I stared at Cornock, willing him to give me those extra few days. I could see his mind working. I looked over at Hobbs. He was squinting over at Cornock and I could imagine him playing an alien in a film with telepathic powers.
Abruptly Cornock stood up, scooping up his cap. ‘Monday, at the latest. You might make some progress this weekend.’ He gave me the barest of smiles and left.
Chapter 9
Thursday
10.30 am
We pulled up outside Westford’s flat and I looked up at the property. Boyd had already warned me that the tenant, a Mrs Webster, an elderly woman, had kept him talking for half an hour on the telephone when he arranged to call. As she had the ground floor apartment, he judged she might be the best tenant for us to talk to about Westford.
Mrs Webster insisted on making tea despite our feeble objections. I could see the rest of the morning disappearing in an interview that should have taken no more than half an hour. She returned from the kitchen carrying a tray with three steaming mugs.
‘How well did you know Eddie Westford?’ I said as she pushed a bowl of sugar lumps towards my tea. ‘No thanks. I’m watching my waistline.’
Boyd made a snorting sound and then helped himself to three lumps.
‘There were a lot of funny goings on.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sat back in her chair and gave us more detail about Westford’s nocturnal visitors. I glanced around the flat and, seeing no graduation photographs of grandchildren or family scenes, I guessed the activities of the tenants in the block were the sole interest in Mrs Webster’s life.
Almost an hour flew past as she gave us details of Westford’s life, how she always made a point of talking to Hartley when he visited and how she didn’t like the look of some of the ‘druggies’ that visited.
Eventually I cut across her. ‘Do you know Mr Clayton?’
She curled up her lips. ‘I’ve seen him once or twice. Quite a rude man. His wife is lovely. I make her Welsh cakes.’
‘How often does she visit?’ I made my voice sound casual.
‘Quite a few times.’ She took another sip of her tea. ‘I think one time she actually called to see Mr Westford.’
We stayed a little longer than I had intended, teasing more detail from her about the visits by Mr and Mrs Clayton. Loneliness and her make-believe world made seeing the truth difficult. After thanking her we left and, glancing back at the front window, saw her wave from the side of the net curtain.
‘Probably the most excitement she’s had all week,’ Boyd said as we reached the car.
I stood by the car to finish my second cigarette of the morning. ‘Let’s see what the Claytons have to say.’
‘I thought Inspector Hobbs’ team was investigating them.’
I ground the butt onto the pavement. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’
Thursday
2.00pm
A large sign hung outside the old chapel listing the various activities that took place inside: a yoga class, numerous educational courses and the computer training Gregory Clayton’s company offered. And there was a café offering all-day breakfasts.
Boyd and I followed the signs to the first floor. A fatty bacon smell hung in the air. At the end of a corridor a sign was fixed to the door: China Grove Training. I pushed it open and Boyd followed me through.
A young woman with large red-framed glasses looked up from her desk and gave us a blank stare. ‘Can I help?’ It didn’t sound as though she had any interest in doing so.
Flashing our warrant cards got her attention and she picked up the telephone handset and punched in a number. The place looked like any other office, humming computers, pot plants on cluttered desks and whiteboards on the wall with scribbled notices. China Grove Training had various contracts with government agencies and its website boasted how many unemployed people it had helped into employment by improving their skills and education. It all sounded too good to be true. It was the sort of success story that made me suspicious.
Clayton strode through the office towards us and reached out a hand. ‘Inspector Marco. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’
He gave me a politician’s smile and shook my hand a fraction too energetically. I introduced Boyd and we followed Clayton into his office.
‘I expect this visit is about Eddie Westford.’
The reference to Westford unnerved me. I sat down and he used another of his smiles. It told me he enjoyed being in control. I could see why politicians might like him. His forehead was a fraction too high and his cheekbones a little too wide which gave his face a disjointed appearance the more you looked at it.
‘He was killed on Tuesday evening near the Cardiff City Stadium.’
‘I know. I saw the details in the paper.’
‘How well did you know him?’
Before he could reply Deborah Clayton joined him and sat by his side. She had wary eyes and a cold body language.
‘Inspector Marco was asking about Eddie Westford.’
‘Who?’Her reply was a fraction too quick and well rehearsed.
‘He was one of our tenants.’
When he reminded her of the address, she feigned surprise. ‘Of course, I remember.’
I turned to Clayton. ‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘I don’t remember. We have a lot of tenants.’
Deborah added. ‘We do have an agent who looks after the properties.’ She crossed a long slim leg over the other knee. I doubted that Welsh cakes made a regular appearance on her menu.
‘When did you last visit the property where Eddie Westford lived?’ It was a question for both of them but Deborah answered first.
‘Where is it again?’
I repeated the address.
‘I don’t honestly remember going there.’
For the sake of completeness I looked at Gregory Clayton to answer the same question.
‘Sorry, Inspector. I can’t remember.’
I paused, wondering why they had lied. ‘I’ll need a list of all the other tenants in the block.’
‘Of course. Do you have any suspects?’
‘It’s still very early in the investigation.’
