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

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘How’s Lydia?’ Jane said.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘My office, both of you.’

  Wyn closed the door behind them and they both sat down in front of my desk.

  ‘Not a word of this gets out to anyone else.’

  They nodded their understanding.

  ‘Greg Jones hasn’t been arrested and the super has authorised a full surveillance team from Swansea. I want you both checking his past. Family, schooling, but start with Bristol University. I want to know everything about him.’ I turned to Jane. ‘And I need you to visit the perfume department of the House of Fraser department store.’

  A narrow grin soon replaced her puzzled look when I explained what I wanted her to do.

  ‘Do we leave the inquiry into Dolman and Turner?’ Wyn said.

  I nodded. ‘And if anyone asks we still have an ongoing inquiry into tracing Lydia.’

  ‘There’s another email about the flat in Nice,’ Wyn said. ‘I’ve copied it you.’

  I scanned the PDF attached to the email, stopping at the details of the lawyers in London that had registered the ownership. The name was familiar and I knew immediately where I had read the name before. I stood up and pushed back my chair, crashing it against the radiator behind me.

  In seconds I was on my knees scouring through the employee records of Harper’s law firm. It didn’t take me long to find Charlotte’s CV and read the confirmation I needed.

  She must have seen that Dolman’s reward for ensuring that Frost lost the tender was a handsome flat in Nice. Another email arrived and I clicked it open. The result of the standard financial search on Charlotte Parkinson opened on the screen. I read through her latest bank statements. There were subscriptions to a gym, one of the more expensive in the city, payments to various restaurants, supermarkets, local council tax and petrol. The regular payments to the Sundown Nursing Home made me sweaty-palmed and I let out a slow breath. I had to hope that I’d found Malcolm Frost’s first wife. I Googled the Sundown Nursing Home and found an address in Chepstow. There was a nice website with pictures of the communal areas and a menu card and the latest reports from the care inspectorate.

  I picked up the handset and punched in the telephone number.

  ‘Sundown Nursing Home.’

  I paused.

  ‘Hello. Is there anyone there?’

  I replaced the handset. I couldn’t risk Charlotte finding out. I memorised the postcode and headed for my car.

  Chapter 48

  The Sundown Nursing Home was perched on the top of a hill on the outskirts of Chepstow. It looked like an old rectory that had various extensions added to it over the years. After parking I strode up to the front door, rehearsing my lines. I glanced at the camera high up on the wall, pressed the bell and a crackly voice said something through the intercom.

  ‘I’m visiting Mrs Parkinson.’ It was a guess but it worked.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  A woman in her sixties opened the door, wearing a light-blue uniform, the name of the home sewn into the left-hand side of her blouse. She had a severe haircut and two small earrings in both lobes. I held out a hand and smiled. ‘Good morning. I do hope this isn’t inconvenient. I’ve just arrived back from South Africa. I’ve been catching up with some old relatives. You know how it is with us in the colonies. We have to visit every relative when we’re back in the old country.’

  She managed a narrow smile.

  ‘This is a lovely place. Wonderful location. The residents must love it. Charlotte told me her mother was here and I’m going over to visit my cousin later but I thought I’d drop in and see her mother first.’

  ‘We are preparing for lunch you know. It’s our busiest time.’

  ‘I shan’t stay long.’ I smiled again.

  ‘You’d better come with me.’

  She led me through a long corridor towards the front of the building. ‘You do know that she’s had a stroke?’

  ‘Terrible isn’t it. How many of your residents need regular care? I’m sure your staff do a wonderful job.’

  ‘Ever since the stroke she’s been very poorly. I’m surprised that Charlotte hadn’t told you.’

  ‘She’s very busy. What with her new job and everything.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I know she had a lot of problems when her mother lost the house. Poor thing. That was all she had.’

  ‘There was nothing I could do out in Cape Town. How did she manage?’

  ‘Charlotte thought all the stress when her father’s business went bust made the early onset dementia much worse. Before the stroke that was all she talked about. It was quite sad.’

