A Time to Kill

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘There was an incident in the old bomb storage facility earlier this week.’ Drake knew the press had reported the shooting so he wasn’t sharing a confidence. ‘Someone fired off a few rounds.’

  ‘I heard about it on the radio.’

  Drake sensed she wanted to ask him if they knew who was responsible but she kept quiet.

  ‘We’re not certain if it is related to the death of Harry Jones but it’s certainly an odd coincidence.’

  The waiter returned and gave Drake an impatient look when he realised they still hadn’t decided. He stood and waited. Drake shared a self-conscious glance with Annie before they gave him their orders and the waiter scuttled away.

  They resumed without any hesitation, Drake finding the whole experience of spending time with Annie a joy. She turned the conversation to visiting Snowdon, telling him she had walked the Llanberis Path and that she hoped to do the other paths soon.

  ‘I haven’t been to the top of Snowdon since my father died. My grandfather’s favourite route was always the Snowdon Ranger path.’

  ‘You will have to show me that one day.’ She tapped two fingers on the back of his left hand resting on the table. Even that fleeting touch made his skin tingle and he wondered if she was teasing him or starting a joint to-do list. Before he responded the waiter arrived with panna cotta.

  Drake ordered coffees, instinctively hoping to delay the end of the evening.

  They filled in the various gaps in each other’s knowledge of their respective families. He’d mentioned little of the relationship he had with Susan, his sister in Cardiff, and decided that Huw Jackson, his recently discovered half-brother, would be a topic for another date. Once they finished Drake insisted on paying and realised he was fretting again about the end-of-the-evening, shall-I-see-you-again protocol.

  They made their way out towards the entrance.

  Annie shrugged on her coat, glancing over at Drake. He smiled back. Protocols could go and hang themselves. He was going to take the initiative and kiss this woman before she left.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ Drake said.

  He leaned down and kissed her on the lips and she kissed him back, really kissed him back. It made his skin feel as though dozens of small needles were prickling him all at once. He pulled away, self-conscious about the other diners milling around, but no one paid them any attention. He could see the colour of her eyes and that wonderful smile again.

  ‘Can I see you again sometime?’

  Annie smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

  Chapter 17

  Drake woke in a sweat. His pillow felt damp and he sensed his pulse beating wildly. Realisation that he had forgotten something struck him like a blow to the chest. He grabbed his smartphone from the cradle near his bed and fumbled to switch it on.

  He scrolled to his emails and read the details of the shop assistant he should have interviewed yesterday. But he had clean forgotten in his enthusiasm to see Annie.

  Why the hell hadn’t he rung to cancel or postpone their dinner for an hour? The assistant could be an important eyewitness. She might have some crucial evidence that could crack the case wide open. He had only himself to blame and he tried not to think about the consequences.

  He read the time – 6.45 a.m. – too early to call, so he cursed silently.

  He flopped back onto the bed before fisting a hand and thumping the duvet. He should have known better.

  After a shower and dressing, he drank water and made a coffee but he didn’t feel hungry so he listened to the morning news.

  At 7.25 he tried the supermarket. An answering machine told him they would open at 8.30. If the assistant was working, he would see her straight away.

  He left the house feeling empty.

  He had never let his personal life impede an investigation before. His stomach churned and by the time he reached headquarters he was thirsty again. He took a glass of water to his office and sat down. A little before eight o’clock he tried the number again – just in case.

  The same message replayed over the telephone.

  He tried to concentrate on work, but he kept checking his watch.

  Finally, he got through to someone at the store, but his lips were dry and he sounded garbled asking for the manager.

  ‘Peter Green. I’m the manager. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Drake – I was due to interview Vera Alton, one of the assistants yesterday, but my meetings ran on. Is she in this morning?’ Drake chided himself for the casual lie.

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Drake’s pulse hammered in his neck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Green said eventually. ‘She’s not in until the night shift on Tuesday. Apparently she’s gone on a hen do to Tenerife.’

