A Time to Kill

by Stephen Puleston

After four rings, the call was answered but in the background Drake could hear voices and bleeping that sounded like a supermarket checkout.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ian Drake. I understand you have an interest in World War Two history. I hope you might be able to help us with identifying some firearms we’ve recovered as part of an investigation. I need you to examine some images.’

  ‘I don’t work at the museum every day. But I could see you tomorrow afternoon.’

  He was already committed to babysitting his daughters tomorrow, but if he collected the girls in the morning he could take them to his mother’s home for lunch and then travel into Caernarfon and meet Edwards.

  ‘Will two p.m. be convenient?’

  Drake rang off once Edwards confirmed the appointment.

  Calling his mother to finalise the arrangements was straightforward. She sounded delighted at having them all for lunch. She dictated a possible menu and he salivated at the prospect of a decent meal. Reaching Sian proved more difficult. He left several messages for her that morning hoping she might return his call between appointments in her surgery. She eventually rang him back at lunchtime.

  ‘I want to pick the girls up earlier than planned tomorrow,’ Drake said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m taking them to my mother’s for lunch.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘When are you leaving for your weekend?’

  Sian hesitated. ‘We… I’m leaving tonight.’

  ‘Are you going far?’

  ‘Look, Ian, this isn’t a good time. The waiting room is full of urgent appointments.’

  ‘Make sure you tell your mother to expect me early.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Drake finished the call and slumped back in his chair. A mass of confused emotions trickled through his mind. He dismissed the notion he was jealous she might be going away with somebody for the weekend. After all, they had been separated for, how long? It annoyed him that he still expected Sian to share with him her family plans. The divorce had gone through, all that remained was to sort out the financial paperwork. Any prospect of reconciliation was a distant memory.

  The demands of his working life had often meant that he worked long hours, arrived home late and left early. And talking about murder inquiries or difficult rape cases wasn’t exactly the subject of household small talk. Glancing over at the photograph of his daughters on the desk made him realise how much he missed them: seeing them first thing in the morning, dropping them at school, sitting with them at mealtimes. The possibility Sian might have a relationship with someone else hadn’t been something he had contemplated with any certainty. Now it appeared a more realistic prospect.

  And his mother had made a comment recently that he shouldn’t plan to live the rest of his life alone. It had even occurred to him to try one of the Internet dating sites that advertised regularly on the television. One of his colleagues was having a New Year’s Eve marriage in a resort in the West Indies to a woman he’d met that way and Drake idly wondered what his daughters might say if he started dating someone.

  Drake spent the next hour working his way through the list of individuals in North Wales who had licences for firearms, shotguns and revolvers. There were over a thousand, so he decided to narrow the search to those with addresses in Gwynedd, the county where Harry Jones lived, and the island of Anglesey. There were half a dozen gun clubs in the North West area of North Wales and Drake jotted down the names and telephone numbers for the secretary of each, knowing they’d have to contact them in turn. Someone would know of an individual with an interest in vintage revolvers.

  He could sense the dull buzz of activity from the Incident Room beyond his door and hoped that the others on his team were making progress.

  Sara appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  Before answering Drake read the time on his watch and realised his meeting with Superintendent Price was imminent.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve got a meeting with the super.’

  He got up and took his jacket off the stand, shrugging it over his shoulders.

  It was a short walk through the corridors of headquarters to the senior management suite. Wyndham Price exchanged a joke with his secretary as Drake entered.

  ‘Good to see you, Ian – go in.’ Price nodded at the door into his office.

  Pride of place on the conference table was a glass vase with a bouquet of freshly cut roses still wrapped in its supermarket cellophane.

  ‘It’s a present for my wife; it’s our wedding anniversary – thirty years.’ Price made the final two words sound like a prison sentence. At least he managed to buy flowers, Drake thought, chastising himself about the frequency with which he had ever bought flowers for Sian.

  Price sat down and dragged his chair nearer his desk. Apart from the piles of different coloured folders sitting discreetly on one corner, it was remarkably clutter free.

  ‘Did you read the statement the public relations department issued yesterday?’

  Drake nodded. It had been among emails he had read earlier. It contained the usual anodyne noncommittal language.

  ‘Let’s hope it helps.’

  ‘Does it ever?’

  Drake spent his allotted time explaining to his superior officer exactly how he intended to progress the investigation. Price nodded, agreed and made the occasional suggestion.

  ‘Are you going to be organising a press conference?’ Drake said.

  A press conference was unavoidable, and the public relations department frequently suggested one be arranged although Drake never believed they achieved a great deal. After his initial nerves as a young officer Drake found engaging with the television reporters uncomplicated and, being bilingual, he was a regular with the Welsh language news broadcasts.

  ‘Not at the moment. What concerns me is the use of a firearm. The press is making that into a big story. Have you made any progress with identifying the weapon involved?’

  ‘We should have more positive identification by the beginning of the week.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can manage the press interest in the meantime.’

  Drake stood up to leave; he cast an eye at the flowers.

  ‘Are you going somewhere special to celebrate?’