  ‘I know, Charlotte did email.’ I nodded sagely.

  ‘She was forced to sell her home. Last thing you want at her time of life.’

  We reached the end of the corridor and a door with the number fourteen hanging from it – it said Mary Parkinson.

  She knocked softly and we entered. The woman sitting in the chair gazing out of the window had thin wispy hair and the left side of her face had slipped. A drizzle of food still lay on her cheek. She had no life left in her eyes but her breathing sounded forced as her chest heaved.

  ‘I’ll have to leave you alone. I have to get back to work.’

  I gave her another warm compassionate smile. ‘Of course. I shan’t stay long.’

  She closed the door behind me. I surveyed the room, thinking that the cupboards might hold something of value. I fingered the drawer handle of a storage cabinet and glanced over at Mrs Parkinson. She hadn’t moved and was oblivious to me. But I had the information I needed so I left.

  Outside in my car I switched my mobile back on. There was message for me to contact Cornock so I dialled his direct number.

  ‘The surveillance team can’t find Greg.’

  My optimism with progress suddenly vanished.

  ‘He wasn’t at home and they’re trying the various addresses we have for him.’

  I slammed my hand against the steering wheel. I hammered the car back along the motorway to Cardiff, flashing the occasional motorist dawdling in the outside lane.

  A black BMW cut across me and then braked suddenly. I flashed my lights, pressed the horn and then raised my middle finger and glared through the windscreen. The driver indicated left and shot off the motorway. A few minutes later, my mobile rang as my temper subsided.

  ‘Good morning, John.’ It was the sergeant from Pontypridd.

  ‘Have you got any news for me?’ I held my breath.

  I was overtaking a line of articulated lorries and as I passed each one a gust of wind rattled the car.

  ‘We managed to trace that Jones family you are after. They moved away a few years ago to live in Bournemouth. Apparently the old man has bad asthma and he was told to have a change of climate.’

  ‘Any other children?’

  ‘There’s one brother like you said. One of my lads spoke to the head teacher from the school he attended. Apparently, Greg Jones was really bright. He went to Bristol University. He thought Jones may have had a breakdown and dropped out.’

  Now we had a connection between Charlotte and Greg and I still hoped that Tracy wasn’t involved.

  Back at Queen Street I pushed the door of the Incident Room too strongly and it crashed open against the wall behind. Wyn turned towards me, a pleased look on his face.

  ‘Good news, Sir.’ Wyn stood up. ‘I’ve traced Charlotte Parkinson when she was at Bristol University. She took a first class honours degree in law and then trained as a lawyer. I got hold of one of the tutors who was still on the academic staff. And he mentioned that she had a relationship with one of the other students: a certain Greg Jones.’

  I had pins and needles in my hand and I was still breathless from scaling the stairs to the second floor of Queen Street. I sat down and let the tension slip away. The door behind me opened and Jane breezed in. Seeing fellow police officers with a pleased look on their face was getting to be habit I welcomed.

/>   ‘You were right of course, boss,’ Jane said, dropping a plastic bag carefully onto the desk and then shrugging off a light-green fleece. ‘I’ve just spent an hour in the perfume department of House of Fraser.’ She tilted her head towards the bag.

  She opened it and drew out a small container emblazoned with the logo of a perfume company. It looked expensive and she held the cords to the bag delicately before putting it down on the table and then dipping her fingers inside to pull out a bottle of perfume.

  ‘This is her favourite brand,’ Jane said.

  Wyn stared at the bottle. I had to hope that perfume really had been Charlotte Parkinson’s Achilles heel.

  Jane continued. ‘You know the old saying – if you ask how much it is you can’t afford it. It’s almost as much as I earn in a week.’

  Wyn let out a whistle of surprise.

  I was even more surprised when I heard Lydia’s voice behind me. ‘Is that her perfume?’

  I almost fell off my chair. Then I gave her a big hug that almost knocked her over. ‘I thought you were going to be in hospital?’

