Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘That’s the thing. It overlooks Sydney harbour. I haven’t been able to trace how much he paid for it but I did a Google search and similar ones go for the equivalent of half a million pounds.’

  ‘How much?’ I said.

  Lydia tempered my surprise. ‘We’ll need to see all of your father’s bank accounts and personal files.’

  ‘Of course.’

  David Turner spent an hour filling three boxes that sat on the desk in reception. His father’s life had come to this: a pile of bank statements and investments certificates but no family to mourn him and no friends to grieve. Turner had no meaningful relationship with his son and I wondered what David must have felt. In truth, I should have known.

  ‘Will I ever get the originals back? It’s just that I might need them for the probate formalities.’

  I looked up at David Turner. I hadn’t paid attention to what he had said. I was thinking about my own family and wondering if Dean would grieve for me.

  ‘Will the paperwork be returned to me?’

  ‘Of course. Once our investigation is complete.’

  We organised for civilians from Queen Street to remove the boxes and left Turner to the emptying office. I stood outside with Lydia who glared at me as I lit up.

  *

  I managed the stairs back to the Incident Room two at a time and by the top I could feel my smoking habit telling me that I had to stop as I gasped for breath. I strode over to the board and turned to face Jane and Wyn. Lydia was already at her desk.

  ‘We’ve just been to see Alan Turner and his father had an apartment in Sydney nobody knew anything about.’

  Jane was the first to give me a double-take. She straightened in her chair.

  ‘Both dead men have overseas properties their families know nothing about. I need to know everything about them. And I need it now. No, yesterday. Jane, have you made progress on the French apartment?’

  ‘I heard from the French authorities this morning. The flat is registered in the name of some company that’s based in the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘Can we get the full details?’

  ‘That will be harder than you might think…’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. I’ve got a double murder inquiry. Tell them to pull their finger out! When are we going to get the details?’

  ‘Next week.’

  I was getting breathless – too many cigarettes, but the tension dragging on my chest didn’t help. I scribbled the name of the flat in Sydney on the board. Then I turned to Wyn and Jane. ‘I want to know everything about this property today.’

  Wyn was already trawling the internet. ‘Sydney is nine hours ahead of us. That makes it almost midnight.’

  ‘I don’t care. The police in Sydney don’t all go to bed at night.’

  Lydia’s voice had a soothing effect on my irritation. ‘But the staff at their land registry probably do.’

  She was right. I calmed my frustration and tried a measured tone. ‘Then find someone in the Sydney police who can reach the land registry and extract the information we need.’

  Jane and Wyn nodded.

  I looked over at Lydia. ‘Let’s go through Alan Turner’s financial records.’

  He had more than I could imagine. And yet he died alone in the lift of his apartment block just after he had opened a bottle of Chianti. I knew from my past that drinking alone was a bad sign. One drink led to another and then another and then oblivion. Turner didn’t need to worry about anything any longer and from the statements summarising his savings and his pension pot he had nothing to worry about when he was alive. Financially, at least. It amazed me how much paperwork could be generated by financial advisers and accountants. Turner probably thrived on it all. He was a hoarder which made it hard work trawling through all the stuff he had kept including the annual reports from the Vale of Glamorgan Racquets Club.

  I realised what was missing from Turner’s life: he had nothing in his papers about his family. Nothing to suggest he had any children, or grandchildren. No mementoes or photographs. All the comments my mother had made over the years about my parenting skills fell into place and suddenly I felt sad about Turner’s life and my own. I turned to look at the telephone pondering whether I should call Dean there and then.

  I got back to making detailed notes, resolving I would call him over the weekend.

  The muffled conversations drifting in from the Incident Room had a tense edge and then I noticed the time, realising that not a great deal could be completed until the morning. I walked out into the Incident Room and the activity stopped.

  I glanced over at Wyn. ‘Did you make any progress with the CCTV coverage?’

  ‘Nothing yet, boss.’

  I turned to Jane. ‘Any news from Australia?’

  ‘I should have news in the morning. I’ll be in first thing to chase them again.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s going to be a long weekend. Get off home.’

  *

  Tracy wore a green dress with a zip down the entire length of the front. It finished just above her knees and her high heels completed the perfect sight for a Friday night. I stared at her legs, stared at all of her in fact. Her hair had been carefully brushed and lay in thick curly waves over her shoulder. I lingered over a kiss.

  ‘You look sensational.’

  She gave me another peck on the cheek. She threaded a hand through my arm as we strolled up Queen Street to the middle of town. Tonight I had booked one of the other places that had received my mother’s seal of approval. The waiter remembered me as he led us to the table I’d asked for.

  ‘How often do you come here?’ Tracy whispered.

  ‘It’s my mother. She’s a regular and being from Lucca she can tell them exactly how she wants things.’

  Once we had decided I waved at the waiter who came back and jotted down the order. He returned moments later with a candle in a small glass jar with fancy decorations and a bottle of San Pellegrino.

  ‘Isn’t it terrible about the second video,’ Tracy said, leaning forward.

  The light caught the turquoise in her eyes: they almost glowed.

