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

by Stephen Puleston

  I spent Saturday with Dean and we watched the highlights of the Cardiff City game in Bristol. The trouble at one of the pubs earned a brief mention on the news and I saw Dave Hobbs preening himself alongside a superintendent from Bristol who boasted of an inter-force working relationship achieving major arrests and thwarting hooliganism.

  Jackie and I finalised the plans for the impending Easter weekend break. She complained that I slept too much over the weekend but once I relaxed, my body had simply switched off. I noticed the occasional long glance and warm smile. But for now I was happy just to get back to being a dad again.

  I sat at my desk looking at the pair of Doc Marten boots carefully deposited in the evidence bag. Lydia and I had just watched the CCTV coverage from the street behind the Royal Bell car park and the person on the screen wore a similar pair. It had to be Charlotte. We could see it now.

  ‘Why do you think she kept them, boss?’

  I shrugged. ‘There were expensive.’

  It had taken us hours of interviews with the lawyers and staff at Harper’s law firm to piece together Charlotte’s movements on the morning that Harper was killed. By the end we realised she had opportunity enough to kill him. And we found the number she used to call Greg on Turner’s mobile on the night he was killed. He had been expecting her, which explained the open bottle of wine.

  I finished the last of my coffee and turned to Lydia. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded and we headed out of Queen Street.

  At the university hospital we walked through to the ward where Charlotte had been kept in isolation from the day she was admitted. I entered the private room that operational support had adapted as a makeshift interview room. Charlotte was sitting in bed, her arm held in a sling. I looked over at her and recalled the ARU team leader assuring me in clinical terms that only Vincent Owen moving his position had meant that the intended head shot had been unsuccessful.

  The make-up had gone. Her lips were rather thin without lipstick and her skin looked blotchy now. Her blond hair, pulled back behind her ears, needed brushing. But there was still that steely grit in her eyes.

  I looked at Lydia who nodded back.

  ‘Are you ready to start?’ I said to Charlotte.

  Her lawyer answered. ‘Yes.’

  I pressed the record button on the machine and the cassette spools started turning.

  ‘Do you know why you have been arrested?’

  Charlotte reached for the beaker of water and took a minuscule sip.

  I waited.

  She said nothing. And I continued with the interview for another hour and half, changing tapes when the first were full.

  She said nothing. Absolutely nothing. By the end, I looked into her eyes.

  Her mind was resolved.

  There had been closure for her.

  Chapter 54

  I drew a finger over Tracy’s shoulder and then down to the tattoo she had on the small of her back. She had another, a small butterfly directly opposite on the other side of her body that had taken my attention last night. She stirred. Her skin was warm and she adjusted her position. It was still early so I moved closer to her, shared the rhythm of her breathing.

  Easter had been the previous weekend, which I had spent with Dean and my parents in their caravan in Tenby. My parents had filled the freezer with his favourite food. We had gone fishing and on boat trips and it made me realise that I didn’t want to waste more time not being a proper dad. He had smiled broadly when I told him I had booked a holiday over the summer in Lucca for him to meet some of the Italian family.

  Last night Tracy had told me of her parents’ stoicism when she had broken the news about Greg. However, it had been something they had expected and in a sense were prepared for it. She had wanted to know what was going to happen to Greg and all I could tell her was that the Crown Prosecution Service would decide.

  A child cried somewhere in the building, the morning sunshine streamed through the blinds and I had a court hearing to attend so I slipped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. The news on the television no longer had regular reports and analysis of the anti-banking videos. The financial crisis in Russia was making the headlines. And Cardiff City were likely to be in the Championship play-offs again, which lifted my spirits. After a shower, I went back into the bedroom and pulled my best suit from the wardrobe. I heard Tracy stirring behind me. I reached for a white shirt and a red striped tie.

  ‘That navy tie would be more suitable for court,’ Tracy said, propping herself up on two pillows.

  I turned and smiled at her. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Let me know what happens.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I ran a brush through my hair and leant over to kiss her on the lips. She curled a hand around my face; I pulled her close.

  ‘I’ll call you later.’ I turned and left.

  I went straight to my scheduled meeting with Superintendent Cornock. His door was open and I gave it a brief tap but I didn’t wait for an invitation. His skin had that unhealthy pallor that men sitting behind a desk develop, together with folds around their jaw that sag into pouches. Not even the warm spring sunshine coming through the windows and the smell of air freshener could make him look healthy.

  ‘Have you heard about the National Bank of Wales?’

  He nudged a newspaper folded at the financial pages over the desk at me. I noticed the smiling faces of Mrs Dolman and the man I had seen in the Vale of Glamorgan Racquets Club. He was a senior vice president for a German bank that was buying the NBW.

  ‘Apparently Troy Dolman is moving to New York. He’s going to work for one of those fancy hedge funds although Rex is staying put.’

  I mumbled an acknowledgement as I scanned the headlines.

  ‘Ready for court, John?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Have the prosecutors decided about Greg Jones?’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘They’ll tell you at court but it’s likely they’ll drop the charges of conspiracy to murder and just continue with the abduction charge. They’ll take account of his admission to being the second person in the videos.’

