*
Glanville Tront had taken years to develop the perfect head of manicured hair that was drawn back over his head in long strands. He wore a bright pink shirt with a pair of Welsh dragon cufflinks. I made do with a jacket from Marks & Spencer every couple of years but a lawyer of Glanville’s reputation probably had a new suit every season.
‘Inspector Marco.’ He emphasised my name as though my involvement had come as a complete bombshell to him.
‘Glanville,’ I said.
We were standing in front of the sergeant’s desk in the custody suite.
‘I understand that Jamie Henson has suffered injuries while in custody.’
‘Really?’ I turned to look at the custody sergeant who unfolded his arms and arched his eyebrows. ‘He slipped on the threshold. Banged his nose.’ He kept a completely deadpan expression.
The entrance door was well away from the CCTV cameras that covered the custody suite.
Glanville continued. ‘You’ll have no objection if we have an independent doctor examine him.’
‘As soon as we’ve finished the interview.’
He gave me another wary look. The custody sergeant shouted for one of the constables to collect Henson from his cell. I headed towards an interview room and sat down, waiting for Henson to arrive and I suddenly realised how odd it felt without Lydia. I was still thinking about her when Tront entered with Henson.
I pressed my lips together and narrowed my eyes. He had a round, almost chubby face but it couldn’t disguise the contempt in his eyes. His ginger hair fell over his forehead in unruly waves and he brushed it back as he sat down. He stared at me over his long nose. The bruise under his left eye would be a vibrant colour later today. Once I’d got the formalities for the interview finished I rearranged the papers on my desk and then looked over at Henson.
‘Tell me about what you do in your protest group?’
He sat forward, pleased with the chance to convince me of his cause. ‘We’re doing everything we can to get people to see that there is an alternative to the way our economy is run. It doesn’t have to be about paying bankers huge bonuses. Things can be different.’
‘Did you know Matthew Dolman?’
He turned his face into a contemptuous grin.
‘You know full well that he was on the television programme with me.’
‘That interview didn’t go too well, did it?’
He averted his gaze. Glanville scribbled something in his notepad.
‘The establishment was against me of course. The television company had planned it that way. Everyone could see that they conspired with Dolman.’
Looking into his eyes I tried to fathom out whether he really believed that.
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Everyone could see that I was right. Dolman was a typical capitalist: only interested in making profit.’
‘Did you meet him at any other time?’
‘No. Never wanted to either.’
I shuffled my papers. There had been no time to prepare an interview plan. I had to find Lydia, and I was convinced that Henson knew where she was.
‘Then tell me about the morning Matthew Dolman was killed.’
Henson crossed his arms and gloated. ‘Is this part of the plot to silence me?’
‘A note was left at the scene.’
Henson shrugged.
I shifted through my papers even though I knew exactly where I had left the relevant message. I pulled it out and then pushed it over at him.
‘Take a look at this.’
He gave it a cursory glance before throwing it back over the table at me.
‘Do you agree with what was written – Greedy Bastard?’
Henson couldn’t help himself. ‘Of course I do. He was exactly that: a Greedy Bastard who made millions on the back of ordinary working class people—’
‘Where were you that morning, Jamie?’ I had had enough anti-capitalist rants to last a lifetime.
‘In bed.’
‘Anyone vouch for that?’
He slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t kill him. There’s no way you can prove that. You’re just part of the establishment attempt to smother our protest.’
‘And Alan Turner. Did you know him?’
Henson leant forward – even he could see how the questioning was going. ‘I had never heard of him until after his death.’
He rested his elbows on the table, his face in his hands. All I needed to do was reach over the table, grab him by his shirt and then smash his head against the wall until he confessed and told me where he had hidden Lydia. Bad idea. So I went back to the script.
‘There was another message left with Turner’s body.’
Henson started picking his nails.
I found the second message and gripped it between two fingers. ‘Read this,’ I managed.
He gave it another cursory look and threw it back at me.
Bad move. The tension just moved up a notch and I breathed out slowly, hoping Henson and Tront wouldn’t notice.
‘It was found on Turner’s body.’
Tront picked up the plastic envelope from the desk. ‘Is this all the evidence you’ve got?’ He curled up one eyebrow and gave me a patronising smile at the same time.
‘Where were you on the Sunday night that Alan Turner was murdered?’
‘At home drinking pink gins and watching Downton Abbey.’
I gazed over at Henson. I didn’t think he was capable of humour.
‘Do you recognise the message left by his body?’
‘Why the fuck should I?’
I found the message delivered to Queen Street police station. ‘We received this over a week ago.’
He didn’t bother to pick it up this time. ‘So what?’
‘Do you recognise it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Detective Sergeant Lydia Flint has been missing since last night. She’s been abducted. She was conducting surveillance outside the home of one of your friends. He’s a member of the group that you lead.’
Henson leant back, folded his arms severely and stared at me. ‘And what has that got to do with me?’
‘Kidnap and assault are serious charges.’
‘We know that Inspector,’ Tront said with a tired tone to his voice.
