Another Good Killing: An exciting, fast-paced crime thriller (Detective John Marco crime thriller Book 2) (Detective Inspector Marco)

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘It should be all right. Let me think about it. I’ll talk to Dean tomorrow.’

  She rang off and I stood in the kitchen thinking that she didn’t sound like the competent no-nonsense Jackie that I was accustomed to. We had split up after one evening when I had arrived home in the early hours after visiting various bars in the city. Unable to stand straight I vomited all over the hallway and then over the bathroom. I didn’t believe her at first the following morning but then she showed me the photographs. I had crossed a red line, one that she had drawn in our relationship before and that I had ignored. Later that week she moved out with Dean.

  Suddenly I felt hungry and I opened the fridge door and stared in. I knew that the shelves were empty – perhaps I was hoping for some miracle. The remains of a lettuce, a block of extra mature cheese, some tomatoes and a tub of caramelised onion chutney would not make a decent meal. The freezer section had a lasagne and a tub of ice cream. Once I’d reheated the lasagne I scraped it onto a plate and spooned some of the chutney alongside it. The late-night news replayed the video we’d seen earlier today in full. I looked on almost mesmerised as I listened to the alternating monologues from the two individuals again, trying to discern some accent or meaning or clue. What would Mrs Dolman make of this? Either or both of these men — there could have been a woman involved, of course, it was impossible to tell — were probably responsible for the death of her husband. But her reaction had been muted. And then I recalled the almost unreal scene in the house with her sons and Charlotte as though we were talking about some recently deceased distant relative.

  The lasagne was cool by the time the news broadcast finished and I switched channels, finding a version of Top Gear where they tested an Aston Martin DB9. Jeremy Clarkson sat in the driver’s side of the stationary vehicle playing with the satellite navigation dashboard like a teenager with a new toy. By ten-thirty my eyelids ached and I yawned. I left the dirty plate on the coffee table, switched off the television and went to bed.

  Chapter 8

  I was back in Queen Street before eight the following morning carrying various daily newspapers and a bag with a jumbo sausage roll and a milky coffee. It wasn’t healthy eating, but I was starving and looking at the dried-up remains of the lasagne from the night before as I left the flat persuaded me that I needed comfort food. I spread out the papers on my desk and then tore open the bag. I had just taken a mouthful when Lydia appeared at the door. I scanned the headline – ‘Terrorists Taunt Police’.

  ‘I thought Italians liked good food and decent coffee.’

  ‘There’s a time and place for that. And it’s not this morning.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start, boss?’

  ‘Arrest the killer, then torture him, or her, for a confession.’

  I ate more of the sausage roll.

  ‘Very funny.’

  She was right – we needed to prioritise. And with every move likely to be scrutinised I had to make certain there were no mistakes.

  ‘Did you see the TV news last night?’ Lydia said. ‘It was wall-to-wall coverage of that YouTube clip.’

  I nodded. ‘You should read what they’re saying about the WPS.’ I nodded at the paper in front of me.

  ‘A politician in London wants the Met to be called in.’

  ‘Then it’ll be the FBI and god knows what. Let’s build a complete picture of Matthew Dolman. I want to know everything about his life. Get started on Stanway and his engineering company. I’ll look at the background of the extremists that special branch told us about.’

  I finished the last of the coffee, dropped the plastic beaker into the empty sausage roll bag and threw them both into a bin by my feet. I turned on my computer as Lydia returned to the Incident Room. Telephones rang and the hustle and bustle of the city centre police station filtered through the air like damp mist.

  I picked up the special branch file on Jamie Henson. Born in Merthyr Tydfil he had excelled at school, winning various scholarships and a place at university in Cardiff. I read that Henson had been ‘radicalised’ by a Marxist academic and that after graduating he had dropped out, taking menial tasks while spending time with left-wing and anti-capitalist causes. He had founded the Wales Against Poverty group that had a website and a newsletter with photographs of its members campaigning. There was a section reporting a discussion with one of his university tutors that described him as ‘very bright’. But committed enough to murder?

