Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Was there anyone special at the moment?’

  ‘This boy had been after her all last year and then this year he was back. Llywelyn hated that she was going with him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Julian Sandham. He lives in Birmingham, but the family has a fancy place in Rhosneigr. He kept bragging about it.’

  Tracy made an unconvincing shrug.

  ‘I need you tell me everything you know, Tracy.’

  She looked away and then at her feet. ‘She said she was going to the cottage with him. Said she knew where the keys were.’

  Caren moved to the edge of her seat, her concentration heightened. ‘What was happening in the cottages?’

  Tracy stood up, a startled look on her face. ‘I don’t know. Really.’ She stepped to the door. Caren and Drake exchanged glances, each telling the other that Tracy knew more, but for now they had a name. Enough to make progress.

  *

  By early afternoon Drake was looking at Superintendent Price scratching the top of his head with his fingernails. It made a dull rasping sound that Drake usually found reassuring; it had been a habit that he’d missed while Price had been on secondment to the West Midlands. Yet now, he was sure that flecks of Price’s scalp would be floating down onto the desk and Drake tried to resist moving his chair back a few inches.

  ‘Did you see the television news last night?’ Price said.

  ‘The reporter rang me as I was leaving the hospital.’

  ‘He’s a stupid young kid. I’ve already called the programme editor and played hell with him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot; he told me it wasn’t a police state.’

  ‘How did you reply, sir?’

  ‘Diplomatically.’

  Drake paused. Price really had been learning from his work in England.

  ‘The public relations department wants to organise a press conference this afternoon. Make an appeal for witnesses.’ He drew a hand in the air. ‘All the usual stuff. Somebody from the department will contact you about the details.’

  Price looked over at Drake, his eyes focused and clear. ‘Are the murders connected?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir.’

  ‘We need to establish that quickly.’

  ‘The cottages where we found Jane’s body are owned by a Somerset de Northway. And he owns the farm where the family live. And he was in the village very early on the morning Mostyn was killed. He collects a newspaper first thing.’

  Price made a brief frown that curled the top of his eyelashes. ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Somerset de Northway.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name.’

  Price reached for his mouse and then stared at the screen until a glimmer of recognition passed his face. He sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his mouth. ‘He’s the deputy high sheriff. That means he’ll be the next high sheriff.’

  ‘I thought that was just a ceremonial role?’

  ‘It is, but it means that de Northway is very well connected.’

  *

  Drake walked into the Incident Room and went straight up to the board. He stopped and stared at the image of Ed Mostyn, the three puncture wounds in his neck evident like a scene from a horror movie. He pinned up a sheet with the name of Jane Jones printed on it and made a mental note to get a photograph. He pondered whether there was a connection between the deaths and whether it was the same killer.

  He stepped back just as a woman in high heels, wearing what appeared to be a designer suit, walked in. Her name badge hung on a lanyard, caressing her blouse, which had a long, deep neckline.

  ‘I’m Mandy Finch, public relations. Just started last week,’ she announced.

  ‘DI Drake.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  Drake pointed to the board. ‘Ed Mostyn was killed last week. His head was smashed in and then he was impaled to the sand with his fork.’

  Mandy grimaced. ‘I don’t think we can release that image.’

  ‘We’ve got another picture of him somewhere,’ Drake said.

  Mandy had opened a notebook. ‘I need the details to build a press release.’

  ‘Do you know that Calvin Headley?’ Drake said.

  ‘He’s rung me a dozen times in the past two days.’

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’

  ‘Let me deal with him. Tell me about Mostyn.’

  Drake led her into his office and pointed to the visitor’s chair. ‘Mostyn was a local fisherman. He was killed as he was digging for bait early one morning.’

  ‘Any family?’

  ‘Sister. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have any kids. Everyone in the village knew him. He was a bit of a character.’

  Mandy scribbled the details into her notepad. ‘And Jane Jones. Is she connected to Ed Mostyn?’

  ‘Nothing to connect both deaths,’ Drake said.

  ‘So we can definitely rule out a serial killer.’ Mandy didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’ll draft a press release.’ She stood up, gathered her papers and made for the door. ‘Press conference at 5pm, Inspector.’

  Drake had an hour to spare and he sank into his chair. The photographs of his daughters needed the usual adjustment, and after running a finger over the top of the computer monitor he inspected the dust on his skin. He’d have to talk to the office manager about the cleaning staff.

  Deciding that he needed to have a proper coffee, he trooped off to the kitchen and found a bag of finely ground Guatemalan beans. As the electric kettle purred into life he could feel the tension ebbing. He measured the grounds exactly and used his mobile to time the exact period that the coffee needed to brew.

