Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

‘What? Oh my God… Who?’

  ‘I’ve just left Colwyn Bay. Super Price is en route.’

  ‘Are they Traffic?’

  ‘No details. Get ready. We’ll be through Llanrwst in fifteen minutes.’

  It looked like being another long day – longer than usual: most days she slept until seven. After washing in lukewarm water, she drew a brush through her hair before waking Alun.

  ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

  His voice slurred underneath the bedding. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after two.’

  He pushed his head above the duvet, his hair a tangled mess. ‘What?’

  ‘Drake’s just called.’

  ‘And what did Mr Personality want at this time of the morning?’

  ‘Two officers have been killed.’

  ‘What… I mean where – who?’

  She brushed her lips against his cheek, his stubble rough against her skin. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  * * *

  The car turned off the A55 onto the narrow, deserted roads of the Conwy valley. The driver ignored the speed restrictions. Drake shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Do you lads know any details about what’s happened?’ he asked.

  The officer in the passenger seat answered.

  ‘Nothing yet, sir. Our orders were to get you there – fast.’

  Drake sat back as the driver swept the car down the valley. He glimpsed the moonlight as it caught the surface of the river, casting long curves of light into the trees and hedges that lined the riverbank. The car slowed through the narrow streets of Llanrwst, eventually pulling to the kerb to collect Caren, standing on the pavement. The officers grunted an acknowledgment when she got into the car before the driver accelerated away.

  ‘What are the details, sir?’

  ‘Two officers responding to a routine call.’

  ‘When did it happen?’ Caren stared at Drake closely. ‘Who are they? Are they Traffic or from the local station?’

  ‘Area Control sounded shocked when they spoke to me.’

  ‘Who would want to kill two cops? I can’t believe it.’

  Drake sat back, averting his eyes from the heads-up display as he gathered his thoughts.

  The deaths of two police officers would make international news. He shuddered when he recalled the media attention the deaths of other police officers had received – but two officers killed together would mean certain and intense press activity.

  Drake had driven over the Crimea Pass once before and he knew the bleakness of the windswept terrain and the landscape disfigured by generations of slate mining. It was isolated and inhospitable: not the place for a drive-by killing or opportunistic attack. The implications sent a shiver through Drake.

  He knew they were making good time. He peered out at the darkened houses and empty streets of the villages as they approached the Crimea. The radio message from the marked police car parked at the bottom of the pass was clear.

  ‘No vehicles ahead. You’re clear. Over.’

  The driver threw a switch on the gear stick and the car accelerated hard. The heads-up display said one hundred and twenty miles an hour. Drake averted his eyes. The BMW’s headlights pierced the darkness as it raced to the top of the pass. Drake leant forward and saw, in the distance, the stark, blinding lights of the generators.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday 1st June

  The seat belt cut into Drake’s shoulder as the car braked hard, stopping a few yards from the Scientific Support Vehicle. The yellow tape marking the inner perimeter of the crime scene flickered in the artificial light. After leaving the car they passed an Armed Response Vehicle, its boot open, empty of weapons. Drake looked towards the white police Volvo, the tailgate and passenger door open, the lights blazing.

  The scene was eerie, almost unreal. Beyond the open tailgate of the Volvo, traffic cones and warning triangles were set out in no apparent order. Superintendent Wyndham Price stood with Mike Foulds, the crime scene manager, who was busy fastening the buttons of a white one-piece suit as Drake and Caren joined them. Price looked at Drake, his eyes hard.

  ‘Ian, this is a nightmare, unbelievable…’ Price said.

  ‘Who are they?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Paul Mathews and Danny Farrell,’ Price replied. ‘From Traffic.’

  Drake looked over at the car. ‘Let’s get started.’

  They walked over to the patrol car and gazed in at the officer sitting in the driver’s seat, head thrown back, his body twisted to one side. A dark stain had spread over the white fabric of his shirt from a jagged wound in the centre of his chest.

  Caren gasped when she noticed the face of the dead officer. The left eye socket was a mass of mangled tissue and bone. Blood had saturated the head restraint, drenched the officer’s shoulder and covered the rear seat. Drake guessed he had been trying to escape when he was shot.

  They moved round to the passenger side. The second officer was sitting on the tarmac, his back resting against the rear door. His stab jacket was open, the plastic tie hanging loose from one side of his collar. His shirt was a sodden, blackened mass of cloth and the right eye stared out blankly – the other eye socket was unrecognisable, blood drying sticky down his cheek. Drake knelt, but he could sense the bile gathering in his throat, so he straightened up and faced Price.

  ‘This is worse than I could imagine,’ Price said.

  ‘Who found the bodies?’ Drake asked Foulds.

  ‘Call from a passing motorist. Then a team from the local station responded.’

  ‘Where are those officers?’

  ‘In their car, over there.’ He motioned past the yellow tape. ‘Really cut up. One of them threw up all over the tarmac.’

  A mobile rang and Price dug into the pocket of his jacket for his phone. He strode away, his voice loud. Drake looked down at the body on the tarmac, and then through into the car. It seemed like the car had been sprayed a deep crimson colour. The knot of anger returned. Two of their own.

