Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  Charlotte ticked that box.

  And so, I decided, did Tracy. And she had been right at the heart of the case from the start. A sick, hollow feeling crept through my body.

  The professional community in Cardiff was more claustrophobic than I had expected. I stepped out into the Incident Room; my thoughts were emerging from yesterday’s fog.

  Wyn and Jane looked up at me.

  ‘Have we had details of any of Harper’s clients? And more importantly, anyone common to Dolman and Turner.’

  ‘Ian Lewis has just sent the details over,’ Wyn said, clicking into his inbox.

  The list was of current cases, which didn’t interest me.

  Pretty girl Harding had said.

  A lump developed in my throat. And it got much bigger and more uncomfortable the more I thought about Tracy. Then I thought how much I actually knew about her… And… it got worse.

  I stood up and pulled a hand over my mouth.

  I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

  When I realised that I knew someone who might help I had a momentary sensation of relief. Margo Smith had been named after an opera star but she’d not been rewarded with a singing voice. A career in the human resources department of the Wales Police Service meant she had seen every possible new policy and protocol and that she had a jaded attitude to match. She owed me a favour but, even so, I scrambled to think of a reasonable excuse, one that might sound vaguely plausible. I found my mobile and made the call. It went to voicemail and I cursed. Ordinary people had Sunday with their families away from work. I left a message and rang off.

  By lunchtime, the only progress I had made was to suspect every attractive woman that had been involved on the strength of a remark Harding had made. My confidence that I was making progress was evaporating. I left Queen Street, passing a van belonging to one of the television channels. I skirted round it and carried on walking towards the castle. I pressed onwards towards the river before dropping down onto the opposite side of the Taff and walking down Riverside. The Millennium Stadium towered above me, large hoardings fluttering from its balconies advertising the Wales v Belgium soccer match the next weekend. All Wales had to do was draw and we would be through to the European finals.

  I crossed back over the bridge, hoping the walk was doing me some good. My mobile rang and I pulled it from my back pocket.

  ‘How are you, John?’ Margo said. ‘Long time no-contact.’

  ‘Hi Margo, how are you?’

  ‘It’s Sunday, John. You must want something?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  After arranging to meet her I drove over to headquarters. An audit was starting the following week and it meant that her department was working all weekend. I had decided that honesty would have to be the only option. Margo raised her eyebrows and kept them high as though some invisible thread had pulled them when I explained about Tracy. Chivalry got the better of me and I kept it simple.

  ‘I need background to eliminate her from the inquiry.’

  Margo sat back in her chair. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘It’s just that with Lydia missing and the cases of Matthew Dolman still open—’

  ‘Is that the banker?’

  I nodded. ‘I need to untangle everything. You know what it’s like…’

  Margo wasn’t impressed. She narrowed her eyes and stared at me. I smiled back.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ she said.

  She perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose and squinted at her monitor before the printer churned out various sheets. She quickly checked the pages and thrust them over the desk. ‘I hope it helps.’

  I left clutching the paper securely. Back in my car I uncurled them and let out a long breath.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Cornock shouted down the telephone.

  I slowed the car and pulled up in front of a newsagent. ‘On my back to Queen Street.’

  ‘We’ll bloody well start without you then.’

  I thumped my hand on the steering wheel having forgotten about the Major Incident Team meeting. Slamming the car into gear, I careered off towards the station. I parked clumsily and then ran over to the rear door. By the time I reached the conference room perspiration prickled my brow.

  The ACC glowered at me; Cornock gave me the briefest of nods. None of the others looked in my direction. I fumbled a gasping apology as I sat down.

  The tone of the meeting had changed from yesterday. The atmosphere had altered imperceptibly too. Darkness had descended. The ACC made clear that all available resources should be focused on using intelligence to trace Lydia.

  ‘I’ve got every intelligence analyst working on the case.’ She looked over at me, her eyes hooded and severe now.

  ‘Have you got anything to report on the Harper case, Inspector Marco?’

  Full rank and surname, bad sign. I took a deep breath and hoped my breathing would get back to normal.

  ‘I’ve allocated a small team to build a picture of his family and background. I’m waiting for forensics and the post mortem report.’ Even I was impressed with how important it sounded.

  The ACC nodded and carried on with the briefing. I listened to the other officers but they had nothing to report and the tone of their voices was solemn. After half an hour she finished the meeting and I got back to my office.

  In common with most detective inspectors I had built up a large bank of people who owed me favours over the years and the sergeant in Pontypridd was one of them. I’d covered his back in a nasty complaint a few years back but now I needed the help of his officers.

  I called the police station in Pontypridd. ‘Anything on the Frost business?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, Ian. They found nothing on the Frost bloke. The former employees only remember all that bad publicity. They couldn’t remember anything else.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I hesitated. Then I reached for Tracy’s personal details. ‘I need another favour.’

  *

  The Harper family home was a sumptuous detached property in Cyncoed, one of the wealthier suburbs to the north of Cardiff. It was the sort of neighbourhood where every house had an alarm screwed to the outside wall, windows with secure locks and households with substantial home insurance premiums. I pulled into the drive and parked just behind a rental car. A light came on as I approached the front door. It was opened by a woman in her thirties who looked pale and drawn. She held out a hand. ‘Dawn Harper. My mother is in the conservatory.’

