Destruction of Evidence (29 page)

‘Drug Squad.’

‘You knew?’

‘He told me.’

‘He also worked on cases that warranted forensic searches of the crime scene.’ Peter pulled out his cigar case. ‘But we still don’t have a motive.’

‘You were the one who mentioned crime of passion. Carol March is attractive. Both Pitcher boys were good-looking womanisers, but you ruled her out. Why?’

Peter was curt. ‘Because I know her.’

Trevor had a vision of Daisy, pale pregnant, vomiting while Carol March kissed Peter in the background. It infuriated him. ‘And because she fancies you and you haven’t the sense to send her packing.’

Peter looked at Trevor and then back at the printed sheets. ‘The day before the fire; four till midnight shift. Dai Smith and Paula Rees. Paula signed out at twenty past twelve.’

Knowing he’d overstepped the mark, Trevor took his time over squaring his own copy on the desk in front of him. ‘Paula told us she talked to Frank Howell when she dropped the keys to the squad car back in the station.’

‘Frank Howell and Jim Murphy were on ten till six in the morning.’

‘Carol March and Damian Howell worked midday until eight, and Grant Williams and Tony Sweet nine till five.’

‘Lucky buggers,’ Peter murmured. ‘Civilized hours.’

Trevor looked down the rest of the list. ‘So we can take it that while the Pitchers were being murdered, Frank Howell was in the station, Jim Murphy was out in the squad car…’

‘Signed out at twelve thirty, back at two thirty.’ Peter looked up at Trevor. ‘He could have laid the fires and carried a bag around the town.’

‘Did he fill in a report?’

‘Reports are at the back,’ Peter turned back the pages of the printout.

‘Drove around outskirts, checked isolated houses. Stopped speeding car – registration number…’

‘At one ten,’ Peter commented. ‘Then nothing until he clocked back in at two thirty.’

‘Fires took hold from two fifty-three,’ Trevor reminded him.

‘He could have had an accomplice.’ Peter returned to the sheet.

‘What about Frank’s movements?’

‘According to this he didn’t leave the station until after the fire had been reported,’ Peter continued to flick through the pages.

Trevor turned to the telephone records. ‘Nothing came into the station between May Williams’s call at midnight and the emergency services a couple of minutes after three. So there’s nothing to prove that Frank was there the entire time.’

‘The lack of calls surprise you?’ Peter asked.

‘Not midweek in a country town. But we’ll need to check exactly where all the officers in the station live, how long it would take them to get to Main Street from their homes and how long it took them to get there after they were called in on the night of the fire.’

‘You looking at me?’

‘I can’t ask the locals to do it because there’s no way they’d incriminate themselves or one another. But check on the brown paper first, will you? I’ve a feeling the origin of those sheets could prove interesting.’

Peter sat in his chair. ‘Much as I hate to say it, May Williams might not have seen a copper. It could have been a security guard – a traffic warden…’

‘And the destruction of evidence,’ Trevor interrupted.

‘Could be down to a technician. Ted Gant or any one of his team would have the knowledge.’ Peter took his cigar case from his shirt pocket.

‘The fact that Alun Pitcher was killed with a bronze and the others battered to death with a hoe suggests more than one killer, but when it comes to the destruction of evidence, you’d only need one person with the knowledge to instruct one or more accomplices.’

‘This is turning into an Agatha Christie denouement,’ Peter grumbled. ‘Next thing you’ll be pinning an announcement on the board of the incident room? “Would the following suspects… ”’

‘You have a list?’

‘Every officer in the station who doesn’t have an alibi that covers midnight to 3 a.m. on the night of the murders will do. We’ll ask them to congregate in the conference room, where you can then proceed to reveal the killer or killers.’

‘You’ve been watching way too much bad television.’

‘Comes of living with Daisy. She’s too exhausted after a day in the hospital to do anything else.’

‘Doesn’t the bronze Dying Gaul suggest something to you?’

‘Bad Victorian taste.’

