Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  Against the Tide

  by Stephen Puleston

  ~~~~~~~~

  Against the Tide

  This book copyright © Stephen Puleston

  First edition published 2014 by Stephen Puleston

  The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Contents

  Stephen Puleston – some personal details

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Also by Stephen Puleston

  Stephen Puleston – some personal details

  Against The Tide is the third Inspector Drake mystery. The story is based in North Wales an area rich in history and beautiful landscapes.

  After a degree in Theology from London University I trained as a solicitor. For many years I worked as a solicitor/lawyer in a small practice representing clients in the criminal courts and doing divorce work all of which has given me valuable raw material for my novels. I still live and work in North Wales where the Inspector Drake novels are set.

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  Inspector Drake Series

  Brass in Pocket

  Worse Than Dead

  Find out more at www.stephenpuleston.co.uk.

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  Chapter 1

  The summer mist was thick enough to bottle and it clung to his clothes, invaded his nostrils. He hesitated for a moment in the small yard alongside the cottage, allowing his eyes to acclimatise to the early morning gloom. Behind him in the kitchen the kettle boiled and he checked his watch – another night of poor sleep.

  He grimaced as the first mouthful of tea stung his lips. Then he found some stale bread and dropped it into the toaster. It was going to be his last year digging bait, and scratching a living from fishing. But he’d said that last year and the year before that too. It was in his blood, like his father and his grandfather before him; the water and the sand, like some enchanting mistress, drew him back.

  After his hurried breakfast he pulled the door closed behind him and stepped out onto the small yard, his Labrador at his feet. He gathered three plastic buckets and an old fork and made for the beach. Somewhere in the village a car fired into life. He drew heavily on the thin cigarette at his lips, feeling the smoke scouring his windpipe. On the bridge, he heard the sound of the sea lapping either side. He knew every inch of the shoreline, the bays and inlets. He knew when the tides would turn, when the water would fall, pulled out towards the sea and then rise, forced back again, filling the narrow inlet. He knew the name of every house and the history of every family, even the holiday homes. He knew the boats and their names and their foibles and their owners and often the fathers of the owners.

  He stood and listened, resting one hand on his fork; the other held the ragged end of the cigarette as he drew on it one last time. He flicked the butt out over the water. He drew the zip of his fleece tight up against his chin before picking up the buckets. His dog brushed against his trousers, its breathing heavy and its tongue flopping around.

  Looking down the bridge his thoughts turned to Uncle Richie who lived nearby at Bryn Castell, and with the mist thinning he could make out the silhouettes of the houses at the end of the bridge. Only another hour, maybe less, until the warmth from the sun would have burnt all the fog away. As a boy he’d sat for hours watching Uncle Richie tidying his nets, sorting his lines and gutting and cleaning fish. And when his uncle had drunk too much whisky he’d tell him how he could sense things, how he knew when death was at the door.

  He tried to shake off a sense of unease and strode down onto the beach. The pebbles crunched under his feet and after a couple more steps the sand was soft under his boots. He stopped, set the buckets down and propped the fork against his leg before fumbling with the strap of a head torch. Eventually he had a narrow beam of light poking into the murkiness. There must be an easier way to make a living, he thought, not for the first time. He picked up the buckets and fork and moved towards the deep mud near the old ford. There he stopped and sank the fork into the soft mud and sand.

  He’d work down with the retreating tide until low water in a couple of hours, before working back, ahead of the advancing tide, digging and collecting the worms he needed to make a living. Once he’d finished, the bait would be weighed, wrapped in newspaper and stored in a refrigerator. He had lots of regular customers, especially on the weekend, mostly men with 4x4s trailing fishing cuddies. By mid-morning, after a brief nap, he’d launch his dinghy to check the pots. If he was lucky there’d be some lobsters he could sell to passing tourists who without fail paid top price for fresh seafood.

  He’d been working for a few minutes when he heard something behind him. He straightened up and tried moving his feet but the wet sand wouldn’t release its grip easily. He made a half turn but saw nothing other than the fog gently swirling and caressing its way around him. He cursed at his timidity. His mind must be playing tricks. He whistled briefly for his dog but there was no response. He turned back to the work in hand.

  Another sound, light steps on the wet sand – perhaps a stray dog had been drawn by the light from his torch. But there weren’t any in the village and, besides, his own Labrador would have reacted. He raised his head and leant on the fork, making to turn around.

