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

by Stephen Puleston

  Tracy let her head droop. ‘I knew there was somebody in university but he never spoke about… He could be odd like that.’

  Tracy looked up at me. I wanted so much for this not to be happening to her. We spent an hour asking her about her brother and her frustration only heightened my anger that he had dragged her into the case. The excitement of our relationship had been lost somehow and I doubted we would ever get it back.

  I left Tracy sipping on her coffee, her eyes distant.

  I walked back to the Incident Room with Lydia. We said nothing.

  ‘Do we still need officers at those huts in the Vale?’ Lydia said as we stood by the board.

  It was dusk now and from outside the windows I could see the evening drawing in. I had to accept that Greg wasn’t going back to the Vale. It was a waste of valuable resources having officers there who could be out looking for Greg and Charlotte.

  ‘Greg must have spotted the cars as he left and realised what had happened. It ruined their final plans.’

  I turned to her. ‘Final plans?’

  ‘Yes. If you’re right then Greg and Charlotte were going to implicate Henson in my death.’

  The murder of Dolman and Turner and Harper had been arranged like a military campaign. And they were all linked to the electrification contract. Plans. Final plans. It meant that all the loose ends needed to be tied up. All those responsible for Frost Enterprises collapsing being punished. I stepped towards the board. There was some other part of Charlotte’s plans I hadn’t seen.

  ‘Harding,’ I said aloud.

  I turned to look at the team. It earned me puzzled looks.

  ‘No, of course,’ I said, turning to stare at the faces on the board. ‘There was Dolman and Turner, who made things happen, and Harper who coordinated all the legal work.’ It had been three weeks since I had read the preliminary reports about the publicity surrounding the contract. After the Welsh government had settled its differences with the United Kingdom government things had proceeded smoothly. Then I remembered that the award of the contract had been coordinated in Cardiff. I had spoken with the civil servant involved but I couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Call him, call him now!’ I shouted at Lydia.

  She gave me a puzzled frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That civil servant I spoke to right at the beginning – Dr something.’ I bellowed in frustration. ‘Dr fucking… something… Owen… Vincent Owen. He was involved in awarding the contract.’

  I reached for the mobile in my jacket and wasted valuable seconds searching for the number. Eventually a receptionist in the government offices answered.

  ‘The offices are closed. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I need the contact details for Dr Vincent Owen.’ I slowed my voice. ‘His life may depend on it.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Now!’

  The voice dictated the name of another member of staff and then the line went dead. I tapped in the number and waited. This time, trying to calm my nerves. The civil servant at the end of the second telephone call listened courteously as I explained what I needed.

  ‘This is all a bit unusual,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have the number?’

  I held my breath as I heard the clicking of a mouse.

  ‘Do you have a pen?’

  I reached for some paper and jotted down the number.

  A woman’s voice answered after half a dozen rings. She sounded breathless.

  ‘Mrs Owen?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  I let out a long slow breath. ‘I want to speak to your husband Dr Vincent Owen.’

  ‘I was expecting him home several hours ago. I don’t know where he is. We were supposed to be going out this evening. He was playing golf this afternoon and he should have finished by now.’ Now there was a worried edge to her voice. ‘Is there anything wrong? Why do you need to speak to Vincent?’

  ‘Stay where you are. We’ll be there as soon as we can.’

  *

  An hour later we left a family liaison officer with an increasingly hysterical Barbara Owen. Uniformed officers had already tracked down Vincent Owen’s playing partners who confirmed that he had left the golf course mid-afternoon.

  We sat in the car outside the Owen home watching cars pass us in the small village near Caerphilly. If Charlotte and Greg were holding Vincent Owen they’d be trying to pin the blame on Henson. And if Greg hadn’t seen the cars it was possible they still believed Lydia was a captive. I rang the officers sitting in the Nissen huts but there had been no sign of anyone. I wondered whether Greg would be taking Owen back there, unless he had been killed already.

