A Time to Kill Read online

  With a flourish Kings removed the white sheet covering Harry Jones.

  ‘What were your first impressions when you saw the body?’ Drake asked, stifling a yawn.

  ‘That he was dead of course.’

  Drake realised his lame question deserved an equally lame response.

  The blood around the wound Drake had seen earlier had coagulated into sticky lumps. Kings started cleaning it, taking care to remove any possible fragments of hair and fibre – anything that could offer incriminating evidence. Gunshot wounds could always share with the investigating team details of the calibre of the gun used, its age, the manufacturer. The way in which the wound was formed could tell them how near the killer had been to his victim.

  Thankfully, the use of firearms in Wales was uncommon, as it was in most parts of the United Kingdom. Acquiring a firearms certificate wasn’t an easy task. Accessing the list of everybody authorised to own a firearm or shotgun in North Wales would be a priority the following morning.

  Kings returned to the work in hand, moving quickly to dissect Harry’s chest with a dramatic Y cut before attacking his sternum with a reciprocating saw, prising his rib cage apart to reveal his heart and lungs.

  Once he finished cleaning the wound, Kings peered down into it. With a pair of tweezers he gently extracted the bullet and dropped it into a stainless steel bowl on a tray. It made a loud tinkling sound. It looked so small sitting in the tray, streaked with shards of bloody flesh.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Kings said, his earlier haste to finish the task in hand dissipated. ‘I’ve never seen a bullet quite like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not an expert. But most of the gunshot wounds I have seen or read about don’t have bullets that look like a museum piece.’

  Kings pushed the small metal fragment around the tray.

  ‘Once I’ve finished I’ll get the bullet cleaned and sent for full ballistic examination. They should be able to tell you some more about the gun.’

  Drake asked. ‘How near was he to the victim?’

  ‘There’s no evidence of gunshot residue on the surrounding skin.’ Kings tilted his head, contemplated his reply. ‘I would say he was within a few feet of the victim when he pulled the trigger. Death was from a pericardial tamponade. The bullet lodged in his pericardium, and a small hole in his right ventricle allowed bleeding into the sack around the heart which fills with blood and strangles the heart, eventually stopping it from beating.’

  ‘Did he die instantaneously?’

  Kings pursed his lips. ‘I can’t be certain. Probably not, but he didn’t live long – a few minutes. Do you have any suspects?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘Harry went to the Quarryman’s Hospital to meet somebody. And that somebody produced a gun and killed him.’ Drake continued to think aloud. ‘So that suggests Harry Jones knew his killer.’

  ‘I cannot comment on that.’

  Drake nodded.

  Kings peeled back the skin over Harry’s head, clicking on the saw that enabled him to remove his brain, which he weighed and then carefully placed into another tray. It pleased Drake he hadn’t eaten for most of the day. The post-mortem reached the stage where the body was treated as a collection of medical exhibits. Drake should have been accustomed to the mechanical nature of the exercise but it was something he found difficult to stomach.

  After an hour a familiar, contented look came over the pathologist’s face, a look that Drake had seen many times before. Drake left him and returned to his car. A fox scratched the undergrowth at the far end of the now empty car park before it saw him and scampered away.

  Drake started the Mondeo, regretting he hadn’t actually purchased an Alfa 159 he’d spotted in a local garage but it had streaks of rust around the wheel arch and one of the electric windows wasn’t working. Even so, the Mondeo was a boring car to drive. He pointed the car towards the direction of the A55 and soon enough found himself parking outside his flat. Inside he cracked open a bottle of Peroni and sat at the kitchen table as he listened to the message from his sister telling him she was planning to stay for a weekend with their mother, although annoyingly she didn’t say when it was going to be. He’d call her in the morning, although his mother would probably know the full details already. He had tried to rationalise with Susan, getting her to accept that with their father dead they had to build bridges with their recently discovered half-brother Huw Jackson, even get to know him. Persuading her that their father would have wanted them to have a relationship with Huw had proved difficult and it had been challenging to get his sister to speak to their mother about it.

