She parked outside the home of Fiona Jones’s mother, as a slim woman with steely-grey hair and pronounced wrinkles bustled out. She stopped when she saw Luned and glared at her for a moment.
‘She’s in a foul mood this morning.’ And with that she hurried off to her car.
The rear door to the house was open and Luned called out, ‘Mrs Williams, good morning.’
‘Who is it?’
The face at the kitchen door had wrinkled leathery skin, thinning white hair and the hardened look of old age. Determined eyes gave Luned the once-over. They also gave her warrant card a piercing stare.
‘Did you pass that useless carer? She’s really thick. I suppose you’ve come to ask me about Harry?’
‘Can I come in?’ Luned said. ‘I’m part of the team investigating the death of Harry Jones. It’s routine. We need to build a complete picture.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. I’ve seen enough of those cop shows on television. You probably think Fiona had something to do with it.’
The old woman nodded to the inside of the house and Luned followed her into a parlour. Ornaments and figurines cluttered every surface; jugs and glass vases lined the windowsill. The room was hot. The newspaper, folded open at a crossword, sat on a table beside an upright chair.
‘Can you tell me what happened on the night Harry Jones was killed?’
‘What has Fiona told you?’
‘I’m sure you know, Mrs Williams, that I need to get your side of things.’
‘Fiona didn’t kill him. All she’s interested in is the money.’
Luned told herself to be patient. ‘When did you last see Harry Jones?’
The older woman recalled all the details of a Sunday lunch at a local restaurant – even commenting about the expensive jewellery and watch Fiona wore.
‘How did you get on with Harry Jones?’
‘It wasn’t for me to get on with him; Fiona had to live with him.’
Luned was about to ask another question but Mrs Williams continued. ‘Harry always looked after Fiona. She never wanted for anything, but I knew what he was like. He thought nobody knew about his other women. They were slags, ready to sleep with him for money – that was all it was.’
‘That must have had an effect on Fiona.’
Mrs Williams launched into a reply. ‘My daughter is independent; she can look after herself. She got used to it, tolerated it.’
Luned doubted Fiona’s behaviour towards Penny Muller could be described in such terms.
‘How many children have you got, Mrs Williams?’
‘Fiona and Ceri and… Jean. She…’ Luned sensed the old woman’s discomfort, and recalled a woman called Ceri being with Fiona on the day they discovered Harry. ‘She killed herself.’
Mrs Williams faltered. Luned saw the anguish still fresh in the older woman’s mind.
‘She was never right… And being married to Glyn… it would test the patience of a saint.’
Luned made a mental note to find out more about Jean. ‘How often does Fiona come to visit?’ Only one more question before getting back to the night Harry Jones was murdered.
‘She’s a good daughter, and so is Ceri.’
‘I understand that Fiona came to see you on the night Harry was killed.’
Fiona’s mother gave Luned a detailed minute-by-minute chronology, which all sounded very plausible. Either she had been coached effectively by Fiona or the version of events were accurate. It tied in with the CCTV coverage recovered from the supermarket where Fiona had bought the ready meal earlier that evening.
The older woman confirmed Fiona Jones’s initial story – it didn’t mean Fiona hadn’t killed her husband, of course, but it did make her less challengeable. Luned thanked Mrs Williams and made to leave. On a cupboard near the door were several photographs and Luned noticed the smiling faces of Fiona and what looked like a sister. A young boy stood to one side.
‘That’s Matthew, my grandson.’ Mrs Williams sounded genuinely pleased. ‘He’s a good boy. He takes after his mother, Jean, and my side of the family.’
Luned assumed the last comments made clear two of her daughters had made unfortunate marriages. ‘You’ve only one grandson?’
‘Jean only had Matthew.’ She reached over for a photograph of another family scene, parents and three daughters, and showed it to Luned. ‘That’s Ceri and her daughters. And Fiona, well – Harry must have been firing blanks.’
The woman’s belief in her own family’s invincibility surprised Luned.
Back at headquarters Luned faxed the authority to the lawyers and got down to chasing the Land Registry for details of property owned by Harry, building a complete picture of his finances. It surprised Luned that someone would keep so much money in a current account. When she saw the regular stream of income it was obvious that finances weren’t a problem to Harry Jones. Perhaps he was money laundering through his business? She made a mental note to raise it at the next team briefing.
Across the Incident Room she heard Winder on the telephone but tried to ignore his conversations. She was certain he asked for a detective inspector whose name was unfamiliar. There was a brief conversation between both men, so it must have been important because Winder’s demeanour changed. He became business-like, using ‘sir’ more frequently than he would normally.
It was almost lunchtime when an email reached her inbox from the Land Registry. She gladly put to one side fathoming out all of Harry Jones’s finances and began assembling a spreadsheet of the properties he owned. There were eleven and it amazed her that someone could acquire so many houses. They were all in Harry’s name apart from the house where he lived with Fiona, vested in their joint names, and another property a few miles from Llanberis in joint names with a Nancy Brown. A search of the telephone directory drew a blank for a landline number for Brown.
