Worse than Dead
by Stephen Puleston
~~~~~~~~
Worse than Dead
This book copyright © Stephen Puleston
First edition published 2014 by Stephen Puleston
The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Contents
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Also by Stephen Puleston
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Worse Than Dead is the second Inspector Drake mystery. The story is based in North Wales an area rich in history and beautiful landscapes.
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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Inspector Drake Series
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Prologue
The air was filled with the damp smell of sweat and unwashed clothes. A carton from the galley, which once had carried fish and chips, had been stuffed into a metal bin and cans of cider were piled into one corner. He lay on the narrow bunk, his head vibrating from the music blasting through the earphones. He cursed when he noticed the roll-your-own cigarette had gone out, but his annoyance grew when his lighter failed to spark. He got up and fumbled for some matches in a bag. Through the porthole he could see trucks moving on the quay next to the ferry’s berth.
He slumped back onto the bunk, reached down for a can of cider on the floor and took a deep slug. He knew he needed to clean. But why should he bother? Nobody ever came into the cabin. And he could give it a quick wipe when his watch ended.
He drew a hand over his stubble. It had been three days since he had last drawn a razor over his chin. That morning the deck officer had given him a sullen glare when he walked over the car deck and he guessed that a reprimand would follow. But he never saw passengers. Never saw the drivers of the lorries. He barely mixed with the crew, come to that.
The first time he had killed a man had been the hardest. The excitement had built up in his chest until he thought he might collapse but after he’d squeezed the trigger and the smell of cordite had evaporated exhilaration pulsed through his body. The second time had been easier. He’d never thought about the victims afterwards: there had always been another job. Now he was older and when they came looking for his help he could never ignore them.
They had arrived at his home late one evening the week before. He had left the rear gate off the latch and he was waiting in the kitchen when they pushed the door open. He had motioned to the chairs by the table, but they had stood.
‘Not going to be long,’ one of them had said.
He had nodded.
‘We’ve got a problem.’
It had sounded like they were stuck on a crossword puzzle.
They had been right – they were not long. The instructions had been clear and then they had left.
A text purred on his mobile – his only contact with the real world. After reading the message he punched in his reply and pressed send, before throwing the phone to the bottom of the bed.
They were worried. They needn’t be. He’d told them that.
He would see to it. It would be clean.
He reached down for the can by the side of his bunk, shook it around, before realising it was empty. He cracked another open. He had time enough.
He turned up the volume on his iPod and let the music crash around his ears.
Once he had finished drinking, he stood up and belched loudly. He looked at himself in the mirror, drew his hand over his face and rubbed his head. There was a small basin that he filled with hot water before dowsing his face – a shower could wait until tomorrow.
He glanced at his watch. Almost time.
Chapter 1
Ian Drake bowed his head and stifled a yawn. Then he tried to focus again on the inspector from Southern Division, a tall, thin man who wore a cheap suit and a battered white shirt with a tie that had an enormous brown stain running down its length. He had given up the prospect that his fellow officer could make data protection sound interesting. Caren Waits, sitting by his side, was alternating between keen, intense stares at the speaker and scribbling notes.
Since the police forces of Wales had been unified into one service, Drake often found himself sent on courses to Cardiff or Swansea but today it had been the turn of officers from Southern Division to make the journey up north. And over lunch Drake had become increasingly annoyed as he’d listened to jokes about sheepshaggers from voices trying to mimic the North Wales accent.
Drake drank some water – maybe he was dehydrated and that was the reason for his lapse in concentration. He could ill afford to waste a day on this course. He had the appraisal of a junior officer to undertake, a pile of reports to read and a missing person’s file to review. Irritation was building in his mind.
A fragment of pastry from the lunchtime sausage roll had dislodged itself from his teeth and was rolling around in his mouth. His father liked sausage rolls; he remembered that from his childhood – perhaps that’s why he had scooped one onto his plate with the sandwiches and crisps at lunchtime.
‘Data protection is central to our policing policy,’ the inspector droned on.
Drake swallowed the pastry and could feel another yawn starting. He pulled the edge of the newspaper out from underneath the course materials and cast an eye over one of the difficult squares in the morning’s sudoku.
‘There are organised gangs in
Nigeria, Eastern Europe and China – all targeting our economy.’
Caren was still scribbling.
