*
Special branch always struck me as an awkward mixture of police officers and spooks. They worked in the ether somehow, gathering intelligence, influencing senior officers and coordinating work with the intelligence services. They never got their hands dirty, apart from making the occasional arrest. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the file they had left me about the anti-capitalist groups. There were two active in South Wales. I knew about Jamie Henson so now I focused on the second group based in Newport. Paul Youlden was the ringleader and a section about his personality described him as ‘aggressive’, ‘belligerent’ with a borderline personality disorder. A career in the army had been cut short by an altercation with an officer. One of the members of his group was a Greg Jones and a summary told me he was a graduate, considered too naive to be dangerous. Jamie Henson’s name appeared with alarming frequency amid the spider’s web of interconnecting members. I checked against the Police National Computer for the names of the prominent activists and found previous convictions for drug offences and assaults and affray. The reports classified the activists into various groups, some active and others marked ‘dangerous’ or ‘volatile’.
By the middle of the afternoon I heard the door of the Incident Room crash open and then raised voices as officers from operational support came in. I left the reports on my desk and filed through hoping that the preliminary grind of police work had produced some nugget of evidence or a fresh lead.
I stood in front of the board, Dolman’s image staring down behind me.
‘Let’s have an update on your progress.’
It did not take long for me to be disappointed.
It was going to take days to build a complete picture of everyone who was working in the offices near the car park and even longer to get statements from them all. There were offices belonging to lawyers and accountants and financial services companies and call centres. None of the customers of the Royal Bell car park had seen anything unusual that morning. I knew that a long investigation was the last thing that senior management would want.
‘Somebody must have seen something,’ I said.
Lydia replied on their behalf. ‘We need more resources really.’
Resources. It was always about money in the modern world of policing. In any inquiry the bean counters from the finance department would send me memos warning me about my budget and that I had to be careful with the use of valuable resources.
I nodded, thinking about the look on Cornock’s face if I asked for more manpower.
Once we were finished I got back to my desk and noticed the email from Alvine confirming that the prints found in the car had no match. They probably belonged to the Dolman family. I didn’t think a killer would be careless enough to leave fingerprints.
It was early evening when a shout from Lydia reminded me about the press conference so I walked through to the Incident Room and switched on the television.
I turned to Lydia. ‘Was there a smell in his car?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Alvine Dix is convinced there was perfume on the note on the lanyard but she couldn’t find a trace.’
‘I didn’t smell anything,’ she replied, making me feel rather pleased that it confirmed what I remembered.
I sat in a chair next to Lydia’s desk and stared at the board – Matthew Dolman’s face peered down at us.
‘How are you getting on with Stanway?’ I said.
‘We’ll need to go see him.’
I nodded. ‘First thing in the morning.’ I checked my watch and then adjusted the sound on the television.
We watched as Assistant Chief Constable Neary read the official press release. She had a confident measured tone and even I believed that Dolman’s murderer would soon be safely apprehended. The PR department had arranged in advance for Neary to pick out favoured journalists to ask the right questions. She flicked a finger towards one of the local hacks and gave him a brief nod commending the intelligence of his question. She gave him an equally intelligent reply before moving on to journalists from the London broadsheets.
Cornock sounded dynamic as he fielded questions about the video, by then seen in over forty countries.
‘Have the participants claimed responsibility for killing Matthew Dolman?’ A voice asked.
Cornock said. ‘We have had no contact from the group that made this video.’
‘Or it could all be just a massive publicity stunt,’ I said.
Lydia ignored me.
‘Where will the investigation go from here?’ It was a woman’s voice.
We listened as ACC Neary made another diplomatic reply. The press conference ended as they always do with the press dissatisfied but the senior officers of the WPS pleased that they had managed the event successfully. In the end, it changed nothing and I doubted that Cornock’s appeal for witnesses would prove fruitful.
I got back to work knowing that with no forensics and no immediate suspect we had to concentrate on digging into Dolman’s life and the National Bank of Wales. Somebody wanted him dead and seeing Stanway the following morning was a good place to start.
Chapter 10
Lydia took the A470 out of Cardiff and indicated for the junction for the Rhondda valleys. In Porth she indicated right and followed the signs for Ynyshir and Ferndale. We passed terraces closely packed together and side streets filled with small cars, lined with dusty pavements. Only one of the many chapels we passed was a place of worship and it had big banners outside advertising the Pentecostal church that had taken it over. The rest had been converted into shops selling second-hand furniture or were lying empty and forgotten.
After stopping at a pedestrian crossing the sat-nav told Lydia to take a left turn. And then a right and after five minutes she pulled in and parked the car near the pavement. ‘Stanway lives at number forty-five.’ She nodded towards the opposite side of the street. ‘I spoke to the sergeant at the local station just in case there was some intelligence. But he knows nothing about him, although his son has been involved in quite a few scrapes.’
