Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Any contact you think is necessary with the drug squad comes through me. And before you leave, fix a time with Hannah for the next review.’

  Drake noticed Lance reaching for another set of files as he pulled the door closed behind him. Hannah gave him an enquiring look as Drake stood by her desk.

  ‘He wants me to diarise another meeting,’ Drake said.

  Hannah nodded. ‘He’s very meticulous,’ she said in a whisper, clicking open the calendar on the computer. ‘He’s asked for so many different files, going back years. It’s very odd without Wyndham… I mean Superintendent Price. I’ve sent you an email with the date.’

  Drake left the senior management suite and threaded his way back to the Incident Room, his thoughts all tugging towards the fact that Lance knew all about his rituals.

  * * *

  As Drake returned to the Incident Room he called MC. Drake debated leaving a message when the messaging service clicked on but in the end killed the call. He’d sat for an hour outside MC’s house earlier that morning, until eventually he’d decided to call at Sylvie’s. It had taken him longer to find the small terraced house than he’d expected and after hammering on the door he’d peered into the front window and then, walking through a warren of back lanes, he’d pushed open the wooden back gate only to find that he couldn’t see anything through any of the rear windows either. And the neighbours either side had no idea who lived in the property.

  In the Incident Room he stared at the board, hoping for inspiration. Rosen’s photograph pinned in the middle of the board made him look older. The names of the co-owners of the plane had been scribbled to one side, and lists of the crew and passengers printed in a medium-sized font dominated one-half of the board. It gave Drake an odd sense of comfort to know that he knew where to find the killer. All he had to do was find the evidence linking Rosen to one of the names on the board. It should be easy; all it required was patient police work.

  His concentration was broken as Caren pushed open the door, followed by Winder and Howick joking loudly. Their conversations died as Drake looked over, and Caren went to stand by his side.

  ‘All we have to do is find the connection,’ Drake said. ‘Somebody on one of these lists killed Rosen. So we know who it is.’

  ‘Bit like one of those Agatha Christie films, you know, Death on the Nile,’ Winder said beaming.

  ‘And a ferry from Holyhead to Ireland is exactly like a boat travelling down the Nile, is it?’ Howick said, sitting down.

  ‘And I’ve got a list from Ellis-Pugh of the flights that Rosen made in the last couple of years.’ Drake said. ‘I need sense made of these. There might be something that matches up to the codes. An address or city or destination.’

  ‘There are protocols about flying to Ireland,’ Howick said. ‘Special Branch have to be notified. They need to be sent the passenger list for every journey.’

  Drake remembered about the CCTV coverage and looked over at Howick. ‘Have you finished going through the CCTV yet?’

  Howick adjusted his position on the chair. ‘Not quite finished.’

  Drake gave him a dark look. ‘I need them done and finished by tomorrow. Even if that means you’re here all night.’

  Howick gave Drake a brief, sullen look.

  Irritation built in Drake’s mind. Why had Lance taken over the role of SIO? Was it something Lance had read about him? A realisation hit him that there must be something in his personnel file that was influencing Lance.

  ‘I’ve also spoken to a journalist who’s investigated Tim Loosemore,’ Caren said. ‘He got really spooked when I made contact. Wouldn’t speak to me until he’d rung reception to check I was really a police officer.

  Drake stood silently looking at the board. Caren gave a quick glance around at the others.

  ‘Sir. Tim Loosemore.’

  ‘What?’ Drake said.

  Caren cleared her throat and repeated herself.

  ‘Did you contact Superintendent Adams?’ Drake said once she’d finished.

  Howick and Winder were standing by their desks listening intently to every word.

  ‘Yes, sir. He confirmed there was an investigation, but wouldn’t give me the details. It had to come from you.’

  Drake nodded; another call to be put on his to-do list, another Post-it note to be added. He looked again at the list of passengers and crew. He turned to look at Winder. ‘Gareth, let’s get the names of all the passengers into groups.’