  ‘Pretty sick.’

  ‘Are you anywhere nearer catching the killers?’

  ‘Not really. There are so many loose ends…’ The waiter returned with some bread and olives.

  ‘So why does your mother like this place?’

  ‘Best Tuscan olive oil.’

  ‘Your mother sounds quite a character.’

  ‘She’s an Italian at home in Wales. She misses the warm weather and the ice cream. Although she married my father – just for his ice cream.’

  She laughed at all my jokes as we ate our ravioli starter. She drank wine and I got through half of the water. ‘You don’t drink wine?’ She hadn’t asked me that question on our first date and I’d assumed, maybe wrongly, that Alvine had given her an executive summary of my history. She must have sensed that now was the right time.

  ‘It doesn’t agree with me.’

  It satisfied her, for now. ‘Is it true that you’re going after the anti-capitalist groups?’

  Two plates of saltimbocca arrived and she carved off a small piece of veal, waiting for me to reply.

  ‘They’re the obvious suspects.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘There are two groups. One based in the Valleys and another in Newport. Until now they were just agitators but obviously something has changed.’

  ‘So we’ve got terrorists in Wales.’ She made it sound like something we should be proud of.

  The rosemary potatoes that assaulted my taste buds complemented the meat perfectly.

  ‘Have you got other suspects? How does Turner fit into all of this?’ She peered over the table, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

  I finished a mouthful of food. ‘Let’s not talk about work.’ She pouted her feigned disappointment. ‘Tell me about your family.’

  Her father had worked in the same double-glazing firm for thirty years. Her moth
er kept dropping hints that they wanted grandchildren before getting too old.

  ‘Have you got any siblings?’

  ‘A brother but he’s… single. Have you got any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No. Only child.’

  The waiter cleared away the plates and returned with the pudding menu. We ordered lavender-flavoured panna cotta. The restaurant was full and the noise level had steadily increased to a pleasant hum. The candle light caught Tracy’s cheeks. She smiled and I remembered the first time I’d seen her when she had been wearing a white boiler suit – it was the first time I had ever seen someone looking sexy in a CSI outfit.

  ‘Did you read the PM report on Turner?’ Tracy said.

  ‘It was the same sort of knife that killed Dolman.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘A stiletto?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you think the same person killed Turner?’ She finished the last of her wine. ‘Maybe—’

  The waiter arrived and placed the desserts on the table.

  ‘Would you like coffees afterwards?’

  Tracy giggled and put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Just the bill, thanks.’

  I could still taste the lavender on my lips as I held Tracy’s hand and we walked towards the castle. I flagged down a taxi and she held my hand as we drove down to the Bay. I wanted to lean over and kiss her, really hard, and then run my fingers through her hair and feel her tongue on mine. Traffic delayed us and the taxi had to slow at some lights. I could feel her body moving next to me, every sinew breathing and swaying in the half-light of the streetlights that darted into the taxi.

  It was another ten minutes before I stood in the hallway of my apartment. I dropped my jacket on the floor before pushing the front door closed behind me. I pulled her close, her mouth was moist, the alcohol assaulted my lips. It wasn’t like the first time where we almost fell headlong into the bedroom. Now I stood and slowly pulled down the zip as she fumbled for the fly of my trousers. My excitement pulsed a little harder as I noticed her lacy black underwear.

  Chapter 23

  A text woke me early. Tracy stirred by my side. I reached over and fumbled for the handset. I read the message from Terry, one of my regular informants, suggesting we meet for breakfast. I glanced at my watch. It was still early. I leant over and looked at Tracy. I drew back her hair and kissed her on the cheek. Her perfume still lingered in the bedclothes. She snuggled back under the duvet and I slipped out of bed.

  It was a short walk from my flat to Gorge with George, a greasy spoon in the Bay, where the bacon was thick and the baps floury. Terry was sitting at a far table, a large mug in front of him. I slid into the seat opposite.

  ‘This had better be worthwhile,’ I said. ‘I’m going to work this morning.’

  ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  Terry gave me a puzzled look. ‘I watched the telly the other night. About that banker – Dolman and those terrorists. Are you involved in that case?’

  ‘What do you want, Terry?’

  ‘There’s an ongoing inquiry into the Cardiff City Soul Crew. You know those fucking nutters who go and beat the shit out of other team supporters.’

  ‘I know who the Soul Crew are.’

  I glanced over at the counter and mouthed a request for a mug of tea.

  ‘It’s just that I hear things that’s all. And something’s going on.’ He leant forward over the table and whispered. ‘I might have some information.’

  ‘I’m not dealing with that inquiry. It’s Detective Inspector Hobbs in charge. You’ll have to speak to him.’

  ‘That fucking knobhead. You must be joking. Nobody can understand him talking.’

  Two bacon rolls arrived with the teas and Terry chewed a large mouthful.

  ‘He’s the senior police officer in charge of that inquiry. So you talk to him or nobody.’ I got a finality into my tone that even Terry should understand. He glared over at me.

  ‘Okay. Keep your shirt on. I deal with you, Marco. Nobody else.’