Winder stood up and exhaled loudly. ‘You won’t believe all this crap about Richard Perdue. I’m waiting for a call back from a superintendent in a police force in the Midlands.’
Winder’s telephone rang on his desk. He grabbed at the handset. ‘Detective Sergeant Gareth Winder.’ He even managed to sound more professional.
She half listened to Gareth Winder’s growing excitement, his conversation littered with frequent ‘yes, sir’s, his voice a little more raised than normal. Winder was still on the telephone when an email from Harry’s lawyers arrived and she opened the attachment. Harry Jones’s will appeared. She read the contents – more legal jargon, so she hit print and behind her the printer purred into life.
Winder was on his feet when she returned clutching the will. He was staring intently at the monitor before squinting up at her. ‘I need to contact the boss.’
* * *
Drake sat in a café nursing a coffee mug and worrying that the time he had spent with the individuals objecting to the development of the old bomb storage facility had been worthwhile. Talking to the first couple had been a surreal experience – the wife had insisted on speaking Welsh to him while the husband spoke only English, and Drake doubted from the blank expression on his face that he understood a single word his wife had said.
The second pair had launched into a bitter and twisted tirade against everybody they thought had done them a disservice over the years. It included various Members of Parliament and members of the Welsh Assembly as well as every county councillor. Drake promised to consider everything they had said, made excuses and left.
‘That was a complete waste of bloody time,’ Drake said. ‘They all knew Harry Jones. They all thought he was a scheming, crooked politician – all the usual phrases came out – nose in the trough etc.…’
Sara dabbed her finger to the side of her mouth as she finished the last of a scone. She nodded. ‘They were all a bit… odd.’
‘Let’s hope the Big Thrill Company is bit more positive.’
After paying the bill, they left and returned to Drake’s Mondeo. The satnav led them to offices in a nearby business
park.
A youngster on reception showed them into a conference room and soon the managing director, Ralph Erdington, joined them. Judging by the deformed cauliflower ears that stuck out almost at right angles from his head, Erdington must have played rugby with considerable enthusiasm and without the safety of a cap. He had a loud, booming voice, a crushing handshake and a physique that suggested he kept himself reasonably fit.
Drake pulled in his stomach and regretted his lack of exercise. The Big Thrill Company shared an office with a firm that designed websites where the staff wore T-shirts and jeans with prominent tears. Very few of the men staring at their monitors, clicking intently on their mouses, had shaved that morning.
Erdington sat down opposite Drake, the large, heavy watch on his wrist making a dull thudding sound as it hit the table top. Drake gave it a quick glance; it looked like a Breitling – he felt like the poor relation with his Omega.
‘What can I do to help?’ Erdington’s rich vowels suggested the West Country. Somerset, maybe Devon, Drake thought.
‘We’re investigating the death of Harry Jones.’
‘It’s terrible of course, but I’m not certain how I can help.’
‘He was one of the councillors in the community hall last week when you made a presentation about the development of the old bomb storage facility. I understand there were some people present who voiced their objections.’
‘Our proposal is supported by everybody. The local county council are all in favour, as are local businesses. We’ve been very careful to seek support from the extended community. The Welsh government are supportive too.’
‘What about the objectors present at the meeting?’ Sara said.
Erdington opened his hands before shrugging his shoulders and then gently shaking his head. ‘They’ve made comments about the disruption to their businesses but they were completely misguided. One of them has a smallholding and they think it might disrupt their farming activities; another has a local shop and café they’ve built from a converted chapel. They complain about the possible loss of business but they fail to see that this proposal will bring in hundreds of new visitors.’
‘Apparently, there has been some debate in one of the Welsh language newspapers about the damage further developments might make to the character of the area.’ Drake said.
Erdington adopted an earnest tone. ‘We’ve made a commitment to employ local people and to provide all our signage bilingually. No community can stand still, after all. It’s better to have jobs than see youngsters move away.’
It was the same argument Drake had heard every politician in the area articulate over the years. As most of the young people had left the area already he often wondered how many of the jobs actually went to locals.
‘Have you received any malicious communications – someone wanting to stop the development?’
Erdington shook his head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. Everything about this project is uncontroversial.’
‘Have you heard about the shooting incident?’
Erdington frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A photographer was in the facility yesterday when he was shot at.’
Erdington leaned forward in his chair. ‘Was anyone injured?’
‘No one thankfully, but we are treating it as a possible attempted murder. The place will be treated as a crime scene.’
‘Once we’ve completed the land acquisition we’ll take steps to make the place more secure.’ Erdington read the time on his watch but let his eyes gaze a moment longer than he needed. ‘Unless there’s something else I can do.’
Drake and Sara got up and Erdington showed them back to reception. Before they left, he handed them each a copy of the company’s glossy brochure with a business card tucked into the flap inside. ‘Do pay the centre a visit once it’s finished.’
Drake flipped open the cover and noticed the image of Erdington and the local council leader, his chain of office resplendent around his neck, shaking hands enthusiastically.
As they made their way back to the car Sara turned to Drake. ‘Do you think there’s a connection to the bomb storage facility?’
