by Wonny Lea
‘Not a sensible idea,’ said DS Pryor. ‘You will undoubtedly be pestered by the media, and we really would suggest that you are not on your own tonight, as it’s been a massive shock, and one you are likely to relive throughout the night.’
When Paula had left the room, Matt Pryor turned to Martin and commented that Paula seemed more than usually shaken over the death of a friend, even taking account of the circumstances, but Martin disagreed.
‘The trouble with this job is that we look for villains in the most innocent of people, and to be honest all I see is a really decent woman, who has lost a kindred spirit and who therefore harbours some pretty evil thoughts towards whoever is responsible. However I could of course be wrong, and by the end of the investigation I could be eating my words.’
The interviews with Anne Davies and Suzanne Shepherd went along the same lines as the one with Paula had, and when they were all back in the kitchen it was decided that Suzanne would go back to Paula’s house for the night, but that Anne would go back to her own home.
‘I won’t be on my own, my boyfriend will be there,’ explained Anne when her friends tried to change her mind. ‘I’ve sent him a text, and he’s organised a taxi to pick me up. It should be here any minute now.’
Arrangements were made for an officer to take Suzanne and Paula back to Paula’s house, and the taxi arrived as expected to take Anne home. Within a few minutes the women had left and Martin was sitting in the kitchen ready to speak to Abdi.
‘Aella must not hear me tell you about Mark, for she will shock,’ he pleaded.
It seemed as if half the Turkish population of Cardiff had arrived at the home of Abdi and Aella Nicanor, and Aella readily went and joined her friends and relatives in the central living room.
Martin learned that Abdi had lived in Cardiff for more than forty years, but noted that he still had only a fundamental knowledge of the English language. He could easily get by with day-to-day conversation, but his grammar was all over the place and he frequently used words in the most inappropriate contexts.
He explained that he knew Mark was expecting company that evening but had been surprised to hear the women shouting and banging on the door when he was returning with his wife from visiting friends. The women were all frightened that Mark could have had an accident and so could not get to answer the door, and were especially worried about the smell of burning.
‘We should have called fire engines but I was quicker with my hammering,’ said Abdi, puffing out his chest and now getting some fulfilment as he realised the importance of his evidence to the police.
Martin allowed Abdi to tell the whole story, which he did slowly and deliberately, taking the two detectives through every detail of how he had entered the house, turned off the oven, and found the body parts on the floor.
‘I know this is difficult for you, but can you describe everything you saw in the kitchen?’ asked Martin.
‘I have shock when I see leg and I bump into that table thing. Two dishes fall on floor. I have more shock when I see him on that table but then I must get the ladies out ’cause they was coming in.’ Abdi gave a demonstration of how he had ushered the women from the kitchen before they could look at the outrage he had witnessed.
‘Can you positively identify the person you saw as Mark Wilson?’ asked DS Pryor. ‘It is very important that there is no mistake on this.’
‘Yes Mark, yes Mark, dreadful, dreadful, yes Mark.’
Martin wound up this first of what would probably be many sessions with Abdi Nicanor and, as with all the others, he wondered if, in the final analysis, this seemingly distraught and upset man would be as innocent as he now seemed.
Walking back to Mark’s house, Martin noticed that now there were even more journalists hanging around the area, but he ignored their questions and, after briefly checking with Alex Griffiths and Sergeant Evans that everything was under control, he made his way to his car. DS Pryor followed, but Martin stopped him getting into the car, suggesting it would be better for him to stay at the scene and clear up any loose ends.
‘I will take PC Cook-Watts with me, as I suspect it may prove to be an advantage if there is a woman present when I break this news to Mark’s parents. And on the subject of parents can you get our people looking into his biological parents and any other members of that family?’
‘Will do’ replied Matt Pryor, as he opened the door for Helen Cook-Watts to get into Martin’s car and then watched his boss switch on his headlights in the fading light and drive off. Having worked with Martin for nearly three years, Matt knew that his ‘guv’nor’ was now en route to do the job he most hated, but one he always did with remarkable sensitivity, seeming to have an inbuilt awareness of the right words to use on these occasions.
Just as Martin Phelps began his drive from Penylan, Sandy and Norman Harding had just come in from tidying up the part of the garden they had replanted that evening. They joked about the need to tell Mark exactly what plants to get for the far edge. The plants were to be Sandy’s birthday present, but they knew that if they left Mark to his own devices he would be over-generous and could well turn up with ten times the number they actually needed.
Their life was happy but even as they expressed their feelings of gratitude for the good fortune life had brought them, a car was travelling across Cardiff towards their home, destined to turn their world upside down in the most cruel way imaginable …
Chapter Five
Bad news
Martin pointed the car away from the city centre and took a left turn into one of the side roads. He knew this area of Cardiff well, and definitely better than the back of his hand. What a strange expression that was, he thought, as he imagined that most people would be hard pushed to describe the back of their hands. He looked down at his own, placed at ten to two on the steering wheel. Their only distinctive features were his longer-than-average fingers, but otherwise they presented a picture remarkably similar to those of most men of his age.
