Destruction of Evidence (11 page)

‘You don’t?’

‘The pieces found in his pocket are way out of a sink estate thug’s league. Although I suppose he could have taken them on impulse if he saw them lying around. Even a thug knows gold can be melted down and stones prised from settings.’

‘He’s been convicted of burglary before.’ Trevor stopped again and looked over the wall, down towards the river.

‘So you think it was simply an opportunist burglary. He saw an open door or window and went in with the intention of thieving?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘And the murders?’ Peter asked.

‘He was just out of gaol and undoubtedly reluctant to return there. If the Pitchers had disturbed him he could have lashed out.’

‘And killed all four of them?’ Peter was clearly sceptical.

‘You want to play devil’s advocate?’

‘You have to admit, Reggie’s right, it was a convenient find. Ex-con just released from prison sleeping in outbuilding of burning house with stolen jewellery in pocket.’

‘He’d been released that morning. He could have met up with a professional thief, who was after something specific.’ Trevor turned back to the lane. ‘Alun Pitcher was an antique dealer.’

‘Few professional thieves, outside of a couple of specialists, who steal to order for collectors, bother with antiques. They’re easy to trace, which rules out auction rooms and difficult to dispose of to the legitimate trade. And, most home grown thieves I’ve come across would baulk at one murder let alone four. I suppose there are the Mafia and Eastern Europeans, although it beats me what they’d be doing in a quiet Welsh market town. On the other hand, the destruction of evidence has the hallmark of a professional.’ Peter thrust his hands into his pockets.

‘And it’s better to think professional criminal gang, than consider the local force involved.’

‘Agreed,’ Peter concurred.

‘And better still to keep an open mind,’ Trevor advised.

‘You’re beginning to sound like Dan and Bill Mulcahy. Is it something that comes with promotion?’

‘Stop winding people up and you might find out.’

‘What and give up my hobby? Bloody Mary! I can smell the stench of the fire from here. Do you think that’s what hell smells like?’

‘Haven’t you read your Bible lately?’

‘I’ve been waiting for the graphic version with pictures to come out.’

‘By all accounts the fires in hell are eternal and fed by brimstone.’

‘What is brimstone?’ Peter asked.

‘Some think it’s a reference to volcanic activity and sulphurous rocks.’

Peter smiled. ‘Then that’ll give the Larry Joneses of this world something to look forward to.’

Reggie was waiting for them in front of a twelve foot break in the wall manned by two uniformed officers. She effected the introductions. ‘Inspector Trevor Joseph, Sergeant Frank Howell and Constable Jim Murphy. They’ve been informed that you are here to take charge of the investigation.’

‘Sir.’ They both acknowledged Trevor.

‘And Sergeant Peter Collins,’ Reggie added, downgrading Peter to an afterthought.

Peter nodded to the officers.

‘This is the rear entrance to the Pitchers’ yard.’ Reggie walked through the gap. ‘Has it been quiet, Sergeant Howell?’

‘Apart from journalists sniffing round,’ Frank replied. ‘They keep trying to rent rooms in the pub and adjoining houses that overlook the yard. But they picked on the wrong neighbours. Tim Pryce and the accountants tipped us off and we sent them packing.’

‘Carry on the good work, Sergeant.’ Reggie preceded Trevor and Peter into an open area the size of a tennis court. The reek of fire was overpowering at close quarters.

Trevor looked around. ‘Where did you find your suspect?’

‘There.’ Reggie turned and indicated the building. Trevor saw two suited figures inside sifting through debris. ‘The family vehicles.’ Reggie pointed to the left-hand side of the yard. ‘The two BMW sports cars belonged to the eldest sons; the SLK coupe was Gillian Pitcher’s, the Mercedes Sprinter van, Alun’s.’

‘Alun Pitcher drove the short straw,’ Peter observed.

‘His Bentley’s in the garage.’ Reggie pointed to a double garage in the bottom right-hand corner of the yard well away from the house and the fire. ‘He only took it out on high days and holidays. Given the way he worked, there weren’t many of those. His is the only car that hasn’t been damaged by burning debris.’