  Price smiled, and named an expensive restaurant that had recently won its first Michelin star. ‘Keep me posted with developments.’

  Drake drifted back to the Incident Room, regretting that his evening would be spent in front of his computer.

  Chapter 10

  When Drake arrived at the Incident Room the following morning the officers in his team were chatting amiably. A country and western singer would have been proud of the plaid shirt Winder wore that Saturday morning. Luned looked as formal as she did on a normal day. Sara had tied her hair in a severe knot behind her head.

  Winder munched on a pastry and Drake guessed that the bag on the desk from a local bakery had more Danish and Chelsea buns to keep the young constable on a sugar high all morning. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, and Drake ignored a vague sense of guilt that he wouldn’t be present all day, but at least his meeting with the historian that afternoon meant he was doing something constructive.

  Standing by the board he examined the various photographs pinned to it. It was a motley selection of persons of interest. One of the team had pinned an Ordnance Survey map of Llanberis and the surrounding valley to the board. Although it was only a few miles from where he’d lived as a child it amazed Drake he hadn’t heard about the bomb storage facility, even though it had been abandoned before he was born. The rural communities of North Wales could be self-contained, insular, isolated. The recent disclosures in his own family about his father’s conflict with his parents had reinforced for Drake that his was a society that valued its secrets, frowned upon openness. Tom Drake had become a father as a young man but Drake learned nothing of his stepbrother until quite recently. It had been a shock, a secr
et that had rocked the family. His sister had still not come to terms with it.

  Drake thought about Harry Jones’ relationship with Penny Muller as he looked at Fiona’s face. What did Fiona really think? People must have known, surely, Drake thought. At the heart of the secretive, quiet community was a festering hypocrisy. What else did they have to learn about Harry Jones?

  Sitting at his desk he turned to the urgent column of Post It notes. The sound of clicking mice and paper being moved drifted into his room through the open door. He cast a glance at Fiona’s image on the board in the distance and then at her name scribbled on a red Post It note. If she had murdered her husband, then her attempt at an alibi was ineffective – she could easily have killed him after returning from seeing her mother. The incident with Penny Muller pointed the finger of suspicion at Wolfgang Muller, but was it pre-planned and orchestrated to divert their attention from Fiona?

  Drake turned his attention to Harry Jones’ bank accounts. The antiques dealer had several – each with various names: business, property income, tax reserve, one marked personal and one jointly with his wife. A debit card on his personal account had been used for the purchase of flowers and wine on the afternoon before he was killed. Drake focused his attention on that account and jotted down the dates of other purchases in the same supermarket. Harry Jones wasn’t buying flowers for his wife, Drake guessed, but who was the other person and why hadn’t she come forward?

  Soon a pattern emerged of weekly payments for sums approximately the same as the amount Harry Jones had spent on the day he died. Occasionally, more frequent. Drake made a mental note that he would have to ask Fiona if she was the recipient of Harry’s generosity, but he doubted it. Trawling through someone’s bank account was a small part of the investigation, a small cog in a larger wheel. Analysing all of Harry’s bank statements would have to wait. As he read the time, knowing he had to collect his daughters imminently, he heard Sara’s voice.

  ‘Something you should see, sir.’

  Drake left his office for her desk.

  ‘The night Harry was killed he had typed out a message on his mobile – Where are you?’

  ‘Who was the recipient?’

  ‘The message was never sent.’

  ‘So it could be anyone.’

  Sara continued. ‘And I’ve been trawling through the numbers in Harry Jones’ mobile.’

  Drake squinted down at her, expecting an important revelation from the tone of her voice.

  ‘There are dozens of calls to a Richard Perdue.’

  ‘And who is Richard Perdue?’

  ‘I checked through the police national computer. He’s got a number of convictions for handling stolen property and, more importantly, several acquittals for similar offences. There are references to intelligence reports from three other forces.’

  Exchanging information with other police forces was crucial, but a reference to other forces suggested Richard Perdue was a person of significant interest.

  Sara continued. ‘I’ve still got at least three dozen other names to check out.’

  Every contact on Harry Jones’ mobile would need to be identified, followed up and spoken to.

  Before leaving, Drake listened to updates from Luned and Winder and then scooped up his jacket and left the Incident Room, knowing his team had hours of work ahead of them.

  * * *

  When Drake arrived to collect Helen and Megan he made small talk with his mother-in-law although he didn’t detect any warmth – not that he was offering any himself. He had never found it easy to get on with Sian’s mother. Drake had harboured a suspicion she somehow thought Sian might have done better for herself, chosen a husband more wisely, as though she were assessing a thoroughbred racehorse. Sian’s father was a lot easier, more easy-going, less judgemental.

  It surprised Drake when she thanked him for taking the girls so she could attend the charity auction that afternoon. It also narked him that she thought it appropriate to thank him for taking his own daughters. Perhaps his lifestyle as a detective had come to this – making himself available for his children was an unusual occurrence.

  He was later than he had hoped so a brief conversation with his mother on his mobile warned her they might be late. He drove down to the A55 and then westward through the tunnel under the Conwy estuary and then on towards the tunnels through the mountains. The traffic was light, and Drake tried small talk.

