Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘That’s Loosemore’s business.’

  ‘Of course. And everyone thinks it’s a great success story for South Wales.’

  Adams began weaving a pencil in and out of his fingers. ‘And then we had referrals from the auditor general about the conduct of certain officials relating to the property transaction behind the establishment of his business.’

  Adams spent an hour taking Drake through every stage of the investigation. A development grant and Welsh government loan had facilitated the establishment of a research facility for Lyfon Pharmaceuticals on an industrial park that had been empty for several years. The company had moved from its base near London, promising to create jobs, boost investment and raise the profile of South Wales, creating the right atmosphere for other inward investment.

  Adams took a break from his monologue, picked up the telephone and ordered coffee, asking Drake at the same time if he wanted to order sandwiches for lunch, and explaining about the catering company that supplied the unit. A few minutes passed until a junior officer returned with mugs of coffee.

  ‘The industrial park that was sold to Lyfon Pharmaceuticals was given a “realistic” price tag,’ Adams continued. ‘Within a year Lyfon lodged a detailed planning application to convert most of it into residential property, a public house and a nursing home.’

  ‘And the planning application was successful?’

  ‘Of course. And it made the company millions.’

  ‘How did Lyfon buy the land so cheaply?’

  Adams sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead just above the top of his nose in a circular motion.

  ‘It was pushed through. Protocols were broken, shortcuts taken. Somebody wanted the deal to go through at all costs.’

  ‘He must have had friends in high places,’ Drake said, thinking about the photographs adorning Beltrami’s offices.

  Adams hesitated, his eyes developing a hard, steely look. ‘The whole deal was pushed through by Richard Class when he was the economic development minister.’

  ‘Are you suggesting…?’

  Adams nodded his head.

  ‘But it gets worse. The land was transferred into a property company partly owned by Lyfon Pharmaceuticals. It was one of those joint ventures, intended to maximise returns for all the participants.’

  ‘And the other companies involved?’

  The same junior officer returned with plates of sandwiches, a chocolate bar each and an apple recently cleaned judging by the water glistening on the skin. Adams gestured his hand towards the plate, inviting Drake to help himself.

  ‘This is where it gets interesting. We found three companies directly involved. All of them owned by offshore companies or trusts. And all based in Dublin. Have you got an Irish connection in your case?’

  Through a mouthful of chicken salad sandwich Drake mumbled. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Drake swallowed. ‘We’ve got money deposited in an Irish bank account owned by the dead engineer, which his widow knows nothing about.’

  ‘The police in Dublin had a link to a trust set up in Prince Edward Island.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s one of the Atlantic provinces of Canada.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘But the Garda couldn’t prove anything. They had a suspicion that it was all linked to organised crime from the United States.’

  ‘Have you got any names of individuals in Dublin or Irish companies? Can you give me a contact with the Garda?’

  ‘I’ve organised a room for you to read some of the files. And a word of warning. Richard Class is a very powerful politician. He’s been able to survive all sorts of embarrassment, including being warned about kerb-crawling years ago.’

  Drake raised his eyebrows, picked up the rest of his lunch and followed Adams to a small room with a desk, a reading lamp and boxes of files.

  ‘It shouldn’t take you more than a couple of hours to read the relevant sections.’

  Drake slumped into the chair by the desk, realising that there was little chance of him returning to Northern Division headquarters as quickly as he’d hoped.

  Chapter 26

  Winder stifled a yawn and lowered his head, pretending to concentrate on the papers piled on his desk. Like every addict, he promised himself that he could change; he didn’t really need to be playing computer games until the small hours – he could stop, of course he could. The night before, a takeaway pizza had arrived by seven – extra ham and fiery peppers and by ten p.m. he had drunk half a litre of a soft drink, demolished most of the pizza and then gone in search of ice cream from the freezer. Another two hours passed before he gave his watch a cursory glance, promising himself he would finish in half an hour.

  It was never that easy. The tranquillity of the early hours, and the ability to escape imprisoned his mind. A friend from school had become a computer games designer, spending hours shooting aliens, jumping off imaginary buildings and driving cars too quickly. Winder often thought it was the ideal career choice. He’d glanced at the clock on the screen and given a double-take in surprise when he saw it was two in the morning; his mind was still fizzing with activity. He’d tried to sleep but his make-believe world intruded.

  Winder wanted to avoid any possibility that Howick or Caren might realise how tired he felt. Luckily, Inspector Drake was in South Wales, Caren was in Merseyside for the second time recently and Howick was engrossed in the tasks Drake had assigned the day before.

  Howick’s telephone rang, and hearing the one-sided conversation jerked Winder from his lethargy. He didn’t want to think about how much sleep he had actually managed. Looking at the papers on his desk, he tried to concentrate. He heard a voice in the background but ignored it.

  ‘Gareth.’ This time the voice was louder.

  Winder looked over his shoulder at Howick.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Howick said. ‘Are you half asleep?’

  Winder mumbled an incoherent reply.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or something?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Winder said, pleased that it was nothing more important.

