The Soprano: The Hard Hat Mysteries, #1

By M. A. Williams

On a cold December night in 2004, Sarah Green got out of a taxi at the end of her cul-de-sac and was never seen again.

 

Catherine Green joined the Police to find her sister, secretly copying case notes and scavenging scraps of information that formed part of the original investigation. But seventeen years after she disappeared, there isn't much hope that she'll ever be found.

 

When Sarah's body is unearthed on a construction site in the centre of Cardiff Catherine is distanced from the case by her superiors, forcing her to enlist local Private Investigator Damien Owens to help find the truth about Sarah's final moments - and catch a killer who's escaped justice for almost two decades.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. A. Williams
• Release date: Jan 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215194096

M. A. Williams

M.A. Williams is an award-winning filmmaker and screenwriter, with awards and nominations received from film festivals in North America, Europe and Australia. His debut screenplay - The Other Woman - won the Dylan Thomas Award at the 2009 Swansea Bay Film Festival. M.A. lives in a small village on the outskirts of Cardiff with his wife, daughter and nephew. His debut novel, Beware the Boy, was optioned by Double Down Flicks in 2022. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DECEMBER 22ND, 2004

Sarah Green had been so engrossed in the music blaring through the headphones of her new iPod that it took a moment for her to register that the driver had pulled the taxi up to the curb, and was looking at her expectantly. They had stopped at the top of her road, more than five-hundred yards from her door. She removed her headphones so that Puccini’s O mio babbino caro broke out, a tinny whine against the powerful blasts of air blowing loudly through the vents – a vain attempt to keep the windscreen from fogging up against the bitterly cold air outside.

She pointed vaguely in the direction of her house. She wasn’t drunk drunk, but she’d had enough to make her feel a little light-headed.

Yeah, it’s just down there, she slurred, fumbling for her purse.

Please, miss, I could drop you here? Your street, very busy tonight, and to make turn and come back out take, maybe, five minutes.

You’re joking, she pressed. Seriously? It’s fucking freezing! Please, can’t you just-

The driver shook his head slowly. I’m sorry, miss, but town is very busy. I need to get back.

Sarah looked at him for the first time, as his broken English and thick Indian accent swirled in the fog of her already addled mind. He was an older man, with soft features and wide, pleading eyes, and despite her annoyance at his assertion that she should get out and walk just to make his evening easier, she felt herself feeling more amenable to the idea when she eyed the number of layers he was wearing, and a pair of torn fingerless gloves that did little to protect him from the cold (he had brought them up to his lips and breathed sharply on them as he spoke, vigorously shaking his left hand - presumably to warm them up enough to continue his shift). He reminded Sarah of her father, waiting patiently outside the small hall in Aberavon where she had gone to choir practice every Tuesday and Thursday evenings, shivering through the winter months as he listened to whatever football match was on the radio (until she returned and made him switch to Classic FM - which he never complained about, even though he never got to hear the end of the game and the result), and the image of him instantly made her warm to the man in front of her. And, to be fair to him, since the council had blocked off the end of her road but failed to introduce sufficient controls to stop people parking wherever they felt like, it probably would take him a few extra minutes to turn and escape the cul-de-sac. Fuck it, she thought. It’s not worth the fuss.

She fished a tattered ten-pound note from her purse and handed it to him, and although she was annoyed at the prospect of walking another five-hundred yards in the impossibly high heels she had selected for the evening, she told him to keep the change and to have a good night.

Bless you, miss. Thank you. And Merry Christmas.

She flashed a soft, sweet smile at him before climbing out of the car, and was struck immediately by a blast of wintery air that squeezed her lungs and made her audibly gasp for air. She hadn’t dressed for the cold. Then again, she hadn’t dressed to be walking the streets. The emerald-green satin number had been the perfect choice for performing at the University’s annual carol concert on campus, followed by a brief appearance at the Choral Society’s end-of-term drinks on campus, but with its fitted bodice and thigh-high slit it was far too dressy for the club she had ended up in. And the slip of a jacket she had paired with it offered little - if any - protection from the elements.

Sarah watched as the taxi slotted into the throng of oncoming traffic and disappeared into the night. In stark contrast, the cul-de-sac was eerily quiet - which set Sarah on edge as she rounded the corner. The number of broken streetlights didn’t help and, for a moment, she contemplated stepping down from the six-inch heels and making a run for her front door. She told herself that she was being silly and that, looking around, it was clear that there was no-one else around. Besides, the amount of broken glass left behind by end-of-term parties meant it was probably a bad idea. Her heart raced as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the rape alarm her father had insisted on giving her when she left home for university a year before.

Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, drowning out any other sounds. The strong winds buffeted the row of cars parked tightly against the kerb, making her jump more than once as she made her way quickly along the street. An icy blast slammed against her body and whipped the length of her skirt up behind her, billowing around her knees like a makeshift cape, and she yelped as a fat, ginger tabby darted out in front of her with a hiss.

Fuck!

She could see her house, just three doors down. The light above the vivid red front door wasn’t on. Rhiannon must’ve forgotten again, she told herself as she relaxed her grip on the alarm and fished around her bag for her keys. Rounding the swinging gate - which had been stuck open for months, if not longer - and entering the small enclosure laughably marketed as a front garden, Sarah reached out and slid the dull brass key into the red door’s lock, but never made it inside.

CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY

Damien Owens had always hated pre-start site meetings. And those arranged on Mondays were even worse, although he understood they were a necessary evil. Getting into the centre of Cardiff for eight o’clock meant leaving the house at seven, just to navigate the traffic (which was close to returning to pre-pandemic levels) and to find somewhere to park. While obviously far from ideal, he had found the implementation of online meetings during the pandemic’s lockdown periods to be a significant improvement to his day. He had enjoyed the freedom of being able to roll out of bed, get dressed into something that looked relatively professional, make a coffee and join a meeting just minutes later, without the drudgery of the daily commute. But that morning he had no choice. His client - an insurance company acting for a large, high-profile construction company - had arranged a third (and final) mediation session, with the intention of not having to go to court on Thursday. Everyone from both sides - the company and the ground-worker who was suing them - had been instructed to attend. He knew he shouldn’t complain - the meeting would be over in less than an hour, and the bonus he would receive on top of his slightly inflated day-rate would keep his accountant happy. He just wished it could have been a little later in the day.

Having showered, shaved and donned his third-favourite black suit, Damien waited for what seemed to be an inordinate length of time for the coffee machine to warm. He surveyed the kitchen, tutting increasingly loudly each time he saw another dirty dish, cup or plate discarded on the counter, or worse - just left on the table. The latest addition, a butter knife left wedged in the tub of margarine - which had been left out of the fridge and begun to soften as the morning sun crept through the large window pane.

For fuck’s sake! How hard is it to-

His thoughts were interrupted by repeated beeps from the coffee machine. He was not a morning person, and he had to drink at least two cups of coffee each morning before he considered himself to be ‘functional’. He poured a large helping of the double-strength liquid into a stainless-steel travel mug, grabbed his keys, and pulled the door shut as he left the house.

The traffic he’d anticipated had failed to materialise, so Damien had arrived and been escorted to the open-plan site office by twenty-past seven. Even though he had been told that he didn’t need to anymore, Damien had donned a black fabric face mask from his jacket before getting out of the car, and was still wearing it as he was escorted into a small side office and shown to a seat. There wasn’t much room for social distancing, although every wall was plastered with posters and signs about the COVID rules to be followed on site. Ever since he’d watched a documentary on the spread of germs and viruses – many years before the pandemic had hit - he carried wipes and hand-gel in his bag, and had become so fastidious about sanitising his hands after washing them that he noticed dry and cracked spots beginning to take hold at the base of his wrists. He had been so young seeing it that it made a lasting impression, when the initial guidance about thorough hand-washing had been issued by the government, he’d wondered why everyone wasn’t doing that anyway…

The Site Manager, Simon Johnson - a no-nonsense type who had little time for formalities and, by his own admission, just wanted to get stuff done – smiled as Damien sat across the desk from him. Simon had been a bricklayer on a house-building project when Damien had joined as a labourer at 17, and they had remained friendly even after they had gone their separate ways (Damien to university and Simon to another project). He was six-two and barrel-chested with arms wider than Damien’s waist, but softly spoken in spite of the number of swear-words he crammed into each sentence. Damien had once counted eight fucks in one sentence, but couldn’t be sure that was the record…

Simon pulled an e-cigarette from his desk and took a quick hit before squirrelling it away again, looking around guiltily and drawing an accusing look from the receptionist - who retrieved a large coffee jar from beneath her desk and rattled it in their direction. Far from coffee, it was filled with one and two-pound coins. Damien smiled at him.

It’d be cheaper to just quit, he said with a smile as Simon rolled his eyes.