‘And you’re certain you know nothing about these messages or the abduction of Lydia Flint. A video has been released and it’s just like the previous ones that condemn the bankers.’
He shook his head repeatedly.
‘Did you know where Matthew Dolman lived?’
‘Some fancy place in the Vale, no doubt.’
‘Did you know Paul Youlden?’
He gave me a supercilious glare. I reached for the laptop on the desk. I opened the cover and switched it on.
‘I’ll ask you again. Do you know where Matthew Dolman lived?’
He avoided eye contact.
The screen flickered to life. ‘I’m going to show you some footage we recovered from a laptop seized at the home of Paul Youlden.’ I clicked the play button and we watched in silence. ‘The recording is taken outside Matthew Dolman’s home. Forensic analysis has confirmed that it’s your voice we’ve just heard.’
Henson shook his head again.
Glanville had a neutral look on his face. Then he scribbled furiously in his pad.
‘And one of the videos was posted to the internet from a café in Pontypridd. We’re waiting to speak to one of the staff there who’s been on holiday. But if you have been there now is the time to tell us.’
‘You have no idea. No idea at all.’
‘And on the morning of Matthew Dolman’s death we have CCTV coverage of someone leaving the scene. Forensics are trying to establish the identity of the individual involved. If it was you, Jamie, then cooperation now will help.’
I tilted my head towards him and managed the barest of smiles. I lingered over the papers, saving the best until last. I scanned the CSI repo
rt from Alvine that confirmed the link to Henson’s printer.
‘The messages left on the body of Matthew Dolman and Alan Turner were produced on the printer we discovered in your premises.’
‘You cannot be serious.’ Henson straightened in his chair and glanced at Tront. ‘This is a fucking set-up.’
I looked over at him, directly in the eyes. ‘And we searched a property last night in Womanby Street. Our information is that you used that property to make your propaganda videos. If there is any forensics to link that property to the three deaths so far or the abduction of Lydia the CSIs will find it.’
He folded his arms and stared back at me. I tried one more question.
‘Jamie Henson. This is your opportunity to tell me what you’ve done with Sergeant Flint.’
Chapter 41
The wrinkles of worry deepened on Cornock’s forehead with every explanation I offered him about the justification for charging Henson. He shook his head before sighing when I answered his question about the complete absence of any eyewitness evidence. Then he stared over at the tropical fish hurtling around the tank.
‘I hope the search of his home and premises will be more productive.’ He spoke so slowly that even I had doubts. ‘Was there any forensics in Lydia’s car?’
‘None, sir.’
‘So if Henson isn’t responsible for abducting her, who is? Have you thought about that?’
I nodded.
‘And what has Cleaver said?’
‘He knows nothing about Dolman or Turner and we can’t put him in Harper’s office building at the time he was killed.’
‘So he’s a dead end.’
It took me an hour to explain our suspicions about Troy Dolman. Increasingly his eyes narrowed until they had almost disappeared into small dark nuggets. When I had suggested we interview Troy he shook his head. So I stopped.
I returned to my office; desperation and exhaustion were beginning to have a numbing effect on my body. I couldn’t remember whether I had eaten but I knew from the wheezing in my chest that I had smoked far more than I should have done.
It was late when I left the office. The journey back to my apartment passed in a blur. Cornock had spoken with Lydia’s parents that afternoon and they had reacted badly, wanting to point the finger of blame and demanding to know everything that had happened and why their daughter had been on unsanctioned surveillance in the first place.
I tried to imagine how my mother would have reacted in the same situation. I knew she would have been distraught. I had to have a clear head for the morning and I knew I had to sleep. But instead of parking outside the flat I drove on the short distance to the Bay and then down a side street towards The Captain Scott. The public house was still there and light poured out of the window. The front door opened and three men in their early twenties streamed out; laughter and the faint sound of a television followed them onto the pavement. Years ago, the events of the day would have justified a long stay in the pub until well after closing time. The landlord at the time would have protested but I’d flash my warrant card and he’d roll his eyes and close the curtains.
One of the men bumped into my car as they walked past and he raised a hand as an apology. I pondered what a pint of Brains might taste like and how it would help to soothe my guilt. I got out, crossed over to the pub and breezed in like a regular. None of the bar staff were familiar and I guessed that I would not have been welcome had I been recognised.
I walked up to the bar and stood waiting to be served. I should have known that the surveillance was an idiotic idea and I should have dismissed it as soon as Lydia had made the suggestion. Suddenly the urge to down a large vodka in one mouthful was overpowering.
A barman stood in front of me. ‘What can I get you?’
I stared at the bar.
He cleared his throat. ‘What’s your poison?’
I jerked my head towards him. ‘Vodka and tonic.’ It was my voice but I didn’t recognise it.
Henson knew more than he was telling me. I had been doing this job too long to ignore that annoying gut feeling that senior management scoffed at. What the hell did that mean? I hadn’t done too well organising the surveillance and now I had a thin case against Henson and no more than a ‘gut’ feeling to propel the case forward.