‘You’ve checked it?’ Trevor noted the dusting of grey fingerprint powder on all the cars.

‘Along with the other vehicles. No recent alien fingerprints were found on the inside or outside of any,’ Reggie confirmed.

A mobile HQ unit was parked next to the cars, close to the boundary wall.

‘The sports cars are tasty if you’re into joy-riding,’ Peter looked around. ‘This yard is an open invitation. I’m surprised there isn’t better security.’

‘Most of the taking without consent…’

‘We call it Twocking,’ Peter smiled at Reggie. A smile she didn’t reciprocate.

‘As do the ones who indulge in the practice in this town, Sergeant. I prefer to call it by its rightful name, thieving. Ninety per cent of the cars that are taken are stolen from the town and supermarket car parks,’ she continued. ‘As for security, if you look up you will see that most of residents, commercial and private, in this street have CCTV.’

‘So theft is a problem.’ Trevor eyed the cameras that had been fixed at attic level.

‘No.’ Reggie was emphatic. ‘This morning I checked the statistics on this lane. In the past five years the pub’s been broken into twice. Tim Pryce has security connected to the station. On both occasions the culprits were found on the premises. One was down to youngsters, the oldest nineteen the youngest twelve. They were after alcohol. The second occasion a tramp smashed a window, climbed in, downed the best part of a bottle of brandy and fell asleep on the floor of the bar. The accountant’s next door to the Pitchers was broken into last summer. Attending officers found the same tramp who’d broken into the pub a year earlier sleeping in the kitchen. He’d helped himself to tea and biscuits. The only other incident was on the evening of last year’s summer festival. A crowd of drunks went on the rampage through the town, came down here and smashed a few windows. We made six arrests. The magistrate gave them a caution and ordered them to pay compensation.’

‘This town is a real hotbed of crime,’ Peter mocked. ‘What do your coppers do for kicks on their shift? Knit or crochet?’

‘That is the crime sheet for one lane running at the back of Main Street, Sergeant Collins. We have our moments,’ she retorted.

‘If there haven’t been any serious break-ins, why the security cameras and burglar alarms?’ Trevor asked.

‘Insurance company offered lower premiums for heightened security. Most of the residents took up the offer.’

Trevor noticed the remains of a camera fixed to the eaves of the Pitcher house. ‘Was that connected to a recorder?’

‘Yes, but it was switched off last night.’

Trevor raised his eyebrows.

‘According to the youngest son, Michael, his father only switched it on when he heard a noise at night. As far as Michael could remember, that hasn’t happened for the past couple of years.’

‘Yet there’s a fire escape that runs up to every floor at the back and connects with balconies in front of french windows.’ Trevor continued to study the blackened smoke- and fire-damaged back of the house.

‘All the doors and windows have high-security locks. We’ve checked,’ Reggie informed him. ‘Without a history of serious burglary in this area, you can’t blame Alun for not being meticulous. Michael said his father only switched on the burglar alarm when the house was empty for more than a day. He couldn’t even remember when that last happened as the sons haven’t holidayed with the parents in years.’

‘How old were they?’ Peter asked.

‘The oldest, Lee, twenty-five, James, twenty-three. The youngest Michael twenty-one.’

‘How did Michael survive the fire?’

Reggie stared thoughtfully at Trevor. Until that moment she hadn’t been sure how much attention he’d been paying to what she’d told him. ‘He spent the night at his girlfriend’s as he’d done every night that week. It’s an isolated house, her parents are away and they’d promised to keep an eye on the place.’

‘Then you do have burglars operating in the area?’ Peter leaned against the wall.

‘There has been a spate of them lately in the isolated houses on the outskirts of town but not in the town itself.’

‘I’ll need to interview Michael Pitcher,’ Trevor said.