  Killed already.

  I drove while dictating instructions for Lydia and then turned the car towards the units in the Vale. She called Wyn and Jane and we reached the units at the same time and parked our cars in a secluded spot.

  The workshops had closed for the day and the few staff that milled around barely gave us a second glance. I walked round casually to the unit at the back. One of the officers opened the door wide enough for me to enter. I explained the position and then I got back to my car and waited.

  Time dragged. I looked at my watch regularly. The prospect that Owen was dead, a stiletto through the heart, became more acute with every passing minute. And my backside was numb and the bottom of my back sore.

  Moonlight broke through the clouds and splattered the surrounding trees with a pale cream light. I spoke to Wyn and Jane and the two officers inside.

  ‘What makes you think he’ll be back?’ Lydia said.

  ‘He’ll come back to check if you’re still there.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘Then… I’m wrong and Owen is dead. And…’

  A transit van slowed by the entrance to the units and my body tensed. Lydia moved in her seat. I leant forward trying to make out the driver but he drove away.

  An hour passed before another white transit drew up outside the entrance and stopped. The engine was left running.

  ‘Is that him?’ Lydia whispered.

  ‘Can’t tell.’

  I prayed that it was Greg and that Owen was alive.

  The van reversed and I reached a hand for the door handle, ready to yank it open and then run. Slowly I put my hand back on the wheel and gripped it gently, my knuckles tense. Gradually the van reversed backwards towards the huts at the back.

  Quietly I got out of the car with Lydia, and crept to the edge of the nearest building. It was still too dark to see the driver. Carefully he guided the van out of sight towards the unit where Lydia had been held. We ran down and then stopped abruptly when the engine was switched off. A door opened and I heard footsteps.

  I heard the squeaking of the rear doors opening.

  Jane joined us. Wyn covering the exit near the road.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  I rushed forward. Greg was inside the van. He looked surprised to see us and then he dived at me, knocking me off my feet before careering down the muddy track. Jane was only a few feet behind him; she launched herself into a rugby tackle, and they both fell onto the soft earth.

  Chapter 51

  I splashed water all over my face in the bathroom at Queen Street before staring at the tired face in the mirror. It was nearly midnight and I had already delayed the interview with Greg Jones longer than I should have done. Greg had nothing on him to suggest where he had been and forensics were taking the van apart for any trace of Vincent Owen. All I had to do was extract a confession from Greg with information that would lead us to Charlotte and Vincent Owen.

  I walked back to the Incident Room and nodded at Lydia. ‘Ready.’

  She managed a smile and we found our way to the custody suite. The night shift was well under way. A drunk banged on the door of his cell and another was singing ‘A Bridge Over Troubled Waters’ loudly. The custody sergeant, a bluff man with a wide jaw and a narrow mouth, glanced over at me as I reached his desk.
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  ‘Howdy, John. You here to interview Greg Jones? His lawyer has just arrived.’

  We had only sat down in the interview room for a few seconds when Greg entered with his lawyer. Lydia recognised him. ‘Hi, Stuart.’

  ‘Lydia.’

  I held out a hand. ‘DI Marco.’

  We shook. He nodded an acknowledgement. ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the PACE regulations about allowing a suspect to be interviewed after proper rest.’ He made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his watch. ‘And it is now—’

  I was ready for this sort of lame excuse to delay the investigation. ‘As the senior investigating officer I have decided to conduct this interview now. And depending on your client’s replies I may hold further interviews during the night. If you don’t like that, Stuart, then you can complain or you can leave. But we’ll carry on with the interviews.’

  Stuart pouted and sat down next to Greg and we got started.

  ‘You’re under arrest for the abduction of Detective Sergeant Flint.’

  Stuart piped up. ‘Look, you cannot interview Greg about the abduction of Sergeant Flint with her present.’

  Mentally I should have counted to ten. But I didn’t. ‘Shut up, Stuart. This is my interview.’

