Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  Then she turned her head and looked over at one of the detached houses. She finished the call. ‘The first of those semis.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ I yanked open the car door and waved at Wyn and Jane. I strode down the path to the main door and rang the bell. It had a civilised ring and I didn’t have to wait long before the door was opened by a man in a dog collar. ‘Some sort of party?’ I said, barging in.

  Mrs Dolman sat on a sofa with two other middle-aged women, coffee mugs and a plate of digestives on the table in front of them. Each had what looked like a bible opened on their laps and I started to feel very uncomfortable.

  *

  ‘I’ve just finished speaking to the archbishop of Wales.’

  Cornock let out a long sigh as he finished. The clergyman I’d met was the archbishop’s chaplain who was leading a confirmation class that Mrs Dolman attended.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ Cornock looked over at me.

  ‘It was the best intelligence we had. She had lied to us about where she was the Monday morning that her husband had been killed and she had everything to gain from his death.’

  I ran out of steam and let the last few words sort of hang in the air. It all sounded circumstantial when I listed them aloud.

  ‘The archbishop wanted to apologise on behalf of Mrs Dolman. She was naturally distraught after her husband’s death. She should have mentioned it, she realises that now.’

  ‘And she was drunk.’

  Cornock gave me a troubled patronising look as though I was a naughty child. He shook his head. ‘The archbishop thought it was all rather unfortunate. I gather that his chaplain was rather less generous and wanted to make a complaint.’

  Cornock must have seen the worry cross my face. ‘Don’t worry John. The archbishop has told me that it’s not going to happen. He told me that Mrs Dolman has been taking confirmation classes for twelve months. Are you a religious man, John?’

  ‘Ah…’

  Cornock sat back in his chair and gazed over at his aquarium. My mother went to church three times a year but the congregation was small and she always complained about the women sniggering about her behind her back. I could still remember as a boy attending a Christmas carol concert in one of the large chapels that was a community centre now, running courses on multi-culturism, gender equality and pottery.

  ‘My mother goes at Christmas and…’

  Cornock was nodding. ‘My wife was the same. Easter and harvest thanksgiving until… Well, after Sharon… she…’

  It was the nearest that Superintendent Cornock had ever got to discussing personal details. Although he wasn’t really discussing anything, he just sounded rather sad.

  He shook himself out of the momentary melancholia. ‘Count yourself lucky, John. Christian charity and all that.’

  He had already started on another pile of papers on his desk when I left his room.

  Outside I stood for a moment. I could imagine the comments from Troy and Rex Dolman. For now Mrs Dolman would definitely be off the official persons of interest list but I couldn’t ignore that voice in my mind telling me that she might still be involved.

  *

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor of Queen Street and from outside the Incident Room I heard the tone of Dave Hobbs’ voice. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that he was talking in Welsh to Wyn. They continued babbling on when I strode in.

  Hobbs gave me a quick glance, and turned back to Wyn who frowned as he looked at me. I had expected Hobbs to have emailed in advance or texted and his presence in my Incident Room set my nerves on edge. But more than anything I wanted to know what they had been talking about. I had always dismissed as paranoia English people’s complaints about being excluded in shops in parts of Wales where Welsh was spoken. Now I knew how they felt.

  ‘I was telling DC Nuttall about my initial work on the letters Dolman received. And he was telling me all about the inquiry,’ Hobbs announced.

  Wyn blinked furiously.

  That shredded more of my nerves. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me, Dave.’

  ‘No trouble. I have some time this morning. I’m seeing the chief super later for an update so I thought that first thing would be a good time to meet.’

  I walked over to my office, Hobbs following me. I sat down and Hobbs made himself comfortable in one of the visitor chairs. My conscience had got the better of me about Terry’s offer of intelligence on the Cardiff City Soul Crew so I had emailed Hobbs.

  ‘Did I tell you about my meetings with the Metropolitan Police?’

  He knew that he hadn’t. And then he launched into a barrage of name dropping the senior officers of the Met that he’d been meeting.

  ‘There’s even talk of a national task force ahead of the next World Cup. There might even be secondments available.’

  Then Hobbs examined the nails of his left hand very carefully, allowing me to fully understand that he was vying for promotion, big time. All I could think of was that he was far too much of country boy to be mixing with the senior officers of the Met. They probably had a good snigger at him behind his back.

  ‘You wanted to brief me on something.’

  I sat back in my chair deciding how little I could tell him without risking a complaint. ‘I spoke to one of my regular informants. He says he might be able to help. Terry has always been very reliable’

  Hobbs nodded. ‘And what does he want in return?’

  I opened the palms of both hands.

  Hobbs nodded. ‘Don’t waste your time, John. These toe-rags aren’t worth the effort.’

  Now I rolled my eyes. ‘I had to tell you, Dave. Protocols and all that.’

  Hobbs stood up and glanced at his watch. ‘I hope you make progress with the Dolman case.’

  Then he left and I pondered whether I should contact Terry again. Dave Hobbs always had the effect on me of getting me to do the direct opposite of what he suggested.

