Another Good Killing

by Stephen Puleston

  The morning passed in a blur of paperwork. Lydia made coffee, the telephone rang occasionally and Superintendent Cornock emailed a notification that two additional detectives would arrive that afternoon. I punched in the number of the civil servant responsible for the contract negotiations and, after various voices that all sounded bored and disinterested, I found a Dr Vincent Owen.

  ‘Dr Owen. Detective Inspector Marco of the Wales Police Service. I’m investigating the deaths of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Both men had worked on the contract for the electrification of the Valleys line. But the business that seemed firm favourite didn’t get the contract. Can you tell me anything about that?’

  ‘You should know, Inspector, that I cannot tell you anything. It was all a commercial transaction that went through a competitive tendering process. The company that the National Bank of Wales supported did not win the contract. And I know nothing about a Mr Turner.’

  ‘He was killed yesterday evening. It was on the news.’

  ‘Really. I dealt with the original owner of the company – Mr Frost and his colleague James Harding. I cannot help.’

  ‘I was wondering—’

  But all I heard was the dialling tone.

  It was harder than I had thought tracking down anyone to do with Frost Enterprises. The receivers thought that Harding had moved to work in Edinburgh. Several telephone conversations later, I spoke to a woman in Glasgow who recognised the name but her accent made it difficult to follow her.

  ‘It’s a very bad line,’ I said, hoping it would get her to slow down. It didn’t. ‘Do you have a contact number for him?’

  ‘He’s back in Wales.’

  I scribbled down a number and then punched it into the telephone on my desk. My annoyance built as the call rang out.

  My stomach turned over, reminding me it was lunchtime so I strolled out to Lydia’s desk.

  ‘I’m starving. Let’s go for lunch.’

  Lydia picked up her bag and collected her coat and fifteen minutes later we were sitting in Mario’s. A crowd of office workers were standing by the counter making a racket so we moved to a quieter table.

  ‘How did you get on this morning, boss?’

  ‘There’s paperwork three feet thick. I don’t think I could ever have been a banker or a lawyer. I’ve been trying to track down one of the men involved in the electrification contract.’

  ‘Do you think it might be helpful?’

  ‘It’s one of the things that links Dolman and Turner.’

  Lydia shook her head slowly. ‘There’s something else I found out about both men. They each contributed to a homeless charity in Pontypridd. They made generous donations.’

  Our meal arrived and Lydia gave my bacon sandwich a severe look. There was a lot of lettuce involved in her lunch.

  ‘So maybe they were both being philanthropic.’

  She started on a large piece of cucumber. ‘Maybe. I’ve made an appointment to see the hostel later.’

  ‘I’m going back to Turner’s place to speak to his neighbours.’

  We finished lunch and I left Lydia in the car park making for her car and took the stairs back to the Incident Room. I found a set of keys to Turner’s apartment and checked with the search team supervisor that he had finished in the flat, before making the short journey to Alan Turner’s apartment block.

  There was a strong smell of antiseptic and bleach in the main foyer of the building. But otherwise there was no trace of the events of the night before. I called the lift and when the doors clattered open I stared at the floor, half-expecting there to be some evidence that Turner had been killed there.

  After I opened the door to his apartment I stood in the hallway, trying to imagine his routine. Did he put his keys on the table under the mirror? Where did he have his coat? Perhaps he dumped a briefcase on the floor behind the entrance door. Then I tried to build a mental picture of why Turner was in the lift last night. I stepped over towards the kitchen.

  I knew that the search team would have completed a detailed analysis of everything in the apartment but I opened the fridge door out of interest. It had a bag of rocket, another of watercress and various components for a salad. Standing upright in the door were two bottles of white wine and sparkling water.

  Nothing much had changed. The expensive domestic equipment was still in place and I drew a finger along the cool granite worktop of the island in the middle of the floor. The only thing that was missing was the opened bottle of wine. I wondered whether Turner had been expecting guests. But there was nothing to suggest that he was preparing a meal.

  And then I realised he might have ordered a takeaway.

  I searched through every drawer in the kitchen. Then every cupboard but I couldn’t find a menu for a takeaway restaurant. Then I strode out of the kitchen, threw open the study door and rummaged through the drawers of his desk.

  It drew another blank. Forensics would have taken his mobile to Queen Street so I called Alvine.

  ‘Good morning, Marco,’ Alvine said.

  ‘There’s something I want done urgently,’ I said before explaining in detail.

  In the meantime I left the apartment and visited all of Turner’s neighbours. After two hours with the various flat owners who all wanted to be reassured that there wasn’t a serial killer loose in their apartment complex I reached the first floor and texted Alvine. Any news?

  There was no immediate reply so I knocked on the door of one of the flats, having checked the names of the owners. I sensed movement behind the door and then an elderly man answered. I had my warrant card ready. ‘Mr Kennedy. Detective Inspector Marco. I’m investigating—’

  ‘Of course, come in.’ He opened the door and I stepped in just as he scanned the hallway behind me.