  I wanted to call Tracy immediately but I knew I had to wait. Even so, I could feel the relief.

  ‘He’s still looking at a long stretch in jail but with his mental state and a lenient judge… Well, he might get lucky.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And, John, well done.’

  I left Cornock to turn his attention to the pile of paperwork on his desk. Outside I stuck a cigarette between my lips and then sparked my zippo into life. It was my first of the day – later than usual. Then I draped my jacket over one shoulder and headed for the Crown Court building.

  It was one of the cluster of civic buildings erected over a hundred years ago in the middle of the city. The tiles glistened and the smell of floor polish hung in the air. Barristers in legal gowns and wigs thronged around the waiting area. Terry stood in one corner deep in conversation with three lawyers and he kept staring at the barrister who was clutching his wig in one hand and jabbing a finger excitedly at him. I had made two telephone calls before the weekend. The first was to the sergeant that I knew who was handling the prosecution of Terry’s girlfriend. He had moaned that I was interfering with the cause of natural justice and that I really should know better and that even if he did get the charge watered down the judge could still send her to jail.

  I stopped by a list pinned to the board and spotted the name of Terry’s girlfriend – she was in Court 1 before Judge Patricks who had been the second person I’d called last week. I had to hope that natural justice would, indeed, prevail.

  I looked through the window of the heavy wooden doors and saw Lydia sitting on one of the benches. Her hair was clean and pulled back neatly behind her ears. There was colour in her cheeks. Inside the large vaulted courtroom, the air conditioning hummed in the background. I slipped into the bench and sat next to her.

  ‘Inspector Hobbs was here earlier. He hoped he might catch up wit
h you.’

  The public gallery filled as did the benches reserved for the press. Even though it was a remand hearing when nothing much was going to happen, the press would give the case maximum coverage. Soon there was activity from the dock and Charlotte emerged from the cells below. She gave me a defiant look. Then a prison officer preceded Greg.

  When the judge entered everyone stood and the hearing started. Journalists were scribbling frantically and some in the public gallery leant forward wanting to hear every word. When the judge asked if either defendant wanted to enter a plea the lawyers made various excuses that they hadn’t had all the papers from the prosecution and that it was far too early. The hearing was over quickly and we trooped out into the lobby.

  I heard a voice behind me calling my name and saw Terry sitting in a small alcove. He jerked his head as an invitation for me to join him. ‘Thanks, Marco.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Doreen got a suspended sentence. Bloody brilliant result. She’ll be released in an hour. I owe you.’

  I thought I saw a tear in his eye.

  I made for the main lobby, collecting Lydia on the way. Dave Hobbs stood with Assistant Chief Constable Neary. She was in full uniform and her hair had a newly washed sheen. She wore the faintest hint of blusher but no lipstick. I knew nothing about her and wondered if there was a Mr Neary. She was deep in conversation with Hobbs who was nodding and giving her his most obsequious face.

  ‘Good morning, John,’ the ACC said. ‘I was just talking about you with Dave.’

  A pained expression creased Hobbs’s face.

  ‘Your use of intelligence sources was exemplary. Sometimes you need to go with your instinct and trust your gut.’

  ‘Yes, of course, ma’am,’ I said.

  She grabbed my arm and led me away from Hobbs. I left Lydia talking to him but I could sense that he had one ear straining to hear our conversation.

  ‘Have you thought about considering the possibility of seeking a chief inspector promotion?’

  ‘Not really, ma’am.’ I glanced over at Hobbs. From the shock on his face, I could tell he had heard.

  ‘Then you should do so.’

  And with that she trooped off.

  I made for the entrance and found the cigarettes in my pocket. Dave Hobbs had caught up with the ACC but even from a distance, I could tell he was trying her patience.

  Lydia stood by my side. We stood for a moment looking at the television cameras and journalists milling outside on the tarmac. It was a bright spring morning.

  ‘Did you see that interview with Henson on the news last night?’ Lydia said.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Apparently there’s going to be a documentary.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Fancy a coffee, boss?’

  We walked away from the Crown Court towards Queen Street and stopped by a stall in Gorsedd Gardens. I had double espresso and we sat talking in the morning sunshine.

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  Inspector Drake Series

  If you enjoyed the Inspector Marco series then I hope you will enjoy the Inspector Drake series based in North Wales. There are three books in that series

  Brass in Pocket

  Worse Than Dead

  Against The Tide

  The first three chapters of Brass in Pocket can be read below.

  Brass in Pocket

  Prologue

  He watched them leave the police station and drive away. He inched the stolen car out of the lay-by and followed them. An hour into their shift he watched them stop and question a speeding motorist. He knew the driver would get booked, even if he were just over the speed limit.

  Soon, they were on the move again.

  He could set his watch by their routine. He knew where they would be heading halfway through their shift. They parked on the grass verge of a junction on a long, straight section of road, waiting. From his vantage point, he could make out the driver pointing the speed gun towards the oncoming traffic.

