Jack-Knifed

by Wonny Lea

  The restaurant was surprisingly not busy. Martin had been there twice before, both times much later in the evening when it would be impossible to get a table without booking in advance.

  The waiters were attentive but discreet. ‘The Japanese could certainly teach us a thing or two about service,’ Shelley commented, as they were settled into a corner table for two and instantly provided with a glass jug of iced water and two tall glasses. ‘You practically have to beg for a glass of water in some British-style restaurants; they only want to serve you with bottled water and charge the earth for it.’

  After a few minutes of discussion with the waiter, they opted to start with a platter of mixed sushi, and then decided that as neither of them were experts they would opt for a selection from the teppanyaki hotplate. The wine waiter hovered nearby. Martin knew there was no way he could drink and drive, but it seemed a shame for neither of them to have a drink.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he suggested to Shelley. ‘I was going to be taking you back to your car but I’m quite happy to drive you home instead. Your car should be safe parked in a police station.’ Shelley needed little persuasion, and opted for a small glass of house rosé, but when Martin suggested she change her order to a large glass she readily agreed.

  Although there were only about seven tables occupied, there was already a good atmosphere, created in the main by the showmanship of the chefs cooking freshly prepared food at two of the cooking stations.

  As the couple ate the shaped and modelled sushi, their conversation inevitably returned to work-related matters.

  ‘Hell, it’s one big relief to get today over,’ sighed Shelley. ‘I went through the course appraisal forms before I left and wasn’t able to pick out one negative comment, so that’s brilliant.’

  She took another large mouthful of the pale pink wine, which looked pretty harmless but was certainly having the desired effect, and she relaxed further. ‘Your illustrious Chief Constable got some really high scores and I must admit she was good, she got her points over without pulling any punches, but in spite of some pretty hard criticisms that she had to deliver she managed to keep the audience on board. Your turn next time, Detective Chief Inspector Phelps!’

  Martin made a face, but was getting more and more concerned that when Shelley turned those deep emerald eyes on him he was likely to agree to almost anything.

  The restaurant was now quite busy and the atmosphere, while generally mellow, was punctuated by the “oohs” and “aahs” of fascinated customers, as they watched the chefs expertly using the sizzling hotplate, and turning the raw materials of rice, fish, and marinated meat into beautifully presented oriental dishes.

  Yes, this had been a good choice. Martin couldn’t remember when he had enjoyed an evening more, and it was nothing short of a miracle that it should be happening just two days into the start of a murder enquiry.

  There was no doubt that the reason for Martin’s current frame of mind was sitting opposite him, and had been for the past two hours and as the evening wore on he found himself wishing he could capture it for a bit longer.

  Although the desserts looked delicious, neither of them was tempted, and Martin chose to have a coffee while Shelley finished off what was by now her third large glass of wine.

  Martin paid the bill, ignoring Shelley’s suggestion that they should split it in half, especially as she had drunk half of it. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, they walked hand in hand down the steps back to the edge of the Quay.

  Instead of going straight back to the car they ambled around like a couple of tourists seeing the attractions of the Bay for the first time. Martin felt slightly intoxicated, although he knew for certain he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. This woman was having some effect on him and it was hitting him like a bolt out of the blue.

  The way Shelley looked at him was making his stomach flip, but why now? They had known each other for more than a year and he had never really thought of her as anything more than a colleague, although Alex had once told him she fancied the pants off him – though according to Alex, every available female did – but had he been right this time?

  Even before they had got back to the car, they had exchanged their first kiss, and although it was anything but a passionate one it confirmed to Martin that whatever it was he was feeling was reciprocated. He told himself that it was not great timing to get started on a relationship at the start of a murder enquiry, but hell, he hadn’t intended this, and although his head was saying stop now, his heart was offering a different viewpoint entirely.

  Closing the car door, Martin leant towards Shelley and kissed her again, and this time as they were not in a public place there was no holding back. There were just the two of them and they took time to savour the experience. Martin took the plunge.

  ‘I know a beautiful little cottage just near the coast where the brandy is warm and the bed is comfortable … but only if you want to – no pressure.’

  ‘Well, it’s an invitation I have been dreaming about for the last twelve months,’ teased Shelley. ‘So I’m hardly going to turn it down now.’

  Martin looked at her as he started up the car.

  ‘Why is it we don’t see the good things when they are right there in front of us?’ he asked.

  Still in a teasing mode, Shelley responded, ‘You tell me, DCI Phelps – as I said before, you’re the detective.’

  For a moment, Martin’s mind left Shelley and conjured up an image of his Aunt Pat. He had never taken anyone to her home, but he knew for certain that if she could have chosen someone for him it would have been someone like Shelley.

  He put his foot on the accelerator and headed out of the city.

  It wasn’t a night of unbridled passion – it was better than that!

  Yes, they had made love, but they had also talked and slept, and when Martin woke just after six to see the morning sun catching the burnt auburn of the long side pieces of Shelley’s hair on his pillow he closed his eyes again.

