Jack-Knifed

by Wonny Lea

  The disgruntled constable rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist a further comment. ‘Well, if we have the devil and metal monsters amongst us, perhaps we should swap CID for Doctor Who.’ A moment of much-needed laughter followed and then back to business as Matt went on.

  ‘Of the potentially more credible witnesses, we have one middle-aged man who reports seeing a couple walking down towards the house at about ten past six. He had already passed the house and was going up the hill, and they were walking towards him, but he doesn’t know if they went into the house and doesn’t remember hearing anything like a gate opening.

  ‘Three people were able to give information about cars parked at the time but we have checked them all out and they belong to local residents and have legitimate reasons for being there.

  ‘Another man saw a couple walking up the hill, but this time on the opposite side of the road to the house, and he thinks this was at about 6.30, although it could have been a bit before that.’

  Helen Cook-Watts asked if any of these men were able to provide descriptions of the couple and Matt responded.

  ‘Yes, pretty good ones, especially with the man where both descriptions are virtually identical. But their recollections don’t quite tally when it comes to the woman. Both men have worked separately with our artist, and as we speak she is putting together some images that might help. We would without a doubt like to speak to this couple, if only to eliminate them from the enquiries. They are not among the people who have come forward as being around at the time, so having a picture to circulate could be invaluable.’

  Matt went on to describe the visits that he and DC Matthews had made to Mark’s place of work, and to the health clubs he had frequented.

  ‘If we are looking for someone that is homophobic, and who disliked or possibly even hated Mark Wilson, then the manager of one of our victim’s health clubs comes straight to the top of our list of suspects. He seemed to be spinning us a yarn about his whereabouts on Saturday afternoon and evening, but fortunately for him we have spoken to independent witnesses who can place him where he says he was, so he’s not in the frame.’

  ‘Thanks, Matt. And now I know that Mr Griffiths here is bursting to fill us in on the results of recent SOC tests.’ Martin nodded towards Alex, who eagerly took the floor.

  ‘“Bursting” and “fill” couldn’t be more apt, as it can’t have escaped anyone’s notice that our lab has been taken over by plastic sacks containing those countless fibres collected from the victim’s lounge. As we know, his sofa was filled with very small soft particles of polyester fibre flock, and the first long deep cut into the leather would have released scores of them and caused them to literally burst into the room.

  ‘There were fifteen more cuts after that first one, and it seemed inconceivable to us that anyone in the room at the time would not have been covered with them. Prof. Moore has identified their presence in the hair and in the nasal cavities of the victim, and they wouldn’t have missed whoever else was in the room at the time.’

  ‘What’s the first thing you do when there are small particles of anything floating around – look, some of you are even doing it now at the very thought of it! You’re rubbing your eyes and your noses, and that’s the natural reaction, as well as possibly using your hands to brush the stuff out of your hair.’

  ‘So, amongst those bags of fibres, we were hoping to find anything that would give us the opportunity to do DNA tests. Through a boring and time-consuming process, we were able to isolate nine strands of hair, but to our disappointment it seemed that all of them belonged to Mark Wilson himself. A similar set of results came from a few pieces of mucous and skin that we were able to identify, but there were two exceptions and we have come up with two DNA results that don’t fit the victim.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we have fed the details of this DNA into the national database and there is no match, so either our killer is a first-timer or this is the first time he has been careless.’

  Alex looked around at his audience, knowing that their hopes had been raised only to be dashed by this potentially case-cracking find having come to nothing.

  ‘Not to worry, folks,’ he suggested. ‘When we get to finding a possible suspect, we will be able to match them with this DNA result and get a conviction.

  ‘There is something else,’ he added. ‘You will remember I just said that the DNA from the nine strands of hair that were tested appeared to be from the victim but we are now certain that is not the case. Five of them are very definitely from the head of Mark Wilson but the other four are from the head of another member of his family and it has to be from a brother or a sister.’

  Martin interjected. ‘How can you be sure of that?’ he asked. ‘Brothers and sisters don’t share the same DNA, do they? I thought it was only identical twins that did.’

  ‘No, they don’t share the same DNA, but there is much more of a match than, say, between you and me, and there are some elements that are helpful in determining if DNA samples come from siblings.

  ‘For example, mitochondrial DNA is passed from a mother to her children, and so all siblings of the same mother will have the same mitochondrial DNA. So you can see that at first we thought we were looking at nine strands of hair from the same person. The rest of our tests show around the expected 50% similarities and differences between the DNA we tested.

  ‘So, to cut short what could be a long, though fascinating, lecture on the amazing world of DNA science, we have concluded that when the fibres of the sofa were released they found their way into the hair of Mark and one of his siblings. From the history of the family, we know there is only one living sibling, and that’s his sister Amy.

  ‘In addition we now have on file the DNA of another person who was present at that time and hope it won’t be too long before we are able to match it against that of the murderer.’

