by Wonny Lea
‘But what’s the connection, mate? There’s nothing to link the victims. The first one was a young Somali and the second an elderly English gentleman. How likely is it that they’d both be killed by the same man, and eleven years apart? Nothing is impossible in this business, but there’d have to be a very strong link, and from what I’ve heard there’s nothing even vaguely likely.’
‘No, but you know me, Alex, I think that cases are often solved by the most unlikely pieces of – for want of a better word – luck. Do me a favour, ask Matt if we can all meet up later and examine any possibilities of a connection. It’ll probably just be to rule it out, but now the thought’s in my head I’ll have to follow it through.’
Alex nodded. ‘I know that Matt’s going to release his image to the press, ask the man or anyone who knows him to come forward. He may have done it already, actually. When do you want to get together?’
‘I’ve got to see Chief Superintendent Atkinson before anything else, but I’ll let you know.’
‘I’ll fit in with whatever suits Matt, and we can sort out some social arrangements at the same time.’
‘Yes, birthdays are looming, and I want to do something special for Charlie, but she’s hell-bent on sorting something out for you and I think she and Shelley are in on it together. Has she said anything to you?’
‘All I know is when I said a quiet night in would suit me fine, I was told it had nothing to do with me! Don’t you just love bossy women?’
Martin continued up the stairs and focused his mind on the report he was going to make to Atkinson. He was used to working with senior officers who were good at managing the wider political scene but didn’t have a clue what was going on under their noses. This man was different, and it came as no surprise to Martin to learn that the chief super already knew about the successful surveillance operation.
Atkinson had been leaving for a meeting when Martin showed up. He apologised, saying he could only spare a few minutes, but changed his mind when Martin told him whose name had come up during the interview.
The superintendent requested two coffees from Jackie, and instructed her to give his apologies for absence to the meeting.
‘Certainly, sir, but remember, you requested the meeting. Some of the senior officers would expect you to be there.’
‘You go!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Take the presentation – you know as much about how it was put together as I do, and my commentary is there to go with it, so it’s just a question of setting it all up and letting it run for an hour. I don’t need to sit and watch it, and by the time it’s finished I’ll be with you to answer any questions. Perfect solution – could become a regular thing!’
Atkinson knew that Jackie wouldn’t be fazed by the great and the good at the meeting, and would conduct the presentation more professionally than he would have himself. He watched her pick up all the paraphernalia she had set aside for him to take, and smiled as she headed for the door with a look of determination – leaving the two men to pour their own coffee.
‘Martin, John Evans had told me about the round-the-clock surveillance op you mounted, but why did you choose that particular timeslot? I can’t believe you’re just a lucky sod!’
Martin explained about the number of stones and the date the body had been found. Although he said nothing, Atkinson increased an opinion he already held – that DCI Phelps was a born detective.
Martin gave a full but concise account of events leading up to his meeting with Basra and the subsequent interview.
‘What an ordeal. It’s easy to say we can imagine the pain and humiliation she went through – but we can’t, can we? Some people are real bastards.’ Chief Superintendent Atkinson’s face was hard. ‘And she’s sure about being able to identify the man who had designs on her brother and who was present at the time of his death?’
Martin nodded.
‘What about the woman that she mentioned a few times?’
‘Nothing much to go on there,’ replied Martin. ‘Basra could tell me the woman had green eyes and was able to give me an idea of her height and build but she never saw her face. She did say she would recognise her voice.’
‘OK, let’s look at where we go with this. What do you want from me?’
‘Well, I know you were keen to get a result from this case but I think there’s a bigger can of worms to open than just bringing in Dalmar’s killer. If we open up an investigation into the charity that Basra identified, then there could be political repercussions as some of the trustees as public figures.’
Atkinson sat forward in his seat. ‘I don’t give a damn about naming and shaming, but I do know from experience that if we go down that road we must have all our facts absolutely right. These people always have the best lawyers, and more often than not get off on technicalities rather than due process.’
‘That’s why my answer to your question re what do I want from you is – time. At the moment there are only five people who definitely know about the dark side of this charity.’
‘Five?’
‘Oh yes, sorry. There’s Basra herself, the two of us, and PC Woodland, who sat in on the interview – and I forgot to mention that Basra was going to speak to her fiancé when she left here. We can rely on PC Woodland and I don’t think Basra is going to endanger herself or her fiancé after all this time.
‘There’s a lot I want to ask Basra regarding the place where her brother was killed, and the man and woman who in one way or another witnessed the murder. They didn’t actually commit it, and even if we were able to bring them both in now we would only get them on perverting the course of justice. I thought about false imprisonment, but lawyers could probably argue that the Somalis were there willingly, under their protection. I’m keen to re-examine all the facts and don’t want to go public on any of this until I’m absolutely sure that what we’ve got will stick.’
Chief Superintendent Atkinson got up and Martin followed.