  ‘Any suggestion, boss?’

  ‘Foreign nationals, lorry drivers, families, businessmen. And Dave…’ He looked down at the list of crew members before looking at the young officer. ‘I want you to do the same with the crew members. The killer is there so let’s narrow it down. Tick the boxes. Complete the paper trail.’

  Drake strode over to his office, avoiding the glances exchanged around the room at his final comments.

  The routine was always the same: move the telephone a few millimetres, adjust the photographs of his daughters, draw a finger over the frames to check for dust before his mind could allow him to settle. Files of papers had been placed in neat piles and the Post-it notes were still in their proper place. He found the number Caren had given him for Superintendent Adams but the soothing professional tones of the officer’s answer machine contrasted sharply with the brusque message Drake left on MC’s mobile. Deciding to call again later, he left no message and turned his attention to his emails. Every circular email was meticulously read and scrutinised for its relevance and then, when he was assured it could be safely removed, he pressed the delete key. A second call to Superintendent Adams was unsuccessful and Drake circled the officer’s name on a Post-it note with a green highlighter.

  * * *

  It was after ten when the Macmillan nurse brought the conversation to a close. Drake felt an odd mixture of emotions, pleased that she had left but daunted by what he might say to his father. An uncomfortable few seconds passed before his mother stood up.

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ she announced and left the room.

  ‘She’s finding it hard,’ Tom said.

  ‘I know.’ Drake felt a lump forming in his throat.

  ‘It comes to us all.’

  Drake felt like telling his father that clichés were no comfort.

  ‘You’ll look after your mother once…’

  ‘Dad. Don’t say that.’

  ‘I know, but…’ Tom blinked rapidly but he failed to hold back the tears. ‘It’s just so unfair.’

  When Mair Drake returned with a tray of tea mugs Tom had brushed away the tears. She turned to Drake. ‘And how are Megan and Helen?’

  Drake reached for the tea. ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘And Sian?’

  Drake took a mouthful of hot tea, wondering how his mother could be normal after a discussion with a Macmillan nurse about end-of-life care.

  ‘She’s busy.’

  Tom was nursing his mug as Mair finalised the arrangements for Drake and his family to visit on Sunday. ‘Your father can’t travel now,’ she said as though he wasn’t in the room.

  Soon enough Mair ushered Tom to bed and Drake left. It was a clear cloudless night and as he turned at the top of the lane down towards Caernarfon he noticed the shimmering lights from the farms and cottages. There were people preparing for bed, boiling kettles, eating biscuits, watching the evening news, kissing loved ones – doing the ordinary things of life. The things that his father wouldn’t be doing very much longer.

  He passed through Caernarfon, the various supermarkets with their lights blazing, the occasional pedestrian walking home, another eating chips. Once he was clear of the town, he accelerated towards the A55. He slowed and then pulled the car into the main carriageway behind a truck with Polish plates. When the road was clear, a couple of minutes later, he signalled and overtook the lorry. By the time he was nearing Llanfairfechan his mind was full of reminiscences, memories of childhood, sadness even at the happy times he’d had.

  On
impulse he signalled left off the dual carriageway, followed the road into Llanfairfechan, and then down towards the beachfront. He parked and wrapped himself up against the evening chill. Behind him the lights of the houses stretched up the hillside, a train thundered through the station and in the distance he saw Llandudno illuminating the night sky. He walked along the concrete path thinking about his father, remembering the childhood trips to the seaside. The sound of the tide lapping against the rocks on the shore mixed with the occasional car horn. He stepped away from the concrete path and onto the rocky shoreline. He leant down to pick up a couple of large rocks and turned them through his fingers before discarding them and walking on. A heavy shadow drew itself over his mind as he contemplated how he’d react if he had months or weeks or maybe just days to live.

