Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

  He rested back in his chair and played with a pen in his right hand. We both knew what he really wanted to say, but he was finding it hard to confront the difficult question. I’d been dry for over a year now and the longer I stayed that way the better it felt. Not that I didn’t find it hard, sitting in a pub looking at a pint of Brains, but the pain of remembering how I could be always came back to haunt me.

  ‘I could assign Dave Hobbs to assist…’

  I could see Hobbs worming his way into the investigation by suggesting I wasn’t up to it.

  ‘Not necessary.’ I held up my hand to stop his train of thought. ‘I haven’t touched a drop for over a year. My mother would kill me if I did.’

  He made a narrow smile, relieved that I had mentioned the drinking and I knew he’d go no further. Cornock had faced the pain of dealing with a family crisis. He never mentioned his wife, but talk was that she was a recluse who wouldn’t go out of the house after what happened to their daughter.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day working my way through the results of an internet search for amputating tongues. Saddam Hussein had, my search told me, been a keen exponent of this form of torture and there were graphic accounts of how his gangs would nail people’s tongues to tables and then torture them before amputating other bits of their bodies. It made me feel sick that amputating tongues was an accepted part of the arsenal employed by Russian Mafia gangs – inspired by torture methods from the Middle Ages – who especially liked to keep their victims alive; they used old-fashioned razors. In the States there was a story about a young boy who’d fallen and bitten clean through his tongue, but after it having been stitched back, he made a full recovery.

  I could hear Boyd in the CID office talking to Accident and Emergency departments. It was obvious from his replies that nobody was taking him seriously.

  Then I read about the cases of cancer where tongues had to be amputated to prevent the disease spreading and then reconstructed with skin from the hands and wrist. It was long process and one patient had been on the operating table for fourteen hours. I looked at my hand – it was difficult to imagine what it would feel like to have skin from my hand in my mouth. Queen Street emptied as the evening drew in and I closed the window against the falling temperatures. I worked through the unopened emails in my Inbox. The forensic report confirmed that the tongue in Leon’s bed-sit was human and that the three in the factory were animal.

  Boyd had loosened his tie when he appeared at my door, his hands full of folders. ‘I’ve got more paperwork on the Claudia Avenue burglaries.’

  I sat back in my chair. The investigation had been ongoing for months, but the residents were still annoyed and I had to placate them somehow. I pointed towards the pile of papers on the corner of my desk and Boyd dropped the files on top.

  He yawned and then stretched his back before adding, ‘The local Polish priest is going to call me tomorrow. And I’ve done all the hospitals in Cardiff and Newport. There’s been no reports of anybody turning up without a tongue.’

  ‘I didn’t expect so,’ I said. ‘It must be a ritual. The killer’s sending a message. Telling someone not to talk.’

  Chapter 6

  I sat outside the Four Seasons and watched the sun reflecting off the bonnet of the silver-blue Aston Martin Vantage. I looked around the inside of my car, realising that being a professional criminal promised the chance of a better motor than a policeman’s salary could ever afford. The Aston had personalised plates of course – no self-respecting successful businessman would be without them. It had eight cylinders, a 4.7-litre engine and could do 0–60 miles an hour in 4.9 seconds. The upholstery would be leather with pieces of walnut veneer along the dashboard. I could almost smell it. But all I could really smell was the tired and dirty fabric of my Mondeo with its collection of stones and shingle in the footwell that would be more at home on the beach in Barry Island.

  Frankie Prince was as well connected as the national grid – and when he flicked a switch things happened. If Michal had been working for Frankie then I had to know what he’d been doing. I left the car, pointed the remote and squeezed hard until the lights flashed.

  The gossip in Southern Division had been that it had been Frankie’s wife who had christened the club – she thought the name would add class. The trials of everyday life had left Lucy Prince behind when she got married and she’d slipped into a life of indulgence and luxury, one that included her own health club and art gallery.

