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  Boyd nodded. ‘There’s no record from his bank account of him paying for a holiday or converting money into euros.’

  And then I remembered the box of papers I’d taken from Westford’s flat. I pushed back the chair and marched back to my room where I tipped the contents onto my desk. Boyd followed behind me and when I picked up several scraps of paper he gave me a puzzled look.

  I thrust the petrol receipts from the M5 motorway towards Boyd. ‘These will tell us where Westford had been.’

  Now we had a real focus to this inquiry even if it wasn’t what Cornock envisaged.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday

  10.00 am

  By ten pm the previous evening I had left messages with all the relevant police forces covering the towns and cities with football clubs in the Premiership at the same time as Cardiff. I had given the request for information about thefts of high-end motor vehicles an urgent priority. I knew none of the forces had dedicated teams dealing with car thefts and it worried me that I could be waiting a long time for replies.

  I reached for my telephone and tapped in the number for Sergeant Ramsden. His absence on leave the day before had thwarted my attempts to make progress.

  ‘Pat Ramsden.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Marco, Wales Police Service. I’m interested in your investigation into a stolen BMW owned by Jim Holland.’

  He groaned. ‘Jim Holland as made a right nuisance of himself. The car was used by his wife every day.’

  ‘You don’t give car theft a big priority?’

  ‘What force does these days? Everything is covered by insurance. The owners get all their money back. The only people who lose out are the insurance companies and I don’t hear anybody putting them at the top of the list of victims of crime. We follow all the usual protocols. We circulate details of the cars’ registration details and plates.’

  ‘Did you have record of it on CCTV?’

  ‘Probably, but we didn’t commit hundreds of man hours into looking at CCTV coverage from all around the city. It’s not a major problem anymore. Cars are becoming more secure. Unless you’ve got the keys or some fancy electronic gizmo to get a car started thieves are only interested in old knackered-out cars.’

  ‘Do you keep a central record of all car crime?’

  ‘Not any longer. Any intelligence about an organised crime group goes to our regional organised crime group team.’

  I knew exactly what he meant. Southern Division of the Wales police service had recently formed a dedicated OCG team targeting the highly organised, highly efficient and highly mobile gangs.

  ‘I’ll give you the name of a sergeant in the Thames Valley police who knows more about car thefts than I do. Give me a minute.’

  I could hear the clicking of a mouse and papers shuffling.

  Ramsden gave me the details and wished me luck. I had a feeling I would need it.

  Boyd stuck his head round my door and gesticulated with his hand an offer to make coffee. I nodded and minutes later he reappeared with two mugs. He plonked mine on the desk and then himself on a chair. ‘I’ve finished all those BMW dealers.’

  The last thing I wanted to hear was confirmation that a second identical car had been stolen. ‘Good news, it looks like Holland is the only one who lost that sort of Series 6. I was looking at the price this morning. Do you know how much they cost?’

  ‘More than I earn in a year.’

  Boyd chortled. ‘Both of us, boss.’

  I waved Boyd away and picked up the telephone again. Before I could dial I noticed an email from Superintendent Cornock telling me he had organised a liaison meeting with Dave Hobbs. I could see the investigation slipping through my fingers. Hobbs would wear that smirk he had polished to a nauseating degree and unless I had something new to tell Cornock there would be nothing I could do about it. And his clear instructions not to pursue my present line of enquiry only tightened the knot of worry in my stomach.

  It took an hour to track down Sergeant Beacon in the Thames Valley police. He sounded tired. ‘There are only four of us.’ I heard a sigh down the telephone line. ‘I keep telling my superiors I need more resources. I’ve got three officers and one civilian. I get calls from all over the country. And not to be rude, Inspector, but car crime isn’t a priority.’

