‘Don’t swear, Luke,’ Dan said.
Luke appeared hurt. ‘There was nobody else here. The place gives me the creeps. There’s always a disgusting smell.’
‘Do either of you know when anybody was in this building last?’
Dan and Luke shook their heads in unison.
‘So, basically if you had a key there’s nothing to stop you getting access,’ Drake said.
Both men gave Drake a blank, noncommittal look.
Drake noticed the pathologist scampering past the window. There wasn’t going to be much doubt that life was extinct. An important vein had been severed in the man’s neck. Either it had been a ghoulish accident or a carefully planned and executed murder.
Drake turned to Luke. ‘The officer tells me you know the victim.’
Luke nodded slowly. His voice whispered. ‘It’s Frank… Frank Smith.’
Drake and Sara exchanged a glance.
‘And do you know where Frank lived?’
Luke stammered an address. ‘I’ve never seen a dead body.’
Drake looked over at Dan. ‘Who has keys to this place?’
‘There are keys in the slate museum building. But the place is hardly secure. Why would anyone want to come in here?’
‘We’ll need your full names, addresses and contact details,’ Drake said.
Sara and Drake watched as both men left the building. The office behind him was grimy, paint peeling off the walls. He glimpsed the framed images on the wall. He recognised some of the councillors who he had seen earlier in the investigation at some function, one of them with a chain of office around his neck.
‘So it could have been anyone,’ Sara said.
‘Assuming it wasn’t an accident.’
Drake continued, scanning the faces in the images. ‘And that someone would need to know about this place.’
‘That could include a lot of people.’
Drake focused on one group in particular, thinking how many of the faces were familiar, when Foulds interrupted him.
‘I thought you should know we found some identification.’
‘Good.’
‘There’s a driving licence on the body belonging to Frank Smith.’
Sara called Winder, who confirmed that their eyewitness was the same man as the corpse. She turned to Drake. ‘It’s the same Frank Smith.’
‘Then we have another grieving family to speak to.’
Chapter 30
The PVCu windows and fresh paint suggested that most of the properties in the cul-de-sac of former council houses were now privately owned. Number six was different; the Smiths obviously paid little attention to the niceties of a neat front garden judging by the density of the weeds and the moss-covered piece of lawn. Parked in the drive was a supercharged Mini, less than two years old, its paintwork gleaming. Behind it was a white Ford transit van, rust eating at the wheel arches.
The door was opened quickly once Drake got the bell to work.
‘Mr Smith,’ Drake said. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ian Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan of the Wales Police Service.’
It was difficult to make out the man’s age. His head was clean-shaven but he had a thick beard. A thin T-shirt stretched over muscles toned by regular visits to a gym but his face didn’t look healthy. He looked shrunken; little wonder, Drake thought – his son had been killed.
‘Richie Smith.’ The man gulped back the words, raising a hand to an eye, though the tear he wanted to wipe away never materialised. ‘Come in.’
The hallway stank. Dog hairs covered the thin carpet, which made a crunching sound as Drake walked over it. Habit made Drake glance around for the existence of a vacuum cleaner.
Drake recognised the family liaison officer who was hauling two hardback chairs into the sitting room. A woman sobbed uncontrollably on a faux leather sofa pushed against the wall.
‘This is Connie Smith, sir.’
Drake nodded.
Richie sat down next to his wife, placing a hand over hers.
‘I need to ask you some questions about Frank.’
Richie and Connie shared uncompromising looks on their faces.
‘Can you tell me where Frank was going last night?’
‘I’ve got no idea,’ Richie said. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there searching for who killed my Frankie?’ The strong Scouse accent made Richie sound hostile.
‘When did you see your son last?’
Connie Smith stared at him, stared through him really. Drake could see her mind struggling to comprehend that she would never see her son again. Frankie was gone.
‘I can’t remember,’ Connie said.
‘He comes and goes,’ Richie added. ‘He hasn’t got a girlfriend at the moment. He was dead keen on that German girl until her mad father – Wolfgang fucking Muller – came to the house. I heard him at the door telling Frankie to steer clear of her or otherwise he’d break both his legs. That’s the bloke you should be going after.’
Drake exchanged a knowing look with Sara.
‘When was that exactly?’ Sara said.
Richie shrugged. ‘I can’t remember – six months ago maybe.’
‘What exactly happened?’ Sara’s tone was conversational. She jotted down in her pocketbook precisely what Richie Smith told them.
Drake turned back to Smith once Sara had finished. ‘Did he have any other friends that came to the house regularly? What did he do in his spare time?’
‘He was out all the time. Never at home.’
Connie Smith added in a croaky voice. ‘He did some odd jobs, that van outside belongs to him.’
‘He moved some furniture for that Harry Jones a while back. I told him to be careful.’ Richie Smith sounded the paragon of virtue. Drake had his doubts.
Richie continued. ‘One of Harry Jones’s mates called here a couple of times. He called himself a business associate of Harry’s.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘Perdue, like them guns.’
Another link to Richard Perdue. Sara used another version of her soft, let-me-be-your-friend tone. ‘Mr Perdue might be able to help us; do you recall what he said?’ She even smiled.