  ‘What?’ Drake’s insides quivered.

  ‘A girl’s weekend away – before a wedding. Like a stag do.’

  ‘I know what a hen do is,’ Drake snapped.

  ‘Keep your shirt on – you asked.’

  ‘When is she back?’

  Once Green had confirmed she was away for a very long weekend Drake slammed down the telephone.

  He turned back to work. Before Tuesday, he had to make progress.

  He found the report from Detective Chief Superintendent Overend in his inbox. The clear, stark language made chilling reading. Richard Perdue was connected with some seriously unpleasant gangsters from Birmingham and Nottingham. One was suspected of being involved with drug importation involving millions of pounds of Class A drugs. The second gangster linked to Perdue had an unhealthy interest in trafficking young girls from Eastern Europe and a fascination with guns. Chillingly all the men were implicated in half a dozen unsolved murders. Drake focused on Perdue’s connection to burglaries in various stately homes. Valuable furniture and chattels had been stolen, and despite every attempt to trace the items through ‘the usual channels’, which Drake took to mean intelligence sources, nothing had been recovered. Shipped out of the country to the mansions of Mafia bosses, Drake thought.

  Overend speculated that various accommodating dealers throughout the UK had disposed of the rest. Harry Jones was simply a small cog in a large illegal wheel, Drake thought. He probably recycled the small items, making sure every item of stolen goods produced income.

  When his team arrived Drake had decided that a meeting with Perdue was overdue. Winder was the first to appear in his doorway. ‘Good morning, boss. How did you get on with the girl in the supermarket?’

  Typical, Drake thought; it had to be Winder asking. He thought about making some comment that Winder hadn’t shaved for three days but at least he was wearing a tie so on balance Drake decided against a pithy remark.

  ‘My meeting ran late so I missed her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s back on Tuesday. We’ll see her then.’

  Winder frowned, and Drake raised his voice. ‘We’ll need a full financial and background check on Nancy Brown. She was Harry Jones’s mistress, although she called herself a common-law wife.’ Drake dismissed Winder with a curt nod and called out over his shoulder. ‘Sara, get in here now.’

  Winder left, and Drake drew his chair nearer the desk. He waved for Sara to enter.

  ‘We are overdue a discussion with Richard Perdue.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Did the Midlands police have anything useful to tell us?’

  Drake gave her an executive summary of the complex web of criminals linked to Perdue. Occasionally Sara nodded, tut-tutted or simply rolled her eyes.

  ‘I understand now why that detective chief superintendent told us to be careful.’

  Drake stood up. ‘Let us go and see what Perdue has to say.’

  A few minutes later they were walking out of headquarters and down to Drake’s Mondeo. Inside it felt reassuringly antiseptic. He drove down to the A55 and indicated west.

  ‘What could be Perdue’s motive for killing Harry?’ Sara said once they were clear of the final tunnel at Llanfairfechan.

&nb
sp; The same thought had occurred to Drake. ‘Perdue was connected with some people who don’t need a motive for murder.’ It sounded chilling. Reading the reports from Overend that morning had only highlighted to Drake there were some serious gangsters in the inner cities of England.

  ‘Harry Jones got himself involved with some real villains. Maybe he thought he was too clever for them – tried to diddle them. They discovered he was on the take – I don’t think they’d react too kindly to that.’

  Sara nodded but said nothing. Drake couldn’t quite make out if she thought his argument had little value.

  Crossing over the Britannia Bridge and onto Anglesey, Drake cast a quick glance down towards Plas Newydd, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Anglesey with its lawns that reached down to the edge of the water. He took a left off the bridge and after half a mile indicated again to his left. The route took him past the entrance for Plas Newydd, and the satnav bleeped with instructions for him to turn right. He followed the road as it narrowed, leading to more bleeping from the satnav instructing him to take a left down a narrow country track, the grass that was growing in the middle brushing the underside of his car. At the end, the lane opened out into a gravelled area in front of an old farmhouse, recently refurbished by the clean render and glistening windowpanes.

