by Wonny Lea
Matt’s mind briefly went back to his case, but he didn’t allow it to stay there. If he started thinking about possible connections now he’d be awake all night trying to link them. He was missing Martin and the way they usually bounced ideas off one another. The word around the office was that his DCI had managed to solve the Roath Park murder, and that would be a feather in his cap.
Matt resolved to talk to Martin in the morning and ask him if he had any suggestions re linking the murders, other than the obvious ones. He wouldn’t have a problem asking Martin for his views – they’d been a team for a couple of years and he’d be stupid if he let his pride stand in the way of getting another opinion. This was his first solo murder case and there’d be no shame in asking for help.
He didn’t bother putting the car in the garage and left it on the road. His thoughts returned to Sarah. She’d been badly bruised by her previous relationship, and he hadn’t realised how much that had been stifling her feelings for him. There’d been a mutual attraction from the first day they met, and it wasn’t long before they were enjoying each other’s company and not bothering to say goodbye at the end of a date.
Matt had more experience with the opposite sex than even he cared to admit, and until tonight he’d lived by one golden rule – never admit to feelings of love and commitment! Instinctively, he’d gone down the same road with Sarah, and so he hadn’t told her he loved her and wanted her to share his life.
He had raised no objections when she voiced her plans to go to Australia either. Who says women are the weaker sex, he thought. It couldn’t have been easy for Sarah to ask him outright if he wanted her to stay. She’d opened herself wide to another possible rejection and it was that look of panic in her eyes that had made Matt realise, and more importantly tell her, that he loved her and was dreading the thought of losing her.
Once that particular genie was out of the bottle it couldn’t be put back and he liked the way the words sounded and so said them over and over.
They hadn’t talked much after that, although lots of talking would be needed soon. Would Sarah move in with him? There would be no point in her still renting her flat when he had plenty of space for the two of them, but would she want to share a house that had so many of his memories and none of hers? He’d ask her what she wanted to do – share his thoughts and give voice to his hopes for their future. Gone were the days of thinking like a bachelor – and it felt surprisingly good!
Matt was sure he’d never get to sleep and so was amazed when he heard his alarm. He smiled as he texted Sarah another declaration of love – followed by ‘There, now I’ve even put it in writing so you can use it in evidence against me! J Xxx’.
When Matt arrived at Goleudy there were just a handful of cars parked but one of them was an Alfa Romeo. En route to the top floor he grabbed some papers that had been left on his desk and noticed a handwritten note from Maggie Shaw. DCI Mortimer had left a message scheduling a session for 10.30.
‘Good morning and happy birthday. I thought you’d be having an extra hour in bed as I doubt you were drinking water last night!’
Martin smiled. ‘No, but I didn’t over-indulge. I’ll catch up on that over the weekend. My birthday is the twenty-sixth, but last night’s session fell nicely between mine and Charlie’s. Oh, and thanks for the present – Spikeball! I’d never heard of it until Sarah struggled in with it. It’s different, I’ll give you that!’
Matt laughed. ‘I could have just bought a bottle of malt but decided Spikeball would be better for your health. I don’t know about you but I could definitely do with a bit more running around.’
‘Thanks, I’ll give it a try, but it needs two teams – so do I take it you and Sarah will be up for it? You certainly look like the cat that’s got the cream this morning. Sorry you couldn’t make it – was last night’s return to work interesting? ’
‘I’ve got an unsolved murder on my hands – but I’ve never been happier. What are we like? Your could have lost the love of your life by hesitating, and my hesitation nearly saw Sarah on a slow boat to China … well, a fast plane to Australia as it happens! She’s not going, unless at some time in the future we both decide to take the plunge.’
‘Is that likely?’ asked Martin.
‘Who knows? One step at a time, and the first step must be to be sort out our living arrangements. How has it worked with Shelley moving into the cottage?’
‘She loves it, but then it suits her style. Not sure she’d have wanted to move into a modern flat or anywhere on an estate.’
‘I suspect Sarah and I’ll be looking for somewhere that’s ours rather than mine. That should be entertaining – I’ve never house-hunted in my life.’
Matt changed the subject back to work and as he spread his papers out on one of the desks he briefed Martin on his conversation with DCI Mortimer.
‘Phew! I remember watching Lizzie Ferguson play tennis when I was a teenager. Everyone thought she’d hit the big time – I certainly didn’t know she’d had a child, but then it obviously wasn’t public knowledge. I read recently that she’s coaching a future tennis star.’
‘Yes, her name’s Della and she was here yesterday. She and a guy called Basil, her fitness coach, were looking at the facilities up at Woodcanton Hall when I phoned to ask about Edward Ferguson. They drove to Cardiff with Lizzie, and to be honest they were a lot more supportive than her mother and brother, who arrived much later.’
‘Good God, I hope someone is supporting her – but I’ve got a bloody good reason for suggesting it won’t be her brother.’
