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  Through my open office door I could hear Boyd on the telephone sharing my annoyance at the lack of progress he was making. I broke off from reading statements and found the number for BMW’s UK office. Fifteen minutes later I was talking with a woman who had a deep voice and a warm Irish accent telling me she would be delighted to assist but they’d need a formal request. I tapped out an email and I received a reply very quickly telling me she would get back to me by the start of the week.

  It was the end of the afternoon when I heard Boyd talking with someone in the Incident Room. I welcomed the interruption and walked through, to see Boyd standing by the board.

  ‘DC Norman, sir.’ The young officer had a navy shirt and a navy tie of almost the same shade. ‘I’m working with Detective Inspector Hobbs on a drug-related investigation. He thought you should know that Eddie Westford is a person of interest in our inquiry.’

  Dave Hobbs and I had crossed swords before, and I wondered why it had taken him two days to notify me about Westford. There would be a motive behind that too, something related to Hobbs’ self-interest, no doubt.

  ‘So what are the details?’

  Norman spent half an hour telling us they suspected Westford was a small-time courier for one of the drug dealers they had been targeting. He had been clever enough to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He gave a surprised shake of his head when I asked if there was a Maserati owner involved. I thanked Norman once he’d finished, pleased we might now have some more focus to our inquiry although working with Dave Hobbs was the last thing I wanted. Norman promised to send us a memorandum with details of everyone they suspected of being involved.

  ‘What do you think, boss?’ Boyd said once Norman had left.

  ‘Once we’ve established everything about these cars then maybe we can think about coordinating with Inspector Hobbs’ inquiry.’ I could picture Dave Hobbs’ piggy eyes staring at me; it wasn’t a prospect I relished.

  Friday

  8.00 pm

  Trish was unusually late and I sat in the leather seat in the bar area of anew pub in the Bay nursing a sparkling water that had a slice of tired-looking lemon floating on top of it; the ice had already melted. She had texted me earlier telling me that a case she had been working on was keeping her in the office. As an intelligence officer in Eastern Division her professional life rarely crossed with mine.

  I watched her passing the window looking flustered and she gave me a harassed smile. It meant she was stressed and that meant she could be short tempered.

  ‘God, I need a drink,’ she said after grazing my cheek with a kiss. I returned from the bar with a gin and tonic and she proceeded to down half of the drink in one hit.

  ‘My line manager has been a real shit today.’

  I had been dating Trish since a missing person inquiry had involved me working closely with Eastern Division. She had her own place but most weekends she stayed with me. Things felt comfortable with Trish but I wasn’t certain if I wanted to make a long-term commitment. And she knew all about my drinking. I listened as she told me about her week. A superintendent had been demanding results from a hard-pressed team and the level of pressure and hassle had increased, the further down the chain of command it had reached. Even the civilian intelligence officers weren’t immune.

  ‘They expect us to do twice as much work for the same pay,’ she said, finishing her drink.

  Her second G&T disappeared quickly too as she continued with her rant about the inequality in Eastern Division. ‘It’s an HR nightmare,’ she said. ‘They have no idea about man management.’

  It sounded like every department I had ever worked in.

  ‘It’s Friday night, try and switch off.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ She slumped back in her chair.

  An hour later we had finished our main course and were tucking in to dessert. The ice cream would never have passed for genuine gelato but Trish finished her plateful. We paid and left the restaurant, ambling back to my apartment. Trish had forgotten about Eastern Division and by now had been asking about the Westford inquiry. I gave her the usual noncommittal replies that things were at an early stage and that we had no real leads except for the cars. She was surprised when I mentioned the Maserati and the BMW. We reached the flat and I unlocked the door and threaded an arm around her waist. After curling her hands around the back of my neck she kissed me with alcohol-soaked lips.

  ‘So what do you want to do now, Inspector?’

  I kissed her back. Her tongue met mine. Now, all the right signals had been sent. She brushed a hand against the front of my trousers and smiled at me. We walked through into the bathroom and I ran the shower.

  I ran my fingers around her breasts and then over her firm nipples. I moved a soapy sponge in circular movements over her back which she arched under my caress. She squeezed me until I gasped and we kissed again. I dried her slowly with one of her large towels before joining her under the duvet.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday

  08.30 am

  I kissed a bleary-eyed Trish curled under the duvet and left the apartment. After driving into town I parked and headed for Mario’s where I found a quiet table, ordered breakfast and read the sports pages of the Western Mail. Cardiff City were still languishing in the middle of the table and there seemed little prospect of them reaching the championship play-offs based on the performances so far that season. My meal arrived and I put the newspaper to one side. The bacon was salty and my fried egg a little on the runny side but I dipped a piece of white bread toast into it before sweeping it around the plate. I returned to the sports pages while sipping my Americano. Thankfully, the Cardiff City Soul Crew made few headlines these days, but routine circulars in my email inbox told me about random assaults and violence that was still attributable to the gang members.

  I was halfway through an article about some of the businessmen linked to the club when Boyd rang my mobile.

  ‘Eddie Westford’s sister is in reception, boss.’

