Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Frantic.’

  She gave an enigmatic look as though she couldn’t understand why I was there. ‘Is it a murder case?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Is it someone who knew the victim?’

  ‘We don’t know who the killer is. It might be more than one.’

  ‘Isn’t it usually someone the victim knows?’

  I nodded. My mind turned to the images of likely suspects pinned to the Incident Room board, who all knew the victims, and I wondered what we had missed and whether we were any nearer to finding the killer. It was mid-afternoon after Jim Holland had done his ward round when there was the first sign of movement. It hastened my pulse and Jackie drew shallow breaths. An hour passed as we waited for something else to happen and all the while the movement in his young body increased. As did my anticipation.

  Finally he choked on the tube that was still firmly stuck in his throat.

  The nurse rushed out and returned moments later with a doctor who removed it. Then he held a mask on Dean’s face for a while until he was happy he was breathing normally, then he replaced this with another mask with a bag hanging from it. And my tension released like a coiled spring unwinding. Another agonisingly slow hour passed until he opened his eyes. Then the tears poured down Jackie’s cheeks. He turned towards me weakly, smiled and then I too brushed away a tear.

  Chapter 32

  In the early hours I drove back to Cardiff elated that Dean was now out of danger. I woke the following morning in my apartment in the Bay after dreaming about Jeremy Clarkson gesticulating wildly at the dashboard of a car. I realised it had been the same episode I had seen the day before while squirming in the uncomfortable upright chair waiting for Dean to move.

  The same feeling struck me again that there had to be something I was missing.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. I was still tired and I needed to think clearly. What had Jackie said last night? Aren’t murders committed by people known to the victim? I had ignored her comment – she’d watched too much television.

  I decided I had to get back to the Royal Bell.

  I missed most of the traffic because I was so early. After parking on a double yellow line, I walked over to the entrance. A man in his fifties stood up when I approached and the challenging look in his eyes soon waned when he saw my warrant card. I climbed the staircase to the top floor and stood for a moment as my chest tightened.

  The early spring sunshine made Cardiff look warm. I turned around and scanned the top level. I counted five BMWs and a handful of 4x4s and a Jaguar coupé. After descending to the next level, I stood among the expensive cars, uncertain what I was hoping to achieve: some flash of inspiration? Another few minutes and I pushed open the door to Level 7A. I stood below the CCTV cameras. The attendant downstairs would probably think I had gone mad. Then I considered that perhaps there was more than one killer and that it had all been planned carefully. The cameras were taken out of action at exactly the right time, which meant that someone knew when Dolman could be expected. I heard the sound of a car taking the last steep turn before reaching level 7A and I stood to one side. A Mercedes saloon glided past.

  The killer had walked over to Dolman as he’d parked his car and calmly stuck a stiletto into his aorta. I pondered how his killer had prepared. Checking the time that Dolman arrived each morning must have been an important part. The routine enquiries would have to be rechecked. Statements from the car park customers, nearby office workers and passers-by in the streets all reread.

  I reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped out onto the pavement. Reaching for my cigarettes, I lit my second that morning. On the opposite side of the street were substantial mansions of three storeys that must have been the homes, decades before, of merchants or lawyers or bankers when Cardiff was smaller and the coal trade was booming.

  On a typical Monday morning there must have been dozens of people walking past on their way to work. Watching the coverage from the CCTV cameras at either end of the street had produced no results, but the killer would have known to avoid walking down the street.

  I turned around and noticed a narrow alley leading off down the side of the Royal Bell car park, easily accessible from the ground-floor level without walking onto the street. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere but I walked down alongside the wall of the adjacent building. Ahead of me was a steel grille and beyond it a yard full of bins. I rattled it and it stayed firmly in place. There didn’t seem to be any lock so I shook it again and then yanked it with both hands. It gave way and opened. I guessed that the uniformed officer who had checked must have given up when he reached the grille. Anticipation heightened my annoyance that the early stages of the inquiry had been less than thorough.

  I stepped into the yard and, looking up, saw windowless walls. But if the killer had been here then there must have been an exit. I skirted around half a dozen bins; beyond them was a door that opened from the inside only. I marched on and then, after a few metres, was rewarded with the sight of another passageway leading away at right angles. At the end I spotted another grille-like gate. I didn’t wait this time, I grabbed it and jerked it open.

  I sprinted down to the end of the passage and emerged onto a street full of taxis and pedestrians. There were two CCTV cameras high up on the side of a building further down the street. I muffled a shout of elation before noting the names of the various shops, knowing that Wyn and Jane could call each one. There had to be someone that might have seen something.

  Striding to the end of the road I turned back, trying to guess where the killer might have gone. I imagined a hurried walk tempered by the adrenalin that must have been bursting through his – or her – body.

  Racing back to my car, I headed back for Queen Street police station. Wyn and Jane gave me surprised looks when I burst into the Incident Room.

  ‘I need you to trace the CCTV coverage for the road at the back of the Royal Bell car park.’

  ‘Which road is that, boss?’