Drake watched another slide of the presentation, which was full of text and bullet points. The inspector had a sing-song voice that made it difficult to concentrate and his attempts at humour had been met by stifled grunts. Drake looked again at the sudoku but any pleasure at solving part of a difficult square was interrupted when he heard the noise of a door crashing open behind him. A uniformed officer strode down towards the front and handed the inspector a slip of paper.
‘I’m sorry for the interruption,’ the inspector said, before scanning the room. ‘Urgent request for DI Drake to call headquarters.’
Drake got up and gave the inspector a look of feigned regret. Caren began sorting her papers, stuffing them into a black folder. Drake inched his way along the row of seats, mouthing the occasional apology to the others present.
The uniformed officer stood at the end of the row. He had a wide stance and broad shoulders, the sort of officer assigned to a late shift in Rhyl on a summer’s night when temperatures ran high and tempers frayed.
‘What’s up?’ Drake asked.
‘Superintendent Price wants to talk to you, sir.’
He led Drake and Caren out of the conference room and down a corridor to reception. He pointed into a small ante room and Drake picked up the telephone lying on the table.
‘Drake.’
‘I tried your mobile,’ Superintendent Wyndham Price’s voice sounded edgy.
‘I… ah. Must be in my coat.’
‘Inspector. There’s an emergency.’
‘Sir?’ Drake could feel his body relaxing at the prospect of leaving for good the presentation and its statistics about data protection crime. It wasn’t the same as proper criminals. There were victims of course – every crime had a victim – but these gangs seemed to operate in the ether, in cyber space.
‘I wouldn’t have called you out of the seminar, but you’re the nearest senior officer.’
Drake gave Caren, standing by his side, a knowing look.
The super continued. ‘On the one day when we’ve got all of the DIs committed, a body turns up.’
‘Sir?’
‘DI Rogers is in court, before that idiot of a judge in Mold, and Geoff Burnell is on a train to London for a conference in Scotland Yard,’ Price continued. ‘You’ll have to take the case.’
Drake’s mind started to concentrate. If there was a body, then the scene needed to be preserved and evidence secured. The crime scene investigators would have to be in place.
‘What are the details?’
‘There’s a ferry arriving at Holyhead in an hour – full of lorries. They found a body. Better get over there.’
Drake barely concealed the smile on his face as he left the room and then made for the exit, without a second thought to the intricacies of data protection. Outside in the car park, he strode over to the Alfa Romeo GT and pointed the remote. The car bleeped and the lights flashed. Overhead, thick storm clouds scudded across the sky, and over the mountains to the east he saw dark columns of rain.
Within minutes, they’d turned onto the dual carriageway and Drake fired the car westwards over Anglesey towards the darkening sky. Soon it was raining heavily and water pounded against the windscreen. He feathered the brake and the cruise disconnected. The car slowed and he peered out as the wiper blades swept back and forth.
After half an hour, they crossed the embankment to Holy Island, and the cooling tower of the closed aluminium smelter loomed out of the shadows. Drake followed the signs down to the port area. Two men were standing at the entrance, their heads lowered against the rain, wearing high-visibility jackets, their hands stuck deep into pockets. Drake pulled up beside them and flashed his warrant card. One of the men spoke into a radio. Soon a small van, with flashing lights and the livery of the ferry company painted over the side, parked alongside Drake, its driver gesticulating for Drake to follow him.
The driving rain made the dilapidated buildings of the town to his left look depressing, and the long wall running along the boundary of the port seemed to separate it from the activity in the harbour. The flowing lines of the steel tubes of the footbridge that linked the port with the town towered above Drake.
Eventually, they reached a wide concourse lined with articulated lorries. The flashing lights of the van came on again as it approached a small office building. At the far end of the concourse a ferry was unloading; another was reversing slowly into a berth.
Drake parked alongside a police van and they left the car. He dragged on the Barbour that had been lying on the back seat, pulled the collar close up to his cheeks and ran over to the building, as the rain soaked his face. Inside telephones were ringing and there were shouts from an office for somebody to answer the calls. Two uniformed officers stood to one side and nodded acknowledgments at Drake and Caren; moments later the door opened, Detective Constables Gareth Winder, and Dave Howick entered, rain dripping off their jackets.
‘Got here as soon as we could,’ Winder said.
‘We’ve only just arrived,’ Drake replied.