‘It’s been eleven years since the body was discovered, so waiting a bit longer for the right result isn’t a problem. As long as the people involved with the crime have no idea of the progress we’ve made, then they’re going to continue to believe they’ve got away with murder. It’ll be worth it when we can finally make them realise that although the young man was killed eleven years ago his case was never dead. Brilliant result so far, Martin, and yes, take your time, get every bit of evidence watertight, and nail the bastards!
‘I also understand that DI Pryor is making good progress with the unexplained death on the train – now most definitely a murder case. It would be a brilliant boost for him if he could bring in the killer. Look out for his debut on this evening’s TV news.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘I’m telling you, I’ve just seen his ugly mug plastered across my TV screen. Don’t tell me to calm down … don’t you dare tell me to calm down … you’re all a load of fucking idiots! What the hell are we going to do? If they find him he’ll tell them everything – you know he will. Where is he now? Has he joined you? Wasn’t that the plan after Monday’s job? Come to that, where are you?’
Catherine’s onslaught was unrelenting. So was her stranglehold on the whisky bottle she clutched.
‘I’ve had a bloody awful time of it already today – desperately avoiding my daughter’s desire to reunite me with my granddaughter!’
‘What granddaughter? I didn’t have you down as a granny.’
His attempt at warped humour fell on deaf ears, and Catherine screamed more obscenities into her phone. More followed as Samatar Rahim told her that neither he nor Omar were planning a return to the UK in the immediate future.
‘You bastards! Leaving me to pick up your fucking pieces! Why didn’t you take Ahmed with you? What if he gets picked up – he won’t keep his mouth shut, will he? Someone will recognise him from this photo-kit that’s being broadcast on just about every channel. I’m bloody scared, Samatar, and I’m getting a flight
out to join you before the shit hits the fan and lands all over me.’
Catherine could barely contain herself and re-filled her glass.
Samatar realised that she was in danger of pressing the self-destruct button and taking them all with her.
‘OK, I’ll sort something out. Just stay where you are and try to get some sleep, you sound exhausted. I’ll take care of Ahmed – he was getting to the end of his usefulness anyway – and if the police find him dead from his own poison they’ll stop looking.’
Catherine was surprised at his newly caring tone, but she recognised the risk in his soothing words.
‘It’s as easy as that, is it?’ she howled. ‘When someone is no longer any use to you … you just get rid of them. Where the fucking hell does that leave me?’
Samatar had no compunction in arranging murder and other heinous crimes, yet he had a real hatred of women swearing. He cringed, but continued in what for him was a sympathetic vein.
‘Catherine, we go back a long way, and as you’ve constantly reminded us you’ve got an ace card up your sleeve. If we got rid of you the police would have access to that little black book of yours and that’s something I want to avoid.’
The mention of her secret insurance policy did a lot to improve Catherine’s mood. ‘There’s not a detail left out, and don’t you forget it! True, it wouldn’t do me any credit either, but if I was dead … well, it wouldn’t be my problem then, would it?’
After agreeing that she would do nothing until Samatar came back to her with the results of his promises for dealing with Ahmed, Catherine collapsed on the bed. She thought back over the past few hours and was pleased that her son had decided to drive her home and then go straight to his London flat.
They had abused one another to the nth degree on the journey, and if Catherine had been looking for support and sympathy from her son she now knew there would never be any. She knew that it was her drinking that had alienated Charles, but surely at a time like this he could cut her a bit of slack.
It had been a lot to take in. They’d been expecting to go to the Cardiff police station and offer some simulated sympathy to Lizzie. They both declined the offer to see Edward’s body and Charles didn’t even make any pretence at showing a sense of loss over his father’s death. He’d already made it clear to DI Pryor that he and his father were estranged, and so any show of grief would have been absurd. He had however used the opportunity to score some political points regarding crime rates, but they were cut short by his sister’s announcement.
At first Catherine had failed to grasp what was being said, and the story that Lizzie related about the photograph in her father’s pocket being the same one that Ellie had made no sense at all. They didn’t know anyone called Ellie! Lizzie must have flipped from the knowledge that her father had been murdered.
When she realised the import of her daughter’s words Catherine had almost fainted. She’d been taken to a quiet room where Charles insisted that he’d deal with the situation. When they were alone her son had taken control, and now in the quiet of her own home she remembered his words.
He’d basically told her to shut up and say nothing. It hadn’t been difficult for him to explain to the police that his mother was in shock and he needed to get her home. Lizzie had realised that Catherine had been drinking and agreed that it wasn’t a good time for her family to be introduced to her new-found daughter.
Catherine was suddenly feeling wide awake, and her thoughts darting off in every direction. There was only one way to stop them and she wandered into her kitchen to find another bottle. Although she was more than used to the effects of the alcohol, there were always times when it took her by surprise and this was one of them.
The first gulp sharpened her brain and she felt able to see her situation as if for the first time. She even remembered her husband taking the photograph of Lizzie and the baby, but had never seen a copy of it. She hadn’t given the child a thought from that day to this and had already made up her mind to have nothing to do with the grown-up version.