  ‘What’s your association with Charlotte Parkinson?’

  Greg grinned.

  ‘We know that you were at Bristol University together. We believe that she was responsible for the deaths of Matthew Dolman, Alan Turner and Tony Harper. You were responsible for the abduction of Detective Sergeant Flint.’ Stuart groaned. ‘And at the moment your van is being taken apart by forensics. So if there is any link to either of these three men we will charge you with their murders too.’

  I saw Greg blink and then he tipped his head and leant towards me.

  ‘Are you going to make any reply?’

  He just blinked some more.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Charlotte and you abducted a Dr Vincent Owen earlier today.’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Stuart said.

  I ignored him.

  I glanced over at Lydia and she saw the prompt in my eyes. ‘Greg, this is important. Do you realise that being involved with Charlotte in the abduction and death of Dr Owen would make you jointly responsible with her?’

  He frowned now. My blood pressure rose. He knew where they were. I interjected. ‘He’s an innocent man and you’re going to condemn him to die.’

  ‘None of them were innocent.’ He snapped so suddenly it caught me and Lydia unawares and we stopped and gazed at him for a few seconds.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lydia said.

  Greg settled back into an emotionless grin.

  ‘Where is Charlotte?’

  This time he didn’t even move in his chair.

  And for the next hour Lydia and I alternated asking the same question in different ways. Whenever Stuart tried to interrupt, I ignored him or told him that the interests of justice demanded that I conduct the interview exactly how I pleased.

  Occasionally Greg raised an eyebrow and then he played with his fingers and sometimes he would give us a quizzical look as though we were poor pathetic people that had to be pitied. I wanted to grab him and shake him.

  *

  I had sent Lydia home at two o’clock in the morning when her yawning became so frequent she could barely speak and her complexion was the colour of ten-year-old magnolia paint. I sat with Wyn and Jane in the Incident Room wondering what I had overlooked. There had to be something. Then just before three, when my eyelids felt heavy, I left with Wyn and Jane trailing gratefully behind me.

  I fell exhausted onto my bed without taking off my clothes. I was in exactly the same position three hours later when the telephone rang. I was convinced that I was back in the Incident Room staring at Greg’s mobile, deliberating whether I should answer the number.

  I turned over, grabbed the mobile from my trouser pocket, and fumbled to find the right button. It was area control. ‘There’s a report of your suspect being seen driving north on the A470 half an hour ago. Small black Ford Focus.’

  ‘Half an hour ago! Why the bloody hell wasn’t I called.’

  ‘I’ve just had the call, sir. An unmarked patrol car spotted a woman answering her description but he couldn’t follow because he was called to a fatality on the motorway.’ She rang off and I hurried out of the apartment.

  Why the hell was Charlotte going north on the A470? There had to be something significant we were missing. And then, with a sudden blinding clarity, I knew exactly what it was.

  Chapter 52

  I reached the M4 at the outskirts of Cardiff as I finished dictating instructions for the armed response unit. I powered the car along the curving sections of the dual carriageway as it followed the contours of the A470 north. Traffic was light, the occasional white van and some early commuters. Soon I hurtled past the sign for Pontypridd. My mobile rang on the passenger seat and I reached for it, keeping one hand on the wheel.

  ‘Sergeant Pearson. ARU. We are just leaving headquarters now. We’ll be five minutes behind you. Maybe less.’

  I could imagine the speed the ARU’s specially adapted BMW Series 5 vehicles could make on the clear open road. At eighty miles an hour my Mondeo was rattling its disapproval.

  ‘Are you certain about the location?’

  I hesitated. It was a guess to assume that Charlotte’s final act of revenge would be to take Owen to the Cefn Coed Viaduct. He was the last of the men responsible for her father’s death, her mother losing her home and her stroke. I could see how Charlotte might blame them all. I recalled the press articles when Malcolm Frost had thrown himself off the viaduct so it made sense to think that a sad mind would want her final act of vengeance to have some significance for her father.

