Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘What do you mean “lucky”?’

  ‘The only way to guarantee that death would have been more or less instantaneous is to pierce the aorta or heart and then remove the knife or dagger. Or, in this case, probably a stiletto. And I don’t mean the heel of a shoe. Otherwise piercing the heart doesn’t guarantee a quick death and if somebody had found him it’s conceivable that he could have been saved. I haven’t seen a knife wound like this for… well, I can’t remember. Did you find the murder weapon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You probably won’t. Unless he kills again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My throat contracted a fraction.

  ‘It felt like a good killing. As though the killer knew exactly what to do to make certain Dolman would die.’

  ‘And why does that make you think he will kill again?’

  ‘Just a gut feeling.’

  ‘And how is that supposed to help me?’

  ‘I’m just the pathologist. You’re the detective.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Paddy.’

  I reread Paddy’s report and then I Googled ‘stiletto’. It had been developed in the fifteenth century as a secondary weapon for knights to finish off a stricken or severely wounded opponent. But there hadn’t been any signs of physical combat inside the Aston Martin.

  Lydia’s voice broke my concentration. ‘You need to see this, boss.’

  I stepped out of my office and walked over to her desk. She had been trawling through the CCTV coverage from the car park.

  ‘There’s something odd going on.’ She clicked her mouse. ‘There are cameras on every floor. Each level has a number and a letter, 1A and 1B and so on to the top. The only reason they have the letters is that both levels with the same number are accessed from the same stairwell.’

  ‘So that makes sixteen levels altogether.’

  ‘That’s right. And sixteen cameras. Each camera is supposed to record one complete level.’

  ‘But…?’

  She clicked again. ‘There is a separate camera at the entrance where the cars pass the attendant. It was nine thirty-six when Dolman arrived.’ The image of his Aston Martin filled the screen as it slowed to negotiate the entrance. ‘We have Dolman on the CCTV camera for every floor until 6B. The coverage for floor 7A and 7B was disrupted at 9.28.’

  ‘So the killer knew he was arriving.’

  ‘Looks that way, sir.’

  ‘We need to establish who was in the car park that morning. You’d better search through all the CCTV coverage and then talk to that attendant again.’

  Lydia was already scribbling on her notepad.

  ‘Make a list of every car that came into the car park from seven am. Do we have a list of the people who pay for parking?’

  Lydia nodded.

  ‘Then cross-reference their names against the people who parked that morning. I’m going to Dolman’s office.’

  *

  Smart new office blocks sat alongside buildings saved from demolition by listed building orders. Railway tracks quartered the city, and the Victorian prison dominated an enormous area in the middle, a few hundred metres from one of the biggest shopping malls outside London.

  I passed a bored-looking man shivering by a small mobile truck selling various electronic cigarettes and it occurred to me that I might try them; it might even persuade my mother that I was serious about quitting. But it just made me reach for the cigarettes in my pocket. The seller curled up his mouth, giving me a disinterested look and I reached for my lighter and then my mobile. My mother answered after two rings – obviously waiting for my call.

  ‘I’m shopping,’ she said, pre-empting my question about her trip to Cardiff. ‘Where can we meet for lunch?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’ll have time.’

  ‘Just for a sandwich? Half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll text you later.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

  A few minutes later, I reached the National Bank of Wales. The receptionist gave me a wary look and picked up the telephone immediately. She pointed to the lift. ‘Can you make your way to the sixth floor, Inspector?’

  Mary Fox greeted me as the doors slid open. ‘Good morning, Inspector. This way.’

  Matthew Dolman’s corner office overlooked a square with a small garden and a water feature. Rex Dolman was already sitting by a large conference table, Charlotte by his side. Sparkling Waterford crystal glasses sat alongside two bottles of Ty Nant water on a small tray.

  ‘Is your brother going to be joining us?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s in the middle of an important meeting.’

  More important than my inquiry into his father’s death?

  Another member of staff appeared with a cafetière of fresh coffee. I opened my notebook as Charlotte leant over, asking how I liked my coffee before passing over a china cup and saucer.

  ‘Can I just get clear,’ I said, waving a hand rather limply towards Charlotte. ‘How are you related to Matthew Dolman?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ she said. ‘We weren’t properly introduced last night.’ She passed over a business card. It made her a senior associate at one of the premier law firms in the city.

  ‘Charlotte and I are engaged,’ Rex announced as though it were the first time he had shared the information with anybody. ‘And she does a lot of work for the bank.’

  I glanced at Charlotte who was giving Rex a dewy-eyed look. I turned back to him. ‘I need to know exactly what your father was working on.’

  ‘Of course. There were many very sensitive commercial transactions. I’ve put together this list.’ He pushed over an A4 sheet of paper. I scanned the various names and contact details.

  ‘Are there any particular transactions that hadn’t been successful?’

  ‘The bank often works for clients where deals don’t come to fruition. There can be a variety of reasons for that. Sometimes the customer pulls out; sometimes the customer isn’t paying enough. But I doubt that anyone on that list would want to kill my father. Banking is very boring, Inspector.’