Don’t you fuckin’ start! It’s bad enough with this lot fuckin’ nagging me all fuckin’ day! His face reddened, but Damien couldn’t tell if this was through anger or embarrassment. Nodding in the direction of the receptionist, he continued. It’s her fuckin’ fault anyway - she moaned to the union rep about how us all smoking or vaping out by the door was making her want to smoke again, so now the brass have brought in this jar bollocks. Eighty fuckin’ quid last week. And sixty the week before! I tell you what, I wish they’d fuck her off somewhere else and just leave us with the other one. At least she’s nice to look at. Cracking tits. I’ll bet you a pint she keeps that money and spends it on her cats or some shit.

Damien scanned the room, fearing that Simon’s rising volume would draw attention, but nobody seemed to have noticed. And, knowing Simon, he presumed that this was an often-repeated rant.

The site office had been established in a building owned by St. Cadoc's University as a new building - the Centre for Academic and Forensic Evidential Studies (or ‘the Cafe’ as it had been cynically dubbed) - formed part of a massive campus regeneration project rumoured to be costing in excess of a billion pounds. A far cry from the site offices Damien was used to, it was clean and warm, but the decor was dated and the harsh LED strip-lights that had been installed just prior to the office being established were too bright, making the open-plan area feel sterile and uncomfortable. The meeting suite, on the other hand, had been specifically installed for the project’s site team, so featured new carpets and furniture, integrated network and display ports, and - most importantly - air conditioning. Damien had struggled through countless meetings where the air was warm and still, which had proven quite useful in temporarily curing his insomnia. There were less chairs in the room than there normally would have been, and every other space on the large table had been fitted with a cross made from yellow and back hazard tape, allowing people to maintain a safe distance from one another - another pandemic hangover Damien would be sad to see the end of.

He plugged in his laptop and checked the connections so that by the time people arrived he would be ready to get started. It was one of his (many) pet peeves, meetings not being ready to start on time, so he always made sure nobody could ever levy that criticism at him. 

Simon led a tall woman into the room, introduced her as Michelle - the mediator - and directed her to take a seat amidst promises of coffee and vague hopes that Sara, whoever Sara was, had not eaten all of the good biscuits. She took off her mask – which appeared to have been secured too tightly, as it had left deep indentations on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and began removing items from her bag. She set out a notepad and three pens neatly in front of her. A minute or so later, during which time Damien and Michelle had exchanged half-smiles and a brief hello but nothing more, Simon returned with a tray of teas and coffees, followed by a short blonde woman named Stephanie - who wore a smart jacket which, unfortunately, looked to be at least three sizes too big for her - and a large, heavily tattooed man, hunched over a walker and shambling noisily into the room. He grunted loudly with each movement and crashed into the door frame, the open door or the edge of the table before lowering himself gingerly into the seat next to Stephanie. Simon closed the door behind them and took a position at the head of the table, in front of a large wall-mounted television screen.

Morning everyone, he began. Before we start, we’ve got someone new in the room, so I’ll do introductions. He gestured to the man sat by the door. You all know Kelly Robbins - one of our ground-workers, and the claimant in the case against us. The man looked to begin speaking, but Simon cut across him and continued with the pleasantries. Kelly, you’re looking so much better than last time we saw you. I hope the physio isn’t being too rough. Next is Stephanie Lane, Kelly’s solicitor. Michelle Turner is our mediator, and this, he gestured to Damien, is Damien Owens. Damien has been appointed by our insurers to report on the particulars of his investigation into this case. Now, before I ask Damien to bring us all up to speed with what his investigation has found, can I ask you to give Damien a quick overview of the case, Miss Lane?

Stephanie smiled - a large, toothy effort which set off a small sparkle in her deep, blue eyes. She turned her attention to Damien.

Yes, of course. Mr Owens, seven months ago Mr Robbins was injured on site when he fell four feet into an open excavation, landing back-first on a steel frame. He suffered trauma to his spine, hips and pelvis. Our medical consultant believes that Mr Robbins will never walk unaided again and, seeing as he’s only 26, this leaves him with a lifetime of pain and suffering to look forward to. She handed Damien a file which, at a cursory glance, appeared to be a doctor’s letter.

Thank you Damien replied as he placed the document to the side of his laptop. And it’s on that basis - that Mr Robbins here is unlikely to walk unaided or enjoy a reasonable quality of life - that you are suing for… Sorry - how much was it?

Two million pounds which, given that Mr Robbins had approximately 40 years of work ahead of him, and factoring in his pain and suffering; plus the cost of renovating and maintaining his home, has been costed by our team and accepted as reasonable.