  Now wasn’t the time to panic, and he was surprised to realise that he didn’t even feel the need to panic. The image that was still there when he opened his eyes made him feel warm and comfortable and he could easily have re-joined her in her obviously blissful sleep.

  However reality had cruelly invaded his mind and for the first time in more than eight hours his mind returned to work and he really woke up. The original plan had been to make an early start for Bristol but there were things he wanted to do before going, and so he had left a note for Matt to say they would leave as soon after nine as possible. Hopefully that would also enable them to miss the worst of the early heavy traffic.

  Carefully he eased himself out of bed but needn’t have worried about waking Shelley – she didn’t move a muscle.

  He had showered, dressed, and was in the kitchen making coffee and toast when he heard her moving about.

  ‘There are some new toothbrushes in the blue basket on the shelf in the spare room, and the shower is all yours,’ he called up the stairs.

  She walked across the small landing, and as he saw her bare bum disappear into the bathroom it took all his willpower to concentrate on buttering the toast. Last night had been great, but this morning there was a serious job to be done and he owed it to Mark Wilson to keep his mind on that job.

  Shelley came down less than ten minutes later, fully dressed in yesterday’s slightly crumpled clothes and with her hair just towel-dried. If either of them had thought the morning would be difficult, they needn’t have worried, as they fell into easy conversation.

  ‘No, I don’t have a hair dryer!’ was Martin’s response to her first question, and to the next, ‘Yes, you can poke around all you like, as long as we are out of here within the next half-hour.’

  ‘I love this house’ said Shelley looking into cupboards and opening doors. ‘Your aunt had great taste – there’s nothing frilly and fussy about it, just perfect decoration and furnishings, and all so in keeping with the overa
ll character.’

  Martin nodded in agreement, for apart from installing a dishwasher and a tumble dryer, the only other change he had made was to move out his aunt’s three-quarter-size bed and replace it with the king-size one they had shared last night.

  ‘Where does this door lead?’ she asked, but without waiting for an answer she turned the key in the back door and stepped out into the garden. ‘I think I have died and gone to heaven!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is my idea of a perfect cottage garden, but I must admit I never had you down as having green fingers.’

  Martin had the grace to blush and owned up to the secret of his beautifully set out, freshly weeded piece of paradise. ‘Nothing at all that I can take the credit for,’ he told her. ‘The gardens, both back and front, were laid out by my aunt and her best friend who lives next door, and who lovingly tends them along with her own. She says she does it because every shrub and flower reminds her of Pat and although that is probably true I think she is also concerned that I wouldn’t have the time or the skills to keep it as it deserves to be kept.’

  ‘I promise to be ready to go whenever you are,’ said Shelley. ‘But first I am going to sit and drink my coffee on that bench that’s beckoning me over.’

  True to her promise, Shelley was ready to leave twenty minutes later as Martin gathered up some papers and his car keys. After a quick look at the front garden that, with her mind on other things, she hadn’t even noticed last night, Shelley climbed into the passenger seat and Martin drove off.

  His usual routine of using the time between work and the office to think would have to be shelved for today, but he did need to re-focus on the case and so decided to use Shelley as a sounding board. ‘You’ll know something about the murder we are currently investigating,’ he suggested. ‘It’s been well covered in the press and quite a bit on the radio and television.’

  ‘More than that,’ she responded. ‘The Chief Constable went down to Incident Room One to find you at lunchtime yesterday and took me with her. It’s not uncommon for people to forget I’m not a member of the force, and I get to see and hear things that I probably shouldn’t. The images were graphic, to say the least, and I’m amazed that the full details haven’t come out, but I’m glad for the sake of the victim’s family that they haven’t.’

  Martin gave an outline of Mark Wilson’s two separate and very different families, and Shelley listened with interest as he looked for motives and opportunities in connection with all the people who had been interviewed. He put forward his own theory that the motive was hate or jealousy, and his conviction that the victim knew his killer.

  ‘I’m no expert but that’s the only thing that makes sense to me,’ responded Shelley. ‘No one lets an unexpected stranger into their home; it’s something we are constantly warned against. Perhaps some frail elderly people would be duped, but Mark was only in his forties, and with his background he would be quite streetwise.’

  ‘We are having difficulty getting hold of his sister, and our planned visit to Bristol today is to visit his biological father at the prison.’

  Shelley suddenly interrupted Martin. ‘Do you mind dropping me off at my house? And that’s a first right at the end of this road. I need a change of clothes and my father will want his pre-breakfast insulin jab, and that’s down to me.’

  Martin turned the car as directed and after another hundred yards or so drew up in front of one of the semi-detached houses. ‘What about your car?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem, I don’t need to be in work early as today is a review day for me, and as you can see I don’t live far away, so a taxi is easy or I could even walk.’

  She made to open the door and Martin held her arm, not wanting her to get out of the car without telling her how much he had enjoyed their time together and how much he hoped there would be more of the same.

  She grinned, leaning over to kiss him firmly on the lips, and answered his unspoken questions with, ‘Well, you know where I am now, both at work and at home, so no excuses, not even the ones about too much work!’

