I turned to the board and tapped the image of Jamie Henson. ‘Initially we’ve been concentrating on Jamie Henson and Neil Cleaver of the Wales Against Poverty group. But there is a second group of anarchists that we’ll need to focus on too. And yesterday Alan Turner was killed in the lift of his apartment block.’
‘Are both deaths linked, sir?’ Jane had a serious frown on her face.
‘Same MO. And they were business associates. Last night we brought in for questioning a George Stanway. His company was forced into bankruptcy by the National Bank of Wales or so he alleges. Wyn, you check out his alibi and requisition all the CCTV coverage from near Turner’s flat.’ I nodded at Lydia. ‘Lydia will give you the details you need.’
‘And Dolman had a flat in Nice that his wife and family know nothing about. So Jane, you get started with finding out everything you can about that. And the expense account won’t stretch as far as a trip out there either. Maybe a pack of Nice biscuits.’
Jane managed the barest of smiles, Lydia suppressed a chortle and Wyn looked utterly lost.
‘We’re focusing on what happened to Stanway Engineering too. And another contract Turner and Dolman had in common was the electrification of the Valleys railway.’
I spent a few minutes giving them both a summary of what we knew and where our priorities lay. Jane stared at me intently, occasionally opened her mouth as though she had something to ask but thought the better of it. The terrified look on Wyn’s face only disappeared as I left.
*
The sat-nav kept bleeping instructions that annoyed me so I turned it off and called Harding himself for directions. After another five minutes, we found his home. He was a man who had enjoyed corporate entertainment judging by the size of his girth and the jowls under his chin. The small bungalow on the outskirts of Cardiff was an incongruous home for a man who had been involved in various multi-million-pound transactions. He heaved himself into a large leather armchair, and pressed a button by the right armrest, activating a section of the chair under his knees that raised up his calves.
‘I’ve got bad circulation,’ he said.
‘We are investigating the murder of Matthew Dolman. He was the managing director of the National Bank of Wales.’
Harding nodded vigorously.
‘And also the recent death of Alan Turner. He was one of Matthew Dolman’s associates.’
Harding continued to exercise his neck muscles. ‘I met them when I was working for Frost Enterprises.’
‘I want some background into the relationship between the three men.’
‘Frost had his entire business riding on the successful outcome of the tender to win the electrification contract. Dolman and Turner made him believe that he was guaranteed to win. They had all the right contacts. They knew people in the government, people who would scrutinise the tender process, people who could put the tender together. It was supposed to have been a guaranteed success. Frost paid Dolman and Turner huge amounts in fees which he raised by mortgaging the business and his house to the bank.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘Turner was supposed to smooth things along. He was an operator. He knew the right people to take for lunch, the right hands to shake.’
Harding reached for a glass of water on a small table by the side of his chair.
‘I was amazed when the contract was awarded to that company from London especially as they were connected to some offshore outfit.’
‘How did Frost react?’ Lydia asked.
‘He was utterly shocked. And I mean lost for words. I haven’t seen him so upset since he’d lost his wife.’
I sat back in the sofa. ‘So what happened to the business?’
‘It was only a matter of time. Frost didn’t wait around. He parked his Bentley near the Cefn Coed viaduct in Merthyr Tydfil and then threw himself off. Some walkers said that he smiled at them before he jumped.’
We sat silently for a few seconds. Neither Lydia nor I knew what to say. I could barely imagine the pain of a man driven to suicide. How could a person face that?
‘When did his wife die?’
Harding took a sip of water. ‘I can’t be certain about the date. A year before he died, maybe more. A journalist confronted her on her doorstep about revelations she was going to make about Frost and some rent boys in London. He’d been there with Dolman. One of those freebie weekends. This journalist had the TV crew with cameras ready. But Agnes Frost had a heart attack on the spot. The journalists were sick enough to carry on filming whilst she was lying on the floor. The paramedics couldn’t revive her.’
‘Did they have any children?’
‘No. But Frost had been married before. I don’t know the details but he had a daughter I believe.’
My mobile rang and I fished it out of my pocket. I recognised the pathologist’s number. ‘I’m busy right now. Let me call you back in five minutes.’
We thanked Harding for his time and left. As soon as we were outside, I rang Paddy.
He launched immediately into an explanation of the post mortem. ‘Turner must have struggled. There are several defensive wounds to the hands and arms. And the trajectory of the blade is downwards. There is evidence from the US that suggests a woman tends to stab downwards whereas a man will thrust upwards.’
‘Come off it, Paddy. It would have needed a lot of force to kill Turner.’
‘Still doesn’t rule out a woman. But it was the same sort of weapon – even the same one.’
‘Can you be certain?’
‘Nothing certain in this line of work. You know that, John. The killer knew where to strike but was caught off guard.’
‘How likely do you think it is that it was the same killer?’
He paused. ‘I would say that on the balance of probabilities it was the same type of blade used in a similar way with the same result.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Paddy. Was it the same killer? Am I definitely looking for the same killer?’
‘I’d say so.’