‘Nothing else?’ Trevor pressed.

Peter stared for a moment. ‘Gays…’

Trevor’s mobile phone rang and he answered it. ‘Thanks for ringing back. I want you to look for a car. Silver BMW model 116i, registration number…’ Trevor swivelled his chair to avoid the look Peter was sending his way. ‘… All the neighbouring counties… Check CCTV images at ports and airports… If it’s still in the locality I believe it’ll be parked up off the road somewhere out of mainstream traffic… The edge of a country park, or private road… I’d be grateful if you could get back to me on this number… don’t phone the station direct… thank you.’

‘You’ve asked the neighbouring forces to look for Dai Smith’s car?’

‘It has to be somewhere,’ Trevor said.

‘Why not in this county?’

‘The locals say they’ve looked.’

‘You believe them?’

‘As it happens, yes,’ Trevor said carefully. ‘Dai Smith is one of them.’

‘Was he suicidal?’ Peter questioned.

‘Reggie told me he was depressed.’

‘Poor sod, having his wife walking out on him was bad enough but taking the kids with her… that’s enough to tip any man over the edge.’

‘I never thought I’d hear that from you after all the things you said about your first wife and the day she walked out on you. I believe “happiest day of my life” was one of the hackneyed phrases.’

‘We were kids. Shouldn’t have married in the first place,’ Peter growled. He changed the subject. ‘So, what makes you think Dai Smith is in a neighbouring county?’

‘If he was depressed enough to kill himself, I lay odds on him doing it out of his colleagues’ beat.’

‘You’re right, if I was out to top myself I wouldn’t want the people I worked with poking around my corpse and that’s without the local O’Kelly carving me up.’

Trevor picked up his briefcase and went to the door. ‘I have the computer disks I found in Dai Smith’s house to work on.’

‘I thought Merchant’s on her way.’

‘She is.’ Trevor glanced at his watch. ‘But I’m not expecting her for another three or four hours. I’m hoping to make some headway before she gets here.’

‘You’re going back to the stables?’

Trevor didn’t answer. Instead he opened the door quickly. Frank Howell was outside.

‘You heard me before I even knocked, sir.’ Frank’s laugh was forced.

Trevor glared at him.

‘We’ve found a witness,’ Frank said unabashed. ‘Mitch. He’s a vagrant. He said he’s been sleeping nights in the building in the Pitcher’s yard. I’ve put him in interview room six. I didn’t want to show him in here. He stinks to high heaven.’

There was no warmth in Trevor’s, ‘Thank you, sergeant.’

‘He can be unpredictable, sir. You’ll need a couple of strong men who know him when you talk to him. Damian’s watching him and I’m free at the moment,’ Frank volunteered.

Peter left his desk, ‘I’ll get on with the chores and leave you to your computer disks. See you back at the stables.’

‘The fridge is empty, pick up some food,’ Trevor reminded him.

‘You’re worse than a nagging wife.’

‘A couple of frozen pizzas, water – sparkling…’

‘I know,’ Peter cut in impatiently. ‘What you regard as essentials. Pork pie, crisps, beer… what about fresh fruit, cheese, bread, malt whisky…’

He was talking to an empty room. Trevor had walked away with Frank.

In his younger days Trevor had worked undercover in hostels for the homeless but he reeled at the stench emanating from what appeared to be a bundle of rags perched on a chair in the interview room. There was no sign of hands or feet, just a mass of filthy grey-black fabric. The bundle moved and Trevor saw two beady dark eyes peering out from beneath a thatch that was so low-growing it could have been hair or eyebrows. The few bits of skin that could be seen were as black and grey as the ribbons of cloth wound around the body.

A grubby hand emerged from the rags and scooped four Rich Tea biscuits from a plate on the table. A second hand grabbed a mug of tea. Both retreated back into the rags.

‘Mitch, this is Inspector Trevor Joseph.’ Frank sat beside Damian on one of the chairs across from Mitch. Without remembering that all the chairs were bolted firmly to the floor he attempted to push it back from the table and away from Mitch. His boots scraped the floor.

