Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  The front door of Bryn Castell was ajar and Drake shouted a greeting as he led Caren inside. From the rear of the house they heard a mumbled reply and, passing through a hallway lined with old black-and-white prints hanging on embossed dark-red wallpaper, they reached the kitchen.

  Richie Mostyn sat in a wing chair in one corner. It was covered in an old throw and probably a lot of dust, if the exposed surfaces were typical of the rest of the house. Caren could see the pained expression on Drake’s face as he scanned the room. Richie had a wispy grey beard and long thin strands of hair over his head. He wore a waistcoat over the collarless shirt and rolled the end of a cigarette through his fingers.

  Drake had his warrant card in one hand.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you to call.’ Richie had a strong accent that rolled the words and gave them warmth that the circumstances didn’t merit.

  ‘You know why we’ve called?’ Drake said.

  ‘Sit down.’ Richie nodded towards the chairs surrounding the small table. ‘I was probably the last person to see Ed alive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw him last night.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  Richie began assembling another cigarette. Very slowly.

  Impatience gathered in Drake’s eyes. Caren doubted that after Joan Higham he had the persistence for a protracted conversation. A small terrier appeared from the hallway and scampered over to Richie before jumping onto his lap.

  ‘My father’s got two,’ Caren said. ‘How old is he?’

  Richie looked up and gave Caren the barest of smiles. ‘Five.’

  ‘My father called his Waldo – after the poet.’

  ‘Good name. This is Carlo.’

  Caren hesitated. ‘Could you give some background to the family? And perhaps tells us what happened last night?’

  Richie finished rolling the cigarette.

  ‘Ed was here last night. We had a whisky before bed.’ He sparked an ancient lighter into life before leaning into it, and drawing on the cigarette. Smoke drifted out from his nostrils.

  ‘Were you up when John Hughes delivered the paper this morning?’ Drake said.

  Richie shook his head.

  ‘What time did Ed go home?’ Caren asked.

  Richie sat back and looked at Caren intently. ‘Midnight maybe. Doesn’t sleep well, runs in the family.’

  ‘Did he tell you he was digging bait this morning?’

  ‘Didn’t need to.’

  Drake moved uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Caren said.

  ‘It’s a summer’s day. That’s what he does.’

  Drake interjected. ‘Who else would know that he’d be out first thing this morning?’

  Richie shrugged. ‘Everyone, I suppose.’

  Drake stood up abruptly. ‘Look, if there’s nothing else, we won’t take any more of your time.’ He took a step towards the door.

  Caren was on her feet now.

  ‘You should talk to Maldwyn Evans.’

  ‘Who?’ Caren turned to Richie.

  ‘He had a hell of an argument with Ed two weeks ago.’

  Drake glanced at Caren and then turned to Richie. ‘Did you hear what happened?’ Drake let too much aggression into his voice.

  Richie gave a brief smirk.

  Caren sat down and Drake, too, returned to his chair, dragging it nearer to the old man. ‘I need you to tell me everything.’

  Caren already had her notebook open and jotted the details as Richie spoke. After he finished he let his gaze scan around his room as though he was checking nothing had changed, that his world was unaffected.

  *

  It was mid-afternoon when Drake arrived back in his office and slumped into his chair, before surveying the tidy columns of Post-it notes on his desk. Order and neatness always gave him a sense of reassurance, but the sound of raised voices outside his office broke his concentration. He stood up and pulled open the door. Two administration staff were busy erecting an Incident Room board. Drake noticed Caren fumbling with some photographs on her desk, before walking over to the board and pinning up a photograph of Ed Mostyn.

  ‘Quite a violent assault, boss.’

  ‘Yes.’ Drake stared at the wounds on Mostyn’s neck.

  ‘Somebody had a score to settle, I’d say.’

  ‘Did you get anything from Hughes in the post office?’

  ‘Bumptious little man. He pretends to know everything that’s going on.’ Caren folded her arms.

  ‘Probably does.’

  ‘Apparently everyone knows that Mostyn and his sister were hot tempered. They were arguing about some land they owned.’