  An illuminated sign sparkled above the main door, which opened easily, despite its size, and I stepped inside. It was a barn of a place with high ceilings, tall windows and various walkways suspended from the ceiling with strong chains. A short woman came towards me with a swagger that suggested she wanted to be taller. She had a dull, resigned look on her face, as though she was expecting me to be a photocopier salesman who she could get rid of in seconds. I flashed my warrant card.

  ‘Is Mr Prince available?’

  ‘He’s very busy.’

  I cocked my head as if to say that she’d have to try harder than that.

  ‘It’s important.’ I gazed around the club. ‘I’ll wait. Can I get a cappuccino?’

  She turned her back on me and walked to the rear of the club. I walked around, running my hands along the leather-trimmed sofas and chairs. The table tops were chipped and the surfaces cracked, but I guessed that when the lights were dimmed and the music thumped no one would notice. It wasn’t long until a door at the far end opened and the same woman called me over.

  ‘Mr Prince will see you now.’ She made it sound like an audience with the Pope.

  I followed her into a well-lit corridor and I noticed the image of Gareth Edwards running in his famous try for the Barbarians, alongside photographs of every Wales rugby team since the golden era of the nineteen seventies. For a short woman she walked quickly and as I dawdled she disappeared from view. There were pictures of the Arms Park and the old Stradey Park in Llanelli. I stopped when I saw the picture of Delme Thomas carried shoulder-high by his teammates after their win over the All Blacks in 1972. My father had been at the game and once a year he would produce the programme from a plastic pocket where it was kept like a sacred relic.

  The girl reappeared by my side and cleared her throat. ‘This way, please.’

  There was the faintest sound of classical music from the room ahead of us. She gave the door the gentlest of knocks before walking in.

  Frankie Prince was standing with a remote control in his hand, pointing at a stereo system and the music softened to a background hum. The collar of his shirt closed perfectly around his neck and the sleeves fell to just above the wrist. A little shorter than me, he held out his hand and I felt his damp palm against mine. I sat down on a leather chesterfield that could have seated the whole of the Cardiff City team and caught him wiping his hand against his trousers, which were held in place by a thick and immaculate brown leather belt.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Marco?’ Frankie said, sitting down behind an enormous mahogany desk.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Michal Dąbek. He worked for you.’

  ‘I employ a lot of people,’ he said, without averting his eyes and as an afterthought added, ‘Sorry to hear that. How did it happen?’

  ‘The body was found in the Taff, Sunday morning. Strangled.’

  Frankie raised his eyebrows. ‘Terrible. Does he have a family?’

  ‘What did he do for you?’

  The short girl was standing by the desk that dominated one corner of the room. She was fiddling with a smartphone that was making a beeping noise.

  ‘Your next appointment is here, Mr Prince,’ she said, right on cue.

  I stayed where I was – Frankie wasn’t going to succeed with that old trick.

  ‘We have reason to believe he was employed here at the Four Seasons. What did he do?’

  ‘I really don’t know. You can check with the manager.’

  ‘C
an you get him here? Now.’

  Frankie shot me an impatient look and then nodded at the nameless girl. I made myself comfortable and wondered what he’d think if I lit the second of my five-a-day. I scanned the table top for an ashtray but the room smelt clean and tobacco-free. I tried small talk. ‘Do you employ many Eastern Europeans?’

  ‘They’re good workers. Loyal and hard working. They understand what hard work means, Inspector.’

  Frankie was enjoying his own rhetoric. ‘We’ve lost that work ethic.’

  I flinched – Frankie talking about ethics was akin to Genghis Khan talking about forgiveness and loving his enemies.

  ‘How many Poles do you have working for you?’

  ‘Quite a few. The exact numbers…’ He drew his hand in the air as if remembering was beneath him. He probably knew exactly how many and all their names and history and how many of them owed him. It was the sort of information that Frankie’s business thrived on.

