Dead Smart

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘How long will the game last?’ Jill slurred.

  I leant over to the table and replenished my plate hoping nobody would notice how many vol-au-vents I had eaten. Cornock joined me and poured himself a generous measure of wine. ‘Are you looking forward to the game, John?’

  ‘Of course, it makes a change not to sit in the stadium.’

  My season ticket was safely tucked away in the drawer of my bedroom cupboard. Some men went to the pub and got pissed on a Saturday night, but I was well past that stage now. While the other guests downed glasses of prosecco I contented myself with a glass of orange juice which was a thin acidic variety. One of the advantages of being permanently sober was that my taste buds could appreciate orange juice once again.

  Once Jackie had left me after a drunken evening, my first visit to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting had been painful. It had never occurred to me I was an alcoholic until my cousin Jeremy made a snide comment at a family party that stunned me into silence. ‘Every knows you’re an alchy John. Pissed in your sleep recently?’ I’d probably deserved the comment, but it didn’t stop me wanting to take him outside to rearrange his expensive teeth.

  I stared over at Clayton again wondering if there was a connection between him and Westford, or whether it was just coincidence that he leased the victim his flat.

  ‘Michael Haddock has been very generous with his support for some of the contracts Gregory Clayton runs in supporting people back to work.’ Cornock continued.

  It all sounded too good to be true.

  The level of noise from the stadium increased to the point where it drew our attention. I settled into my seat brushing pastry crumbs off my lap before finishing my orange juice. At half-time I excused myself and while, despite the spread on offer, still harbouring cravings for my regular chicken pie I went outside for a smoke. I joined Haddock who was smoking a cigarette with strong pungent smell – probably from the Middle East. ‘I’ve tried to give up.’ Haddock said.

  I nodded an agreed helplessness against our mutual addiction.

  We exchanged some small talk and then returned to the hospitality suite. As the players ran onto the field I thought about Eddie Westford. Had he watched the midweek game? He must have met somebody who had a reason to be at the ground. And reason enough to kill him.

  After the match finished Haddock introduced new members of the forum, hoping that we would all be able to attend the next formal meeting. He even outlined the agenda which did nothing to persuade me that I should diarise the meeting.

  ‘I hope you found that constructive,’ Cornock said as we drove back to Queen Street.

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘Haddock is a useful contact for you.’

  ‘Contact?’

  There must have been more than the correct quotient of cynicism in my voice because Cornock glared at me.

  ‘Yes, John. Someone in the community that can help in building bridges and develop policing in the modern world.’

  He was sounding like a robot and I wondered if it was a natural consequence of promotion.

  Cornock pulled the car into the entrance of Queen Street police station and we both walked over to the main entrance where he punched in his security number.

  He held the door opened and paused, giving me an intense look. ‘Keep me posted, John.’

  He strode into the building leaving me with the feeling that apart from watching Cardiff playing at home my introduction to the forum had been a waste of time. Time that I should have been spending on the Westford inquiry. Even so, the connection to Clayton intrigued me. Another item for my to-do list.

  Chapter 6

  Monday

  09.30

  After reading the analysis of Cardiff’s defeat in the sports section of the morning newspaper I threw it onto the back seat of the car. There was no escaping the conclusion that the team needed a new striker and unless they found one in the next transfer window Cardiff City faced another season with promotion dreams dashed.

  ‘Enjoy the game, sir?’ Boyd said.

  I thought about the celebrations on the field from the Rotherham players after the third goal. It filled me with despair. Rotherham had been in the lowest division two years previously and Cardiff had been in the Premiership the previous season.

  ‘Terrible result.’

  ‘It’s only football, boss.’

  I slowly turned my head towards Boyd. Did he really mean that?

  Boyd slowed by a junction, the pulsing sound of the indicator filling the cabin. The traffic cleared and he steered the car down the side streets of Adamstown towards Kylie Westford’s terraced home. He parked and we marched over to the house. Rap music vibrated from inside and I doubted that even repeated pressing of the doorbell would draw Kylie’s attention. Boyd hammered on a window as I did the same on the front door. The music stopped abruptly, the door opened a few centimetres and Kylie peered at me wearing a thin T-shirt that finished too far up her thighs.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to speak to you.’

  ‘Give me minute.’ She pushed the door closed, returning moments later, her modesty restored with a dressing gown that reached to her ankles but barely around her middle.

  ‘What time is it?’ She rubbed her palms over both eyes.

  ‘We need to speak to you about Eddie.’

  ‘What? Again?’ She flopped onto a large chair.

  Boyd pushed various celebrity magazines to one side and made a place for us to sit on a sofa.

  ‘You didn’t tell us Eddie had been on various holidays with Hartley.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  I paused, and sat back thinking I didn’t have time to waste.

  ‘Perhaps your memory might be better if we spoke to you in one of the interview rooms at Queen Street.’

  ‘He went to Spain. In the last two years he went three times.’

  ‘Where did he get the money to pay for holidays?’