*
I ate a stale chicken sandwich at my desk as I scanned the post mortem report on Turner. Then I deleted most of the emails in my inbox although I dwelt on the briefing note from Dave Hobbs. He used all the usual jargon: ‘stakeholders’, ‘measurable outcomes’ and ‘resource management’ that made me realise why I’d never be promoted. I was halfway through when the telephone rang. It was a welcome distraction.
‘DI Marco.’
‘Hannah Peters, Inspector. There’s something wrong.’
I put the rest of my sandwich on the wrapping on my desk. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My papers are all out of order as if someone has been rifling through them.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Of course. It must have happened over the weekend before Alan was killed.’
‘You didn’t notice anything yesterday?’
‘I didn’t stay after seeing you. I just couldn’t bear it.’
‘Stay where you are. I’ll get a forensic team there straight away.’
I dialled Alvine. ‘I need a full forensic search of Turner’s office. There’s been a breakin there last night.’
‘I can’t just…’ It sounded like her mouth was full.
‘And Alvine, it’s urgent.’
‘I’m in the middle—’
‘I’ll tell Hannah Peters to expect you.’
Alvine’s muffled protests continued as I slammed the receiver down.
On my way out of the Incident Room I delegated Lydia to visit Hannah. I needed to complete the picture of Alan Turner’s current workload so I found my car keys and headed out for the offices of Silverwood. A preliminary search before I left had told me that Keith Wood, the owner of the business, lived in one of the expensive suburbs in the north of the city and that he and his wife were the main shareholders of the business. I wondered who was behind the anonymous-sounding company that owned twenty per cent of the shares, so I had emailed Boyd Pierce to ask him to invest
igate.
In an industrial unit to the north of the city Silverwood had a large office building with a yard behind it that had a collection of plant and equipment. I parked in a slot reserved for visitors and made my way to reception. A yucca plant needed watering badly and there were old copies of various driving magazines on the table by some visitor chairs. The receptionist gave me a suspicious look as though I was the first visitor that week.
I pushed my warrant card towards her. ‘I need to see the owner.’
She managed a narrow smile and pointed at the visitor chairs. ‘Please sit down.’
I heard her talking over the telephone explaining that Mr Wood really needed to come to reception. I flicked through one of the well-thumbed magazines and scanned the images of the latest Range Rover.
‘What can I do for you?’ There was a loud booming voice from the other side of reception as a man in his forties, a white shirt straining at his girth, came striding over towards me. ‘Keith Wood. I’m the MD here.’ He stretched out a hand.
‘I’m investigating the deaths of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner. Is there somewhere private where we can talk?’
He turned on his heels and led me into a small conference room off reception. ‘Now what’s this about?’ He sat down and leant over the table. A dull band of light fell on his face highlighting his pasty complexion.
‘Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner were involved when the Stanway business was sold to you.’
‘Certainly were.’
‘How much did you pay?’
‘A pound and the debts.’
I frowned. ‘Can you explain?’
‘Of course. There some debts that my company assumed and then I paid a pound for the actual business. But I had to take on the liabilities.’
‘And now I understand that you’re selling up.’
‘Certainly am.’ He patted his sizeable belly. ‘Can’t go on like this for ever. Got to get out and start getting healthy.’
‘How much are you selling the business for?’
Wood sat back and inclined his head slightly. ‘That’s confidential. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Does the National Bank of Wales support your business? Do you have loans with them?’
I could see him thinking. ‘The bank has supported us right from the beginning.’
He had a dark brooding edge to his eyes behind the bluff personality.
‘And Alan Turner?’
‘It’s terribly sad. He got things done smoothly.’
‘Would it be true to say that you’re making a lot of money from the sale of the business?’
Wood smirked. ‘Certainly am.’ He added without any reservation, ‘Can’t wait to retire.’
Keith Wood answered all my questions about the business and I skirted around asking him about Stanway Engineering half-expecting him to be evasive but he had no hesitation in telling me how he had capitalised on their reputation and expertise to grow Silverwood.
I shook Keith Wood’s rather sweaty hand after thanking him for his help and went back to my car. I smoked a cigarette and thought about Stanway and the small house he rented. Then my mobile rang and I recognised Cornock’s number.
‘Get back here. Another video’s been released.’
Chapter 19
Superintendent Cornock stared at the screen clutching the remote. Susan Peel from the public relations department stood by his side chewing her lip. She gave me a dark glance as I mumbled a greeting.
The screen came to life and two hooded individuals stood for the camera. I stared at the screen hoping that I could visualise that one of these men was Henson. But, again, there was nothing to identify gender. They wore black head to toe, even thick black fleecy gloves.
The taller one recited a monologue to the camera.
‘Another greedy bastard has been killed. A man who thought nothing of taking advantage of the weak and helpless in society by being involved with the banking establishment. He had made himself indispensable to the corrupt, monied elite that rule our country. But he wasn’t indispensable to the people of Wales or the people of the United Kingdom who have suffered because of the greed of the bankers.’
Cornock pressed pause, and turned to me, lips clasped closely together, his eyes narrowed. ‘This is absolute madness.’ He drew the tips of two fingers across his furrowed brow as if trying to find a pressure point. ‘We need to find these people. And we need to stop them.’
