Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  * * *

  Howick gazed at the numbers and letters, wanting to convince himself that he could make sense of everything. The disappointment at failing the sergeant’s exams hadn’t passed. Just being in work felt like a punishment and he’d struggled to find his motivation ever since. His wife had been making comments about his surly attitude and kept pestering him, asking if there was anything wrong.

  He opened a spreadsheet and started inputting Rosen’s bank account numbers and their various PIN numbers. It surprised him that Rosen had so many different accounts, and once he’d finished he scanned the numbers, looking for any pattern he might recognise. Then he tried the dead engineer’s credit cards and investment bonds, looking for the numbers that might trigger a pattern. But the more figures he gathered onto the spreadsheet the more confused he became.

  He tried a Google search for car journeys around North Wales: from Rosen’s house to the port, then to Mandy Beal’s house, and then out of desperation to the local supermarket and then the flying club. Another spreadsheet was opened with possible variations for journeys in miles and another in kilometres, but he couldn’t see any pattern nor anything to suggest an explanation for the numbers and letters.

  A strong coffee didn’t help and neither did comments from Winder who was annoying him with his fidgeting. He’d always got on with Gareth, but it had always been on the basis that he assumed his own promotion was imminent. And now he was stuck as a constable at the same rank as Gareth, who seemed quite content with his role.

  Another hour passed as he made a list of everyone who had contact with Rosen. Their first names, surnames and addresses – he even added telephone numbers and home addresses. Recalling something Drake had said, he made a list of initials and tried to cross-reference them with details about Rosen’s life, but his mind wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Chapter 15

  Drake couldn’t help prioritising the numbers over the letters. He stared at the board and knew the team behind him were also staring at the notes and photographs, but he doubted whether they saw the numbers as he did.

  ‘Who’s reorganised the board?’ he said.

  He heard the scrape of a chair leg and then someone stand up. Howick was on his feet, as though summoned by a headmaster for punishment.

  ‘Thought it would tidy things a bit,’ he said.

  The original order had been changed and that had unnerved Drake. ‘Just…’ Drake realised that he was going to sound lame.

  He noticed Caren fiddling with her mobile.

  ‘Caren?’

  She kept looking at it.

  ‘Caren,’ Drake continued. ‘You said you had something about one of the crew.’

  After another glance at the phone Caren stepped up to the board, tapping the note she’d printed up earlier.

  ‘Darren Green. I spoke to a DI from Merseyside. They’ve got a mountain of intelligence but never enough to successfully prosecute him for everything he was involved in. He’s quite the gangster.’

  ‘Then we look at him in more detail.’

  ‘What could be his motive?’ Winder asked, still sitting by his desk.

  ‘What are his precons?’ Drake said to Caren.

  ‘Violence and lots of it. Implicated in three murders and a drug-dealing skirmish that didn’t get past a slick lawyer.’

  ‘Drugs.’ Drake spoke to the board rather than to his colleague.

  Howick was still standing but by now he’d plunged his hands into his pockets and he stumbled over his words. ‘What did the drug squad have to say, sir?’

  Drake thought of the dark stares that Newman had given him. He’d followed procedure and involved the right team but it wouldn’t be reciprocated and he resolved that he’d have to talk to Lance, formally record the position, protect his back.

  ‘They’ll keep us informed of any links to known drug activity. DI Newman didn’t recognise Rosen’s name.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask him about Green,’ Winder said, having hiked his feet onto his desk. Caren was still staring at her mobile.

  Drake nodded and mumbled a reply, already having decided that that was the last thing he would do. It occurred to him that he needed to find out where Rosen had flown to on his trips with the high-rollers of North Wales. There’d be records of course, flight plans, so he made a mental note to contact Ellis-Pugh for the information.

  Caren’s mobile beeped and she read the message. Then abruptly she grabbed her bag and coat.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Got to leave early tonight.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘Oh. On a promise?’ Winder said, grinning and then nodding at Howick who smirked back.

  Caren sneered at Winder and left.

  Drake returned to his offices, slumping into the chair behind his desk, checked the Post-it notes and reached for the sudoku, knowing he had two incomplete squares. Then he read the time and realised that he was already late for the appointment with the consultant and his parents. He dragged on his coat from the stand by the door and hurried out.

  * * *

  The hospital seemed quiet, less busy than a normal week day and Drake hoped the consultant really wouldn’t be as annoyed as his secretary implied he might be at having to work late into the evening. Drake recalled clearly the initial diagnosis of his father’s bowel cancer, when the consultant had used terms that Drake had never heard of before like colorectal surgeon and multi-disciplinary teams. Since then there had been regular chemotherapy treatments every few weeks.

  But Drake knew something was wrong. It was in the way his father walked, spoke and looked at his family. And now they were expecting the results of the blood test following the last chemotherapy session.

  An elderly couple sat holding hands across from Drake and his parents. They gave Drake the faintest of smiles before the man patted his wife’s hand. Drake couldn’t work out which of them was the patient, until the woman gave her husband a brief frightened look once her name was called.

