Another Good Killing: An exciting, fast-paced crime thriller (Detective John Marco crime thriller Book 2) (Detective Inspector Marco)

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘We’ll wait.’ I smiled at Darren.

  Back in the café, we sat down. Customers came and went, some giving us curious glances. It must have been almost an hour before Darren came over to us and sat down.

  He pushed over a data stick. ‘That’s the record of everyone who paid using a card.’

  ‘Do you keep a record of the names of people who pay in cash?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve added the names of some of the regulars who come in and pay in cash.’

  ‘Thanks.’ We stood up and left the table.

  ‘You can keep the data stick.’

  We left the café and stepped into the windswept and wet Pontypridd morning.

  *

  ‘I found the details you wanted about Turner’s office,’ Wyn announced before I had barely got through the doors of the Incident Room. ‘The landlord is the National Bank of Wales.’

  It stopped me in my tracks. ‘Bloody hell. So Troy Dolman could legitimately have a set of keys to the offices.’

  The possibilities raced through my head. I stepped over to my office. Jane stood behind Wyn in the doorway.

  ‘What motive would Troy have to kill Turner?’ Jane said.

  I was thinking the same. ‘It must be something to do with the bank.’

  Wyn again. ‘But Hannah didn’t mention that anything was missing.’

  ‘Maybe Troy didn’t find what he was looking for.’

  I powered up my computer. ‘Jane, you talk to Hannah again, and Wyn, check out the data on this stick.’ I tossed it over the desk.

  A commotion from the Incident Room interrupted my scanning of the emails in my inbox. I got up to see Lydia, hands on hips, glaring at one of the civilians from reception who had a sheepish look on her face.

  ‘Why the hell did you open it?’ Lydia said.

  I reached her desk.

  ‘It was… I don’t know, I just didn’t think… We get so much mail…’

  I looked down at Lydia’s desk and my heart missed a beat. Bankers – when will they learn? was printed on a piece of A4 paper. Now I realised why Lydia was angry. The envelope by its side had my name clearly printed on it.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, why the hell did you open this? It was clearly marked for me and now it’s contaminated. Don’t you understand the first thing about police work?’

  The woman swallowed hard, opened her eyes wide and her lower lip quivered. She rushed out before the tears started. Lydia was already snapping on a pair of latex gloves and delicately put the paper into a plastic evidence pouch.

  ‘You’d better get that to CSIs,’ I said.

  She nodded.

  Wyn and Jane both stood quite still; each with a startled expression when my mobile rang.

  I read Jackie’s name.

  ‘John. Dean’s been rushed into hospital.’

  Chapter 24

  I stood by my desk and stared at the paperwork. I glanced over at the various boxes belonging to Alan Turner. Then I tried to remember Dean’s face and I couldn’t. I just fucking couldn’t and I blinked hard. I turned away, knowing what I had to do. I grabbed my jacket, scrambled for my car keys and raced down the staircase to the car park.

  I jumped in and within twenty minutes I reached the motorway and headed east. Once I was safely in the middle lane sticking to the limit I scrambled for my mobile and rang my mother.

  ‘John! Where is he? When did he go in? Who’s with him?’

  I told my mother everything I knew while keeping a sharp eye out for traffic police.

  ‘I’ll call you once I know something.’

  I knew that my mother would probably be calling the hospital every hour asking for updates but she’d still expect me to call her. Before reaching the Severn Bridge I called Lydia.

  ‘Nothing is more important than family,’ she said, deflecting me from talking about the investigation.

  I switched off the mobile and threw it onto the passenger seat.

  Family. Lydia was right of course but it made me realise what I had been missing. The regular contact with Dean, sharing family events, participating in his life.

  I drove on and every time a to-do list formed in my mind it got pushed to one side. I tried Jackie again but it rang out. So I floored the accelerator and nudged the car nearer a hundred miles an hour. I passed streams of lorries and cars headed east towards Swindon. I dropped my speed when I passed a traffic car heading westwards. No pointing in courting trouble.

