Destruction of Evidence (25 page)

‘Larry wasn’t a regular at the Angel. Tim Pryce banned him and his mates before they reached their eighteenth birthdays for trying to drink under age.’

‘Then why did Larry Jones go to the Angel that night?’ Trevor asked.

‘I’ve no idea, but I recall thinking it odd at the time. Tim said that Larry turned up drunk at closing time and demanded to be served. When Tim refused as, even drunk, Larry must have known Tim would do, Larry started shouting. Tim escorted him outside where Larry passed out.’

‘Courtesy of the fresh air or the landlord.’ Peter looked quizzically at Paula.

‘There were no marks on Larry, sir, and he stank of booze.’

‘What kind of alcohol?’ Trevor asked.

‘Beer, sir.’

‘Where had he been drinking?’ Trevor made a note on the pad in front of him.

‘We don’t know, sir.’

‘Find out,’ Trevor ordered. ‘He must have bought his alcohol from a pub, supermarket or off-licence.’

‘There’s no supermarket in town, sir. Only outside but I’ll look into it.’

Trevor returned to the timeline. ‘So, after checking that Larry Jones was breathing you and Constable Smith went off duty?’

Paula shifted uneasily on her chair. ‘There was some discussion as to whether or not we should take Larry Jones to the station and put him in the cells.’

‘But you decided not to?’

‘I know what you’re thinking…’

‘You do?’ Trevor sipped his coffee.

‘This is a quiet town, sir. It’s not like the city.’

‘You think we don’t know that constables are reluctant to put drunks in squad cars because they’re likely to throw up?’ Peter asked.

Paula looked embarrassed but remained silent.

‘You don’t have a secure vehicle that can be hosed down to transport drunks?’

‘We use it at weekends and whenever there’s a festival or special event. But we didn’t have any drivers free that night,’ Paula explained. ‘If the people in this town knew just how few officers man the night shifts they’d be horrified.’

‘And the burglars would make whoopee,’ Peter suggested.

‘So, knowing Larry Jones had a history of violence when drunk, you and Constable Smith left him to “sleep it off” next to a public thoroughfare.’

‘It wasn’t like that, sir.’ Paula’s hands shook.

‘Then what was it like?’ Trevor questioned.

‘Larry Jones was unconscious…’

‘We’ve established that,’ Trevor interrupted.

‘I’m sure that none of us…’

‘Us, being Constable Smith and yourself?’

‘And Tim Pryce and Ken Lloyd, sir. None of us thought that Larry Jones presented a danger to the public. We assumed he’d sleep until the early hours, then go home.’

‘How far is home for Larry Jones from the Angel – walking not driving?’

‘The estate is about three miles away, sir.’

‘A good hour’s walk, longer for someone with a hangover.’

‘I suppose it would be, sir.’

‘So, knowing Larry Jones’s record of violent and anti-social behaviour when drunk you left him in your terms “sleeping it off” in the centre of town at midnight and when he woke, facing an hour’s walk during which he could have assaulted an innocent passer-by going about his or her legal business?’ When Paula didn’t reply, Trevor continued. ‘You drove the squad car to the station?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you go into the station?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you make a report on Larry Jones?’

‘Only in my notebook, sir. But I told Sergeant Howell that we – that is Constable Smith and myself had left Larry Jones in the archway of the Angel.’

‘He made a note of it?’ Trevor finished his coffee and pushed his cup away.

‘I assume so, sir.’

‘You didn’t see him writing anything up?’ Trevor checked.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I left the keys to the squad car at the station and went home.’

‘Did you drive your own car home?’

‘No, sir. I live in town, less than five minutes’ walk from the station.’

‘Handy.’ Peter commented.

‘Did you go out again that night?’ Trevor held his pen poised over his notepad.

‘Yes, sir. As soon as the fire was reported Sergeant Howell left the station but before he went he asked Jim Murphy to call in everyone whether they were on- or off-duty and direct them to Main Street to help with the evacuation from the buildings that were under threat.’

‘You spoke to Jim Murphy, or did he leave a message on your voice mail?’

‘I spoke to him.’

Did you note the time?’

‘It was around three fifteen. I remember looking at the clock. He asked me to contact Damian Howell and Tony Sweet to speed things up, rather than make all the calls himself.’

‘So Damian Howell and Tony Sweet weren’t on duty that night?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Who was on duty?’

‘When I brought in the keys to the squad car Sergeant Howell was manning the desk. I didn’t see anyone else but as Jim had called me I assumed that he was also on duty. There are generally two or three officers on the night shift.’

‘Two or three?’ Trevor questioned.

‘More usually two, as I said, sir, staffing has been a problem on the night shift since our budget has been cut.’

‘And after you were called by Jim Murphy, you did what?’ Trevor continued.

‘Made the calls he asked me to, dressed and ran to Main Street, where I stayed with the people who’d been evacuated in the church hall until the fire service brought the fire under control.’

‘To go back to when you left the Angel. You drove the squad car directly to the station car park?’

‘As directly as the one-way system will allow, sir.’

‘Did you see anyone when you were driving around the town?’ Trevor asked.

‘A few stragglers leaving the Commercial. It mainly caters for people from the housing estate.’

‘Did you recognise any of them?’

‘Most of them, sir.’

‘Were any headed towards Main Street?’

‘Not that I saw, sir. They were walking in a crowd in the direction of the estate.’

‘So you saw no one apart from a few stragglers walking back from the pub when you drove through the town?’

‘No one I can recall, sir.’

‘And when you walked home from the station?’

‘No one, sir. The streets were quiet.’

‘How about when you left your flat after you received the telephone call from Jim Murphy?’