  ‘Excellent, and well done!’ Martin looked genuinely pleased and he rubbed off some of his preliminary soundings from the whiteboard and created a new set of findings and possibilities.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on Mark’s biological family,’ he suggested. ‘What do we know?’ Answering his own question he went through a potted history.

  ‘He started life with his mother and father and two older sisters. The eldest of the two sisters, Sarah Wilson, was killed during a domestic incident in 1975. She was eleven years old at the time. Her father, Bob, was convicted of manslaughter, but for some reason best known to the prison service was released under certain conditions seven years later.

  ‘Immediately on his release he killed the lover of his now ex-wife, and the injuries he inflicted on her – Mark’s mother, Joan – led to her death a short time later. He was caught, convicted, and sentenced, and is currently serving out that sentence at HM Bristol Prison.

  ‘Apart from his father, whose whereabouts are easily confirmed, the only other member of his family still alive is his sister Amy, who is two years older than Mark – so putting her in her early forties.’

  He looked at Matt, who did the sums and confirmed what Martin had thought.

  ‘So, where the hell is she? Why haven’t we had her here for questioning? She could be the key to this whole thing – what’s the latest?’

  Matt had expected these questions from his boss, and as he faced Martin and a room full of expectant faces he wished he had some more helpful information to impart.

  ‘We have tracked her down through the benefits system, and it would appear that until two months ago she had a room in a house of multiple occupancy in Newport. However, we’ve checked it out, and she’s no longer there. And the really surprising thing is that she hasn’t claimed any of the money to which she is apparently entitled since the middle of March.’

  ‘Someone must know where she’s been since March,’ said Martin. ‘I was about to say that no one can disappear off the face of the earth but we all know there are some who seem to be able to do just that. Think, everybody. We have a woman, approaching middle
age, apparently living alone, with no known job, and until recently claiming state benefits. What else do we know about her, Matt?’

  ‘We know she was placed in care when her mother died and we know her mother died as a result of the horrific injuries inflicted by Amy’s father. However, her social services records have a number of psychiatric assessments and she at no time blames her father for either the death of her sister or her mother – always laying the blame for her family’s misfortunes at the door of her brother Mark. “If he had never been born …” seems to be a phrase she used constantly.

  ‘We have also uncovered a history of drug abuse that had already started when she was in care, and obviously continued, as we found out that when she was about seventeen she almost died of a heroin overdose. That obviously didn’t cure her addiction, as there are police records for petty crimes over the years, usually thefts to help fund her habit. She was in prison for a short time last year, and it seems the rehabilitation she underwent then was successful, as we have nothing on her since then. But prescription records show that she has been supported by regular supplies of methadone, which should have been reduced in strength over time – but the dose has never varied.

  ‘The last lot she picked up was on Monday the first of March this year, and that’s the same day she was last seen at the house in Newport.’

  ‘OK,’ Martin interrupted. ‘Any suggestions on what’s been going on with this woman for the past couple of months – after all those years of dependency she’s not suddenly going to be able to do without, is she?’

  Several suggestions came from all parts of the room.

  ‘She could be dead.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s gone back to the real thing.’

  ‘Could have just moved away – even gone abroad.’

  ‘Maybe her luck has changed and the woman has found someone to help her with her drugs problem and generally look after her.’

  This last comment came from a young PC who would have looked more at home in a dog collar than a police uniform, and who Martin feared may have chosen the wrong career. Martin’s fears were reinforced by the jeers that followed the young man’s input.

  ‘Yeah, like Father Christmas.’

  ‘When did Mother Teresa move to Newport, then?’

  ‘OK, settle down.’ DCI Phelps banged on the table and turned to DS Pryor. ‘Presumably we have checked out records of deaths and flights.’

  ‘There are no reports of her death,’ replied Matt. ‘Charlie has put her name on the computer to search against all passenger lists since the beginning of March, and so far she hasn’t come up with anything. However there is evidence of her possible intention to leave the country, as on Friday 26th March she renewed her passport.’

  ‘So she must have applied for her passport either when she was still at the address we know or shortly after – what have they got on their records?’ Martin waited for Matt’s reply.

  ‘They have the address in Newport and she has given her father as her next of kin. On the subject of her father the Prison Administrator in Bristol has confirmed that Amy has been a regular visitor ever since his term started. They referred to the forms that have to be completed by all visitors and gave us the information they have on her.

  ‘To their total embarrassment their information is about two years out of date as the address is one she previously had in Cardiff, and according to Charlie’s digging into mobile phone records the number they have was withdrawn in March 2008. They did say her father was sure to have her latest mobile phone number, and even if he refused to give it to them they would be able to figure it out from their outgoing calls records.

  ‘Here’s the really interesting thing, though. She apparently visited her father this afternoon, but that was before they had found out about their records being out of date and about our need to talk to her. Still, we now know she is still alive – or at least she was when she left the prison at three o’clock today.’

  Martin looked around the room and realised that it was way past the shift finishing time for the majority of the officers, and that they had homes and families to go to. He drew the session to an end by thanking everyone for their input and encouraging them to continue throwing everything into solving this crime.

