by Wonny Lea
For the moment Martin did not respond to the question but turned away from Lee and asked the customers if they were able to help. With his mouth stuffed full of toast and sausage one of the younger customers attempted to speak. ‘My mother helps out in the Red Cross charity shop.’ He washed his food down with a few gulps of coffee before continuing. ‘She saw him in here once when she came to give me some cash and she told me later that he gets all his clothes from the Red Cross.’
‘I know where he lives,’ volunteered a customer who was sitting on an extra chair at the corner of a table meant for four people. ‘It’s in that hell-hole, Watch Towers. I live in the next street and I’ve seen him going in there a few times. What’s happened to him?’
This time Martin felt obliged to give a formal response and he chose his words carefully. ‘The man we are all talking about is a Mr Victor Davies. He was found dead this morning and all I can say at the moment is that we are treating his death as suspicious.’
Before they were faced with the inevitable barrage of questions Martin and Matt made for the door and after walking for ten minutes arrived at a small group of shops at the end of which was the Red Cross charity shop. It is quite often impossible to tell if two people are related by looking at them, but the woman sorting through a recently deposited bag of donations just had to be the mother of the boy who had spoken in the café.
Martin approached her and as he did so he introduced himself and Matt. Then he smiled as he said. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken we have just been talking to your son in the Big Bites Café.’
In spite of the fact that Martin had smiled the woman still jumped to the wrong conclusion.
‘What’s he done now?’ she asked. ‘Everyone says he’s the spitting image of me but that won’t stop his father going mental if he has got himself into any more trouble.’ Martin quickly reassured her. ‘He’s not in any trouble that I know of – in fact he was very helpful and that’s why we are here. He told us that a man we know to be Mr Victor Davies used this shop on a regular basis and we wondered if you could tell us anything about him.’
The woman looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think I know anyone called Victor Davies – why did our Paul say I did?’
Matt joined the conversation and told the woman what little he and Martin knew about Victor. He was able to give her a general description and tell her his age but it was when he added that Mr Davies was in the café every day and lived in Watch Towers that the penny dropped.
‘Oh, you mean the man the boys call Daily. Yes, he does come here, and that bag of clothes over there is waiting for him to pick up. I know his sizes in everything and I have taken to putting stuff to one side if I think it will be of use to him. I’m not sure why I bother because I never get a word of thanks. We’ve all come to the conclusion that he never washes any of his clothes and just picks up something from here each week and gets rid of what he has been wearing. Of course we don’t know that for sure, but we only ever see him dressed in what he bought from us the last time. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, is there?’
Matt shook his head. The woman was rambling on but it was not unusual for people to do this when confronted by someone official. He looked at Martin who nodded his head, second-guessing why Matt was seeking his approval.
‘I am sorry to have to tell you but Mr Davies was found dead this morning and there is unfortunately no doubt that his death was not through natural causes. So we are trying to put together a picture of the man and his lifestyle and hoping that someone will be able to tell us some more about him – for example, did he have any enemies?’
Paul’s mother gasped and called to her colleague who was in the back room using a rather vicious-looking steamer to get the creases out of the donated clothes before they were offered for sale. ‘Vi, come here.’ With no response she tried again and this time loud enough to be heard over the hissing of the steam.
‘What is it, Brenda?’ said Vi, coming into the shop with her face red from the heat of the back room. ‘Are these two men causing trouble?’
Somewhat embarrassed Brenda explained that the two men were detectives, and that the man who her son called Daily had probably been murdered.
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Vi. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who was murdered – are you sure?’
Martin nodded but didn’t want to get into a discussion regarding the death of Mr Davies, he wanted to know a bit more about his life and asked Vi if she knew anything about the man.
‘He never told us anything about himself and the only time I ever got to know anything was on the one occasion he was in the shop when Mrs Ryan, the vicar’s wife brought in a load of bric-a-brac that they didn’t sell at the church fête. They obviously recognised one another instantly but neither of them was pleased by the meeting and Mr Davies quickly took his bag of clothes and left.’
Vi looked a bit sheepish about her next words and she apologised in advance.
‘I know I was being nosy,’ she said, ‘but it’s not often that Mrs Ryan is rattled and I had to know what had caused it. She wasn’t very forthcoming and told me several times that she was not one to gossip but from what I could gather Mr Davies had at one time been very involved with the church and was even the scoutmaster, but something went wrong and she thought he had left the area. That’s why she was surprised when she saw him – and she certainly wasn’t pleased to see him,’
Martin and Matt exchanged a knowing glance and Martin sought confirmation regarding what had been said. ‘Are you sure he was the scoutmaster?’
‘Well, no,’ responded Vi. ‘I only know what the vicar’s wife told me but her husband is the vicar of St Stephen’s church so if it’s important you could go there and ask her. In any case they’ll probably know more about Mr Davies than we do.’
Martin thanked the two women for their help and he and Matt walked back to the car. As they returned, passing the café, they saw that business was brisk, confirming the idea that there is no such thing as bad publicity.
