Jack-Knifed

by Wonny Lea

  ‘It would seem that after getting his sentence shortened for apparent remorse and good behaviour, he returned to the family home, where Mark’s mother still lived, and he beat up the man she was living with. The man died, and Mark’s mother was so badly injured that a short time afterwards she also died, and it was Amy’s turn to be taken into care.

  ‘There is no doubt that for all the years he was in care Mark blamed himself for his eldest sister’s death and for the repercussions of that event, because in his mind everything stemmed from his father’s disappointment of the Mark’s femininity when he was young.

  ‘The truth in my mind is that Bob Wilson is a completely homophobic, evil man. He made Mark’s young life a total misery by trying to change him, and possibly blaming his mother for not producing what he would call “a real man”. We tried many times to tell Mark that he could not be held responsible for his father’s actions, but his guilt was not helped when he learned that his sister Amy had gone completely off the rails with drugs and mental health problems.’

  ‘We tried making contact with his sister over the years, but we got nowhere, and at the time we formally adopted Mark ten years ago he resolved only ever to think of his new family and leave the past in the past.’

  Sandy obviously had a sudden thought. ‘Do you think his father has killed him too? Could he have escaped from prison?’ The thoughts clearly scared her.

  Martin responded. ‘Mark’s friend Paula told us a bit about Mark’s family background, and the facts you have given us may well be helpful in our enquiries, but it’s unlikely that Bob Wilson has escaped as it’s the sort of thing we are likely to have heard about.

  ‘However, the whole family history could be relevant, and I am grateful to you for your courage in sharing this information at such a time and would urge you to make a note of anything you may remember in the next few days.’

  ‘I have to ask you – how was he killed? Was he shot? Did he suffer?’ Sandy choked on the words but the DCI had anticipated the questions.

  Martin did not want to tell them anything that would subsequently be proved untrue, but remembering the gory details of the killing he could not bring himself to tell them everything at this stage.

  ‘He was not shot and he wasn’t beaten up. At this stage, we are looking for weapons such as knives that could have been used. I would like to tell you he didn’t suffer, but the truth is I don’t really know. But from my experience of such killings, death is usually rapid, so please take some comfort from that.’

  He inwardly willed them not to ask any more questions, and thankfully it looked as if they had no further appetite for knowledge of the circumstances, and were just sitting together, locked in their individual and shared grief.

  Martin explained that he would be back to see them at some time tomorrow, and told them a family liaison officer would be appointed to ensure they were kept informed of progress, hopefully before reading about it in the press.

  ‘Please, may we have Helen?’ requested Sandy. ‘We’ve met her and would feel more comfortable contacting her than having to start again with a complete stranger.’

  Martin explained that he was not directly responsible for PC Cook-Watts, but nevertheless said he would speak to her sergeant to see if the request could be granted. He put his own business card down in the centre of a small hall table. ‘In any event, if there is anything you want to know, or if you remember anything you think may help, no matter how trivial, you can contact me directly.’

  Helen suddenly took it upon herself to hug Sandy as Norman opened the front door to let them out, and this spontaneous action seemed to trigger a release valve that caused Sandy to give vent to her emotions and she rushed, sobbing, but also swearing angrily, back into the lounge. Norman rushed after her, and DCI Phelps indicated to the flustered PC that they should take their leave. He stepped aside for her to pass before ensuring that the front door was properly closed.

  Nothing was said and neither officer looked back towards the house as they walked down the drive and Martin fished into his pocket to retrieve his remote and clicked open the car doors. Turning in the semi-circle just past the house, it was Martin who from the driver’s side got the best view as they exited the road. Externally there was no change to this striking property, but inside were two people whose lives would never be the same, as the foundation for their very being had just been wickedly destroyed.

  Helen buried her head in her hands. ‘I messed up, didn’t, I at the end there? It would have been better if I had just shaken her hand but no, I had to get all physical.’

  ‘No, no, and no again’ was Martin’s response. ‘You did nothing wrong. Sandy is just one step ahead of Norman, in that she has moved quite quickly from sorrow to anger, but it won’t take long before the air is blue in that house. I suspect they didn’t spend years in Australia without learning a few choice Aussie expletives. You have probably helped her more than you know, but there will be many more stages of grieving for them to battle with before getting through this ordeal, always supposing that they do – eventually’.

  Nothing else was said as they drove back towards the Cardiff Bay area and both observed the nightlife of the city. It was now well past midnight, and the usual weekend revelry was at its peak, with taxis moving clubbers from one venue to another and groups of party-seekers at various stages of intoxication.

  Helen had indicated that she needed to return to Goleudy as her handbag with her house keys was there, as was her car, and as they drew into the rear car park she summoned up the courage to ask about the possibility of her being the Harding family’s liaison officer.

  ‘I haven’t done all the courses yet, but I did shadow one of the FLOs a few months ago so I know the rules I and think I could do it’ she suggested.