  The sat-nav flickering on the dashboard told me I was approaching the junction for Basingstoke so I slowed down. I followed the instructions to the general hospital. I parked and ran over to the entrance. It was quiet; the main lights had been dimmed as they were preparing for the long hours of the night. My stomach tensed as I stepped over to the reception desk.

  ‘My son has just been admitted.’

  ‘Can I have his date of birth?’

  I froze. My stomach tightened another notch.

  ‘His name is Dean Marco… But he’s probably using the name Dean Alloway.’

  The absence of a date of birth earned me a scowl. She clicked over the screen in front of her. ‘He’s been transferred to the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit in Southampton.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Your son was transferred by ambulance an hour ago.’

  The words intensive care were like a piece of hot metal burning my skin. I wanted to swallow but my throat drew up into a heavy knot. I wanted to ask why and demand to know what was wrong with him.

  ‘I can ask one of the medical staff here to talk to you if you like.’

  I blanked out the sound of the telephone in reception. Southampton. I had to get there. All Jackie had said was that Dean was unconscious after an accident. I didn’t have time to speak to a nurse.

  ‘Mr Marco. Shall I call a doctor from A&E?’

  I stared at her for a moment. ‘No. No.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ She reached for the handset.

  I leant over the counter. ‘How do I get to Southampton?’

  She scribbled the postcode on a card and I sprinted out to my car. I fumbled with the sat-nav until it listed the directions on the screen. I managed the journey in fifty minutes.

  The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the PICU. I walked, then I broke into a mild jog before bounding down the empty corridors. A set of double doors led into an area before the main entrance and I found one of the staff nurses. She pointed me down the corridor towards two private rooms.

  I pushed the door open and saw Jackie crumpled into a chair.

  I couldn’t move. I stared at the empty bed next to her.

  ‘He’s in theatre,’ Jackie spluttered.

  I managed to move, stepping towards the bed.

  ‘He’s in a coma.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They had to put him into a coma.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She raised her head. She looked drawn and gaunt as though she hadn’t eaten or slept well for days. A quick scan told me that Paul – Mr Alloway – wasn’t there.

  ‘He fell. He smashed his head against a rock. It looked terrible…’

  Her head sagged again; I reached for a chair and sat down by her side, holding her hand in mine.

  ‘How long will he be in theatre?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  I wanted to get up, march over to the nursing station along the corridor and demand a complete explanation. Instead I sat with Jackie. Gone was the confident woman that I had once loved, she looked haggard. Her hair was an unruly mass and her blouse creased. I heard the noise of a child coughing and then the sound of crying. A child was sick but it was my son who was in theatre. After a while I got up and found Jackie some water. A nurse gave me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Any idea how long they’ll be?’

  She glanced at the watch. ‘It’s variable. We’ll let you know as soon as he’s out.’

  It was afte
r ten-thirty when we heard the sound of activity outside. The door opened and a nurse and another orderly strode in, wheeling out the bed. Jackie and I stood up and moved to one side. It was another twenty minutes before more staff appeared pushing a bed with Dean on it.

  Jackie gasped. I held my breath as we noticed the tube sticking out of his mouth and a wire protruding from under a bandage covering his head. The nurses connected him to a variety of tubes – one under his collarbone and another in his wrist. The ventilator made his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

  I stared at my son’s face. Almost zoomed in on him, wanting to capture his features. I had never been one to have a photograph of him propped on my desk. In fact, I couldn’t even remember whether I had one in my flat.

  A nurse turned towards us. ‘The surgeon will be along very shortly.’

  My mobile made a sound. It was a text from my mother, asking after Dean. I tapped out a brief reply telling her I’d ring her later.

  ‘Where’s Paul?’

  Jackie averted her eyes over my shoulder and then back to Dean. ‘We’ve split up.’

  Now I really didn’t know what to say. What do you say when your ex has split up with her new husband?

