Jack-Knifed

by Wonny Lea

  Amy found?

  Within minutes of getting back to the office, Matt had circulated pictures of Amy Wilson and arrangements were put in place via the press officer for their broader distribution. The latter also arranged for a public appeal to be launched, asking for anyone who recognised Amy, or knew of her whereabouts, to come forward as a matter of urgency.

  The team were hopeful of a good response, as they were not looking for some nondescript woman – this was someone who would stand out in a crowd and turn heads, even if only in a contemptuous way.

  It was looking more and more as if the key to this case was Amy Wilson. Martin was certain that even if she had not been directly responsible for the murder, she would somehow be involved. They now knew from the evidence provided by Alex and his team that she had certainly been in Mark’s lounge either at the time, or soon after, the sofa was slashed. Had she done that? Did the four seemingly deliberate cuts in each of the four separate parts of the sofa have any significance?

  Mark had been in the room when his precious doona had been destroyed, and the evidence for this had come from his post-mortem examination when Prof. Moore had found particles of the white fibre in Mark’s hair and in his nose and ears.

  However, there were not many of the fibres on Mark’s body, and they could easily have been missed if they had not been specifically looked for. Martin concluded from this that Mark must have been standing at the very edge of the room, possibly in the doorway, and possibly being forced to watch the whole twisted pantomime. Was that how it all started?

  All the information the teams had gathered seemed to confirm that Mark had not seen his sister since he was a small boy, and probably wouldn’t have recognised her if she suddenly turned up on his doorstep. The profile that had been constructed around Mark seemed to indicate that if she had unexpectedly re-entered his life he would have made her welcome and invited her into his home.

  Is that how she gained access? Questions, questions, questions, and no real answers, just more and more speculation and downright guesswork.

  After a few more hours of looking at every detail of the case Martin decided to call it a day and headed off home. He arrived at the cottage just in time to see his aunt’s friend Nancy leaving his garden, opening her own garden gate and carrying with her a bag full of the flowers she had just dead-headed.

  Nancy was in her seventies, but he had never seen her wear glasses and her hearing was in no way impaired; she knew Martin was arriving way before he pulled into their side road. Having heard the car, she turned as he approached the terrace and waved to him before walking up her path and going into her house.

  Typical of Nancy, thought Martin, and although she would surely have seen Martin leave with Shelley that morning, there were no questions and as always no interference – she really was a perfect neighbour.

  The memory of leaving the house with Shelley reminded him of how much he had enjoyed their time together, and he found himself thinking it would be great if she were there now to help him rustle up a meal. ‘Wow,’ he told himself, but it had surprised him to think he would even consider such a distraction when his mind would normally be on nothing but the case at such a critical point.

  He forced his mind back to sorting out the immediate issue of satisfying his hunger, but on opening his fridge door he realised it was time he did some serious shopping. He considered popping to the corner shop, but he was well-known in the area and the locals would have seen him on the television. There would be the inevitable questions about the case – questions that given the sensitivity of his work he genuinely could not answer – but his refusal to do so wasn’t always seen in that way.

  Thankfully, the freezer was more helpful than the fridge, and he fished out three packages, with his main consideration being that their contents could be cooked from frozen. His aunt had been a stickler for eating properly, and although Martin could have used a tray and sat in front of the television he dutifully laid a place for himself at the table. He could see the television from there anyway, and placed the remote in preparation for flicking through the news channels in order to get the full coverage of the Amy Wilson appeal.

  To his surprise, the smells of cooking coming from his oven were appetising and when, just as the evening news programmes were starting, he took from the microwave a cook-in-the-bag packet of broccoli, carrots, and beans, it all came together quite nicely.

  He felt quite pleased with himself as he sat down to beef bourguignon, mini roast potatoes, and the vegetables, and his only regret was that the cans of cider he had earlier noticed in the fridge would have to stay there. It was unlikely that the television appeal would produce a result requiring immediate action, but it was possible, and could therefore mean a drive back to Cardiff or even further afield, so he couldn’t risk having a drink.

  The pictures that were already well-known to Martin were now being flashed across the television, and the first thing Martin thought was that the girl looked familiar – but then he had been looking at the photographs back at the office, so they were already ingrained on his memory.

  One photograph, which was a good image of Amy’s face and upper body, remained on the screen as the news presenter explained that the woman being shown was the missing sister of the man recently murdered in Cardiff and that the police wanted to interview her as part of their enquiries.

  The pictures and the coverage of the story were excellent, and Martin was grateful that the Bristol Prison had been able to produce these – he felt quite confident they would get a good response. Because the last place Amy Wilson had been seen was outside the prison, after her latest visit to her father, the same images were being shown and a similar appeal was being made on the news channels in the South-west of England.

  This was the frustrating part of the job, and Martin knew that even an appeal with such good visuals as this one had could end up just producing a string of red herrings, but it was their best shot so he just had to sit tight and wait for any sort of response.

  Martin cleared the table, thinking that the best part of ready meals was the lack of washing up, and after depositing the plastic containers in the bin and rinsing one plate, knife and fork it was job done.

