Dead Smart Page 8

  The other plainclothes officers ran into the cobbled square.

  ‘Ferris and Horne are here somewhere.’ I pointed the two officers towards the cottages, shouting instructions for them to search each one as Boyd and I headed for the large wooden gate. I heaved open the latch and leant my shoulder onto it, surprised at how easy it moved on its hinges.

  We walked into the small courtyard: no vehicles but there was the sound of muffled conversation from a half-opened window in one corner. We made our way towards the nearby doorway. It squeaked open as I pushed it and I cursed silently, grimacing to Boyd.

  At the end of a small corridor the noise gradually emerged into three different voices. Despite the occasional squeak from the floorboards underneath my feet we walked towards the door at the end. I nodded to Boyd as we paused and opened the door.

  A long, wide garage opened in front of us with a dozen or more classic cars parked in rows. Deborah Clayton and Jason Haddock looked over at us with hard dark stares.

  I scanned the room for Michael Haddock without success as my mind made the connections I should have seen all along.

  Chapter 14

  Monday

  09.30 am

  ‘He’s threatened to make a complaint.’ Cornock sounded justifiably dismissive.

  The look on Michael Haddock’s face when he returned home the previous evening to see a full CSI team working on his classic car collection had stayed in my mind. In fact it was better than a night at the theatre. He ranted and swore at Boyd and me. Demanded to know what was going on before trying to order a young investigator out of a gleaming Ferrari.

  ‘We found the E Type Jaguar in a locked garage. And Jason had the only key. I should have seen the connection sooner. Hartley Westford confirmed that he saw his dad talking to someone who had long hair like his dad. We spoke to him again yesterday and we showed him a picture of Deborah Clayton from behind. He confirmed it could be her.’

  Cornock nodded.

  ‘And Haddock has a patch of white hair just as Hartley describes. Once Ferris and Horne started talking we got a full picture of Jason Haddock. Quite the megalomaniac. He loved to beat the shit out of anyone who argued with him. Apparently he just loved the buzz of stealing cars and using the Soul Crew to do his dirty work for him. Westford was one of their regular drivers. But he got greedy and wanted more money. So they killed him.’

  I stared at the preliminary forensic report on my lap and then reached over and plonked it down on Cornock’s desk. ‘Alvine has been working overtime. She reckons the knife we found in Mrs Clayton’s car could be the knife that sliced open Westford’s throat. It was a medical scalpel which she denies knowing anything about but which she probably stole from her father.’

  Cornock scanned the report making approving noises as he finished reading the final paragraph.

  I continued. ‘And we know the Claytons lied about visiting Westford thanks to the evidence of that woman in the bottom-floor flat.’

  Cornock nodded. ‘Thank goodness for nosy neighbours.’

  I stood up and made to leave. The tropical fish tank hummed in the background and it surprised me how Cornock could work with the constant sound. ‘When are you interviewing Deborah Clayton?’

  ‘Later this afternoon.’

  ‘Good work, John.’

  I thanked him, pleased with the recognition, and left him to the mound of paperwork on his desk.

  I got back to the Incident Room and Hobbs stood in front of the board, the rest of the team still finishing the search at Haddock’s property.

  ‘I hear you’ve had a busy weekend.’ He made it sound like a criticism, as though I had taken unauthorised leave. ‘I’ve still got a live inquiry into Gregory Clayton.’ He wasn’t even convincing himself. That investigation would grind on for weeks, maybe longer. Hobbs might get a conviction against a low-level dealer, but if Clayton was involved he would have made himself bomb proof by now.

  I leant against a desk. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help just contact me.’

  For a moment, Hobbs hesitated. Various nerves twitched on his face. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ he managed through gritted teeth.

  Monday

  2.45 pm

  The smell in the interview room at Queen Street never changed. It was a dull and heavy and lifeless. The drone of the air-conditioning unit hummed in the background as I entered and, closing the door, cut off the sound of activity from the custody suite. I sat down with Boyd by my side. I stared over at Deborah Clayton who blinked and glanced at her lawyer for reassurance. He gave her a brief smile.

  The one-piece white standard-issue clothing made her look like any other suspect in custody. She looked pasty, unhealthy, but suspects often do after a couple of hours in a police cell. She reached over and picked up the small beaker of water. Her hands shook slightly. Once the formalities were finished I sat back and looked over at her. She averted her eyes.

  ‘You’re under arrest for the murder of Eddie Westford.’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘I’ll need you to answer my questions for the purposes of recording the interview.’

  ‘My client has the right to remain silent. I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you, Inspector,’ Clayton’s lawyer said.

  Antagonising a lawyer never worked so I gave him a narrow smile and carried on.

