Jack-Knifed

by Wonny Lea

  A policeman parked outside one of their properties! Ms Pope looked as if her day couldn’t get any worse, and she sloped off to her car, not relishing taking this news back to her pig of a manager.

  Matt’s phone vibrated and rang simultaneously demanding an immediate response. ‘Yes, this is DS Pryor,’ he confirmed, and for the next few minutes just listened, occasionally asking for more detail or acknowledging what was being said. It was clear from his manner that this call was important, and Martin waited impatiently for the conversation to end. He watched as Matt pressed the red ‘end call’ button on his mobile and looked up excitedly.

  ‘She’s in the Bristol Royal Infirmary!’ he said. ‘Apparently one of the ICU nurses saw her picture on the news and recognised her as a patient admitted yesterday with a drugs overdose. The nurse didn’t ring the police directly, as she was concerned about the issue of patient confidentiality, but she did go straight to the hospital to get advice from the hospital administration.

  ‘The Critical Care Manager notified the local police as soon as he was put in the picture and they passed the information to our lot.’

  ‘OK, so it’s off to Bristol for us! But no point in taking two cars.’ Martin didn’t have time to finish as Matt interrupted.

  ‘No point in rushing there tonight. Amy Wilson is unconscious. It seems she was in a critical state when she was admitted, but her level of unconsciousness is getting lighter and they are now hopeful of a recovery though unsure of how complete that will be. They have promised to ring us as soon as there is a possibility of her coming round.’

  ‘Blast!’ said Martin. ‘OK, well, let’s both make our way home, and hope tomorrow brings the dawn of awakening for Amy Wilson – and for our case.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  A familiar scene

  Jack was back from Spain. This time he hadn’t landed in Bristol airport, but had flown into Cardiff, and was in a foul mood. There were two reasons for his evil frame of mind, and he tussled with them both as he cleared airport security and headed for the taxi rank.

  That bitch Amy hadn’t returned any of his calls and he had come to the conclusion she had legged it with his cash. He couldn’t get his head around this possibility, because surely she would visit her father again at some time and he could catch up with her. In any event she would know that messing with him would displease his father, who in turn would make life difficult for her father, Bob. She wouldn’t risk that, so what did the stupid cow think she was doing?

  Having a personal dilemma to cope with was a new one on Jack, and he knew he had to put it to one side and concentrate on the business he had to do.

  He was livid at being railroaded into doing a job for his father without the benefit of his usual meticulous planning. At home were all the tools of his trade, but he was miles away and without what he needed and so he would have to buy some new stuff. The prospect didn’t please him but the message from his father was emphatic and left Jack in no doubt that the job had to be done today.

  It also didn’t please him having no car at his disposal, and his already dark mood deepened as he got into the first available taxi. He needed to go fairly near the centre of Cardiff eventually, but first he had to go somewhere like a garden centre, where he knew from past experience that he could find the perfect murder weapon. Not that he thought of the jobs he did for his father as murder: they were perfectly justified terminations of lowlifes that had stepped outside the rules of their particular version of life.

  He had already checked his iPhone and discovered there was a good-size garden centre probably no more than five or six miles from the airport and gave this destination to the driver.

  About ten minutes later he was looking around the shrubs and seeds and mingling with the other Alan Titchmarsh lookalikes. Although there was no vestige of the Titchmarsh charm in Jack …

  He was concerned that he would attract attention if he turned up at the checkout with just the buddy miner’s axe that had caught his eye, and so he also picked up a pair of long-reach pruners and a curved blade saw. With the addition of some tree ties, safety glasses, and elbow-length gloves, he was satisfied that his purchases would add up to a picture of general tree maintenance, not the prelude to murder.

  There were no questions at the checkout. He called another taxi and was given just a five-minute wait time.

  That was just long enough for Jack to go into the cubicle in the men’s toilets and leave behind everything but the buddy miner’s axe, which he unwrapped and placed at the ready in his backpack. Someone would find the other things later and assume they had been left by mistake, but the store would have no way of linking them to him as he had used cash for their purchase.

  He asked the taxi to drop him off about a mile from his eventual destination and he walked the rest of the way. His mind was now completely focused. He was starting to look forward to the task ahead and his footsteps quickened in anticipation.

  A familiar shop came into view, and this time Jack made sure there were no have-a-go heroes on the premises before he entered. His target was standing in his usual place, watching over the till, and Jack wasted no time in lifting his new buddy and diagonally slicing into Ali Addula’s neck. In the instant before the axe struck a look of recognition appeared in Addula’s eyes, instantly replaced by one of absolute terror as he realised his fate.

  For years Ali Addula had pocketed more than his fair share of the profit from the illegal tobacco and alcohol scam he fronted from the shop, and now it was payback time from the big boys. The police may never discover the motive for the killing, but other greedy shopkeepers would toe the line for years to come. Pleased with his work, Jack left the axe embedded into Addula’s neck – it wasn’t one of his treasures so he didn’t need to retrieve it – and lowering his head walked out of the shop.