  ‘I’m sure you could, but as you know it’s not my call. However, I will speak to Sergeant Evans in the morning. There will be a full team meeting at around lunchtime and you need to be available for that. I’m not sure exactly what time it will be but after Prof. Moore has completed the autopsy and after I have formally interviewed the people who were at the scene, so one o’clock at the earliest I should think.’

  PC Cook-Watts slammed the car door and made her way up the back steps and then through a side door leading to the staff rooms to collect her bag. She knew that there would be little sleep for her tonight, as her mind was already trawling backwards and forwards over everything that had happened since she had arrived with Sergeant Evans at the murder scene.

  Yes, the whole thing was gruesome, but it was also a day she would always remember as the day on which she had decided on the direction of her future career. She had the greatest of respect for Sergeant Evans, who had chosen to remain in uniform, and recognised most of her fellow officers as hard-working men and women of average intelligence content to persevere with the routine nature of the job – but for her it was now CID that beckoned.

  Martin had within a few minutes left the city limits and was heading for home, feeling confounded by the fact that even on an evening such as this the thought of heading for his aunt’s cottage was comforting. He wondered how long it would be before he stopped referring to his home as his aunt’s cottage, but maybe he didn’t want to.

  His aunt had been his mother’s sister, and as his mother had died from of pancreatic cancer when Martin was just eight years old, he was never sure if he remembered his mother or if over the years her face had merged with his Aunt Pat’s. She had had no children of her own, and her job had always fascinated Martin as it brought her into contact with exciting people through the media of film and television.

  As a teenager, Martin spent many days in the school holidays on various production sets where Pat worked as a costume standby. It was her job to ensure the quality and continuity of the actors’ and actresses’ costumes and any props used at all stages of the production. She had to be there watching everything intently, and she often got Martin to watch with her, developing in him a keen e
ye for detail and the ability to pick out anything that was not as it should be.

  ‘Thanks for that, Aunt Pat,’ whispered Martin to himself, as he turned off the A4050 and onto the quiet B roads leading to the coastal village of Llantwit Major.

  The roads were now virtually deserted, and despite the sustained adrenaline rush of the latter part of the day Martin was beginning to feel tired – and not just tired but, to his surprise, actually sleepy. He just hoped that when his head hit the pillow he would be able to smother the thoughts that would attempt to invade his mind, reminding him to consider every detail of his latest and most gruesome crime scene.

  The cottage was on the end of a terrace made up of just four houses, and had a driveway along the whole of one side, but Martin stopped the car just before the set of cottages and switching off his headlights pulled up at the side of the road.

  Although she never complained, Martin was aware that his neighbour, a lifelong friend of his aunt, was a light sleeper, and the erratic hours that Martin’s job demanded often meant comings and goings at all hours of the night. He tried to be as considerate as possible, which was appreciated, and in return she looked after his garden and cared for the plants so carefully chosen by his aunt, and about which he knew almost nothing. He couldn’t be bothered making himself a hot drink, but poured himself a glass of orange juice and took it straight upstairs, setting it down on the bedside table as he set his alarm for 7am. He wasn’t expecting to get what would now be just under five hours’ kip, but he stripped off and lay on top of the bed, anticipating hours of endless struggles with sleep and its opponents.

  To begin with, all the detail of the crime scene started to invade his thoughts and he mentally began a journey through Mark’s hall and into the kitchen. His mind then jerked quickly into the extraordinary appearance of the lounge – there was certainly a story to tell here – but, suddenly, he was asleep. Not a dream interrupted him, to say nothing of nightmares, and he slept deeply, his glass of juice not even touched. It was his mobile phone ringing out the 7 a.m. alarm that woke Martin, and he opened his eyes, only to close them again quickly in an attempt to erase the memory of Mark’s staring out of his cold, dead torso.

  Chapter Six

  Too many questions

  At seven o’clock on this Sunday morning Goleudy was a hive of activity, as the case had been all night. The SOC team, under the direction of Alex Griffiths, had set up three picture galleries to rival even the most bizarre exhibitions sometimes on show in the modern art sections of the National Galleries. The first was gruesome and showed the kitchen scene from every possible angle, with strategically placed labels indicating distances of the limbs from the torso and patterns of blood spillage and splatter.

  It was Alex’s job to configure every possible way in which this murder could have been executed, and he was impatiently waiting for Prof. Moore to carry out the post mortem and to give the SOCOs some more information regarding the type of weapons they were looking for. Throughout the night members of his team, together with uniformed officers, had searched the garden and the immediate area around the house, but nothing had been found.

  With the welcome return of daylight and the support of additional officers, a wider and more exhaustive search had already begun, but Alex had a gut feeling that the killer or killers were unlikely to have left the tools of this treacherous act around to be found and forensically examined.

  It would be interesting to see how Martin viewed the crime but it was Alex’s belief that it had been well planned and consequently tracks would have been carefully covered. Thankfully, in his experience, criminals rarely covered all their tracks and with criminal detection technology improving almost daily, the smallest mistake could lead to a major breakthrough.

  The most frustrating part of this process was that the discovery of that crucial criminal error, and the subsequent collection of lawyer-proof evidence, could take days, weeks, months, and even years. In that time, a sick and possibly still dangerous monster was shopping in the local Spar, or taking an open-top bus tour around the city.