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  She crumpled her mouth and her shoulders sagged.

  ‘Things haven’t been working out. You know what it’s like.’ She raised an eyebrow as she stared at me.

  I wasn’t certain that I did. My father would harangue me about my drinking, telling me I would lose my family. But what did he know? I wanted to reach out to Jackie but I stumbled over the right thing to say. My discomfiture was postponed when a dapper man with the demeanour of an army officer entered the room. His chin was a fraction too long. His handshake was dry and firm.

  ‘Hello, I’m Jim Holland, consultant neurosurgeon. Mr and Mrs Alloway?’

  ‘John Marco,’ I said. ‘Dean’s father.’

  ‘What do you understand about what’s happened so far?’

  I glanced at Jackie. She was staring at Dean.

  ‘Your son has had a significant brain injury.’ It was like someone smacking me in the chest. ‘As a result of the fall he’s sustained a serious head injury; the CT scan showed what we call an extradural haemorrhage, bleeding between the brain and the skull, and a cerebral contusion, which is a bruise to the brain.’

  Jim must have seen the incredulity on my face. ‘Basically we needed to remove the blood clot as soon as possible to relieve the pressure on his brain. This is why he was transferred urgently from Basingstoke straight to theatre.’

  ‘What’s going to happen…?’

  ‘We removed the blood clot, and have managed to elevate the piece of skull which was broken; it’s now a matter of letting things settle.’

  ‘When will he come round from the anaesthetic?’

  Jim moved a step nearer me. ‘We’ll be keeping him asleep in the intensive care unit for a few days, and keeping a close eye on the pressure inside his skull. We’ve left a small wire inside which measures this for us. We won’t be waking him up until this pressure is stable.’

  My mouth felt like sandpaper. ‘Will he be all right?’ I stammered.

  ‘Unfortunately it’s very early days yet. Many children with this sort of serious injury do very well but we need to wait and see how he behaves over the next few days. As soon as the pressure in his brain stabilises we’ll aim to wake him up.’

  ‘When do think that might be?’

  ‘It won’t be for at least 48 hours, but it could be longer depending on how things go.’

  The doctor left and we sat again next to Dean’s bed nestled below a bank of monitors and pumps and tubes and equipment that occasionally bleeped. An hour later I persuaded Jackie to get something to eat and I sat in her chair holding Dean’s hand in my own, the regrets and recriminations of my time living with Jackie dominating my thoughts. And then Lydia’s words that nothing was more important than family came back to me again and I cupped Dean’s fingers with both hands. The years when Dean had not been the most important thing in my life suddenly came to haunt me and I settled into a resolve that the past had to be exactly that.

  Jackie came back and I found my way to the café. I sat pushing some stale fish and chips around the plate but finished the meal without much enthusiasm. Afterwards I walked outside, found a corner near the main entrance where there was a pile of cigarette butts on the tarmac, and called my mother.

  ‘He’s had a severe crack to the head. They’ve had to operate on his brain and he’s in a coma.’

  My mother caught her breath.

  ‘He’s really sick.’

  She whispered. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  I heard myself repeating the same details the doctor had given us earlier. I promised to call if anything changed and then I lit my cigarette and watched visitors arriving at the hospital and ambulances parking at A&E. I got back to Dean’s room as Jackie was talking to a nurse.

  She turned to me. ‘I was asking your wife.’

  ‘We’re not married.’ I said it too quickly but by then it was too late.

  ‘Oh… Well, do you need any pyjamas, toothbrushes for tonight?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Jackie said.

  The nurse left and we sat down. She returned a few minutes later and gave me a weak smile as she handed me a pile of nightwear. After some discussion Jackie insisted that I sleep first but I lay awake listening to the muffled conversations and activity of the night staff. I glanced at the clock occasionally, and tossed and turned until I acknowledged that sleep would elude me. I got up and walked back to the ward. Jackie had her head resting on the bed so I gently shook her and told her to get some sleep.

