A Time to Kill

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Did you ever see him threaten Harry Jones?’

  ‘Like I said, leave me out of it. Seriously. I don’t want anything to do with him.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  Michael shook his head.

  When Drake glanced at Sara she made it clear that he should move on and dug into the file for the final photograph.

  Both officers stared at Michael as he gazed, open-eyed, at the image of Harry and the young girl.

  ‘The dirty fucking bastard.’

  * * *

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth, boss?’

  Drake and Sara sat in the car overlooking Llyn Padarn. Over the surface of the lake Drake could see the roof and chimney stacks of the old Quarryman’s Hospital. He drank some of his Americano from a plastic beaker, the sort that made coffee tasteless.

  Drake regretted his decision not to sit down in a proper café, but they needed to get on and speak to Glyn Talbot that afternoon.

  ‘If he’s lying then we can find out easily enough. We’ll get the photograph circulated to some of the local uniformed lads – I’m guessing somebody will know who she is.’ He stared at the mug as though sheer willpower would make the coffee improve. ‘This coffee is awful.’ He got out, paced over to a black bin filled to overflowing, and tipped the contents inside. Back in the car he switched on the engine. ‘Let’s go and see if Michael was right about Glyn Talbot.’

  High above the valley Drake threaded his way through a patchwork of detached properties, the occasional terrace and plots of derelict land. He parked outside a terrace of small stone houses with substantial slate roofs that couldn’t hide the fact they needed a lot of care and attention. Paint flaked from windows; Drake spotted a loose gutter and downpipes ready to topple over onto an unsuspecting pedestrian.

  Glyn Talbot opened the door after a delay that merited Drake and Sara exchanging a worried frown. He gazed at both of them impassively. He had the same old shirt that Drake had seen him wear in the museum but this time it was underneath a stained navy sweater.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake. We met on Saturday in the museum.’

  Talbot didn’t respond.

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Harry Jones. May we come in?’

  Talbot hesitated.

  ‘It really won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

  ‘I was…’

  Drake gave his voice a serious tone. ‘This is an ongoing murder investigation. I’m sure you understand we have a lot of work to do.’

  ‘Of course.’ Talbot relented, easing open the door.

  Immediately in front of them was a staircase and to the left the door into a downstairs reception room. The pungent smell of mothballs and ancient furniture tickled Drake’s nostrils. A single bar of a double electric heater took the edge off an otherwise cold and unwelcoming room. A cabinet against one wall housed a collection of what looked like old-fashioned clocks and electrical equipment.

  Drake sank further than he expected into the old sofa while Talbot sat on an upright Parker Knoll chair, its arms thin with age.

  ‘How well did you know Harry Jones?’

  ‘How well can one know anybody?’ Even Talbot’s accent sounded forced as though he had to be persuaded to elongate his vowels.

  ‘So, what was your relationship with Harry Jones?’ Drake was ready with a sharp reply had Talbot repeated the same response. ‘What did you talk about when you visited him on the morning of his death?’

  Talbot nodded serenely as though he were a pontiff accepting the supplication of a novice.

  ‘He was the most vocal councillor in support of the development at the old Glyn Rhonwy quarry. I was hoping I could persuade him to change his mind.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  ‘Of course not. It was a simple discussion. It’s no secret, Inspector, that I have written articles critical of the proposed new leisure facility. There’s a group of us who want to safeguard the rich heritage of our area and culture and language. There are many leisure facilities in North Wales – we don’t need another one.’

  ‘Who else is in this group?’

  Talbot rattled off various names.

  ‘I was with Tom Pritchard on the day Harry died. I’m sure he’ll confirm the nature of our conversation.’

  ‘I’ll need to contact him.’

  Talbot left them for the kitchen that was through the door at the end of the room. Sara and Drake took in the room. A necessary trait for any police officer. The walls needed painting – the paper peeled in one corner and the Artexed ceiling made the place feel oppressive.

  Talbot returned and handed Drake a yellow Post It with a name and telephone number written on it.

  ‘Thank you.’ Drake struggled out of his chair and stood up. ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Talbot?’

  For a moment Talbot looked nonplussed. ‘I’m retired.’ He gave Drake another version of his Dickensian face, and Drake and Sara called it a day and left.

  Once the door closed behind them they made for the car.

  ‘That was a bit like stepping back in time, boss.’

  ‘I can still smell those mothballs.’ Drake shuddered.

  He stretched out for the car door when a message reached his mobile.

  Sorry, just seen your message. In meeting all day. Dinner Wednesday would be lovely. Axx

  He smiled.

  Chapter 12

  When Drake arrived at headquarters the following morning, Sara had been busy at work for several hours judging by the mountains of files on her desk. She looked up at him as he checked his watch.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Drake said.

  Sara stretched her back, folding her arms behind her head.

  ‘I wanted to get started on the paperwork operational support recovered from Harry’s office.’

  Drake nodded. ‘There has to be something that links Harry Jones to Richard Perdue.’

  The door of the Incident Room squeaked open and Winder and Luned breezed in, nodding greetings as they joined Drake and Sara.

