A Time to Kill

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake struggled at the start to understand Dan Caird’s thick Scottish accent.

  ‘But you must know a lot about his financial position as you were appointed his executor.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can to help.’

  Caird was simply being cautious, Drake concluded. ‘I’m trying to trace the details about a clause in his will. He left money to the Harry Jones No 1 Trust.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know all about that,’ Caird said energetically. ‘A financial adviser persuaded him a few years ago to put money into a trust fund in order to avoid tax. He sold a couple of properties and there was of lot of surplus cash Harry didn’t need at the time.’

  ‘How much was involved?’

  ‘Over £200,000.’

  ‘And who are the beneficiaries of this trust?’

  ‘You’ll have to talk to the financial adviser who set the whole thing up.’

  ‘Do you have his contact details?’

  ‘Yes, give me a minute.’ Drake heard Caird breathing down the phone. He dictated the number. Without pausing, Drake called the financial adviser. A smooth, confident recorded voice offered apologies that he couldn’t take the call in person and urged a message be left. Drake duly obliged, asking Malcolm Walker to return his call.

  Drake assumed the will used standard legalese but he wanted to be reassured, so he emailed one of the lawyers in the in-house legal department. After pressing the send button he sat back, and it struck Drake as odd that there was no provision in the will for Nancy Brown.

  Drake parked it in his mind for now and read on. Financial legacies were the next item in the will. Harry left several gifts of £500 to various small charities in and around Llanberis. Drake calculated the total – £10,000.

  In addition, Harry Jones had included a full page of gifts to individuals ranging from £50 to £500. Again Drake added the sums together – over £40,000. He paused: Harry had gifted a lot of money. How would Fiona Jones feel, Drake thought, when she’d learn about these legacies. Drake guessed Harry had more than enough money to ensure his widow could live comfortably.

  The individual recipients meant little to Drake; he presumed Ceri Parkinson was Fiona’s sister – and then her children Lowri, Anna and Gwenllian. Next were varying amounts to a Donna Jones, Jennifer Howard, Lily Rogers and Matthew Talbot. Harry even left a legacy of £1,000 to Michael, his shop assistant, and similar sums to his family doctor and dentist.

  Drake sat back; Winder standing in his doorway interrupted his deliberation.

  ‘I’ve been working on the CCTV coverage.’ Reading the time, Drake realised he only had a few minutes before his meeting with Superintendent Price. Winder made the statement sound like an invitation so Drake followed him into the Incident Room.

  ‘This needs to be quick,’ Drake said.

  Winder settled down in front of his computer.

  ‘I’ve been back through all the coverage from Harry’s CCTV camera. I’ve discovered he regularly saw Richard Perdue. At least twice a month and three months ago he saw him with another man.’ Winder clicked the monitor into life and a grainy image filled the screen.

  Drake’s regret about the shop assistant, which had played on his mind, was now displaced by realising he had been right to hold back with Perdue.

  ‘Good. Perdue lied to us and that puts him in the frame – get these images sent to Detective Chief Superintendent Overend. Let’s hope he can identify this man.’

  He got back to his office and finalised scribbling some notes before heading to the senior management suite. He detoured to the bathroom on the way. He took a moment to straighten his tie, wash his hands, and drag a comb through his hair.

  Drake settled into a visitor chair in the superintendent’s office and balanced his note pad on his knee. Price kept his eye contact direct as he listened intently to Drake. Occasionally the superintendent asked for clarification. Price could be hot tempered, intolerant, but when he made a decision he stuck to it and Drake always welcomed his support for his team.

  ‘So, the persons of interest are Perdue and Muller, whose motive is likely to be as a jealous husband and having been diddled by Harry over some investment. And we have Fiona Jones and his mistress Nancy Brown. I can see Fiona’s motive – something happens in her mind, and suddenly she snaps and bang, Harry is no more.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And have you anything on the shooting in the bomb storage place?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is it connected to Harry’s death?’