  A Porsche 4x4, two years old from the number plates, stood outside a double garage. Drake drew up alongside and he and Sara got out. The main door’s black paint glistened and the locks looked expensive. Drake glanced upwards and noticed the CCTV camera screwed to a bracket high above them. What other security arrangements had Richard Perdue added to the property?

  A man in his late forties with protruding eyes and thick lips opened the door and stared at Drake and Sara. His features were the sort that made it difficult to read his emotions, Drake thought, knowing he had to be careful. Perdue’s carefully ironed shirt looked expensive and matched his designer jeans.

  ‘Richard Perdue?’

  ‘And who are you?’

  Perdue gazed inquisitively at both warrant cards. He was either buying time or wanted to fix the details in his memory. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’d like to discuss your relationship with Harry Jones. May we come in?’ Drake kept direct eye contact with Perdue but struggled to read any recognition or realisation of why he and Sara were there. Perdue hesitated. Was he going to try denying he knew Harry Jones? That would be foolish, really stupid, Drake thought.

  ‘Of course, come in.’

  Perdue led them into a room at the rear. The entire gable had been converted into a window with large panels. If Perdue ever sold the property the view over the countryside towards the mountains of Snowdonia would probably command a high asking price.

  Perdue made no attempt at small talk, no offer of coffee or tea.

  He sat down but didn’t suggest that Drake and Sara did likewise. The eyes still bulged and his lips barely moved.

  Sara examined every piece of furniture in the room; Drake had sensed her slow pace as they followed Perdue from the front door, allowing her to glance into the other downstairs rooms. Luckily the doors were open; clearly Perdue hadn’t been expecting two officers from the Wales Police Service to arrive on his doorstep.

  ‘Harry Jones was killed, shot, last week near the Quarryman’s Hospital in Llanberis.’

  Perdue barely blinked. ‘It is very sad.’

  Drake tried to read the emotion in the voice. It wasn’t easy, neutral like an announcement at a railway station.

  ‘How well did you know Harry Jones?’

  Perdue blinked this time and his lips moved slightly but darkness lurked behind the eyes. ‘I bought some pieces from him occasionally. He was a very well-established dealer.’ The accent was undiluted cockney. Drake guessed it would only be a matter of time before there’d be some rhyming slang, intended to confuse but which he always found grating.

  ‘How often did you make contact with him?’

  ‘Not often – I can’t remember when I last spoke to him.’

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Perdue?’

  ‘This and that, know what I mean?’

  Drake didn’t know what he meant but he wasn’t going to be goaded.

  ‘Perhaps you could explain.’

  ‘Just a bit of trading, occasionally I make a profit, which pays for all of this.’ Perdue raised a hand in the air like a member of the royal family. ‘A mate of mine might ring me with an offer of a juicy deal. We buy and then sell at a profit. Easy peezy, jobs a good un.’

  In five minutes flat Perdue was crawling under Drake’s skin.

  ‘Did Harry Jones ever offer you a “juicy deal”?’

  ‘No, can’t say that he did.’

  ‘Did you ever offer him a “juicy deal”?’

  Perdue shook his head.

  ‘Did he owe you money?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Drake squinted at Perdue, uncertain whether he was suggesting it was preposterous that anyone would owe him money such was the risk involved or whether the suggestion itself was preposterous.

  ‘So, you have no recollection of when you met Harry Jones last?’

  Perdue feigned seriousness, frowning. ‘A few months ago, yeah, that’s right, I bought a small clock from him. I love clocks, don’t you? Do you want to see the receipt?’

  ‘So, it wasn’t in the last month?’ Drake asked slowly giving Perdue enough time to hear and understand every word.

  Perdue pretended to think. ‘I’m not a man for diaries, Inspector.’

  Hedging his bets, Drake thought. Perdue knew it wasn’t an interview under caution. Sara scribbling in her police note book would be the only record of their conversation.