  ‘How did you get on yesterday, boss?’ Winder said.

  ‘Harry’s assistant, Michael, couldn’t identify the girl.’

  Winder replied. ‘Seems unlikely.’

  ‘He confirmed the other man who interrupted Harry Jones and tried to rough him up was Richard Perdue.’

  ‘He was the man Harry telephoned,’ Winder added.

  ‘So we need information on Perdue.’

  Winder nodded as Drake continued. ‘We spoke to Glyn Talbot about his visit to Harry Jones,’ Drake said. ‘They were trying to persuade him to change his mind and object to the plans for the old bomb storage facility.’

  ‘I thought that proposal was supported by the local community?’ Winder said.

  ‘Talbot and a couple of his pals are dead against it.’ Drake nodded at Winder. ‘I’ll email you the contact name for the other man with Talbot. Give him a ring and check out the details.’

  ‘Do we think either man was involved?’ Luned added.

  ‘Neither of them have a motive as far as I can tell. And have you both finished going through the CCTV coverage?’

  Winder and Luned managed to exchange a brief, guilty glance.

  ‘There could be somebody else of interest on that tape.’ Drake reprimanded.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ the detective constables said in unison.

  Drake spent a few moments scanning the various emails in his inbox once he was sitting by his desk. He ignored an invitation to a presentation about the latest developments in pursuing cyber criminals. A brace of circulars from his union would be checked later. Usually they were complaints about additional workloads and objections to changes in working practices, and after giving them proper attention he deleted most of them.

  Sara had questioned the honesty of Michael after their conversation yesterday and a quick search of the police national computer told Drake he had no previous convictions. He emailed the intelligence officers re
sponsible for the area that covered Llanberis asking for any background about Michael and sending them the image of the girl they had to identify.

  Drake outlined on a legal pad the unanswered questions from yesterday. Writing ‘motive’ under Fiona’s name focused his mind on the fact she had tolerated Harry’s infidelities for years, decades even. So why would she have murdered him now? Did she just snap? Had things come to a point where she could take no more? She would not be the first wife to have decided that enough was enough.

  His preparation was interrupted by a call from one of the women on the front desk. ‘A man called Councillor Evans wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply and connected Drake. ‘It’s Councillor Evans. I’m the chairman of the Llanberis parish council. We met briefly when you interviewed the councillors on the afternoon you discovered Harry Jones’ body.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Drake couldn’t recall Evans as all the councillors appeared much the same – mid-seventies, paunches and double chins.

  ‘I have left a message with the mobile incident room in Llanberis for you to contact me.’

  Typical politician, Drake thought, getting his justification in first.

  ‘On the night he was killed there was a council meeting where there was a presentation by the company planning the redevelopment of the bomb storage facility.’

  ‘I do remember that. All of your colleagues recalled the meeting breaking up at about eight p.m.’

  ‘Yes, of course; that’s right. I wanted to tell you what happened. I’m surprised nobody has contacted me already.’

  ‘Perhaps you could give me the details.’

  ‘There’s going to be a multi-million-pound investment to redevelop the bomb storage facility and quarry. There’s going to be a visitor centre, a café and interactive suite that can be used for schoolchildren to learn about the industrial past of Llanberis. It’s going to give a derelict site a new lease of life and make a positive contribution to reinvigorating an area spoiled by years of exploitation.’

  More politician speak.

  Evans paused for breath. ‘Harry Jones was one of the most vocal and vociferous supporters of the proposal. He’s appeared on television extolling the virtues of how the redevelopment will transform Llanberis.’

  ‘I’m not certain how this is relevant to my murder enquiry.’ Drake wanted to be as polite as possible but he was already planning how to bring the conversation to an end.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. Harry’s one-man campaign to have the place redeveloped made him enemies.’

  Evans let the last statement hang in the silence. Drake heard his breathing.

  ‘There were three protesters in the meeting the night Harry was killed and things got a bit heated. There was a lot of shouting. All of it directed at Harry because he’d been saying how important the development was going to be and how crucial it was for the future of the village. Some of the protesters hurled abuse at him. It all got very nasty.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ Drake clenched his teeth.

  ‘I reported it to the mobile incident room. I was expecting someone to contact me.’

  Mentally Drake counted to five hoping to contain his annoyance with Councillor Evans. ‘We’ll need the names of the objectors.’

  There was a rustle of papers as Evans dictated the information and Drake jotted down the details.

  * * *

  After returning home the previous evening Sara managed a five-kilometre run. It had helped her unwind and after finishing some cooling-down exercises she had showered, eaten a healthy meal of chicken and pasta and slept soundly, waking a little before six feeling refreshed.

  An empty Incident Room meant she could get some work done without the distractions of Gareth Winder’s fidgeting. She had hoped her irritation with the way he worked might have abated. But even after a few months he still got under her skin. She scolded herself that she didn’t have the luxury of being able to choose work colleagues and recently she had resolved that as Winder was an experienced detective constable she had to tolerate him. Luned was different: a little stuffy perhaps but dedicated and intelligent.

