A Time to Kill Read online

  ‘I want all these items seized then forensically examined.’

  ‘That’s going to mean a big commitment of resources.’ Evans managed a mildly defiant tone.

  Drake gave him a sharp look: budgets and protocols could go to hell. The killer might have handled any one of the items in the building, even a partial fingerprint might point them to a suspect.

  Drake’s mobile rang and he stepped into the sunshine to answer the call.

  ‘Inspector Drake.’

  ‘Alison Faulkner, sir.’ It took a moment for Drake to recognise the name of the family liaison officer allocated to Fiona Jones. ‘I think you should come to Llanberis. Fiona has run amok.’

  Chapter 7

  Drake jogged over to his car after jerking his head at Sara, indicating for her to follow him. ‘Fiona left the house an hour ago and got into a scrap with a woman at the local supermarket.’

  Sara clipped her seatbelt into place as Drake started the engine and sped off. ‘Do we know who the other person is?’

  Drake shook his head.

  After each meeting with Fiona Jones Sara had become more uncomfortable about the grieving widow, but was her reaction tempered by what they had learned about Harry Jones? How much did Fiona Jones really know about her late husband?

  The tyres of Drake’s Mondeo kicked up a cloud of grit as he sped away for Llanberis.

  Drake struck a disdainful tone. ‘Apparently she told the family liaison officer she was going out for a walk. But she visited the local supermarket and got into an altercation with another woman and damaged her car.’

  Near the imposing walls of the Vaynol estate that hugged the bank of the Menai Strait he indicated right and motored up the hill for Pentir, pressing on towards Llanberis.

  A light shower of rain drenched the car and the wiper blades swished back and forth.

  Sara continued. ‘There is something a bit odd about Fiona Jones.’

  Drake glanced over at her. ‘Woman’s intuition?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘How much did she really know about her husband?’

  ‘A lot more than she told us at the start.’

  A few minutes later Drake indicated right into the town and found the supermarket easily enough. It had a small car park – enough for a dozen or so cars. A marked police car had pulled up onto the pavement outside. A traffic cop stood by a Ford Fiesta, its windscreen smashed, the driver’s side wing mirror hanging off limply.

  There was no sign of Fiona Jones.

  Drake double-parked and they joined the uniformed officer.

  Introductions completed, the officer gave them a summary. ‘Fiona Jones arrived to do some shopping. There was a confrontation between her and another customer. There was some shouting, pushing and shoving and things got a bit heated. From the eyewitnesses I’ve spoken to, Fiona Jones called her a slut and a tart – all the usual insults before rushing out and smashing the windscreen.’

  ‘Have you notified forensics?’ Drake said.

  ‘They should be here any minute.’

  ‘Is this other woman here?’

  The officer dipped his head towards the shop building. ‘She’s with the manager.’

  Sara followed Drake over to the automatic electric doors that pulsed open as they approached. In front of them was an aisle of refrigerated counters and a group of elderly women whose conversation abruptly ended as they noticed them. Sara looked to her left and spotted the checkout and the faces of two worried-looking teenagers wearing polo shirts advertising the supermarket brand.

  Drake was ahead of her as he reached the assistants. ‘I need to speak to the manager.’

  One of them buzzed an intercom. ‘Can you come to the tills, Mr Patel?’

  Seconds later a short man with heavy spectacles appeared from a doorway at the rear of the shop. He took a few steps towards Drake and Sara but when he realised who they were he waved them over. Patel led them into his office where a woman sat on a visitor chair.

  ‘This is a Penny Muller,’ Patel said.

  Drake produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan. Can you tell me what happened?’

  Penny lifted her head and looked at Drake and then at Sara. Her eyes were smaller than Sara expected from her broad face and wide unsmiling mouth. The shoulder-length dirty blonde hair was curled into wisps, brushing the shoulders of her cream top with its scalloped neckline that showed a little too much tanned cleavage.

