Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Ian, you know Andy of course,’ Lance said.

  Thorsen nodded an acknowledgment, which Drake returned with a brief smile.

  ‘Andy needs to leave for a court hearing in Mold, hence the need to reschedule. First, can you bring me up to date with the Green murder?’

  ‘We are almost certain that Green killed Rosen. We’ve been able to piece together his movements from the CCTV camera footage and it looks like he was on the car deck at the time that Rosen was there. CSIs are at Green’s house at the moment.’

  ‘And the motive?’ It was the first thing Thorsen had said.

  ‘That’s what we’re working on at the moment.’

  ‘Could it be related to the codes you found on Rosen’s data stick?’ Lance asked.

  ‘We simply don’t know. And I don’t want to stop the inquiry into Rosen’s death until we can be absolutely satisfied that Green killed him.’

  ‘Any connection between Rosen and Green?’ Lance again.

  ‘None that we know of, but it’s what we’re working on now. Caren has gone to see his next of kin in Liverpool today. There has to be a link of some sort.’

  ‘You’ve been to see John Beltrami?’ Thorsen said.

  Drake took it as a question. ‘He was one of the owners of the plane that Rosen flew regularly.’ Drake waited until Thorsen could reply, sensing there was more coming.

  ‘I was prosecuting in the crown court last week. You know, that mortgage fraud case, involving that surveyor and the mortgage broker who defrauded building societies of over ten million?’

  Drake nodded, recalling how he’d overheard a DI in the economic crime department boasting about the successful outcome.

  ‘Well,’ Thorsen continued, ‘I was approached by the defending barrister with the solicitor for one of the defendants – Jade Beltrami, no less – and they began to ask if I had anything to do with the investigation and if I’d reviewed the case and the evidence. Because, and they made this very clear, if we treated John Beltrami again with the same sort of aggression and discourtesy as was shown by the investigating officer, there’d be a complaint faster than you could say Jack Frost.’

  Silence hung in the room.

  Drake hesitated, replaying what he’d said to Beltrami. He had been courteous and normal and he struggled to think on what grounds Beltrami could complain. ‘I can’t imagine what he means. Rosen was his friend, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘They’ve asked me to formally respond.’

  ‘Hence me asking Andy to look over the case,’ Lance said.

  ‘We need to speak to Beltrami again,’ Drake said slowly. He noticed Thorsen’s face. Nothing, no reaction. ‘He gave Green a reference when he applied for a job with the ferry company.’

  Lance moved a biro through his fingers. ‘Don’t do anything until Andy’s had chance to look at the papers.’

  Drake cleared his throat. ‘And there may be an eyewitness to Green’s killing.’

  * * *

  Howick resolved that once this case was over he would get back to his studies and retry the sergeant’s exams. He was becoming cynical. Plus, listening to the woman sitting opposite him droning on about her dog, its feeding habits and how her husband hated the animal made him realise he really didn’t want to do house-to-house for the rest of his career. The room was excessively tidy and the coffee table in the middle of the floor had streaks from recently applied polish. The only consolation was that Jean Fox wore a skirt short enough to accentuate her thin, attractive legs.

  ‘He’s a strange one,’ she said, crossing her legs but barely moving the dog sitting on her lap.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nobody goes in and out of the place. The lights can be on in the middle of the night.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Freddy was ill a couple of months ago,’ she said, stroking the dog’s head. ‘I was up with him all night, poor thing. I’m sure he was constipated. I took him for a walk a couple of times. Just up and down the street of course; it was the middle of the night after all. But it’s a nice, safe street here. Or it was. Anyway, the lights in the upstairs bedroom were on. And, another thing, he always keeps the curtains closed.’

  ‘On the night Darren Green was killed did you notice anything?’

  Jean Fox looked away from Howick towards the street beyond the window, as though she were hoping for inspiration. Howick realised that he had to move on, to the next house, wondering whether Winder was having greater success.

  ‘If you do remember anything, please contact me,’ Howick said, standing up and handing her a card.

  The dog gave out a snapping sound as Jean Fox closed the door behind Howick. He glanced down the street, quiet now after the chaotic scenes the day before. The Scientific Support Vehicle was still parked on the pavement outside Green’s house and Howick caught a glimpse of the forensic team inside the bedroom on the first floor. He glanced at the notes from the morning briefing and calculated that it would probably be late afternoon by the time he visited the Beal family. Drake had insisted he visit them and ask if they had something with a sample of Mandy’s handwriting to be compared with the writing on the suicide note. Howick had decided it was probably a waste of time – everything was electronic these days: he couldn’t even remember when he’d last written anything. In the meantime, he had more of Green’s neighbours to interview.

  The elderly couple next door to Jean Fox were expecting him and Howick gradually felt his boredom hit new levels as he listened to their incessant small talk. After ten minutes he’d found out that Mr and Mrs Williams had gone to bed at nine-thirty on the evening of Green’s death, and hadn’t heard anything, as both were hard of hearing. It occurred to him that he was to them a social service, listening to their complaints, keeping them company, admiring the photographs of their grandchildren who lived in Australia.