  The sitting room was comfortable and well furnished. I sat opposite Mr Kennedy and his wife. ‘I was hoping that you might help me with the inquiry into Mr Turner’s death.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘I was wondering if you have ever seen Mr Turner taking delivery of a takeaway meal?’

  ‘What, like fish and chips you mean?’

  ‘Anything really. He must have been in the foyer for some reason and we suspect that he might have ordered a takeaway meal.’

  ‘Let me think.’

  His wife, silent until now, interrupted. ‘I think I saw Mr Turner with one of those pizza boxes.’

  My throat constricted. ‘Do you remember the name of the delivery company?’

  ‘Good lord no,’ Kennedy said. ‘But you see the empty boxes all over the street.’

  I tried a couple more questions to see if they could add any more details, then I made excuses and left. The front door closed behind me with a reassuring thud as my mobile rang. I recognised Alvine’s number.

  ‘Top of the class, Marco. Looks like Mr Turner was a regular with Pizza House.’

  Chapter 17

  In my haste I crunched the gears of my Mondeo before I accelerated away from Turner’s apartment. The traffic was building up by now and my impatience got the better of me as I sounded the horn hoping that it would help to clear the traffic. It didn’t and my irritation grew. I double-parked outside the Pizza House restaurant and, after leaving the car, jogged inside. I gave the girls standing behind the counter a cursory nod as I strode towards the office at the rear. I barged in and the same woman was sitting behind the desk, her elbow propped on the surface, a cigarette perched between two fingers.

  ‘Back again love?’

  ‘Is George Stanway here?’

  ‘He’s delivering. I’ll get him to call you if you want.’

  I stepped towards the desk. Then I leant forward. ‘Do you know Alan Turner?’

  ‘Can’t say I do? Does he play rugby for Wales?’

  I could feel her attitude shredding my patience.

  ‘Do you keep a list of the addresses for your regular customers?’

 
; She dragged heavily on the cigarette. ‘Some of them. Most of the lads know the regular deliveries.’

  I gave her the details of Alan Turner’s address and she gave me a blank stare. ‘Ask the girls.’

  I stepped back outside and repeated the details to each of the girls in turn. After I had explained where the apartment block was located they confirmed that Alan Turner was a regular. He particularly liked ten-inch pizzas with extra pepperoni and mushrooms.

  ‘Did he order a pizza last night?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  The first girl gave a noncommittal shrug; the second looked blank. I was waiting for the third to say something when George Stanway walked in through the door.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  I pushed him back out of the Pizza House and led him by the arm towards my car. ‘I’ve got some questions.’

  Within half an hour I had settled Stanway into one of the interview rooms at Queen Street. A duty lawyer had been called and I was expecting Lydia to arrive any minute. I sat in the custody suite sipping a plastic beaker of insipid coffee. The telephone rang incessantly, there was a regular bleeping in the background and the occasional sob and moan from one of the cells.

  Alvine had confirmed while I waited that Alan Turner had not telephoned the Pizza House on the night he was killed. It would have been too convenient for Stanway to have delivered a pizza and then murdered Alan Turner. And too easily discoverable. Even Stanway would not have been that foolish.

  Lydia arrived, finishing an apple that she discarded in one of the plastic bins. I brought her up to date. She nodded occasionally.

  ‘Anything constructive from that hostel you visited?’ I said.

  ‘The Dolman family made a generous donation when the place was established. They’ve made regular contributions since and Mrs Dolman sits on their board of trustees. Otherwise it was a complete waste of time.’

  I collected the tapes we needed and gathered my papers before trooping off to the interview room. The duty lawyer sat alongside Stanway. He was a young pimply man and I was almost tempted to ask him to prove his accreditation. I sat down by the table and fidgeted with removing the cellophane covering of the tapes. Lydia busied herself with tidying the papers into neat order.

  ‘Is this an interview under caution?’ the lawyer asked.

  ‘There are certain matters which we want to put to Mr Stanway that will help us with the ongoing investigations into the deaths of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner.’

  The lawyer nodded briefly at Stanway.

  ‘I want to start with your relationship with Matthew Dolman. You have started proceedings against the National Bank of Wales. It would be true to say that you have a vendetta against the bank and Matthew Dolman personally.’

  Stanway folded his arms and glared at me. ‘I certainly did. He was the man that ruined my life, my business and my family.’

  ‘Can you explain exactly how you think that happened?’

  Stanway settled both elbows on the table in front of him and launched into a detailed explanation. I hadn’t expected candour. And by the end he had given us the perfect motive for killing Matthew Dolman.

  ‘What do you do now Mr Stanway?’

  ‘You know full well I work for a pizza delivery company.’

  ‘What does your work entail?’

  The lawyer was the first to reply. ‘I think it involves delivering pizzas.’

  I tried giving him an avuncular look, hoping it might shut him up.

  ‘I deliver pizzas to the customers of the Pizza House.’

  ‘Explain to me how the business works.’

  Stanway gave me a puzzled look. ‘The orders come over the telephone. Then I deliver them. It’s not complicated.’

  ‘You have regular customers?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I found a sheet of paper with Alan Turner’s address and pushed it towards him. ‘So you recognise this address?’