  ‘His sister? What does she want?’

  ‘Not sure, but she says it’s urgent.’

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  I paid, left Mario’s and headed over to Queen Street. A cold autumn wind swirled around the street and I zipped my jacket up to my chin.

  I found Boyd in the Incident Room.

  ‘Janet Westford wouldn’t talk to me.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve put her in one of the conference rooms downstairs.’

  Intrigued by Janet turning up that morning, I hoped she had something important to share. I led the way, Boyd trailing behind me. The difference between one of the conference rooms and an interview room was the absence of a tape recorder screwed to the wall and a nod towards more comfortable plastic chairs.

  Janet jerked herself upright and then half stood as we entered before I raised a hand, telling her to sit down. She lowered a bag onto her lap. I sat down opposite her, Boyd next to me.

  ‘Detective Inspector John Marco.’ I reached out a hand.

  She nodded, then glanced at Boyd before chewing her lip.

  ‘I don’t want to get into no trouble.’ She had one of the strongest Cardiff accents I had heard for some time.

  ‘How can I help?’ I tilted my head towards her and gave her a brief smile.

  ‘I know Eddie could get into trouble. But that didn’t involve me. He only came to see me sometimes, when he wanted something. Or if he wanted company for Hartley.’

  ‘Janet, is there something you want to tell us about your brother?’

  She paused, gnawing on a fingernail.

  She reached down and lifted the bag onto the table. ‘This belongs to him.’

  The handles of the bag sagged onto the faux leather material. I reached over. ‘What’s inside?’

  Janet folded her arms and then glared at me. ‘It’s got sod all to do with me.’

  I opened the zip and removed two pairs of old jeans, a designer T-shirt, the sort favoured by drug deale
rs and their minions. On top of a light summer jacket with the same designer logo on the left hand lapel was a laptop. Instinct made me find a handkerchief from my pocket before I lifted the laptop and placed it on the table. Boyd shifted in his chair. I moved the jacket to one side hoping I could find a charger but instead there were bags of money, all carefully sealed.

  I turned to Boyd. ‘We’ll need evidence pouches.’

  He was already halfway out of the conference room when I added, ‘And some latex gloves.’

  I sat down and looked over at Janet. She was trying a bashful, innocent face. It wasn’t going to work. I honed my voice to a nice sharp edge. ‘I need you to tell me everything you know about this bag.’

  Saturday

  11.30 am

  A thin film of dust covered the laptop, which had pride of place on the table in the forensic lab in the bowels of Queen Street. One of the regular crime scene investigators sat on the stool, with Alvine Dix, the senior crime scene manager, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Is this your breakthrough, Marco?’ No matter how hard Alvine tried, whatever she said seemed to have a sarcastic edge.

  ‘Just tell me if there’s anything on there I can use, Alvine.’ I glanced at my watch knowing that Superintendent Cornock expected me to join him at another meeting of the Cardiff Partnership Forum, a group designed to coordinate policing, probation services and the rehabilitation of offenders. Although Cornock had emphasised how important my participation in the forum might be for my career, I had my doubts. Normally the meetings were in headquarters but today the meeting was at the football stadium itself, just before the match that afternoon. The prospect of sitting in one of the warm hospitality suites would make a welcome change from my regular season ticket seat in the West stand.

  ‘The only fingerprints are Eddie Westford’s and his sister’s.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He’s dead; taking his fingerprints is routine.’

  ‘Don’t be funny, Alvine. I meant his sister.’

  ‘She’s got a conviction for shoplifting. A quick check against the police national computer gave us the details.’

  It certainly meant Janet Westford had been rummaging around in her brother’s bag and that her denials about being innocent seemed pretty worthless too. I turned to leave.

  ‘We’ve finished with the laptop already. And you might be interested in looking at all the holiday snapshots. There’s over seven hundred photographs of your man Westford enjoying the sun.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beach holiday I guess. He’s with a young kid most of the time.’

  I reached down for the laptop.

  ‘And we tested the cash you found in the bag – there was over two thousand pounds and a few hundred euros. We ran a handheld detector over some of the notes.’ She paused, an irritating affectation designed to attract my attention. ‘It came up with a positive reading for various drugs.’

  ‘Now that does change things.’

  ‘I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘I’ll need a full analysis.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘By Monday, Alvine.’

  ‘You must be joking, Marco.’

  ‘Murder isn’t a laughing matter, Alvine. You should know that.’

  At least I felt I had had the last word as I hurried back to the Incident Room.

  ‘This laptop is full of Westford’s holiday snaps,’ I said to Boyd.

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  I sat down by him and opened the laptop, navigating towards the My Pictures folder. We spent half an hour skimming through the contents. There were images of plates of food, smiling faces raising their glasses to the camera, Westford with a young boy and another family with a youngster.

  ‘We have any details about his friends?’

  ‘I thought he was a bit of a loner.’

  ‘You had better speak to his mates at work again. Find out who went on holiday with him. On Monday we will go back and talk to his ex-wife again. And this afternoon check out his bank accounts. If he went on holiday then he must have spent money.’