A glass arrived with three lumps of ice and a slice of lemon draped over them, its bottom edge licking the vodka. A small bottle was dumped alongside it. Wordlessly I paid and the barman left. I moved a shaking hand to the glass and grasped it. Tomorrow I would make progress. Tomorrow we’d find Lydia and that extra piece of evidence. Tomorrow I would be sober and clear-headed.
I stood, killing time, the glass cold against my fingers.
Then I drove home.
Chapter 42
Most Sundays I would have been sitting at home reading the sports pages in the supplements calculating if it was mathematically possible for Cardiff City to make certain of a place in the Championship promotion play-offs. And then it would be a matter of deciding which teams Cardiff might be better off playing for that third promotion spot. Instead, I had arrived early at Queen Street and was busy going back to the start of the investigation and cursing myself for not having done that sooner.
I was staring at the board when Wyn arrived, Jane following seconds later.
‘Good morning, boss.’ They both said, almost in unison.
‘We’ve missed something,’ I said, my gaze drifting to the image of Matthew Dolman on the board. I thought about everything we knew about his life. His wife and Troy and Rex and mistress and then Charlie. They had holidays in the South of France that were now irreplaceable. At least I could see Dean whenever I wanted even though until now it had been sporadic. ‘Did we get the full details of that flat in Nice that Dolman owned?’
‘It was in the name of an offshore company,’ Jane said.
‘Of course. Did we ever get the details of the apartment that Turner owned in Sydney?’
Wyn replied now. ‘Sure thing, boss. It came in yesterday. I emailed you the details.’
Minutes later the printer spewed out the details from the New South Wales police. The flat was in Turner’s sole name. Then I double-checked the name of the company on the French land registry. Something about an offshore company rang a bell. I scrambled through all the records until I found it: an offshore company was involved in the electrification contract.
I reached for the telephone and rang Harding.
‘I’m just tying up some loose ends. Do you have the name of the offshore company that won the electrification contract?’
‘Somewhere. I’ll need to call you back.’
The line went dead and I recalled my conversation with Harding. I dragged a shred of recollection about Frost’s first wife but it had been something I had ignored so I resolved to ask more about Malcolm Frost.
Harding rang back sooner than I had expected. I listened as he gave me the name. I didn’t need to write it down: it matched the name on the French land registry. The electrification contract linked Dolman and Turner, and the investigation into Malcolm Frost’s company had drawn a blank. Until now.
‘Thank you,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tension in my voice. ‘Did Malcolm Frost have any children from his first marriage?’
‘A daughter. A real pretty girl who doted on him apparently.’
‘Do you know her name and address?’
‘I think his first wife was called Daphne and I seem to recall that she was older than the average mother. In her forties, maybe. I think she went to live in London. But other than that I can’t help.’
I was already on my feet before he finished. I called Jane and Wyn through and barked orders for them to get digging into Frost and his company and family.
‘Is this going to help us find Lydia?’ Jane said.
‘Just do it,’ I said through lips that were fast losing their colour.
I requisitioned all the usual searches to find Daphne Frost but having
a name and the vague knowledge that she was living in London wasn’t a great place to start. A Google search had produced 411,000 results and I knew that the WPS budget would not stretch to having an officer search each one.
I didn’t know if she was alive or dead. Or emigrated. There was nothing in the Police National Computer and I had no national insurance number to use. She could have changed her name so I was beginning to think it was a loose end.
It didn’t help that there was computer maintenance ongoing in the office of the registrar of births, deaths and marriages so it would be Monday before I could instigate a search for their marriage certificate. If she had remained unmarried she might have reverted to her maiden name and I had no idea what it was.
I requisitioned uniformed officers from Pontypridd to track down some of the old employees of Frost’s business and see if they could help. I spent the rest of the morning clicking through as many press reports about Frost as I could find. Prominent Businessman Kills Himself was the least colourful. And the press printed everything they wanted: it made sordid reading. How much of it was true was probably irrelevant.
I read again about the electrification of the railway from London to Cardiff and then the Valleys line. The money involved was staggering and it was probably borrowed by the government from banks. No wonder they needed the banks. And the banks needed them. Nothing changes really.
I blanked out the activity in the Incident Room, beyond my firmly shut door. Lydia would have interrupted me. She would have barged straight in if she needed something. I kept thinking about her and it hardened my resolve to find her.
I stopped for a moment and thought about the look on Henson’s face when I showed him the messages found with the bodies. It had been genuine surprise. There hadn’t been any of the pouting bravado of the zealous extremist. I tapped a ballpoint on the desk; the noise helped me think. I had to think.
Maybe Henson wasn’t the killer and someone else was responsible. I sat back in my chair and read the names of the people in the offices. There were legal assistants and paralegals and lawyers with different titles and then the administration staff. There were clients of the firm attending meetings but there wasn’t a name that I recognised apart from Charlotte Parkinson and Troy Dolman. And then I thought about Harding’s remark – pretty girl.
Another Good Killing Page 23