Dead Smart

by Stephen Puleston

  Stepping into the victim’s home was always helpful. I wanted to smell the environment, picture him at home. I moved into the kitchen where I opened various cupboards; they had all the usual requirements of spartan living: ketchup, brown sauce, and various tins of soup and dried noodles. I moved a jar of cheap instant coffee to one side and spotted a packet of teabags spilling its contents.

  I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to achieve with this domestic inspection but it always felt necessary in helping me to get to know a victim. Westford’s home made me realise how incongruous the image of him sitting in a Maserati actually was. I wondered if there might be other images kept on a computer or on a mobile telephone so I rang Alvine who confirmed what I suspected.

  ‘We didn’t find a mobile telephone.’

  Everyone has a mobile telephone so I wondered where Westford’s might be. If his assailant had taken it, there must have been a reason. I wondered if Westford had a laptop or a PC he used where he might store other photographs so I started searching. Half an hour later I had finished moving the contents of shelves and cupboards, upending sofa cushions, but had still found nothing. Apart from a suspicion that a missing mobile was significant and that Westford’s sitting in various expensive cars meant something.

  I walked through into the bedrooms. The first had a single bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a small bedside light. The posters pinned to the wall were images of the footballers that played for the current Cardiff City team. It had a rather sterile feel as though the room was used for the occasional visit of a young child. Hartley perhaps?

  A blue-and-white duvet was draped over a double bed in the second and larger bedroom. A Bluebirds scarf hung across the headboard; various mementoes and mugs lined a shelf on one wall. I noticed a pile of programmes by the side of his bed and realised I could have passed the dead man in the Cardiff City Stadium, bumped into him walking out of the ground or jostled with him as we queued for a chicken pie at half-time. But Westford’s throat had been clinically sliced open outside the stadium, which implied it was more than just another gangland killing. This felt personal, professional.

  I walked round the bed drawing a finger along the surface of the chest of drawers. The neatness of the duvet and the bedding surprised me, and gave the room a feminine touch somehow. There was a similar order in the drawers of the chest backed up against one wall– the clothes weren’t expensive, but they looked clean, tidy.

  I turned my attention to the rest of the wardrobe. Westford had an impressive collection of the various strips used by the Bluebirds, all neatly folded and stored in the shelves at one end. There was a wide shelf at the top that I couldn’t reach so after returning from the kitchen with a chair I climbed up and moved various old clothes and shopping bags to one side, but found nothing of interest. After a few minutes I gave up and started on the boxes at the bottom of the wardrobe. I found a box file with payslips and P60s and memos from the trade union Westford had belonged to. Sitting on the edge of the bed I scanned three printed bank statements before flicking through the last few entries on his credit card account. Nothing unusual drew my attention.

  It was all too normal, but then I remembered that members of the Soul Crew could often be stable members of society with regular jobs and families.

  Eddie had been killed for a reason. There was always a motive and the selfies were the only evidence of something that didn’t fit into Westford’s ordinary life. It made me worried that we had missed some vital clue.

  I nudged a shoebox aside with my right foot before picking it up and examining the contents. Underneath various papers relating to his divorce was a tenancy agreement for the flat. The document looked professional and correspondence from Clayton Properties referred to work planned on the outside of the building.

  The sound of footsteps outside the flat caught my attention. I stopped and looked up and over to the door guessing that one of the upstairs tenants was leaving. But there was something else, a presence as though someone was standing, contemplating what to do. I stepped through into the hallway, thinking that this would be an opportunity to speak to one of Westford’s neighbours.

  Then I stopped dead in my tracks as I heard the sound of a key scratching in the lock and muffled conversation.

  I stared at the door, my mind racing. I hadn’t asked Kylie if she had a key and I tried guessing who else might have access to Eddie’s flat. I cursed silently as I realised that the door would open towards me which made it difficult to confront the intruders on the threshold. I let my breathing slow hoping that I wouldn’t be heard.

  The door eased open. A hand appeared at the edge and then a shoulder before the person stepped into the flat. I moved. A fraction too early. The man sensed my presence and he pushed the door towards me.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ he yelled.

  I noticed another figure in the doorway as I lurched to one side, losing my footing. An instant later he was out of the door running down the thinly carpeted stairs. I shouted as I careered after them. ‘Stop, police.’

  They reached the front door and slammed it shut. Fumbling with the lock delayed me until I flung the door open and rushed outside. I glanced left and right and then, no more than a hundred yards down the pavement, I saw the backs of two men, one with long blond hair, so I sprinted after them. They dodged down a side street and for a few seconds I lost sight of them until I turned the corner and watched as they jumped into a car.

  I ran into the middle of the road, arms flailing uselessly in the air, but they were gone.

  Thursday

  4.47 pm

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  Boyd leant over the desk and peered at me.

  I shook my head slowly. I had been trying all the techniques normally used to get witnesses to remember faces and features, but nothing was working.