  I could hear the irritation in my own voice as I repeated the details. He listened without interrupting me. ‘It sounds very similar to a lot of these offences. Luxury cars are stolen to order. They’ll be into containers within an hour of being stolen then trucked to a port and onto a ship for Australia or West Africa. Because these luxury cars are very hard to break into the gangs usually steal the car keys. I heard of one case where the keys of an Aston Martin were stolen in broad daylight from a hallway table while the owner was talking to two fake community police officers.’

  I thanked Beacon and wondered how I would explain to Cornock that the image of Eddie Westford sitting in three luxury cars justified the expenditure of resources. Boyd interrupted my musings. ‘I’ve checked out the date of that motorway receipt.’

  I wasn’t paying attention.

  ‘The receipt you found in Westford’s flat.’

  I nodded, waving him into my office.

  ‘Westford was travelling south on the M5 motorway. It was the day Cardiff were playing in Birmingham.’

  ‘So he didn’t take the regular supporters’ coach back to Cardiff. Did you check the other receipts?’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘I drew a blank there, boss. None of the receipts are for motorway services and none of them coincide with days when Cardiff were playing.’

  It felt as though we were taking one small step forwards and several more, larger ones, backwards. Boyd fiddled with a sheaf of papers on his lap. He looked over at me; I could sense the reluctance to share bad news. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’ve had the details of the owners of Jaguar XK Type R coupés.’

  By the way Boyd was dragging out sharing this information with me I realised it wasn’t good news. I sat back in my chair.

  ‘You won’t believe this, boss.’

  Not much surprised me any longer.

  ‘Mrs Deborah Clayton owns one.’

  Tuesday

  8.30 pm

  Terry emptied his pint of Brains in one hit, put the glass down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth before sharing a satisfied grin.

  ‘I hadn’t realised the Soul Crew are such a bunch of fucking knobheads.’

  I took a sip of my orange juice. The revelation earlier linking Westford to Clayton had been dominating my mind. It struck me now that pursuing the Soul Crew was simply giving Terry an excuse to get drunk with his old mates.

  ‘Have you got anything constructive you can tell me?’

  Terry glanced around the pub. It was one of our regular haunts, hidden away down a side street in Whitchurch. We sat in a small room at the back well away from the prying eyes of the regulars watching the football on television.

  ‘I did as you asked, Marco. I met up with some of my old mates last Friday night. We went on a massive bender.’ There was warmth and enjoyment in Terry’s recollection as though he were savouring an exquisite meal at an expensive restaurant. ‘I was shitfaced by the end.’

  I leant over towards Terry. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘I was just like Jason Bourne. All secret agent type stuff, keeping my eye out for some of the ringleaders.’ He paused and stared at me. ‘The Soul Crew isn’t about the football anymore.’ He hesitated again, judging my reaction.

  Clearly disappointed I hadn’t risen to the bait and asked for full details, he continued. ‘On Friday I was in a pub with some of the old Soul Crew lads. There were a couple of younger lads there who’d been on the piss all day and they were really mouthing off. One of them kept bragging about the Astons and the Ferraris he was driving down the motorway. He was going on about it and it all sounded dodgy. He was a young kid and no way was
what he was doing legal. One of his mates clocked me and then told him to shut up.’

  My mind was racing ahead now. How conceivable was it that the Soul Crew were involved in the theft of luxury cars?

  ‘And then on Saturday I was in the same pub and I got talking to my mates about the same young lads. It was like they’d got the plague. They just fucking glanced at each other, said nothing and told me it was none of my fucking business. It really got me spooked. So I got back to the drinking. You won’t believe the stuff they get involved with.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He finished the pint and pushed the empty glass over towards me. I trudged over to the small bar area and ordered two more drinks. By the time I got back to my table Terry had relaxed.

  ‘And today I heard the young kid was in Spain.’

  ‘Holiday?’

  ‘You must be fucking joking. He’d been shipped out to work in a bar and then first night he was set on by some “local” youths. Maybe even Swansea supporters.’ Terry managed the barest of smiles. ‘The shit was well and truly kicked out of him. And everyone that has anything to do with the Soul Crew is now scared witless.’