  He had barely got back to the lounge when his phone rang and without having the chance to acknowledge his presence he heard the voice of an excited DS Pryor.

  ‘Brilliant news, guv – the television appeal hadn’t even finished when we got a call from a guy named Palash. He’s a taxi driver in Newport, and remembers dropping Amy Wilson off at the train station yesterday morning.’

  ‘Is he sure it was her?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Positive, guv,’ came back the reply. ‘She apparently gave him a tip out of all proportion to the fare, and bragged that there was plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right – where would Amy Wilson have got the money for taxi fares, never mind over-the-top tipping?’ Martin was sounding less confident about this possible lead.

  Matt however was still convinced. ‘That’s what I thought initially, but what if she had made contact with her brother in recent months, and what if he was been giving her the money that is unaccounted for in his bank statements?’

  ‘It’s possible, and if she has visited Mark at his home it could account for her DNA being in his lounge, so she could have been there at any time, not necessarily at the time of his murder. But if his long-lost sister had suddenly turned up, surely Mark would have shared that news with his family and his friends? Have you actually spoken to the taxi driver?’

  ‘No, and he wasn’t the one who saw the appeal; it was his wife. Apparently Amy Wilson left such an impression on Palash that he told his wife, and she recognised the television images from the description he gave her – but before you start to worry, I can confirm that he has since been shown the images and is in no doubt the woman is the same one he picked up.’

  ‘Have we got an address?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Ye
s, the call for the taxi was received by the company and they have a record of the time of the call, time of the taxi required, address of pick-up, and the name of the driver allocated to the job – they sound like quite an efficient bunch, actually.’

  Before Martin had a chance to say anything, Matt played his ace card. ‘They even know the name of the person requesting the taxi … someone by the name of Amy Wilson.’

  ‘Took your time getting to that little gem,’ responded Martin, but he didn’t begrudge his sergeant enjoying having the opportunity to use such a trump card. ‘Anyway, well done, Matt. So we know for sure that Amy Wilson was taken from an address in Newport to the station yesterday morning, and we know her destination. How have you left it with the taxi driver?’

  ‘I said it was more than likely you would want to interview him yourself, so he’s back at the taxi office waiting to hear from us.’

  Martin took the address and postcode from Matt and indicated that they should meet at the taxi office as soon as possible. ‘Meanwhile, will you get the team checking out the address Amy Wilson gave the taxi company, and find out who owns the property and how long she has been there?’

  ‘That’s already being done,’ responded Matt. ‘See you in a bit, guv.’

  Martin locked up and walked down the path towards his car. Once inside, he tapped the postcode his sergeant had given him into his sat nav, as he didn’t recognise the address of the taxi firm and didn’t want to take an impromptu scenic tour of Newport.

  In the event the journey was straightforward and Martin arrived only a few minutes behind DS Pryor, who was waiting outside the office and they went in together.

  The office was busy, and two women were constantly taking names, addresses, and destinations, before passing jobs, which were each allocated a job number, to the most appropriate drivers. Matt was right – they did seem like an efficient company, although it was obvious that the women, at that moment, had at least one ear on the happenings inside the office.

  Martin introduced himself and Matt, and was subsequently introduced to the office manager – and more importantly to Palash Chaudhry, who the manager was keen to describe as one of their best drivers.

  Matt produced one of the photographs of Amy Wilson and Palash confirmed she was the woman he had picked up. A printout of the booking had been made and all the facts matched what had already been said.

  Martin turned to questions relating to Amy’s state of mind at the time of the pickup. ‘How did she seem when you collected her?’ he asked.

  Palash Chaudhry smiled, showing some of the straightest, whitest teeth that Martin had ever seen. He replied, ‘That’s the thing with fares, what you see is not always what you get. Some of the weirdos we pick up can be really nice and some of the posh people treat you like dirt.

  ‘She certainly looked like a weirdo, with all that make-up and the black clothes, but she didn’t say anything when she got in the cab, just nodded when I asked her to confirm we were going to the train station. I could see her in my mirror, she just couldn’t keep still, but she didn’t say anything to me during the journey and that took less than fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What happened when you dropped her off?’ asked Martin.

  ‘She gave me a ten-pound note,’ replied Palash. ‘The fare was only five pounds and twenty pence, so I started to get her change when she let out an unexpectedly loud laugh. I looked up and I’m not sure exactly what she said but it was something like, “Have a drink on me, there’s plenty more where that one came from,” – as I say, I can’t remember her exact words, and then she went off heading in the direction of the station.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything?’ asked Matt. ‘Like a suitcase or anything to suggest she was going away for a while.’

  ‘No, she had absolutely no luggage – I didn’t even notice a bag, she certainly wasn’t carrying one, and I don’t remember seeing one over her shoulder. I think she took the tenner out of her pocket. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  Martin assured Palash that he had been most helpful, and after thanking him and the rest of the staff in the office for their response he and Matt left the offices.

  The sergeant had done the background work before leaving Cardiff, and as they left the taxi base his phone rang and he indicated to Martin that the lettings company responsible for the address they had for Amy Wilson had been contacted, and an agent was already there waiting for them.