  Louder now and closer. Much closer and regular. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow. Whoever it was wasn’t going to give him a fright. He cursed the wet sand for stopping his free movement.

  He tugged at his right foot, loosening it, and then he twisted as he straightened again, the light from his head torch bobbing around through the fog. A footfall, definitely. He looked up and opened his mouth, forming the words he would never speak.

  Chapter 2

  Ian Drake slowly tapped the end of a ballpoint upon the file of papers on the conference table in Northern Division headquarters of the Wales Police Service. It was his first day back after a few days’ leave, but rather than feeling refreshed he could
n’t shake off a jaded mood. He couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong but the holiday felt wasted. His frustration deepened as he thought about the reports he had to write and the several hundred emails in his inbox that needed his attention, but instead he was listening to Andy Thorsen, a senior crown prosecutor who had called an early morning meeting specifically to suit his diary.

  ‘I’ll want all the statements cross-referenced for any inconsistencies,’ Thorsen said for the third time in less than thirty minutes.

  Thorsen looked more dishevelled than usual that morning. He had a tall forehead and eyebrows that danced around as he moved his eyes. His suit was grey and had lost its shape, as though it had been washed at a very high temperature.

  A public order dispute in Bangor one Saturday night had deteriorated into a brawl that had resulted in various arrests for assaults, several police officers with broken noses and over a hundred statements. It had all left Drake sensing that the prosecution was destined to fail, a view reinforced by the reputation of Sergeant John Hollins, now sitting directly opposite him.

  ‘I think you should explore the possibility that the defendants might plead to a lesser charge,’ Drake said.

  He knew Hollins was staring at him but he kept on looking at the prosecutor, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Don’t you believe the evidence of your fellow police officers?’ Hollins said.

  ‘It’s about the public interest.’ Thorsen folded his arms.

  ‘I agree, of course,’ Drake said, giving Hollins a sharp look.

  Drake’s mobile, switched to silent, vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and, seeing it was area control, declined the call.

  ‘All the lads on that Saturday night have given clear accounts of what happened. There’s overwhelming evidence that the defendants are guilty,’ Hollins was looking impatient.

  ‘It’s never that simple,’ Drake said, putting the mobile on top of his papers.

  Hollins sat back in his chair heavily. ‘And what’s complicated about seven police officers having broken noses?’

  Hollins had joined the Wales Police Service after ten years in the army, bringing with him a military style to the application of policing. He probably enjoyed cracking heads together, Drake thought.

  Drake leant forward. ‘It’s a matter of reasonable doubt, Sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t preach at me, Inspector.’

  ‘Then you should know it’s going to be embarrassing if this fiasco gets before a court.’

  ‘They were drunken toe-rags who needed to be locked up.’

  ‘Is that what you’re going to say in cross-examination?’ Drake glanced over at Thorsen, pleased that there was a troubled look on his face.

  ‘We need to nail these guys.’ Hollins leant forward over the table, fists clenched.

  Before Drake or Thorsen could say anything more, the door opened. A tall woman came into the room. ‘Inspector Drake. Area control is trying to contact you.’

  ‘It’s my first day back. Can’t somebody else take the call?’

  ‘It’s urgent, apparently.’

  ‘We’re done here,’ Thorsen said, a pleased tone to his voice. ‘If I need to speak to you again I can reschedule.’

  *

  An hour later Drake parked on the pavement behind a Scientific Support Vehicle. He turned off the CD player and the Bruce Springsteen track stopped mid-drumbeat. Looking in the rear view mirror, he pulled a loose hair into place and straightened his tie before leaving the car. He pressed the remote and the Alfa Romeo GT flashed. He glanced around, satisfied that he’d parked a safe distance from other vehicles.

  Cars lined each side of the road leading to the bridge and as he walked alongside them, the mobile in his pocket began to vibrate. He fumbled for the handset and read the message from Sergeant Caren Waits – be there in ten. Her lateness could be infuriating but he’d come to rely on her more than he cared to admit, certainly to her. After reaching the bridge he noticed a stream of onlookers walking down from Four Mile Bridge, the village on the opposite side, some exchanging serious glances, others gesticulating with raised arms. He turned to his right and saw the crime scene investigators and uniformed officers huddled over the corpse. Behind them was a wide expanse of mud and sand, stretching into the distance, broken by a narrow channel of water that eventually pooled a few hundred yards behind them.