  I turned to the rest of the individuals in the file. After Henson the report identified Neil Cleaver, a computer science graduate who had met Henson at university, as the most influential group member. His family and background was much like Henson’s so they had a lot in common. There were others involved too and I read the profiles of a dozen more people.

  I printed off a sheet with the words ‘Wales Against Poverty’ printed in large bold letters and then stepped out into the Incident Room where I pinned it to the board underneath the photograph of Matthew Dolman. Behind me, I heard the hum of a printer as it came to life. A moment later Lydia stepped over and pinned a sheet with the name Stanway Engineering printed on it to the board. I stood back and stared over at the names.

  ‘It’s going to take hours to go through all the papers on the Stanway file.’ Lydia folded her arms and sighed.

  I stopped by a row of boxes near Lydia’s desk. I lifted the top of each box in turn and saw the files relating to George Stanway. I remembered Charlotte Parkinson’s comments and realised that with typical lawyerly understatement there was an enormous amount of work that needed to be done. It was going to be a long day.

  Once I was back in my office, I called the Western Mail newspaper and got the confirmation I needed that Deborah Bowen was working so I grabbed my coat and left.

  ‘I’m going to see Bowen. Let’s meet for lunch.’

  ‘Where?’ Lydia asked, a trepidatious tone to her voice.

  ‘Your choice,’ I said.

  ‘Crumbs in the Morgan Arcade,’ she said, smiling.

  I nodded, already thinking about the second of my five-a-day habit.

  *

  I buttoned up my jacket against the brisk wind that blew down Queen Street as I walked towards the castle. Halfway along I passed a busker with long hair and a bushy beard who was playing a decent version of the Beatles song ‘Hey Jude’. I slowed for a moment and hummed along. I fished my cigarettes out of my pocket and fired my lighter. The smoke filled my lungs and I picked up my pace before I reached the crossroads with High Street and turned left down towards St Mary Street.

  It had made a change when the city council limited traffic in the middle of town to buses and taxis. Less congestion made the middle of Cardiff feel cleaner somehow. A few minutes later, I was passing the old Howells shop before reaching the offices of the only daily newspaper published in Wales. The politicians in the Welsh Assembly in the Bay had been generating a lot of publicity recently about the lack of Welsh-focused news. Apparently, the public didn’t know what they did in the Assembly and the politicians blamed the BBC in London for broadcasting news programmes about the health service and the education policies in England but never anything exclusively about Wales. I found the paper’s office and I shared the lift to the third floor with a group of young journalists with smart accents and excited voices. The receptionist gave me a disinterested look when I flashed my warrant card and asked for Deborah Bowen. She spoke into a telephone and I heard her ask if Debbie was available.

  Behind her was a glass wall that allowed me to watch the journalists tapping away in front of large monitors. Then a young girl with very dark hair and striking black make-up appeared.

  ‘Please follow me.’

  I did as I was told and she led me to an office with a tall glass door that she rapped politely with her knuckles. She pushed it open after hearing a muffled sound.

  ‘Detective Inspector Marco,’ I said, holding up my warrant card.

  Deborah Bowen had deep bags under sad eyes.

>   ‘I’m investigating the death of Matthew Dolman.’

  She stared down at the chaotic piles of papers on her desk. Two empty coffee mugs stood at one corner alongside a large box of tissues. Her jacket was crumpled in a heap on a small table, her handbag visible underneath.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you know why I am here.’

  She raised her head. She narrowed her puffy eyes. ‘You’ve discovered that Matthew Dolman and I had a regular liaison. And you think I might help with your investigation.’ She fiddled with her hands. ‘It’s just terrible. Awful. Have you found the killer yet?’ She balanced both elbows on the desk and leant over towards me.

  ‘It’s far too early in the investigation. What can you tell me about your relationship with Matthew Dolman?’