  Once Howick had left for the kitchen Winder stood up, put his hands to the small of his back and stretched, then rubbed both hands over his eyes, hoping the tiredness would disappear before yawning violently.

  Winder was sitting again, biro in hand, when Howick returned.

  ‘You look like shit.’

  Winder’s heart sank. He reached for the mug and took a large mouthful, gathering his thoughts and thinking how best to reply.

  ‘Not feeling too good.’ Winder added a brief frown to his expression of feigned illness.

  Howick gave his friend a who-are-you-kidding look and sat down.

  Winder returned to building a picture of Darren Green from the papers on his desk. There was another boxful on the floor.

  The policy of the CSIs to dust everything at a crime scene meant every possible piece of paper had a sticky sensation. Winder had never had a case where fingerprints had been recovered by this scattergun approach and the papers of Darren Green were no exception.

  Winder found council tax bills going back several years, all with letters complaining about outstanding payments. It was a similar pattern for the utility bills. And the bills seemed high, especially as Green lived on his own but then Winder recalled the enormous television screen and the PlayStation on the bedroom cabinet. A brief twinge of jealousy crossed Winder’s mind, as he thought of the possibilities of playing games on an enormous screen.

  He spent the rest of the morning sorting the paperwork into various piles, before storing them in the lever-arch files. So much for the paperless office – someone should have told Green to join the twenty-first century.

  He fished out of the box by his feet catalogues from clothing companies, special offers from all the local takeaway Chinese and Indian restaurants and a folder two inches thick with details of the claim Green had made for his payment protection plan. Winder read through the various exchange
s of correspondence about the loans Green had taken to buy his car and then the surround-sound system and television. After some negotiation, the claim had been paid in full and Winder hoped that his own claim for the loan he’d taken to reschedule his credit card would be paid as quickly.

  It struck Winder as completely unnecessary to keep bank records for more than a few months and, working through each page of Green’s financial activities over five years, his concentration waned. Petrol was bought at the local supermarket, regular payments to the local pizza takeaway, often more than once a week, together with standing orders to internet music providers and a mobile phone company.

  By the time Winder reached the credit card statements it was almost lunchtime and he still had hours of work. Howick had left for Holyhead after lunch and Winder had hoped that he could finish early and get home to bed. It was like peering into someone’s grave, prying into their personal life, with no one to complain. When Winder first noticed the payment in euros to the Blue Parrot he thought it was another chat line or maybe even an escort agency. Various telephone calls to the credit card company, each in turn requiring him to prove who he was and why he needed the information, led eventually to someone promising to call him back. By the middle of the afternoon, when he’d finished the call that gave him the information he needed, he felt pleased.

  He decided to recheck things again and started with the bank statements.

  * * *

  It had been a day when Drake had initially doubted why he was travelling to the other end of the country to talk to an officer in a department that dealt with chasing money from one international bank account to another. But he’d settled easily into reading the papers and found his mind focusing on the link to Ireland and the drug suppliers that operated in the city. There were reports about organised crime taking control of the drug scene and references to the terrorist groups having fuelled their activities from selling drugs.

  By the time Drake had read the name of a Fergal Connors a dozen times he knew he’d have to visit Dublin again. A call to the department of the Garda in Dublin, which had been dealing with the case, had proved futile – nobody was available so he’d call back tomorrow. He made notes, photocopies and found himself getting familiar with the jargon of the forensic accountants from SOCA. Beltrami’s name appeared as a footnote to all the activity as a shareholder in a freight company with Connors.

  It was late in the afternoon when he’d satisfied himself that there was nothing else he could achieve. He sent a text to the team and called Sian, telling her he’d be late. He thanked Adams and left, dreading the four-hour journey home. As it turned out, the traffic was light and he made good time, but his hands were sweaty and damp on the wheel. His fingers were grubby from photocopy ink, his shirt was crumpled on his back and his face felt dirty too. He yearned to get back to the order that awaited him in his office.

  He should have gone straight home and then to bed, but he pulled into the car park at Northern Division headquarters instead. The building was quiet and calm. There were muffled shouts from cleaners somewhere in the building and lights burnt in the senior management suite. In his room he found a pleasing smell of polish; the bin was empty but the desk needed tidying.

  He’d only managed to tidy the papers on the cabinet in his room before he heard a noise in the Incident Room and a face appeared at the door.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ian. What are you doing here?’ Lance said.

  Chapter 27

  Drake stood by the board in the Incident Room and tugged at the double cuffs of his shirt. It was light cream, the links dark crimson and the tie was a solid navy variety fashionable with politicians. Caren wasn’t certain if she’d seen the dark grey suit before. When she’d started working with Drake it always surprised her how many shirts he had and how many suits there must be hanging in his wardrobe. Caren had seen Drake fussing over his clothes and, in an odd way, it had made her less interested in looking tidy.