  At first she refused until I promised to wake her if anything changed. But nothing did. I sat on the chair yawning, then I stood up and walked around before staring out of the window. Twice I made myself a coffee with lukewarm water from the parents’ room. I had never thought about Dean being ill before but he must have had a cold or the flu or something. I didn’t know and the emptiness of it all made me feel I had lost out on far too much of my son’s life. And this was something I knew I had to change.

  By lunchtime the following day a dark tinge highlighted the bags under Jackie’s eyes. When I ran my tongue over my teeth they felt furry. A nurse had sat at the end of Dean’s bed throughout making regular notes on a large chart. Other times she’d fill syringes and check the pumps. Every hour they checked his pupils and she’d consult with the doctors as we sat there helpless. Jackie called her mother. I called mine. She had already packed a case if she was needed and she had contacted Jackie’s mother too. I even called Lydia who asked about ‘my son’ and then I knew that she didn’t even know his name.

  At the end of the afternoon Jim Holland arrived. He spent an age checking the readings and discussing matters with the nursing staff. I hadn’t noticed the Irish accent last night but today it sounded more pronounced. He asked to speak to us in a room off the main ward.

  ‘It’s more private in here,’ Jim said, waving a hand at two chairs. ‘The team have been trying to control the pressure in his brain but it’s still high, they’re now trying some different medication.’

  ‘What if they don’t work? Will you have to operate again?’ I said, not thinking what I was saying.

  ‘I’ve discussed that possibility with a colleague but for now we’ve decided against more surgery. What we’re doing is trying to cool his body temperature a little by using a special mattress; we might have to relax his muscles with medication, so we’ll attach him to another monitor which monitors his brain activity. That involves a few more wires attached to his head.’

  ‘But he is going to be all right?’ I said.

  ‘Let’s talk again tomorrow. In the meantime I suggest you go home and get some sleep.’

  I could see Jackie’s shoulders sag; in fact I almost went to catch her from falling.

  Jackie gave him a pleading look.

&n
bsp; ‘We’ll call you if there’s any change at all.’

  We left after the evening visiting and made more calls to our parents. The conversation went much the same way with each and we promised several times to call them if there was any change.

  It was strange pulling into the drive at Jackie’s home. She flicked on the light switch and I followed her into the kitchen with the takeaway we’d bought on the journey from the hospital. We ate and talked but it was the conversation we had had a dozen times or more in the last two days and it was all about Dean.

  Jackie showed me around the house, including Dean’s room. There were posters of footballers and pouting faces from some band I didn’t recognise. She pointed to the guest bedroom and then she paused. ‘I’m glad you’re here, John. Thank you.’ Then she stepped over and gave me hug.

  Later, I listened as Jackie padded round her bedroom. It felt odd sleeping in her house, under her roof. Eventually the house was still and I guessed she was sleeping. But I couldn’t and I lay there staring into space, thinking about the investigation.

  I heard a footfall on the landing and the door opening.

  I looked up and Jackie came into the room.

  ‘I’m scared, John.’

  She sat on the side of the bed before sliding under the duvet wrapping her arms around my chest. I held her back and in seconds she was fast asleep. The feeling that I had missed this came as a surprise as did finding myself dwelling on our life together.

  In the morning she woke and immediately her face was a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Don’t worry. Things will be all right.’ I hoped my optimism was well founded.

  We reached the hospital early. Dean lay there, tube in his mouth, wire protruding from his head. The air filled with the hum from the bank of equipment surrounding his bed. I’d bought a newspaper but felt little inclination to read it so I sat there and sometimes we managed banal conversation that petered out. I stepped out occasionally and made coffee. I passed small groups of family gathered around the bedside of ill children. I knew that after seeing the doctor tonight I’d have to decide about whether to stay or return to Wales. It was late afternoon when Jim Holland arrived with a younger colleague – a woman, mid-thirties with long permed hair and a bright cheerful face.