  When they drove away, empty handed, he heard them joking with Area Control on his radio scanner. He followed them. When he got too close, he fell back. Sometimes he parked a safe distance from them, listening to the messages.

  Later, they stopped for petrol. He parked in the shadows, out of sight of the CCTV cameras on the forecourt. From the car he saw them laughing and joking with a girl behind the counter. An open-topped sports car drew up and a tall woman wearing a short skirt stepped out. He watched as they eyed her filling the car. Then they pulled off the forecourt; an indicator light pulsed as they stopped at the kerb. He saw the driver scanning for traffic, before driving away.

  He lingered a few moments before firing the engine into life.

  After the pubs closed, they drove on, past the boarded-up buildings and fish and chip shops, full of hungry customers, before parking and waiting for drunk drivers. He parked his car as near as he dared. He sat patiently, counting down the time to his first telephone call. He could feel his pulse increasing with anticipation.

  *

  He picked up one of the mobiles sitting by the MP3 player on the passenger seat. On the scanner he heard a voice relaying a message and moments later they pulled away. It was dark now as he followed them over the long causeway and, fearful they might notice him, he slowed and watched as the taillights of their car moved away from him. To his left, through the darkness, he saw the moon’s reflection on the surface of the estuary and on his right the dark shadow of the causeway wall.

  After a few miles they pulled into a lay-by. When he passed them, he listened to their crackled speech on the scanner, complaining about the hoax.

  He pulled into a junction and made another call.

  He heard them receive the message from the Area Control Room. He drove on to the Crimea Pass through the narrow streets of the deserted town. The road out was clear. He sensed the presence of the mountains towering either side of him as he accelerated towards the top of the pass.

  He parked and got out of the car, opened the boot and reached for the long coat, carefully threading his arms through the sleeves. He leant down again and moved a blanket to one side, before closing his fingers round the cold metal.

  Far down the valley, he saw the lights of their vehicle approaching. Soon, very soon, they would arrive. His mouth was dry; his heart pounded.

  As they approached, he knelt by the rear tyre, out of sight.

  Their car slowed, the hazard lights flashed, and they parked exactly where he knew they would. He walked to the front of his car and then towards them.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday 1st June

  After the fourth ring Ian Drake hauled himself out of the warm bed and picked up the phone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the night air chilling his skin. It must be a domestic, he thought.

  ‘Drake.’

  ‘Inspector Drake?’ He didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘Area Control Room. We’ve got two officers down on the Crimea Pass.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Two officers have been killed. Responding to a routine call.’

  He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was a little after two and he had slept for barely an hour. Beside him Sian was stirring.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Call just came in, sir, from the local station.’

  ‘Who’s the senior officer on duty?’

  ‘Superintendent Price. He’s on his way.’

  ‘What are the details?’

  ‘Sir, I was just asked to call you.’

  ‘But you must have more details…’

  The news curled a knot in his stomach, but he knew that Ar
ea Control staff just made the calls; he would have to talk to Price.

  ‘There’s a car on its way, sir.’

  The phone went dead.

  Drake scrambled about the bedroom, dragging on clothes discarded earlier. He mis-timed thrusting his leg into his trousers and fell to the floor. He sat on the side of the bed, struggling with his shoelaces.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sian mumbled.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Her hand dragged the duvet from her face.

  ‘Two officers have been killed on the Crimea Pass.’

  ‘Policemen?’

  Drake nodded.

  His wife sat up, hair dishevelled, eyes wide. ‘It can’t be true.’

  Before Drake could continue, the front doorbell rang, followed by a loud banging.

  ‘That’ll be the car,’ Drake said, as he ran for the stairs.

  The young officer standing outside the front door – head shaven, high-visibility vest – looked tense and alert, his eye contact direct. He turned and Drake followed him down the drive to the white BMW idling on the road. Opening the rear door, Drake mumbled an acknowledgment to the driver before closing the door behind him. He listened to the first officer radioing confirmation of their location and as the light in the cabin dimmed, Drake saw the flickering lights of the dashboard and noticed, with approval, the clean, sanitised smell. On the A55, the main trunk road that crossed North Wales, the driver accelerated hard. Drake checked his safety belt as they passed the occasional lorry and slowing car, pulling over to let them past. He fumbled through his jacket, knowing he had calls to make.

  *

  Detective Sergeant Caren Waits woke moments before the alarm clock went off and reached out to silence it before the noise disturbed Alun, sleeping by her side. He had been up three nights running and now it was her turn. Padding downstairs, she pulled on a pair of old boots and grabbed a torch before walking out over the fields. She drew the zip of her fleece up under her chin, thrust her hands into the warmth of the pockets and saw the outline of the shed against the moonlight. Then she saw the long necks of the alpacas moving slowly in front of her. The animals had not been well but were improving, and, once she had checked them, she would be back to the comfort of her bed. She ran her hand down each alpaca’s warm, woolly back, the light from her torch reflecting in their eyes, before returning to the farmhouse, pleased that Alun could sleep on undisturbed.