She handed Damien another document - a spreadsheet which he glanced at before setting it aside. He nodded gently and reached into his jacket, retrieving an envelope which he handed to Stephanie.

Thank you, Stephanie. My client has reviewed the documentation and has authorised me to make a counteroffer to Mr Robbins. If you wouldn’t mind? He gestured for her to open then envelope, which she did quickly - a little too-quickly for Damien’s liking. He watched as her eyes narrowed and her cheeks rouged.

Is this a joke? Stephanie crumpled the piece of paper and threw it at Damien, catching him on the shoulder. Simon and Michelle turned to Damien, confused. Without missing a beat, Damien retrieved the crumpled page, flattened it and laid it in the centre of the table, where everyone could see it clearly. 

Zero. 

The Mediator was the first to speak. 

Mr Owens, what is this?

Based on the investigation report submitted to my client on Friday morning, this is the amount of compensation I am authorised to offer Mr Robbins. If I may? Turning on the television screen, he continued.

Flickering to life, the first image on screen was a grainy, black and white still from a CCTV camera overlooking the far end of the site. Simon smiled. Without warning, the image began to move as Damien played the footage, offering commentary as it played.

This here is the scene of Mr Robbins’ alleged accident. If you’ll please pay attention to the barriers around the big hole in the ground. They’re all connected, and set back from the edge so nobody can accidentally fall through and into the hole. Can we all agree to that? Damien surveyed the room as muttered groans of assent came from everyone present. Damien paused the video and points to the timestamp. Mr Robbins, can you tell me, was that the date of your accident?

Kelly looked at the screen but said nothing. Damien continued as Kelly began to closely inspect the backs of his hands. Don’t remember? No problem. From the report I have from Miss Lane, here, I can tell you that it was January 9th of this year, at approximately 10.35 in the morning. The footage here starts at around 10.32, so we might as well watch on a bit. The room watched in silence as the clock in the corner of the screen inched forward. At 10.34 a familiar, burly, figure in site clothing entered the frame, opened the barriers around the excavation and kicked at the banked edge before climbing into the excavation and throwing himself backwards onto the steelwork.

Stephanie immediately leapt to her feet and pointed at the screen.

That could be anyone! You can’t see their face! she bellowed. Damien offered a wry smile.

Right you are, Stephanie. Right you are. He turned to Kelly, who continued to avoid making eye contact. He knows what’s coming. Mr Robbins is there something you’d like to add at this juncture, or should I carry on?

Kelly looked up, and Damien could see tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he remained silent, resigned to what he knew was coming. Damien returned his attention to his laptop.

No? Okay then. Just give me a second to find… Ah, yes. This.

The image on the screen changed to one of Kelly Robbins playing football.

"This was taken two weeks ago. Registered under the name ‘Robin Kelly’, Mr Robbins joined a local league for overweight men. He’s doing pretty well, too - according to some of the lads down there he’s shifted a few kilos and managed to bag himself a hat-trick against Real Madras at the end of last season. Some great pun-names in that league. Brilliant. Mr Robbins - is there anything that you’d like to add now?"

The dam that had held back Kelly’s tears suddenly gave way and torrents began to stream down his cheeks as he sniffed loudly in a vain attempt to stem the flow. For the first time since he had entered the room, he locked eyes with Damien. Bloodshot eyes, glistening with tears. Eyes that begged. Pleaded.

This was the only part of his job that Damien disliked. He’d never minded the long, cold nights sat in his car, camera in hand. Following people came easily, although he suspected that his decidedly nondescript appearance, average height and weight made him blend in with groups and crowds more easily than if he had been six-six and weighed fifteen stone. He was even quite fond of trawling through paperwork - the reams of pages and stacks of half-filled notebooks solicitors often provided to confuse, frustrate or generally impede investigations provided him with an improved insight and level of intuition. But this part - reducing grown men to tears - he hated. Cases like this one, where fraudulent claims had been made, often made him wonder why some people would go to the lengths that they did. He didn’t believe that it was simply greed, but in all of the cases where this kind of fraud had been revealed, he was yet to find a more compelling reason.

The room fell silent. Stephanie frantically rifled through a stack of papers, searching for anything to save face. Simon rubbed his hands together gleefully as a broad grin crept onto his face. But before he had a chance to savour even the first taste of victory, a thunderous rap on the door was followed immediately by a disembodied head appearing at the side of the door.

Boss, said the head, we need you on site.