They rounded the corner leading to Watch Towers, only to find the place inundated with the press and television cameras.
Lucy’s makeup was freshly applied and she posed for photographs on the doorstep with a young man, presumably Robby. They were both lapping up the attention. Martin’s first thoughts of a leak from somewhere within the force were soon quashed as he overheard one of the local journalists giving a thumbs up to Lucy’s boyfriend and arranging to see him in the pub later.
As soon as they came into sight Martin and Matt were surrounded and it became a bit of a street fight as questions were simultaneously fired at them from every direction. Earlier in the day a press release had been issued from Goleudy but it had not given out the name of the murdered man. With the information they had now undoubtedly received from the duo on the doorstep the media were putting two and two together and demanding a total of five at the very least.
It was interesting to hear that they had done their homework on Mr Davies, and Max Richards, a local reporter well known to Martin, pushed his way to the front of the crowd to boast about his knowledge.
‘Afternoon DCI Phelps – having a busy time are we? It’s usually a sad occasion when someone is knocked off but there won’t be too many people crying at this one’s funeral. It was long before your time, but there was a lot of talk about the way he used his position as scoutmaster to satisfy his passion for young boys – the kids wouldn’t speak out, though, and so nothing was proven. We thought your old boss DCI Austin would get him but he didn’t take the case. Shame really because we all know what lengths he would go to in order to get the results he wanted.’
Martin certainly knew, but he chose to ignore the comments about his ex-senior officer, although he couldn’t ignore the next question from the same reporter. ‘We have to sit on some of the information we have been given for the moment but it is leading us to believe that the murder in the Red Dragon Centre two weeks ago and this one today is the work o
f the same killer. Are we right?’
‘You may well be,’ responded Martin curtly. ‘However, as you are only too keen to remind me, we have as yet not been able to bring the killer of Mary Rossiter to justice and so we don’t know who he is.’
He was interrupted as a microphone was almost thrust up his nose and a strident middle-aged woman challenged him.
‘It’s much worse than that, isn’t it?’ she questioned. ‘According to our sources you haven’t got a single lead or scrap of evidence so it looks as if that killer has got away scot-free. Is it going to be the same this time? Is this killer likely to go for a third victim or maybe there will be more. What do you think DCI Phelps? – you’re supposed to be the clever one!’
Martin could cheerfully have rammed her microphone down her throat but his response was straight out of the ‘dealing with the press’ text book. ‘We are still working hard to solve the murder of Mary Rossiter and will be putting in the same degree of effort in this case. You can all rest assured in the knowledge that the killer will be found. Now, if you will allow me, I will get back to my team who are putting the pieces together even as we speak.’
The mob was not going to allow the two detectives to get away that easily and one reporter asked Martin if he thought he was up to the job. Another asked if there was likely to be a third murder and this triggered a series of related questions.
‘Have we got a serial killer on the loose?’
‘How is he choosing his victims?’
‘Any chance you will catch him before he kills again?’
‘What does Superintendent Bryant think of your poor performance? – it won’t do much for the excellent crime detection figures he’s always ready to push down our throats.’
Matt elbowed his way towards the car, making room for Martin to follow, but they both knew the press would not be satisfied. Question after question was followed by accusations of poor performance and even incompetence. These accusations were not general – they were without exception aimed at DCI Phelps, and both men were relieved when Martin was able to start up his engine and they drove off.
Matt looked back over his shoulder and shook his head. Since he had worked with Martin he had been aware of the positive relationship between his boss and the media. Today there was very little sign of that, in fact quite the opposite. It felt as if that pack back there were being deliberately encouraged to have a go at Martin personally – just as the killer was doing in the poems.
Chapter Eight
Playing with us
‘We’ve got to eat at some time, guv,’ said Matt as the car skirted the edge of the city and they were heading back towards Cardiff Bay. ‘It’s Saturday and there’s no Iris to serve us hot food back at base, so there’ll only be sandwiches. I feel like something a bit more substantial – what about you?’
The encounter with the men and women of the press had left Martin feeling deflated but he recognised that he was probably also being affected by a low blood sugar level and so eating would be a sensible option. He would have to do something, anything to shake off this unfamiliar dip in his spirits.
‘Well, Shelley’s planning to raid the local deli and rustle up an evening meal, but I can’t see us getting away before eight and that’s being optimistic. It’s a quarter past four now and the briefing is set for six so yes, let’s get something to eat.’
Matt responded. ‘Take a left at the end of this stretch and almost immediately on the right is The Cat and Fiddle. My sister Beth takes her lot there for the occasional after-school treat as she’s trying to wean them off McDonalds, and at least the pub offers an alternative to fries. I’ve been with them a couple of times and for pub food it’s more than OK.’
Martin pulled into the car park and he thought it was quite busy but then it was Saturday so possibly families were out and about. As Matt had indicated, the menu was basically what one would expect in a pub, but there were one or two exceptions. Welsh lamb in a redcurrant sauce served with seasonal vegetables was the one that took Martin’s eye, and Matt plumped for the homemade corned-beef pie with the same side order as Martin.