  Once the operation had been completed, he took the small cafetière and his cup and saucer back to his room. The words of the counsellor, warning him that his rituals would intensify after his father’s death, had given him almost as much comfort and reassurance as the obsessions themselves. It had been difficult to explain all of this to Sian. She had frowned and when he’d said that his rituals might get worse her lips tightened until they’d lost their entire colour. He remembered that she’d said something about ‘ridiculous counselling methods’ and ‘the green light to indulge’ his ‘habits’.

  He plunged the coffee and filled his cup, letting the smell waft over his desk. He flipped open the box of Mostyn’s belongings and extracted the first pile of files and papers. The first mouthful of coffee tasted nutty and strong.

  An email arrived in his inbox and he clicked open the forensics report on the piece of timber found near Mostyn’s body. Any optimism disappeared quickly when he read that the only DNA they’d found was Mostyn’s. Slowly he turned his attention to Mostyn’s papers. He found the photograph of the black-tie dinner still in its frame and he held it in both hands. Now he recognised Maldwyn Evans and Rhys Fairburn. The third man stood upright almost to attention, suggesting he had a military background. He opened up the back of the frame but the rear of the image was blank – no date or place. He stood up and walked towards the board where he pinned the picture below the image of Mostyn. Underneath he scribbled the names of Maldwyn Evans and Rhys Fairburn. Returning to his office he started on the piles of random papers; it filled him with disgust that anyone could be this disorganised. He pulled out annual accounts for Ed’s business completed by Dafydd Higham with tax returns and letters from Higham about the tax and national insurance due. There were envelopes from investment companies with their annual reports, their envelopes torn open. A neat pile of papers grew on his desk and it surprised him that Mostyn had so many investments – reaching for his notepad he started a ‘to do’ list. They’d need to find out his net worth. He liked that phrase. It smacked of wealth and it reminded him of the session he and Sian had had with a financial adviser. He’d talked about their objectives for the next five and ten years and whether they wanted to save for university fees for the girls. The only thing that couldn’t be timetabled was death itself, Drake though
t morosely. Then he thought about his father, knowing he could never turn the clock back. There had been early morning wakefulness after his father’s death, when he had stared at the ceiling, afraid to get out of bed and disturb Sian, when regrets about wasted opportunities and words unsaid had dominated his mind.

  Then it struck him as odd that Mostyn still rented a property. Drake settled back to rooting through Mostyn’s papers. There were envelopes full of circulars about broadband offers, catalogues from companies offering gardening equipment and plants. At the bottom of the box was a folder on which ‘Land’ had been scrawled in large letters. Drake blanked out the noise from the Incident Room, hoping he was making progress.

  He flipped open the file and found various letters from solicitors and some correspondence from the nuclear power plant marked ‘Strictly Private and Confidential’. Drake was going to be disappointed. The final letter was confirmation of a meeting with the representatives of the company – it used words like constructive engagement and hoping we can make progress.

  Drake added the power company to his to-do list.

  A second envelope had ‘Cottage’ scribbled on it. Drake piled out the contents and found an old tenancy agreement; he scanned the contents. Somerset de Northway was the landlord and Ed Mostyn was named as the tenant. At first Drake couldn’t understand why the rent was a nominal sum of a hundred pounds every year until he read an exchange of correspondence about Mostyn having to rebuild and refurbish the cottage. Drake picked up the telephone and rang Andy Thorsen.

  ‘Property law was never something I had any interest in,’ he said, after Drake had explained the scenario. ‘But it sounds like Mostyn had a full repairing lease while paying a nominal rent.’

  ‘So what happens now that Mostyn is dead?’

  ‘Depends on the lease, but it might revert back to the landlord.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Drake stared at the document, realising that he had another reason to talk to Somerset de Northway.

  Everyone has a computer for emails, banking, buying gifts and Drake assumed that Mostyn would be no different. Somebody wanted the laptop badly enough to have killed him. It struck Drake that it must have been someone who knew his routine, which included everyone they’d spoken to so far. Mostyn’s keys hadn’t been found, which meant that the killer had taken them and used them, unless they were under a pot somewhere. And if they were, it would bring the killer much closer to home. Noticing that the time had passed more quickly than he had imagined, he cursed and left his desk, grabbing his suit coat from the wooden hanger. In the Incident Room he stopped by the board.

  Drake pulled his arms through the suit sleeves and as he did so noticed an acrid smell like dead fish. He hoped it was his imagination, but to avoid it playing on his mind he made a detour into the bathroom and scrubbed his hands.

