mrs Dolman no here.’ The accent was Eastern European. She stood well back from the gate and stared at me. I pressed my warrant card to the gate and she squinted over. ‘I’m a police officer. I wanted to talk to Mrs Dolman.’

  ‘She is out.’

  ‘I need to see her urgently. It is police business.’

  Even from a distance I could see her frown. ‘She is in tennis club.’ Then she turned and walked back to the house, her shoes crunching on the gravel.

  I turned to Lydia. ‘It looks like we’ve got another visit to the Vale of Glamorgan Racquets Club.’

  Twenty minutes later we passed two gardeners working on the shrubbery as we drove up towards the entrance of the club. I had to slow to let a Mercedes Benz saloon pass us as it left the club and then I drew into the car park. I scanned for a free slot but Lydia interrupted my search.

  ‘That’s Mrs Dolman over there.’ She gesticulated towards a couple standing by a black Range Rover. I slowed the car to a halt and stared over towards the pair deep in conversation. By her side was a tall man with a receding hairline. He was slim and healthy looking. From the body language, they were on good terms, formal without being too friendly and she shook his hand neatly when they finished, no peck on the cheek, and he drove away. I parked and we walked over to the club. Inside Mrs Dolman was standing in the foyer.

  She glared over at us. The steward we’d met the first time stood next to her and gave us a neutral stare.

  ‘Mrs Dolman, good morning. I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time.’

  ‘How did…?’ She guessed the answer and said no more. Instead she stepped into the large reception room. It was empty and she pointed to one of the chesterfield sofas, sitting herself down opposite.

  ‘How is your investigation proceeding?’ she said, staring at me and then Lydia.

  ‘We want to discuss some of the details regarding your late husband’s affairs.’

  ‘I hope I can be of help.’

  I d
ecided on a roundabout approach. ‘How many charitable foundations do you run?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘And what is your involvement in all of them?’

  She sighed, folded the fingers of both hands together and started a detailed explanation. Lydia scribbled notes and occasionally I asked a question for clarification, sometimes pausing for Lydia to catch up.

  ‘Nobody involved would have any reason to kill Matthew.’ She made it sound like an announcement in a railway station.

  ‘Of course. We have to check.’

  I turned to Lydia who knew the prompt that we had agreed on during the car journey from Queen Street.

  ‘The bank shares weren’t all owned by Mr Dolman,’ Lydia said, her voice smooth and calm. I kept my eye contact direct but Mrs Dolman didn’t blink or avert her gaze. ‘A charitable trust of some sort owns twenty-five per cent. Can you tell me about that trust?’

  Now she blinked and looked away. ‘That has nothing to do with my husband’s death.’

  Brenda Dolman turned a fountain pen through her fingers.

  ‘I am sure you appreciate that we have to investigate every line of inquiry. Consider everything that might be relevant to find his killer.’

  She didn’t flinch. No blinking or quivering lips. Nothing to suggest that her husband’s death was anything except a footnote in her life.

  Lydia pressed on. ‘Who are the beneficiaries of the trust?’

  ‘I shall need to discuss this with the trustees before I could…’

  Her fist curled around the pen more tightly now.

  ‘We’ll need to establish the position quickly.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll talk to Troy.’

  A brief silence followed as we watched Mrs Dolman’s discomfort. She was hiding something. I had one more question. ‘Can you give us some details about the ownership of the flat in Nice?’

  There was a look of genuine disbelief in her eyes.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘The flat that your husband owned in Nice.’

  ‘Complete nonsense. He didn’t own any such property.’

  ‘You knew that he was having a relationship with Miss Deborah Bowen?’