Martin picked up some of the papers and then sat down as he looked at a photofit image. He wished he’d watched the television news last night or this morning or had had more reason to share the interest shown by Alex yesterday. Now, with the opportunity to study Matt’s image carefully, several connections hit his brain simultaneously but he refrained from voicing them before checking out some facts.
‘OK, so you’ve got a man dead on arrival at Cardiff Central. The man’s car led to you identifying him as Edward Ferguson. The photo in his pocket was recognised by a young woman on the train who turned out to be his granddaughter – you couldn’t make it up, could you? I don’t believe for one moment it was a coincidence, and from what you’ve said I think he was looking for a way to contact her.’
‘That fits with what she said about him,’ said Matt. ‘She told me she caught him looking in her direction several times, but she didn’t get the impression that he was an old man ogling a young girl. She described him as looking kind but sad.’
‘So, he’s on the train and plucking up the courage to speak to the girl he knows is his granddaughter when someone sticks a needle in him. Who and why?’
‘I believe the “who” is the person whose image you’re looking at, but I’m at a loss as to the “why”. We’ve had the usual responses from the television appeal, placing him simultaneously at all points from John O’Groats to Land’s End. I’ve got people sorting out the wheat from the chaff on that but I’m not holding my breath.’
Matt explained the mystery of the two cars and the visit he and Alex had made to Woodcanton Hall. Martin absorbed every detail, but Matt could see that the DCI’s mind was racing as he’d got up and was pacing the floor.
‘What’s up? Have I missed something obvious?’
‘A few minutes ago I commented that you couldn’t make it up in relation to the photograph – well, I think I’m now going to prove that life really can be stranger than fiction. You wanted connections to share with DCI Mortimer and his murder case, but what would you say to some connections with me and mine?’
Leaving Matt looking puzzled, Martin got up and made them both coffee.
‘I’ll bring you up to speed on the case I’ve been investigating and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.’
Fifteen minutes later Martin finished his account of how he’d managed to find out the identity of the Roath victim.
‘Bloody h
ell! Congratulations on coming up with the link with the stones, but what I don’t understand is why this Basra didn’t come to us with the account she’s given to you. I can see why she wouldn’t have done so immediately. With everything that happened to her she’d hardly trust anybody, but surely over the years …’
‘She said she believed that if someone found her then that someone would be looking for the truth. I took that to mean that people with influence and authority may want the truth buried, and she didn’t want to risk that happening. This is where I could do with a drum roll as I reveal my stranger-than-fiction connection – the honourable Charles Ferguson MP.’
‘Now you’ve really lost me! Are you saying Ferguson killed the young Somalian and dumped his body in Roath … and eleven years later killed his father on a train … and strangled his mother?’
‘He’s not killed anyone that we know of, and he’s certainly not personally responsible for the murders we are investigating.’
‘So … I don’t get it! What’s his connection to the Roath crime?’
‘Basra has named him as the man who was forcing his attentions on her brother.’
‘No way!’
Martin explained the charity connection. ‘God only knows what they were up to altogether, but the more I’ve thought about it the more I think that Catherine Ferguson was the woman Basra described. She never saw the woman’s face but the height is right and the plum-in-the-mouth accent fits.’
Matt nodded. ‘Well, we can’t question her on that now, but surely you can bring Charles Ferguson in for questioning?’
‘On what basis? The word of a young woman who has chosen to remain silent for eleven years, and who now wants to ruin the reputation of a politician at the time when his father and his mother have been taken from him in the most tragic of circumstances? I’ve got no real evidence! The links to the charity would be seen as tenuous, and it would just be her word against his. So no prizes for guessing who’d be believed.’
Martin put Matt’s constructed photograph alongside the drawing Basra has done of her brother’s killer.
‘I’ve no doubt that Basra’s given me an accurate picture of her brother’s killer, and it’s the slightly lopsided nature of his face that makes me believe that your witnesses saw the same man.’
‘I can’t argue with that. It’s got to be the same man – so where does that take us?’
‘He kills Dalmar and then seemingly disappears of the radar until this week, when he kills Edward Ferguson and possibly Catherine Ferguson. The methods of killing are different in all cases, but I don’t think we’re looking at a serial killer, more like a paid assassin who could adapt his MO to meet any circumstances. It sounds to me as if Dalmar’s killing was the automatic response of a trained killer to a situation he thought was getting out of hand. It wasn’t planned. Basra has described how that happened and how the body was dumped.’
‘You mentioned a paid assassin – paid by who, and for what purpose?’
‘Looks like I may have a bit of a breakthrough there. Someone called Michael Porter called following my media appeal, and it would appear that Edward contacted him recently. He’s a private investigator and says he went to Woodcanton Hall some years ago on behalf of a client – Ellie’s late father. At the time he met Edward and was given a photograph that he handed over to Gwyn, Ellie’s dad, so that explains how he got it. I can only assume that Gwyn had been trying to locate Ellie’s real mother. Anyway, amongst these papers I’ve got a note that details how Edward Ferguson contacted Porters Investigation Services in October this year, asking for contact details for one of the company’s clients, and against protocol the temporary receptionist just gave out Gwyn Bevan’s address.