  He stared at the text. ‘I’ve delivered to houses on that street.’

  ‘The address belongs to Alan Turner.’

  Stanway nodded slowly.

  ‘Do you know who I mean by Alan Turner?’

  Although Stanway had stopped nodding, I could see the acknowledgement in his eyes, and the hate and the anger. He cleared his throat. ‘Of course, I do.’

  ‘Could you explain to us how you know Alan Turner?’

  ‘He was involved with Matthew Dolman in cheating me out of my business.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  He settled back in his chair; I could see the confidence in his eyes now. ‘I wasn’t working.’

  ‘Alan Turner was murdered last night.’

  Stanway stared at me unblinkingly.

  ‘I was in the Railway Club in Quakers Yard for most of the evening. There was a quiz night. I drank too much, got shit-faced drunk and I don’t remember how I got home.’

  *

  It was early evening when we finally authorised Stanway’s release. I had nothing to justify an arrest and I needed to have his alibi checked and all the CCTV coverage for the area immediately surrounding Alan Turner’s apartment requisitioned. I sat with Lydia in the Incident Room gazing up at the various photographs pinned to the board.

  ‘What did you make of Stanway, boss?’

  I threaded my hands together behind my head and pressed back. It was no use. I wasn’t going to get any inspiration.

  ‘He happily admits that he’s got the perfect motive for both deaths.’

  Lydia nodded enthusiastically. ‘And he doesn’t have an alibi for the morning of Dolman’s death.’

  I knew that not having an alibi didn’t mean he was guilty. But he had a gold-plated motive that he didn’t hide but even so I was wary. ‘So we need to check out his alibi for the night of Turner’s death.’ My mobile telephone interrupted my train of thought. It was reception. ‘A Mr Turner’s arrived to see you.’

  ‘Find an empty conference room and I’ll be down to see him.’

  I turned to Lydia. ‘David Turner has arrived.’

  Lydia went back to her desk and I walked down to the ground-floor conference room that still smelt of gloss paint. David Turner stood up and reached out a hand when I walked in. He was tall and slim and I could see the family resemblance. He even had the same sort of spectacles.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. Tell me, Inspector, do you have any suspects for my father’s death?’ I had heard journalists in a press conference manage more emotion.

  ‘It’s too early just yet. Can you tell me anything that might help?’

  ‘We weren’t close.’

  No surprise there.

  ‘I hardly knew him, really. I was sent to boarding school and then my mother died when I was at university and my father never had much time for me. He was always working on some deal or another.’

  ‘How often did you see him?’

  He sat back in his chair and averted his gaze. ‘A few of times a year. At Christmas, of course, and then if he was in London on business we’d meet up.’

  ‘How often did he travel to London?’

  ‘I can’t really say. Perhaps his staff could help you. I would meet him in his hotel for a drink or dinner. I met him with Matthew Dolman and once I met him with a man called Frost. I remember the name, reminded me of that fictional detective.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m staying for a few days to sort out his affairs.’ He slipped a heavily embossed card over the desk.

  I saw David Turner to the door and went back to the Incident Room, worried if Dean would say the same thing about me if I died. Dean barely knew me and our lives never crossed in any meaningful way.

  When I got back to the Incident Room Lydia raised her head and glanced over at me, her eyes wide. ‘Something you should see.’

  I stepped towards her desk.

  She pointed at the folder on her desk. ‘It�
��s Troy’s army service history. He left under a cloud.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There were complaints about his violent temper. The whole thing was hushed up.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the commanding officer?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s calling me tomorrow.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Fennel and nettle tea.’ Lydia said as I wafted a hand in the air.

  ‘Smells disgusting.’

  ‘It helps keep me calm and there are lots of other benefits. You should try some.’

  I gazed down at the chaos on my desk – so much for the paperless office. Then I checked my watch. The two detective constables assigned by Cornock were late. Then I heard the sound of movement in the Incident Room and saw two officers peering at the board and throwing inquisitive glances towards my office. I strode out of my room and Lydia followed behind me. A short woman with purple-framed glasses thrust out her hand.

  ‘DC Jane Thorne. And this is DC Wyn Nuttall.’

  Lydia was by my side now as we looked over at the young officer by Jane’s side, a nervous look on his face.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Wyn had a North Walian accent, warm and rural just like Dave Hobbs. Ever since the police forces of Wales had merged into one force a stream of officers from the north came to work in Cardiff. Maybe it was too cold up there in the mountains. He had a brief rather limp handshake.

  ‘So you’re the cavalry,’ I said.

  Jane frowned, Wyn blinked nervously. I decided not to try humour again.

  Wyn replied. ‘Superintendent Cornock gave us orders to attend for a briefing. I am on Detective Inspector Hobbs’ Cardiff city football taskforce. The superintendent wants me seconded to your investigation pro tem.’

  I waved at the empty chairs and then I turned to look at the board.

  ‘Matthew Dolman was killed in his car in the Royal Bell car park.’

  Both Jane and Wyn took notes.

  ‘He was the managing director of the National Bank of Wales and very wealthy.’