  I sipped the coffee; it tasted expensive, probably reserved for the sixth-floor staff, and much better than the instant at Queen Street.

  ‘There was one deal a year or so ago,’ Rex said, averting his eyes. ‘An engineering company we supported at the start of the recession found it difficult to follow our survival strategy so we had to appoint administrators.’

  ‘The owner, a man called Stanway, took it badly. He couldn’t come to terms with his business failure.’ Charlotte had the sort of polished accent that lawyers must spend hours practising – not a hint of a Cardiff accent or any part of Wales come to that. ‘Since then he’s been engaged on a long campaign to discredit the bank.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He started this website which repeated libellous comments about Matthew. Naturally, the bank had to protect its reputation and after a court order the website was taken down. Then there were letters and articles in the newspaper. And he commenced proceedings against the bank for negligence. Not merely on one occasion but several.’

  ‘I’ll need his details,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve highlighted them.’ Charlotte pointed to the list.

  I looked down at the sheet and noticed the yellow lines surrounding a section of text.

  ‘I’ll need to see your father’s office, go through his personal effects.’

  Before I finished the coffee, I saw Troy Dolman marching across the open-plan office. He opened the door and strode in. He adopted a wide-open stance and put his hands on his hips. ‘I didn’t want to mention any of this last night in front of my mother but it’s about time the Wales Police Service got off its arse and did something about finding the person who was sending those threats to my father. I want to know what you’re doing about it.’

  ‘We’ll be investigating every possible avenue of inquiry.’

  ‘That’s just not good enough, Inspector.’

  ‘We’re wa
iting for the results of the forensic analysis of the note found in his car. Then we’ll compare the results to—’

  He raised his voice. ‘Sounds like bullshit.’

  ‘A colleague of mine investigated those letters—’

  ‘And what did he do about them?’ Troy Dolman stepped towards me.

  I should have been concerned that any inactivity by Dave Hobbs might have a detrimental effect on his career but a part of me secretly hoped he had allowed the letters to languish at the bottom of a pile.

  ‘I don’t have that information.’

  ‘Unless I get some satisfactory response I shall go straight to the chief constable.’ Dolman gave his brother and Charlotte a brief nod and stormed out. I stood up as Rex hurried to follow his brother. I watched Charlotte picking up her papers before leaving the room. She reached out a hand in one smooth movement. ‘I can go through the Stanway file with you if that would be helpful.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Rex Dolman returned with a member of staff that I had seen crying yesterday. ‘This is Ann Roberts,’ Rex said. ‘She worked for my father. She can help you.’ And with that Rex turned and left. Ann Roberts had little make-up, flat sensible shoes and even though she couldn’t have been thirty, wore the sort of clothes my mother might choose.

  Ann threaded her fingers together and placed them on her lap. Her short straight hair made her round face more matronly – she probably knitted and went on walking holidays to Northumberland.

  ‘Did Matthew Dolman have a diary?’

  ‘He kept everything on the computer.’ She tipped her head towards the desk.

  ‘Do you know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

  ‘There were the letters.’

  ‘Was he worried about them?’

  ‘Not particularly. He didn’t take them seriously.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She nodded briefly, fidgeting with a gold watch on her wrist. ‘I told him to be careful.’

  ‘Rex and Charlotte have mentioned a Mr Stanway who had a grudge against the bank.’

  Ann nodded. Then she glanced over her shoulder. ‘This is confidential isn’t it? I… it’s just that…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  I leant forward, hoping for eye contact. ‘Is it something important?’

  She hesitated. ‘No, nothing.’ She got up. ‘I’ll find you his diary.’

  She walked over to Dolman’s desk and sat down. She stared at the screen; her hands skimmed over the keyboard. I gazed over and saw that she had regained her earlier composure but I still wondered what she wasn’t telling me. Seconds later a printer hummed on the cupboard behind me. She strode over and scooped up the various printed sheets that she thrust in my direction. I read the entries. I would need time to cross-reference all the various appointments to Dolman’s clients but what struck me was the regular appearance of the Vale of Glamorgan Racquets Club.

  ‘Was Matthew Dolman a regular squash player?’ I said.

  ‘Not really. He played “real tennis”.’

  She must have seen the puzzled look on my face.

  ‘I don’t know much about it. It’s like tennis and squash but played inside.’

  I nodded.

  It was lunchtime when I had finished working through all the paperwork Ann kept producing. I waited for two civilians from operational support to collect Dolman’s computer and then as I headed for the lift my mobile bleeped with a text from my mother.

  Chapter 5

  The redevelopment of the old Brewery quarter in the middle of Cardiff had resulted in several Italian coffee shops opening. And my mother had visited each one until she was certain which one offered the best coffee, panini and Parma ham. She gave me a warm smile when I walked over to her table near a window. Hair shorter than I remembered and the occasional silvery streak evidenced a recent trip to the hairdresser. She cupped my face with both hands and kissed me twice.

  ‘You look tired, John.’

  ‘Mamma.’ I tried to get an exasperated tone.

  ‘You’re not eating enough. You must have a proper lunch.’