‘Sergeant Howell sent for Michael after the fire broke out. The fire service wanted to know the location of the members of the family. When Michael was told that none of them had survived he collapsed. He’s under sedation in the local hospital.’

‘Then I’ll have to wait until he’s in a fit state,’ Trevor walked towards the house. ‘But for now I need to examine as much of the crime scene as the forensic teams will allow. You’re using a generator?’

‘It’s noisy,’ Reggie conceded. ‘But the fire service ordered the electricity cut for safety reasons. I arranged for temporary lighting to be installed as soon as the building was declared safe so the forensic teams could start work. Do you want to go into the house?’

Trevor looked up at it. ‘After we’ve checked if any new information’s come into HQ.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Peter opened the door of the mobile HQ. Reggie and Trevor walked in ahead of him. A constable was inputting information from a pile of statement forms on to a computer; another was printing photographs and placing them in files. They both stood when Reggie entered.

‘This is Inspector Joseph and Sergeant Collins. They have been seconded to work on this enquiry. Inspector Joseph is the senior investigating officer. Inspector Joseph, Sergeant Collins, Constables Paula Rees and Damian Howell.’

Trevor nodded to both of them in response to their “sir”.

‘Any developments?’ Trevor asked.

‘Nothing new in the witness statements so far, sir,’ Paula Rees answered in a Welsh lilt. ‘Officers are still out door to door. As soon as the last sheets come in, I’ll finalise the timeline. This is where it’s at for now, sir.’ She handed Trevor a file.

‘Thank you.’ Trevor turned to Damian. ‘I take it those are the latest photographs of the crime scene.’

‘I’ve been printing them off as and when forensic bring in the camera cards, sir. The last arrived twenty minutes ago.’ Damian was even paler than Paula; strain was evident in the taut expressions around both their mouths and eyes.

‘Are you all right, Constable?’ Reggie asked Damian.

‘Yes, Super.’ He didn’t sound convincing.

‘You knew the Pitchers, didn’t you?’ Reggie probed.

‘Yes, Super.’

‘How well?’

‘I was in school with Lee. We are… were the same age. But I’ve set my personal feelings aside, Super,’ he insisted.

‘And you’re coping?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you, Paula? I heard you were close to James,’ Reggie probed.

‘I went out with him a couple of times when we were kids.’

Reggie gave Paula a look that suggested she was still a child. ‘I’ll arrange for you to be taken off the case, Constable.’

‘If you take every officer who knew and liked the Pitchers off the case, Super, you’ll have no team left,’ Paula said quietly.

Trevor studied Damian Howell. His speech was slow and laboured, but so was Dan Evans’s. It was a trait some Welshmen had. ‘Did you know the rest of the Pitcher’ family, Constable?’

‘It was impossible not to know them in a town this size, sir.’

‘You’re right, Constable Rees,’ Reggie allowed. ‘I can’t possibly take all the officers who knew the Pitchers off the case. But, if either of you find the inquiry difficult to cope with at any stage, come to me.’

‘Yes, Super.’

Trevor saw Paula wipe a tear from her eye. He glanced at Peter and saw that he was also watching her and Damian Howell.

Peter picked up one of the photographs that pictured a pile of black dust. ‘So this is the kind of town where everyone knows everyone else?’

‘It is, sir,’ Damian confirmed.

‘What’s the consensus on the Pitchers?’ Peter was checking what Reggie had told them and she knew it.

‘You won’t find anyone who didn’t like the family, sir. This is a tragedy not only for them but the town. Good jobs are hard to come by in this part of Wales. Alun Pitcher was an employer. His antique business and his sons’ jewellery, carpentry and plastering businesses brought tourists and trade into the area,’ Damian answered as if he were reading an autocue.

Reggie looked through the window at the house. ‘Has anyone other than the forensic workers entered the house today, Constable Rees?’

‘Only the fire investigators, Super.’

‘We made sure they were suited up,’ Damian added.

‘Where are the suits?’ Peter asked.

‘In the inner office, sir.’ Damian left his desk and opened the door behind him.