‘I could murder a pint,’ said Matt ‘but I don’t think it’ll go down well with the team if we return smelling like a brewery.’
‘That’s unlikely to be the case after one beer,’ replied Martin. ‘If I wasn’t driving I would definitely go for it, so order me a J2O and get yourself a beer. Please make sure the J2O is apple and mango, though; I don’t think I could face one of the orange ones today.’
Matt gave a wry smile and went to the bar to place their order. Martin watched his sergeant smiling and talking to the barmaid, knowing that it was no more than a superficial friendly gesture. He had probably been chatting up barmaids all his drinking life but Martin was hearing more and more hints dropped about the way in which Matt’s relationship with Sarah was becoming serious.
Although it hadn’t been his fault, Martin still felt some responsibility for the knife injury Matt had received several months earlier while they were apprehending a killer. It had meant the end of his rugby playing, but Sarah had recently introduced him to watersports, and Martin had noticed a few days ago that the back of Matt’s 4x4 was now full of wet suits, body-boards, and pieces of surfing equipment. Maybe one of these days Martin would invite Matt and Sarah to his cottage and they could test the surf at Llantwit Major. However, Shelley was the only one he wanted to share the cottage with for now. Simply thinking about her lifted his mood ten-fold, and that was before the food had elevated his blood sugar.
‘That was really good,’ he said to Matt as they drove out of the car park and were heading back to Goleudy. ‘Much better than I would have expected, but I bet the excellent waitress service was more to do with you giving her your little boy lost look than her normal dedication to customer service.’
‘Back to business now, Matt. See if you can find out if there have been any developments – anything I need to know ahead of the team meeting at six.’
For the rest of the time it took them to return to Goleudy, Martin focused totally on his driving, as the roads were suddenly very busy, while Matt used his mobile to contact various team members, making a few notes regarding their progress.
By the time they pulled into the office car park it was twenty past five and Martin said he was going to see if Professor Moore had anything to tell them. ‘Rather than have you come with me, I’d prefer you to do some checking up and ensuring that everyone is prepared for this briefing. Please let there be something we can work on – surely the killer will have made a mistake somewhere along the line.’
The two men parted company, and after putting on the mandatory disposable clothes and overshoes Martin entered the main PM room and watched for a few moments as the Prof and Mrs Williams continued a well-rehearsed routine. Mrs Williams had noticed Martin, and waited for a convenient moment before letting the professor know they had a visitor.
‘As you can see,’ the professor said bluntly, ‘we have sluiced off the orange peel and opened him up. There is nothing inherent that would have taken him to meet his maker at the moment. As before the knife wound, from a thrust below his ribs and in an upward direction, is the reason we have him on the slab. It’s almost a carbon copy of the woman we did two weeks ago and they are around about the same age.’
Martin interrupted. ‘No need to concern yourself with estimating his age – this time we know the identity of the victim and we have a date of birth.’
The Prof continued. ‘Well, as I said, it’s that one single stab wound that did the damage, so the killer was either lucky both times or he has had a lot of practice. What I don’t understand is why, in each case, he bothered with the second stabbing. With both victims the wound to the neck is superficial – and it’s not as if he’s gone for the carotid artery; if anything it rather looks as if he has avoided it.’
‘Well, my own view is that nothing this killer does has got anything to do with luck – but I take your point abou
t him possibly having had plenty of practice. Is there any sign that the victim struggled with his attacker?’ asked Martin.
‘No, there’s nothing at all. No bruising anywhere on the body, and he either didn’t see the knife coming or just accepted his fate as there are no defence wounds on his hands or arms. Personal hygiene was not high on this man’s agenda, but he was neither obese nor undernourished and the only other thing I have noted is that his skin and organs were not well-hydrated. I can’t really offer an explanation for that and in any event it’s not germane to his murder.
‘Sorry, DCI Phelps, but I can’t be of any more help. What’s left for me now is the routine brain examination, but I don’t expect to find that he died of a cerebral tumour. If you will forgive me I will skip the scheduled meeting, as to be perfectly honest my input will be surplus to requirements on this occasion.’
Martin made his way to the changing room door and called back over his shoulder. ‘Your input is always valued by the team as well, you know, but I’m happy to relay the results of the PM – as you say, they speak for themselves.’
A quick check of his watch told Martin that it was already five minutes to six so he went straight to Incident Room One. On the way he thought about what the Prof had said regarding Mr Davies’ general health and wondered if, with the addition of a couple of glasses of water a day, the daily consumption of one ‘fit for a king breakfast’ and nothing else could be the answer to the country’s obesity problems. He couldn’t imagine eating just one meal a day, though, and certainly not the same meal as yesterday and every day before that, stretching back for years. What strange lives some people led.
Most of the chairs were already full when Martin walked into the room and as had been the case at their earlier session it was the two poems that were attracting the most attention.