  I had given up explaining to my mother the pressures of working as a police officer, as she had ignored all my previous attempts. I reached over and picked up the plastic menu card. We exchanged small talk until a waiter appeared by the table.

  She ordered a panini with Parma ham, mortadella cheese and rocket. She was particular about her order of Americano – it had to have two shots of espresso and water just off the boil. The waiter gave a knowing nod before looking over at me.

  ‘I’ll have the same panini. And a double espresso.’

  I replaced the menu in the plastic holder behind the condiment set. I could sense my mother getting ready to say something.

  ‘Have you spoken to Dean recently?’

  It was a softening-up question. She knew I didn’t have regular my contact with my son.

  ‘It’s been a month, maybe six weeks,’ I said casually.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ It had the desired effect, however temporary, of distracting her from discussing Dean. My father was working too much as well. He was arriving home late, she barely saw him.

  The waiter arrived with our sandwiches.

  ‘Your father and I are thinking about going to the caravan in Tenby over Easter.’

  The bread had been lightly toasted, the cheese soft and the ham succulent.

  ‘I want you to bring Dean over for the weekend.’ My mother started eating but she kept her eye contact direct. ‘We haven’t seen him for such a long time.’

  ‘When is Easter?’

  ‘In six weeks’ time. It gives you enough time to speak to Jackie and make the arrangements.’

  ‘She’s probably booked a holiday.’

  ‘It will be good for you to spend time together. The campsite has just opened a swimming pool.’

  I nodded. It had been a year since my parents had purchased a static caravan on one of the sites near Tenby. The decision had been justified by my father’s reluctance to take holidays from his ice cream business. My mother’s increasingly irate complaints that he needed to have time off or he would be in an early grave had led to various brochures appearing with details of the caravans available.

  My mother was eating her way through the panini and I stared over at her, pondering if she had already spoken with Jackie. It had been three years since she moved to Basingstoke after she got married to an accountant. My mother had always liked Jackie; at least she had always said so.

  ‘It might give you an opportunity to spend quality time with each other after what happened at the party.’ She dabbed a napkin to her mouth; I noticed a small bead of olive oil on her lips. She stared over at me, waiting for my reaction. I had apologised to my cousin, Jeremy, but the possibility that my behaviour might deteriorate hung over me. I raised my hands in the air. ‘You’re right. But I’m not going to lose my temper like that in front of Dean again.’

  My mother nodded slowly, picking up the remaining half of her sandwich. ‘I want you to build a relationship with your son.’ There was steeliness in her voice that she quickly tempered. ‘It’s important for Dean’s sake.’

  Since Jackie had moved away I had made little effort to keep up contact with my son. Pressure of work and the punishing hours made regular contact awkward or so I convinced myself whenever I felt guilty. I finished my lunch, pushing the plate to one side.

  ‘I’ll talk to Jackie.’ I managed an exasperated tone that earned me a sharp look. ‘What are the dates again?’ I said, tapping the calendar on my smartphone.

  ‘It is Easter, John. Everyone knows the dates.’

  I took her comments just as they were intended – as a reprimand. Then the coffee arrived and I turned my finger around the small espresso cup. My mother emptied a sachet of sugar into her Americano and gave me a smile that said she was pleased to have had her own way.

  *

 
I peered at the piles of paperwork on my desk. Although I had only spent forty minutes having lunch with my mother, it felt longer. I would call Jackie tonight, I promised myself and then got back to work.

  I punched in the words ‘bankers’ bonuses’ and followed a trail of entries about the level of pay in the banking sector. There were learned articles on various websites about the impact that bailing out the banks had had on the finances of various economies. With the financial services sector forming a huge part of the United Kingdom economy there were many disgruntled comments about the pressure from the EU to curb bankers’ bonuses. Under a heading Greedy Bankers I read that 2,700 bankers earned an average of £1.6 million in 2013. I hesitated, surprised at the mind-boggling sums involved. Another search told me it was sixty times more than the average salary in the UK. Maybe this newspaper headline had inspired the author of the note hanging around Dolman’s neck. There were plenty of other websites and I spent another hour learning all about the Robin Hood tax, named after the outlaw in English folklore that stole from the rich to give to the poor and designed to punish the banks and provide monies for public services. There was even a cheeky video with some famous actors that brought a smile to my face.

  I typed the name Matthew Dolman into the search bar on Google just as Lydia appeared in the doorway of my office. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I got up, put my hands to the small of my back and stretched. I didn’t have the make-up for an office job. Staring at a computer all day was not my idea of policing. Lydia returned with two mugs and plonked one down on my desk

  ‘Any luck with that CCTV?’ I said.

  ‘It will take hours.’ She slurped her coffee.

  ‘I’ve done a preliminary search against Matthew Dolman.’ I glanced over at my monitor. ‘He’s got a really high profile in the banking world. He is a fervent believer in the value of the financial services sector to the economy.’

  ‘So he’s not going to vote for an independent Wales then?’

  I drank some coffee. It was bitter and too strong. ‘Interestingly, he supports devolution.’