  I realised I hadn’t read the name. ‘I don’t know. It’s the one behind the bloody car park. I found an alleyway that leads around the back of the adjacent buildings and brings you out onto it… Just Google it or something. There are CCTV cameras at each end. And get working on calling all the shops. They might have their own systems.’

  An hour later there was a shout from the Incident Room and I rushed out to see Wyn and Lydia standing over Jane.

  ‘We’ve had that CCTV coverage you wanted, boss,’ Jane began. ‘You should see one section in particular.’

  I stood behind her, looking down at the monitor. I cut her explanation short. ‘Just get on with it.’

  ‘We started with the coverage from half an hour before Matthew Dolman arrived at the car park and we let it run on for ten minutes after he’d arrived.’

  She clicked again on the screen and the images speeded up. ‘As you can see, sir, there’s no activity in that alleyway before Dolman arrives. But just look when we slow the tape down at nine thirty-five.’

  A person emerged from the alleyway and strode into town, hands thrust deep into a jacket pocket, a dark beanie pulled down over his face, drainpipe jeans and Doc Martin-type boots.

  ‘Stop it. Stop it,’ I shouted.

  I peered down at the image monitor. It had to be the killer. It was the closest we had so far.

  I stalked over to the board and stared at the image of Matthew Dolman.

  His post mortem had ruled out any possibility that he had been moved after his death. I tried to picture the scene. Closing my eyes took me back to that Monday morning, kneeling down by the open driver’s side door, looking into the cabin. The sat-nav screen was elevated but I couldn’t make out the images.

  ‘What was on the screen in the car?’ I said.

  Behind me, Lydia cleared her throat. ‘The sat-nav screen was upright.’

  I opened my eyes and peered at her. She gave me a puzzled look.

  I took a deep breath, despairing that my thought pro
cess was so garbled. ‘He must have switched off the engine when he parked. But the sat-nav was in an upright position. So he must have switched the ignition on again for the sat-nav screen to open.’

  ‘Maybe he was listening to a radio programme or to the end of a CD,’ Lydia said, dampening my excitement.

  ‘But what if he was…’ I thought about the presenters of Top Gear. Often they explained to their viewers how the dashboard of cars worked. It was a man thing – boys and their toys. ‘He was showing someone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It had to be someone he knew.’ I cursed for having missed the obvious. ‘I need to see that street again.’ I paced over to my room, and found my jacket before striding back to the Incident Room. The rest were still sitting by their desks. ‘I meant all of you.’ I yelled.

  There was a scramble for coats and bags. Then we marched over to the alley where I stopped to get my breath back. I wanted to believe that we were nearer the killer than at any time during the investigation. He had walked on this pavement. I turned and looked over at the various shops and offices.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to everyone who works here.’ I nodded towards the shops and offices.

  I could sense the silent groans around me. ‘Now that we suspect the killer left the car park this way we’ll have to get everyone interviewed.’

  ‘We’ll need photographs of the person from the CCTV coverage, boss,’ Lydia said.

  I had barely started dictating instructions when my mobile rang. It was Tracy. Her voice trembled. ‘My brother wants to see you.’

  Chapter 33

  Leftie’s lounge was empty when I arrived. Alex Leftrowski was the only person behind the bar and his accent was still as thick and heavy as the day he left Russia for a better life in the West. It was debatable whether running a bar in Cardiff qualified. I had overstayed my welcome too many times in Leftie’s, drunk too much, argued too much with the staff that refused to serve me but still Alex smiled at me as I walked in.

  It was the sort of place that kept its secrets. Nothing that happened inside ever filtered out. Leftie made certain of that. His hands were his best advocates.

  ‘John Marco,’ he said. ‘It is long time.’

  I nodded. Being permanently sober turns you from social animal to social pariah very quickly.

  ‘I’m busy. You know how it is.’

  He nodded to the far end of the bar. ‘Over there.’ And then he pushed over a bottle of sparkling water and waved a hand at me when I offered to pay.

  Tracy sat on the edge of a leather sofa, her brother by her side. She drew a hand through her hair and pulled it behind both ears. She tensed when I sat down and gave me a dark stare. I had checked the records for her brother’s full name: Gregory Norman Jones. I had even memorised his date of birth. It had been a few days since a razor had met the skin on his face and just as long since he had showered from the look of his hair that stuck up in greasy lumps.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’ Greg sipped from a green bottle of European lager.

  ‘You have no idea what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, John,’ Tracy said.

  I drank a mouthful of the sparkling water but I kept looking at her. There were bags under her eyes that hadn’t been there before the weekend. ‘I’m going to speak to Superintendent Cornock later.’

  ‘That gives me an opportunity to explain.’ Greg put the bottle down on the table. ‘The bankers are to blame for so much that has gone wrong with our society. After the financial crisis, I thought it was time that things might change. But then the cuts started in public spending and the councils cut the funding for social services. I was working in the local council with frail elderly people as a carer. I loved what I was doing.’

  He reached over for the bottle and began peeling the label. He looked up at me.

  ‘It was terrible. Everyone frightened for their jobs. And then you realise that the bankers haven’t changed. Massive bonuses and a complete disregard for the ordinary man in the street. And they accepted no responsibility for what they had done.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all of this, Greg?’