  ‘I didn’t want to miss the action.’

  Lydia sat down heavily and let out a sigh that said she was both tired and pleased to be back.

  I walked over towards the board and stared at the various names.

  ‘So what now, boss?’ Lydia said.

  ‘Charlotte Parkinson was Frost’s daughter from his first marriage. The failure by his company to win the electrification contract meant that her mother lost everything. We know that Matthew Dolman has a flat in Nice owned by some offshore company, Alan Turner acquires a flat in Sydney at about the same time. Harper’s wife has a big debt written off. Charlotte works in the law firm in London that handled the registration of the flat in Nice, owned by the same offshore company that owns the shares of Silverwood Limited.’

  ‘The same company that won the electrification contract?’

  I nodded. ‘My guess is that Charlotte finds out that the three of them conspired against her father.’

  ‘And now it’s payback time?’ Lydia said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Chapter 49

  Lydia reached over to the perfume bottle and removed the top. She held it up to her nose and then grazed her wrist with enough of the perfume to fill the air. It was like walking through a field of lavender and lemon groves and then there were strawberries and that same sensuous cream again. She rubbed one wrist against another and then breathed in deeply.

  Then Lydia nodded. ‘I was blindfolded for most of the time but when I came to in the back of Greg’s van he was talking to someone sitting in the passenger seat. I didn’t hear a voice but I’d recognise this perfume…’

  She replaced the top. ‘How did you find it?’ Lydia said.

  ‘Charlotte spent a fortune in the perfume department. Jane went along and pretended to be her friend – you know, the usual trick. “Charlotte is a friend and I’m very embarrassed but I’ve forgotten the name of the perfume she recommended”.’

  Lydia nodded. ‘When do we go and arrest her?’

  I smiled. It was good to have a full team back.

  I stepped towards the board. It was less then twelve hours left before Cornock was going to arrest Greg Jones, assuming that he could be located. The regular reports messaged to my mobile during the morning had confirmed that Greg hadn’t returned to the unit where he’d kept Lydia prisoner. Good news, I supposed, unless he knew that we had found her already.

  ‘There is just one problem in all of this. Wasn’t Charlotte at work on the morning Dolman was killed?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve checked…’

  I found my mobile and called Ian Lewis. ‘It’s no more than routine. I need your records for when your employees sign in each morning for the past two months.’

  It was an hour before we had the information from Lewis. I was only interested in one person on one day. I scrambled through the paperwork until I found the day of Dolman’s death. The others were standing at my desk staring as I thumbed to Charlotte’s name.

  ‘Five past ten. She arrived at five past ten.’

  Lydia leant against my desk. ‘It’s her.’

  ‘We’ll take two cars and start at her offices.’

  Jane and Wyn rushed for their coats. I turned to Lydia. ‘You should rest.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  I picked up the telephone and dialled the lawyer firm’s number.

  ‘DI Marco, WPS. Is Miss Parkinson available?’

  ‘She isn’t in today. She called in this morning telling us she was working from home today.’

  We ran down to the cars. I leapt into my Mondeo and screamed along the narrow street to the main road and then onto the link road for the Bay. We headed out for Penarth. Soon we were on the elevated dual carriageway. We left the apartments and expensive hotels and restaurants behind us and hammered along to the Penarth junction. Her flat was in one of the modern developments and I guessed that Charlotte had exquisite leather sofas and valuable modern art lit by discreet hidden lighting. And a fantastic view over the Bay. There would be a coffee machine that made authentic espresso.

  We pulled into a slot near the main entrance and streamed over to the main door just as one of the residents left. He mumbled a complaint but when he saw the two uniformed officers wearing stab jackets, cradling batons with cuffs hanging from their belts he cowered to one side.

  I stabbed at the lift call button but there was no sign of it so we took the stairs. Flat 316 was at the front of the building and at the end of the corridor. I ran ahead of the uniformed officers and then hammered on the door.