I nodded at Boyd who had a cautious look on his face. We made to leave and Clayton followed us out of his office and down to the front door. ‘I hope you catch the culprit,’ he said.
‘So do I.’
Boyd and I marched back to the car.
‘They were lying, boss.’
‘I know. All we have to do is work out why.’
Chapter 10
Friday
Morning
I had spent a miserable evening the night before trying to relax. We had spent the rest of the day building a picture of Gregory Clayton. But the more Boyd and I had dug the more we acknowledged to each other that by Monday the inquiry would be on Inspector Hobbs’ desk.
That morning I had woken early and, deciding I needed a breath of sea air before work, I had walked down to the Bay, passed the Millennium Centre, around the Norwegian Church and then back to my apartment. Justifiably pleased with my early-morning stroll I rewarded myself with a greasy bacon roll and a milky coffee before arriving at Queen Street.
In the Incident Room I stared at the image of Michael Haddock pinned to the board. Our brief smokers’ cabal the previous Saturday came to mind and I wondered if it really was one of his fancy Turkish cigarettes that had been caught in Westford’s hair. There must be hundreds of people who smoked a similar type of cigarette, and I was worried that I was trying to create links where there were none. It was quite possibly just a coincidence. But it did still make me suspicious so I spent the morning trawling the internet for details of Michael Haddock.
His entry in LinkedIn took me over an hour to read. Despite using an online dictionary to help me understand the technical terms relating to his training and achievements they meant nothing to me. Haddock’s beaming face adorned several business-related pages in various
newspapers, one of which suggested that if there was a Welsh businessman of the year award he should win it. I spotted a brief article about the level of support one of his companies had received from the Welsh government. Then I found a YouTube clip of an open-shirted Haddock sauntering through his classic car collection while talking to a journalist as part of a television profile. I stared at the cars and something made me pause the video. Haddock had his hands in the air. Behind him was a Porsche and a couple of small MG sports cars. Then I remembered that one of the sergeants I had spoken to about car thefts had mentioned West Africa as a destination for stolen vehicles. I stared at Haddock again. He had connections to Nigeria and as I finished the video my suspicions about Haddock heightened again. I shouted at Boyd.
Initially Boyd didn’t share my enthusiasm for spending time looking in detail at Haddock but mid-morning he suggested the accounts for Haddock’s business be given the once over by a colleague in the economic crime team. Boyd returned just before lunch.
‘Makes interesting reading, boss,’ Boyd said, slumping into one of the visitor chairs in my room.
It made a welcome change to have anything that would stimulate a constructive discussion.
‘Not everything is as rosy as Haddock would have the public believe.’
I sat back in my chair.
‘Haddock’s main company is massively in debt. He’s had to restructure the borrowing a number of times. The last time banks from Nigeria bailed him out.’
‘What!’
‘Nothing wrong with that in itself. Nigeria was a former British colony, remember.’ Boyd sounded very knowledgeable.
‘But…’
‘My friend in economic crime thought it meant the level of risk involved was higher than a UK bank would take.’
‘Is this helping us with Westford’s murder?’
Boyd just stared at me. An embarrassed silence oozed around us.
Friday
4.00 pm
The late-afternoon end-of-the-week malaise had descended on me and Boyd. We sat nursing mugs of coffee, each staring at the Incident Room board as we contemplated the inevitable conclusion to our inquiry. Detective Inspector Dave Hobbs would be taking over the whole case on Monday and I wondered if it meant Cornock had some desk job lined up for us.
Neither Boyd nor I moved when we heard the sound of the Incident Room door opening. We kept on staring at the board, oblivious to the impending visitation.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’
Every nerve in my body powered into life at the mere sound of Dave Hobbs’ voice. The singsong lilt set my teeth on edge. My jaw tightened and I hauled my feet off the desk almost spilling my coffee in the process.
‘I was hoping we could agree a time for my team to take over the investigation.’
My team.
‘I’ve got a timeslot for Monday in the middle of our schedule.’
Schedule.
I cleared my throat, glancing over at the Incident Room board as though it might give me some inspiration. Westford was still grinning, Clayton and Haddock still pinned underneath, and I had no idea what to say. So I did what I do best. Make it up as I go along.
‘That’s very kind of you Dave. Detective Sergeant Pierce and myself were just discussing how best we could structure a meeting for your team to take over. We’ve been chasing down some loose ends yesterday and today. There could be some quite interesting new developments for your team to look at next week.’
Hobbs gave me an ingratiating smile. ‘Glad to hear it.’
I looked at Boyd who gave me a nervous twitch. Then I smiled at Hobbs, my special lips-tight-together I-hate-you-smile, and then he left.
‘What on earth did you…?’ Boyd said.
But before I could reply a message arrived on my mobile. Terry wanted to meet: urgent.
Friday
6.30 pm
Spidery burst blood vessels marched all over Terry’s face, which had a pasty complexion. The speed at which he demolished his first pint of Brains was undiminished.
‘You’ll need to see me right, Marco.’
I squinted over at him.