  She raised her voice. ‘How would I know? He didn’t pay for any holidays when we were married. All I know is he bought lots of kit for Hartley recently. And he kept blagging me to go out with him.’

  ‘Did he want to reconcile?’

  She frowned.

  ‘Get back together with you.’

  ‘Dunno.’

  The floorboards squeaked upstairs and then a door closed. ‘Is that Hartley?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s off school today; it’s a training day for the teachers.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  She shrugged again before sidling off the sofa and flouncing over to the door towards the rear of the house. She bellowed up the stairs. Moments later I heard the sound of footsteps descending and a young boy entered the living room rubbing sleep from red-tinged eyes. Even ten-year-old boys could cry when their dad died.

  He sat down next to his mother who draped an arm over his shoulder.

  I lowered my voice, trying to recall the techniques about interviewing young children. ‘My name is John. I’m very sorry about your dad. I’m looking for the person responsible.’

  Hartley’s gaze darted around the room.

  ‘We found some photographs on a laptop your dad owned. They were taken when you were on holiday in Spain. Do you remember that holiday?’

  He nodded. ‘We went swimming.’

  ‘Was your dad a good swimmer?’

  Another nod before he glanced at his mother.

  ‘Did you go with your father to watch the Bluebirds playing? He was a big fan, wasn’t he?’

  Hartley straightened his position. ‘We went to the home games quite often. None of the other boys at school had a dad with a season ticket. And none of them have an MPT.’

  ‘MPT?’

  Kylie offered an explanation. ‘It’s short for male ponytail. Hartley thought it was really cool that Eddie had such long hair.’

  ‘Can you tell me
who was with you when you went on holiday to Spain?’

  I nodded at Boyd who took notes as Hartley gave us names of people who had holidayed with them.

  ‘Did you stay over with your dad, at his flat?’

  ‘Yeah. Sometimes. We would watch old Cardiff City matches and maybe get a takeaway. Mostly it was pizza but sometimes he wanted fish and chips.’

  Kylie added with a grin. ‘Hartley doesn’t like fish and chips.’

  ‘Did you ever meet any of your dad’s friends?’

  The boy shrugged again. ‘Sometimes he talked to people in the stadium after the game.’

  ‘Did you hear what they talked about?’

  He shook his head quickly.

  ‘And what about other times?’

  ‘You mean outside the ground?’

  ‘Yes, or any time.’

  Hartley pushed himself nearer to his mother. I glanced over at Boyd who stopped making notes and gave me a troubled frown.

  ‘Did you see anything, Hartley?’

  He played with the fingers of both hands.

  ‘There were two men who argued with him.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Outside the stadium last week. I was standing in a queue for a burger. Dad went over to talk to one of them.’

  ‘Tell me what happened?’ Although my voice was soft my pulse thumped in my neck.

  Hartley paused. ‘One of them kept jabbing a finger at Dad.’

  ‘Were they arguing?’

  ‘Suppose so. I didn’t like them.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  He shook his head. ‘One of them had long hair like Dad and the other looked like a bird had pooed on his head.’

  ‘I need you to describe both men very carefully, Hartley.’ I hoped that the descriptions might match the men who had run away from Westford’s flat. I pressed him for more details but he had only seen the man with long hair from behind and he gave me a vague description of the second man.

  ‘What happened after they spoke to your dad?’

  ‘They walked over to their car. Dad came back to where I was standing.’

  It would be a longshot to hope that Hartley might have seen the registration number. ‘Do you remember the car?’

  ‘It was a Jaguar XK, Type R.’

  Hartley’s precision stunned me into silence. ‘How can you be certain?’

  Kylie interrupted. ‘He’s mad about cars. He can tell you everything about sports cars. That’s why Eddie sent them photographs. Why don’t you show John your room?’

  Hartley smiled for the first time, then left his mother’s side. I followed him upstairs, Boyd trailing behind me. Every square inch of Hartley’s bedroom was covered with posters from various car manufacturers advertising their latest models. He pointed to each one giving us a summary of the car’s performance. Hartley was particularly well informed about the Jaguar XK sports coupés and left me in no doubt the man Westford had argued with owned one.

  ‘I know it might be difficult for you to remember but when did you see this car exactly? Can you remember the game you were watching?’

  ‘It was the game against Fulham last week. The Bluebirds won 3-1.’

  Returning downstairs I thanked Kylie and as soon as we left I dipped a hand into my jacket pocket and found my mobile. Seconds later I requisitioned intelligence on every owner of a Jaguar XK Type R.

  Monday

  2.00 pm

  The number of Series 6 BMWs sold in the United Kingdom with Mediterranean blue paint and ivory white leather upholstery was much greater than I’d expected. It amazed me that people could afford to buy one of these vehicles and accept the eye-watering depreciation in the first year.

  I scanned the list thinking there must be some way we could thin out the possible candidates. Fifteen of the vehicles had been sold through various dealerships in London. Another five in Manchester, the same number in Leeds and the rest through various dealers in other parts of the UK.

  I bellowed at Boyd who trundled into my office chewing his way through an apple. He sat down and I explained to him we needed to put names, addresses and contact details against each individual vehicle. I allocated the various London dealerships to Boyd and we set about the task in hand.