  ‘Trust me. It makes sense.’

  ‘Okay. When you get there keep your earpiece on all the time.’

  Abruptly the call ended. I flattened the accelerator and swung the car through the long bends of the road. Soon I was approaching the roundabout where the Heads of The Valleys road meets the A470 and I glanced over to my right. The viaduct snaked over the valley in a majestic curve. I craned to see if there was any sign of Charlotte. But I had to brake and the tyres squealed; I almost lost control of the car as it lurched through the roundabout.

  I negotiated the side streets of Merthyr Tydfil by flashing my lights and sounding the horn until I pulled up near a rugby club where I discarded the car. My pulse quickened as I saw a black Focus parked near the Station Hotel. Quickly I scanned the surroundings hoping I might spot Charlotte. Then I ran. At the same time I fumbled for the earpiece for my mobile and rang Pearson.

  ‘We should be there in two minutes. Any sign?’

  ‘Her car is here. She can’t be far…’

  I was onto the viaduct now and gasping for breath. It was deserted – no early-morning joggers or dog-walkers. I kept to the right hoping it would give me more of an outlook over the curve. I stumbled over the gravel realising that the wall at the edge was low enough to climb over easily.

  I was almost onto the middle when I saw them.

  Charlotte and Vincent Owen. His hands had been tied behind his back and she dragged him along until she pushed him against the sidewall. He collapsed onto his knees but she pulled him back onto his feet.

  I got closer and shouted. ‘Charlotte!’

  Suddenly she turned and glared at me.

  ‘How…?’

  I could read her face now and saw the surprise.

  ‘Don’t get any closer.’ She pulled Owen nearer to her. He looked tired, his clothes dishevelled.

  ‘Don’t do this, Charlotte.’

  ‘What? Do you think you can talk me out of this? Don’t insult my intelligence Detective Inspector Marco. We both know how this will end.’

  A voice crackled in my earphone. ‘My team is in place.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Charlotte. There is no need to harm Vincent Owen.’

&nbs
p; Now she spat out her reply. ‘No need?! No need?! This man is a murderer. He killed my whole family while you did nothing about it.’ She pulled Owen nearer to her and then cast a glance over the side. She shuffled backwards, grasping her hand around his neck. Then she produced a knife that glinted in the early-morning sunshine.

  ‘Target has knife, Inspector. That puts an innocent life in danger.’ The voice crackled in my ear. ‘As soon as we have a clear shot I shall give the order.’

  ‘Charlotte. Stop this. Killing another person won’t help.’

  ‘Justice. That’s what it means. For everyone. Vincent Owen will have atoned for his sins and there will justice for my father and mother.’

  ‘Step two paces to your right, Inspector.’ The voice was calm and measured in my ear. I did as I was told.

  ‘Don’t get any nearer, Marco. Stay right there.’ Charlotte scrambled to push Owen to the top of the retaining wall. She fumbled with his legs, pushed him until he was half lying on the wall.

  ‘This isn’t what your father would have wanted. And what about your mother? What will she think?’

  She turned towards me. ‘How dare you talk about my father. He was a good decent man. Not like this piece of shit. And my mother. Don’t ever—’

  Then a single shot rang out and I watched as Charlotte’s body twisted itself into a curving motion. Her head tilted away and then her body fell onto the chippings and dirt.

  I ran over and dragged Owen off the wall just as I heard the screams and shouts hurrying towards me.

  Chapter 53

  The next few days passed in a blur of activity. A preliminary examination of a laptop we had recovered in Mrs Parkinson’s room in the Sundown Nursing Home had discovered a powerful software application capable of producing high-quality videos. More importantly, Charlotte’s fingerprints were all over the machine. A report from the Metropolitan Police had arrived in my inbox that clearly linked the firm where Charlotte had worked in London to all the companies that paid bribes to Dolman, Turner and Harper. And Vincent Owen’s confession when he was interviewed completed the evidence we needed.