  The telephone rang on her desk and it startled her. Then she moved her arms and some of the papers fell onto the floor; she stopped and drew a hand over her mouth.

  ‘He was a good man. And I loved him and he loved me and this is so very difficult.’

  I hesitated. ‘In the past few months he had received death threats in the post. Did he mention those?’

  ‘Yes. But…’

  ‘Did he say he was frightened of anybody? Or whether anyone had threatened him?’

  She raised her hands in the air in exasperation. Then she blinked away tears.

  ‘Look, I can’t do this now.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘I may need to speak to you again.’

  She ignored me, shrugging on her coat before grabbing her bag and walking past me out of her office.

  At least there had been emotion. What part did Bowen really play in Dolman’s life? I scanned the room feeling uncomfortable, knowing that I should leave, but an instinct suggested that I should just shift through her papers. It was mad of course and I dismissed the notion but I knew Bowen could tell me a lot more about the real Matthew Dolman.

  *

  Crumbs restaurant occupied a corner slot and condensation ran down the inside of the large window. Lydia sat at a table talking to a young girl who must have taken hours to prepare her hair into the two-layered bun on top of her head. I walked over and sat down.

  ‘What can I get you to eat?’ The young girl said to both of us.

  I turned my head and scanned the board behind the counter realising that everything was vegetarian. My gaze settled on the aubergine chilli. I heard Lydia ordering a medium salad bowl with her usual selection. I gave the waitress my order and she left.

  ‘How did you get on with Deborah Bowen?’

  ‘She was really cut up. Could hardly speak.’

  Lydia nodded, and then frowned.

  ‘I’ll need to see her again.’

  As we waited Lydia told me about George Stanway and the campaign that he was running against the National Bank of Wales. There had been several newspaper articles that were one-sided, all favouring Stanway’s interpretation of the events. Although his first two cases against the bank had fizzled out, the current legal action might get further than a preliminary assessment.

  ‘Stanway is very determined,’ Lydia said.

  Her salad arrived in a round wooden bowl. I noticed the Opera magazine on the table.

  Another girl appeared with my chilli and a glass of water. ‘Enjoy,’ she said, giving me a brief smile.

  ‘Do you like opera?’

  Lydia poked the coleslaw in her bowl with a fork.

  ‘I saw Nabucco once in Verona.’

  She stopped and looked up at me. ‘In the Arena? In Verona?’

  ‘Years ago. Two women sitting behind me got angry when I shouted Bravo instead of Brava.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go the Arena.’ Lydia dabbed at the coleslaw again. ‘Do you speak Italian?’

  My first mouthful of aubergine chilli was surprisingly meat-like. Perhaps there was more to this vegetarian cooking than I thought.

  ‘A little. My mother’s family is from Lucca and she came to live here when she married my father.’

  ‘I love Italy.’ She had stopped eating now and gazed at the cover of the magazine. ‘I had a boyfriend who was a musician at university and he got me interested. One summer we went to Verona but we couldn’t get tickets.’

  I realised as she talked how little I knew about her. ‘Where did you go to university?’

  ‘Bangor.’ She must have seen the surprise on my face. ‘I studied Environmental Conservation. I wanted to change the world then.’

  ‘So why join the police?’

  ‘A friend of mine did and my then boyfriend… the musician, dared me one night after we’d argued. He said I could never hack it and that I’d get thrown out within a year.’

  ‘And your boyfriend?’

  ‘The musician? He went to work on the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘And you’re still a big opera fan?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve wanted to go to the Arena in Verona for years.’

  ‘I was very young when I went there.’ Trying to excuse my lack of enthusiasm for my night at the opera wasn’t going to lessen Lydia’s envy. I stared at the bowl in front of me. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘No red meat. Although I occasionally eat chicken and fish.’

  We finished our meal and headed up the arcade to the Hayes and then back to Queen Street. Lydia frowned and stepped away from me as I fired my third cigarette of the day.

  ‘So when are we going to see Deborah Bowen again, boss?’

