Drake recognised the name of the local ‘papur bro’ – Welsh language community newspaper.
Talbot wore a crumpled, dishevelled suit and an off-white shirt thin with age. The clothes matched the chubby-cheeked appearance. Talbot peered at Drake through half-rimmed spectacles.
‘Inspector Drake.’ Talbot offered a hand. He couldn’t pronounce his ‘r’s correctly.
‘Glyn, Inspector Drake wants help in identifying these pistols.’ He pointed to the images on the table.
Talbot leaned over and gave them a half-hearted glance. ‘They all look very old to me. I don’t know anything about guns.’
Edwards nodded. ‘They are all vintage revolvers from the period of the Second World War. The first one is a Walther P38 – commonly used by the German army before and during the Second World War and the second is a Mauser Hsc – it was in common use in the German army and navy as well as civilian use. The third is a Smith & Wesson that was manufactured in massive numbers by the United States.’
‘Do you know of any collectors of these sorts of pistols?’
‘Nobody locally. Have they been disarmed?’
‘I’m waiting for the results of a full forensic examination.’
‘There is a black market in these guns. Collectors who are prepared to take the risk. Normally the pistols would be rendered harmless by removing the firing pin. But certain people collect them despite it being illegal to do so.’
Richard Perdue might tick that box, Drake thought.
‘I don’t think I can add anything further,’ Edwards said.
‘Could there be any connection to the old bomb storage facility in Llanberis? Were any hand guns ever stored there?’
Talbot replied first. ‘None and the place was left as a mausoleum.’
‘If you’re interested in Llanberis I can introduce you to Annie, who’s researching the history of the village,’ Edwards added.
Drake glanced at his watch, thinking that he didn’t have the time to spend talking to a dry academic.
‘Follow me.’ Edwards stood up.
Drake gathered up his papers and joined Edwards, who strolled through into an adjacent room with long tables and glass-fronted cabinets filled with books.
A woman sitting at the far end turned and glanced over at Drake and Edwards.
‘Annie, this is Detective Inspector Drake.’ Edwards turned to Drake. ‘Annie specialises in the history of the slate mining areas of North Wales.’
Annie stood up and reached out a hand. She gave him a perfect smile that lit up her broad, perfectly proportioned face and sculpted her cheeks into warm pockets. Dark auburn hair curtained her face. She dragged a lock of hair over her right ear. There was an intensity and warmth in her brown eyes that he hadn’t seen in a woman’s face since, well, he couldn’t remember.
Introductions completed, Talbot made excuses and left, although Drake had paid him little further attention. From the curl of her mouth Drake realised he must have been gawping. She was the same height as Sian; why did he always compare women to her? And she had the same slim build. Perhaps that was why she was so attractive.
Drake found a chair and sat down.
‘You’re investigating the murder in Llanberis?’
Drake detected the sharp edge of a Cardiff accent as well as the rounded soft vowels of rural West Wales.
‘Harry Jones.’ Drake focused on making sensible contributions to their conversation. ‘Glyn Talbot says you’re an expert on the history of Llanberis.’
Annie smiled again. Drake smiled back, an instinctive reaction to the warmth of her face.
‘I’m finishing a paper about the history of the labour conflicts in the various quarries in the Llanberis and Bethesda area and how they impacted on the communities.’
‘Harry Jones’ family was quite well-to-do at one time. I can certainly send you some details about them.’
It occurred to Drake to suggest that he collect them, but it would probably make him sound like a smitten teenager.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Llanberis and the surrounding area is fascinating. There is so much history.’
Drake nodded, and listened as Annie told him about the development of the town from the Victorian era when the railway to the top of Snowdon was built and how the Dinorwig quarry produced vast amounts of slate.
Drake ignored the time, deciding he had a renewed interest in local history.
Chapter 11
Drake sat in his Mondeo staring at the Sudoku puzzle, realising that for a Monday morning he should have been more relaxed. Returning Helen and Megan to their grandmother’s home on Saturday evening, it had occurred to him to suggest that they stay with him for the rest of the weekend. But he could imagine the cool reception such an idea would have encountered. Arrangements had been made, plans by Sian’s mother forged in steel and, having taken the coward’s way out, he regretted his decision that morning.
He discarded the newspaper on the passenger seat after managing a couple of squares and drove off to headquarters. Hopefully, he could find time during the day to finish off the puzzle – it was a moderate one after all. He reversed the Mondeo into a space at the end of the car park – the extra walking involved to reach the entrance might discourage others from parking too near his car. So far this approach had paid off; the bodywork was scratch free. He took the stairs to an empty Incident Room.
At the board Drake moved Harry’s photograph, making it more prominent, right at the centre. He hated it when things appeared lopsided.
He had lost count of the times he had checked Annie’s telephone number on his mobile since meeting her. Doubting himself that there were eleven numbers, he recounted them each time. He should have had the courage yesterday to call her – speak to her in person. That morning he looked at her number again and read the message he had tapped in at breakfast.
Would you like to meet for dinner Wednesday?
He had used the words love to see you but decided against it. And should he add an x at the end? Again, he decided against it. But did his message sound too cold? He added his name and pressed send. He sat back, wondering how he might feel if she didn’t reply or simply said no thanks.