  Tom Drake sat impassively between his wife and his son. Time dragged and Drake could feel a burning behind his eyes and suppressed a yawn. Patients arrived for the oncology clinic and Drake hoped he’d think clearly when the time came to speak with the specialist.

  But he simply didn’t want to think about his father’s illness.

  ‘Mr Drake.’ The voice sounded soothing.

  Tom Drake looked over towards a door in the far corner of the waiting area. A nurse smiled at him and the three of them got up and walked over.

  The consultant had a dark-navy suit and a shirt with blue links in the shape of an open-top coupe. Drake caught the smell of sweet cologne in the air.

  ‘Do sit down.’ Alec Harrison waved to the chairs in front of his desk. Drake pulled one of the chairs to one side for his father.

  ‘I’ve had a chance to look over the results of the CT scan from the follow-up appointment last week and we’ve had the results of the blood test. I’m afraid that it’s not good news,’ Harrison began.

  Drake glanced over at his mother and thought he saw a tear in her eye. Having been married for over forty years, she would have already known.

  ‘The blood tests indicate that you’re anaemic which would account for your tiredness. But the scan indicates that the cancer has spread to the liver and lungs.’

  Harrison ran through a protracted explanation of the results, giving more details of the results. Drake felt numb. He heard what Harrison said but didn’t listen. It wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Drake could see his mother playing with her fingers, as though she were trying to warm them, her eyes blinking at nothing. She turned, caught Drake’s gaze and gave him a narrow smile, but it quickly faded.

  ‘We can continue with the chemotherapy, but it won’t be a cure. At best it will slow the disease from spreading.’

  Tom Drake crossed his legs and put one hand on top of another on his left knee. ‘How long have I got?’

  Drake noticed Harrison swallowing. The consultant seemed relieved with Tom’s q
uestion and his tone became bolder, less edgy.

  ‘It will be palliative chemotherapy. And we can organise for you to have as much support at home as is possible. The Macmillan nursing service in this area is second to none.’

  The words cut deep. He thought about his grandfather and his funeral and then all of the pain that the session with Halpin had resurrected. His father’s voice had sounded calm and clear, as though he was asking about the weather. A tear dragged its way down his mother’s cheek.

  Once they’d finished and stepped out into the spring evening, he walked with his parents to their car. He kissed his mother and gave his father a hug. He watched them drive away and as he choked back the tears his mobile rang.

  ‘Drake.’

  ‘MC Hammer’s been busy.’

  Chapter 16

  Caren woke that morning, having had the best night’s sleep for months. Although the bed was empty by her side she could still smell Alun. She buried her head under the duvet and stretched her legs out into the warmth of the bed, remembering the roughness of his hands against her legs. A faint tang of diesel oil on his hair had clung to her hands after she’d pulled his face to hers and kissed him as though it had been the first time. He’d put on some weight in the four weeks since she’d seen him last and she’d prodded the developing paunch, joking that he’d have to exercise.

  After a shower she stood in the kitchen making tea and toast, wondering what Alun was eating in the cabin of his truck that morning. The farmhouse felt empty without him. She finished clearing the dishes, stacking the dishwasher, as her mind gradually turned back to the deaths of Rosen and Mandy. She had been involved in suicide cases before, but there wasn’t a pattern so it was never easy to judge what had driven a person to take their own life. She stopped for a moment and stared out of the window; it looked warm: wispy white clouds hung in the sky, like shredded cotton wool. A breeze moved the tops of the sycamores in the paddock; living in the farmhouse had made her appreciate the natural order of the seasons, and the rhythm that living in the country imposed.

  She found the car keys lying under the cushions on the sofa and she smiled as she thought of the piles of clothes that had been strewn around the floor within minutes of Alun arriving home. Once she’d pulled the door closed behind her she walked to her car and then threaded her way down through the narrow lanes of Conwy Valley. She opened her window and felt a cooling breeze on her face and then the acrid smell of manure from a neighbouring field. The countryside shimmered a lush green as she made her way towards headquarters. It was a journey she never tired of and even headquarters, with its roof bustling with radio antennae and busy car park, had a fresh, clean look in the early spring sunshine. A few minutes later, she pulled a chair up to her desk and sat down. Winder looked up and she noticed the bags under his eyes, the pasty expression on his cheeks and the developing jowls. It would only be a matter of time before Drake or perhaps even the new superintendent would make some comment about Winder’s obvious tiredness and poor timekeeping.

  ‘Good morning,’ Winder said.

  ‘Lovely spring morning.’

  ‘Good night last night?’

  Caren noticed the hint of a smile on Winder’s lips, but before she could think of a clever reply Howick lurched into the Incident Room holding two mugs of coffee. ‘Do you want one?’ he said.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Howick wore a clean white shirt and, unlike Winder, had a tie folded into a wide knot that made his long neck look thinner than it actually was. Caren glanced over at Drake’s room, his door firmly closed.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s gone to the hospital,’ Winder said.

  ‘I thought he went last night?’

  Winder shook his head. ‘Apparently the guy – called Tom Vigo – was unconscious. MC kicked the shit out of him, allegedly. Medics thought he’d be well enough to interview this morning.’