  ‘One of them had long blond hair.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  I saw the incredulity in Boyd’s eyes. I ran my hands over my face hoping it might help. ‘And he wore a dark jacket.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘The other one wore a beanie hat and—’

  ‘A dark jacket?’

  ‘At least I ran after them. Maybe someone in the street at the time saw something.’

  Boyd sat back in his chair; I shared the sceptical look he gave me. ‘What were they after?’

  ‘There was nothing in the flat. At least nothing that I could see.’

  I let the last comment hang in the air knowing that by late evening the search team I had organised would have finished the task of dismantling every part of Westford’s flat. I reached over for the shoebox and tipped out the contents. Scattered among the court papers from his divorce were till receipts from McDonald’s in the Bay and the bowling alley nearby. In fact he had several old McDonald’s till receipts and several petrol receipts from various garages including services on the M5 motorway. The telephone ringing was a welcome distraction. Boyd carried on picking at the various scraps of paper.

  ‘Sergeant Ellis, sir.’ I recognised the voice of the search team supervisor.

  ‘I hope you’ve got some news for me.’

  ‘We’ve just finished and there was no sign of any computer equipment.’

  I tried to hide my annoyance as I pondered how little we knew about Westford. After Ellis promised me a report in the morning I finished the call and turned back to Boyd.

  ‘How did you get on at the council offices?’

  Boyd loosened his tie before rolling his eyes. ‘Waste of time, boss.’

  I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘It was as though Westford was invisible. He came to work, did his job, never any trouble, never controversial, never stirred things up and always did exactly as he was told. It was like listening to the perfect employee record.’

  ‘Even though he had a criminal conviction?’

  ‘It happened in Newcastle years ago and the papers in Cardiff didn’t cover it
and the TV didn’t pick it up so it never got major publicity and he slipped under the radar. The guy knew about it but afterwards Westford was never in trouble so it wasn’t an issue.’

  Another layer of frustration. I wondered when we might make progress. I picked up the tenancy agreement.

  ‘I’ll talk to his workmates in the morning,’ Boyd said.

  I was thinking about Cardiff’s home game at the weekend and whether we could get any intelligence on the Cardiff City Soul Crew. There was only one way I could manage it that quickly.

  ‘There someone else I need to see.’

  Chapter 3

  Thursday

  08.14 pm

  Terry sidled into the bench seat opposite me and grinned. ‘What’s the panic, Marco?’

  Terry had thick dark hair and three days’ growth of stubble. He had been a regular informant who had provided me with valuable information over the years. If anyone could tell me about the Cardiff City Soul Crew, he could.

  ‘Soul Crew.’

  I sipped on my Americano. He took a long mouthful from a pint of Brains that left a cream tidemark along the glass when he replaced it on the table.

  ‘They’re all fucking nutters.’

  ‘A guy called Eddie Westford was killed on Tuesday night.’

  The lack of any reaction told me the name meant nothing to him.

  ‘Someone sliced his throat open in the car park at the Cardiff City Stadium.’ I paused but Terry looked at me unperturbed. ‘Westford was linked to the Soul Crew years ago. And he was convicted of a nasty assault in Newcastle when a group of lads were caught smashing up shops and breaking noses and arms.’

  ‘All the usual stuff.’

  ‘I need information about what’s happening now in the Soul Crew, and whether Westford was involved in some way.’

  ‘Things have changed, you know that. There’s CCTV everywhere and tickets for the games are controlled now. The visiting fans are segregated from home crowds so there isn’t the chance for mindless violence and thuggery.’ Terry sighed as though it were a major disappointment.

  ‘They must be still around though?’

  Terry reached over for his beer and emptied a good quarter. Talking to me was always thirsty work. ‘A pub on St Mary’s Street was a regular haunt for most of them. It had one of those jukeboxes that played soul music all the fucking time. It got on my nerves, big time.’

  Then he finished his pint and swirled the glass around on the table. He lifted his empty pint glass, and looked over at the bar. I got the message so I trooped off and returned with a refill. Terry gave me a nod of thanks and started on the drink. ‘I did know a couple of lads involved in the Crew years ago. I haven’t spoken to them for a while and I don’t suppose it will do any harm to catch up for old time’s sake.’

  I finished the last of my coffee. He took another large gulp.

  ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘Westford.’

  Terry was halfway through his second pint. ‘It’ll cost you.’

  That got my attention.

  ‘I’ll need a few quid. Grease the wheels. You know what I mean. I’ll have to be out Friday night and then before the home game on Saturday. I’ll need to buy burgers and booze.’ He lowered his voice, leant over the table, and whispered. ‘And I’ll need to go back for every home game for the next two months so it looks natural. I want none of those nutters getting the idea I’m a grass. And if you do hit the Crew I need to be well clear.’

  I nodded and reached for my wallet. I fished out three twenty-pound notes and he gave them a forlorn look.

  ‘This won’t—’

  ‘And I need an update next week.’