  The door opened and slid over the deep pile of the carpet. A man in a crumpled shirt, his sleeves rolled up, entered, looking flustered.

  Frankie got up and stepped from behind his desk. ‘This is Jim White, the manager of the club. I’m sure he’ll help.’

  I was being dismissed, passed to a minion and Frankie was hoping that I’d be out of his club soon enough. I got out my notebook and found a biro in my jacket pocket. I sensed Frankie’s frustration and the sly glances around the room.

  I struck a friendly tone. ‘Jim, what can you tell me about Michal Dąbek?’

  He glanced at Frankie. ‘He worked here as a doorman.’

  ‘When did he start?’

  ‘I’d need to check the records.’

  ‘How often did he work?’

  ‘A couple of nights a week. Sometimes more; it depended.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how much he wanted to work and how busy we were.’

  ‘Was he working on Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes. He left the club at two. Said he wasn’t feeling well.’

  I asked about the names of the other doormen who’d worked that Saturday, knowing that all the answers had been too sudden, too easy. I felt set up, as though they had expected me. I wrote down all the names in the notebook and doodled a bit on a page, killing time, waiting for Frankie to say something about his important meeting. I was disappointed when he waited for me to finish. Then the girl, still tapping into her smartphone, was instructed to take me through to the main entrance.

  I walked past the Aston and over towards my Mondeo. My alloys needed cleaning and I noticed two new scratches on the paintwork by the passenger door.

  I sat in the car and looked up at the club. Getting a story right can take time and trouble and thinking ahead. Once White hadn’t asked why I wanted to know about Michal, I knew that something was wrong. Frankie was probably in his office right now shouting at him.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Who lives in number ten?’

  I asked the question without thinking. I’d spent a couple of hours reading statements and surveillance reports that had been sitting on my desk for days. Occasionally the thought that they needed my attention had caused spasms of guilt. Michal’s death had pushed them further down the list of priorities.

  ‘The prime minister,’ Boyd said.

  When I raised my eyes and looked at him I could see that the self-congratulatory smirk on his face was developing into a smile. I had decided long ago that comedy was definitely not Boyd’s strong point and that the attempt at humour by junior officers should be a disciplinary matter.

  ‘Very funny,’ I said, not twitching my mouth a millimetre.

  ‘You did ask.’

  ‘Claudia Avenue,’ I said, reminding him of the task in hand.

  In the leafy suburbs of the Heath, the residents of Claudia Avenue, with yachts parked in Marbella and children with Audis, had been plagued by a spate of burglaries. A man with a string of stars tattooed around his neck and a strong Scottish accent had been caught in various gardens, protesting that he was ‘looking for Geoff’ and could the occupant help. The call to Area Control room came as soon as he left.

  But the mysterious sneak thief had proven elusive and the pressure was on. Cornock wanted results, presumably as a consequence of telephone calls from concerned residents and local politicians. It was near where he lived and at our last review he’d made the position clear. ‘Can’t have this sort of thing going on.’

  The only house that had been spared was number ten. I wondered about the prime minister and all the security he had and whether the residents of 10 Claudia Avenue could afford the same level of protection.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ Boyd said, as though he was the sole guardian of some important secret.

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Granville Tront.’

  He let the name hang in the air.

  Tront and Tront was one of the leading firms of defence solicitors in Cardiff and Granville was its senior partner. The speed at which Granville worked earned him the nickname GTi and I first got to know him fifteen years earlier as a young constable interviewing a suspect on a drugs charge. The sergeant had tried to warn me, but then the colour behind my ears was a deep green and when the case got before the stipendiary magistrate GTi tore it apart.

  ‘How much are the houses worth?’ I asked absently.

  ‘A million, easy.’

  ‘Doesn’t Frankie Prince live in that area?’

  ‘Moved to the Vale last year. What’s the Four Seasons like?’

  ‘Haven’t you been?’

  ‘Mandy’d kill me.’