His forensic colleagues would undoubtedly be pleased to enlighten him on how far this was removed from the truth – but then they were the clever sods and only too pleased to demonstrate to the likes of Martin how the amazing developments in all the sciences impacted on his job and were often the key to solving crime. And, in all fairness, they were right.
PC Helen Cook-Watts sat quietly in the passenger seat and recognised that Detective Chief Inspector Phelps was psyching himself up for the moment they would be breaking the most terrible news to two as-yet-totally unsuspecting people. This would be the first time she had been at the sharp end of such a meeting, and her mind raced through the training seminars on ‘breaking bad news’ she had attended. She wished there had been more.
This whole journey was likely to take less than twenty minutes, and she was not sure whether to ask for some advice from the DCI or to just leave him to his own thoughts. At least this first experience of the thing that all her colleagues found so difficult was for her going to be in the company of a senior officer known for his supportive attitude towards less experienced staff.
As they turned into Manor Way and were three-quarters of the way to their destination, Martin appeared to have completed his internal deliberations. Glancing at Helen, he began to reassure her, and prepare her for her role in the proceedings.
‘It is likely to be a difficult session, and I gather from the victim’s friend Paula that these are his adoptive parents – in their seventies, but fit and very active members of the local community. Just take your lead from me and I will tell them as much as I feel they can take initially about their son’s murder, but they are likely to ask lots of searching questions and I will have to consider as we go along just how much detail to divulge.’
‘Just don’t want to let you down guv,’ replied Helen. ‘My one real fear is that if the mother breaks down and cries, as is likely, then I will be crying with her.’
Martin took another glance at this young PC, appreciating her honesty and re
specting her sensitivity. ‘That wouldn’t be the end of the world, provided you stay in control of yourself. The days of professionals having to keep a stiff upper lip have gone, thank God, and it is now perfectly OK for us to demonstrate some natural emotion when dealing with the victims of crime.
‘Many criminal psychologists believe that officers who show a human face when breaking bad news can make a difference to the subsequent coping for relatives and friends. I am not suggesting that you blubber all over the place, but I am not expecting completely dry eyes, Helen.’
The last sentence produced a wry smile, and Helen felt she was now as ready as she could be for whatever the rest of this bloody awful day could bring. She refrained from closing her eyes to collect her thoughts, as that instantly flashed an image of Mark’s limbless body and she wondered how long it would be before that dire picture would fade.
A couple of turnings off Manor Way took Martin into Park Road and then, following Paula’s instructions, into Ty Parc Road, which was one of the smallest side streets, with no through road and leading to just three mature detached houses. The Hardings’ home was the second on the left, and Martin pulled the car into the kerb just outside it, ignoring the fact that the drive had ample space for at least two more cars. He wanted to walk the length of the drive and get a feel of the place.
In estate agents’ jargon the property would be described as ‘a luxurious detached residence located in a select area of Whitchurch’, and ‘accompanied by just two similarly prestigious properties within a quiet cul-de-sac’. Way out of the league of most would-be home purchasers, Martin guessed the value at three-quarters of a million pounds, possibly more. He liked the look of it – solid and in no way ostentatious.
There were no gates to the drive itself, and halfway up a pathway branched off to the right and led directly to a porch, almost completely covered with wisteria that had shed most of its fragrant blossom. The flowers had settled up to several inches deep around the front door. Out of the corner of his eye Martin saw movement through one of the downstairs windows and so was not surprised when the door was opened even before the bell had stopped ringing.
Norman Harding stood in the doorway, and his eyes went past Martin and rested on the uniform of the police officer behind him, knowing instantly that a visit so late on a Saturday evening would have nothing to do with routine community policing and could only mean bad news.
Before Norman had a chance to speak, Martin held up his warrant card and, as required, made the formal introductions.
‘Good evening, sir, I am Detective Chief Inspector Phelps and this is Police Constable Cook-Watts. We are looking for Mr and Mrs Harding, and if we have the right house may we come in, please?’
Norman stood aside and gestured towards the first door that led into the lounge and as he passed the foot of the stairs he called up to his wife.
‘Sandy, would you come downstairs please?’
Sandy had already heard the doorbell and was aware that Norman had let someone into the house, and so she came quickly down the stairs, following almost immediately behind them into the lounge.
Her face turned pale as her eyes also took in the uniform of the police force and in the time it took Martin to re-introduce himself she had made her way to her husband’s side and was gripping his hand tightly.
Martin spoke quietly. ‘There is no easy way to break this news, but it would be better if you both sat down, as what I have to tell you will be a terrible shock.’
Mr and Mrs Harding moved to a nearby two-seater settee and sat closely together, both their minds now in total turmoil and somehow knowing that something had happened to their son.
‘Has Mark had an accident – is he badly hurt?’ asked Sandy quietly but with a voice that shook a little and a face that anticipated the worst.
Martin looked at Sandy and Norman and could barely guess at the misery his news would bring them.