  Boxes of files transported from Harry Jones’ office to headquarters sat in the storeroom having been archived and indexed by one of the civilians in operational support. She took the first box to her desk and reached down for the typed list. She read the details – sales reports, stock lists, rent receipts and auction particulars.

  She was halfway through the various files when Drake entered, obviously surprised to see her in so early. Soon afterwards, Gareth Winder and Luned Thomas arrived, and she exchanged the usual morning pleasantries, making certain she appeared polite and professional. Drake telling Winder and Luned to finish checking the CCTV coverage had the desired effect of focusing Winder’s attention. He settled down and all she could hear was the clicking from his mouse and the occasional pause for him to scribble on his notepad.

  The files were the product of an organised and tidy mind. Sara read a list of items in the shop, and details of all card payments through his business and invoices from auctions where Harry purchased stock. She couldn’t see any record of the items in the lock-up.

  The second box that Sara looked in contained the financial documents Padarn Antiques needed. Bank statements printed from the Internet, draft accounts from a firm of chartered accountants, tax returns and circulars from the bank. It made her own banking arrangements seem pretty simple – one current account and a savings account into which she promised herself to pay money regularly but never actioned.

  Tens of thousands of pounds sloshed around Harry’s bank accounts. Fiona Jones wouldn’t have any difficulty maintaining her lifestyle. Which begged the question whether Fiona was a realistic suspect?

  When the name Wolfgang Muller appeared three times on the list in the third box Sara was checking, she was able to completely ignore the mid-morning coffee activity in the Incident Room. She reached down and pulled out the three files.

  The first file contained letters from a firm of lawyers to Harry Jones. Wolfgang Muller had started a complex civil case against Harry Jones hoping to recover money invested in a company Harry had recommended. Sara turned her attention to the second file with the court documents. She focused her mind on trying to understand the basic allegation despite the obtuse language. Quickly she jotted notes hoping that she had understood the basis of the claim. Flicking through to the final documentation she read that Muller’s claim had been dismissed and that he had been ordered to pay costs. Money was involved, a liability created – which made it the most obvious motive in the world. Drake had to be informed so she picked up the legal pad, pushed her chair backwards and at the threshold of his office rapped her knuckles on the door; he waved her in.

  ‘I’ve been working through some of Harry Jones’ papers. Wolfgang Muller was suing him over money he had invested. Apparently, the investment went sour and the company went bust. In the end Muller’s claim was dismissed. It left him with a big bill.’

  Drake whistled under his breath. ‘Money makes one hell of motive.’

  ‘Perhaps we can ask Fiona Jones for some of the details.’

  Drake nodded slowly.

  * * *

  Alison Faulkner plonked the cafetière and a set of Lavazza cups and saucers in the middle of the pine table. Drake looked over at Fiona Jones. She looked tired, the bags under her eyes more prominent now.

  ‘We have some more questions we think you might be able to help us with.’

  Fiona plunged the cafetière and poured three cups. Drake pulled one towards him and fingered the rim of the cup hoping the coffee matched the logo on the surface. Fiona took a sip from her cup and glanced over at Drake, but he couldn’t read her eyes.

  ‘We were hoping you could fill in some gaps in our chronology for the afternoon Harry was killed.’

  Fiona replaced her cup on the saucer and ran a carefully manicured finge
r along the handle.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I can remember.’ The replies sounded staged somehow, carefully rehearsed even. It made Drake think that she was hiding something and that if she wasn’t more forthcoming she’d be at the top of the list of persons of interest alongside Wolfgang Muller and Richard Perdue.

  ‘We’ve found papers relating to a dispute with Wolfgang Muller,’ Drake said. ‘Tell us what you know about it.’

  Fiona glanced away and sighed as though replying was beneath her.

  ‘That bitch Heulwen acted for Muller. He thought Harry defrauded him by dishonestly persuading him to invest in some company that went bust.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  Fiona shrugged.

  Sara now. ‘Who is Heulwen?’

  ‘She’s a lawyer who did the legal work for Muller. She should have known better.’

  From the depths of his memory, Drake recalled meeting a Heulwen, who was also a parish councillor, on the afternoon Harry’s body was found. ‘Is she on the parish council?’

  Fiona nodded.

  Drake glanced at Sara before asking his next question. He wanted to see how Fiona would react. ‘Were you aware that your husband had a CCTV system in his office?’

  She blinked, too vigorously. He had his answer without Fiona saying anything.

  ‘I’m sure there was a good reason for it.’

  ‘Did your husband ever mention meetings with a man called Richard Perdue?’

  ‘He had lots of business associates.’

  ‘Is that how you classify his relationship to Perdue?’

  Fiona shrugged.

  ‘What sort of associate was he?’

  Drake sensed that Fiona knew she had trapped herself.

  ‘They did business occasionally. I know that Harry mentioned him.’

  ‘Did Harry ever complain about him?’

  Fiona frowned.

  ‘There’s an incident three weeks before he was killed where Richard Perdue appears to threaten your husband. Do you know what it could be about?’