  Chapter 30

  Brenda Dolman’s skin followed the contours of her cheeks more closely than I remembered. She gave me a dull, lifeless stare. A pack of Camel Blue sat on the table alongside her handbag and subconsciously I counted how many cigarettes I had smoked that day. Mid-morning sunshine filtered through the blinds covering the windows of the conference room in the National Bank of Wales. To her right sat Troy and on his right Charlotte who had a file of papers open in front of her. She gave me one of her perfect smiles, beguiling yet utterly devoid of warmth. Troy leant on the table, glaring at me as though he needed only the slightest provocation to jump over it and throttle me.

  I avoided staring at Troy. What sort of name was that? The picture we had built of him didn’t suggest the nobility of a warrior from Greek mythology – more of a wealthy spoilt thug.

  Lydia sat by my side, her hands placed one on top of the other on the table.

  ‘Thank you so much for attending,’ Troy said.

  I nodded, unimpressed with his attempt at charm.

  ‘We don’t for one minute want to hinder your inquiry into our father’s death but we wanted you to be aware of the family’s position in relation to Deborah Bowen.’

  Brenda flinched, curled her lips and let out an impatient breath.

  ‘As you’re aware my father had a relationship with Ms Bowen.’ He darted a glance at Brenda who stared straight ahead. ‘And we know that you’ve taken an interest in the homeless shelter and the bank’s connections with Alan Turner.’

  ‘We have to pursue all lines of inquiry. It is a murder—’

  Troy raised his voice. ‘I know that full well, Inspector.’ Charlotte put a hand on his forearm. ‘I’ll let Charlotte give you the details.’

  Charlotte looked up and gave me another professional smile. ‘The family have decided to create a trust fund for Charlie Bowen. The terms will provide a generous—’

  ‘Very generous,’ Troy said.

  ‘Settlement for the young boy so that his every need will be catered for, now and in the future. T
he trustees will be Deborah Bowen and both Troy and Rex. The sum provided will enable Ms Bowen to buy a bigger home that she can occupy while Charlie is still at school. It will enable her to maintain her career and the fund will pay for nannies and additional help while he’s still so young. And then all of his school fees will be paid and university, of course.’

  It sounded so cold and detached as though they were dealing with a commodity. Perhaps that’s what a private education meant, disinterest from the nuts and bolts of real parenting. But it reminded me of the warmth in Deborah’s voice as she described the holidays they’d spent in Nice. And I wondered why exactly we had been invited to this meeting.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Assistant Chief Constable Neary,’ Troy said, propping his chin on steepled forearms. ‘She agreed with me that the original death threat letters my father received have to be the focus of your inquiries. It’s a matter of concern to us that insufficient resources are being directed at the inquiry into these terrorists.’

  I sat back in the comfortable chair and stared over at him. Now I knew why we were there. The trust fund was a carefully choreographed stunt that told us that the Dolman family were out of bounds.

  ‘We certainly will,’ I said.

  Lydia turned to look at me.

  ‘I don’t think that we’d be breaking a confidence in saying that our inquiries into the various groups involved are making good progress.’

  Charlotte peered over at me intently as Troy nodded his head.

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  ‘We have had some very interesting leads in the last few days.’ I glanced at Lydia. I detected a frown in her eyes. ‘These groups have been very active on the internet since Mr Dolman’s death and it’s only a matter of time before we find the culprits.’

  ‘When do you anticipate an arrest?’ Troy said.

  I drew a hand in the air and rolled my eyes. ‘Imminently.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Troy stood up; Charlotte followed his example and then gathered her papers together. Brenda sat impassively before reaching for her cigarettes. Troy even managed some humour as we left the room. Brenda had no time for me – not even an attempt at small talk.

  We headed back for Queen Street.

  ‘You were very diplomatic, boss.’

  I gave Lydia a broad smile. ‘Exactly what he wanted to hear.’

  Lydia snorted. ‘Mrs Dolman looked wrecked.’

  I was already reaching for the cigarettes in my pocket when Lydia added, ‘Too many cigarettes are bad for you.’

  ‘We’ll have to report back to Cornock.’

  ‘Name dropping the ACC was clever.’

  I put a cigarette to my lips and stopped to spark my lighter into action. It annoyed me that Troy thought he could dictate the terms of the inquiry and it annoyed me even more that if I wasn’t careful I could allow my judgement to be clouded by him; already clear thinking felt like a scarce commodity. I pulled deeply on the cigarette and let the smoke score my windpipe. ‘Then we look at Troy Dolman in detail. Everything. We need a better picture of him.’

  Back in Queen Street I checked the memorandum I had prepared for Cornock about Tracy. I pondered what exactly I could tell him in our appointment later that afternoon. I had ignored the messages from Tracy since I had seen her in the National Gallery but her message that morning suggested meeting for lunch. As I stared at the screen I realised I would have to tackle her. Confront her and then let her face the consequences.

  I noted the time, and grabbed my jacket draped behind my chair. Walking gave me time to think about the timing of our relationship. She had made certain that she had a direct source into the heart of the inquiry. The prospect that she had fed details of the investigation back to Greg Jones and Henson filled me with rage. Rehearsing the questions I wanted to ask her only confused me even more. All I really wanted to do was to demand an explanation and let the usual disciplinary procedure take its course.