  ‘It’s impossible to tell. But two shootings in Llanberis within a few days of each other is a coincidence.’

  Price continued. ‘It strikes me Richard Perdue and his connections to the organised crime groups in the Midlands are your best bet.’

  Drake couldn’t help but notice that Price’s complexion was a paler shade than usual. He knew the superintendent worked long hours and had little social life apart from the occasional trip to the golf club. Mrs Price appeared to be a remarkably dull woman with little small talk, who Drake recalled meeting at an event organised by Northern Division. She smiled occasionally, fiddled with her hair regularly, but was clearly ill at ease. What would Price do after he’d retired, Drake thought.

  ‘Keep me posted,’ Price said as he returned his attention to the piles of paperwork on his desk.

  Drake wandered back through the corridors of headquarters. He was seeing Helen and Megan on Sunday. He would take them for lunch in a local pub that had a generous carvery. Then perhaps a walk along Llandudno pier, an ice cream at the end. But there was Saturday night before that and, finding his mobile, he tapped a message to Annie. Would he sound desperate texting her to confirm their date for Saturday evening? He hit send as he approached the door to the Incident Room. Then he heard laughter and a baby cry.

  He pushed open the door and smiled as he saw Caren Waits, his former detective sergeant, standing with Sara, Winder and Luned, her baby cradled in her arms. Caren looked well; her appearance was still dishevelled and her clothes a mass of different colours and textures, but motherhood clearly suited her. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘This is Aled,’ Caren said proudly. ‘He’s a month old.’

  Sara reached over and ran a finger over Aled’s cheek. He gurgled.

  Luned and Winder managed a stream of small talk – babies always had the effect of being able to get everyone talking. It amazed Drake that Winder could seem so paternal. Caren doted on all the attention.

  ‘I’ve got some news, boss,’ Caren said. ‘I passed the inspector’s exams.’

  A mix of emotions swirled around his mind, pleased for Caren – but disappointment too that she wouldn’t be returning to his team. Although she would be on maternity leave for a few months, by then Northern Division would have found an opening for her at inspector rank.

  ‘Congratulations, well done. I’m sure Alun and your family must be very pleased.’

  Caren smiled. Now he realised how much he missed working with her. Perhaps he had been too reluctant to accept her idiosyncrasies – eating with her mouth full and her scruffy appearance, all of which could irritate him.

  ‘Are you investigating the Llanberis murder?’ Caren glanced over at the board.

  ‘Harry Jones was shot with a revolver near the Quarryman’s Hospital,’ Winder said.

  Drake butted in. ‘Forensics think the bullet came from a Second World War German pistol.’

  ‘It sounds interesting. Nothing ever happens in Llanberis.’

  Drake made excuses and returned to his office. The forensic report delivered by Mike Foulds was still on his desk. He called Barnes again: still unavailable. Drake sat back in his chair, annoyed. The telephone rang; he hoped it was Walker returning his call. He was disappointed. He recognised the deadpan tone of area control.

  ‘We have a report of a homicide. Can you take the details?’

  Chapter 19

  ‘Sara,’ Drake bellowed, standing at the
same time, his chair jerking away behind him. He reached for his jacket as Sara appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Heulwen Beard has been killed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was one of the parish councillors we met in Llanberis – and she was the lawyer that worked for Muller when he sued Harry Jones.’

  Sara joined Drake as he ran out of headquarters. His coat flapped by his side as he headed for his car.

  ‘Where did she live?’ Sara said.

  Drake aimed his remote at the car; it bleeped open. He thrust a hand into a jacket pocket and tossed his mobile at Sara. ‘The postcode should be on the last message from area control.’

  Inside Sara fumbled with the satnav as Drake accelerated down to the A55. Traffic on the dual carriageway delayed his journey but once he was clear of the fifty miles per hour speed restriction he hammered the Mondeo towards the tunnel under the Conwy estuary.

  ‘Find out what you can about the scene,’ Drake said.

