Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  Seymour was saying something that interrupted Drake’s thinking.

  ‘Inspector Drake. The port manager is on his way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shipping and port manager.’

  Another tall man strode down the ramp.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ The accent was estuary English and a decibel too loud.

  Drake held out his hand. ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  The man looked at Drake’s hand for a moment and then shook it. ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘That’s no good.’

  Drake stared at the man before replying. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve got a schedule to keep. Look at all these lorries. Perishable goods mostly. Massive claim against us if we can’t offload the ship.’

  His tone suggested that arguing wasn’t an option.

  Drake straightened a little. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mortlake.’

  Drake raised his voice above the humming of the engine noise. ‘Mr Mortlake. This is a crime scene. I’ve got a team of crime scene investigators beginning their work. There’s a murderer on this boat.’

  ‘It’s a ship,’ Mortlake said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘What?’ Drake said.

  The mobile rang in Drake’s pocket; he reached in, feeling the damp seams. His feet felt damp too, and he worried that the bottom of his trousers would be sodden by the time they finished. He wasn’t dressed for this – he reconsidered the advantages of the seminar, now somewhat regretting being on the deck of a ship, having to debate who was in charge. His suit was one of his best – a German designer brand that his wife had bought as a birthday present and oil and grease would ruin it.

  ‘Can you come up here, sir?’ It was Caren’s voice.

  Drake turned to the two uniformed officers standing on the ramp. ‘Nobody goes off this ship, without my authority. Understood?’

  They nodded and Drake gave Mortlake a hard stare.

  The stairwell to the top deck was wide and clean. Caren stood by a large wooden door underneath a sign that said ‘Irish Bar’.

  ‘There are a couple of smart-arse passengers in there.’ She tipped her head towards the doors.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Demanding they have to leave.’

  Drake was in no mood for any further dissent and pushed the door open, clenching his jaw. One hundred pairs of eyes turned towards him and he stood in front of the bar, clearing his throat before raising his voice.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Drake. There’s been a murder on this vessel and until we’ve completed our investigation nobody is leaving.’

  He was about to continue when the door burst open and Winder crashed in. ‘Something you need to see, sir. Now.’

  Chapter 2

  Clothes were lying in piles on the floor, the bed linen torn, pillows ripped to shreds.

  Winder stood by the door as Drake stepped into the cabin. He walked to the bottom of the bed, noticing an Elton John Greatest Hits CD discarded into a corner. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked through some polo shirts and boxer shorts. He fingered the front cover of a Louis L’Amour Western novel detached from the rest of the pages. Somebody wanted to find something very badly – desperate or angry or both.

  Drake turned to Winder who was standing by the door. ‘Better get Mike Foulds up here.’

  Winder nodded and left.

  Drake knelt by the bed and flicked over more of the clothes with a pencil he’d found in his jacket. There was nothing to identify the occupant of the cabin, no family photograph. Not even a newspaper. He stepped over to the small bathroom behind him and noticed the narrow shower door, wet from recent use. But there was no wash bag or shaving foam or shower gel. The bathroom had been stripped of personal belongings. They were probably under the clothes on the bed, waiting for the CSIs.

  It was quiet in the cabin as Drake waited for Foulds. He walked carefully over to the window and peered out into the harbour, watching a small fishing boat churning its way into the fish quay, the crew huddled in the small wheelhouse for shelter. He looked back over the discarded possessions just as Foulds arrived by the door and groaned.

  ‘Somebody’s been busy,’ Foulds said.

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  Foulds took a step into the room and reached for a pair of gloves, as one of the CSIs appeared in the cabin door.

  ‘Slowly. The chance of getting anything useful is zero,’ Foulds said, turning to the investigator. ‘Andy, get to work here,’ he said before looking over at Drake. ‘We need space on the car deck, Ian. Some of the lorries will have to disembark.’

  Drake nodded. Time was what they did not have. The fact that he must be so close to the murderer was all he could think about. He could easily touch him, speak to him, and look him in the eye. Or maybe it was a woman. All he had to do was get all the passengers and crew into one area on the ship and demand a confession. But it only happened that way on the television for Poirot or Miss Marple.

  ‘I’ll come down with you.’

  Stepping over the high threshold into the car deck, Drake noticed activity in a small office in one corner. Mortlake stood near the cab of a lorry and when he saw Drake, he mouthed something to a crew member who immediately picked up a radio unit.

  Drake strode over to the crime scene. Foulds looked worried and he pointed under the lorries behind him. ‘We need to move these wagons.’

  Drake didn’t want to let anyone off the ship. Everyone was a potential suspect. He dreaded to think how many foreign nationals might be on board: could he confiscate their passports? Keep them in the UK until he was satisfied they had nothing to do with the murder?

  ‘It’s important, Ian,’ Foulds continued.

  ‘Yes, of course. Get it done,’ Drake replied, still thinking about the murderer sitting somewhere on board.

