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.
Streetlights came on as the traffic thinned and I indicated into the car park of the hotel. I pulled up alongside a Jaguar that had just extinguished its parking lights. I recognised the number plate and the driver who emerged from the car.
‘Hello, Richard.’
Judge Richard Patricks would normally have balked at the use of his Christian name by a police officer. Our paths had crossed professionally many times. I had given evidence in court when he was the presiding judge, sitting before him in his chambers when he had considered bail applications and each time there had never been a glimmer of acknowledgement.
‘Good evening, John.’
We locked our cars and meandered over to the hotel.
‘I hear you’re the senior investigating officer on Matthew Dolman’s murder.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I’d met him a few times at various dinners. I could never make him out. Never took to the man personally. He had done very well for himself after devolution. He turned the National Bank of Wales into quite an institution. One of his sons is engaged to Charlotte Parkinson. She’s got a bright future ahead of her in the legal profession. I was in college with the lawyer that she trained with in London. He was surprised when she moved to Cardiff. But with all this devolution business there’s a lot of government work and big contracts flying around.’
We reached the door and I yanked the handle open. Judge Patricks continued. ‘I suppose you know about Dolman and Deborah Bowen. That was the worst-kept secret in Cardiff.’
I followed Judge Patricks through the hotel lobby and into a private room at the rear. A small group had gathered around a table, helping themselves to coffee and tea from various flasks. There were greetings, the occasional brisk handshake and encouraging smiles. We sat around, each of us nursing a cup or mug as a prop.
I was ready when my time came. ‘My name is John, I’m an alcoholic.’
Chapter 20
Reports about the second video dominated the morning news. Journalists stood in the rain outside Queen Street squinting into the cameras, sheltering under umbrellas. They used words like ‘police baffled’ and ‘murders still a mystery’. I sat watching the television first thing that morning realising that Cornock and the senior management team would be furious. I sipped on my double espresso and then finished some rubbery toast as I listened to interviews with various experts who claimed to be profilers. The television company had found former senior detectives who had words of wisdom that made it sound easy. Our own experts had promised to get us the information about where the original video had been uploaded onto the internet by the end of the day but it would probably be exactly the same as the first video – a laptop or PC somewhere in the UK.
After clearing away my breakfast I left the flat and drove into town hoping that the TV crews would have left by the time I arrived. I turned towards Queen Street police station and noticed several large vans with enormous satellite dishes parked along the roads nearby. I swung the car into the car park and then found my way up to the Incident Room.
I gazed at the photographs of Matthew Dolman and his wife that Lydia had assembled on the board. In one Brenda Dolman was actually smiling, at some black-tie charity event, both her sons by her side. There were intense smiles, all very convenient for the cameras. Scratching the surface of Matthew Dolman’s domestic arrangements had soon uncovered family tensions. What else would come to the surface about this family? Despite the videos circulating on the internet something, a hunch maybe, perhaps instinct developed from too many years in the business of policing, told me I should focus on Matthew Dolman’s life.
A noise from the staircase beyond the door alerted me to the presence of one of the team. Wyn was the first to arrive and looked surprised to see me. He was wearing a white shirt with a blue tie that had a few discreet red stripes. He could have been a civil servant or a bank clerk. Clutching one of those enormous plastic mugs of coffee he walked over to his desk and found a spot for his drink. Then he buttoned his jacket before he stood looking at me. Sometimes it was difficult to make him out, but I had never fathomed out people from North Wales.
‘How are you fitting in?’ It was the sort of question that I hoped might have helped me build our relationship. The brevity of his reply soon made that a distant possibility.
‘Fine, thank you, sir.’ And his tone suggested he wasn’t going to discuss it any further.
Jane Thorne barged in sparing me the necessity of persevering. She was also holding a portable mug of coffee; it was even from the same outlet as Wyn’s. ‘Good morning, boss.’
I nodded. ‘Jane.’
As she took off her light jacket, and tidied her desk for no apparent reason I sat on the edge of one of the desks. It had been barely two days since I had met them and my initial impression that they were an odd pair still remained.
‘Bring me up to date,’ I said.
Wyn cleared his throat, glancing over at Jane who gave him a brief nod as though she were in charge, giving him consent to go first.
‘I’ve been checking George Stanway’s alibi. I spoke to the landlord of the club where he alleges he was drinking on the night Alan Turner was killed. He couldn’t remember very much. Apparently the place was rammed.’
‘Is that up in Quakers Yard?’
Wyn nodded. ‘They do a special on a Sunday night, selling cheap booze with a curry.’
‘And what did he have to say?’
‘He can’t remember. But the place was so busy he was flat out changing barrels, making sure that there was enough food. He gave me the names of some of the bar staff and I tracked one of them down.’
Jane chortled. ‘The suspense is killing me.’
Wyn gave her a hurt look. ‘He remembers Stanway ordering a drink quite late.’
‘So he can’t confirm where Stanway was during the early part of the evening?’