‘I need to interview Michael Porter, of course, but where I’m going with this is that Edward must have told someone he was looking for his granddaughter and possibly that person had a reason to stop him from doing that. What do you think?’
‘It’s a perfectly acceptable assumption, but it would need to be one hell of a big reason to provoke murder. Let’s assume that he’d found her – who could have gained or lost from that situation?’
‘Well, I know from investigating his business that he’s got money to spare, and some. If he’d found Ellie she’d be in line for a share, as indeed she probably is now anyway. But as he was so keen to find her he could’ve been considering something more generous – even giving her the lot. That gives his wife and his son a very good motive for wanting to stop him.’
‘And his daughter,’ suggested Martin.
‘I guess so, but she was the only one who showed any signs of distress over his death. Yes, we’ve seen that used as a cover-up before, but I think her grief was really genuine.’
The two men simultaneously had the same thought and it was Matt who voiced it.
‘Looks like we’re chasing the same killer or killers. Two heads will certainly be better than one, so I guess the old team is back together and I for one am happy with that. I’ve got a session with DCI Mortimer at 10.30 so if you join that then between the three of us we should make some headway. I’ll get Charlie and her lot to transfer the data on the train murder and collate it with the Roath murder and see what else we come up with. Does that suit you?’
‘Yes. I’ve been told not to rattle Charles Ferguson’s cage until I’ve got evidence that will stand up in court. I’ll join you at 10.30, but now I want to call Laura Cummings. Hopefully she’ll be able to give us some of the help she promised me.’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘The same way as I find out everything else, you fool! We may not be in the UK but we have contacts that keep us informed of everything that’s going on. I was bloody furious when I was told to look at the BBC News site and was confronted with your ugly face staring back at me. When did you learn to be so careless? We’ve spent years ensuring that nothing about you is in the public domain – no fingerprints, no DNA, and certainly no fucking photographs.
‘You’re no good to us in the UK now so the sooner we get you out of the country the better. You’ll have to scrap the original plan of flying straight to the US from Heathrow. Every customs officer and airport official will have a copy of your mug and you’ll never get through Security.’
‘So what do I do? If the airport is a no-go area then it’ll be the same for boats and ferries and international trains. I’ll just have to stay put until things blow over.’
Samatar and Omar were enjoying a first-class hotel in Washington. They hid so well behind the façade of a respectable business, and no longer needed to get up close and personal to those who dealt drugs and death on their behalf. It had taken years of meticulous planning and mingling with the right people to reach their level of outward respectability, and now for the first time it was under serious threat.
Ahmed was no longer an asset but a dangerous liability. The two men had no doubt that if he was caught he would sing like a canary, and that was something they couldn’t risk. He wasn’t the only available killer they had at their disposal, but he was the best – and he spent his life looking over his shoulder and anticipating trouble, so his self-preservation instincts would have kicked in now he knew his bosses were losing patience.
Samatar knew what Ahmed would be thinking and to keep him onside he changed his tack.
‘Dump the car. There’s the possibility that traffic cameras around Woodcanton Hall may have picked you up and they’ll be on the lookout for you. I’ll text you details for a number of contacts that will look after you and provide you with a different vehicle and a place to keep your head down. It shouldn’t take too long to work out an exit plan for you, so bear with us and keep your line open.’
Ahmed watched the call cut out, and contrary to what had been requested he turned his phone off. He needed to do some thinking of his own, and if he knew one thing for certain it would be that he wouldn’t be cosying up to any of the contacts suggested by Samatar. It made his blood boil as he thought how stupid the
y believed him to be. Did they really think he wouldn’t remember that he’d help set up these people?
What they didn’t know was that Ahmed had established a few contacts of his own, and they all owed him big time. He guessed they’d all have witnessed his recent notoriety, but two in particular would never expose him to the police – they wouldn’t want their own activities revealed. He’d helped them, and now it was payback time. Ahmed worked out who was closest to his current location.
When he’d received Samatar’s call he’d been on his way to Heathrow airport, having been told to pick up a first-class ticket in the usual place. They always travelled first or business class, as bizarrely they’d discovered that it was the easiest way to travel. Maybe the airport staff thought people who could afford such expensive comfort were unlikely to be flying for anything but genuine business or pleasure. He remembered many times when he’d loved to have told the stewardess who fawned over him, hoping for the big tip that they weren’t supposed to accept, how much killing satisfied him.
Ahmed realised that he was drifting off into random thoughts and was having difficulty concentrating on the importance of planning his next moves. Not surprising really considering he’d had nothing to eat or drink for the best part of twenty-four hours.
Nick Cutler had a setup just off the M4 on the outskirts of Swindon. He ran a huge and very lucrative cannabis farm behind a popular and seemingly respectable children’s fun farm. He’d come into contact with Samatar and the others through the underworld connections of people who deal in drugs of one sort or another. When one of his employees had been curious to know why the back of one of the animal enclosures was warm to the touch, she’d found more than she’d bargained for and Ahmed had offered to make sure she didn’t talk about her discovery.