Drake had barely finished his instructions for the team when a man with a wide chest and a swarthy beard emerged from the rear of the building. The telephones continued to ring. Drake held out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector Drake,’ he said, before nodding towards Caren. ‘Sergeant Waits.’
‘Huw Thomas.’
Drake started to take off the Barbour.
‘There’s no time for that now. She’s almost alongside,’ Thomas said.
‘What…?’
‘Need to get you down near the ramp and on first.’
They were outside again and Drake was certain the rain had intensified. It seemed to blot out the town and, squinting into the distance, he saw the shape of the ferry company’s offices towering over the harbour.
‘Into the van,’ Thomas said. He barely squeezed into the driver’s seat, struggling with the belt, the jacket rustling against the chair. Drake sat alongside him, Caren, Winder and Howick in the rear. The van wouldn’t start the first time; Thomas cursed then fiddled with the ignition until the engine fired into life. A couple of minutes later they reached the ramp and watched as the ferry finished her manoeuvre. A siren sounded, more lights flashed, and the ramp descended from the stern of the vessel. The group left the van and walked over to the edge of the ramp.
Three members of the crew stood on the car deck as Drake strode down into the vessel. Despite the rain he could see their dark, intense stares.
A man with a wide jaw and a shaved head stepped forward.
‘Captain Seymour,’ he said, thrusting out his hand towards Drake.
‘DI Drake. Where’s the body?’
‘Follow me,’ Seymour said, turning towards the lorries parked on the deck.
‘How many passengers are there?’ Drake asked.
‘Not many. We were light this morning. All of the passengers are in the lounges on the top deck. What do we do with them?’
Drake turned to Caren. ‘Sergeant Waits will take care of that.’
Seymour raised his hand and waved at another man in a high-visibility jacket.
‘Howard. Take Sergeant Waits up top.’
Drake watched as Caren followed the crew member to an open doorway, Howick and Winder close behind her. Turning, Drake heard the gears crunching on the Scientific Support Vehicle, as it thudded onto the ramp and began a slow descent into the bowels of the vessel. There was a deep grinding noise behind Drake and he looked towards the bow doors.
‘It’s standard operating procedure to open the bow doors when we’re alongside. We have to clear the vessel of any fumes,’ Seymour said. ‘Follow me.’
The captain led Drake past the lorries and trucks parked closely together and stepped over cables lashed around tyres. Drake was expecting the heavy smell of diesel oil and petrol fumes, but was surprised by how clean the deck seemed.
Seymour stopp
ed below the cabin of a large lorry. ‘He’s over there,’ he said, nodding his head.
‘What’s the dead man’s name?’
‘Frank Rosen. He was the chief engineer.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘One of the ABs – able seaman.’
Drake nodded. He walked over and knelt down. Rosen’s head lay tucked against his chest, drooping slightly to one side. Drake guessed he was early forties. There was a large red stain on the one-piece suit, and the handle of a knife protruding from his chest had dark blotches along its length. Then Drake heard the familiar sound of Mike Foulds’s voice, turned his head, and saw the crime scene manager looking down at him.
‘Mike,’ Drake said.
‘Has anyone interfered with the scene since the body was found?’ Foulds sounded edgy.
‘Can’t tell. Captain Seymour?’ Drake said, directing Foulds’s question at the captain.
‘I gave instructions for no one to go anywhere near the body. Exactly as I was instructed by your superintendent.’ Seymour folded his arms together tightly and gave Drake a defiant stare.
‘Do what you can,’ Drake said, returning his gaze to Foulds, already realising that there were problems ahead. ‘If there’s contamination of the scene, then there’s nothing we can do about it.’
Foulds nodded and moved away, looking around, assessing the task in hand. Drake had been on cases with him before: Foulds always made sure there was no doubt who was in charge of the crime scene. Drake could hear the bustle of the crime scene investigators behind the tyres of the trucks.
‘This could take hours,’ Foulds said.
‘Keep me informed,’ Drake replied, as he turned his back on the crime scene manager and motioned for Seymour to leave the scene. As they moved back towards the open section of the car deck, it struck Drake that this would be the first case in which he knew where the killer was right from the start. They had all the suspects in one place. It was only a matter of establishing the motive and opportunity. He could keep everyone on board until he had a confession.
Worse Than Dead Page 1