  Finding a loaf and block of cheddar in the fridge, he settled down to eat something. He could have a square meal tomorrow, maybe. In the morning, he’d be back in headquarters. It would be another twelve-hour day. It was the sort of routine that had ruined his marriage, resulted in him living in a flat in Colwyn Bay, eating toast and cheese before going to bed.

  Chapter 6

  Drake’s mobile rang at 7.45 the following morning. He had already showered, chosen a sombre grey suit, a shirt with Bengal stripes matched with a navy tie. The brogues were his second-best pair, the shoes he had worn yesterday packed carefully in a box in the wardrobe ready to be cleaned. Drake thrived on order and routine, although it had been his obsessions and rituals in the past that so infuriated Sian. Counselling ordered by the Wales Police Service after a difficult case involving the murder of two colleagues had helped, but Drake had found himself recently ruminating more often than was healthy.

  ‘Good morning.’ Drake recognised Sian’s number and tried to sound cheerful.

  ‘I left you two messages yesterday.’

  The implication that he had to be available to take her calls riled him. He offered his stock explanation. ‘I was busy.’

  ‘All day?’

  He heard the impatience in the two words she stabbed out and decided against offering an explanation. His hunger that morning hadn’t been satisfied by the bowl of muesli and an Americano, and a lingering headache reminded him it had been late when he’d returned to his flat.

  ‘I’m going away for the weekend, and the girls are staying with Mum. But she forgot that on Sunday afternoon she and Dad are committed to some charity auction. I was hoping…’

  It was a racing certainty he would be working this Saturday and Sunday. Unlike Sian he didn’t have the luxury of being a GP with regular hours and weekends off. But he didn’t want his daughters, Helen and Megan, shunted around while Sian was away. He could take them to see his mother.

  ‘Of course. I’ll make arrangements to collect them from your mother’s place.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Ian.’

  ‘Are you going anywhere nice?’

  Drake thought it a reasonable enough request and he knew she had spent weekends away with some of her friends and with her parents in Berlin a few months earlier.

  ‘It’s a last-minute thing. Are you involved in that case in Llanberis?’ Sian’s clumsy attempt to distract him made him suspicious. Who was she going with? And was it any of his business?

  Sian continued. ‘My lawyers tell me you still haven’t completed the forms they’ve sent you.’

  Now Drake was certain she was being secretive.

  ‘I’ll deal with them over the weekend.’ Drake had said this a dozen times before.

  After finishing the call and clearing away the breakfast dishes, he checked that the kitchen was neat and tidy – he adjusted the dishcloths draped over the handle of the oven so that both hung down the same distance. Sian’s habit of leaving them disorganised and untidy had always irked him.

  In the hallway, he dragged on a light overcoat and glanced at the mirror before straightening his tie. He closed the door of the flat behind him and made his way down to his car.

  Five minutes later he parked at the far end of the car park at headquarters in a slot certain to minimise the risk of scratches or accidental bumps to his Mondeo. />
  On the second floor he pushed open the door of the Incident Room. He spotted that the image of Harry Jones pinned to the board was slightly off centre – he would have to move it, as otherwise it would play on his mind.

  Gareth Winder stopped regaling Luned Thomas mid-sentence when he saw Drake. Luned’s tightly wound arms and creased forehead suggested she wasn’t enjoying the discourse from Winder. Drake had seen the tension between the detective constables previously. Winder was her senior by several years but no match for her sharp mind. Winder’s chin under his round, flabby face seemed to have sagged and Drake thought he’d put on weight recently.

  ‘Morning boss,’ Winder said.

  Drake nodded an acknowledgement. Luned uncrossed her arms. ‘Sir.’

  Drake walked over to the board and adjusted Harry Jones’ photograph. As he finished, the door squeaked open, and he turned to see Sara shrugging off a red parka.