  ‘Frankie knows something. I could tell.’ I lay back in my chair, curling my arms around the back of my head. ‘Everything was… staged.’

  ‘Do you think he was involved with killing Michal?’

  ‘Frankie Prince is capable of anything. Aren’t we all, if the circumstances push us to extremes?’

  Boyd nodded.

  ‘What have we got on the Scotsman?’

  ‘We haven’t got much. Twenty houses all done over in the small hours when the owners were out. It must have been a surveillance job.’

  ‘Did anyone see any vehicle parked on the road?’

  Boyd shook his head.

  ‘And there’s no forensics and the chances of recovering the stolen televisions and stereos are non-existent. The Scotsman can’t be that stupid if he can disable the security alarms.’

  ‘They probably weren’t turned on, boss. You know how people can be.’

  I was always amazed how many people didn’t use their alarms, as though they expected them to go off by magic.

  ‘Have we traced anything?’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Off chance.’

  I hated paperwork and the more I fingered the various coloured pieces of paper, the more despondent I became. I could feel my stomach turning. I had to eat.

  ‘So what do we do, boss?’ asked Boyd, as he followed me out of the station.

  ‘Have lunch and think about it.’

  It was a short walk to Mario’s through the midday shoppers.

  ‘Should we increase the surveillance?’ Boyd asked, as we weaved past pedestrians.

  My mind was already thinking about food. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Surveillance in Claudia Avenue.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And do a memo to Cornock telling him.’

  I pushed open the door, quickly ordering a bacon sandwich. Boyd chose the tuna baguette – no mayo – and a side salad, instead of his usual portion of chips. We found a couple of seats in the back room, which we shared with a crowd of girls. I could hear the giggles and roars of laughter when they mentioned various boys’ names.

  ‘Half rations?’ I said.

  ‘Got to watch my diet. Mandy complains like hell. Tells me I have to cut out all the crap I eat.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s convinced that my diet will affect my sperm count.’

  ‘How
does that work?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s read all these articles.’

  A waitress appeared with two plates. Boyd picked up the tuna baguette and stared at it, before prodding the lettuce and tomatoes on the side of the plate.

  ‘Salad’s good for you.’

  Boyd chewed a mouthful of tuna.

  ‘I thought you were looking into IVF?’

  Boyd shook his head before swallowing.

  ‘Might do. For now she’s into keeping charts of her temperature and her cycle. Best time for it. I know days in advance.’ He sounded unenthusiastic. Most men would have gladly swapped with him. ‘She’s got everything planned. The birth, the nursery. Everything. Did you have time off?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Paternity.’

  ‘No. Maybe a couple of hours to go to the hospital.’

  I chewed on the sandwich and thought about Dean, realising I couldn’t remember a thing about his birth. He’d been an accident and after five years, when things hadn’t been working out, Jackie left. Eventually she got married to an accountant and moved to Basingstoke. After Jackie there’d been Pauline and now Trish. I wondered if they all laughed about me like the girls at the table opposite.

  * * *

  I was never good at expressing condolences. The words always seemed to come out in a jumble. And I was useless at writing Christmas or Get Well or In Sympathy cards.

  Trying to do it with a family from Poland stretched the limited resources that my training and experience had given me. The interpreter that Operational Support had arranged only heightened my embarrassment, as I offered my profound sorrow and sincere regrets.

  Veronika, the interpreter, was sitting at the far end of the table in one of the conference rooms. By her side was Michal’s mother, dressed in black, deep shadows under her eyes, hair the colour of sea foam and the consistency of dried straw. She seemed tired of the world. Her husband had massive hands that were cupped together and placed firmly on the desk.

  At the other end of the table, next to the family liaison officer was Magda, Michal’s wife. She had a bewildered look on her face and she kept blinking and then looking down at her feet. In front of me, on the desk, was the plastic wallet with the remains of Michal’s life. His father opened his hands and waved them in the air as he said something in Polish. His hands looked even bigger now and the voice sounded angry.