  ‘I have a good sense that we are getting somewhere,’ he concluded, and turning to Matt added, ‘You and I will be crossing the bridge into Bristol in the morning.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Time for Shelley

  It was gone seven o’clock when Martin headed for the car park, and by then there were only a few cars he recognised. There was one in particular whose owner was just starting up the engine …

  As Martin approached, she spotted him, and the driver’s side window electronically descended.

  ‘I was tempted to call in on the way out to see if you fancied going for a drink, but then I thought with this recent case, which sounds horrific, you wouldn’t want to hear me prattling on about the day I’ve had.’

  Shelley’s green eyes looked up at Martin and he thought, what the hell.

  ‘A drink sounds like a good idea, but if you can manage it a meal sounds even better.’ Martin took the plunge, knowing that the occasional casual drink had been the extent of their relationship so far. Somehow, a meal seemed more in the nature of an actual date. He then told himself that that was rubbish. They were just two people, who happened to work in the same building, needing something to eat and drink and to wind down after a long day.

  ‘Well, I was just thinking about picking up some fish and chips on my way home so I need no persuasion – a meal would be great, where do you suggest?’

  ‘Nothing too formal if that’s OK, I don’t feel like standing on ceremony at the moment – you choose!’

  ‘OK. Well, what about one of the places in Mermaid Quay? There’s loads of choice there. Practically all the cuisines of the world on offer, as they say.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ replied Martin. ‘No sense in taking two cars, we’ll take mine and come back for yours later.’

  Shelley killed her engine and followed Martin to the furthest end of the car park. He zapped the lock of the blue Alfa Romeo and she got in beside him.

  ‘Great car,’ she remarked. ‘A bit beyond the wages they pay me, and especially with me basically being the breadwinner at home.’

  The comment was made with good humour but it made Martin realise that he knew nothing about Shelley’s life outside Goleudy. On reflection the total time they had spent together socially probably amounted to no more than a couple of hours, and their conversations had always been work-related.

  ‘I was lucky,’ replied Martin. ‘Not lucky that a lovely old lady died, you know, but lucky that she had been my aunt and left me everything she had, including her cottage.’

  ‘You must have had a fantastic relationship with her, and she must have loved you very much. Or maybe you were her only relation and she didn’t fancy leaving everything to the cats’ home!’ The last remark was made in a teasing voice, as if Shelley had suddenly felt she may have jumped in too quickly with her comments about Martin’s relationship with his aunt.

  He was obviously not embarrassed by what she had said, and for the first time since his aunt’s death he found himself telling someone about the good, no, the fantastic relationship they had shared.

  ‘She was a great character,’ he said. ‘She called a spade a spade, and at times I thought she was a bit of a witch – she had such an uncanny knack of knowing what I was thinking. I owe her a lot and I don’t think I would be doing this job if it wasn’t for her. She taught me to look at things, not just see them, and those skills have helped with some of the more difficult cases of my career.’

  ‘Sounds like you were really lucky, and I don’t just mean the material things she left you.’

  The journey from work to Mermaid Quay took just a few minutes, and they could have walked it. Martin knew however that if he had left his car outside the office, it would be assum
ed he was still inside and thus available to one and all. It wasn’t a sure thing, but more than likely, that his work phone would remain silent if his subordinates and senior officers thought he had left for home.

  This evening was cooler than it had been of late but not cool enough to prevent half the population wearing as little as legally possible in an attempt to show off their recently acquired summer skin colours, ranging from bright scarlet to deep mahogany. After all, thought Martin, we are in Wales. The recent spell of glorious weather could well be it for the rest of the summer, so making the most of it was the order of the day.

  Shelley’s first choice of the eating places was a Turkish restaurant with an excellent reputation for specialising in traditional sweets. How could Martin explain that his reason for not going there was the sight in his mind’s eye of Mark Wilson’s body strewn with similar Turkish delicacies he had made just before he was murdered?

  He didn’t explain, though; just said he fancied something a bit different, and asked how she felt about sushi.

  ‘Only had it out once before,’ she replied. ‘I do quite often pick up some with the meal deal things they do at the supermarket – yes, OK, let’s head for Tokyo!’

  As they climbed the steps towards the Japanese restaurant they made quite a striking couple, and although Martin was over six feet tall Shelley only had to raise her eyes a tad to make contact. She was all of five feet ten inches herself, and had unhitched the long auburn bob that had been kept tamed by two large grips and taken off her lightweight jacket and tied it around her waist.

  Martin still wore a shirt and a tie to the office, although he had noticed of late that more and more of the men at his grade were now wearing polo shirts or crew-neck sweaters and had abandoned the ties. He couldn’t see himself ever joining them – and anyway, the shirts and ties he wore nowadays were so comfortable, being made of soft materials and with, thank heavens, not a hint of starch anywhere. This evening he had left his jacket and tie in the car, and with the top two buttons of his shirt open looked as relaxed and as casual as he was beginning to feel.