  ‘We’ll call her before the end of the week.’

  ‘She’ll probably have a lot to tell us about Matthew Dolman.’

  Lydia was right. We weren’t getting much help from the Dolman family so far.

  She continued. ‘I wonder if the family know about Deborah?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ I glanced over at Lydia. She had one of her inscrutable looks. ‘We’ll need to go and talk to Jamie Henson and his mates before that.’

  Lydia nodded her acknowledgement as we reached Queen Street police station.

  ‘I’m going to talk to forensics,’ I said as I punched in the security code into the keypad by the entrance. ‘When I’m back I want an update on the work the uniformed lads have been doing.’

  Chapter 9

  The forensics department was crowded into a series of rooms in the basement of Queen Street. There was a vague smell of antiseptic and bleach as I entered and walked through to Alvine’s office. But it was empty so I wandered towards the main crime scene laboratory.

  Tracy sat on a stool, her left leg draped languidly to one side. She was wearing a navy dress that hung on her slim figure. She gave me a warm smile and then stood up, reaching out her hand. Tracy’s skin felt smooth and there were no rings on either hand.

  ‘We weren’t properly introduced,’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector John Marco.’

  ‘Tracy Jones.’ Her smile puckered her cheeks.

  ‘How long have you been working with Alvine?’

  ‘Only a couple of weeks. I was based in one of the CSI departments in Swansea before that.’

  ‘How are you enjoying it?’

  I heard the sound of movement in the office space outside. There was a moment of opportunity that I did not want Alvine to ruin.

  ‘Just finding my feet. You know how it is, a fresh face in the department. And I’ve just moved into a new flat.’

  I heard Alvine’s voice somewhere behind me. No time like the present.

  ‘Perhaps I can tell you all about Alvine and the intricacies of Queen Street sometime?’

  She smiled again. ‘Thanks.’

  I found my mobile. I had just finished entering Tracy’s number when the door crashed open and Alvine swept in. She gave me a suspicious look and then stared at my handset. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You didn’t tell me you were here, Marco?’

  ‘Were you responsible for the tests on the letters that Matthew Dolman
had received before his death?’

  Alvine nodded. ‘Dave Hobbs was in charge of that investigation. They were printed on a standard laser printer using paper easily available in the local supermarket. The only difference was the smell. The letter that was hanging around Matthew Dolman’s neck seemed perfumed but there wasn’t any chemical trace. I wondered whether there was something in the car or on Dolman’s clothes. So I checked with the pathologist but he found nothing.’

  ‘All I could smell in the car was leather.’

  But I hadn’t opened the plastic envelope with the message from the killer so I had to rely on Alvine. ‘Without evidence from forensics there’s not much I can do. Any fingerprints in the car?’

  ‘Dolman’s and three other sets. Some of them are partials.’

  Progress, of sorts.

  Alvine continued. ‘I’m waiting the results of any match.’

  ‘No sign of a struggle?’

  ‘The inside of the car was spotless.’

  ‘I’ll need a full report,’ I said, thinking about how Cornock might react. Announcing to the world that afternoon that the Wales Police Service had made progress would be uppermost in his mind. I made to leave.

  ‘What did you make of the news this morning?’ Alvine said.

  ‘I saw that video last night. Superintendent Cornock reckons it’s anti-capitalist extremists.’

  ‘There must be lots of those around.’

  ‘Anything on the data stick recovered from Dolman’s place?’

  ‘Nothing. It was empty.’

  I stepped towards the door but Alvine hadn’t finished. ‘The pathologist’s report was interesting. Dolman was killed with a stiletto-type knife. It is quite a feminine weapon. Small, easy to carry and rather elegant.’

  ‘The killer would have needed a lot of force to pierce his breastplate though.’

  ‘Still doesn’t rule out a woman.’

  As I opened the door, I turned back and looked at Alvine. ‘Let me know if you turn up anything else.’

  Tracy frowned, avoiding eye contact. I left, taking the stairs back to my office.