  He had read about people facing death with equanimity but he supposed it was something no one could ever prepare for. The Macmillan nurse had wanted to sound helpful, constructive, and he could remember that she made regular eye contact, was warm and approachable. She’d used soothing language about palliative care and doing everything to support the family that made it sound so remote. But it was like reaching out for something elusive, chasing clouds, yet his father’s illness was real enough.

  Out across the bay he caught the faintest outline of Puffin Island and then along the coast the flickering lights of Beaumaris and the villages on Anglesey. He shivered in the cool evening air, stepped down towards the shoreline and found half a dozen thin flat stones that he skimmed along the surface. His father had shown him how to do that as a boy. And now, walking back to his car, he wondered what his father was thinking about at that very moment.

  Chapter 18

  Noticing Drake’s freshly ironed shirts and carefully folded ties made Howick realise the inadequacies of his own wardrobe. The night before he’d bought two new shirts – one white, the other a light blue – and sombre ties with subdued stripes.

  That morning he’d half expected some sarcastic comment from Winder and had been pleased when his colleague had barely given him a second glance. The bags under Winder’s eyes were beginning to carry a nasty black tinge and even before he sat down, he’d complained of being tired. Caren hadn’t commented either but then she always looked as though she’d been pulled through a hedge so Howick assumed that she wouldn’t notice.

  Six hours of CCTV coverage from four different cameras had meant three full days stuck in front of the computer screen. Howick had managed two four-hour sessions in the previous couple of days but he had now decided that a complete day had to be dedicated. A spasm of worry had crossed his mind that his decision to view the images from quite so far back in time may have meant delays, but he had wanted to be thorough and now he had to make progress. Carefully pinned to the Incident Board were the lists of various groups he had created from the crew rota. He had taken a certain pride in being as methodical and as thorough as he thought Drake expected.

  A plan of the ship pinned to the board had highlighted the location of each CCTV camera in yellow. Another list summarised their locations and the areas they covered. Howick had spent a couple of hours at the beginning of the inquiry identifying which camera promised the best images. A camera located at the bow of the vessel recording the activity on the car deck had been quickly relegated to the bottom of his list. Another had been screwed high up above the middle section of the car deck, unable to film the immediate area surrounding the position where Rosen’s body had been found.

  The stern and the area adjacent to the office were covered by two cameras. Howick clicked the images into life from the first and watched as the occasional crewmember passed by, their chests swollen by high-visibility jackets. He glanced at the time on the screen and knew that the ferry would have been alongside at its berth in Dublin. He stretched his arms out over his head as the minutes ticked by but the screen remained blank. After an hour, he could feel an ache in the small of his back and he got up, found his way to the kitchen and made a coffee – just an instant, not the sort of real coffee that Drake fussed over. He turned a couple of teaspoons of sugar into the brown liquid and took a heavy slurp.

  Winder didn’t look up as Howick returned. He rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes before a couple of clicks brought the screen to life. Another glance at the clock told him that the vessel would soon begin embarkation. He resisted the temptation to fast-forward the images and a sense of relief descended as he noticed activity commencing. Men darted around the trucks, silently and slowly moving down into the car deck. Some of the faces he recognised, despite the poor quality of the images. He ticked off the names of the crew members that should have been on the car deck. Then it struck Howick that all the crew had their backs to the camera once they were working.

  Turning to the final images, Howick decided to start viewing the images from the point at which activity had commenced on the earlier tape. He’d had enough of looking at an inactive screen. Returning to the earlier tape he found the time and, reverting to the final coverage, scrolled to the right time and started playing. He took a mouthful of cold coffee, Winder was still staring at his computer screen although Howick had noticed him stifling a yawn earlier. The Incident Room felt unnaturally quiet. Ten minutes after he’d started the clock an image appeared on the screen of a man standing talking to someone out of sight of the camera. The man raised his arms, turned and then walked towards the main section of the car deck. Howick froze the image, trying to force his mind to remember the man’s face. He reached for a notepad and scribbled down the time, somehow believing it had relevance. It was half an hour before the boat was due to sail. Just about the time when Rosen had reached the engine room.