  We shook hands. ‘Detective Inspector John Marco.’

  We walked through into a sitting room at the rear that led out into a large conservatory. I could see down to the bottom of a well-kept garden, where a small summerhouse sat underneath the branches of a carefully pruned sycamore. Mrs Harper sat at the end of a sofa looking drained of life, dark shadows under her eyes. She wore a baggy fleece over an old T-shirt, a pair of fifties-style glasses perched on her nose.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Harper. My condolences.’

  These situations were the hardest part of being a police officer. Offering condolences, trying to sound sincere about the loss of somebody who was a complete stranger.

  Dawn Harper gestured at the sofa opposite her mother and I sat down.

  ‘I need some background. I was hoping that you might be able to help. Did your husband seem worried about any anything?’

  Mrs Harper shook her head. ‘Nothing, nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Was he complaining about work at all?’

  She pulled a face at me. ‘That’s all he did. He’d leave before seven o’clock in the morning and wouldn’t be back until seven in the evening.’

  Dawn Harper interrupted. ‘My father was very dedicated to his work. The business came first for him.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  Jean Harper gazed over my shoulder. ‘We didn’t have much of a social life. He would even have files and papers to work on during the weekend. He always said that he mi
ght retire sometime. But I really don’t know what we would have done…’

  I cleared my throat and adjusted my position before asking Mrs Harper about her personal life and wondering how she might react. ‘I know you’ve spoken to some of my colleagues,’ I said. ‘But how were things between you and your husband?’

  She gave me a blank look. I couldn’t read any expression in her eyes. She glanced at her daughter. Then she settled back into looking down the garden. The door from the hallway opened and a man, wearing a heavily striped blue shirt and well-pressed denims, came in and sat down without introducing himself.

  ‘Geoff,’ Dawn Harper said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Marco. My brother, Inspector.’

  Geoff Harper gave me a vague grin and flipped an ankle over one knee. No grieving son here I concluded.

  ‘Any financial problems, Mrs Harper?’

  She shook her head. ‘He worked very hard…’

  Geoff Harper made a brief grunt. ‘Not since those problems with the company.’

  I turned towards him and sharpened my gaze. ‘What were those problems?’ I tried to make the enquiry sound conversational.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Geoff said, waving a hand in the air. ‘Dad sorted the whole business out.’

  ‘It might be relevant. Do you remember the details?’

  Geoff sighed as though assisting me with the inquiry was a massive chore. Disliking Geoff Harper was becoming very easy.

  ‘Mum had this production company. They had great plans. But things never got off the ground. Expensive offices in the Bay and they had a handful of documentaries commissioned by the BBC.’

  Jean Harper took on a sharp tone as she reprimanded her son. ‘We did six documentaries altogether. And they were all sold successfully to the BBC.’

  ‘But it was the other programmes that were a complete flop.’

  Jean Harper shook her head.

  ‘Come on, mum. The business was a disaster.’

  I raised my voice. ‘When did the business close down?’

  Geoff waved a hand in the air again. ‘A year ago. Dad sorted it all out with the bank.’

  ‘Which bank would that have been?’ I sounded hoarse as I spoke.

  ‘National Bank of Wales, of course.’

  The thump of my heart threatened to drown out my words. ‘How much money was involved?’

  Geoff glanced at Dawn and then over at his mother. ‘It was over £250,000. All gone on fancy offices and grand plans.’

  Now he had all of my attention. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Dad did a deal with the bank somehow.’

  Chapter 44

  It was nine-thirty am when I returned from the Major Incident Team meeting. Both Wyn and Jane were chained to their desks, staring at the flickering monitors.

  ‘Anything new, boss?’ Wyn said.

  In truth I had sat through the meeting, unable to concentrate as the assistant chief constable had gone round all the participants asking for an update. A detective inspector and two sergeants at the first meeting, whose names I couldn’t remember, gave summaries of all the ongoing activity in the search to find Lydia. ‘Nothing.’

  Jane stood up from her desk. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you about these messages, sir.’ She moved over towards the Incident Room board.

  I joined her as she pointed at the sheets. ‘We know that the third message was produced on a different printer.’ She must have seen the confusion on my face. ‘You know, the one that was delivered here?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The first two messages accompanied the first two deaths. What was the motive for sending us the third message?’

  Wyn butted in. ‘These guys are just deranged. They believe in all this anti-capitalist crap.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ I said to Jane.

  ‘It might be nothing. But we know that the message found with Harper was printed on the same machine as the first two.’

  I could see where Jane was taking this argument. ‘So why was the third message printed on a different machine?’

  Jane tapped a ballpoint on the relevant message on the board. ‘It’s out of sequence. And then I thought about the timing. You had a meeting at the NBW on the Thursday before the message was delivered on that Saturday.’