  I wondered what was happening in the background and it troubled me that Terry looked frightened. All I had to do was fathom out who was involved.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday

  10.30 am

  A preliminary financial report into Gregory Clayton made interesting reading. Apart from the investment portfolio of tenanted properties he owned, his wife had been developing substantial financial assets herself. Drug dealers, certainly the clever ones, made certain their wives accumulated assets through legitimate businesses. A launderette, a Chinese takeaway and a string of properties let out to the ever-increasing student population of Cardiff would enable Mrs Clayton to launder drug money easily enough. Envy had probably got the better of her as she eyed some of her neighbours in Radyr, a prosperous suburb of the city, with their legitimate Audis and Mercedes, and she had gone one better with her silver Jaguar.

  I should have reported Mrs Clayton’s involvement to Detective Inspector Dave Hobbs, in writing, using the sort of formal language he enjoyed. But I wasn’t ready to give the murder inquiry to him that easily and if the roles had been reversed his mind would have been working overtime to plot how he could protect his own fiefdom.

  I sauntered into the Incident Room where Boyd sat staring at his computer monitor. He glanced up as I walked towards the board. A photograph of Gregory Clayton and his wife had been pinned underneath Westford’s. The paucity of evidence meant that soon enough I would suffer Dave Hobbs’ condescension. The mere thought made my skin crawl.

  ‘If Clayton is dealing drugs and Westford is involved then why is he driving a stolen car down the motorway?’

  I looked over at Boyd. He screwed his lips into a thoughtful expression. ‘Maybe it was unconnected with Clayton’s drug dealing.’

  I turned back to look at Westford. There was a naive streak to the face. Maybe he had been a low-level courier for Clayton. It certainly explained the regular Spanish holidays and the trips for his son. Perhaps he had got greedy, demanded a bigger slice of the cake. It didn’t fit the pattern somehow; drug dealers demand loyalty and Westford didn’t strike me as the sort of person to take risks. He would have been content with his lot in life. My gaze drifted down to the three photographs of Westford in luxury cars smiling broadly to the camera. Dave Hobbs would have a facile reply, explaining away the inconsistencies with a paragraph of management speak.

  The door from the stairwell creaked open and Alvine Dix marched in.

  ‘Good morning Alvine.’

  ‘John,’ she nodded before giving Boyd a brief twitch of her lips. ‘Making progress?’

  I noticed the file of papers Alvine clutched in her right hand and I guessed this wasn’t a social call. She pulled up a chair and sat down, glancing over at the board. ‘It was quite a brutal murder. Very clinical, almost scientific. Did you read the pathologist’s report?’

  The question was intended to catch me out. Alvine would know that, however distasteful, I would have read the pathologist’s report several times. I decided not to indulge her. She couldn’t resist the invitation to continue.

  ‘The pathologist thinks the wound could have been caused by a medical instrument.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So I thought you might be interested in the results of the forensics from the crime scene.’ She tossed the file of papers onto the nearest table. ‘I’ve attached a copy of an analysis of some of the rubbish Westford had accumulated in his hair.’ She nodded towards his picture on the board. ‘I wonder what sort of shampoo he used?’

  Boyd and I glanced at each other before giving Alvine a surprised look. I bought the cheapest green coloured gunge from the local supermarket in a bottle that would stand upright in a little container I had in one corner of my shower.

  ‘He probably picked up all sorts of rubbish when he was lying on the ground. You might be interested in the cigarette butt we found.’

  ‘Okay Alvine, get to the point.’ She was shredding my patience now.

  ‘It was from one of those fancy Turkish varieties. It hadn’t been smoked right to the butt so it was easy to match the brands.’

  ‘They’ve got a distinctive aroma, haven’t they?’ Boyd added.

  Alvine stood up, making to leave. ‘It’s probably the sort of cigarette a drug dealer would smoke.’