‘The streets were busy then, sir. Between police, bystanders…’

The telephone rang and Trevor picked it up. He glanced at his watch then said, ‘We’ll meet you there… Constable Rees is with me now, I’ll ask her for directions… we’ll need sterile suits, caps and overshoes… we’re on our way.’

‘To Dai Smith’s house, sir?’ Paula asked.

‘Correct. You can give us directions?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Peter handed her a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Draw me a map from the Angel, my car’s parked in the yard.’

Paula drew a rough sketch of the town and arrows to indicate the route.

Peter studied it. ‘Excellent: an idiot should be able to find the place from this.’

She left her chair and gathered their cups back on to the tray.

‘Constable,’ Trevor called to her just as she was about to leave the room. She turned.

‘I asked awkward questions but no more awkward than you’ll be confronted with by anyone looking into the way this investigation was conducted from the outset. You did well, Constable Rees.’

She finally smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Peter and Trevor found Dai Smith’s house without difficulty. It took precisely twenty minutes to drive there from the station by Trevor’s watch and it would have been considerably less if Peter hadn’t had to adhere to the convoluted one-way system. As the roof of the house was visible from the yard of the Angel Trevor doubted that it would take a fit and active man more than a few minutes to walk there from the pub.

Peter parked alongside the squad car on the gravelled drive at the side of the house. Reggie, Carol and Paula were already climbing into white paper boiler suits, and bonnets they’d taken from the boot. Trevor left Peter to lock the car and joined them. Reggie handed him two white suits.

‘The largest we have.’

‘Thank you.’ He passed one to Peter, pulled on the other and looked around. The house had obviously begun life as a barn, but the conversion was imaginative and no expense had been spared. Practically the whole of the stone wall at the front of the barn that faced the town had been replaced by glass. Trevor stepped up on to the terrace that ran the full length of the house and looked inside, but cream blinds obscured his view.

He looked back towards the town. The view of the surrounding hills was magnificent.

‘Nice spot,’ he said to Reggie when she joined him, overshoes in hand.

‘Dai Smith’s father owns most of the land around here. His farmhouse is at the top of this hill – and before you ask – no he hasn’t heard from his son. He’s frail, elderly and very concerned because Dai’s disappearance is totally out of character.’

‘Father and son are close?’

‘As close as most fathers and sons.’

‘Did you have any luck with Dai’s phone or bank statements?’

‘There’s been no activity on his phone since the night of the fire when he called back into the station. And, as it no longer goes straight to message when you ring the number I assume the battery has run down. The only outgoing activity on his bank account is payments of standing orders and direct debits.’

‘I’ll get the key, Super,’ Paula called out.

‘Wait, I want to see where it’s kept.’ Trevor ran up to her and Peter followed. Together they walked on the stone paved path that ran around the house.

‘Expensive conversion and landscaping.’ Trevor noted a pond at the back of the house that fed a small waterfall.

‘Dai did a lot of the work himself to keep down the cost.’

‘Nice kitchen.’ Peter looked through the large picture window. The blinds were open and anyone sitting at the table or working at the sink would look out at the waterfall.

‘James Pitcher made it. He fitted most of the new kitchens in the town.’

‘Did Dai Smith know James Pitcher?’ Trevor asked.

‘Well, most of the furniture in the house is either antique, bought from Alan Pitcher, or made by James to order to fit various alcoves in the house. This is where Dai keeps the spare key.’ She stopped in front of the waterfall. ‘This isn’t a water feature. It’s a natural spring. Dai dammed it to make the pool and had a drain and culvert constructed to carry away the overflow.’ She picked out a pebble that looked no different to the others placed among the plants behind and around the fall, and handed it to Trevor. ‘It opens at the back.’

Trevor turned it over and swivelled a metal plate. He upended the pebble and a key fell into his hand. ‘And this is a police officer’s house? How many other people know where he keeps his key?’

‘I should think most of his friends. But…’

‘Don’t tell me, this is a small country town where everyone knows everyone else.’

‘And no one is murdered. And houses never get burned down by arsonists,’ Peter muttered.

‘Which door does this open?’ Trevor asked.

‘The one to the kitchen.’

He looked at the box over the door. ‘There’s a burglar alarm and CCTV.’

‘The CCTV is never on and I know the code for the alarm.’ Paula donned her overshoes, opened the back door and, ignoring the bleeping of the alarm, stepped directly into the kitchen which looked even more expensive than it had done through the window. The worktops, cooker and fridge were stainless steel, the cupboards black ebony and the floor and walls tiled in multi-coloured ceramic squares.

Paula went to a box behind the door and tapped in a code. Peter, Trevor, Reggie and Carol slipped on their own overshoes and followed.

Reggie shouted, ‘Hello.’ When they were greeted by silence, she looked at Trevor. ‘This is your search. Where do you want to start?’

‘To save time, I suggest Inspector March and Constable Rees start upstairs, you and I downstairs. Sergeant Collins can take the garage and outbuildings.’

‘What are we looking for?’ Reggie asked.

‘I have absolutely no idea, Superintendent,’ Trevor answered.

‘But you’d better hope that we recognise it when we see it.’ Peter eyed the keyboard screwed to the wall next to the kitchen door. Selecting keys marked “GARAGE”, “SHED” and “WORKSHOP he lifted them down, pocketed them, slipped off his overshoes and returned outside.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Trevor left Reggie in the kitchen and went into the hall. Light streamed in through the glass front door, illuminating four doors on his left and two on his right. The first door opened into a marble-walled and -floored shower room. There were no cupboards, only an open set of white wickerwork shelves that held towels, a bowl of soaps and various cosmetics. Trevor was no expert but the packaging looked expensive. He lifted out the towels, shook them and returned them to the shelf before checking the glass shower cubicle. It was empty, clean and smelled of bleach.