  Behind them two vans from the dog section drew to a halt. The handlers jumped out and hurried to the rear of their vehicles. Drake heard the yelping of the dogs as the doors opened and the animals bounded out onto the tarmac.

  ‘Get everyone over here,’ he said to Caren.

  She passed the generators into the semi-darkness, emerging moments later with the two armed officers. Drake saw the light dancing off their shaven heads and they hefted their weapons, grimly scanning the darkness, although Drake knew that the killer had long since left. Perhaps they had passed him on their journey up the valley. He might have been parked, waiting for them to pass, before returning to the safety of his home. Drake considered his first move. Someone with a reason to kill two traffic officers would mean trawling through the lives of both men. The possibility of a terrorist attack couldn’t be excluded, but this was a killing on an isolated mountain pass.

  Soon a crowd had gathered around Drake: the armed response officers, the dog handlers, pulling at leashes, straining to keep the animals in check, and the two officers who had driven Drake and Caren to the scene. Foulds stood with the CSIs behind him – Price was still talking into his phone. Drake scanned the faces before him; there were twitching jaw muscles and tired eyes and wide-legged postures, but everyone listened intently. Drake raised his voice above the noise from the generators.

  ‘Let’s get the dogs onto this first.’ Drake pointed over at the car.

  ‘We’ll need the torches from the vans,’ one of the officers said.

  Drake glanced at his watch. ‘My guess is that daybreak will be in an hour.’

  Caren fiddled with her mobile and stared down at the dim light on the screen.

  ‘Quarter to five this time of the year, sir,’ Caren said, raising her head and sounding pleased with herself.

  Drake muttered an acknowledgment and continued. ‘We need to secure the scene fully before the press can get anywhere near.’ He turned to Foulds. ‘How long until you get the
tent finished?’

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘And the pathologist?’

  ‘Due any time.’

  Caren twisted the top off a bottle of water and drank a mouthful, before offering it to Drake. He put the plastic bottle to his lips and drank half of it without stopping. He heard a vehicle pulling up beyond the perimeter tape and recognised the duty pathologist leaving the patrol car. Dr Lee Kings, a small, thickset man with large glasses, marched over towards Drake.

  ‘Inspector Drake,’ he said formally. ‘Terrible business.’

  ‘I know, Lee. We need to get the results as soon as.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They walked over towards the car and watched as the CSIs hauled a tarpaulin over the frame covering the vehicle. The pathologist knelt by the driver’s side as Caren and Drake looked on. They could still hear Price’s voice booming into his phone as he approached.

  ‘Could be terrorists, sir,’ Caren said, making sure no one else could hear her.

  Drake grimaced. This was worse than the worst-case scenarios they were taught at management training sessions. He knew the standard operating procedures for a terrorist incident would mean Special Branch and the Secret Intelligent Services getting involved. There would be reports to write, liaison officers to keep informed, and everything would be dragged into paperwork ten feet thick.

  Drake felt the chill of the night air on his face and a cold apprehension – almost fear – filled his mind, as the realisation that the Wales Police Service had lost two of its own hit him again.

  ‘Let’s get the forensics finished before we jump to any conclusions.’

  The pathologist worked silently, moving his hands over the body until he exposed the narrow wound, drilled into pink flesh speckled with grey hairs. He straightened up and moved away from the car, pushing the glasses back up his nose.

  ‘Well, Lee?’ asked Drake.

  Price suddenly materialised at Drake’s side. ‘We need to know how this maniac shot these officers. Was it a pistol?’

  ‘I…’ Lee Kings paused.

  ‘Come on, we don’t have time to waste,’ Price pressed him.

  ‘I’m not certain—’

  ‘Of what?’ Price said, a note of incredulity in his voice.

  ‘Time of death?’ Drake suggested.

  The pathologist drew breath and stood up. ‘No. Two hours maximum. And it wasn’t a gun.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Drake this time.

  ‘It looks like a bolt of some sort…’

  Drake saw the intense expression on Kings’s face.

  ‘You must have some idea?’ Price asked.

  ‘Small piece of metal, like a dart. Never seen anything like it,’ Kings said. ‘The post mortem will give us a better idea.’

  With the pathologist finished, the serious work could begin. Drake glanced at his watch. If Caren was right about the time of sunrise, then soon it would be first light and the generators could be turned off. The CSIs would have to search the car until every inch had been examined. He knew the painstaking fingertip search of the road would take hours. The first glimmer of morning sunshine climbed over the mountains as the silhouettes of the steep cliffs formed. A photographer adjusted the settings on his camera which was screwed down to the top of a tripod. Price finished his final call and came up to stand next to Drake and Caren.

  ‘This is the most serious crime I have ever dealt with,’ Price said, his voice matching the hard, cold surface of the tarmac. ‘We’ll commit everything we have,’ he continued. ‘Killing police officers is, well…’ He struggled for the right words.

  And he looked Drake straight in the eye.

  ‘It’s an attack on society itself.’

  Drake nodded. Caren stood quite still, hands thrust deep into her pockets, listening to Price.

  They walked round the car, stepping over the kerb, avoiding getting too close.