  Within five minutes, Martin pulled into the car park of Goleudy, and although he was happy with the start of this unexpected relationship with Shelley he was relieved that she wasn’t with him now. The gossip machine was brutal and if she had been seen getting out of his car they would have been easy targets. He wanted them to have time to get to know one another better before other people got involved and did their best, however well-meaningly, to mess things up.

  Nevertheless he did cause a few raised eyebrows as he walked down the corridor towards his office humming ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning.’

  Matt had seen him come in and so would most certainly have seen his passenger had she still been with him and his DS would have greeted him not just with a large strong coffee, as he did now, but a great deal of leg-pulling.

  Now completely focused on the day ahead, Martin read the reports that had been electronically transferred from the prison in Bristol, giving him answers to some of the questions he had posed about Bob Wilson’s record inside.

  The first prison sentence records were of a model prisoner who admitted his guilt and regretted his actions. However, even the contemporaneous reports questioned whether or not the contrition was genuine, and the notes in the margin added when he was readmitted after murdering his wife’s lover highlighted that the initial doubts were justified.

  The reports of the years following his second sentencing were of a very different nature and there were no regrets regarding his wife’s death.

  Time and time again, the records showed that he held his son responsible for everything bad that had happened to the family, and the latest entry, written at the time when Bob was told of his son’s death showed the depth of the father’s hatred. He was reported as having told the prison officer that he didn’t have a son, but the waste of space that everyone was calling his son was at long last making him happy and he hoped the piece of shit would rot in hell.

  Matt knocked the door and asked whose car they were taking. On hearing the answer he dropped his own keys into the tray on Martin’s desk and followed his boss to the car park. He was happy to get in to the passenger seat for a change, and settled down for a journey that would take close on an hour, during which he knew from past experience they would cover every detail of the case so far, and maybe even come up with some answers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fathers and mothers

  After authenticating their identities, DCI Phelps and DS Pryor were allowed through the barrier and into the staff and VIPs’ area of the prison car park. They were met at the staff entrance by the acting prison governor, who had been in that position for nearly a year, as the substantive post holder was recovering from a serious car accident.

  Acting Governor Mike Waverley welcomed them and led them to his office along a maze of corridors at the back of the administration block of the prison. There was no evidence of locked doors here, and the offices were surprisingly spacious and airy. Best of all, there was a freshly-filtered jug of coffee waiting for them.

  ‘Cardiff to Bristol can be a great run, just straight up the M4 – I should know, I do it every day, as I live in Cardiff.’ Waverley was pouring the coffee as he spoke. ‘But all it takes is one set of roadworks, or a bump, and you can be sitting in the car for hours – you obviously made good time.’

  Martin nodded, but was keen to get the pleasantries out of the way and get on with the purpose of the visit. Mike sensed this and responded. ‘You will have got all the background reports that we sent you on Wilson,’ he said. ‘It occurred to me that you may want to hear some of the off-the-record stuff, things that we can’t substantiate but which will undoubtedly give you an insight into what the man is really like.’

  ‘Thanks, we appreciate it,’ said Martin, and the three men sat down at the round table in the middle of the office.

  ‘I have only been in my current position for coming up to twelve months, but I was the deputy governor befor
e that, and as such had a particular responsibility for long-term prisoners.’

  ‘Are they segregated from those serving short-term sentences? And what about the violent and non-violent prisoners, are they kept apart?’ asked Matt.

  ‘It’s something we have talked about for years, but with the numbers we have to cope with it’s just not possible. So unfortunately, yes, they can be all locked up together. Violent prisoners get paired up with men who have no history of violence and hey-ho; as they say, behaviour breeds behaviour, and we incubate more violence.

  ‘We have some pretty unsavoury characters here at the moment and we know they have contact with the lowest of the low, the really ugly side of criminal activity. Even though they are locked up we believe they are still able to exercise control over some undesirables on the outside and are the instigators of all sorts of crimes: drugs, beatings, and possibly even murders. But knowing and believing is not the same as having the evidence we need, as you will know better than I do.’

  ‘Is Bob Wilson one of those prisoners?’ asked DS Pryor.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ replied Mike. ‘Until a few months ago I would have said he was not even in their league. His crimes were all about his own personal hate and anger – he was never a career criminal and had no links to drugs or any other category of criminology. He’s just a nasty piece of work capable of sudden and violent anger; even since he’s been back with us he’s put two other prisoners in hospital with considerable injuries.’

  ‘So has something happened in the past few months to make you change your views on him?’ asked Martin.

  ‘He’s been cosying up to a prisoner called Leo Thompson, who I think quite honestly was born evil. His record reads like your worst possible nightmare. You will have heard the saying about killing one’s grandmother for a few bob. Well, Thompson killed his son’s grandmother, that is to say, his wife’s mother, by battering her to death with the baseball bat she had given her grandson for his sixteenth birthday. The old woman had apparently forgotten to give him change from the money he had left to pay a bill.