Trevor went to the window, propped his briefcase on to the floor and leaned on the sill facing Mitch.

‘Sergeant Howell tells me you were in the Pitcher yard on the night of the fire, Mitch?’

Mitch stared at Trevor over the rim of his mug.

‘Is that right?’ Trevor persevered.

Mitch withdrew a hand from his rags and slurped a soggy biscuit.

‘Tell the Inspector what you told PC Howell,’ Frank prompted.

Mitch made a noise somewhere between a frog’s croak and a cat’s growl followed by sucking when he lowered his head to the cup concealed in his clothes.

‘Did you see anyone?’ Trevor was beginning to wonder if any information Mitch had was worth extracting. He was finally rewarded with a nod.

‘Who did you see, Mitch?’

Mitch looked blank as if he had spoken in Swahili.

‘Was it a man or a woman?’

Same uncomprehending look.

‘A man or a woman?’ Trevor reiterated.

Mitch nodded warily.

‘A man or a woman?’ Trevor repeated impatiently.

Mitch crammed his mouth full of biscuit before holding up a finger.

‘You saw one person?’

Trevor had hoped for a more lucid response he was disappointed when Mitch shrugged.

‘Did you recognise whoever it was?’

‘Just one but he was normous. Half the size of a house. And all black. Soon as I saw him going up the steps I ran.’ Mitch pushed the empty plate towards Trevor. ‘More.’

Trevor picked up his briefcase and jerked his head towards the door. Frank accompanied him into the corridor.

‘Get some more biscuits, Frank.’

‘You’re as soft as the super, sir.’

‘Comes with promotion.’ Trevor said. ‘If you get anything worthwhile out of him, which I doubt, let me know. Anyone wants me I’m on my mobile.’

‘If you need someone to work on the computer disks you found in Dai Smith’s house, sir, Damian here is our expert…’

‘I’ll manage, thank you.’

‘And if we need to send a car for you, sir?’

‘You won’t,’ Trevor said shortly. His mobile rang. He answered it. When he ended the call he knocked on Reggie’s office door.

‘Dai is dead?’ Reggie repeated.

‘His car was found in woodland outside Carmarthen.’

‘Another county.’ Reggie slumped back in her chair.

‘There was a hose pipe connecting the exhaust to the interior of the car. No suspicion of foul play. It’s outside your jurisdiction.’

‘Dai must have wanted it that way.’ She looked up at Trevor. ‘Did they say how long he’d been there?’

‘Probably since the day he disappeared. I’m sorry.’

‘So am I. I should have done more…’

‘You did what you could for him. He had problems, you listened. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’

‘I wish I could believe that.’

Trevor hesitated before he realised there was nothing more he could say to ease her pain. ‘If I’m needed, I’ll be on my mobile.’

She nodded and he closed her office door behind him.

Trevor walked the short distance to the stables. He dumped his laptop on the table in the living room and switched it on. Hungry, he went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. To his amazement there was a bottle of sparkling water on the shelf and a couple of cellophane-wrapped fresh pizzas.

He looked at the clock, almost one. He took the last of the bacon and sausage rolls that Ken had brought around that morning and stuck it in the microwave for thirty seconds. It came out slightly rubbery, but he carried it and the bottle of water and a glass into the living room. Unlocking his briefcase, he set up his laptop and inserted the first of the disks he had taken from Dai Smith’s house.

It took him a few minutes to retrieve the same fragment of photograph he had viewed on Dai Smith’s computer. Unable to progress further, he phoned Sarah Merchant’s mobile.

Peter walked purposefully down the shopping end of Main Street and into the square. He been walking in and out of shops for over an hour and seen absolutely no sheets of paper, let alone the thick brown variety he and Trevor were hoping to find. He stopped at the town’s bookshop and went inside.

The choice of books was bewildering and all in a language he could neither read nor understand. He looked at the sign swinging from the ceiling above them.