  ‘Joan Higham seemed cut up about her brother.’

  ‘Crocodile tears.’

  ‘We’ll see her tomorrow.’

  Drake turned when he heard the muffled conversations outside the Incident Room door. Detective Constable Gareth Winder was the first to enter, but once he saw Drake he abruptly stopped talking to DC David Howick, the final member of Drake’s team.

  ‘Boss,’ Winder said.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Howick straightened his tie.

  Drake mumbled an acknowledgement. He turned back to the board. ‘Ed Mostyn was killed early this morning. The killer decided to make absolutely certain and impaled a fork into Mostyn’s neck.’

  Winder let out a faint whistle. ‘Who was he?’

  Drake turned his back to the board and looked over at the officers facing him. He could still remember when he was a junior officer and the detective inspector would bark orders, then swear and curse if he didn’t do things on time. Winder was short but he made up for it around the chest and neck. Drake was convinced that Winder used some aftershave or gel on the skin of his scalp to get its glistening sheen. He’d loosened his tie a couple of inches and the bags under his eyes weren’t as dark as they’d been lately. It had even occurred to Drake that Winder had been using make-up to hide the bags once he’d had a verbal warning about his timekeeping.

  ‘House-to-house in the village is the first job for both of you.’ Drake looked at Winder and Howick in turn.

  ‘How many houses are there, sir?’

  ‘Get a couple of the uniformed lads to help you.’

  A brief look of exasperation disappeared from Winder’s face and he sat down.

  ‘After that you can start on Ed Mostyn’s cottage, once the search team have finished. Go through all his papers, bank statements, files – all the usual stuff. Somebody wanted him dead.’

  ‘Of course, sir. When is the search being done?’

  Caren cut in. ‘Probably tomorrow. They’re doing the beach later this evening. And the cottage is disgusting.’

  Howick raised an eyebrow.

  Caren continued. ‘No, really. It’s foul. Smell of dead fish everywhere.’

  Drake still couldn’t escape the stench that had hit him as he had walked up the drive to the cottage, and, now, recalling its dirt and filth made his fingers itch to get clean. He pictured fish scales under his finger nails and fragments of fish bones clinging to the underside of his shoes. It was no use.

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’ Drake marched out of the Incident Room to the bathroom down the corridor. He took off his jacket and hung it carefully on the hook on the back of the door. He had to let the water flow for a few seconds before it was hot enough for him to scrub his hands and nails.

  He stared at his face in the mirror. He felt like a fool for believing that his counselling had given him control over the rituals that punctuated his day. It was simply not his choice to ignore them – even when, as they inevitably did, they drew him away from his duties. Increasingly, these days, he couldn’t move on to his next task, until he’d obeyed his little internal instruction – no matter how small. His worry, one that he barely acknowledged, was that these interruptions, these necessities, would grow so big, would crowd into his life so much, that he’d end up simply sitting at hi
s desk, unable to move, unable to function.

  *

  Drake made the journey back to Four Mile Bridge knowing that Superintendent Price would probably question his decision to be present for the search. The Scientific Support Vehicle had been replaced by two vans and three patrol cars. He pulled the Alfa near to the kerb and walked down to the bridge. The early evening sunshine was still warm and Drake guessed there would be a spectacular sunset.

  He reached the bridge as a car in the middle of it slowed, its occupants staring out over the Inland Sea. A group of youngsters milled around at the opposite end and Drake looked out over the southerly side. A couple of yachts were perched on fin keels astride long curving sandbanks set out in meandering loops between Anglesey and Holy Island.

  Crossing the road, he leant on the wall and looked at the search team combing the sand. He counted a dozen officers; six had metal detectors and were scanning the surface with a smooth sweeping motion. Others had long-handled metal implements that prodded and poked at the damp surface.

  He raised a hand to Sergeant Brown, the search team supervisor, who then walked towards the bridge. Drake remained where he was; at least from the bridge he had a good vantage point.

  His mobile rang but there was no name to accompany the number. ‘DI Drake.’