  Once he’d finished he consulted the list of residents and, realising he still had to see Green’s next door neighbour, strode over the road and knocked loudly on the front door. Howick guessed Hywel Liscomb was single as soon as he opened the door. His hair was cut neatly. He wore a dull grey sweater and dark grey trousers that had never been fashionable. A pair of oversized spectacles were perched on the bridge of his nose. His cheeks had a pale complexion, made worse by a chubby face and double chin. He gave Howick an inquisitive stare.

  ‘Detective Constable Howick.’ He flashed his warrant card.

  Liscomb gave it a cursory glance before pushing the door open and directing Howick to sit in the parlour. The room was clean but full of old furniture and a screen covering the fireplace.

  ‘I need to ask you some questions about your neighbour.’

  ‘Of course,’ Liscomb said, as though being interviewed in a murder investigation was an everyday occurrence.

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Not at all really.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘He was a Scouser,’ Liscomb said, adding as an explanation, ‘From Liverpool. And he worked on the ferries. There are lots of them, Scousers, I mean, working in Holyhead. I used to work in the ferry office.’

  ‘Did you ever speak to him?’

  ‘Occasionally, if we arrived at the house the same time. Or sometimes in the summer in the back lane.’

  ‘Did he have a lot of friends?’

  ‘I don’t know that I can answer that. There was certainly a lot of people who came and went from his house, especially through the back lane. My bedroom’s in the back – always has been. My parents slept in the front bedroom.’

  ‘Are your parents…?’

  ‘Both dead.’

  ‘How often would people come to the house?’

  Liscomb tightened the narrow navy tie up to the frayed collars of an old white shirt, which complemented his grey V-neck sweater. ‘I always go to bed after the ten o’clock news. Then I read. Usually a Welsh novel but sometimes I’ll re
ad some Agatha Christie. Since I’ve been retired I don’t need to get up so early.’

  Howick squinted at Liscomb, wondering how much practice it took to be this old-fashioned.

  ‘Did you ever see these visitors?’

  ‘No, of course not. The rear gate to his backyard makes a noise and I sleep very lightly and they’d be talking.’

  ‘And did you hear anything on the night Green was killed?’

  Liscomb seemed to relax at the prospect of telling Howick about the evening of the murder. ‘I was in the parlour, watching television. I was watching Pawb a’i Farn. Do you know the programme? How good is your Welsh?’

  ‘I understand a little…’

  ‘Well, it’s the Welsh equivalent of Question Time.’ Liscomb sounded pleased to be informing Howick. ‘It started at about nine twenty-five. I especially wanted to watch it that night because there were local councillors in the audience. I worked with a lot of them.’

  ‘So did you hear anything?’ Howick raised his voice slightly.

  ‘Oh, yes. There was an argument and then shouting. After that it sounded like furniture was being moved and then somebody banging like a hammer, a couple of times. So I put the sound up on the television.’

  Howick forced himself to concentrate – at least they had a time.

  ‘This could be very important. That could have been the sound of gunfire. Did you see anyone leaving the house?’

  Liscomb chewed his bottom lip, hesitating; his skin had got greyer very quickly.

  ‘Darren Green was shot twice. Did you hear anything after the “hammer-like sounds”?’

  Liscomb shook his head.

  ‘And after you went to bed, did you hear anything?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  Howick walked through the house to the front door and paused on the threshold before thanking Liscomb, who’d also stepped outside with him.

  ‘Have you found his girlfriend?’ Liscomb said.

  Howick turned and stared at him.

  * * *

  Drake spent the rest of the morning failing to block out the look in Lance’s eyes when he’d heard about MC. Pretending that he could un-cousin him wouldn’t work and Lance’s demands that he cut all contact wasn’t going to work. MC was family after all. There’d been nothing he could have done to stop his cousin calling uninvited and taking the flak made Drake feel sore.

  He redoubled his concentration on the paperwork on his desk, occasionally pausing, annoyed that the investigation was on hold until Thorsen had reviewed the papers. There might be an innocent explanation for the employment references, but nothing could be left unresolved.

  He drew a mind map and down one side of the same A4 sheet of paper he’d written the codes from Rosen’s computer, but the more he stared at them the more jumbled they became. Each letter seemed to stand apart and then the numbers appeared to be floating around the page. Abruptly he stood up and stepped towards the window. There had to be a logical explanation for the codes. He noticed a couple meandering on their bicycles around the perimeter of the parkland and he spotted an old man with a large dog pulling at a leash. The weather seemed cool but he had no idea what the forecast had been. He hadn’t watched television for days and although two weeks had passed since Rosen’s murder he didn’t feel he was making progress.

  Returning to his desk and finding his mobile, he hoped Caren was having more success but her messaging service clicked on. He turned his attention to whether Green had stolen Rosen’s laptop. It must have been a risk. Someone might have seen him. He would have been out of place in the crew quarters when he should have been on the card deck.

  He found the list of crew and began scanning through the names and their working titles. Ignoring the night crew who were sleeping, he tried to find some thread that might link them to the theft. After a couple of hours, he was no further forward. The crew quarters weren’t covered by any CCTV and it had been too easy to assume that Green had stolen the laptop. And maybe he had, but then there could also be someone else involved. To an extent Drake was relieved because he could ignore the passengers, but then he still worried that it might not have been Green after all.