  Caren appeared on the car deck. There was something different about Caren that morning, Drake realised. Her clothes were smart and her hair had been carefully and tightly pulled back behind her head. It had irked him before that she’d arrive at work looking untidy. On one occasion he’d been convinced that she had carried some manure on her shoes from her farm into his freshly cleaned Alfa. It had taken him a couple of hours to clean the car properly afterwards.

  ‘I’ve left Gareth and Dave finalising all the passenger data,’ Caren said. ‘Some of the passengers are getting restless.’

  Drake felt his mobile vibrate and fished it out of his pocket. ‘Drake.’

  He heard the voice of Wyndham Price. ‘I’ve had the port manager on the phone.’

  Drake glanced over at the office. Mortlake was standing in the doorway now, feet wide apart, a smirk on his face. Drake muffled a hand over one ear, hoping he’d hear everything Price was saying.

  ‘He’s complaining about the cargo on the ferry. I know this guy from a local business forum. He can make a lot of noise and his head is so far up his arse… well. You know the sort.’

  Drake glanced over at Mortlake again – arms folded now. ‘I know the sort, sir.’

  ‘Go through the motions and leave him to me. Make certain you get the names of everybody on that ship.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Drake didn’t need the superintendent to tell him how to do his job. He stood for a moment after switching off the mobile. Keeping everyone on the vessel was impractical. He would have to let the passengers and lorries disembark, but at least he would have the name, address and personal details of the killer. It would only then be a matter of time.

  The noise from the engines powering into life was deafening and the car deck filled with exhaust fumes. Drake and Caren stood by the office as the first of the tractor units lurched forwards before pulling a container. It crawled over the deck towards the ramp and then upwards onto the harbour concourse. A second followed and soon the area near Foulds was emptying of lorries.

  The smile on Mortlake’
s face grew wider.

  Drake left Caren with the officers on the ramp and walked back over to Foulds and the crime scene investigators working near the body. The car deck near the body was clear: a proper inner perimeter had been established. Foulds appeared more contented when Drake approached him.

  ‘Anything?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Oil and grease and diesel. But sod all else.’

  ‘Doctor been?’

  ‘No. Been delayed.’

  ‘When are you going to move the body?’

  Before Foulds could answer, his mobile hummed into life and he read the text. ‘Andy’s finished.’

  Drake said nothing but nodded at Caren and they left the car deck to head back up to Rosen’s cabin.

  Chapter 3

  Captain Seymour stood outside the cabin when they arrived. There was pale wash to his skin and the apprehensive look of a man unaccustomed to not being in control. The CSI was packing his equipment away and Drake peered into the cabin, seeing a resemblance of order.

  ‘What was Rosen like?’ Drake said to Seymour.

  Seymour hesitated. ‘Kept himself to himself.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The CSI hauled a box of equipment into the corridor.

  ‘Did you get on with him?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t the senior officers all work together?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why was he on the car deck?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Is that his normal place of work?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Any ideas then?’

  Seymour looked at Drake. ‘Look, I have no idea why he was on the car deck. He should have been in the engine room.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he in the engine room?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  Drake wanted to say – Well, you’re the captain: instead he said, ‘Was there a problem in the engine room?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of anything.’

  ‘Did he have any friends on the crew?’

  Seymour seemed puzzled by the question. ‘I… don’t know.’

  A junior officer walking down the corridor towards them caught Seymour’s attention. ‘And what do you want, Berkley?’

  ‘I might be able to help.’

  Seymour let his mouth fall open.

  Drake said to Berkley. ‘How well did you know Rosen?’

  ‘He helped me with my studies.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Depends.’ The man shrugged a little. He was barely twenty, his face still covered in pimples.

  They stepped into Rosen’s cabin.

  The CSI and Seymour stood outside. Inside, order had been restored. The contents had been tidied and bagged. The chair was against the wall and the bed and mattress reunited.

  Drake turned to the CSI standing by the door. ‘Any personal possessions?’

  The investigator gave him a sullen look. ‘Not much to talk about. CDs, wash bag. Usual stuff – toothbrush, shaver, etc., etc.’

  ‘Have you found his iPhone?’ Berkley asked.

  Drake and Caren looked at the investigator.

  ‘And what about his laptop?’

  * * *

  Drake almost fell headlong at the bottom of the last flight of stairs in his haste to reach the car deck. Eventually he heaved open the door and stepped into the deafening sound of engines, air choked with diesel fumes, crew members gesticulating wildly, directing drivers towards the exit. He hurried over to the uniformed officers standing at the bottom of the ramp, their heads turned away against the driving rain. He shouted instructions and they nodded confirmation, pulling the zips of their jackets tightly under their chins.

  He walked over to the office with Caren and stood for a moment watching the flickering images from the various CCTV cameras, suppressing his anger that he had not been shown the monitors before. Both screens were divided into four segments, each image tagged with the date and time. He stared at the two screens as though they had some hypnotic quality and it struck him that there might be a record of Rosen’s last seconds of life. He heard voices behind him.

  ‘Where do these record?’ Drake said directly to the white-suited crew member standing at the door.

  ‘All over the car deck.’