  Caren nodded. Top of her to-do list that morning was finishing her work on the syndicate members, so she booted up her computer and typed the name ‘Tim Loosemore’ into a Google search. Within seconds she had a series of entries and she settled into the routine of scanning, recording and making notes that she could follow up later.

  All the results on the first page related to Loosemore’s investment in Lyfon Pharmaceuticals. Caren noticed half a dozen newspaper articles covering the creation of three hundred jobs in an area near Cardiff described as ‘disadvantaged’ or ‘depressed’ or ‘post-industrial’ and each had an image of Loosemore smiling broadly, shaking hands with Richard Class, the economic development minister at the time. It had been the first pharmaceutical company ever to have a base in Wales and Caren read the promises from the politicians in Cardiff that ‘Wales was a place to do business’. By the end of the second page of results the references to Tim Loosemore became more obscure, referring to his numerous directorships. Caren spent a couple of hours compiling a list of the companies of which he had been a director, doubting whether Drake had been sensible in prioritising this exercise.

  A second mug of coffee was getting cold on her desk as she read about Loosemore’s charitable work, and Caren speculated whether he had a study lined with photographs taken with presumably important and influential people. By the end of the fifth page Caren had resolved that she would do one more page and then have lunch; her stomach was turning over already. But she read her way down the sixth page, disappointed that there was nothing further to attract her attention. Feeling guilty that she had arrived late for work that morning, she decided to stay at her desk and typed ‘Lyfon’ into a Google search.

  The entries on the first page related to the company’s website, its eponymous Facebook page and various newspaper articles. On the second page, there were LinkedIn accounts, more Facebook pages and a link to images of an animation character. She was about to close the search when she noticed a BlogSpot reference to Lyfon Pharmaceuticals at the end of the third page and she clicked it open.

  Caren lost track of time as she read through the various blog entries, going back a number of years – her interest piqued by the less-than-complimentary comments made by the author about Loosemore and his business activities. Winder and Howick returned from their lunch, dropping a sandwich onto her desk.

  ‘They only had a cheese and pickle left.’

  Caren mumbled thanks and pushed some coins across the desk towards Howick, without taking her eyes off the computer screen. She blanked out the joking and laughing from her colleagues, and she carried on reading until she decided to speak with the author. Another hour’s searching finally gave her the name of the newspaper where Harvey Speed worked.

  ‘He’s not here right now.’ The voice sounded tired, the accent flat and dull.

  ‘Can I get hold of him? Does he have a mobile?’

  ‘Like I said. He’s not here.’ Caren could hear the irritation developing in the woman’s voice.

  ‘Is there someone who supervises his work?’

  ‘You mean an editor.’

  Before Caren could reply the line went dead.

  ‘Marcus Oldham’s phone.’ This time the voice sounded more cultured.

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of Harvey Speed.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in right now…’

  ‘Will he be in later?’

  ‘He’s working on… Who are you anyway?’

  ‘Is Marcus Oldham his editor?’

  ‘Look. Just call back in an hour.’

  The time seemed to drag as Caren ate her way through the sandwich. After returning from the kitchen with coffee she resisted the temptation to eat the chocolate bar in the pocket of her coat, settling instead for an apple. She sent a text to Alun, surprising herself when she felt annoyed that he didn’t reply immediately, forgetting that he was probably driving. Barely an hour had gone by when she could hardly contain her patience any longer.

  ‘Just a moment.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded as though she had the cares of
the world on her shoulders, but a couple of clicks later and Caren heard a man’s voice.

  ‘Harvey Speed.’ Caren could make out the accent: it sounded like it came from the north-east of England, maybe Durham or perhaps Newcastle.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Caren Waits of the Wales Police Service – Northern Division. I was reading your blog recently about Lyfon Pharmaceuticals. I was…’

  ‘How do I know that you’re a police officer?’

  ‘You can call headquarters. The number is…’

  ‘I can find the number.’

  ‘You’ve written some blog entries about Tim Loosemore…’

  ‘What interest have you got in Loosemore?’

  ‘I’m doing some background work…’

  ‘Who’s your superior officer?’

  ‘Inspector Ian Drake. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Caren sat looking at the handset, wondering if she’d actually achieved anything. Maybe her interest in Tim Loosemore was another wild goose chase. She got up and stretched her legs, realising that huddling over the computer for most of the morning had made her feel stiff and uncomfortable.

  Less than half an hour later her telephone rang.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Waits.’ Speed sounded almost friendly. ‘Sorry that I had to sound so defensive. Dealing with people like Tim Loosemore means you have to be very careful.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’ Caren hoped she could conceal the interest that Speed’s comments had sparked in her mind.

  ‘When I started investigating Lyfon and Loosemore I began to get some very unpleasant attention from solicitors acting for the company and for Loosemore himself. Telling me I had to be very careful, threatening libel proceedings, substantial damages because they could prove that I was malicious and that I wanted to ruin his reputation.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of years ago. I’ve got everything documented. Anyway, why are you interested in Loosemore?’

  ‘He’s a person of interest.’