  Alex prayed for an early clue, but knew it was more likely that what lay ahead would be round-the-clock microscopic examination of every detail of the crime scene for his team, endless interviews for the detectives and house-to-house searches for countless police officers and special constables.

  The second set of images showed the living room and focused on the sofa with pictures of the four definite sets of four deep slashes into the beautiful, expensive leather. The pictures that were highly magnified made it easy to see that the cuts had all been made with the same knife and that it had been a sharp, fairly long blade with no serrations.

  Alex knew that this sort of information would help to focus the minds of his detective colleagues later in the day. He checked the rest of the setup before standing his team down, indicating that they should all get some rest before the initial Mark Wilson murder team meeting, which he guessed would be early that afternoon.

  The final set of visuals showed six pictures of the fireplace in Mark’s living room and showed the virtually destroyed papers exactly as they had been found, with close-ups focusing on what appeared to be two separate documents. A quick glance at four of the images would leave most people just seeing heavily charred paper and partly incinerated coals, but the last two had been computer-enhanced and enlarged so that it was just possible to see what had been set alight. Alex was especially pleased with these findings and hoped that they would help Martin begin to piece together a possible motive for this killing.

  Suddenly feeling very hungry, Alex made his way to the staff dining room and after eating bacon, egg, and toast he was aware of another feeling – overwhelming tiredness. Because his home was on the outskirts of Swansea it took Alex about an hour to get from work to home and it was not a journey his sleepy eyes would enable him to consider now. So what was new? he thought.

  He made his way to the fifth floor and to one of the small rooms set aside for such times, and punched his ID number into the keypad on the wall outside. The rooms were always clean and the tiny en-suite facility in each was supplied with a pile of fresh towels and basic toiletries. He instantly stripped off and had a cool, refreshing shower.

  Afterwards, wrapped in a towel that barely covered him, he gingerly opened the door and stepped back into the corridor, where he was confronted by a bank of eight small lockers, five of which had names inserted in the slots on the doors. His six-digit ID gained him access to the locker labelled Alex Griffiths, and he pulled out the emergency set of clothes he kept there and the all-important toothbrush. He took a cursory look at the other four names and fleetingly wondered what the two women would keep in their lockers, but decided, best not to go there …

  Before blanking out into a deep but mind-churning sleep, Alex picked up the phone at the side of the bed and let the front desk know he was crashing out for a few hours.

  Recognising the voice at the end of the line, Alex asked PC Thomas to give him a shout if he had not surfaced by midday but Alex barely heard the reply because nature was taking over and there was nothing he could do to stop his eyes closing.

  Martin reflected on the time when a drive at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning would have meant passing just a few cars, but over the past ten years or so the peace of Sunday had been well and truly shattered, and now he considered it was probably one of the busiest days in and around the city.

  His drive from home to the office was just long enough to give a comfortable distance between these two parts of his life, and when a case was fresh he used the time to plan out the day, knowing it would be the only part of it where he would have real personal thinking time. He had already spoken to his DS, and Matt had confirmed that interviews were already set up, and that Alex’s team had done a first-class job in their appraisal of the crime scene. So Martin knew that the ball was now well and truly in his court.

  Matt was already in Incident Room One when Martin arrived. He was deep in con
versation with one of the IT bods, who was explaining how the technology worked and how the various images could be linked in all manner of ways to get a perfect three-dimensional view of any of the three investigation spots. It looked impressive, and Martin could see that Charlie’s team had pulled out all the stops. He knew that she would be the first to acknowledge their efforts on her return from the Emerald Isle.

  Although the images from Mark’s house were fresh in Martin’s mind he was, as in the past, surprised when looking at the photographs to find how now, in a more dispassionate setting, he was noticing small details that could be important. The kitchen was large, and a person could easily lay on top of the central island with arms and legs not even protruding from the sides of it, and Martin speculated that somehow Mark had been put in that position prior to death – though surely not of his own free will.

  Had he been drugged? Toxicology findings would reveal that.

  Had he been tied up? Martin moved to the photographs of the severed limbs and could see no obvious evidence of restraint marks on the wrists or ankles, but he would take a look at the actual body parts in the post-mortem suite later.

  The arms on the floor were bare, and the top half of the body wore a designer-label black sleeveless vest. There was a similar one hanging in Martin’s wardrobe back at the cottage, bought for him by his ex-wife as a birthday present. She had jokingly told him it had cost her an arm and a leg. Cost an arm and a leg – losing both arms and legs – life threw up some strange links. This particular link determined that the lovingly bought present would soon be on its way to the nearest charity shop, as he would never be able to wear it again without the image of it being stuck to Mark’s body by its owner’s own blood.

  The legs were covered with what were once grey lightweight cropped trousers, and an unusual multi-coloured leather open-back sandal was still on one of the feet. Methodically, Martin looked at the other leg, and saw that the sandal was covering the arch of the foot with the sole facing upwards – could have happened during a struggle?