We left the car and walked over the road. I pressed the doorbell and a set of chimes rang through the house. A short man with a large barrel chest opened the door.
‘George Stanway?’ I pushed my warrant card at him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’
Stanway had a thick growth of stubble and hair cropped close to his scalp. After showing us in, he sat down on one of the ancient chairs and stared at us, almost defying us to sit down. The three-piece suite would have been fashionable thirty years ago and the springs creaked as we sank onto the cushions.
‘We are investigating the death of Matthew Dolman.’
Stanway said nothing.
‘How well did you know him?’
‘How long have you got?’
‘Where were you on the morning he was killed?’ I tried the direct approach.
‘I was probably in bed. I work late, delivering pizzas.’ He spat out the last few words.
‘The National Bank of Wales has given us a lot of information about your vendetta against Matthew Dolman.’
‘And that gives me a motive to murder him?’
‘You’d better tell us your side of things.’
‘When everything was going well Dolman was all over me. Couldn’t do enough. I had weekends in London with other businessmen that used the bank including that Malcolm Frost who killed himself.’
‘Who?’
‘His company was in the running for some big government contract but he lost out and the business went under. At the time Dolman took us to all the best restaurants – the bank paid for everything. Or should I say – we did.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I lost everything because of Dolman. It was after one contract went sour. I missed one regular instalment on my business loans. Then the bank sent in consultants that I had to pay for to make a complete assessment of my business. That is really what st
arted things off. After that they reduced the overdraft facility, wanted me to make huge increased payments on the bank loans. Until everything went tits-up.’
Stanway straightened his sitting position and then leant over towards me.
‘The bank called in the receivers. Initially that slimeball said it was just to get the company through a difficult period. But he had it all mapped out. One of his other customers, obviously a better one than me, had been set up to buy the business. They bought it from the bank at a knockdown price and surprise, surprise, the bank provided finance for the new business. I can never prove it but I am convinced that Dolman got a massive backhander for getting everything organised. How do you think he affords that Aston Martin and the house in Penarth that looks like something out of Las Vegas. I hate all these fucking bankers and Dolman is top of the list.’
‘The bank says you refused to listen to their advice.’
‘That’s bullshit too. They wanted me to do things that were unsuitable. Even the management consultants I had to pay for thought some of the suggestions they’d made were crazy. There is even talk of them floating the new company on the stock market. And you can guess who will benefit. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dolman had a deal to own some of the shares.’
I looked around the lounge. Although it was clean, the furniture was old and tatty. A faded print hung above an ancient television. ‘Is it you and your wife who live here?’
‘We rent this place. My wife works part-time in the council offices down in Ponty.’
Lydia made her first contribution. ‘We’ll need a detailed account of your movements for the hours before Matthew Dolman was killed.’
Stanway shrugged. ‘You can talk to my boss in the pizza delivery business. He can tell you I was working late. I didn’t get back here until gone one in the morning. I slept until mid-morning. My wife can vouch for that.’
Lydia scribbled down a contact telephone number for Stanway’s employers.
‘We’ll need to speak to your wife,’ I said.
Stanway shrugged again. ‘Whatever.’
‘Do you and your wife have any children?’
‘What have they got to do with anything?’
‘They must have been affected by what happened to you.’
Stanway moved to the edge of seat. ‘So your twisted copper’s mind thinks they would kill somebody. You’re fucking mad.’
‘Don’t leave the country without telling us,’ I said, getting as much venom into my reply as possible. I thrust one of my business cards towards Stanway, more out of habit than any real expectation he might call me.
The front door slammed shut behind us. We walked back to the car.
‘What did you make of him, boss?’
I reached the car and leant on the roof, briefly glancing over the road at Stanway’s home. ‘He’s got a good motive to kill Dolman. But does being bitter and twisted make him capable of murder?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Back to Queen Street?’
‘I’ve got a detour first.’
Chapter 11
I could have given Lydia directions to drive north to the top of the Rhondda Fach Valley and then down through Aberdare to the address in Mountain Ash. But I knew that if anybody had seen me drive through Aberdare my mother would have known within minutes and there would have been complaints that I didn’t call to see her, didn’t want to keep in touch and that I really had to understand that family was important. So we went the wrong way round, back down to Pontypridd and then rejoining the A470. We turned left at Abercynon and I told Lydia to take the minor road that threaded its way through the villages on the valley floor. It was a reminder of my childhood travelling through Ynysboeth and Penrhiwceiber until we reached Mountain Ash.
I directed Lydia down Clarence Street, ignoring the perplexed look on her face. My first serious girlfriend had lived in one of the houses, and I can remember the fumbling of clothes, lips and tongues intertwined and my initial embarrassment at having come too quickly being vanquished by performing a second time. At the end Lydia had to double back to the main road and then down towards the river and the railway tracks until we found the building mentioned in the special branch intelligence report.
Two small motorcycles were parked outside and a bicycle was chained to some railings. She parked next to an old Ford Fiesta. The place looked empty, barren.
‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ Lydia asked.
The Corporation Street Working Men’s Club was an old building with a flat roof and rotting wooden windows. The letters on a sign outside had faded badly but I could make out the words ‘Members Only’. I yanked open the door. The smell of stale beer assaulted my nostrils, awakening old memories best forgotten. Since the smoking ban in pubs and clubs most licensed premises were much cleaner, but these premises were clearly an exception. The carpet in the hallway was threadbare. I heard the sound of a radio and pushed open the glass doors into the bar area.
‘We’re closed, mate,’ a voice said from the far end of the room. ‘Are you from the council?’
‘WPS.’ The man stopped cleaning the tabletops and looked over at me. ‘Is Jamie Henson here?’
‘He’ll be upstairs.’ He jerked his head towards the doorway at the far end of the room.
Beyond it was another small hallway and an un-carpeted staircase. At the top there was a strong smell of urine and I noticed the door to a toilet wide open. I pushed open the first door in front of us and stepped into a large room. It felt damp and un-used; heavy dust sheets covered a snooker table. We left and walked down the hallway towards another door.
Inside two men were huddled over computer screens. A single electric fan heater took the edge off the chill in the room. I held up my warrant card. Lydia did the same.
‘I’m looking for Jamie Henson,’ I said, peering at the two men and trying to recognise the face that I had seen from the programme with Matthew Dolman.
‘What do you want?’ The older of the two men stood up. I recognised Henson now. In the television documentary he was wearing small dark glasses and a ponytail tied behind his head. Now his hair was loose over his shoulders.
‘We are investigating the death of Matthew Dolman.’
Henson folded his arms, glaring at me severely. ‘And you think I had something to do with that?’
I scanned the room. A laser printer sat on one table. The monitors were the old bulky sort and the computers on the floor by the tables buzzed loudly.
‘What exactly do you do here?’ I said.
‘It’s none of your business.’ Henson stepped towards me.
‘You took part in the discussion programme with Matthew Dolman. And he made you look a right prick. That must have annoyed you.’
‘Is that a question?’
I moved further into the room around Henson. ‘Your website makes it clear how much you loath the bankers.’
‘People like you who work for the state can’t possibly understand. The bankers lined their pockets, then when they fucked up, the country had to bail them out. But not before thousands of people lost their jobs, their homes and thousands condemned to low-paid employment.’
‘So did Matthew Dolman deserve to die?’
The question hung in the air for a moment. I could see that Henson wanted to agree.
‘I’ll need the names of everyone in your group, and details of all the subscribers to your website.’
The second man stood up abruptly. He was shorter than Henson with a round face and small dark eyes. ‘Unless you’ve got a warrant then nothing is leaving this room.’
I paused and then looked over and recognised Neil Cleaver from the mugshots in the special branch file. ‘Now, look Neil.’ Using his first name had the desired result of catching him off guard. A brief frightened look crossed his face. ‘With your previous convictions I would suggest that cooperation would be best.’ I tried to make my voice sounded reasonable.
I sat in one of the office chairs, pretending to make myself c
omfortable. I looked up at Henson. ‘Where were you on Monday morning between nine and ten am?’
‘Am I under arrest?’
I was sorely tempted. It would mean I could take all the computer equipment back to Queen Street for the attention of Alvine Dix and her team.
‘Do you know anything about the YouTube video that was posted online after Dolman’s death?’
‘Of course I don’t. That has nothing to do with Neil or me. We just run a group that wants to bring to the attention of the public the inequalities in our society. Did you know that the United Kingdom is one of the least equal countries in the world? So much wealth is concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority. And the rest of us have to put up with being harassed by the state.’
‘Have you seen the video?’
Henson nodded.
‘Do you agree with it?’
Henson was clever enough to see my next question. ‘I agree with everything they have said about how we need to tax the bankers. But I’d never kill anybody.’
‘Do you know who prepared the video?’
‘Do you think I would honestly tell you if I knew?’
‘It would be the right thing to do.’
‘You must be fucking mad if you think I’m going to cooperate with a detective inspector from the Wales Police Service.’
I stood up, shrugged and walked over towards one of the printers. In a large frame hanging on the wall was a poster with the words – if you tolerate this your children will be next underneath the image of a man staring into the distance.
‘It’s from the Spanish Civil War,’ Henson said, looking at the print. ‘It is a lesson to us all that we have to stand up for what is right. Draw a line in the sand and stand up to evil in society.’
I picked up a leaflet from the printer. It advertised the date of a public meeting in Pontypridd.
‘Maybe I’ll come along,’ I said, holding the leaflet.
Henson shrugged; Cleaver just looked at me blankly.
Back in the car, I found an evidence pouch and carefully placed the leaflet inside.
Another Good Killing: An exciting, fast-paced crime thriller (Detective John Marco crime thriller Book 2) (Detective Inspector Marco) Page 6