  ‘I’d just finished some shopping.’ The accent sounded educated; it wasn’t local but neither was it Scouse, from the Liverpool area, which was prevalent in North Wales. ‘I was taking my bags to the car when Fiona approached me.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Penny pulled the locks of hair that curtained the right side of her face behind her ear. There was a lot more to that reply, Sara thought.

  ‘Is she a friend of yours?’ Drake said.

  Derision swept over Penny’s face and Sara anticipated Drake had seen it too.

  ‘I would hardly call her that.’

  ‘Tell us what happened.’ Drake folded his arms.

  ‘She attacked me, Inspector. She started thumping me. My shopping fell to the floor. I don’t know what possessed her. I dashed back inside the shop.’

  Patel butted in, although Drake glowered at him. ‘One of the staff called me and by the time I reached the tills Fiona was smashing the car windscreen and the wing mirrors.’

  ‘How was she doing that?’

  ‘She was using a hammer.’

  ‘A hammer?’ Drake exchanged a glance with Sara. It suggested premeditation; Fiona had left the house clearly intent on causing harm to something or someone. Sara frowned.

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’ Sara said.

  Penny shrugged; Patel did likewise. ‘I told all my staff to stay inside. She left soon afterwards – jumped in her car and drove away.’

  Sara looked at Penny, still troubled about her replies that suggested a lot more to her relationship with Fiona Jones. Sara adopted a soft tone. ‘And why do you think she attacked you, Penny?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  Evasion was always a clear indication more digging needed to be done, Sara thought. Now she used a harder tone. ‘Mrs Muller, I find that hard to believe. Mrs Jones has just lost her husband, surely you’re aware of that? And yet she attacks you in broad daylight – why would she do that? Where do you live?’

  Penny sighed impatiently. ‘We live outside Llanberis. My husband and I run an alternative therapy centre.’ Her tone irritated Sara, who turned to Patel.

  ‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Muller in private.’

  Patel glanced at Drake and then at Penny before leaving his office.

  ‘What’s the real nature of your relationship with Fiona Jones?’ Sara said.

  Penny cleared her throat. ‘Is it any of your business? And in any event I didn’t have a relationship with her. She’s quite mad.’

  ‘We’ll be the judge of what is our business or not.’ Drake raised his voice.

  It didn’t intimidate Penny, who sneered. For the first time Sara noticed her cold eyes and her distinctive jawline.

  ‘Were you having an affair with Harry Jones?’ Sara said.

  For a brief moment, the veil of disdain and contempt that clouded Penny’s eyes melted away into sadness. Sara waited for her to reply.

  ‘It was a while ago.’ She dipped her head and fidgeted with her fingers.

  Sara wanted to interrogate her further, but Drake’s mobile rang.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  Sara watched him stiffen and he turned to Sara.

  ‘We need to go.’

  * * *

  Drake sprinted to the car. ‘Fiona’s gone to the Mullers’ place. And she’s taken her hammer with her.’ Drake reached his car first and jumped into the driver’s seat before Sara could ask any questions.

  Drake accelerated o
ut of the car park. He tossed his mobile into Sara’s lap as it bleeped. ‘The message should have the postcode.’

  Sara tapped the details into the satnav and waited for the directions to show up on the screen. Drake had already left Llanberis, heading west towards the coast. ‘She drove to the Muller’s property straight after the supermarket. All I’ve been told is that she was overcome by a couple of the employees.’

  ‘What has she done?’

  ‘She’s smashed windows and various cars.’

  ‘What did you make of Mrs Muller, boss?’

  ‘You certainly gave her a hard time.’

  ‘I hate it when people lie to us, when people go out of their way to be awkward.’

  Drake nodded. ‘It looks as though she was having an affair with Harry Jones.’

  Sara nodded back vigorously. ‘It doesn’t give Fiona Jones any reason to smash up her car.’

  ‘She’s just lost her husband. People do odd things when they’re under great stress. They never think straight.’