Drake had learned that Sara measured her comments carefully, making certain that nothing was taken out of context. The old RAF base might have been a dangerous place but perhaps his initial instinct that something connected the murder of Harry Jones to the history of the place and the new development was misguided.
‘I don’t think Erdington is involved. Their proposal wasn’t creating any real bad feeling apart from those few objectors.’ Drake knew he hadn’t answered Sara’s question. And he didn’t get an opportunity to elaborate as his mobile rang. He recognised Gareth Winder’s number.
‘I’ve had the details about the burglaries from the English stately homes. You need to get back here, boss. A chief super from Birmingham wants to talk to you.’
Chapter 15
Back at headquarters Drake spent fifteen minutes listening to Gareth Winder sharing what he knew about Richard Perdue and his links to certain organised crime groups in the Midlands. He read the time and, not wanting to be late, interrupted Winder mid-sentence.
‘We need to leave.’ It took Drake and Sara a few minutes to reach the video conferencing suite where a civilian was busy setting up.
‘It looks as though we’ll need to talk to Richard Perdue in due course,’ Sara said after making herself comfortable at the table.
Drake didn’t respond. The civilian fiddled with the equipment, making some final adjustments.
Moments later Sara and Drake appeared on the screen. Using modern communication systems meant significant savings in time and money for officers travelling around the country and brought a smile to the faces of accountants.
‘Let’s see what this detective chief superintendent has to say.’
Eventually the civilian checked her watch. ‘It’s time, Inspector.’
Drake straightened his tie, cleared his throat and fidgeted with the notepad in front of him.
Moments later the screen flickered into life and Detective Chief Superintendent Mitchell Overend peered out over the conference table.
‘Detective Inspector Drake.’ Overend had a strong Birmingham accent. He had rimless glasses, carefully trimmed short back and sides and a sharp jaw. Despite his rank he was in full uniform.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan, sir; she’s working with me on the case.’
‘You’re the SIO?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your superior officer is…?’
‘Superintendent Wyndham Price.’
Overend nodded, jotting something on a notepad.
‘We have an interest in an organised crime group with links to one of your suspects.’
‘Not exactly a suspect as yet, sir. Perdue is a person of interest at the moment. Harry Jones was killed last week and we recovered stolen goods from a lock-up he owned.’
‘Perdue is a low-life. But he’s connected to some serious players. That’s why I want you to be very careful how you deal with him. He’s used by an organised crime group to dispose of stolen antiques and works of art. There have been a number of burglaries and thefts in stately homes over the West Midlands in the last eighteen months. We’re talking of millions of pounds, Inspector.’
‘Do you have evidence to link Perdue to these crimes?’
‘I’ve got a team working on pinpointing his movements in relation to the other key players that we believe were involved. I’ve got printouts ten feet thick of triangulation reports, and hours of CCTV coverage which we need to analyse.’
‘We haven’t got a clear motive yet, but we need to understand his links to Harry Jones. We’ll be interviewing Richard Perdue in due course.’
Overend paused. He tugged at his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘The men he’s involved with are dangerous. They wouldn’t hesitate in using firearms or extreme violence. For some reason they take an interest in fine art and fancy
pieces of furniture. We’re not talking IKEA here; it’s chairs worth thousands of quid. And they all go to mansions in the USA or the far east.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Be careful, Inspector. Make sure your team know Perdue is connected to some very unpleasant people.’
‘Can you send me details of the individuals?’
Overend frowned, obviously troubled by Drake’s request. ‘I’ll send you a briefing memorandum. And you can expect a couple of officers from my team to examine all the items you’ve recovered. I need your forensic reports too. In the meantime, I’d like you to keep me posted with every development in relation to Richard Perdue.’
‘I’m not—’
‘It’s an operational necessity. I’m insisting. I’ll email Superintendent Price with my clear instructions later. But I expect your full cooperation.’
Drake opened his mouth to reassure the detective chief superintendent but the screen at the other end of the room went blank.
‘That went well,’ Drake said.
Sara blew out a mouthful of air. ‘Can he insist on be kept informed about our investigation?’
Overend was right – too many investigations in the past had been hindered by lack of cooperation between various police forces. Even so, it meant someone else looking over his shoulder.
Drake returned to the Incident Room, aware of the tension in his mind between his role as the senior investigating officer and the need to recognise the operational imperatives of a senior officer from another police force.
He pushed open the door and Sara followed him inside. Winder and Luned were making thinly disguised attempts to concentrate on the tasks in hand but both looked up immediately.
‘How did you get on, boss?’ Winder said.
Drake reached the board and tapped a forefinger on Perdue’s image. ‘Richard Perdue has some nasty friends in the West Midlands. We need to take it carefully. It looks as though the furniture we found in the lock-up owned by Harry Jones was stolen from various stately homes.’
‘When do we interview Perdue, sir?’ Luned said.
Drake was still staring at the image on the board. Ordinarily he would have responded by grabbing his car keys and driving straight to Perdue’s house to interrogate him but Overend’s words of caution rang in his ears.
A Time to Kill Page 11