  Caren walked past him, exchanging pleasantries, before dropping her handbag by the chair of her desk and mumbling an acknowledgment to Winder. She’d tried calling Drake last night, after returning from Liverpool, barely able to contain her excitement but his mobile had rung out.

  ‘Any luck with Super Adams?’ Caren asked.

  ‘I spent hours going through paperwork about the international money laundering ring that the FBI thinks Loosemore is involved with.’

  ‘FBI?’ Winder said. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Loosemore is involved with some serious American gangsters. They think they bankrolled his company. He struck a fantastic deal to buy some land from the Welsh government. And then he got planning permission and made millions.’

  Behind him the door opened and Howick walked in, collar open, tie loosened.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, boss,’ he said, flashing Winder a glance and raising his eyebrows to Caren. ‘Have I missed anything?’

  Drake ignored him.

  ‘Loosemore was a big fish and maybe he still wants to be a player. So Gareth, I want you to chase down the contact in the Garda and get as much information as you can about him. And include Beltrami in that too.’

  ‘I found another link to Ireland,’ Winder said, striding over to the board and pinning up an A4 sheet with ‘Blue Parrot’ printed on it.

  ‘And what’s the Blue Parrot?’ Drake stared at the paper.

  ‘A nightclub in Dublin where Green used his credit card.’

  Another link to Dublin.

  ‘Eight times, over an eighteen-month period,’ Winder added.

  ‘Gareth, you’d better add the Blue Parrot to your list.’

  Caren’s chair made a squeaking sound as she moved. ‘Quite the party animal.’

  ‘How did you get on yesterday?’ Drake said, turning to face her.

  ‘I didn’t finish until quite late,’ Caren said, enjoying the build-up to her revelation. ‘Green had put down that his next of kin was his mother and his father. His real father – a Mr Beal.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Winder said. ‘Not?’

  Caren nodded. Drake had a pained look in his eyes, as though he were trying to work out all the connections. Howick leant back onto his desk before clearing his throat. ‘I spoke to Liscomb yesterday, sir.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lives next door to Green.’

  Drake nodded, signalling for him to continue.

  ‘I showed him the photographs of the crew members and, bingo, he recognised a face.’

  ‘And?’ Drake said, watching Howick getting up from behind his desk and stepping towards the board.

  ‘Liscomb may be a bit of an old woman, but he recognised Mandy Beal,’ he said, pointing at her photograph.

  ‘Tick. VG,’ Drake said.

  Caren was accustomed to Drake’s shorthand of very good but she wasn’t certain if the praise he intended was deserved. All they had was more loose ends.

  ‘More work then.’ Drake kept looking at the board as though a message would appear, telling them how to proceed. ‘Dave, anything on the handwriting?’ he said, still looking at the board.

  ‘Graphologist coming in later.’

  ‘Graph what?’ Winder said.

  Drake ignored him. ‘And Gareth, you make progress with the Irish link. And remember to ask about the Blue Parrot.’

  ‘Janet Rosen mentioned something about a nightclub that Frank visited,’ Caren said.

  ‘We can see her again and get all the details,’ Drake said. ‘First let’s go and see an Italian Scouser.’

  * * *

  Drake pulled the car to a halt alongside a group of youths in hoodies and jeans hanging midway down their thighs, turned off the engine and waited without saying a word. He looked around the street, into the rear-view mirror and then leant over and glanced at the youngsters again. It was the sort of situation that Caren found difficult to read. She felt like asking if everything was all right but thought better of it, as she had when he’d greeted her with an odd look as she had
got into the Alfa that morning. It was a pained expression, as though he was uncomfortable with her presence in the car. When she sat in the passenger seat the smell from the cleaned leather and polished plastic tickled her nostrils: the car always looked, and smelt, as if it had just been delivered from a showroom.

  The seafront of Rhyl stretched in front of them. In another couple of months the streets and amusement arcades would be full of holidaymakers hoping for a big win on the slot machines, eating fish and chips and drinking industrial quantities of lager. In the winter months the tourists stayed away, but the poverty and depravation remained. Rhyl, like the other resorts along the North Wales coast, needed police officers with a certain attitude and Caren had, so far, avoided a posting to the town.

  She looked over at the penny shops and the arcades and contemplated how much of the drugs that Green had brought through Holyhead had found their way to Rhyl. The town featured more prominently than anywhere else in the reports and intelligence updates circulated through the emails of the officers of Northern Division. She looked over at the offices of John Beltrami on the opposite side of the street, recalling their first visit and wondering whether Drake had been wise not to warn of their visit. Nobody had ever been able to prove anything against Beltrami, but no one believed that he’d built his empire from the honest businesses he purported to operate. Knowing that someone laundered money through myriad cash businesses and campsites, fuelled by the visitors from Manchester and Liverpool, and proving where all the cash came from were two very different things.

  ‘I did some research on Beltrami. He makes a lot of political donations.’ Caren broke the silence.

  ‘Really. Buying friends?’

  ‘Maybe he wants to change the world.’

  Drake turned and gave her a hard look. ‘No one changes the world in Rhyl.’