  ‘From Harry Jones’s mobile records we’ve been able to establish that he called you several times in the past few months, and a number of times in the past few weeks. What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nah, there must be some mistake. You know how these mobiles can make these fake calls. What do you call them? Pocket calls or something – when you’ve got your mobile in your pocket and you accidentally press it.’

  Drake took the call log out of the folder on his lap. ‘All the calls seem to be of a reasonable duration. The last one was forty-five seconds, one before that ninety-three seconds and several before that of over a minute.’

  Perdue averted his eye contact; the whites of his eyes shone. ‘Technology.’ He managed a jocular mood. ‘What can I say?’

  Drake kept his frown to himself. The more Perdue was lying to him the more it was likely that he would be a formal suspect to be interviewed under caution at some point.

  ‘Are you married, Mr Perdue?’

  ‘Not for me, mate.’ Perdue winked at Drake. ‘Play the field, that’s for me, mate. I don’t like to be tied down to one person. I like to have a bit of a change.’

  ‘Can you tell us where you were on the night Harry Jones was killed?’ Drake dictated the date.

  ‘Last Tuesday?’

  More hesitation. ‘I remember. I was here all night. I watched TV, had a couple of glasses of wine, went to bed early.’

  Now Drake hesitated. ‘So, there’s nobody that’ll confirm your movements?’

  Perdue shrugged. ‘On me lonesome, I’m afraid, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know where the bomb storage facility is in Llanberis?’

  Perdue looked puzzled. ‘Never heard of it.’

  Drake decided that for now he had had enough of Richard Perdue. ‘Thank you for your time.’ Drake stood up; Sara followed suit.

  Perdue saw them to the front door. ‘If you need to speak to me again, just call.’ Perdue stretched out his thumb and little finger to mimic a telephone handset. He managed to mangle the word call into cawl.

  Once they were inside Drake’s car, Sara turned to him.

  ‘I think he’s lying through his teeth. Why didn’t you show him the photograph?’

  ‘I wanted to wait until we’ve seen all the footage.
There may be more images of Mr Perdue.’

  Sara nodded.

  Drake started the engine. ‘The next time we speak to him will be at area custody – once we’ve arrested him.’

  They drove away leaving Perdue still standing on the threshold in front of the glistening black door.

  Chapter 18

  ‘I need a word.’

  Drake waved Mike Foulds to a chair.

  ‘This is the forensic report on the bullet that killed Harry Jones.’ Foulds dropped a sheaf of papers on top of the morning’s newspaper Drake had left on his desk. The Sudoku had proved particularly challenging and Drake had promised himself he’d tackle more of the puzzle later.

  As he read the first page of the report, Drake recalled Foulds’ belief that the bullet could have been fired from an antique pistol.

  Foulds continued. ‘The bullet came from a revolver that was around during the Second World War. And it’s very likely the gun was of German origin. And none of the pistols we recovered fired the shot that killed Jones.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  Foulds left and even though it was too much to expect the murder weapon to have been stored back in the lock-up, Drake felt disappointed. Establishing who knew about the pistols was a priority. Perhaps Richard Perdue knew about them, was implicated somehow in the thefts of the handguns. And Harry might have shown them to his wife and even to his ‘common law wife’; Drake couldn’t dismiss either woman from the inquiry.

  Drake turned his attention to Harry Jones’s will.

  The document was written in standard legal language. An accountant, Dan Caird, based in Llandudno, was the executor. The next two pages were taken up with a complex clause that Drake didn’t follow. At the top of the next page was a substantial gift to the Harry Jones No. 1 Trust and directions that the money should be held in accordance with the existing trust document. Drake would need more information about the anonymous-sounding trust.

  He decided to call the executor. A bored receptionist connected Drake.

  ‘Mr Caird, I’m investigating the murder of Harry Jones.’

  ‘It’s terrible. Awful. But I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector. I was Harry Jones’s accountant. I liked him, although I didn’t know him that well.’