  Westford had a pile of cash, and evidence that he had spent a lot more on holidays. We had to find where he’d gone on holiday and more importantly discover how someone like Westford could pay for it.

  Saturday

  1.30 pm

  ‘Bring me up to date.’ Superintendent Cornock strode over to the car waiting for us outside Queen Street.

  ‘Eddie Westford’s sister has been in this morning. He had given her a bag to keep for him. She denied knowing anything about the contents but her fingerprints were all over the laptop inside.’

  The driver started the engine as soon as we were sitting inside and sped away towards the City of Cardiff Stadium.

  ‘And there was over two thousand pounds in cash.’

  Cornock kept staring straight ahead.

  ‘And Alvine established there were significant traces of drugs on the money.’

  Cornock glanced in my direction. ‘So is the murder drugs related?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. But there is some suggestion that Westford was a person of interest in an inquiry that Dave Hobbs is leading.’

  ‘So you are making progress. It sounds as though his death was a drug-related feud. These men who push drugs on the streets will stop at nothing.’ Cornock managed a dismissive tone. ‘It might be best if you turned your investigation over to Hobbs.’ The glance this time was a little more intense and his tone nuanced. He knew the last thing I’d want would be to see Dave Hobbs takeover my inquiry.

  ‘There is still a lot to do. I need to speak to his former wife again and we haven’t completed our enquiries with his workmates. And the uniformed lads have dozens of statements to process from the supporters at the ground the night Westford was killed.’ It was the best I could do in the circumstances and I felt quite pleased with myself that it resulted in a grudging acknowledgement from Cornock. ‘Just focus on the drug angle for the time being.’

  The driver deposited us outside the stadium. Cornock fastened his coat, adjusted his cap and adopted his purposeful, senior management walk as he headed for the main entrance. The reception we were attending was scheduled to start at two-thirty, allowing plenty of time for canapés and prosecco before kick-off.

  We took the lift to the fifth floor where we were met by staff with broad smiles who ushered us down the corridor towards various hospitality suites. Cornock paused outside a door that was clearly marked Cardiff City Forum before he pushed it open and strode in.

  Once Cornock had fussed around introducing me to the various civilian staff, he started on the members of the forum. ‘This is Michael Haddock,’ he said under his breath as he walked up to a tall man with a double-breasted suit. Haddock had deep brown eyes and thick eyebrows that gave him a theatrical appearance.

  ‘Superintendent Cornock, how nice to see you,’ Haddock boomed, thrusting out a hand.

  Cornock turned to me. ‘This is Detective Inspector Marco.’

  Haddock gave me a puzzled look as though he had no idea why I should be there. I noticed that he wore a double-breasted waistcoat too. Takes all sorts I supposed. Haddock quickly excused himself and wandered off to speak to two other men in dark suits and a younger man in an expensive suit.

  ‘That’s Haddock’s son, Jason.’ Cornock gave a discreet nod towards the group. ‘He had a reputation for being wild in his youth. Mixed with the wrong crowd.’

  I nodded. ‘What does Haddock do?’

  ‘He’s got this bio-science company. Cutting-edge stuff apparently and it takes him all over the world. He was in Nigeria last month, in South Africa the month before. It’s that sort of business that puts Cardiff on the map. It’s very important that we network and develop these sorts of contacts in the community.’ He took another large sip of his wine. ‘It so easy to become divorced from everyday life.’

  I preferred my own everyday life to the rarefied atmosphere that Co
rnock seemed to favour. Cornock pointed out one of the chaplains from the prison, a tall woman with flat shoes and loosely brushed hair with a centre parting that fell to her shoulders. She wore no make-up and the red blotches on her face gave her an unhealthy appearance. Next to her was a representative of Cardiff City Football Club, and various probation officers and social workers. Cornock nodded at a tall man who had a shaved head and the thick ears common among rugby players. ‘That’s Gregory Clayton.’

  The tone of his voice suggested I should know who he was talking about. I stared over at Clayton but I’d never seen him before. Then I remembered sitting in Westford’s flat and reading the tenancy agreement. ‘Clayton Properties?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does he own Clayton Properties?’

  ‘Yes, and he runs that charity in the Bay,’ he whispered. ‘The one that helps homeless people. He also runs courses in his computer business to rehabilitate people – all round good guy.’

  A woman with long hair and striking red lipstick came up to Clayton. ‘That’s Deborah, his wife.’ Cornock added in hushed tones. ‘Her father’s a surgeon, took out my appendix.’

  She had long auburn hair that glistened healthily. The pillar-box red lipstick only made her look younger than her husband – ten years at least.

  A probation officer I knew from court and a social worker, who giggled as she introduced herself as Jill, joined us as we gazed out over the immaculately prepared grass of the stadium. Both women confessed to knowing nothing about football and clearly had no head for alcohol. Another half a dozen strangers milled around, wine glasses in hand, occasionally nibbling on some food. I guessed that the forum made little meaningful contribution to fighting crime, but they were all well intentioned.