‘I’m afraid it’s something more than that, Mrs Harding. I am sorry to say but the dreadful news is that your son is dead, but it was no accident and we believe Mark was deliberately killed.’
Two faces crumpled, and it was as if in ten seconds a cruel ten years of age had settled on them as they clung to one another and sobbed piteously. Nothing else was said by anyone in the room for the longest ten minutes that DCI Phelps could ever remember and the only movement was when he indicated to PC Cook-Watts to stand back and not approach the couple, as in these terrible moments all they wanted was one another.
It was Sandy Harding who first raised her head, and she cupped her husband’s face in her hands and gently kissed both his closed eyelids, before tightly gripping both his hands in an effort to stop him shaking.
The sight of this total love and consideration of one person towards another was the thing that totally took away for Helen’s composure, and she stared down deliberately at her sensible uniform shoes, in an effort to focus on something mundane as she fought back her own tears.
Sandy’s voice was thick and her eyes were swollen as she looked up and asked the inevitable questions – the ones Martin had been mentally gearing himself up to answer.
‘What happened, how did he die? Was it a car accident, or a mugging? It must have been a random thing – or you must have got it wrong – no one would want to deliberately kill Mark.’
The questions tumbled out and at the end of the short outburst she stumbled over the use of Mark’s name and a fresh flow of tears streamed down her face.
Now it was Norman’s turn to hold on to his wife, and they stayed together and completely apart from their unwanted visitors for a further five minutes, before turning to face Martin and waiting to hear the answers to Sandy’s questions.
‘We know it happened earlier this evening at Mark’s home in Penylan, but as yet we have not been able to get a clear picture of exactly how Mark died. There is no doubt that we are looking at murder and we will be doing everything possible to find and arrest the killer as soon as we can.’
Martin knew that he would have to answer any questions from the couple honestly, but he hoped they would not be asking for too much detail at this stage. It was surely more than enough to know your son had been killed without having to know how he had been carved up, in his own home, by one or more potential psychopaths.
Sandy was now sitting on the edge of her seat with her arms wrapped around her knees and staring at something no one else could see but then suddenly she got to her feet.
‘I need a drink, maybe a cup of tea to begin with but then something very much stronger.’ Sandy moved surprisingly quickly towards the door and headed for the kitchen followed immediately by PC Cook-Watts whose offer to make the drinks was turned down politely but firmly.
‘I can cope with things better when I’m busy,’ insisted Sandy. ‘Will you ask the Chief Inspector if he would like tea or coffee while I put the kettle on?’
Helen looked at Sandy who was bustling around her kitchen as if she were just making drinks for friends. Belying that image, the mugs clattered one against the other when she set them down on the central oak table and tried desperately to stop her hands from shaking. Sandy was doing something so routine and so familiar to her that it was helping her from completely breaking down and it would be these everyday jobs that would help her along the long path to, slightly mending, but never completely healing, her broken heart.
Returning to the lounge Helen found the DCI sitting next to Norman. Martin indicated that he would have a strong black coffee but Norman said nothing and just kept shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t remember your name’ said Sandy as Helen came back into the kitchen. ‘I can remember the Chief Inspector is called Phelps because we once had a neighbour called that, but what did he say your name is?’
‘Well, officially I am Police Constable Cook-Watts, but please call me Helen, and please do tell me if there is anything you want me to help with. Do you need to make any phone calls to relatives or anything?’
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br /> ‘Nothing that can’t wait – I am struggling to take it in and just now I am hoping that maybe it’s a nightmare and I will wake up in a minute. Did Norman say if he wanted tea or coffee?’
‘He didn’t say anything’ replied Helen. ‘The DCI likes his coffee black and very strong, and if it’s OK I will just have a glass of water, please.’
Sandy started to lift the tray with the drinks, including a mug of hot, strong tea for Norman ‘whether he wants it or not’, but her hold was unsteady and Helen took it gently from her, and followed her back to where the two men were now in deep conversation.
In the short time the two women had been in the kitchen, Norman had made a considerable effort to compose himself, and was telling DCI Phelps about the way in which Mark had come into their lives. At the Chief Inspector’s request was relating what he knew about Mark’s biological family.
‘He was nearly fifteen when he came to us, initially to be placed for foster care and I’m not sure but I think that would have ended when he became sixteen or maybe eighteen, but in any event we all got on really well and he stayed with us on a permanent basis.
‘Although Mark was never critical of Social Services, he did over time tell us of some of the disastrous placements he had endured during the years of being in care, starting from when he was just about five or six years old.
‘His own family history is the stuff of nightmares and I think his real father is currently in prison, possibly in Bristol. We always encouraged Mark to talk about his family, but we could understand why he was reluctant to do so.
‘He had only just started going to school when his father, under the influence of drink, lashed out at him, but his older sister intervened and was critically injured. The father, a man called Bob Wilson, was convicted of manslaughter and Mark was taken into care, but his other sister Amy stayed with her mother.’
Norman gave a huge sigh and looked as if he was going to lose it again, when Sandy put his hands around his mug of tea and sat on a footstool next to him, taking up the saga of the Wilson family history.