  Sara started making telephone calls. Drake listened but his irritation grew at the one-sided conversation. Sara had the annoying habit of sounding too professional, too detached as she replied. The signal died as Drake drove through the mountain tunnels and Sara fell silent.

  ‘So what are the details?’ Drake said impatiently.

  ‘Apparently someone calling at the house found her badly beaten body.’

  Once he negotiated the roundabout for Llanfairfechan Drake floored the accelerator and the car flashed past various vans, articulated lorries and the occasional caravan as he reached almost a hundred miles an hour. It was a journey he had done many times before. Thick clouds gathered, although the forecaster’s promise of rain had materialised only in a brief shower earlier that morning. As they approached the junction for Caernarfon the sky cleared, and a weak sun broke through, but the clouds soon returned to obliterate the autumn sunshine.

  Another left turn took him towards Llanberis via Pentir and the back roads. Apart from the postcode, there was a house name – Gwelfor. The satnav bleeped instructions for Drake to follow the signs for Deiniolen but he wasn’t familiar with the route. After a few minutes he slowed and pulled the car into a space, allowing a minibus to pass the car. He gazed down into the valley. A sheet of sunshine drew itself across the opposite side. Drake peered up and saw the summit of Snowdon glistening, and towards the top of Pen y Pass rain dissected the slate-grey sky.

  Most of the small stone houses that clung to the steep valley side had been built for workmen in the local quarries. At the time no one thought a wonderful view would command a premium but judging by the rooflights and the glazed extensions and expensive cars in discreet off-road parking spots, few locals could afford to buy houses here any longer.

  Gwelfor was a more substantial property than its neighbours and stood a little further back from the main road. A drive led up in a sweeping arc to the side of the building. Drake parked next to a marked police vehicle. As they got out a uniformed officer appeared on the doorstep. Drake paused for a moment to look out over the valley. A covered veranda ran along the front elevation of Gwelfor and took in the entirety of the spectacular view.

  Behind them, set back from the property, was another police car, and the crime scene support vehicle.

  Drake briefly flashed his warrant card at the uniformed officer, barely giving the man an opportunity to check the details.

  ‘She’s in the study, sir.’

  Drake and Sara followed the officer into the hallway. Judging by its dark colour the parquet flooring hadn’t been polished or cleaned for years and loose sections shifted under Drake’s shoes. The wooden panels adorning the walls were similarly aged. Sara paused briefly to inspect several watercolours of sweeping landscapes hanging from a picture rail. The house smelled heavy.

  At the end of the hallway, Drake heard activity. The officer stood to one side and gestured inside, where Mike Foulds and an investigator were establishing the immediate perimeter of the crime scene.

  On the floor in front of a carefully carved wooden mantelpiece was the body of Heulwen Beard.

  She lay face down, one arm lying by her side while the other was draped across a brass companion set, its contents spread over the hearth surround. Her claret blouse under an old thick cardigan matched her pleated skirt and shoes straight from an Agatha Christie television drama.

  Drake snapped on a pair of latex gloves, stepped towards her, and knelt down.

  Her head lay against a heavy, squat finial. A pool of blood gathered below it.

  ‘It looks like she was struck with something heavy – probably the ceramic bust on the floor behind the desk.’ Foulds said. ‘And she fell, hitting her head on the surround. That’s why there’s no blood splattered all over the place.’

  Drake gazed down at the lined face. He recalled the brief conversation he’d had with her only days previously and he was reminded of how much more professional she had seemed than the other councillors. He stood up and moved back.

  ‘Have you been into any of the other rooms?’ Drake said.

  ‘Not in detail. Once we’ve finished this crime scene we’ll work our way through the rest of the ground floor.’

  Every killer leaves a trace and every murder has a motive, Drake reminded himself. The killer would have left something behind, a fragment, and they would have to find it…

  Sara piped up. ‘Has the pathologist been? We need a time of death.’