It did the trick and once Sara had finished gathering details about jobs Frankie had done moving furniture for Perdue, Drake turned to the Smiths.
‘Can you give us an idea as to who your son was mixing with?’
‘He was friends with Mal Owen,’ Connie said. ‘They went fishing together.’
Richie butted in. ‘And he’s done with all that poaching nonsense. I told him to keep his nose clean.’
‘Where can we contact Mal Owen?’
Connie sounded vague as she gave them another address in the village.
Drake and Sara left after telling the Smiths to expect more police officers to take statements.
On the way to the car Sara turned to Drake. ‘Do you think Frank Smith’s death is linked to the other two murders, sir?’
‘It would suit Wolfgang Muller if Frank Smith were out of the way, and perhaps Richard Perdue had something to fear from Frank Smith. And let’s not forget Fiona Jones. I learned last night that Harry was the father of Heulwen Beard’s child. If that child had made contact, recently opening up old wounds, then it might be enough to tip her over the edge.’
Sara nodded.
A message bleeped on Drake’s phone for him to call the Incident Room. Winder sounded breathless when he answered.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you, boss.’
‘Poor signal here. What’s up, Gareth?’
‘One of the guests of the outward bound centre sent us some video footage. And you’ll never guess who is seen leaving Heulwen Beard’s house.’
Winder paused.
‘Get on with it, Gareth.’
‘Fiona Jones.’
‘Send me the video clip. We’ll go and see her now.’
* * *
Drake fired the engine into life. He drove the short d
istance to Fiona’s home and let out a long breath when he saw her car in the drive. ‘At least she’s in.’
Drake parked. Turning to Sara, he shared his theory that Harry was Matthew’s father.
She nodded. ‘It would explain the trust fund and Jean’s suicide.’
‘We need to ask Fiona. You take the lead,’ Drake said, before they reached the front door. ‘She might be more forthcoming to a woman.’
Sara nodded. They reached the door and she rang the bell.
Eventually Fiona Jones appeared on the threshold, peering down at them, a puzzled look on her face. Drake barged in. ‘We need to ask you some questions.’
In the sitting room two other women, a similar age to Fiona Jones, sat drinking tea from china cups and saucers, a plate of bara brith on the coffee table. Normal life continues for Fiona Jones, Sara thought. She kept an open mind about the possibility Harry Jones’s widow was also his killer and if her answers to their questions that morning appeared evasive then she could be facing an interview under caution at the police station.
‘Let’s talk in the kitchen,’ Sara said.
She sat by the kitchen table gesticulating at Fiona to do the same.
Sara fumbled with Drake’s mobile telephone until she found the video clip. She pressed play and thrust the handset towards Fiona.
‘This is your car leaving the house of Heulwen Beard on the morning she was killed.’
Fiona bit at her lower lip and cleared her throat. ‘It’s not what it seems.’
It never is, Sara thought. ‘Why did you go and see her?’
Fiona cast a glance towards the door into the hallway. Then her gaze drifted around the room. She looked down at the table. ‘I wanted to reason with her. She wanted to announce to the world she had a daughter: she and Harry had a daughter. Apparently, she’s some famous celebrity who was tracing her roots for one of those television programmes. I told her I didn’t want anything to do with it.’
‘Was Harry aware of her plans?’
Fiona nodded but her chin trembled. ‘He wanted to change his will. Make her a beneficiary.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘I wasn’t happy. I told Harry not to do it.’
Sara contemplated the real possibility she was about hear a confession to both murders. She glanced at Drake who frowned but he nodded an encouragement.
She hadn’t cautioned Fiona; the interviews weren’t in a police station and not being recorded. The only other option was to arrest Fiona, formally caution her and record everything in her pocketbook.
Sara decided to carry on but Fiona continued. ‘When I left Heulwen’s place she was standing on the doorstep. She had her usual defiant, supercilious look in her eyes.’
‘What did you talk about?’
Fiona shrugged.
Drake cut in. ‘You must have talked about something?’
‘I told her that with Harry gone there was nothing to be done with the… girl. I didn’t want her to be contacting me, and Harry had died before changing his will.’
‘Were you pleased Harry hadn’t changed his will?’
Fiona gazed at Sara and then Drake, uncertain how to reply.
Sara continued. ‘How long were you there?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I want to ask you about your family.’
Fiona frowned. Sara could see her pallor greying.
‘I understand your sister Jean was married to Glyn Talbot.’
Fiona pressed a fist to her lips, fighting to keep her emotions in check. Sara realised how deep the family hurt had become. She still needed confirmation.
‘Jean and Glyn’s son Matthew is named as a beneficiary in one of Harry’s trusts.’
Fiona nodded, but made no eye contact.
Sara drew her chair nearer the table, and softened the tone of her voice. ‘I need to know, Fiona; is Matthew Harry’s son?’
Fiona let out a brief whimper; her eyes watered. There was no going back now, no hiding place any longer. She nodded. Sara struggled to imagine the raw emotion of knowing your husband had slept with your sister and that they had a child.
A son Fiona never had. Sara could only guess at the anguish that would have caused.