  ‘The body of Harry Jones was found yesterday morning.’ Drake gestured over his shoulder. ‘A member of staff at the old Quarryman’s Hospital in Llanberis discovered the body in their bin enclosure.’

  ‘Any forensics, sir?’ Luned said.

  ‘Nothing so far. Definitely no murder weapon. There’s a full CSI team at the scene today. They’re going to search the surrounding woodland. The nearby slate museum is closed but there’s a mobile incident room set up.’

  ‘What did he do for a living?’ Winder said.

  ‘He was an antiques dealer in Llanberis. We need to build a complete picture of his life. We know he was married and that his wife Fiona was visiting her mother the night he was killed.’

  ‘Is she a person of interest?’ Luned said.

  ‘I don’t think so, but we keep an open mind. We’ll need searches of the telephone records of both Harry and Fiona Jones. Somebody must have made contact with him to arrange to see him at the Quarryman’s Hospital. And financial and banking details for Jones and do the Land Registry as well. And organise house-to-house at Llanberis.’

  ‘All of the houses?’ Winder said.

  ‘Yes, Gareth. Llanberis isn’t Manhattan. It’s a small village.’ Drake continued. ‘A single bullet to the chest killed Jones. The pathologist thought the gun used might be quite old.’

  Sara piped up. ‘He certainly led a double life – the man who helped in his shop referred to him by his nickname hotpoint – apparently it refers to his initials HP but also to his reputation.’

  Winder smirked. ‘So, he was a player.’

  ‘Typical chauvinist comment.’ Luned sounded peeved.

  Drake ignored her. ‘I’ve organised for a forensic team to open a safe in his house this morning and they’ll be removing various filing cabinets from his shop too. Sara and I will be visiting a lock-up Jones owned so when we’re back I need progress reports.’

  * * *

  Drake drove into a large gravelled section of a small industrial estate that appeared deserted. As he slowed the car, Sara leaned forward and they craned to spot the search team near Harry Jones’ lock-up. Behind him the towering presence of an articulated lorry flashed its lights, encouraging him to move out of its way. In a cloud of dust it drove past Drake and on towards a yard where Drake could see bags of builders’ merchants’ materials all neatly arranged in rows. A little way ahead of Drake’s Mondeo were half a dozen wooden sheds and a sign advertising a company selling them. Alongside was a corrugated iron structure like an upturned boat, a single door in its gable. Only weeds thrived among the old pallets and coils of fencing material littered around the place.

  In the distance he spotted an officer walking into view, peering over at them. Drake crunched the car into first gear and drove over the potholed surface. The man disappeared from view and it surprised Drake that the industrial estate stretched further than he imagined. They passed a dilapidated building that resembled an old railway station and Drake guessed the area must have been an old goods yard.

  Two police vehicles were stationary in front of three corrugated iron structures, smaller but similar to the one at the beginning of the estate. Drake counted four officers and the uniformed sergeant who would be in charge of the search. Drake parked alongside one of the other vehicles and he and Sara left his Mondeo to join them. Three crowbars, two sets of enormous industrial pinchers and boxes of tools lay on the dusty ground nearby.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Jack Evans,’ the sergeant said. ‘Any idea what’s inside?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘It’s just that a couple of the lads are on rest days today, which means a lot of overtime.’

  It meant the bean counters at the finance department complaining about Drake’s budget. Accountants would be the death of modern policing, Drake thought. The last thing he wanted to worry about was his budget or keeping the books balanced.

  ‘I’ve got no idea how long this will take. Harry Jones kept it as a lock-up so whatever is inside must be valuable,’ Drake said.

  Evans nodded at one of the officers who came forward and snapped open the chain hanging over the door. Next, another officer worked on the lock. He reached for a cordless drill and a loud grinding sound filled the air. Eventually the door swung open.

  Drake and Sara peered in, staring at furniture stacked floor to ceiling.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Drake said.

  Over to his left Drake saw a length of plywood screwed to an upright piece of timber with two old black switches. Fluorescent tubes high above them simmered into life once he switched them on.