  Foulds shrugged. ‘He should be here any minute. But my guess is she was killed earlier today at some point.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Some bloke who was calling to see her. He’s quite cut up. He’s with one of the uniformed lads.’

  Drake and Sara left Foulds to his gruesome work. It would take hours and would probably mean working until late into the evening and then restarting in the morning. Retracing their steps to the front door, Drake joined the second uniformed officer in a room off the hallway; he was chaperoning a man huddled on an ancient sofa.

  Drake recognised the frightened face of Glyn Talbot. His eyes darted around the room and he clasped a book and various sheets of paper in his hands. Drake sat down on a chair opposite Talbot, and Sara joined him. French windows led out onto the veranda. Velvet mocha curtains that draped either side matched the morose feeling about the house. It wasn’t a place where a family or children had lived for a long time, Drake thought. If there were ghosts, they were all thoroughly miserable.

  ‘I understand you found the body?’

  Talbot looked up at him slowly, blinking rapidly. His voice was shriller than Drake recalled. ‘I called to bring her this book and to show her my article.’

  Talbot’s movements were jerky as he raised a hand with the papers he clutched.

  ‘Was she expecting you?’

  ‘I spoke to her last night. I told her I would be calling. She is the editor of Papur Padarn – the papur bro,’ Talbot continued. ‘I’ve written this article about the history of one of the local chapels. I wanted to get her to read it so it could be included in the next edition. We’re going to press in less than a week.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  The sound of activity as more crime scene investigators arrived unnerved Talbot. ‘I don’t know, an hour ago, maybe longer. I can’t be certain. I wasn’t paying any attention to the time.’

  ‘I’d like you to explain exactly what you found when you arrived.’ Drake managed to slow his voice. Talbot’s evidence might be crucial.

  ‘The door was ajar. I didn’t think that was unusual. Nothing much happens around here and I know people leave their front doors open during the day. I’ve called to see her many times. She is the editor of the Papur Padarn. I write articles sometimes.’

  ‘You’ve told me that already,’ Drake said. ‘I want to know what you saw.’

  ‘I walked down from my place.’ Talbot jerked his head, indicating northwards. He ran an erratic hand through his hair. ‘I thought I would get some fresh
air. It’s not far.’

  Drake sensed Sara staring at Talbot who was certainly making heavy weather of giving them a detailed explanation.

  ‘Did you see anyone else when you were walking from your home?’

  Talbot gave Drake a puzzled look.

  ‘What do you mean, people walking, or cars? There are tourists around all the time. We get hikers going to the old quarry and visitors driving around. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Mr Talbot, did you pass anybody?’

  Using a firm tone and a formal address did little to encourage Talbot. His gaze continued to dart around the room.

  ‘I spotted a van from one of those outward bound walking centres.’

  ‘Did you notice anybody you recognised?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. What do you mean, somebody local?’

  ‘Was there anybody leaving Mrs Beard’s home?

  ‘Nobody… there was nobody here.’

  ‘When you spoke to her last evening what did you talk about?’

  ‘It was ordinary stuff about the Papur Padarn. She wanted to give up being the editor and there’s nobody else, nobody who could do the job. I was going to persuade her to continue; she had to carry on.’

  Talbot struck Drake as a sad, lonely character.

  ‘We shall have to speak with you again.’

  Now Talbot hesitated, widening his eyes. ‘You know where I live.’

  Drake got to his feet and Talbot left the room still clutching tightly a hardback book and sheets of paper. Drake and Sara followed him outside.

  ‘He was quite shaken up,’ Sara said.

  ‘He comes across as a bit strange, eccentric.’

  ‘Do you think he could be involved?’

  Drake walked over to the rear and looked over a garden of neglected uneven terraces clinging to the hillside.

  ‘Unless he has motive, I think we can rule him out.’

  ‘He’s too timid to be capable of murder.’ Sara stood a couple of feet behind Drake. ‘Do you think her death is connected to the murder of Harry Jones?’