  I reached the door of the public house and pushed it open. Tracy sat in a corner. My lips suddenly felt dry and cracked. Her mouth formed words of greeting but she said nothing. She gulped a mouthful of wine before replacing her glass on the table in front of her. She frowned so I guessed she must have seen the hard look in my eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  I pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. There was a glossy sheen to her dark hair and it was just as I remembered it from that first morning, cascading over the pillow by my side.

  ‘I could ask the same thing about you.’

  She gave me a puzzled look. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done. I thought we were…’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Then tell me what happened. What have I done?’ There was a tear in one eye.

  ‘You’ve got something to tell me.’

  She reached for a handkerchief. ‘Don’t play games with me, John.’

  I leant back in my chair. A group of rowdy girls came into the pub and ordered fancy cocktails, giggling hysterically.

  ‘I saw you in the gallery on Wednesday. I was early.’

  She gave me another puzzled look.

  ‘I’ll need to report everything to Superintendent Cornock. You know that don’t you?’

  ‘This is madness. I don’t what you mean.’

  ‘Come on Tracy. The man with you in the National Gallery is Greg Jones. He’s associated with one of the persons of interest in our inquiry. I met him when he was with Paul Youlden in the old factory in Newport. And of course every time we’ve met we’ve talked about the case. You probably know as much about it as the DCs on my team.’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. The puzzled expression gave way to annoyance. She glanced over towards the bar but nobody was looking in our direction.

  ‘And you think I’ve been sharing secrets. Betraying the trust of the WPS.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like, Tracy.’

  She brushed away the tears and paused, drank more wine.

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  Chapter 31

  I didn’t get a chance to see Cornock. At the time of our scheduled meeting I was heading for the Severn Bridge. Tracy’s reassurance that her relationship with Greg was sporadic and that she hadn’t seen him for weeks was scant comfort when I thought about all the details she knew of the case. And it only made me more annoyed that she was involved. After taking the call from Jackie I had made to leave and I had raised my voice unintentionally, demanding that Tracy promise me she wouldn’t talk to Greg. I had read the dismay in her eyes when she realised that I didn’t trust her.

  Jackie had called to tell me that the hospital had stopped the sedatives and that the next twenty-four hours would be crucial. I dragged into my memory the words Jim Holland had said about his recovery. It all sounded so vague and uncertain. The heavy traffic delayed me reaching Southampton until late afternoon.

  I rushed through into the PICU and then headed for Dean’s private room.

  Jackie was cradling his hand in hers. She looked up and gave me a welcoming smile. The banks of gadgetry and equipment behind Dean still flickered and bleeped. But the wire that had protruded from his head with such foreboding had been removed.

  ‘They’ve stopped the sedation this afternoon,’ Jackie said.

  ‘How long…?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  I sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs.

  My hearing adjusted itself to the sound of activity in the hospital. Nurses and doctors exchanged muffled conversations, trolleys and beds were wheeled in and out of the unit. I recognised a father from the previous weekend who looked exhausted at his daughter’s bedside. He narrowed his eyes and gave me a weak smile.

  Jim Holland arrived to see Dean before ten that evening. He breezed in, obviously revived by his leave. He looked at Dean, checked the charts and then gazed over at us.

  ‘By the morning he should be stirring. The drugs can be unpredictable.’

  Neither Jackie
nor I knew what to say. We had to wait.

  I persuaded Jackie to sleep first. Time dragged. I drank a lot of weak coffee, exchanged small talk with various nurses and touched my son’s hand. But he didn’t stir. Jackie yawned as she came back into the room, drawing a hand through her hair.

  I slept fitfully, dreaming about Tracy. It made me wake up with a start, wondering what Cornock would say. I fell back onto the narrow bed but sleep eluded me so I wandered through to the parents’ room.

  The man I’d seen earlier was sitting in a soft chair scanning a back issue of a car magazine. On the television in one corner an old episode of Top Gear was playing.

  ‘How’s your lad?’

  I sat down. ‘He’s off the sedation now and they hope he’ll wake up in the morning.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  A thin grey veil drew itself slowly over his eyes. ‘She’s very poorly.’

  ‘I hope you get some good news soon.’

  ‘So do I.’

  We watched in silence as Jeremy Clarkson played with the controls of a car that the average person could never own.

  My new friend pointed the remote at the television. ‘This is a good bit. Clarkson goes off on a rant about the sat-nav and the screen. It’s real boys and their toys stuff.’

  We watched as the presenter poked the touchscreen and then fiddled with the dials, ending by telling his audience that you needed a PhD in astrophysics to understand how it worked.

  I lost interest in the programme after that and wandered back to Dean’s room. Jackie had her head propped on the bed and she was fast asleep. I sat down quietly and waited.

  Morning bought more noise and the bustle of the PICU returned.

  Dean lay there oblivious.

  Jackie had woken with a stiff neck and sore back that had been eased by paracetamol. By mid-morning we’d both showered, but wearing the same clothes made me feel stale.

  Jackie tried small talk. ‘Are you very busy?’