He didn’t have time to answer himself as Mike Foulds appeared on the threshold of his office.
‘I’ve been called to a burglary this morning in Wrexham so I thought I’d tell you in person that you need to check out the CCTV footage we found on the computer in Harry Jones’ property.’
‘CCTV?’ Drake’s interest was piqued.
‘He had a small camera screwed to the storage cupboards on the back wall of his office. There are hours of coverage from the last few weeks. After three months the recordings are erased.’
‘Is there anything of significance on them?’
‘Come off it Ian. We haven’t got time to go through CCTV recordings. You’re the detective; that’s your job.’
Drake followed Foulds into the Incident Room, almost colliding with Sara who entered at the same time. Foulds muttered an apology and Drake heard his muffled greetings to Winder and Luned, who soon traipsed in. Winder shrugged off his overcoat while Luned and Sara dumped their bags on their desks.
‘The CSIs have discovered some CCTV recordings from Harry Jones’ office,’ Drake announced as three faces looked up at him trying to focus their attention. Drake could see Winder struggling to get his mind into gear. Drake read the time and glanced at Sara. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours before our appointment in Llanberis.’ Sara nodded her recollection of their meeting that morning with the parish council chairman. Drake continued as he made for his room. ‘In the meantime, we’ll divide the coverage between us.’
He turned his attention to the emails in his inbox and quickly downloaded the attachment from Foulds. The digital recording had been stored in date order so Drake took a moment to decide how the coverage would be shared between the team before he called for Sara, Gareth and Luned to join him. They stood in the doorway li
stening to his instructions before they returned to their desks.
Finding the right speed at which to view the CCTV footage involved trial and error, and Drake didn’t want to spend hours watching an empty office. It took him a while to find the correct setting and only when he saw Harry Jones or Michael the shop assistant did he play the recording in real time.
Following a murder victim going about his normal day-to-day business had an eerie quality. Drake rechecked the chronology for Harry Jones on the day he died. Sure enough, Harry appeared in the footage a little before 5 p.m. that fateful day. Michael came into the shot and spent a few moments, presumably discussing the day’s takings; their body language suggested nothing controversial but without audio Drake had only half the picture. Harry Jones’ departure matched up with the eyewitness evidence that recounted a meeting outside the shop at 6.20. It struck Drake he had started back to front for that day so he rewound the tape to 9 a.m. Harry turned up promptly at nine and began his office routine. He took telephone calls, swung his feet up onto the desk, made a coffee, left the room occasionally, presumably to talk to Michael because his absence wasn’t lengthy. Mid-morning when the post arrived he used an antique letter opener, discarding the envelopes into a nearby bin while sorting the various contents into racks and the drawers of his filing cabinets. It appeared to Drake to be the dull routine of the small-businessman even though he knew Harry Jones was far from a model citizen. He hurried the tape on, but his attention was sharpened when he saw someone appear; he checked the time – 11.34. Drake paused the coverage and gazed at the screen. Two men and he couldn’t instantly make out their faces. He knew he had seen one of them before – then he recognised the tired, old-fashioned looking clothes that belonged to Glyn Talbot, who he’d met at the army museum on Saturday.
He scrolled back until just before Talbot appeared.
He pressed play again. Harry Jones stood up. Making out the exact look on his face was difficult but Drake could tell that Harry was uncomfortable. He moved away from his desk and retreated from Talbot, who was a good two inches taller than Harry Jones and a bigger build. Drake jotted down the time when Glyn Talbot and Harry Jones started talking and when they finished – three minutes, twelve seconds. Drake froze the recording again: Talbot had made no reference to knowing Harry on Saturday. It was out of context, of course; he had been there to speak to Edwards but a grain of misgiving sowed itself in his mind.
A shout from Gareth Winder interrupted Drake’s thinking. ‘Something you should see, boss.’
Drake gave the static image of Talbot and Harry Jones another pensive glance as he left his desk. Sara and Luned had already joined a grinning Winder. Drake stood alongside both women as Winder clicked on his mouse. Staring at the screen for most of the morning made it easy for Drake to recognise the inside of Harry Jones’ office.
‘This was mid-week – three weeks before he was killed,’ Winder said.
Drake glanced at the clock on the bottom of the monitor – 15.30.
A woman entered the room. It was difficult to make out her age – but she looked at least twenty years Harry’s junior. She was slim, but making out her height was awkward. Harry pulled her close, drawing a hand up her right leg, hoisting her skirt to her waist, she offered no resistance and folded her hand across his face drawing him towards her lips.
‘That’s disgusting,’ Luned said. ‘He’s old enough to be her father.’
Drake sensed Sara fidgeting in embarrassment as Harry propped the girl onto the table, forcing her legs apart before reaching for his belt buckle. Something interrupted Harry and the nameless girl, something Drake and his team could only guess at – noise, a shout, a knock on the door. She got off the table, straightened her clothes, Harry jerked towards the camera and the young woman hurried to the corner of the room.
‘She’s going into the cupboard.’ Drake raised his voice to underline the incredulity.