  There was only one person I knew who smoked Turkish cigarettes and as far as I knew, he wasn’t a drug dealer.

  Wednesday

  3.00 pm

  Dave Hobbs sat across from me at the polished table in the conference room on the second floor at Queen Street. He had recently visited the barber judging by the neatness of his hair. A plain navy tie was knotted carefully to the semi-cutaway collar of his white shirt. Our relationship had long ago dispensed with the formality of a handshake.

  ‘Dave.’

  He dipped his head and his lips quivered.

  Next to him sat a man with a completely shaven head that glistened in the artificial light. His shoulders protruded upwards as though someone had connected him to one of those machines in a garage forecourt that inflates tyres.

  ‘Do you know Sergeant Watkins?’ Hobbs turned to his colleague.

  Common courtesy propelled me to reach over a hand. And then I wished I hadn’t as I felt the blood being squeezed out by a crushing handshake. Before we could exchange small talk Superintendent Cornock swept into the room and plonked his cap on the table. It made a change to see him in full uniform. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the assistant chief constable in half an hour. So we need to make this snappy.’

  He sat down, placing one hand over another before looking over in my direction.

  ‘The current investigation led by Inspector Marco into the death of Eddie Westford has thrown up a potential connection to Gregory Clayton. As we know Mr Clayton is well connected. John, what evidence is there linking Westford to Clayton?’

  Hobbs and Watkins simultaneously turned to look at me, willingly me to foul up.

  ‘Westford was one of Clayton’s tenants. We believe that Westford argued with Clayton after a recent Cardiff City home game.’

  ‘For goodness sake, John, that is not taking you very far,’ Cornock said.

  ‘Clayton and his wife have also accumulated a lot of wealth recently.’

  I noticed Hobbs nodding slowly. ‘The speed at which he has accumulated properties is certainly of interest.’

  His encouragement surprised me so I continued. ‘And our preliminary work suggests Mrs Clayton has businesses that could facilitate money laundering.’

  Hobbs nodded again: I could even see my view of him changing if this continued.

  I stared at Hobbs. ‘Are there any other persons of interest in your inquiry?’

  Cornock butted in before he could reply. ‘We have to identify the best use of resources. I can’t have two detective
inspectors investigating the same potential suspect. John, do you have any direct eyewitness evidence that Westford and Clayton knew each other personally or saw them arguing?’

  ‘Ah… No.’

  ‘Any forensics?’

  ‘The pathologist thinks the murder weapon might be a scientific knife.’

  Hobbs now. ‘What like a scalpel?’

  I nodded. ‘And the pathologist found the remains of Turkish cigarettes in Westford’s hair.’

  Hobbs and Watkins gave me puzzled looks.

  ‘Westford had very long hair.’

  They nodded their understanding.

  ‘Are you suggesting we look for people who smoke Turkish cigarettes in Cardiff?’ Cornock didn’t hide the incredulity in his voice.

  ‘I only know one person who smokes Turkish cigarettes: Michael Haddock.’

  Cornock guffawed. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? I hope you’re not suggesting Haddock is our killer. He is a member of the Cardiff City Task Force Forum and he supports numerous charities for Christ’s sake.’

  A smirk was developing all over Hobbs’ face.

  I knew the link to Haddock was tenuous so I decided on another approach. ‘I’m still exercised about the connection between Westford and stolen cars. In particular, sir, we know he was driving on the motorway on the day a luxury Series 6 BMW was stolen in Birmingham.’

  ‘You can be as exercised as you want, it’s still not giving us any evidence. I think it would be more sensible if your investigation…’ He looked over at me, and raised his eyebrows. ‘…were allocated to Inspector Hobbs and his team.’

  I leant over the table. ‘I’ve got some good intelligence sources on the Cardiff City Soul Crew and I’m certain I can make progress ….’ I ran out of steam; it all sounded unconvincing. ‘A few days … until the beginning of next week.’