  He slumped back before reaching for his drink. He finished it in one hit and headed out of the bar, my money giving him a new spring in his step.

  Chapter 4

  Friday

  11.30 am

  Orchestral music drifted through the car showroom adding to the restful sophisticated atmosphere. I supposed that customers who could afford a new car expected a certain level of refinement and the assurance their wealth was appreciated. One of the two salesmen who were both on the telephone when I arrived looked up at me and gave me a cursory smile.

  Sunlight poured in through the expanse of glass glistening against the gleaming bodywork and I ambled around two new BMWs pondering how much each cost. Far more than the salary of Eddie Westford would allow. ‘Can I help, sir?’

  I found my warrant card and the how-much-can-you-spend smile disappeared.

  ‘I want some help.’ Now it was my turn to smile.

  He led me over to his desk and I produced from the folder under my arm the photographs Westford had sent his ex-wife.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Eddie Westford.’

  He sat looking at me wide-eyed.

  ‘He sent these photographs from his mobile phone and we need to establish which car he was sitting in at the time.’

  He judged each photograph carefully and then turned towards me. ‘It’s a Series 6 coupé. You can just about see the soft top.’ He leant over and pointed a finger at the rim of the passenger window. ‘And the colour combination is just fabulous. I’ve never seen it before. It looks like Mediterranean blue with an ivory white leather upholstery.’ He let out a sigh like an artist appreciating a glorious sculpture.

  ‘Did you sell a car like this?’

  He stared at the image and then shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a real head-turner. There won’t be many of them around.’

  ‘How much would one cost?’

  ‘It depends on the specification and the extras. They start at fifty-two thousand and the top of the range is just under a hundred thousand.’

  He made the last figure sound like loose change. I had paid less than a tenth of that for a second-hand Mondeo and wondered why anyone would want to spend that sort of money on a car.

  He turned to the second image. ‘At a guess this is a Series 5 but there’s not enough of the cabin to be certain.’ He dropped the photograph onto the desk and picked up the first image again, eyeing it with a loving gaze. ‘Where is this car now?’

  If I knew the answer I would be one step closer to finding Westford’s killer.

  Friday

  1.30 pm

  I chewed the last of my chicken and bacon sandwich before crushing its packaging into a ball and discarding it in the bin by my desk. Boyd appeared at my door with two mugs of coffee and then sat down in one of the visitor chairs.

  ‘How did you get on at the Maserati dealership?’ The cellophane wrapping of a flapjack I bought with the sandwich was fighting back so I pulled at it with my teeth.

  Boyd had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘I sat inside a Quattroporte…’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘You should have smelt the leather, boss. And the dashboard…’

  ‘Could they recognise the car in Westford’s photographs?’

  Boyd straightened, shaking off his daydreaming. ‘I was right. It was a GTS model. The price new is almost three times my annual salary.’

  ‘Have any been stolen recently?’

  He shook his head. ‘Dead end, boss.’

  ‘Damn. Somebody has a Maserati that Eddie Westford sat inside. Let’s get to work on finding if any Maseratis have been stolen in South Wales. And who owns them.’

  ‘Did you have any success with the BMW dealer, sir?’

  ‘A salesman was convinced one of the images is Westford sitting in a Series 6 convertible. He could even name the likely colour of the paint as well as identifying the shade of leather used on the seats.’

  ‘We might get a trace from a dealership as to who bought the car.’

  I nodded. ‘Did you have any luck with the telephone numbers from Westford’s mobile?’

  ‘Nearly all of them are pay-as-you-go. There are a dozen numbers on monthly contracts. I’m waiting for details of who they belong to.’

  I nodded. It was detective work that could
take hours and still produce no leads or any evidence. We finished our coffees after dissecting the little progress we had made before walking into the Incident Room. Westford’s face looked out from the board but there was little else, no significant leads nor even a possible suspect. There was always a motive; it was just a matter of establishing exactly what it was.

  Even though we didn’t have Westford’s actual mobile handset, Kylie had given us his number, which enabled us to requisition his call record, and the pages of numbers had arrived that morning. While Boyd worked on the telephone numbers I concentrated on the preliminary statements from the Cardiff City supporters who had discovered Westford’s body. It had been an audacious killing. There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands of people milling around the concourse outside of the stadium, walking home, making their way to cars, heading for the railway station.

  It was difficult to imagine anyone taking the risk of killing someone in such circumstances.

  The first people on scene were two car park attendants. One of them had dialled 999 and both of them had given similar statements about hearing shouts and then a woman’s scream before they rushed over and discovered the body. A statement from a nearby burger van confirmed the place was teeming with people. How could a murder like that simply go unobserved?

  After the appeal for witnesses had been broadcast on the television news a team of uniformed officers had been busy taking statements and twenty-five had reached my desk earlier. By the beginning of the week there would be dozens more. My frustration built that nobody had noticed Eddie Westford. But then how many people do I notice when I leave the stadium and walk back to my flat? People can hide in plain sight if they want to.