  ‘Did you do anything interesting last night?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Helen said, uncommonly taciturn.

  ‘We watched television. And we had pizza and Coke.’ Megan piped up.

  Both girls sat in the back returning their attention to the electronic gadgets on their laps.

  ‘Has Mam called you?’

  They shook their heads but said nothing. Drake had expected a little bit more information, but cursed himself for stooping so low to think he could interrogate them about Sian’s mystery weekend.

  After taking the junction for Caernarfon he skirted around the town, catching a glimpse of the castle’s imposing turrets. He travelled the narrow country lanes to his mother’s smallholding as he had done hundreds of times before. After a few minutes he reached the track that led down to the property. In the distance, storm-filled clouds gathered over Caernarfon Bay.

  His mother was waiting for them on the threshold when he parked the car on the gravelled area near the back door.

  ‘How are you, Ian?’ She gave him a brief hug. She gave her granddaughters a more enthusiastic version.

  The girls disappeared into the house.

  ‘You look tired,’ Mair Drake said before continuing in the same motherly vein. ‘You’re wearing your best suit.’

  Drake wasn’t going to embark on an explanation of the pecking order of the suits in his wardrobe. ‘I told you I’ve arranged to see someone in the army museum this afternoon.’

  Mair Drake rolled her eyes in feigned ignorance. ‘Let’s have lunch before you go.’

  A warm, rich smell filled the kitchen. It reminded him how hungry he felt – grazing during the day was another unwelcome symptom of his busy schedule. The smell took him back to his childhood, of substantial roast dinners, serving plates piled with steaming potatoes and fresh vegetables.

  ‘I’ve made beef stew.’

  She told him about one of her neighbours who was waiting for an operation, and as Drake listened he realised how easy it was to relax in the house he once called home. Sitting around the table with his daughters was a simple family activity he missed. Although he hadn’t valued it enough in the past.

  By the end Helen and Megan had eaten far too much. The portions of fruit crumble and custard went unfinished on their plates. Drake helped his mother clear the dishes and her kitchen was returned to its usual neat and tidy order.

  ‘Did I tell you about Susan?’ Mair cast a worried glance at Drake. ‘She’s going to visit the weekend after next.’ Apprehension was engraved into every word. ‘I want her to meet Huw.’

  Now there was a certainty and determination in her voice.

  ‘You will be able to come, won’t you?’

  Drake smiled confirmation, hoping the demands of the inquiry would mean he could attend this family event where his half-brother would be present. He glanced at his watch and realised he was late.

  ‘I need to leave. I won’t be long,’ he said, finding his jacket and reaching for the car keys.

  It was a short drive down into Caernarfon where he parked on the quayside below the huge imposing walls of the mediaeval castle, built by Edward I to subdue the querulous Welsh population. He strolled up to the main square, casting a brief glance at the platform upon which a historian had recorded that Edward introduced his firstborn son to the people of the town as the Prince of Wales.

  At the entrance of the castle he paid the fee and made his way inside. The scale and ambition of the building always made Drake pause. Tall polygonal towers loomed over the internal grassed area. It must have been an imp
osing, intimidating sight for the native Welsh population, Drake thought.

  He followed the signs for the museum into one of the towers. Eventually he found a wooden door that filled a substantial stone arch. ‘Staff Only’ was printed on a thin metal sign screwed to the middle. A stainless steel ring hung to one side, the only clue as to how to open it. Inside, the warmth contrasted with the chill autumn air. The room was larger than Drake expected, and to his right a door led off up three shallow steps.

  A man sat by a desk poring over books and journals. At the far end boxes were piled on top of a cupboard. Alongside it were stacks of plastic chairs. The collection of small tables and various filing cabinets completed the picture of an office-cum-junk room.

  ‘John Edwards?’ Drake said.

  The man turned and looked over at Drake. He had a kindly warm face. He gave Drake a weak smile.

  ‘Inspector Drake?’ He stood up and reached out a hand. ‘John Edwards, good afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ Drake dragged over a chair.

  ‘How can I help?’

  Drake sat down and dropped a folder onto the table.

  ‘I’m conducting a murder investigation and we’ve discovered various old firearms in a lock-up storage unit that the victim owned.’

  ‘I presume you’re talking about Harry Jones, from Llanberis?’

  Drake nodded and rummaged in the folder for the photographs. Each gun had been photographed from every conceivable angle. Looking down the barrel, from the bottom of the handgrip, and from an elevated position.

  ‘I’ve got photographs here and I was hoping that you might be able to identify these individual firearms.’

  Drake handed a set of half a dozen images of the first revolver to Edwards who flicked through them slowly. He jotted something on a notepad on the desk. Drake passed him the rest of the photographs and for a few minutes Edwards said nothing, contemplated and made more notes.

  The door behind them creaked open and a man entered carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.

  ‘This is Glyn Talbot,’ Edwards said. ‘We meet on a Saturday to prepare articles for Papur Padarn.’