A Time to Kill

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake cast his gaze at Winder and Luned before reminding them of their tasks that day. The arrest of a suspect was always a turning point in any case. It was the moment when things got serious. Everything changed after an arrest.

  He nodded at Sara. ‘Let’s go.’

  Drake detoured into the bathroom on the way to the car park and after washing his hands he stared at himself in the mirror. He adjusted his tie; his shirt looked a little tired but the navy suit, his second-best kept for interviews, had been recently cleaned. It was going to be a long day.

  He joined Sara in reception and they walked out to his car.

  They reached the tunnel under the Conwy estuary before Sara said anything. ‘This is always the part I like best. It’s when you realise how much power we’ve got.’

  At six minutes past nine they indicated for the turning into the drive up to Muller’s wellness centre. The gravel crunched under Drake’s brogues as he left the car. The search team arrived soon afterwards. It was a crisp autumn morning. It hadn’t rained for a couple of days. Sycamore seeds drifted against a length of box hedging.

  Drake hammered on the door, Sara by his side.

  He banged on the door again. Then he heard an exasperated shout. Muller appeared in the doorway looking first at Drake and then Sara.

  ‘Wolfgang Muller, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘You must be crazy, every one of you.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything but anything you do say…’

  Reciting the standard words of the official warning made Muller shut up.

  Drake bundled Muller into the car and drove the short distance to the custody suite in Caernarfon.

  It was late morning by the time they’d completed all the protocols and settled Muller into a cell. When it became clear the lawyer Wolfgang Muller requested wasn’t available until early in the afternoon Drake took the opportunity to return to Muller’s property. He gave the various guests a kindly, avuncular smile, reassuring them their visits would be uninterrupted. A tall, attractive woman from Brighton with an extremely plummy accent thought the events were ‘awfully tiresome’, explaining she had come for some ‘good clean Welsh air’. Drake doubted she would mix easily with the two Geordie girls who had nose rings, studs in their upper and lower lips and an assortment of fastenings in both ears. An American couldn’t get over the fact that Drake nor the other officers were armed.

  Drake found the search team supervisor working his way through Muller’s office.

  ‘Any sign of a firearm?’ Drake said.

  ‘No, but there is a lot of memorabilia from the Second World War – knives, photographs, and an old uniform. What exactly do they do here?’

  ‘They run courses for making people feel better about themselves.’

  ‘Four pints of lager and a good curry does it for me.’

  Drake spent an hour walking through the wellness centre. A guest explained about the pressures and stresses of life and finding their inner selves had been the whole purpose of their trip to North Wales. Cynically Drake couldn’t help but think Muller sold modern-day snake oil and preyed on vulnerable people.

  He returned to the custody suite with a boot full of military souvenirs ready to face Wolfgang Muller.

  Formalities completed, Drake collected the tapes and headed for the interview room. It had uncomfortable plastic chairs, a battered table barely enough for his file of papers and a tape machine screwed to the wall. The air conditioning hummed in the background.

  Wolfgang glared at Drake as they entered and sat down.

  Drake turned to the lawyer sitting next to Muller. Pat Stokes was one of the regular criminal lawyers Drake came across frequently. She had disorganised blonde hair, broad cheeks and a pasty windswept complexion. ‘Hello, Pat.’

  ‘Inspector Drake,’ she replied.

  ‘You know Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan?’

  Stokes twitched her lips at Sara.

  Drake slotted the tapes into the machine and waited for a buzzing noise before turning to Muller. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  Stokes interjected. ‘You can dispense with the formalities at the start. We know exactly why we are here. You’ve arrested Wolfgang for murder.’

  Stokes’ early interruption put Drake on edge.

  ‘How well do you know Harry Jones?’

  Muller turned to Stokes who nodded briskly.

  ‘He was a shopkeeper in Llanberis.’

  The German accent made the word shopkeeper sound like an insult.

  ‘Describe your relationship with him?’

  ‘We did not have one.’

  Drake glanced at Stokes. Her eyes weren’t giving anything away.

  They might be here all day if Muller was going to be monosyllabic in his replies.

  ‘I understand you’ve lived at Bryn Hyfryd – your wellness centre – for fifteen years. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you must be familiar with Llanberis.’

  It wasn’t a question but Muller replied. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Harry Jones ran an antiques shop in the village. And he was a parish councillor so he was well known in the area. And he owned several properties.’

  Muller sat back, folding his arms in front of him, but said nothing.

  ‘And it would be fair to describe Harry Jones as something of a ladies’ man. He had lots of different relationships in the past and several recently. One of which was with your wife. How did that make you feel?’

  ‘The answer is no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘What you’re really asking me is did I kill him because he had sex with my wife.’

  Mentally Drake counted to ten. It was always the risk when interviewing intelligent people that they answered the next question.

  Muller continued. ‘I explained to you that my relationship with Penny is grounded in complete and mutual self-understanding; sexual fidelity as normal people would understand it has no meaning for us.’