  ‘It looks like Harry Jones owned a lot of stock,’ Sara said.

  ‘How much stock does an antiques dealer in Llanberis need?’ Drake said.

  He walked down the aisle through the middle of the building, Sara following behind. There were chest of drawers, bookcases, wardrobes and shelving units full of boxes. Everything had been organised in neat rows allowing access to move any item easily.

  Halfway down the row Sara detoured into an area with several metal filing cabinets. She opened the nearest and flicked through the contents of a drawer. She glanced over at Drake. ‘There are some old books.’

  ‘They must be valuable if he kept them under lock and key.’

  Behind him, Drake could hear Evans dictating instructions for uniformed officers to start their work. He wasn’t wasting any time, Drake thought. But he wondered if he was.

  Sara had turned her attention to a metal storage cupboard. She eased open the unlocked door.

  ‘This is like an Aladdin’s cave,’ she said. ‘You should take a look at this, boss.’

  By the time Drake joined her she held in her hand a picture frame with blurry images of two figures standing near a washing line, its contents being blown in the wind. Sara stared down at the painting. ‘I’m sure this is by Kevin Sinnott.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’

  Sara nodded. ‘He’s an artist from South Wales – very collectable. This is probably worth thousands.’

  She replaced the frame gently before examining others from inside.

  ‘I don’t recognise any of these. But we should get them all checked out in due course.’

  ‘I agree,’ Drake said.

  Drake moved past her and further into the building. He spotted two polished dining tables and matching chairs. Alongside them were two desks with bowed legs and intricately inlaid surfaces. Drake imagined them having pride of place in some grand house in the English countryside. Behind him, Sara whistled under her breath and he heard her mention the name of another artist he hadn’t heard of.

  He opened the drawer of one of the desks, but it was empty. The second had scraps of newspapers from 1992 inside. Despite the autumn temperatures, the lock-up felt warm, and when Drake reached the end of the aisle he spotted a large space heater that Harry Jones must have used during colder weather.

  Several antique chests were stored on a specially constructed vertical plinth screwed to the wall. It pointed to a professional operation. Drake wondered where Harry Jones had sourced all the
se items.

  He turned his attention to an ornate cupboard with small delicate legs and colourful inlay in extravagant swirls across the drawer fronts. Sara joined him as he ran a hand along the surface.

  ‘It looks French,’ Sara said.

  ‘How much is it worth do you think?’

  ‘They look expensive. Do you think all this stuff belongs to Harry Jones?’

  Drake shrugged. He had his doubts but without evidence they couldn’t prove anything. He pulled out the top drawer and let his mouth fall open.

  Sara peered in. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  The collection of hand guns inside looked like museum pieces.

  Drake bellowed. ‘Jack, get over here.’

  Moments later the sergeant appeared at his side.

  ‘Bloody hell. One of these could be your murder weapon.’

  ‘Are any of your search team authorised firearms officers?’

  Evans shook his head.

  ‘Then call firearms and get an officer here who is. And nobody touches these until you’re satisfied they are safe.’

  A shout from an officer near the entrance took Drake’s attention. ‘Inspector, get over here.’

  Evans and Sara followed Drake as he negotiated his way back towards the daylight. One of the search team stood looking at a table with two clocks standing on it.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Drake said.

  ‘Paul Hughes, sir. I recognise these clocks. There was a break-in at my grandparents’ home a couple of months ago. Both clocks are family heirlooms.’

  ‘Can you be certain?’ Drake said.

  ‘I grew up seeing these clocks whenever I went to my grandparents’ farmhouse. Taid used to show me how to wind them. Mam will be over the moon; she was really upset after the break-in.’

  It was difficult to imagine Harry Jones as a burglar but handling stolen goods now looked very likely. Drake paused. It meant hours of work; every item would have to be photographed and fingerprinted, and the premises made completely secure until operational support could remove everything to a safe location.