‘When was this released?’ I said.
‘An hour ago,’ Peel said without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘Is it the same group as before?’
Peel nodded quickly. ‘When this goes viral then we are all in deep shit.’
Cornock turned back to the screen, pressed play and watched intensely as the two figures started again.
‘It is time for the corrupt banking elite to realise that the ordinary people cannot bail them out for their corrupt practices. The bankers who have lined their pockets and continue to do so will not be tolerated any longer. Everyone associated with them is tainted in the same way. It is time for things to change.’
Cornock pressed pause again. He spoke slowly this time. ‘It’s got to be the same group.’
I could remember the smugness on Dolman’s face as he destroyed every argument that Henson put forward in their television debate. Henson had looked incoherent and the interview had turned him into a laughing stock. But was it enough to kill Dolman? And why kill Alan Turner?
‘There isn’t much more,’ Cornock said.
The screen came to life again with the sound of the electronically altered voices filling the silence of Cornock’s office. We listened to a long catalogue of statistics and facts about the impact of the financial bailout that had rescued the banks in 2008 and how the level of bankers’ bonuses hadn’t been curbed as a result. It sounded like propaganda always did, plausible on one level, even compelling and probably persuasive for some people. Individuals like Henson were on a mission to change society for the better or certainly their view of it. I was waiting for some demand, a reason to justify the deaths of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner. The final part of the video explained that a Robin Hood tax on the profits of the bankers and additional profits on their bonuses was the only way to secure a stable banking sector.
‘This probably means that they are capable of killing again,’ Cornock said as the tape finished. He sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk and looked over at Peel perched on the edge of one of the visitor chairs. ‘How are you going to respond?’
‘We’ve drafted a brief announcement. This time around there won’t be any press conference. We are not going to give this group any extra publicity.’
Cornock nodded. I stepped over towards the window and leant on the sill. The evening had drawn in; light pollution formed a pale white mask over the city centre. Drizzle fell against the window pane.
‘I’ve spoken to the assistant chief constable,’ Cornock said. ‘Forensics is going to do everything to analyse this video. It’s already with psychologists and a specialist forensic team. Hopefully they will give us some idea of who these people are. They reckon they might be able to filter out some of this electronic crap. If that’s the case we might identify an accent.’
It all sounded very positive. But I preferred to rely on old-fashioned police work. Doing the hard graft of knocking on doors and talking to people who might know something.
‘What do you think, John?’ Cornock said.
I stepped away from the window. ‘I’m not sure I believe all this corrupt banker nonsense.’ I was thinking about the messages printed on Henson’s computer. It just didn’t fit. The link to Henson was too convenient and a gut feeling held me back from charging off to arrest him.
Cornock leant back in his chair. Peel sat more upright.
‘Why kill Alan Turner? He’s not a banker,’ I said.
‘But he was closely associated with Matthew Dolman,’ Cornock said.
‘These a
ctivists are on a campaign against the corrupt bankers. It just doesn’t make sense that they go round killing someone like Alan Turner.’
Peel piped up. ‘Then why make these videos and distribute them all over the internet? The whole world has seen them.’
I shrugged. I knew that the forensic analysis on the videotapes might give us some clues, something we could use. In the meantime, I could keep joining the dots, hoping to make sense of why Dolman and Turner had been killed and more importantly, what connected them. When Peel left, she gave Cornock a limp-looking handshake that she repeated with me.
Cornock waved a hand to one of the visitor chairs.
‘We need answers soon, John. The ACC is getting a shed load of pressure. More pressure than you would ever imagine.’
I nodded slowly. I couldn’t remember seeing Superintendent Cornock so agitated.
‘I’m going to speak to Troy and Rex Dolman again—’
‘Don’t you think you should be concentrating on these activist groups?’
‘There are questions I need clarified with the Dolman brothers first.’
Cornock raised his eyebrows, sat back in his chair and said slowly, ‘I really hope you are right, John.’
By the time I got back to the Incident Room, the place was quiet. I switched on the light and the fluorescent tube flickered into life. Chairs had been tucked under desks, papers neatly stored away. I stepped over towards the board and looked at the images of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner. I sat down in the chair Wyn used, put my feet on the desk, threaded my fingers together and propped my head back, hoping it might encourage clear thinking.
It would take days for the psychologists to analyse each sentence and every paragraph, as they looked for some hidden meaning in the individual words on the video recordings. And among the various names on the board was the answer.
I left the police station and walked over to my car.
I tried not to miss a meeting. It was the comfort of sitting in a group of strangers, who had become friends, of sorts. In the old days I could persuade myself that I could have one drink and stop right there. Just to be sociable. Before my promotion, heavy drinking was an essential part of my curriculum vitae as a detective sergeant. It had to be done, at least every Friday night. And then there were the weeknights when I’d be working late and somebody would suggest a nightcap. One drink became five and then eight and by the end of the evening, all I could remember would be somebody pushing me into a mini cab.
Another Good Killing Page 11