  ‘Does that mean you have sex with other women?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Most people, most ordinary people, most normal people would be appalled if their spouse had an open, talked-about, gossiped-about relationship with somebody else so publicly. And you expect me to believe it didn’t upset you.’

  ‘You can believe what you want.’

  ‘I’m asking for your explanation, Mr Muller. I think knowing your wife was having such a brazen affair would be humiliating.’

  ‘And your question?’

  Drake paused, resisting the temptation to shout at this man. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, glaring over at him.

  ‘Were you humiliated enough to kill Harry Jones?’

  ‘It is beneath contempt to even reply.’

  Drake nodded over at Sara who picked up the questioning.

  ‘You’re lying to us about your relationship with Harry Jones.’

  Sara’s statement caught Muller and Stokes off guard for a second. She sounded confident, definitive. Now she had to back it up.

  ‘You initiated a complex court action against Harry Jones in relation to an investment in a technology company. In the court papers you allege you had several meetings with Harry Jones where you discussed your investment. I would say that that means you had a very close relationship with him.’

  It always amazed Drake how suspects, even intelligent suspects, were surprised when the police did their job, finding evidence, building a case.

  ‘That was different of course.’

  ‘Perhaps you can explain how it was different.’

  Drake heard the irritation in Sara’s voice; he shot her a glance telling her to be patient.

  ‘It just is, Sergeant,’ Muller said. ‘We had a few meetings about a possible investment. I would hardly say I knew Harry Jones. And really it was very far from that. I didn’t know what he was like as otherwise I would never have made that investment.’

  ‘Where did
you meet?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Was it at his home?’

  Drake saw Muller calculating whether to lie as his eyes darted round, his face twitched.

  ‘Perhaps at your home?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Sara read her notes – she knew the details better than Muller who couldn’t remember what he had said in his statement. Because it had all been a lie.

  ‘Did you meet in some of the local hotels?’

  ‘It’s such a long time ago I can’t possibly remember.’

  ‘But you sued Harry Jones. It must be something uppermost in your mind. It was a complicated court action.’

  ‘I lead a simple life, Sergeant.’

  Now Sara glanced at Drake.

  Describing himself as leading a simple life was one the biggest exaggerations Drake had heard for some time.

  ‘I’d like you to try and remember – rack your brains. Where did you meet Harry Jones?’

  ‘I’d need to check my records.’

  Sara tried the same tack Drake had used earlier. ‘I think most normal people would think that several meetings to discuss a business investment could be described as a relationship. And I think most people would remember where those meetings took place.’

  Muller pouted.

  Drake took over. ‘The result of your court action against Harry Jones was abject failure. You lost tens of thousands of pounds. How did that make you feel?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Answer the questions, Mr Muller.’

  ‘I had been swindled. Defrauded by that man. I was angry, I admit it. But money isn’t everything, is it?’

  ‘Before we discuss your financial position I need to cover some background.’

  Muller fidgeted with the nails of his left hand.

  ‘I understand you have an interest in military memorabilia.’

  Muller continued his grooming.

  ‘What’s your connection to the military?’

  Muller admired his hands.

  ‘Did any of your family serve in the Second World War?’

  Muller lifted his head and peered at Drake. A nerve had been struck. Drake continued. ‘Do you have any pistols from that period – perhaps your father or a near relative was in the German armed forces. We shall be asking the German authorities for the records in due course.’

  ‘You can go and rot in hell.’

  Drake was unimpressed. ‘The gun used to kill Harry Jones was a German make, common in the Second World War. So, I think you may well have such a weapon especially with your interest in relics from the war.’

  ‘Do you have the murder weapon?’ Stokes sounded irritable.

  Drake moved on. ‘This might be a good opportunity for us to discuss your financial position.’ Drake saw the shutters come down in Muller’s mind. The pretence at cooperation soon evaporated.

  Muller avoided answering any questions about whether his wife was aware of his substantial debts. Every time Drake challenged him about his financial affairs, Muller had some clever explanation, throwing sand in Drake’s face. And each time Drake brushed them away and refocused attention on exposing the thin veneer of reality Muller wanted to drape over himself.

  After an hour, Stokes interrupted. ‘Unless you have some direct evidence against my client you should release him immediately.’

  Drake smiled at her – and then at Muller. ‘I am also investigating the death of Heulwen Beard.’

  ‘Surely you don’t suspect my client to be involved?’ Stokes managed to sound exasperated.

  Drake ignored the lawyer, staring over at Muller. ‘She didn’t do a very good job did she? The court case was a disaster, you lost a lot of money and you blamed Heulwen Beard.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. This is becoming a farce.’

  ‘So, with Heulwen Beard out of the way you don’t have to pay her costs. I think you went to see her, tried to get her to forget them altogether so you would be off the hook for her fees. But she refused – her papers make clear she warned you your case was hopeless.’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘Did you know Heulwen Beard and Harry Jones had been in a relationship years ago?’ Drake struggled to read Muller’s reaction. Drake kept his eye contact direct and realised his disclosure about Beard and Harry Jones didn’t come as a surprise. But now there was panic on Muller’s face. Muller feared the worst – he was losing control over the interview.