  Unease gathered as I scoured my memory trying to recall exactly what had been said at the National Bank of Wales. I had spoken to the Dolmans about Matthew Dolman’s financial position. I had told them about the discovery of the flat in Nice and I could remember the surprise on their faces. Although only Troy Dolman had known about it beforehand.

  Astonishment: had been Lydia’s description of Charlotte’s reaction. An invisible strap drew itself closer and closer around my chest.

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled, before clearing my throat. ‘We told them about the flat in Nice. I wanted to establish if they knew about it.’

  ‘And did anything happen on Friday, the day after you were in the bank?’

  ‘I saw David Turner. And…’ Suddenly, I remembered my Friday evening with Tracy. And that green dress. I rubbed a hand over the hair on the back of my neck, and tried not to look self-conscious. I had talked about work over dinner but I always talk about work. Tracy had been inquisitive and working in forensics meant I didn’t worry about confidentiality.

  I thought about my conversations with Tracy over dinner that Friday, in bed Friday evening, over breakfast the following morning. I wanted to kick something, really hard. If either Tracy or Charlotte was Malcolm Frost’s daughter and they were on a campaign of revenge I had to find out which one and fast. There was no credible evidence and I had no basis for taking my suspicions to Cornock.

  As soon as I got back to my office, I dialled the number of the sergeant in Pontypridd.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got nothing to report just yet.’

  I stood, momentarily uncertain where to turn next. Then I noticed two boxes on the floor in one corner. A brief examination told me they contained the personnel records from Harper’s law firm. I found Charlotte Parkinson’s file halfway through the second box.

  There was an address in Penarth, a certificate from the University of Bristol confirming her first class honours degree. She had been qualified for ten years and there was a summary of her experience at the firm where she had trained. I even found the website where the firm described itself as ‘highly specialist’ in the niche ‘international banking sector’. Most of the work that she had done made little sense to me.

  I found the details of her next of kin as an aunt – Mary Lloyd – who lived in Kidderminster. I made a call to central operations requesting a search against the name.

  ‘I need a standard financial search against Charlotte Parkinson as well.’

  I could hear the groan down the telephone. ‘That’s going to take time.’

  ‘I need it urgently. And I need a search on a Tracy Jones.’

  Another groan. I scrambled through my papers for Tracy’s personal details.

  ‘All I want is the standard preliminary financial enquiries. Bank statements. And I need it today.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. I’ll do what I can by first thing in the morning.’

  I glared at the phone once the call had finished.

  By mid-morning, I was standing outside the rear door of Queen Street, smoking. It gave me time to think, not that it was doing any good. One of the reception staff came out to stand by my side. She gave me a self-conscious smile as she lit up, as though we were sharing a dirty secret. She had a sweet, overpowering perfume that I decided was quite repulsive. It was one of those cheap versions of expensive perfume you bought in a discount shop.

  Then I realised that throughout the inquiry my senses had been assaulted by various perfumes. Charlotte Parkinson’s was expensive, drilling its way deep into my senses, setting off all sorts of alarms, bells and urges. I thought again about the Friday night with Tracy. I closed my eyes, tilted my head upwards, recalling the sensation of her hair brush
ing my face as she sat astride me.

  And then for some inexplicable reason I thought about Alvine Dix. Perfume. I threw the butt onto the tarmac and bolted back upstairs.

  ‘You said something about a smell, a perfume in the Royal Bell that first morning,’ I said as soon as she had answered the telephone.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘You mentioned something about a perfume. You must remember. For Christ’s sake, Alvine. You mentioned it.’

  ‘What’s all this about, Marco? You’re in some blind panic about a smell.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody difficult. Can you remember anything?’ I slowed down. ‘It’s important Alvine. Important for the case and probably about finding Lydia.’

  She hesitated. ‘Well, there was smell in the air and it was in the plastic pouch that held the message. Expensive I would say. I can’t explain it really, there was nothing on the paper, it’s just that… Well, some perfumes can linger.’

  ‘Would you recognise the perfume again?’

  ‘I don’t know… What do you think I am? A perfume expert?’

  I didn’t reply. I spent the next few hours drinking coffee, eating biscuits and the occasional sandwich that Jane and Wyn took turns in supplying from the kitchen. Occasionally I walked out into the Incident Room and stood staring at the board and then thinking aloud. I could sense Wyn and Jane staring at me. I spoke to the search team supervisor who had taken the property in Womanby Street apart, finding nothing of value. An email from forensics confirmed it was the setting for the videos but they were still working on the old clothes we had recovered.

  I tried to unscramble the connections between everyone involved in the failed bid for the electrification contract. It had been Frost Enterprises advised by Dolman and Harper and on the sidelines, Turner, who made things happen. Then I read again about Stanway. The memorandum from Charlotte Parkinson made Stanway and his family a convenient scapegoat. Frost Enterprises and Stanway Engineering had even shared the same liquidator. I spent a mind-chilling ten minutes speaking to an accountant who confirmed that the NBW had ‘sorted out’ a charge they had over a property owned by Frost’s first wife. When Boyd rang soon afterwards it was a pleasure to speak to someone who varied the tone of his voice.