It was only when Damien retrieved his kit bag from the boot of his car and pulled on the well-worn safety boots that he realised he had forgotten to dry them out after the last time he had worn them. It had only been a few days, but the insoles were sodden and squelched as he pushed his feet in. Everything else in his bag was pristine, as though it had never been worn, which - under different circumstances, would’ve been a source of much ribbing from both Simon and the teams on site, in their mud-spattered trousers and concrete-splashed yellow coats - but he couldn’t bring himself to throw out the old boots. Breaking in a new pair seemed like far more effort than it was worth, given how infrequently he actually spent on construction sites these days. Most of his time was spent wading through complex paper trails and incident reports on behalf of the insurance company he worked almost exclusively for, defending claims. And, as lucrative a career niche as this had been, investigating people like Kelly Robbins - a man whose wife had expensive tastes and increasing demands, driven first to online casinos, then to high-interest payday loans and, finally, into the less scrupulous embrace of a local money lender - made him feel uneasy. He had only taken the case as a favour to Simon, who had recommended him when the claim had first been made. It had been easy to find out about Kelly’s gambling and ever-increasing debts, but the CCTV footage from the site’s security system had been sufficient for him to disprove the claim without having to drag up his personal circumstances in an environment he knew was not conducive to confidentiality. He considered Simon to be a friend, but Damien also knew that Simon was a first-class gossip, and that everything revealed in the meeting would be common knowledge on the site by lunchtime. As much as he wasn’t a fan of Robbins’ tactics and the large-scale attempted fraud he knew would result in a police investigation in due course, he felt a twinge of sympathy for him, and wanted to allow the man the opportunity to leave with at least some of his dignity remaining.

Wherever he could, he tended to eschew personal cases like this in favour of disputes between corporations which didn’t result in people not receiving compensation or damages, and meant he could avoid the ire of resentful claimants. Early in his career he had investigated the case of a woman who had claimed for neck injuries and substantial damage to her home when her car, a newly purchased second-hand family saloon, had become stuck in reverse as she attempted to manoeuvre it onto her driveway and caused her to careen backwards through the bay window at the front of the house instead of pulling forwards to straighten up. During a visit to her home to interview her and photograph the damage to the property, he had noticed an invoice from a local garage pinned to a cork board in the kitchen. Noting the name, he contacted them immediately following the interview and confirmed that the car had been brought in for a sticky gear shift to be checked two months prior, and that the problem - the grease applied to the gearshift had dried out and needed to be reapplied - had been a simple one to resolve. Further examination found nothing mechanically wrong with the car (aside from the considerable damage to the rear, which was to be expected from reversing through the front of a house) and when presented with this information, as well as the unfortunate news that the insurance company would not be paying out against the claim, the woman had become angry and thrown her handbag at Damien, comparing him to the SS officers at the death camps of Nazi Germany and vowing to get him back. He’d never understood the death camp reference and, in the four years since she had vowed to avenge his perceived slight against her, he had never seen or heard from her again - but it had given him cause to think about the type of cases he wanted to work on and was willing to accept. After all, individuals may become embroiled in cases between companies but, ultimately, it was the companies who gained or lost and he could live with that - especially when his bonus was set at ten per cent of a claim’s value if he was able to discover evidence that resulted in the successful defence of a claim.

A small price, he’d argued, compared to the 90 percent they’d save.

The rain that had been forecast for later that morning had arrived earlier than expected, so a large tarpaulin had been laid out, weighed down and surrounded by a perimeter of plastic barriers. As he and Simon were escorted towards it, Damien noted a small excavator parked outside the barrier, with the two men standing beside it doing their utmost to not look at the covered area. He couldn’t tell what had happened and, as a visitor with no authority or reason to even leave the site office, he wondered why Simon had insisted that he accompany him. But, as the mediation had more or less ended and his work for the day was done, he’d agreed to follow him.

Flanked by the foreman who had interrupted the meeting, they walked past the plastic barriers and made a beeline for the men standing next to the excavator. On closer inspection, Damien could see that both were pale and shaken. The operator, who was introduced as Ross, leant against the machine and took frequent sips from a water bottle that he kept in the cab. Damien placed his age around 40 - his hands were weathered and lines had started to form around his eyes, mouth and forehead. The other, Gavin, was far younger and fresh-faced. He’d been sick, and was busily kicking dirt over the puddle of vomit not far from his feet.

Simon reached out and placed his hand gently on Gavin’s arm, breaking the man’s focus and causing him to look up from the sizeable mound of dirt he had made.

You alright? Simon asked softly. Gavin