  ‘You were furious with her. When she refused to forego the costs, you took a ceramic bust and killed her.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Heulwen Beard’s place.’

  Stokes piped up. ‘Have you got any evidence my client visited Mrs Beard’s property?’

  Drake ignored her and turned his attention to the folder in front of him.

  ‘Where were you on the night Harry Jones was killed?’

  ‘I’ve told you before.’ Muller raised his voice. ‘I was at the centre.’

  ‘Did you leave at any time?’

  ‘I was there all night. How many times do I have to tell you people the same thing.’

  ‘We have an eyewitness confirming seeing you talking to Harry Jones in Llanberis on the evening he was killed.’

  Muller tugged nervously at his right ear lobe. Then he scratched the skin of his neck.

  ‘I ask you again, Mr Muller – were you in Llanberis on the evening Harry Jones was killed?’

  Muller opened his eyes wide. There was panic behind them.

  ‘There’s no doubt about the eyewitness. You assaulted a friend of his, broke his arm.’

  Muller blurted out. ‘Frank Smith is lying. And he’s a scumbag.’

  Muller ran a hand over his lips, glanced at Drake and Sara, and then at Stokes.

  An uncomfortable silence enveloped Muller and Stokes broken by a uniformed officer entering the interview room and gesturing that he needed to speak to Drake.

  ‘I’m suspending the interview,’ Drake said, leaving with Sara.

  The custody sergeant stood by the counter, a heavy damp patch discolouring each armpit. ‘Mrs Muller and a lawyer from up the coast are here. Demanding to see you.’

  Drake turned to Sara. ‘Let’s go and see what they want.’

  Streaks across the laminate table surface suggested recent cleaning and as Drake sat down he ran a finger along the edge of the conference room table. Nicholas Frobisher had a severe cutaway collar to his brilliant white shirt and Drake reckoned a skilled tailor had made the suit that fitted his slim build perfectly.

  ‘I understand you have Mr Wolfgang Muller in custody.’ He had a cultured, rather deep voice that gave his words an incredulous edge.

  ‘He is assisting with inquiries.’ Drake folded his arms thinking he’d need a coffee before resuming with Muller.

  Frobisher pushed a sheet of paper towards Drake. ‘Mrs Muller has prepared this statement that I think you should read.’

  Drake read the statement that confirmed in clear terms she and her husband had been at home throughout the day of Harry’s death and that she knew all about her husband’s failed investment. Drake reminded himself about Emyr’s evidence; he might make an unreliable witness but once they had traced Frank Smith and taken a statement from him there’d be two witnesses to Muller’s temper.

  ‘Mrs Muller hopes that this unpleasantness…’

  Unpleasantness – that word again, Drake thought angrily.

  ‘… can be put to one side and that Wolfgang can be released forthwith.’

  Drake slid the statement over the desk at Sara and smiled insincerely at Frobisher, buying time for a reply while she read the details. Sara gave Drake a noncommittal serious nod.

  Drake stood up. ‘It’s very kind of you to come in and bring us this statement.’ He shared a disdainful glare between Frobisher and Penny Muller. ‘I will consider it most carefully.’

  Sara followed Drake to the door where he turned. ‘I’m sure you can see yourselves out.’

  In the ca
nteen, Drake ordered a coffee, two scoops of instant, and sat down.

  ‘What did you make of the lawyer, boss?’

  ‘Fucking useless…’

  ‘We’ll have to release him.’

  Drake winced as he sipped his drink. ‘He can spend a night in the cells. See what his lawyer makes of that.’

  Chapter 25

  Luned parked in a layby after passing Nancy Brown’s address.

  Her decision to establish a pattern to Nancy Brown’s movements had been made without consulting Drake or Sara and as she drove from headquarters her confidence that this was worthwhile had ebbed. Brown was part of Harry Jones’s extended family after all, but his set-up with Brown felt wrong, Luned rationalised. It had bothered her that a search of Brown’s financial record had turned up so little – only a single bank account, no loans or credit cards.

  And she could double-check on Harry’s movements too she reassured herself.

  The bungalow was a discreet distance from the nearest property, enough Luned concluded to persuade Harry Jones he might be able to maintain a degree of privacy when he visited. She left the car and headed to the first of the adjacent homes.

  The woman who opened the door in the first property had a large hearing aid in both ears. She invited Luned into the kitchen with a yell. After ten minutes Luned had managed to ask only one question – the woman’s name – in a voice that increased until she feared the neighbours might hear her. Each reply had been convoluted so Luned made excuses and left.

  An elderly couple lived in the second property. The husband introduced himself as Mr Watkins, his accent straight from one of the suburbs of Liverpool.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Luned said before venturing over the threshold.

  ‘A couple of months. We love it. All this fresh air and the great outdoors. We should have moved years ago.’

  Luned declined an offer of coffee. Mr Watkins shook his head when she asked about Harry Jones and looked puzzled when she mentioned Nancy Brown. ‘Don’t know who you mean, love.’