  ‘Were you having a relationship with Jason Haddock?’

  ‘It was nothing.’ She stared down at her hands.

  I scanned the notes I had made of the interview I had just completed with Jason Haddock. His recollection of their passionate love affair was quite different.

  ‘How long had you been in a relationship with him?’

  She pouted. ‘I would hardly call it a relationship.’

  Jason Haddock had used words like ‘passionate’ and ‘determined’ to describe her behaviour as she’d pursued him into her bed and ‘insatiable’ when she succeeded.

  ‘So who started things between you two?’

  ‘He pursued me relentlessly and I was at such a low ebb. Things hadn’t been right with Gregory and… I know it was wrong but … Jason took advantage of me.’

  She flashed her eyelids at me but I turned back to Jason’s statement and by the time I had finished she had angled her body to face her lawyer. After half an hour she had denied every assertion from Jason’s picture of their liaison with short sentences and widening eyes.

  ‘Tell me about the afternoon that Eddie Westford was killed.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  I sat back in the hard plastic chair. I’d had enough of her lies for one day but I gathered my patience and continued. ‘You were seen with Jason at the Cardiff City football ground arguing with Westford a week before he was killed.’

  ‘And who is your source for that information?’

  I had learnt long ago that challenging our source was a sure indication of guilt. Denial never worked. She tried the same tack when I challenged her about visiting Westford’s flat. Finally I asked her about the murder weapon.

  ‘We found a knife in your car. We believe it may have been used to slit open Eddie Westford’s throat.’ I slid over the table a picture of Westford on the mortuary gurney. She recoiled away. ‘Don’t blame me. It was Jason. I had nothing to do with killing this poor man.’

  Jason had said the same thing and with each blaming the other it might be up to the jury to decide. At least Jason had admitted his role in the car thefts. I finished the interview after another bout of questions that told me nothing new. I left her in the custody suite with her lawyer. Boyd and I stood outside Queen Street, the evening air fresh and clean on our faces.

  ‘She’s a lying bitch,’ Boyd said.

  I nodded. ‘I’d be inclined to agree with you, Boyd.’

  Chapter 15

  Cardiff Crown Court

  Several weeks later

  I walked over to the court building, crossing Gorsedd Gardens, smoking a cigarette. I tu
cked my scarf nearer to my chin against the chill wind that whipped around my face. Steam billowed from a burger van parked near the museum and I idly contemplated something greasy to eat once I had finished in court.

  Television crews, crowded outside the court, got excited when they saw me approaching. Realising I wasn’t some celebrity or family they ignored me. It suited me fine. I threw the butt into a bin and entered the building. Lawyers teemed around. Michael Haddock opened and then closed his mouth obviously unable to think of anything to say. Gregory Clayton’s cheeks were more sunken than I remembered and he gave me a cursory nod.

  Air-conditioning cooled the back of the courtroom. The morning newspaper on the bench by my side carried the story that Michael Haddock’s business had been taken over and that he was retiring to a farm in West Wales. A spokesperson had asked the press to respect the family’s privacy.

  Kylie Westford and Hartley had been spoken to before the case and warned that they might get the press calling them.

  ‘I never thought you’d get them who killed him,’ she had said. ‘Our sort of people never get justice.’

  She smiled when I told her that I would never have given up on the case. Murder is murder, no matter who the victim might be. And people are never what they seem; Westford could never have thought that mixing with Deborah Clayton and Jason Haddock would mean his death. It felt good to feel that my instincts about the likes of Haddock and Clayton were justified. I wondered who might take their place on the forum – I had seen various emails from Cornock referring to the next meeting. I might even enjoy going.

  All my work had been done. Now I had to wait for the final part of the system to take its course. Neither Jason nor Deborah Clayton flinched when they were sentenced to life in prison. The discovery of minute traces of Westford’s blood on the knife found in Deborah’s car made their guilty pleas inevitable. Ferris and Horne would serve six years for theft but their earlier guilty pleas had meant a degree of leniency.

  Outside I passed Gregory Clayton and noticed tears in his eyes.

  I buttoned up my overcoat. The promised snow had not yet arrived. I banged fleece-clad hands together and headed back for Queen Street.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Stephen Puleston – some personal details

  After a degree in Theology from London University I trained as a solicitor. For many years I worked as a solicitor/lawyer in a small practice representing clients in the criminal courts and doing divorce work all of which has given me valuable raw material for my novels. I still live and work in North Wales where the Inspector Drake novels are set.

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  Dead Smart

  by Stephen Puleston

  This book copyright © Stephen Puleston

  First edition published 2016 by Stephen Puleston

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