  He frowned now. ‘I want you to understand.’

  ‘Understand?’ I got incredulity into my voice.

  ‘Please, listen.’ Tracy added quietly.

  ‘I joined this group and they wanted to demonstrate peacefully. Make a point about the bankers. And how we could put things right if only the politicians saw sense and got balance into things. We made videos and there were public meetings…’

  ‘And your friend Henson had the debate with Dolman on the television.’

  He nodded as his head drooped. ‘That was stupid and I told him not to do it. He was never the same afterwards. Everything changed.’ The label-peeling stopped. He looked up at me, a shadow crossed his eyes. ‘That’s when things got serious.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There were a lot of arguments in the group about strategy.’ He paused and I could sense the disappointment of the zealot ultimately disillusioned with his adopted cause. ‘Some of them wanted more direct action.’

  I leant forward. ‘Who?’

  ‘Jamie Henson. He believes in direct action. He said it was the only way that we could effect change and that the political system was bankrupt. He was convinced that kidnapping one of the bankers was the only way to secure change. Make an example of him and humiliate him in front of the cameras. Just like he was humiliated. It became an all-consuming hatred for him. So he split from our group and he went off with Cleaver.’

  ‘Dolman received death threats. Could Henson have sent them?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  Tracy hadn’t said a word since Greg started talking. I glanced at her. She curled her lips. The hardness had gone and there was a defiant edge to her expression.

  ‘Who else was with Henson?’ I said.

  Greg reeled off the names of two others that I noted down in my pocket book.

  ‘Is Henson capable of murder?’ I said.

  Greg stared at me through narrowed eyes. ‘He’s got a hell of a temper and he’s mad enough to do anything. But kill someone…? I don’t know.’

  I finished the water as Greg downed the last of his lager. Tracy sat massaging her fingers and avoiding my gaze. Jamie Henson had just turned from a person of interest into a formal suspect.

  ‘I will need every piece of information you have about Henson including addresses, telephone numbers, friends, etc.’

  He nodded and I spent the next hour jotting down everything he told me. Afterwards I got up and made to leave but he turned to me again. ‘You should know that there’s a demonstration next Friday outside the bank’s office. Henson’s organised it and he’s been boasting about the people he’s got coming down from London.’

  *

  At the end of the afternoon I stood listening to Lydia summarising the preliminary work they had achieved from the shop-to-shop interviewing that afternoon. I soon realised that it would take days of work. Wyn and Jane wouldn’t be able to start on the offices until the start of the week. And in the meantime we were no nearer to identifying the killer. Half an hour later I stood outside Cornock’s office, rapped two knuckles on his door, and heard a shout from inside. He was standing over his desk reading the inside pages of one of the broadsheets.

  ‘I need a word, sir.’

  I sat in one of the low-backed visitor chairs and dragged a foot over the other knee. I noticed that my brown brogues were filthy so I uncrossed my leg and tried the other shoe, which was cleaner. ‘It’s about the Dolman and Turner murders—’

  ‘Is it about Tracy Jones, the CSI?’

  ‘Ah… How did you…?’

  ‘Alvine sent me a report. It wasn’t very complimentary about your handling of the position.’ Cornock folded the paper neatly, placed it on top of a bookcase, and then sat down. He gave me a wary look. ‘Tracy Jones has been informed that she should not be in
volved with any of your ongoing inquiries.’

  ‘I was concerned that…’ I wasn’t thinking clearly. Tracy had been to see Alvine before I had a chance to talk to Cornock. It made me look a complete idiot for not having reported the matter sooner. ‘I was with Dean over the weekend.’

  ‘Of course. How is he?’

  ‘The doctors think he’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘Pleased to hear that. So any developments on the Dolman case?’

  Cornock nodded as I gave him an executive summary before I left. He raised an eyebrow when I mentioned the demonstration.

  ‘Take care, John. No balls-ups.’

  I got home late and rang Jackie to check on Dean, relieved to hear he was getting stronger every minute.

  Chapter 34

  The lawyer’s offices where Lydia and I were meeting the Dolmans were next to the National Bank of Wales. It was early afternoon and still cold. Back at Queen Street Wyn and Jane were building a complete picture of all the names that Greg had given us with addresses and known aliases and contacts. They had instructions to make progress by the time we got back. I hesitated when we reached the open concrete area in front of the bank, wondering what exactly Henson had planned for Friday.

  A woman at reception welcomed me as though I was a high-rolling client that needed star treatment. She picked up a telephone and I heard her say my name. Then a younger woman arrived, sat down and ran her identity card through a reader connected to her computer.

  ‘Big Brother, eh?’ I said, making conversation.

  She gave me her welcoming smile. ‘Everyone has to sign in. That way they know when we arrive. It means they can track the hours that the fee-earners work.’ Then she rolled her eyes. Her colleague pushed a visitor name badge over the desk at Lydia and me.

  From behind a large glass door the personal assistant I’d met at the bank emerged. A name badge dangled from a lanyard hanging around her neck. She wore a narrow pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse and neatly cut blond hair. Her high heels made her calves look lean and sculpted. Lydia gave her shoes a serious look.