  Another few moments passed and then Howick saw a shoulder of a man in a one-piece work suit – no high-visibility jacket – moving through one corner of the image. Immediately he pulled up his chair and focused on the screen. He clicked back carefully until the screen showed the image again and he let the coverage run on. Whoever it was had been careful, no face turned to the camera, the body shielded from the CCTV camera. He stopped the coverage for a moment, ran his tongue over his drying lips, wondering if he had just seen Rosen’s killer.

  He clicked again and when the man’s head turned the light caught on what looked like a piece of jewellery in his right ear. Howick’s pulse raced for a moment. He lowered his head again, staring at the screen.

  Gotcha.

  After an hour of trawling through the photographs of crew members, ignoring Winder’s invitation for lunch, Howick sat back and weighed up what Drake would say. He would have to check one more thing, so he picked up the telephone.

  * * *

  It took four telephone calls to find the hospital that had admitted Sylvie. The nurse in the high dependency unit refused to give Drake any information and, despite considering the possibility of demanding to speak to a consultant, he rang off.

  The need to speak to MC was imperative and, guessing that he might be at Sylvie’s bedside, Drake drove to the hospital. After parking he followed the directions for the HDU and, pushing open the doors, strode over to the nurses’ station.

  ‘I want to see Sylvie Whatmore,’ he said, holding out his warrant card.

  She raised a hand and pointed down the corridor. ‘Number four, at the end.’

  Drake found Sylvie in one corner of a small ward; a drip fed a clear liquid into her body and a dull hum emanated from the equipment alongside the bed. A woman with a short haircut and long earrings was sitting in one of the visitor chairs. He looked around, hoping that MC might suddenly appear. Sylvie was thin and drawn, her cheeks hollowed and her eyes were closed. It was difficult to tell if she was breathing.

  ‘And who are you?’ The woman did not get up.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake. I know MC.’

  ‘I was… am her drug support worker. Sam Croft.’

  Drake pulled up a chair. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘Has MC been aroun
d?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’

  Croft gave a long sigh. ‘Like it is with a lot of drug addicts. You hope that things will get better, but they never do.’

  ‘Have you been working with her a long time?’

  She shrugged. ‘It seems a long time. But once MC was inside she was as vulnerable as hell and the pushers got hold of her. She’d go out with friends, borrow money and then she started small-scale until she got hooked on heroin. She was really a nice girl, but by the end of MC’s term in jail she’d hit rock bottom. And the pushers and dealers were taking advantage of her…’

  She let the last few words hang in the air. Drake understood what she meant and a sense of unease built when he pondered if MC knew as well.

  ‘She had to sell everything. Clothes, even the nice expensive stuff that MC had given her and all her furniture. Everything – gone, and in the end she was using a sleeping bag on the floor. I did everything I could to help her. I even stayed with her overnight once. But it was no good and useless – as soon as I’d left the pushers were back. Do you have any idea the evil that drugs can cause?’

  Sylvie moved in her bed and let out a sigh. Drake looked over at her and saw her shoulder blades protruding from under her nightgown. ‘Do you know where I can contact MC?’

  Croft gave him a puzzled look, as though the question was unexpected.

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  Drake got up. ‘I really need to speak to him. If you see him get him to call me.’

  Croft stared at him. He looked over at the bed. Sylvie’s eyelids flickered briefly.

  * * *

  On the journey back to headquarters, Drake found his mind wondering why Mandy’s death was dominating his thoughts. Various unanswered questions ran through his mind. But there wasn’t enough to suggest anything other than suicide. Soon he couldn’t justify any further resources investigating her death – he would have to turn the case over to the coroner. Sitting at his desk Drake watched the coffee grounds descending in the cafetière. He looked over at the photograph of Sian and the girls, realising that he should add a photograph of his parents as well. He tried to think where he could find a photograph of his mother and father with his wife and the girls. Sian could find one, he was sure, and he made a mental note to ask her later.