  ‘Even so, boss…’

  Drake took the junction towards Brynrefail before making another right turn for Deiniolen. The satnav took them to the outskirts of the small village and along a circuitous route Drake guessed would take them to the adjacent valley. A large enclosure of conifers came into view on his right-hand side. It was unusual for trees to survive on this wind-scarred landscape. The satnav bleeped that they had reached their destination and Drake indicated right into a rough drive. At the end they pulled up outside a Gothic-styled property of grey stone, enormous lintels covering wide doors and ageing wooden casement windows.

  Drake left the car and nodded for Sara to follow him round towards the rear. In a carport a burnt-orange Range Rover Evoque with a black top was parked next to a red Mercedes. A hammer had left clear indentations in the panels of both cars and the windscreens were smashed. The rear-view mirrors dangled against the paintwork of each. The cost of repair for vehicles like this would be astronomic, Drake thought. And each was a crime scene. The CSI at the supermarket in Llanberis could deal with them after he’d finished.

  Over to his left Drake saw an open door.

  ‘Let’s go and see inside.’

  The hallway felt colder than the season suggested. Red quarry tiles covered the floor and ran through into the main part of the building. A heavy Welsh dresser had pride of place against one wall. At the end of the hallway he could make out the bottom risers of a staircase. The sound of conversation emerged from the kitchen ahead of them and when they entered a tall slim man gazed over at Drake. He was fifty, give or take, with a head full of hair pulled back in thick waves. Its coiffured appearance reminded Drake of his mother returning from the hairdresser smelling of hairspray.

  ‘Thank God. Are you the police?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake and Detective Sergeant Morgan.’ Drake didn’t bother with his warrant card.

  ‘Wolfgang Muller.’ Wolfgang stretched out a hand, giving Drake and Sara a vigorous handshake. ‘I’m so very pleased you got here so quickly.’

  Drake gave Wolfgang a long stare. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Fiona Jones arrived a few minutes ago. She started smashing our cars, screaming like a banshee. I have never seen anything like it.’

  ‘What was she saying? Any idea why she would do it?’

  Drake hoped that Wolfgang would be a little more cooperative than his wife.

  Wolfgang paused as he gathered his thoughts, composing his reply carefully. He straightened, as though standing to attention. ‘She wants to blame my wife and myself for her husband’s death.’

  ‘Why would that be the case?’ Drake said.

  ‘It is no secret, Inspector Drake, that my wife had a relationship with Harry Jones. There was some unpleasantness between Harry and myself.’

  ‘Unpleasantness?’ Drake said. It was an oddly English word for someone with such a strong German accent.

  ‘We argued. I told him never to come near her or myself ever again.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘On occasion I believe he did.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  Wolfgang peered down at Drake, his eyes hardening. ‘I wasn’t pleased.’

  ‘We found Harry Jones’ body yesterday morning. Where were you the night before last?’

  ‘I was here of course: all night, we had a house full of guests.’

  ‘What exactly do you do here?’ Drake glanced around the kitchen. It had an old range, at least a dozen pots hanging from butchers’ hooks and cupboards with glass-fronted doors, its shelves filled with jars and dry goods.

  ‘We run a centre offering yoga courses, alternative therapies and wellness clinics.’

  ‘I see,’ Drake said.

  Sara made her first contribution. ‘Where is Fiona now?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  At the far end of the room was a door that led into another corridor, equally cold, equally barren and inhospitable. Drake imagined some nonconformist industrialist from Lancashire in the Victorian era building the house as a holiday home that he used for a fortnight each summer, its hallways and landings occupied by surly servants complaining their master was too mean to keep the place warm.

  Wolfgang led them past two rooms Drake thought had been part of the servants’ quarters. At the end of the narrow corridor two men, both in their early twenties, stood sentry-like near a wooden door.

  ‘You’re not keeping her under lock and key, I hope,’ Drake said.

  Wolfgang shook his head. ‘Of course not. We restrained her from causing any more criminal damage. We got her into the house and, well, as you can see, she started crying.’