  He ate a sandwich at his desk at lunchtime and drank from a bottle of fizzy water. An apple stood by the photographs of the girls, by the telephone. He was about to turn his attention to the codes again, thinking he’d personally work through Rosen’s bank accounts and then go through all his papers, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Ian, how’re doing?’ He recognised the voice of Malachy O’Sullivan.

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘You sent us over that photograph.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We spoke to Maguire. Never seen her before.’

  ‘Anything from the other tenants in the house?’

  ‘One of our lads is doing some checks but we’re real busy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Drake clicked off and sat thinking about the flat in Dublin and why Rosen had needed to rent the bedsit. He was still deep in thought when the telephone rang again.

  ‘Ian.’ He recognised Mike Foulds’s voice. ‘You need to get over here now.’

  Chapter 23

  The Scientific Support Vehicle dominated the pavement outside Green’s house. Drake found a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. He ran over towards the front door while pointing the remote back towards the Alfa and, after carding the unfamiliar CSI, he stepped over the threshold. He took the stairs to the first floor two at a time and discovered Foulds standing in the main bedroom. What furniture Green had was stacked to one corner, the rolled-up carpets propped against them.

  Alongside a section of exposed floorboards was a pile of carefully stacked packages: Drake could guess their content.

  ‘Heroin,’ Foulds said.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘We found at least twenty so far.’

  ‘That makes Green one hell of a supplier.’

  ‘We’ve done the rear bedroom.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘But we’ve still got the attic room.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Drake heard the floorboards creaking behind him and glanced over, expecting to see a white-suited CSI but instead he saw Detective Sergeant Jeff Wallace.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Drake said.

  Wallace made a narrow, mean smile, obviously pleased with the annoyance in Drake’s voice. Wallace had small, dark eyes that seemed to stare unblinkingly. He was short for a policeman, no more than five foot six. His skin looked thin, his hair a sharp grey and trimmed close to his skull.

  ‘This could be of interest to us.’

  ‘This is a crime scene. I want to know what your interest in this is?’ Wallace’s very presence put Drake on edge.

  ‘Drugs.’ Wallace nodded at the packets on the floor. ‘I liaise with Special Branch in the port.’

  Drake clenched his jaw. He felt like picking Wallace up and pushing him downstairs. ‘And why do Special Branch have an interest in this?’

  ‘Looks like Green was bringing drugs in through the port.’

  Drake said nothing, calculating exactly how he could get rid of Jeff Wallace, who continued. ‘If there’s anything to suggest he was bringing drugs into the port then we need to know. Inspector Newman would want a full report.’

  Drake’s irritation increased to the point where he was in danger of saying something he’d regret.

  ‘You’d better leave, now,’ Drake said. ‘I’ll make certain I send a report direct to your inspector.’

  Wallace stood for a few seconds before nodding slowly. He turned his back and strode towards the stairs. Drake heard him slam the front door behind him.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Foulds asked.

  ‘What did he say when he came in?’

  ‘Told me he’d had a call, asking him to attend.’

  ‘He had no right… Anyway, what did you tell him?’

  ‘Get off my back, Ian. The guy’s a Special Branch officer. I
f there’s a problem, you sort it out.’

  ‘I want all these packages secured overnight. I’ll get uniformed officers to accompany you back to headquarters.’

  Foulds gave Drake a puzzled look. ‘We have done this before, Ian.’

  ‘And I’ll get two of my officers to stay here all night.’

  ‘But we probably won’t be finished until—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Drake said, reaching for his mobile.

  On his way downstairs Drake passed two CSI’s filling plastic cups from flasks, a tired look in their eyes. They nodded. He stood on the front door threshold and called Lance’s office where Hannah put him through immediately.

  ‘I need to see you this afternoon,’ Drake said, almost stumbling over the right way to explain Wallace’s presence. After telling Lance about the heroin he paused. ‘When I arrived, Sergeant Wallace was at the crime scene.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jeff Wallace. He’s with the drug squad, but he liaises with Special Branch.’

  Drake detected a sharp intake of breath down the telephone.

  After finishing his call Drake rang operational support, demanding that they arrange for two officers to attend at the scene. Half an hour passed before two young junior officers arrived.

  ‘I don’t want anyone contaminating the scene,’ Drake said, watching the nervous expressions on their faces. ‘Anybody asks for access, I need to be called.’

  * * *

  The traffic had been quiet and, when he thought it was safe, he’d broken the speed limit frequently on the drive back to headquarters. Despite attempts to order his thoughts, Drake could feel his mind a jumble. The discovery of a large quantity of a Class A drugs changed things. But the apprehension that it meant the involvement of Newman and Wallace in the investigation was something he didn’t want to contemplate. If Green had killed Rosen it meant someone had a motive. And the codes, the letters and the numbers were driving him mad. He had printed out duplicates of Rosen’s numbers, just in case, and everywhere he turned, they were there – in the glove box, on his desk, on his computer screen, next to the bed at home.