  All of the dealers in Manchester struck a sceptical defensive tone using data protection as an excuse. After cajoling, each requested formal confirmation and I tapped out one email after another hoping I wouldn’t need to resort to a formal request from Superintendent Cornock to contact them. His words that I should concentrate on the drug dealing angle seemed to get louder during the afternoon. An hour passed and having spoken to only four dealerships a sense that I had set myself an unrealistic task dominated my thoughts. In half an hour I had taken three telephone calls from concerned owners in the north-west of England. All were women who confirmed that their Series 6 BMW coupé was safely locked up in the garage.

  Boyd had been luckier. Seven of the London-based owners had confirmed they still had possession of their pride and joy.

  I slurped a mouthful of hot coffee and then chewed my way through a donut from the bag of pastries that Boyd had dumped on my desk.

  ‘Is this a waste of time boss?’

  ‘I hope not.’ I dabbed a tissue to the corner of my mouth.

  The inbox displayed on my computer monitor told me an email had arrived and I clicked it open and read the response. My heart sank.

  ‘Bad news?’ Boyd said, a worried look on his face.

  ‘Jaguar have just confirmed they made a hundred and fifty XK Type Rs.’

  He sat back and blew out a lungful of breath before saying what was on my mind. ‘This could take days.’

  I got back to the task in hand and started on the dealerships from Leeds. The radiator behind me made an odd gurgling sound as though it was straining to keep up with the demands of heating the room all day. I spoke to startled receptionists, inquisitive salesmen and a couple of nonchalant managing directors. But by the end of the afternoon I was no further forward. Ten more owners had been identified or had called me. Ten cars accounted for.

  I worked my way north until I reached a dealership in Northumberland. The receptionist spoke with a thick Geordie accent. She put me through to her boss who introduced herself as Angela Makepeace.

  ‘I am interested in the possible theft of a Series 6 coupé, Mediterranean blue, ivory white leather upholstery.’

  ‘That’ll be Jim Holland.’

  Relief washed over me that we might have made progress. I stood up, covered the handset and yelled over at Boyd.

  ‘What do you know about the theft?’

  ‘It was last April. He was away somewhere for the weekend and the thieves had managed to steal his keys from him. That’s the only explanation. He complained bitterly about the way the police handled the complaint. He was cut up. His wife adored the car.’

  ‘Can you give me his contact details?’

  I waited; Boyd stood by the door and I waved him into my office.

  I heard a voice dictating a number which I scribbled into a notepad before thanking Angela Makepeace profusely. ‘This is it. A similar car was stolen in Northumberland.’

  ‘Northumberland? Why would Eddie Westford have gone to Northumberland?’

  I punched into my handset the number Makepeace had given me.

  Another Geordie voice answered soon enough. ‘Holland.’

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector John Marco, Wales Police Service. I was given your contact details by Angela Makepeace. I understand your Series 6 BMW coupé was stolen earlier this year.’

  ‘Have you found it? Because it’s taken me months to get a replacement organised.’

  ‘No luck, sir, I’m afraid. But could you tell me some details about the theft of your vehicle?’

  Ten minutes later I had the full details of Holland’s trip to Birmingham. One of his oldest friends had invited him to watch Birmingham City play Cardiff in the Premiership from his corporate box. Holland
gave me an explanation of how successful his friend had been in business. The BMW had been parked in a VIP section and Holland was convinced a pickpocket had been at work because when he returned to the car park he couldn’t find his keys and the vehicle had disappeared. ‘There is no chance anyone could have broken into a BMW in the middle of the car park and stolen it without the keys. It’s just not bloody possible.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of the officer dealing with your complaint?’

  ‘Sergeant Ramsden in the West Midlands Constabulary. And a fat lot of good he was. Anyway what’s all this about?’

  ‘It’s part of an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘If you find my car call me straight away. Where are you again? Cardiff, nice place. Shame Cardiff City went down straight away after a year in the Premiership.’

  I finished the call and sat down, my excitement easing.

  ‘It was stolen in Birmingham.’ I stood up abruptly and marched through into the Incident Room. I stared at Westford’s face on the board. ‘Have we got a map?’ My mind was racing, possibilities developing.

  ‘Map of where, boss?’ Boyd sounded confused.

  ‘England and Wales.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Forget it, let’s use Google.’

  I pulled up a chair in front of Boyd’s desk. As he clicked his mouse I scoured my memory and jotted down the names of various towns and cities. The screen filled with the map of England and Wales before I had finished.

  ‘This is a list of all the Premiership sides that Cardiff City played last season.’

  We ran through each, identifying their proximity to motorways and guessing the driving time from Cardiff.

  ‘Every Premiership match will have visiting spectators with expensive cars coming to be flattered by businessmen with corporate boxes.’ Cornock’s words about the importance of building contacts as we ate minuscule portions of food in the hospitality suite reverberated in my mind. ‘It would be rich pickings. And we know Westford has been throwing money around.’