Somehow Fiona had managed to live with that, but had it all now proved too much?
‘Glyn never knew. I suspected but didn’t know for certain until I saw his will and the trust papers last year.’
‘Did he admit it?’ Drake said.
Tears fell now, streaking her make-up.
‘He told me it was nothing to do with me.’
‘You must have found that a cruel thing to have said.’
Fiona gulped for breath. ‘I could have killed him the night he told me.’
Chapter 31
Drake took Sara back to her car near the slate museum and then navigated for the A55. Travelling back to headquarters alone gave Drake time to prepare for his meeting with Superintendent Price and the senior lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service. Despite the emotion Fiona Jones had shown earlier that day she was still a suspect in his mind. And her final comments to Sara showed the depth of that emotion. He didn’t really think it was an admission to actually killing Harry Jones. The evidence implicating Richard Perdue in direct physical threats against Harry Jones and Heulwen Beard made him a more compelling suspect. And one Drake looked forward to interviewing.
After parking, Drake left his car and his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Detective Inspector Drake, it’s Ralph Erdington, the Big Thrill Company. Can you tell me what’s happening with the Heulwen Beard investigation?’
It puzzled Drake why the businessman would take an interest in the inquiry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I just need to know about the property.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Erdington exhaled noisily down the telephone. ‘Heulwen Beard was about to sign a contract to sell us a piece of land crucial to the development of the bomb storage facility.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘I mean, Inspector, that unless the sale of land goes through, our development will not proceed.’
Drake reached the steps for the main entrance trying to work out the significance of what Erdington had told him. Did it mean someone wanted to stop the project? But killing Heulwen Beard wouldn’t prevent the sale proceeding; her legal representatives could finalise any agreement.
‘You’ll have to speak to her executors.’
‘It’s not that easy, Inspector. The entire development depends on government grants. And unless the monies are drawn down in the next two weeks the project won’t proceed.’
Drake stood in reception. ‘Email me the details.’
Erdington’s complaints faded as Drake finished the call abruptly. His mind was already focused on persuading Price and the prosecutor that Richard Perdue was worthy of a lengthy stay in the cells of Northern Division.
He took the lift to the senior management suite and visited the bathroom where he scrubbed his hands clean, and pulled a comb through his hair. Rituals complete, his mind settled, he arrived at Price’s office to be greeted by a smile and a professional nod from his secretary. Drake could hear voices from behind Superintendent Price’s door and guessed Andy Thorsen, the Crown Prosecution Service lawyer, had arrived before him.
The wait wasn’t long – Price appeared at the door to his office and waved at Drake.
Andy Thorsen gave Drake a brief nod of acknowledgement from the other side of a highly polished table but made no attempt to stand up or offer a hand for a courtesy shake. He was the most characterless individual Drake knew but annoyingly he always got the interpretation of the law correct.
‘I’ve seen the statement from Carol about what she witnessed, or rather heard, from inside the cupboard. I daresay you want to arrest and interview Perdue.’
‘Yes. He lied to us about when he saw Harry Jones last—’
‘Everyone seems to have done that.’ Price grinned.
Thorsen didn’t react.
Drake continued. ‘He threatened Harry Jones’s life. And his links to the organised crime groups in the Midlands makes it clear Harry Jones was involved with some serious criminality. Perdue needs to be asked under caution about his connection to Patrick Lennon and account for his movement on the night Harry Jones was killed.’
‘I wonder what Detective Chief Superintendent Overend will make of that?’ Thorsen said.
Price threw a ballpoint he had been turning through his fingers onto the desk. ‘That’s my problem. And the deaths of Harry Jones and Heulwen Beard, and now Frank Smith this morning, is our inquiry. I’m not going to play second fiddle to the Midlands police force.’
Drake saw the opportunity to share the information he had learned from the Smith household. ‘When I spoke to Mr and Mrs Smith they confirmed Frank had worked for Richard Perdue a few times – moving furniture – and that he had described himself as a business associate of Harry’s.’
Price guffawed. ‘These toe-rags really try and dress up what they do. Frank Smith was driving stolen goods around.’
Thorsen nodded. ‘And you’ve got the evidence from Beard’s secretary that Perdue threatened Heulwen Beard too. It all builds a picture. Juries like that sort of thing. And who found her body again?’
‘Glyn Talbot. He is Harry Jones’s brother-in-law. His wife, Jean, killed herself some time ago. But we believe her son, Matthew Talbot, was probably fathered by Harry Jones.’
‘Is this Talbot a suspect?’ Thorsen said.
Drake paused, picturing Glyn Talbot in his mind. ‘He’s certainly dysfunctional. A bit of a loner and an eccentric, but he had no motive to kill Harry Jones or Heulwen Beard. In fact, I think he quite liked her; he worked with her on the local newspaper.’
Thorsen moved some of his papers around. ‘Let’s talk about Mr Muller for a moment.’
‘We know he has a violent temper. We have a statement from Emyr—’
‘Do you really think Emyr will give evidence now Frank Smith is dead?’ Thorsen said, acknowledging what was on everyone’s mind.
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