  Over to his left were more mud banks dissected by the meandering tide and in the distance a shroud of heat masked the mountains of Snowdonia. The sun was warm on his shoulders. It had only been two months since his father’s death and apprehension crept into his mind that he wasn’t ready for a new murder case, especially as the counsellor had warned him that he might find it difficult to cope and that his little yet ever-present rituals, his need for things to be just so, might get more severe. He shook off his anxiety and walked off the bridge down onto the seashore. A flimsy blue-and-white tape fluttered as Drake ducked his head underneath. Soon his shoes were crunching on the pebbles at the high-water mark. A young constable with sweat patches under his arms approached him, but the look of mild antagonism evaporated once Drake produced his warrant card. Dry seaweed rimmed the shoreline, a salty smell hung in the air and Drake noticed a disused windmill in the distance.

  A sergeant, standing near the body, saw Drake approaching and raised a hand in acknowledgement before making his way laboriously towards him. Drake stood and waited.

  ‘Frank Watkins. Glad you’re here, sir,’ he said, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘What are the details?’

  ‘Male. Late forties, early fifties.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Ed Mostyn. He lived in the village.’ He pointed towards the houses at the end of the bridge. ‘Did you bring wellingtons?’

  Drake shook his head.

  ‘You can try mine.’ Watkins sat down on a rocky ledge, and took off his boots. They were a size too small for Drake and they pinched his feet as he made his way out over the sand. Drake recognised Mike Foulds, the crime scene manager, standing over Dr Lee Kings, the local pathologist.

  ‘Good morning, Mike,’ Drake said.

  Foulds nodded an acknowledgement. Kings stood up. ‘Good morning, Ian.’

  ‘What can you tell me, Lee?’

  ‘Blow to the head. Probably knocked him unconscious. But massive blood loss from the penetrating wounds to the neck is the likely cause of death. I’ll get a better idea after the post mortem.’

  ‘Apparently the sergeant removed a fork when he arrived,’ Foulds added.

  ‘What? A garden fork? He was impaled with a fork!’ Drake looked down at the bloodied head of Ed Mostyn. There were two puncture wounds on his neck and blood stained his clothes and face. ‘Is there any reason not to move him?’ Drake said to Kings.

  ‘None as far as I’m concerned,’ said the doctor, dislodging his feet from the wet sand.

  Drake turned to Foulds. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ he replied. ‘We’ll have to move the body and then do a detailed search. But we’ll need the help of the uniform lads.’

  ‘How long have we got until the tide turns?’

  ‘I was told that low water was at half past seven, so high tide will be about half past one. But the sea water will have covered the area well before that.’

  Drake looked towards the bridge and noticed that the flow of water passing through its arch had already increased. The remains of some plastic bags and baked bean cans floated past in the narrow channel.

  ‘Where does this water go?’ Drake said.

  ‘Fills this whole bay. Basically, it’s a big lagoon that divides Anglesey from Holy Island and for some reason it’s called the Inland Sea. The water is trapped between the bridge behind us and the main embankment.’ Foulds pointed into the distance with one hand. He waved at the uniformed officers who moved towards them slowly.

  They leant over the body and tried lifting it, but the water and sand pulled it back. A young officer pr
essed his boots under the corpse until eventually the body was lifted clear; a trickle of brown water dripped along the sticky sand as the four officers moved towards the shoreline.

  Drake spotted the end of a Velcro strap in the sand and knelt down. He gave it a brief tug and pulled out a head torch, which he held between two fingers, examining it before stepping towards the high-water mark. ‘Mike,’ he said, holding up the torch.

  Foulds dipped into his pocket, an evidence bag at the ready, and stepped over to Drake. Painstakingly they made their way back to the shoreline towards a group of uniformed officers who had been press-ganged into helping the forensics team. Foulds explained what he wanted to achieve – there might be a piece of clothing, some relic of the man’s life hidden below the surface of the sand, a fragment of his life and his violent death that might give them a clue, a signal as to where to look for the killer. Drake guessed the exercise would be futile, even possibly absurd, but they had to preserve evidence.

  As Foulds finished, Sergeant Watkins arrived alongside Drake. ‘Mike tells me you moved the fork.’ Drake nodded towards the scene.

  ‘I wasn’t going to wait for the CSIs to arrive – there were enough people gawping at the body as it was.’

  ‘We’ll need a statement.’

  Watkins nodded and then jerked his head towards the bridge. ‘The press have arrived, sir.’