  He needn’t have worried about the possibility of being recognised, because the couple walking towards the shop were too engrossed in each other to notice him. He smirked as he thought of the sight that awaited them as they casually entered to buy some wine gums.

  Martin had not had a good night’s sleep, and facts were still going round and round in his head as he drove from home to Goleudy on Wednesday morning. There had apparently been hundreds of responses to the appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of Amy Wilson, and although they now knew that she was at the Bristol Royal Infirmary, there was still the need to process each of the responses.

  Thankfully, the details of all that were not down to him, but he needed to ensure the responses were all handled properly and that all members of the public who responded were left feeling they had been of great help. This was important; maybe no longer for this current investigation, but certainly for future appeals.

  Martin had been wandering around the cottage since about five o’clock, and though he hadn’t felt like any breakfast, now he was feeling famished, so went straight to the staff café. When Matt Pryor found him he was tucking into bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast.

  Matt grabbed a cup of coffee for himself and a refill for Martin and sat down before changing his mind and going back to get himself a couple of slices of toast.

  ‘Not like you to eat breakfast here unless it’s after an all-nighter,’ said Matt.

  ‘Didn’t feel like anything earlier,’ replied Martin. ‘I have the feeling that today is going to be a bit of a stinker, so I’m charging the batteries in expectation.’

  ‘Well there’s no change in the situation at the BRI, but I know that Alex has been to the flat in Newport and gone through everything with a fine toothcomb. He says to meet him later if you want to catch up.’

  ‘Yes, ask him to join us in Interview Room One at about eleven,’ said Martin. ‘I want to do some scribbling and you can get the updates from the things you’ve been chasing and then the three of us will get our heads together.’

  Martin left the DS to finish his toast, made his way to the office, and shut the door. Peace and quiet was a rare commo
dity in the constantly moving atmosphere in Goleudy, but Martin was determined to have a couple of hours to gather his thoughts.

  He did his usual trick of producing a blank sheet of paper and writing under the predetermined headings. It always worked for him, and he was amazed when there was a knock on the door and Matt came in. ‘It’s ten past eleven, guv, and I think Alex is waiting for us – do you want to change the time?’

  ‘Hell no!’ said Martin. ‘Just didn’t realise it was that late. I’ll follow you down in a moment.’

  Alex and Matt had their heads together looking at some pictures of Amy Wilson’s flat when Martin joined them.

  ‘I’m no expert when it comes to women’s fashion,’ confessed Alex. ‘But this woman seems to be somewhat schizophrenic in her taste; the majority of her clothes are in this black and purple Gothy style, and then the rest are in what I would call ‘cheap modern’, and very, very different colour-wise: pale pink, peach, lavender. Not Gothic at all. She also has more than one hair dye colour, again with the main colour being black, but there are also boxes of blonde and copper dyes.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that’ Matt commented. ‘As you know, I’ve got four sisters, and between them they must have done the whole rainbow. When I make comments about the possibility of their hair falling out I’m laughed at. Apparently the dyes they use nowadays are “kind to the hair” and it’s even possible to change your colour completely a few times in one day.’

  ‘Not something I need to consider,’ laughed Alex pointing at his shiny shaven head.

  ‘But what about the clothes, there are definitely two quite different styles – can we make anything of that?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t getting any younger, so maybe she was trying to grow out of her black phase and take on middle age a bit more gracefully. The more normal clothes are obviously worn less frequently, and there are quite a number that have been bought but never worn.’ Alex peered at some of the photographs of clothes where the price tags were still attached. ‘And given that most of those tops have long sleeves, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were bought to hide the track marks.’

  Martin nodded. ‘What puzzles me is where she was getting her money from. We know from the ever-friendly Ms Pope that she paid a bond and a few months’ rent up front when she took on the flat. Even for a dump like that, you’re looking at over a grand in total, and I don’t think the Social Services are that generous, whatever the papers say.’

  He paused, then continued. ‘There are two places the money could have come from, and if she has been in touch with her brother and it’s the money from his account she will have received two thousand pounds.

  ‘However, we know she has become friendly with Jack Thompson, son of Leo Thompson, recently, and if it’s really a case of “like father, like son”, he could well be making big money out of drugs.’

  ‘Wake up Amy, we need to talk to you,’ pleaded Matt. ‘In any event, shouldn’t we be finding out exactly where Jack Thompson is and bringing him in for questioning?’

  ‘In response to my request, the local CID have been to the Thompsons’ home, and the mother is adamant that she doesn’t know where her son is or even if he is ever coming home. It’s difficult to justify, because the only thing we have on Jack Thompson is his relationship with Amy Wilson,’ continued Martin. ‘However, if he hasn’t returned by tomorrow I will try to get a search warrant – I’m itching to see what he keeps in that locked bedroom of his. So tomorrow morning it’s straight to the BRI, and even if she is not yet conscious I would like to see the lady for myself – and then one way or another take a look behind that locked door.’

  ‘Let’s get an early lunch,’ suggested Martin. ‘I have promised to call in on Sandy and Norman Harding, as Helen Cook-Watts tells me they have been writing down anything they can think of that may be relevant and are now on their eleventh sheet of paper. God, I feel so sorry for them.’