  ‘Anywhere else? And why the hell weren’t we told about them before?’

  Before the man could answer, Mortlake appeared in the office doorway.

  ‘Why have you stopped the disembarkation?’

  The port manager’s eyes bulged; he’d loosened his tie. Drake raised his head and stared at him.

  ‘I wasn’t told about the CCTV images,’ Drake said, pointing at the screen. ‘The record from the cameras could be crucial. We are talking about a man’s life.’

  ‘I want to know about the disembarkation.’

  ‘Where are they stored?’

  ‘What?’

  Drake squinted. ‘The images from the cameras. I want copies of everything. I don’t want anyone to have access to these computers without my authority.’

  Mortlake gave Drake a tired look and nodded sharply. Outside on the car deck the noise was diminishing, making their conversation more audible.

  ‘Inspector Drake, I want to know why you’ve stopped the disembarkation.’

  Drake straightened his posture, drew his shoulders back and stared at Mortlake. ‘This ferry is a crime scene.’

  ‘And it’s full of containers, mostly with perishable goods.’

  ‘And whilst it’s a crime scene, I can stop the disembarkation.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Rosen’s laptop is missing.’

  ‘That could be anywhere…’

  ‘And his mobile telephone. So we’ll need to search every lorry and car leaving the ship.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  Drake clenched his jaw.

  ‘I’ll get Special Branch and the customs officers to assist.’

  ‘This could take hours.’

  ‘In the meantime, no one leaves.’

  Chapter 4

  By the time Drake pushed open the cafeteria door he was starting to think clearly, the anger with Mortlake abating. The smell of fried food made Drake feel both hungry and thirsty.

  ‘Coffee, boss?’ Caren said.

  Drake mumbled agreement. He had to quench his thirst, but the coffee would be thin and tasteless. He walked over to the table where Winder and Howick were sitting. Winder was short with a round, flabby face and a shaved head that made him look older than he actually was, and he gave Drake a brief acknowledgment as he sat down. He wore a faded red denim shirt under a grey jacket. Drake had suggested in the past that Winder should wear a tie and he made a mental note to mention it again sometime.

  ‘The passengers are getting really twitchy,’ Winder said.

  ‘Have they had something to eat and drink?’ Drake said

  ‘Yes, boss. But you need to talk to them,’ Winder said, urgency in his voice.

  ‘Have we got a full list?’ Drake asked.

  Dave Howick, sitting by Winder’s side, opened the folder on the table and pushed over a list. Howick wore a navy suit, his white shirt looked unironed and his tie, a blue-and-red striped variety, was knotted untidily. A recent haircut had made his face look more gaunt than usual. His work and appearance – and his social skills – had all suffered since he had failed his sergeant’s exams a few months previously.

  ‘This was the list we got from the ferry company. But it’s only the drivers. We had to add the names of the car and foot passengers. At least the company had the name of every lorry driver.’

  Drake raised an eyebrow and looked over at Howick. ‘Really? I thought they had to have lists of everybody travelling on a ferry like this.’

  ‘The paperwork is all over the place, sir,’ Howick said.

  Drake considered for a moment how Mortlake would react if he challenged him abou
t passenger records. ‘And the list of crew members?’

  Howick pushed over another list.

  ‘And is this list complete?’

  Howick nodded. ‘At least they got that right.’

  Drake studied it as Caren sat down by his side, sliding a mug of coffee over towards him. Winder took a doughnut from the plate piled high with multi-coloured cakes Caren had plonked on the table.

  Drake was right about the coffee; it was almost transparent: decent coffee would have to wait. His hands felt dirty and he wouldn’t be able to eat anything until he’d washed so he excused himself. Standing in front of the mirror by the washbasins in the gents toilets, he undid the cuffs of his shirt and filled the basin with hot water. He brushed away some mud on his trousers with a paper towel but he cursed when he noticed the oil stains. He poured liquid soap onto his hands and began washing, knowing he would feel better once he’d finished. The ritual cleared and cleansed his mind, as did sudoku: fill out all the squares, solve the riddle. He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering if being a policeman in his early forties meant that he had to have bags under his eyes and grey streaks through his hair.

  There were a couple of doughnuts left when he arrived back at the table. He chose one with green-coloured icing that he ate between gulps of tepid coffee. ‘Every lorry and every car will have to be searched thoroughly. There’s a laptop missing. And an iPhone. All we have to do is find them.’

  ‘This could take days, sir,’ Caren said.

  ‘How many lorries are there?’ Drake turned to Howick.

  ‘Forty-two.’

  ‘Each search takes ten minutes. That’s seven hours,’ Caren said. Drake could see that she was about to launch into one of her customary speeches where she’d share her plans for how the investigation should be run but before she could say anything Winder cut in.

  ‘And there are forty cars.’

  ‘Can we realistically do a search in ten minutes?’ Caren put down her empty cup and started tapping into her mobile. ‘That’s another five hours,’ she said.

  Drake’s mobile hummed into life and he quickly read the message. ‘Backup’s arrived.’