  ‘It’s Calvin Headley, Inspector.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Calvin Headley. ITV News.’

  Immediately Drake’s nerves were on edge. ‘How the hell did you get this number?’

  ‘Is it true that Ed Mostyn was impaled with his own digging fork?’ Headley managed to mix incredulity with journalistic objectivity.

  ‘Don’t ring me on this number again.’

  ‘Inspector, will you be the senior investigating officer? And I just wanted to know if the reports about Ed Mostyn are really true.’

  Drake killed the call and then stared at the handset for a few seconds, cursing the journalist. He noticed Brown approaching and tried to ignore Headley’s comments.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Drake said.

  ‘Slowly. We should get the sand and beach done tonight. But the gorse and all the heather and the paths at high water… Well that could take…’

  ‘Have you got someone here all night?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Drake followed Brown down onto the shoreline. The cloudless clear blue sky was gradually being burnt ochre-red as the sun made its final descent.

  ‘The lads tell me he was speared with a garden fork.’

  Drake nodded.

  Brown screwed his face up in disgust.

  ‘Have you found anything yet?’ Drake took his first step onto the beach again, grateful that he’d found an old pair of boots in headquarters.

  ‘Some old cans and fishing hooks.’

  They heard a shout from one of the officers, who was holding his headphones in one hand and waving at Brown with the other. The officer was leaning over a fork that he’d used to prise open the surface of the sand. By his feet was a small metal object.

  Brown leant down and with gloved fingers lifted it clear, dropping it into an evidence bag. He gave it an inquisitive stare. ‘Looks like one of those knives that fishermen use.’

  ‘Might have belonged to Mostyn,’ Drake said.

  Brown turned to the officer. ‘Carry on, we haven’t got much time.’

  The man replaced his headphones and switched the machine back on.

  Brown and Drake stepped back to the high-water mark.

  ‘We’re using pulse induction detectors,’ Brown said, as though he expected Drake to know what that meant. ‘They’re more effective on sand and wet surfaces.’

  Drake watched as officers turned over the surface of the sand with various sizes of forks. Occasionally one knelt down and dropped something into an evidence bag. And at the same time the water slowly crept up behind the officers. Drake hoped they’d find something of value.

  Another shout, this time from a different officer with a metal detector, sweeping the area where they’d found Mostyn. Drake scurried over towards him, his pulse beating a little faster with expectation.

  By the officer’s feet, lying on the surface, was one end of a pair of sunglasses. The search officer knelt down and prised the frames clear of the sand. ‘They look like Ray-Bans,’ he said. ‘Probably titanium frames. That’s why I could detect them.’

  Drake dropped them into an evidence bag and retraced his steps towards the gorse and dry sand.

  Half an hour later the water had made it impossible for the search team to work and Drake gazed down at the plastic evidence bags. There were two rings, the Swiss army knife, an old metal comb, lots of empty food cans, some coins and the Ray-Bans.

  Drake noticed Richie Mostyn standing on the bridge smoking a cigarette and staring at them. There must be something he knows and he’s not telling us about Ed, Drake thought, sensing this had the potential to be an awkward investigation.

  ‘We’ll start on the gorse tomorrow,’ Brown said, interrupting Drake’s thoughts.

  Drake had the house to search and a family to interview. The gorse and the fields would have to wait. ‘I need your team to start on the house tomorrow.’

  Brown blew out a lungful of breath.

  ‘And then continue along the beach.’

  The frustration was evident in Brown’s reply. ‘That’s going to take far more time than I’d planned.’

  ‘No choice. I need to start on Mostyn’s place.’

  Brown shrugged.

  Drake considered talking to Richie again but he was nowhere to be seen. A band of fierce red light covered the horizon as Drake tramped back to the car.

  Chapter 5

  Drake had managed a few squares of that morning’s Sudoku on the journey to see Joan Higham, but his mind couldn’t focus after a poor night’s sleep that hadn’t been helped by Sian complaining vehemently that he was late again. That morning she’d accompanied a dark glance with an announcement that she wanted to talk to him.