‘That’s right boss. But last night I spoke to a couple of Stanway’s mates, ones that he named when you interviewed him. And they confirmed that they had been in the club from about six o’clock onwards. Apparently there was a rugby game on the television. Then they drank themselves stupid.’
‘They’re all like that in Quakers Yard,’ Jane announced, folding her arms.
‘Did you check the television schedules?’
Wyn nodded.
‘Damn.’ I stood up, stepped over towards the board and looked at Stanway’s photograph, pinned below Alan Turner’s.
I turned to look at Jane. She was already assembling paperwork on her desk, realising that I expected her to tell me if she had made any progress.
‘It’s a nightmare, sir.’ She paused, looked up at me, obviously preparing me for bad news. ‘We’ve got protocols about requesting help from the French authorities. The woman I spoke to thought we’d have to go through the Home Office.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Then she suggested we contact a department in the French police in Paris. So I gave them a ring because she thought that the Gendarmerie Nationale would be responsible for that sort of enquiry. Then when I contacted them they told me that it was the Police Nationale who dealt with urban city areas such as Nice.’
‘How many police forces are in France?’
‘Only two boss but they’re both national and for some reason they can overlap.’
It re
minded me of the problems that had arisen once policing and criminal justice had been devolved from London and the four police forces of Wales amalgamated. There had been predictions of chaos and criminals running riot but in the end nothing much had changed.
‘And did they give you any idea of how long it will take to get information about this apartment?’
‘Apparently it’s quick according to French bureaucracy. These requests are quite common as part of anti-money-laundering regulations. I’ve got all the paperwork together for you to sign making the formal request for the relevant town hall to provide us with all the information we need.’
‘We need it as soon as possible.’
Jane folded her arms, frowning and nodding simultaneously.
I continued. ‘I want you both working on the CCTV coverage from Penarth to Cardiff on the morning Dolman was killed. I want to see anything unusual. He might have been followed. And do the same for CCTV coverage outside Alan Turner’s place. And Wyn, there is a file relating to previous death threats that Dolman received. I want you to review that again.’
I left them both scribbling notes and headed to my office.
The paperwork on my desk was unchanged from the night before. A stale smell hung in the air so I opened the window. I had complained to the estates department but I’d been met with derision. One of them had even suggested that I hang up an air freshener like the things you see dangling from the rear view mirror of old cars. A gentle waft of fresh air blew across my desk.
It was late morning by the time I realised how much time I had spent Googling Malcolm Frost. His suicide had made the headlines for a day but he was quickly forgotten. I found all of the newspaper reports covering the announcement by the government that his company had not been awarded the electrification contract. Initially there had been comments that legal action was being contemplated and I could imagine the lawyers rubbing their hands in glee at the prospect of the fees involved. A YouTube clip had followed a journalist onto Cefn Coed viaduct to the exact spot where Malcolm Frost had thrown himself to his death. By the end I had an overwhelming feeling that I had wasted valuable time. The Frost link between Matthew Dolman and Turner seemed a dead end. Apart from Stanway Engineering it had been the only deal they had in common recently. Perhaps there was something else linking both men. Something that I was missing. I leant back, pitched my shoes onto my desk, an affectation I found often assisted clear thinking.
The telephone rang and I cursed before dragging my feet off the desk.
I reached over and scrambled for the handset. ‘There’s some foreign woman in reception asking for you.’
‘Who?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Have you asked her name?’
I heard a groan. ‘She says it’s important, like.’
Although I felt annoyed with the interruption I knew that I was a world away from some eureka moment. ‘Put her into a conference room.’
I stood up and rummaged for my papers and a ballpoint pen before making my way downstairs to reception. I pushed open the door to the conference room and recognised the face sitting at the table. The woman had broad cheekbones, narrow thin lips and eyes that stared at me intensely. Dark hair curtained her face but the apprehension I had seen the previous Sunday at Mrs Dolman’s home had been replaced by puzzlement. Immediately she averted her eyes and fidgeted with her fingers.
I dragged a chair from underneath the table and sat down, my interest piqued. I held out a hand before sitting down. ‘Inspector John Marco.’
She gave me a brief nod.
‘Gabriele Vaitkus,’ she spoke softly.
‘You work for Mrs Dolman?’
Her nodding was more energetic now. I sat down and dropped my notepad onto the table.
‘This is confidential, yes?’
I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘What do you want to tell me?’
I didn’t recognise her name from the preliminary reports. And I could sense her unease so I decided that taking this interview at Gabriele’s pace would be best.
‘Mr Dolman good man.’
I tried a brief smile. ‘What do you do for the Dolman family?’
‘I work in house. Clean and laundry.’
‘Do you work every day?’
‘Monday is my day off.’
That explained why there had been no mention of her from the preliminary reports after Dolman’s death. I leant over the desk. ‘Gabriele, why are you here? How can I help?’
‘I hear things. Bad things in the house.’
Again I smiled hoping to put her at ease. ‘What sort of things?’