  ‘I’ve made it quite clear—’

  ‘So if I have any valuable information then the WPS doesn’t want to hear it?’ He squinted his eyes, defying me to reply.

  I finished my bacon roll in silence. ‘What have you got?’ I said.

  ‘I need something in return.’

  ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to tell me first.’

  Terry gave a quick glance over his shoulder before straightening his posture. ‘Doreen, my missus, is facing a blackmail charge. It’s all fucking shit. I need you to make it go away.’

  I sat back and crossed my arms. ‘You must be mad.’

  Terry shook his head.

  ‘I can’t make a charge like blackmail disappear. You know that.’

  ‘It’s that or nothing, Marco.’

  We sat in silence. It felt like minutes but it was probably much less. I took another slurp of the tea before Terry got up and sidled out of the bench. He looked around the café and then over to George, safely out of earshot.

  ‘I’ll text you when I’ve got more. And then you’re going to help the missus. Because that way it helps you.’

  He left and I watched him raise the lapels of his jacket as he sauntered down the street. I reached for the mug of tea when a message reached my mobile. Call me AD.

  *

  It was another half an hour before I arrived at the Incident Room. Alvine was already waiting for me in my office.

  ‘Where have you been?’ She was wearing hiking trousers that had lots of different pockets and a thin navy fleece top.

  ‘You’re in early. Are you modelling a new CSI uniform?’

  ‘Very funny Marco. I should have left half an hour ago.’ She glanced at her watch.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’

  She glared at me. ‘We’ve finished the analysis of the forensics on Turner’s office. The fingerprints of Troy Dolman are all over the place.’

  ‘Really. He probably had meetings there.’

  Alvine shook her head. ‘They are all over the desks. And another thing. We’ve traced the computer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was irritation in Alvine’s voice now. ‘We know the location of the computer used to upload the second video.’

  Tightness in my chest returned from the expectation that this could be a breakthrough. ‘Where?’

  I jotted down the name of the internet café in Pontypridd. It was near Henson’s address. I raised a hand and waved at Lydia in the hope she would see me and then I shouted. ‘In here, now.’

  Seconds later Lydia stood in the door of my office, Wyn and Jane behind her. I stuck out my hand with the details of the property in Pontypridd. I gave them an instantaneous summary as I walked around my desk and reached for my jacket. ‘Wyn and Jane. I want you to find as much as you can on the internet café. The owner etc.… and then message me with anything you can find. Lydia, you’re with me. And Wyn, find out who owns Turner’s offices.’

  I heard Alvine raising her voice and saying something about being glad she’d been able to help just as I yanked open the door to leave the Incident Room.

  Luckily the heavy traffic was heading into the city so we reached the intersection with the M4 quickly and then I powered the car north up the A470. Soon I indicated left towards Pontypridd and broke the speed limit in my haste.

  ‘I’m surprised that Henson would have used a café,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Maybe he just didn’t want any trace to his laptop.’

  ‘Still, using a public place is a bit risky.’

  Lydia was right and it might just be too convenient that this evidence pointed to Henson once again. I spotted a sign for ‘Computer Repairs and Internet Café’ and drew the car to a halt by the kerb. Lydia had spoken to Jane once on the journey but she had nothing to report. I found my mobile and rang her again.

  ‘I’ve just finished talking to one of the CID officers from Bridgend. Apparently Darren Will
iams, the man who runs the place, is known to them. They think he’s a small-time fence for stolen laptops and other kit for computers. But they’ve never been able to prove anything. And he’s got a profitable little sideline in selling films he’s downloaded from the internet.’

  I thanked her and finished the call.

  A shower drenched the car and I peered out into the grey morning sky but the bleak weather had settled over the town. Thankfully the rain abated as we scampered over the road.

  Half a dozen customers in the shop gazed at the computer screens and a couple drinking from enormous mugs gave us cursory glances.

  A man with a long beard and an even longer ponytail sat behind a counter piled high with boxes of various computer accessories. Discreetly I flashed my warrant card. He grimaced. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’ I kept my voice soft but my eyes hard.

  He jerked his head behind the counter.

  We followed him through into a small room, boxes of PCs and monitors stacked to the ceiling. Darren wore a collarless shirt underneath a leather waistcoat. His corduroy trousers had lost all their shape.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We need to trace someone who used one of your computers last week.’

  ‘Why? I run a legit business here.’

  I stepped towards Darren. ‘I’m not interested if any of this stuff has been knocked off or in your little scam selling illegal films to the people of Ponty but unless you cooperate then I might be forced to take a different view.’

  His poor complexion got worse.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind giving me the details I need.’

  Standing so close to him, I could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and I noticed the acne scars over his cheeks.

  ‘Do you keep a record of everyone who uses the computers?’

  ‘It’ll take me a while to get you that information.’

  ‘We’ll wait.’ I smiled at Darren.

  Back in the café, we sat down. Customers came and went, some giving us curious glances. It must have been almost an hour before Darren came over to us and sat down.

  He pushed over a data stick. ‘That’s the record of everyone who paid using a card.’