  Barely had the three men chosen their lunches and sat down when the door of the dining room opened, and Charlie glided in on her two wheels, closely followed by Shelley.

  It was the first time since he had dropped her off on Tuesday morning that Martin had either seen or spoken to Shelley. He was delighted when, rather than singling him out, she had just joined the group with her usual friendly but professional manner. Why had he even thought their first meeting after spending the night together would be awkward? It was anything but, and, hell, he had to admit that she looked beautiful today.

  Charlie and Alex were immediately teasing one another, and as DS Pryor looked towards him and winked, Martin knew that the rumour machine was up and running – and was spot on in this case.

  The couple seemed suddenly aware that all eyes were on them, and Martin was amused to see Charlie blush. She looked at Alex, who shrugged his shoulders and grinned broadly. ‘Go ahead and tell them if you must,’ he said, in a voice slightly lower and softer than his normal pitch.

  Charlie positively beamed, and to everyone’s surprise started to open the top buttons of her blouse, but only to reveal a gold ring crowned with a star-shaped diamond suspended around her neck on a gold chain.

  It was Alex who spoke. ‘I popped the question before Charlie went on her weekend to Ireland, and I would have joined her there on Sunday to meet family and friends if this case hadn’t made that trip impossible. We don’t see any sense in hanging around, so the date for the wedding has been fixed, and it’s Saturday 5th June at 2.30.’

  ‘You two!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Talk about dark horses. It seems I was the only one around here who didn’t know you were an item – but I don’t think anyone was expecting a wedding, and certainly not so soon.’

  ‘Before you ask, no I’m not,’ laughed Charlie, her hand tracing the outline of a pregnant abdomen. ‘The wedding bit is really down to Alex. I would be happy for us just to live together, but it seems this party animal is a traditionalist at heart, and wants to settle down and raise his own rugby team – now, how many would that be exactly?’

  ‘Well, congratulations, it’s brilliant news, and I take it we are all invited to the wedding? Is it here or in the Emerald Isle?’ asked Martin.

  ‘It has to be in Ireland,’ teased Alex. ‘There isn’t a boat big enough to bring the Walsh family over the water, not to mention the army of friends and neighbours. Anyway, you won’t exactly need an invite to the wedding, as I was casting you in the role of best man – if you want the part, of course?’

  ‘It would be an honour and a pleasure,’ replied Martin, and was about to continue when he realised that their table had attracted the attention of everyone else in the dining room. Well they hadn’t exactly been discreet and a young female constable set the ball rolling by coming across and drooling over the star-shaped diamond ring. Within minutes, everyone was around the table offering congratulations and the usual uninvited and unnecessary pre-marital advice. Everything from ‘don’t do it, you can always get a transfer’, to ‘places to go on honeymoon’, to ‘where to get the best mortgages’. Even those with a string of failed marriages appeared to be in favour of the actual concept, or, if not, were keeping their real thoughts for another day.

  Matt’s demanding phone interrupted the moment, and not wishing to be a killjoy he went out of the room to take the call.

  ‘Yes, this is DS Pryor.’ He spoke loudly as there was still a lot of noise coming from the dining room.

  ‘This is Sergeant John Evans,’ was the reply. ‘I understand you are with DCI Phelps, and I know he would want to be immediately informed of the incident we have just been called to.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Matt. ‘Is it anything to do with the Mark Wilson case?’

  ‘No’ came back the reply. ‘It’s to do with the last case the DCI headed – the one in which Daniel Philips was killed. Ten minutes ago we were called to what was initially thought to be another random stabbing in the same shop, but this time it’s Ali Addula, the shop keeper, who has been killed.’


  ‘Bloody hell!’ responded Matt. ‘I’ll notify everyone right now, and the team will be with you within minutes – just hold the fort until we get there.’

  The celebrations in the dining room came to a swift end as DS Pryor explained the content of his phone call and everyone involved did whatever they had to do before meeting up again less than fifteen minutes later at an all-too-familiar venue …

  Chapter Seventeen

  He’s no saint

  On the way to the tobacconist’s shop, Martin speculated on this most recent murder. He simply did not believe it was a case of lightning striking twice in the same place. His gut feeling was that the first and second murders at the shop were in some way connected. But how exactly?

  He tested his thoughts on Matt. ‘The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that Ali Addula was the target the first time, and that Daniel Philips got in the way, but I don’t relish passing that piece of news to Elaine Philips. At this moment in time she believes her husband to be a hero, having saved the life of a fine, upstanding family man. She will be devastated if we discover that the man he saved was the intended target of an organised killing because as we know those hits are not usually directed at pillars of the community – more likely criminals who have fallen out.’

  ‘How much did we check the background of Mr Addula six months ago?’

  ‘I can’t think that we would have thought there was much reason to check him out in the way you are now suggesting,’ answered Matt. ‘At the time, we were considering him to be as much a victim as Mr Philips. There had been a spate of robberies at local corner shops, and we had no reason to think of it as anything other than another robbery that went wrong. I remember at the time that we all wished the money had been handed over without the dreadful consequences.’