‘I’ll need enough money to cover my tracks.’ He reached down and took another long mouthful. Contemplating what Superintendent Cornock might make of my expenses claim was enough to make me ponder a vodka and tonic.
‘At the moment you’ve given me nothing.’
‘Don’t be a prick.’
‘You know how it works, Terry. I’m not going to pay for you to go on a bender without some results.’
He gave me a defiant glare. ‘I’ll need at least fifty quid a week for six weeks. That makes three hundred. And I buy all my food. All they eat is shit burgers.’ He recoiled at the prospect.
‘Look—’
‘The Bluebirds are playing Bristol City tomorrow.’ The implication in his tone was clear enough.
‘So what’s happening?’
‘There’s a score to be settled by some of the lads. They were talking about smashing up a couple of the pubs used by Bristol’s supporters.’
‘Names?’
He shrugged.
‘Come on Terry.’
‘That’s down to you, Marco. I didn’t get to hear the names and even if I did I wouldn’t tell because soon enough they’d work out someone was grassing them up.’
‘That’s all?’
Terry finished the drink and wiggled the glass around noisily on the table. I got the message and walked over to the bar, returning with a pint for Terry and an orange juice. He had always been reliable with his information and I had to hope now was no exception.
‘I’ve been hard at it. I’d forgotten the crap these guys talk. It’s all just mindless. So I was looking out for something out of the ordinary, something different.’
Terry was warming to this secret agent role.
‘I’ve overheard two guys. They were boasting about all these cars they’ve been driving.’
‘That’s nothing new.’
‘Keep your shirt on, Marco. These guys are different. They’re organised. Having a fight when you’re pissed on Saturday night with an opposing football supporter is one thing – quite enjoyed that when I was young. But planning this random destruction, I don’t see the fucking point of it all.’
He paused to take a mouthful of beer.
‘Have you got any names? Addresses?’
He grimaced, and put the glass back on the table. ‘You know the deal. Three hundred should see me clear. A lot of the Soul Crew are meeting up in Bristol tomorrow and both men are going to be there.’
I stared at Terry.
‘They’ve got something planned. I could tell.’
Terry stared back. I left to find a cashpoint. When I returned, Terry counted the money twice and named both men, describing them in detail and telling me he had no idea where either man lived.
I rushed back to Queen Street: I had a trip to plan.
Chapter 11
Saturday
5.15 pm
I stood alongside a minibus with the name of a football club in large letters down one side. I stamped my feet on the ground hoping the movement would keep the cold at bay. Before leaving Cardiff I had found a pair of thick fleece gloves but still my fingers felt cold and banging them together had little effect. Boyd stood a few hundred yards away on the opposite side of the car park.
A search the night before had given us the addresses of Paul Ferris and Malcolm Horne. Following their Ford Mondeo from Cardiff had not been a difficult task. They had little reason to suspect they were being followed. Boyd and I had watched as they spoke briefly with a group of three other men milling around the car park at the Bristol football ground.
The place was buzzing. Football supporters spilled out of minibuses, fathers clutched their sons’ hands, and groups of friends snaked through the cars towards the stadium. I watched as Ferris peeled away from Horne who filtered his way through into the VIP parking area. I called Boyd, telling him to mak
e certain he followed Horne.
I watched as Ferris started talking animatedly on his mobile telephone and I could tell from his body language and his regular glances he was more concerned with knowing exactly what was happening in the VIP-only parking area. I drew the lapels of my jacket high against my chin and adjusted the beanie to cover the tops of my ears. Standing around was making me feel colder than I had in years so I decided to move around a bit. I spotted two Land Rover Discoveries and set out on a circuitous route hoping I could use them as a shield so neither Ferris nor Horne would notice me.
Once I had reached the first of the 4x4 vehicles my mobile buzzed into life. ‘A top-of-the-range Lexus 4x4 has arrived,’ Boyd whispered. ‘Horne is taking an interest in the driver.’
I looked around for the 4x4 and noticed Ferris walking back towards the stadium. I saw a man wearing an expensive-looking three-quarter leather jacket passing a steward at the entrance of the VIP car park. Horne nowhere in sight.
I stepped back and then, not wanting to lose sight of the Lexus driver, paced up to the end of the row. I dodged behind a Vauxhall Astra and then alongside a couple of BMWs all the while keeping the leather jacket clearly visible. He was walking briskly towards the stadium entrance and then I saw two men wearing hoodies walking towards him. The Lexus owner seemed like a magnet. I glanced towards the stadium but there were no CCTV cameras pointing in my direction.
It all happened very quickly. Another man emerged from somewhere and collided into the Lexus owner. He stumbled and fell. By now the hooded men were near him and they reached down and fussed over the prostrate car owner. They helped him to his feet but even I could tell they had helped themselves to much more. He dusted himself off, seemed to exchange words with his helpers and I watched as they melted away into the crowd. I craned to see if Ferris was anywhere nearby but I didn’t catch sight of him for another ten minutes, when he returned, walking casually, mobile telephone pinned to his ear.
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