  Caren blasted the car horn at a tractor in the middle of the road as she threaded her way through the narrow lanes of Anglesey. The sound distracted Drake from the morning’s domestic events.

  ‘Not far now, sir.’

  The farmhouse was set back from the main road at the end of a narrow track lined with beech trees, an unusual sight on an island battered by the south-westerly gales. Caren indicated and then turned down the lane, eventually parking near a flatbed van. A sheepdog ran out of a barn towards them, Caren leant down and the dog pitched its head as Caren stroked him. Drake didn’t do dogs, or any domestic pet come to that; it was the hairs that fell everywhere – and then there was the smell.

  Joan Higham appeared from the back door of the house. ‘You don’t like dogs then?’

  ‘Well. I’m not…’

  ‘He won’t bite.’

  Beyond the farmhouse Drake could see rolling fields and in the distance a dozen stationary wind turbines. Joan led them inside and motioned for them to sit around the table. Drake declined the offer of tea – coffee wasn’t offered – but Caren asked for hers with two sugars. Outside they heard the whine of a quad bike and moments later the engine cut out. The dog barked, followed by footsteps on the concrete path outside until they heard the sound of boots being discarded in the porch.

  ‘That’ll be my husband, Dafydd,’ Joan said.

  Dafydd Higham had a thick neck and the small, hard eyes of a poker player. Drake guessed that, in stockinged feet, he was five foot eight, maybe a little shorter.

  ‘Good morning,’ Dafydd said, reaching out a hand. He had a short brisk handshake.

  Drake turned to look at Joan. ‘What can you tell me about your brother?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘We own a piece of land that the power company want for the development of the new nuclear power station. Everyone thinks it will make us millionaires, but it’s only small– we’re not going to make more than few thousand pounds. But it’s not our land they really want: it’s
the land owned by the adjacent owners, Maldwyn Evans and Rhys Fairburn. Without their land the development might not go ahead.’

  Drake’s attention sharpened at the sound of a familiar name.

  Dafydd made his first contribution. ‘Evans and Fairburn are livid. They tried to reason with him but…’

  Joan nodded energetically.

  ‘Can you give us details of the land involved?’ Drake said.

  ‘Of course.’ Dafydd stood up and left the kitchen.

  Caren turned to Joan. ‘Do you have contact details for Evans and Fairburn?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dafydd returned and unfolded a large map with various areas edged in different-coloured highlighters. He explained that Evans and Fairburn both owned land that they couldn’t sell unless Ed and Joan sold their land first.

  ‘We inherited the land from our parents,’ Joan added.

  ‘And Ed was stupid enough to stop the land being sold.’ Dafydd folded his arms.

  ‘Are you his next of kin?’ Drake asked.

  ‘I knew you’d ask that,’ Joan said, drawing her hair back and then frowning at Drake as though she was challenging him to accuse her of murder.

  ‘Ed had no children,’ Dafydd said, adding, ‘None that we know about.’

  ‘And we have no idea if he made a will,’ Joan said.

  ‘So why did Ed decide not to sell?’ Drake said.

  ‘My brother fell in with that Gwynfor Llywelyn who persuaded him to object. Ed swallowed all the propaganda about the impact it was going to have on the Welsh language and on the environment.’

  ‘Where can we contact this Gwynfor Llywelyn?’

  ‘He’s got an artisan bakery in Cemaes Bay. At least that’s what he calls it.’ Joan looked as dismissive as she sounded.

  ‘How much money was involved for Evans and Fairburn?’ Caren poised her pen on her notebook.

  ‘Half a million pounds.’

  Drake, startled by the sums involved, stared over at Joan, then over at her husband who stared back at him, his eyes dark and expressionless.

  *

  On the journey to Cemaes Bay they passed one boarded-up house after another; sheets of plywood were screwed to the windows, and pasted to one was a notice warning of regular security checks. Entrance gates left abandoned had rusted on their hinges in front of drives and paths overgrown with weeds. Caren guessed that the houses hadn’t been pulled down, just in case the power station didn’t get the go-ahead.