  ‘This is a desolate place. Why here?’ Drake said, squinting into the darkness, noticing the tips of the mountains streaked orange.

  Drake passed the CSI team photographing the vehicle from every angle, and he walked towards the cones and warning triangles set out for several metres behind the Volvo. The camber of the road banked from the centre and some of the cones had fallen over onto the tarmac.

  The image of the dead officers wouldn’t leave his mind. The bodies appeared staged. His mind tried to process the thought as it developed. He walked past the cones, down the hill before turning to look back at the car. Something was out of place, he knew it. He motioned to Caren.

  ‘Who put these cones out?’

  Caren looked blank.

  He shouted to Foulds, who broke into a jog and joined Drake and Caren.

  ‘Get a photographer here. Now.’

  ‘The Traffic lads wouldn’t have done this,’ Caren said.

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  Caren upended all the overturned cones as Drake directed the photographer. After a few seconds she stood back and called over to Drake.

  ‘Something you ought to see,’ she said, pointing at the surface of the tarmac.

  Once all the cones and warning triangles were upright, the shape they formed was unmistakable.

  The outline of the number four was clear.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, 1st June

  The early morning sunshine reflected against the windows and rooftops as the car neared Northern Division Headquarters. The image of the number four had dominated Drake’s thoughts – and his conversation with Caren – during the journey from the Crimea.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Caren said again.

  Drake drew a hand over his face; it felt damp and sticky. He turned to look at Caren and he could see the unease in her eyes.

  ‘Does it mean there are going to be more deaths?’

  At that moment, all Drake could really focus on was the need to get clean and tidy. His shirt was dishevelled, his trousers had accumulated grime from the scene, and he was desperate for a shave and a shower.

  ‘It could mean anything,’ he said, without conviction.

  ‘But the number four?’ she persisted.

  ‘A lucky number.’ Drake shrugged. ‘Part of a car registration.’

  He was reminded of the sudoku riddles that had been the focus of his rituals lately. It was as if something inside him had to get a daily fix by defeating the puzzle. It was logic, after all, and that was his job – working things out, detective work. Caren was right to believe it had significance, but he put the possibility that it signalled more deaths to the back of his mind.

  * * *

  A little after half past seven Drake and Caren entered the Incident Room and the muttered conversations came to an abrupt end. Drake could feel the tension, sense the anger in the room.

  Detective Constables David Howick and Gareth Winder turned to look at him. Howick managed a brief, stern nod and Winder clenched his jaw. Caren sat down at the nearest desk. Drake glanced along the board scattered with photographs of each of the dead officers. One other sheet of paper clung to the board – on it was the number four.

  ‘You all know how much media attention this investigation is going to get,’ he began. ‘But that will be nothing compared to the attention we will give it.’

  He paused; he had never sensed such concentration in an Incident Room before. He had their complete attention.

  ‘It’s our job to find the bastard who did this. We check everything twice, three times. And then we recheck it.’

  He cleared his thoughts, watching the sharp alertness in the eyes of his team.

  ‘I knew Danny Farrell, sir,’ Howick said. ‘I played badminton with him and his wife. She’ll be devastated.’

  Stillness fell on the room. This was more than the murder of colleagues – they were friends, too. Drake broke the tension by allocating tasks. Establishing what cases the dead officers had been working on was the top priority.

  ‘But they were traffic cops…’
Howick began. ‘There could be hundreds of motorists we might never be able to trace. Do we know how they were killed?’

  Drake hesitated. ‘It looks like they were shot in the chest and in the head through one eye.’

  Winder pulled folded arms tight against his chest and Howick put a hand to his mouth; neither had been involved in a double murder before and the Wales Police Service had never lost two of its officers at the same time.

  ‘Mathews was killed in the driver’s seat and Farrell was lying outside the car. The pathologist thinks they were shot by some sort of dart or bolt. We will have to establish if they were moved. And I want to know everything about both men.’

  Caren made her first contribution. ‘How could one man have killed both of them?’

  The room went quiet at the possibility of a vigilante-style killing. Drake drew a hand through his hair and adjusted his footing. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ He tried to sound cautious, catching sight of the intense look on Howick’s face.

  Winder cleared his throat and raised his voice.

  ‘Did the officers make a radio report?’

  ‘That’s your job.’ Drake gave him a stern gaze.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Drake continued to allocate tasks to Winder. ‘Find out where they’d been since they started their shift. And we need to know how long they had worked together.’

  Caren added, ‘And we’ll need details of all the tickets they issued.’

  Drake turned to Howick. ‘Dave. Contact HR for the personnel files.’

  The door swung open and crashed loudly against the wall. Price strode in, his right hand outstretched; the junior officers stood up and stiffened.

  ‘This has just arrived.’

  He slammed a plastic stationery pocket down on the nearest desk. There was a small Polaroid photograph in the bottom.

  ‘It arrived by taxi. The driver’s been called back.’

  Drake picked up the envelope and caught his breath as he looked at the image on the photograph.

  It was a close-up of one of the dead officers.

  He passed it over to Howick, who squinted. ‘What sort of sick bastard…’