  Unlike the reception at their previous venue, they were greeted, if you could call it greeted, by a middle-aged, sour-faced woman who could easily have been a founder member of the jobsworth society.

  ‘I can only show you the outside of the flat we are currently renting to Ms Wilson,’ she said sharply. ‘She is up to date on her rent and there have been no complaints about our tenant, so we have no authorisation to enter her home without her say-so, or 24 hours’ notice.’

  Martin ignored the words and subjected the woman to his most disarming smile. ‘I understand you are Ms Pope – I am Detective Chief Inspector Phelps and this is Detective Sergeant Pryor. We are grateful for the speed at which you have come forward to help, but for your information we are not here to action any complaints against your tenant – we are investigating a particularly callous murder.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ came back the reply. ‘Anyway, it makes no difference, because my boss says I can’t let anyone into the flat, not even the police without a warrant.’

  Charm having failed – may never have won at any time in this woman’s life, Martin thought – he turned officious. ‘We don’t have time to argue the pros and cons of your tenant’s rights. She is the sister of a man who was the victim of a horrendous murder in Cardiff last Saturday. We have appealed countrywide for her whereabouts and have arrived here – so keys, if you please, and round about now would be good.’

  Reluctantly, and still muttering about getting into trouble with her boss, the woman led them to the building in front of them, turning right at the end of a short path to reveal a separate entrance to one of the ground floor flats. She purposefully rang the doorbell, and insisted that they at least wait to ensure that Ms Wilson was not inside and possibly not dressed for visitors.

  Martin’s patience was wearing thin, and after the second ring of the bell he demanded the keys and entered the flat, completely ignoring the woman’s request that they should all stay together as this was company policy when entering the property of a tenant with a bona fide contract.

  Her prattling stopped as they did in fact all walk into the kitchen more or less together, and were hit by the smell of sour milk, countless cardboard trays of half-eaten pizza, and foil dishes with the remains of curry and other takeaway dishes.

  ‘I didn’t like the look of her when she came to look for a property and I told the boss she could be trouble, but he was persuaded by the fact she paid a full bond and three months’ rent in advance. Just look at this awful mess, how can people live like this – in just a couple of months she’s turned a beautiful flat into a slum.’

  Martin looked around. It was true that the place looked like a tip, but a really good look showed that it had never been a palace, and that the quality of the fixtures and fittings were at the bottom end of poor.

  The bathroom smelled mouldy and the black around the tiles and the edge of the window frame showed evidence of serious damp problems, which had clearly accumulated long before Amy Wilson had moved in. In spite of it being a warm evening, the whole place felt cold, but in a strange way somehow sweaty, too.

  ‘Not exactly a des res,’ suggested Matt. ‘She must have been pretty desperate to shell out good money in advance for this flea-pit.’

  Ms Pope rose to the bait. ‘I can assure you the place was in tip-top condition when Ms Wilson took up her tenancy.’ She was about to continue defending her company when she saw Martin shaking his head. Did these people really believe their own advertising? Anyway he wasn’t interested in the flat itself – only in what, if any, of Am
y Wilson’s personal belongings were still there.

  On the bathroom windowsill were several boxes of hair dye, and more empty boxes in an overflowing bin next to the bath. The only other things in the bathroom were two large cheap towels, both in a heap on the floor, and an economy-size bottle of lotus flower shower gel.

  Matt had moved into the bedroom, where there were clothes strewn across the bed and in piles on the floor, but there were also a few items hanging up in the wardrobe and he looked more carefully at these.

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought some of these clothes were Amy Wilson’s style,’ he called over his shoulder to his DCI. ‘Almost all the gear on the bed and on the floor is either black or dark shades of red and purple, but there are trousers and tops in here in much lighter colours. Perhaps she was coming out of her gothic phase.’

  Martin had by now opened every drawer and cupboard but found nothing of interest. In the kitchen area, on one of the makeshift working surfaces, he found a pile of papers, and although most were circulars for local fast food chains and supermarkets there were a few letters. Nothing addressed to Amy herself, though, as the letters that looked like council tax notices and utility bills were all directed to ‘The Occupier’, or to names that presumably belonged to previous tenants. At the bottom of the pile were several letters addressed to ‘Andrew Coles’, and Ms Pope was able to confirm that he had been a previous tenant, but had been gone for more than a year.

  It was impossible to say from the findings in the flat if Amy had intended to leave for good, or was planning to return, but it was now more than twenty-four hours since the prison visit – so where was she?

  ‘Arrange for Alex and his lot to come here and see if there’s anything they can find for us.’ Martin’s request was directed at Matt, but he saw Ms Pope prickle at the suggestion and finally put an end to her interference. ‘We will be keeping the keys, Ms Pope, and please make it known that no one from your company should come here until our investigations are complete.’

  He handed her his card, and suggested that if her boss had any problems with the arrangements he could ring the Chief Constable. ‘We will be liaising with the local police, and an officer will remain near the flat for the foreseeable future in case Amy Wilson returns.’