She looked up at me and stared, locking eye contact with me. ‘This is confidential, yes?’
‘I’m investigating Mr Dolman’s death,’ I said softly. ‘If you have any information that might help me catch the killer then it will be important.’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘There was much argument. Mr Troy and Mr Rex they argue much with Mr Dolman.’ She sat up in her chair. ‘They fight a lot and argue and I hear lots of bad things.’
‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’
She rolled her eyes and scanned the room. ‘They argue about the bank and what was going to happen… Mr Troy he was bad. He say really bad things and he want Mr Dolman…’
‘You’ll have to tell me as much as you can.’
By the time Gabriele had finished I had a clear picture that the Dolman family had been warring about the future of the bank and that there had been frequent and repeated arguments when tempers had been frayed and there had been a shouting match between father and sons. She made a point of telling me that Troy Dolman had shouted the loudest and threatened his father.
‘Why didn’t you come to talk to us sooner?’
‘Back in Lithuania police are shit.’ She said it with a simple certainty. Then she shrugged. ‘And Mrs Dolman, she tell me it is nothing.’
I sat back in my chair and smiled at Gabriele wondering what she thought of life in Wales. ‘I’ll need you to sign a statement in due course.’
She curled up her lips and nodded her understanding of the inevitable.
‘I find another job.’
*
Lydia standing in the doorway of my office interrupted the various threads I was trying to connect. ‘I’ve had Troy Dolman’s former commanding officer on the telephone.’
I took my feet off the table and jerked my chair nearer my desk. Lydia stepped into the room. ‘I wanted to speak to him about Troy’s service record. But he refused point-blank to talk to me. He said he would have to speak to somebody of your rank or above.’
‘What?’
She handed over a single sheet of paper with a telephone number. Without invitation she sat down, crossed one leg over the other knee and waited for me to make the call.
I grabbed the telephone handset and punched in the number.
After several officious-sounding voices, I reached the extension for Colonel Watkins-Pugh.
‘Inspector John Marco, Wales Police Service. I understand you were the commanding officer when Troy Dolman was on a short service commission. We have his record and we would like something clarified.’ I made it all sound very reasonable.
‘I spoke to that sergeant of yours earlier today,’ Watkins-Pugh said. If his name suggested some Welsh connection the accent suggested it was very tenuous indeed. He had a loud voice with crisp elongated vowels. It was like listening to a soundtrack from a 1950s documentary. ‘She was in a terrible flap.’ I glanced at Lydia, the epitome of calm. ‘Wanted to know all about Troy Dolman’s background, what were the nature of the complaints about him.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can understand that we have to go through the motions of ticking all the boxes. There’s more paperwork than you can imagine these days, Colonel.’
‘No need to tell me about paperwork. Drowning in the stuff. Never used to be like this.’
‘How well did you know Troy?’
‘Well enough. Good, instinctive leader. Even if he could be, how can I put this… robust.’
‘Say no more, Colonel.’
I glanced over at Lydia again. This time she had a pained expression on her face. I was getting into the swing of this conversation, rather glad that Lydia couldn’t hear the colonel’s comments.
‘You can treat this conversation in the utmost confidence but I was intrigued about some of the comments concerning Troy’s familiarity with some of his men.’
I sensed Watkins-Pugh breathing rather slowly. He would never know that I was guessing about Troy’s behaviour.
‘Well, man-to-man. Christ, that’s not what I meant to say. There was a certain corporal with whom Troy was over-friendly. I’m sure you understand what I mean. We live in an age of transparency and tolerance but even in the army we have to draw a line somewhere.’
‘I understand, you have been very helpful Colonel Watkins-Pugh. Do you happen to have the name of the corporal involved. It’ll help us to tie up loose ends. Make sure we can eliminate Troy from any ongoing inquiry and minimise any embarrassment.’
‘Yes, of course. He was called Youlden, Paul Youlden.’
Chapter 21
We rearranged the photographs on the board in the Incident Room with Youlden’s image earning promotion and it was now pinned alongside Henson’s. I spent the evening reading again everything we knew about Youlden and his involvement with the extremist groups, while Lydia searched every database for information about him.
It was after midnight; my eyes were burning, so I left. In the morning, I would allocate tasks for Wyn and Jane but for now I needed to sleep.
By six-thirty the following morning I was sipping coffee, looking out over the Bay, cursing my mind for forcing me awake. After a shower, I dressed and then headed into the city. It was quiet, the occasional taxi, minibus and early morning commuter the only traffic. Lydia was already waiting for me when I arrived.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
She nodded.
Our visit to the National Bank of Wales that morning had justified some additional attention to her make-up and her clothes. Her white blouse looked newly ironed and she had pulled her hair back into a ponytail that accentuated the carefully applied blusher, the lipstick brighter than I remembered.
Another Good Killing: An exciting, fast-paced crime thriller (Detective John Marco crime thriller Book 2) (Detective Inspector Marco) Page 12