  ‘Charlotte Parkinson. Police, open up.’

  There was no reply.

  I nodded at one of the uniformed officers.

  He swung at the lock with the ‘big key’, a piece of equipment designed for opening locked doors, and the noise reverberated around the passageway. A resident looked down the landing at the commotion. Wyn raised an arm and ushered him away. Within seconds it was over and the door gave way under the sound of splintering wood. I followed the uniformed officer into the flat, Lydia immediately behind me.

  My footsteps reverberated over the wooden laminate flooring.

  I was right about the view. The sun streamed through the windows and the Bay looked peaceful. I was wrong about the flat. The furniture looked old and tired and there was definitely no coffee machine.

  Chapter 50

  Wyn and Jane opened every kitchen cupboard and then searched each bedroom before returning to the living room where I was standing with Lydia, staring out over the Bristol Channel. Wyn had a sheaf of papers that he thrust in my direction. I read the details of the job offer from a law firm in New York.

  ‘Looks like she’s doing a runner,’ Wyn said.

  I found my mobile immediately and organised a full alert, airports, seaports and formal notification to all other police forces in the country. Jane stood by Wyn’s side clutching a pair of Doc Marten lace-up boots. It looked a perfect match to the boots I’d seen on the CCTV coverage of the anonymous hooded pedestrian hurrying away from the Royal Bell.

  Frantically I tried to think where Charlotte Parkinson might be.

  I rang Cornock. The telephone rang out a couple of times before he answered and the delay didn’t help my impatience. ‘She’s gone, sir.’

  There was a sound like a fist colliding with a desktop. ‘For Christ’s sake. And we still haven’t been able to find Greg Jones. We’ll need to question Tracy.’

  I fell over the right words. ‘I don’t know that that will help… It might just…’

  ‘Get back to Queen Street. We need to work out where Charlotte has gone.’

  I finished the call and turned to look out over the balcony. It was a clear warm late spring day. People don’t just disappear; you need travel documents, and a passport.

  Lydia had been uncharacteristically quiet by my side as we drove back into the city. She look
ed pale but I could guess that she wanted to see this through to the end as much as I did. Superintendent Cornock was waiting for us in the Incident Room. He stood, hands folded and a dark intense look in his eyes.

  ‘We’ve still not been able to trace Greg Jones.’

  Lydia relaxed into a chair and heaved a sigh. She was looking more tired by the minute.

  ‘Tracy Jones is in one of the conference rooms,’ Cornock said.

  I blinked and then sensed several pairs of eyes all staring at me. I wanted to smooth down the hairs standing to attention on the back of my neck. Clearing my throat didn’t break the awkward silence so I turned to Lydia. ‘Let’s go and talk to her.’

  Tracy looked at me through dejected and confused eyes when we entered. The uniformed officer assigned to sit with her left to organise coffees.

  ‘Why am I here, John?’

  I pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat down alongside Lydia who spoke first.

  ‘We need to find Greg.’ Underneath the sincerity was a steely determination.

  Tracy glanced over at me. Then back to Lydia. ‘I haven’t seen him for a few days.’

  ‘Do you know where he is staying?’

  ‘Isn’t he at his flat?’

  Lydia shook her head. Although I was pleased that Lydia had spoken first I had to say something. ‘We’ve been there to look for him and his neighbours haven’t seen him.’

  Tracy frowned and gave me another confused stare.

  I continued. ‘It is really important that we find him. Do you know where he might be? Do you know any of his friends? People he might stay with?’

  ‘I really don’t… I didn’t talk much about…’

  I leant forward over the table. ‘Did he talk about any girlfriends?’

  The officer returned with mugs of coffee. Tracy stared down at the steaming liquid. ‘He never mentioned anyone.’

  I glanced at Lydia who nodded an encouragement for me to ask about Charlotte.

  ‘We’ve had some information that he had a relationship with a Charlotte Parkinson when he was at Bristol University. Have you ever heard of her?’