  Inside Fiona Jones was nursing a mug although she had long since finished its contents.

  She saw Drake and Sara but her eyes didn’t register recognition immediately. Then she frowned. ‘I suppose you’ve come to arrest me.’

  Chapter 8

  Drake sat in the room of an off-duty sergeant at the police station in an anonymous industrial estate in Caernarfon. Unease filled his mind as he thought about the hours he was wasting on investigating criminal damage to three cars and an assault.

  As a precaution Drake insisted Wolfgang Muller travel with Sara to the area custody suite in a marked police car. As she was doing that Gareth Winder and Luned Thomas were interviewing each of the guests at Bryn Hyfryd, the wellness centre Fiona Jones had vandalised. There was every chance Wolfgang was a real suspect and his reference to ‘unpleasantness’ between himself and Harry Jones made Drake suspicious.

  Drake left the insipid-looking coffee Sara had brought from the canteen.

  ‘Harry Jones had a colourful lifestyle.’ Sara sipped on her tea – a strong brown colour.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘I wonder who else has fallen victim to his charms?’

  ‘I want a full background search done on Wolfgang Muller and his wife in due course.’

  Drake read the time on his watch. An hour had elapsed since his call requesting Fiona’s lawyer to attend. They couldn’t interview Fiona, sitting patiently in a cell in the custody suite, without him. Drake didn’t expect her to be difficult. Six eyewitnesses confirmed exactly what had happened. In addition, the CCTV footage from the shop made the evidence against her overwhelming.

  Deciding that he had to make progress, he called Paula Wendall, one of the local intelligence officers he knew. They were civilians, which meant a disregard for rank and hierarchy.

  ‘Morning, Ian,’ Paula Wendall said. ‘I hear you’re investigating the Llanberis murder.’

  ‘Harry Jones,’ Drake said. ‘He was an antiques dealer. Have you got any intelligence to link him to known burglars?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I’ll check.’

  ‘We also discovered several old pistols in a lock-up where he stored furniture. They looked like something from a Second World War film.’

  ‘We don’t get anybody using firearms a
round here, you know that. It sounds unusual; you’re probably looking for a theft from a collector in one of the big cities. You might try John Edwards, the historian at the army museum in Caernarfon Castle.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Drake finished his call as Sara’s mobile rang, and he listened to her brief one-sided conversation.

  She finished the call. ‘The lawyer has arrived.’

  Upton was an unusual name in North Wales and Dafydd was the son of the lawyer who finalised the probate papers for Drake’s father’s estate. He was a timid man in his early thirties, entirely unsuited to criminal work. It would only be a matter of time before he decided a career dealing with dead people was far more lucrative than spending hours in an airless claustrophobic interview room.

  Once Drake got the formalities out of the way, he glanced at Fiona Jones. She looked pale sitting next to Dafydd Upton, her skin blotchy, her eyes bloodshot, as though she hadn’t eaten for days. She held the plastic beaker full of water with both hands.

  ‘Do you realise why you’re here, Fiona?’

  Fiona nodded.

  ‘You were arrested earlier today on suspicion of criminal damage to vehicles belonging to Penny Muller and her husband Wolfgang Muller.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I hate her so much. She wasn’t like the others. She had control over him. He couldn’t let her go.’

  Drake paused; it was unusual for an interview to go so well at the beginning. Fiona admitted her involvement immediately. Neither he nor Sara needed to play the good cop/bad cop routine.

  ‘Why did you take a hammer with you this morning when you left the house?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fiona looked over at him, puzzled. ‘I went out for a drive; I needed to clear my head. Harry left some tools in the car. I saw her… I saw her arriving at the supermarket. My mind blanked out; all I could think of was Harry and her. And I’ve seen her with that husband of hers in the supermarket looking down their noses at me.’

  ‘Where were you when you saw her?’

  ‘I was just driving past.’

  ‘Did you turn around?’