Harry straightened the papers on his desk, and glanced at the cupboard. He stepped towards it and they could clearly make out that he dipped his head, obviously saying something to the girl secreted inside. Whatever was happening, she wasn’t going to be included.
Harry left his office but seconds later he reappeared, losing his balance as though he had been pushed back into the room. He was followed by the outstretched arm of another man, clean-shaven, hair carefully trimmed to his skull, and wearing an expensive-looking leather jacket. He seemed mid-forties; thick lips gave his face a distinctive appearance. Although he wasn’t much taller than Harry Jones, he started prodding a finger into Harry’s chest.
The grainy coverage made it difficult to read the body language carefully, but from Harry’s hand gestures and open mannerisms he was trying to win this man’s confidence. Did Harry owe him money? Drake wondered. The man stood, wide-legged, glaring at Harry, obviously dictating a demand or at the very least instructions.
They stood in silence watching the final stages of the stand-off between Harry Jones and the mystery man. Eventually he left, and Harry hurried over to the cupboard. The girl emerged, seemingly unharmed; after a brief exchange, presumably for Harry to reassure her that he was unscathed, they continued where they had left off minutes earlier.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Drake said.
Winder froze the screen, the girl’s legs already intertwined around Harry’s waist.
‘Print off the image of the mystery man and the girl.’ Drake nodded to Sara. ‘Let’s ask Michael – maybe he can tell us who these people are.’
* * *
Michael stood outside Padarn Antiques dragging on a limp cigarette, a can of Irn-Bru perched on the windowsill behind him. Sara wondered who was now in charge of the business – had Fiona been along to check everything was running properly? When she and Drake got out of the vehicle Michael noticed their presence and quickly straightened, casting a guilty glance around the other shops in the vicinity.
Michael looked at them both impassively as they reached the front door of the shop.
The intimidating edge to Drake’s voice had no effect on the young man. ‘We need to speak to you.’
He took a final drag of the cigarette, threw it onto the floor and ground it with the heel of his right shoe. Giving the can of Irn-Bru a hopeful sort of shake persuaded him it was worthwhile taking the dregs back inside. He led Drake and Sara to the small room he occupied.
Sara hadn’t expected that anything would have changed.
Even the computer had a game of solitaire in suspended animation.
‘Are you looking for a new job?’ Drake said.
Michael gave him a half-hearted shrug. ‘Mrs Jones says I can stay on until she decides what to do with the business.’
Michael perched on the desk; Drake squeezed himself inside the room while Sara stood on the threshold.
‘Did you know Harry Jones had a CCTV camera in his office?’ Drake motioned towards the rear of the building.
Michael’s mouth fell open, the surprise genuine enough.
Sara continued. ‘He was recording everything that went on. He kept the coverage on his computer.’
‘That’s dead fucking weird. He could spy on anyone in his office? What about in here?’ Michael jerked his head backwards, gazing around the space.
Drake now. ‘Did you always see everyone who went into his office?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Dunno. Sometimes I heard him talking to people who came in through the back door. Then he’d lock the door into the shop. That was HP – thinking he could keep everything dead secret.’
‘We’ve got some photographs. And we want your help.’
‘I’m not going to grass anybody up.’
‘Why? Do you think Harry Jones was into something illegal?’
‘You’re putting words into my mouth.’
‘If you know something about Harry Jones’ activities you’d better tell us now.’ Drake stood up; it meant he was almo
st standing over Michael.
‘I don’t want to get involved.’
Sara opened the file she had carried from the car. ‘We need to know if you recognise any of the individuals we have seen on the CCTV coverage.’
Michael didn’t move. He darted a glance between Drake and Sara. Then she held out the first image.
‘Have these men been to see Harry Jones regularly?’
‘The tall one’s Glyn Talbot. Yeah, I’ve seen him here a couple of times. He’s another strange one. I’ve never seen the other one. He looks like a perv though.’
‘Talbot called to see Harry at about half past eleven on the morning he died. Do you know what they talked about?’
Michael shook his head vigorously. ‘How would I know? He must have come in through the side entrance. And anyway I don’t think I was here then. I didn’t start early that day. I wasn’t feeling well.’ Sara recalled he appeared well enough the following morning, the morning they discovered the body at the Quarryman’s Hospital. Probably a hangover, she guessed.
Drake motioned for her to move onto the next image.
Michael stared at the photograph of the man who had roughed up Harry Jones, interrupting his activity with the young girl. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’
‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘Like I said, it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘You worked for Harry Jones. That means you are involved.’
Sara folded her arms and glared at Michael, reinforcing Drake’s message that he had to cooperate.
‘He’s called Richard Perdue.’
Sara stiffened, noticing Drake’s brief frown as he recognised the name.
Sara tried a soft tone. ‘What can you tell us about Richard Perdue?’
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, darting glances at the immobile computer game on the monitor. His voice shook when he eventually replied.
‘I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s a bad piece of shit. I don’t know why HP got involved with him.’
‘How often did he visit HP?’
Michael cleared his throat noisily. ‘I didn’t keep count. But I’ve seen him here a couple of times late into the night when I was leaving the pub. The nights when HP was working late.’
A Time to Kill Page 8