The second mouthful she swallowed more slowly, beginning to giggle like a schoolgirl. She looked through the window at the sprawling grounds of Woodcanton Hall – it was all hers now! Edward would have made provisions for Lizzie in his will but there was no way that Catherine would give up the Hall. She would contest anything that didn’t allow her to live like the lady of the manor.
Charles would be happy to accept any financial benefits from his father’s estate but he wouldn’t want to live there – there were too many bitter memories.
There would be no place for Lizzie and her tennis cronies, and certainly no place for Lizzie’s daughter. Catherine suddenly remembered the will Edward had brought to the family’s attention some time ago. She wished she could remember the details, but felt sick as she recalled something about the wretched girl being able to consider Woodcanton Hall as her home.
With a third large measure swallowed, Catherine started to panic. How would Samatar deal with Ahmed? She was certain he wouldn’t get his own hands dirty. During the years that she had known them it was always Ahmed who had done the dirty work – there’d never been anyone else. So who would they get to do the job? They were still in America, so it would have to be someone already in place. Someone she didn’t know about … the thought chilled her. What else didn’t she know about them?
She thought she should eat something, but couldn’t be bothered and poured another drink instead. The phone rang and somewhat unsteadily she walked over and picked it up.
‘Hello … Hello, who’s there? Hello!
She swore into the phone and the line went dead. The call had unsettled and vaguely scared her, and she sat at the kitchen table trying to think who’d called. Thinking was too difficult and she collapsed into a drunken sleep.
At the other end of the telephone line the caller carefully replaced the receiver. He was satisfied that Catherine was at home, and by the sound of it she was well down the road to being incapacitated. That suited him well.
Before they’d left Goleudy, Charles had insisted his mother give her car keys to Lizzie and get one of Lizzie’s friends to drive the car back to Woodcanton. The girl Della would have to collect her hideous old car at some point so it seemed a sensible arrangement.
Their journey back had been fraught, and with every mile Charles became more and more concerned that his mother’s drink problem was getting out of hand. His disquiet was not fuelled by love, but by fear for his own position. There would be questions regarding his father’s death, and of course there would be an inquest. There’d be no legal reason for the family to attend, but Charles was a stickler for protocol and believed that someone in his position should be seen to be doing the right thing. Whereas his mother wouldn’t stand the ordeal without extra rations of liquid malt, and that would loosen her tongue. She was getting to be a liability
Getting her into a clinic could be an option, but when he’d dared mention it she’d lashed out at him and almost sent them crashing into the central barrier of the M4. She’d threatened him with the secrets she believed would ruin his political career, but for the first time ever on this subject he’d laughed at her. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that if she revealed the big secret she held over him, it would do as much damage to her, and if her only remaining trump card was to out him as homosexual then she had nothing. Charles laughed again as he told her that being gay could almost guarantee him a job at the top of his profession these days.
By the time they reached Woodcanton Hall their relationship was in pieces. Charles didn’t even go into the house. He told her to lay off the drink and to stay put until he returned. He knew that his mother’s first task would be to find a whisky bottle, and it made him feel sick just to think of what she was turning into.
He was his mother’s son all right. As she did, he put self before anything else, and so as soon as he had dropped her off he made a phone call. The recipient assured him that plans were already
in place to put things right.
Very briefly he pictured his mother draining glass after glass of her favourite tipple. She was a beautiful woman and had always enjoyed the admiration of men, so she wouldn’t handle growing old at all well, especially not once the booze ravaged her looks. It was a comforting thought.
Hours later, Catherine stirred. It was still dark. Her head thumped and she noticed for the first time that her hands were shaking and for the umpteenth time she vowed to stop drinking. She wasn’t even kidding herself because she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She struggled to her feet, but the room spun round, causing her to fall back onto the chair.
This degree of hangover was something new, but looking at the empty bottle on the floor she realised that even by her standards she’d over-indulged. Her unsteady legs carried her to the kitchen and she managed to sort out some coffee and drank several cups in quick succession. The caffeine was helping, and when followed by a few glasses of water her body was, for the moment, recovering. She reached for a packet of Panadol, swallowed twice the recommended dose, then contemplated taking a shower.
Her mind went back over the journey she’d had with Charles coming back from Cardiff. They’d both said some pretty awful things but she was having difficulty making sense of why he’d been so angry. The two of them had always been so very close, and she’d proven over the years that there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
She couldn’t really remember what he’d said when he left her outside the house. When was he coming back, and when were those people Lizzie knew bringing her car back? It would be easy enough to call him, but knowing they hadn’t parted on good terms she wasn’t going to be the first to hold out an olive branch.
Temptation was already knocking on the door of Catherine’s mind, but with caffeine and Panadol on side she resisted and took a shower. Afterwards, drying her hair in front of a long mirror, the thought that she was getting old struck home. She still had a figure that most women would die for, but she could see that the signs of ageing were increasing and it depressed her.