  *

  Caren sat back in her chair and thumbed through Jane’s diaries. She blotted out the sound of Winder and Howick shuffling papers and tapping on keyboards as she took a step back into the world of a teenage girl with all its insecurities and uncertainties. Jane worried about who her ‘best’ friend actually was and recorded her disappointments when someone let her down. She acknowledged to herself – but probably not to the outside world, Caren guessed – how much of a ‘cow’ she could be during her period. Caren remembered her own teenage years and that aching certainty that sometimes the whole world was against her. There were unflattering comments about her mother and her appearance. Darker and more disturbing observations about her father but she kept her most acerbic remarks for her brother.

  Drake was busy with the press conference and Caren could see her working day drifting on for hours. She texted Alun, telling him she would be late home. She stopped and looked down at the diaries on her desk. There was one for each of the last two calendar years. On impulse Caren flicked to the beginning of the first and read more intently. There was a rhythm and a confidence to the writing – not the prose of someone starting out as a teenage diarist. By the end of February Caren was convinced that Jane had earlier diaries. And the name of Aled Williams had been mentioned more than once in a tone that suggested he was special. She jotted down other names, knowing that they’d all need to be cross-referenced and investigated.

  She scoured her notebook, found the contact number for Tracy and reached for the telephone. After it had rung out half a dozen times she almost hung up but then she heard a breathless voice.

  ‘It’s Caren Waits from the Wales Police Service. I need to ask you about Jane. Did you know she wrote a diary?’

  ‘Yes. I never saw them of course.’

  ‘How long had she been keeping the diary?’

  ‘Years. Since she was at school. Four years… maybe longer.’

  ‘And Aled Williams, who was he?’

  ‘He was one of her boyfriends.’

  Caren thanked Tracy and finished the call before turning to Winder.

  ‘We’ve got to investigate Jane’s friends. I need you to…’

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes. ‘I’m up to my neck in Ed Mostyn and his family.’

  Caren looked over at Howick who had a resigned look on his face. ‘Dave. The boss wants you to look at Jane’s mobile telephones so maybe you can make a list of the people she called regularly against the names on this list.’ She clicked her mouse and emailed him the list from the diary.

  Howick sighed as he stared at the screen.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dave,’ Caren added. ‘I’ll do half of the names.’

  She settled down to more hours in front of the screen.

  *

  The rows of seats crossing the main conference suite were full of journalists talking to each other, notepads propped on their knees, ballpoints ready. The conversations hushed when Drake walked into the room with Price. Mandy stood at the back, chewing the top of a biro.

  The lights from the television cameras clicked into life and Drake squinted for a moment. Price picked up the press release from the table in front of him and began reading. Calvin Headley sat in the front row and kept alternating hard intense stares between Drake and Price.

  As soon as Price had finished various hands were raised and he pointed to a journalist in the second row. Price cleared his throat and gave a convincing if noncommittal reply to an innocuous question. After the second question from a local reporter Price was getting into a rhythm. Mandy had stopped chewing the top of her biro and had drifted down to the front of the room. She gave Price a brief nod.

  ‘One more question,’ Price said.

  Calvin Headley had his hand in the air. He almost stood up out of his chair.

  Price looked over his head towards the back. ‘We’ll take one more question from Terry.’ He pointed towards an elderly hack with slicked-back hair, yellow with nicotine.

  ‘Is there anything to suggest that both murders are connected?’

  Price’s reply had been rehearsed well in advance. Once he’d finished Price got up and pushed his chair backwards. As they left, Drake noticed Calvin Headley getting to his feet. ‘Inspector Drake, is it true that you suspect there might be a serial killer loose in North Wales?’ Drake darted a look at the young reporter. ‘Can you reassure the public that they’ll be safe in their beds?’

  Price was already standing by the door. Mandy gave Drake a troubled look as he walked over towards the exit. ‘Leave him to me,’ she whispered.

  ‘That went well,’ Drake said.

  ‘Mandy had everything organised,’ Price said.

  Drake’s mobile bleeped in his jacket and he fished it out.

  ‘DI Drake.’

  It was Winder. ‘Something you should see.’

  Chapter 13

  Gareth Winder was sitting at his desk when Drake strode into the Incident Room. Caren turned towards him, her hand on her mouth, a distressed look in her eyes. Howick stood behind Winder, chewing his lower lip.

  ‘Something you should see on the Internet, boss,’ Winder said.

  Drake walk
ed over towards him as he clicked refresh. A Facebook page appeared on the screen.

  ‘This went live today,’ Winder said.

  The words ‘Gone Fishing’ dominated the title page. Winder then scrolled down before clicking on a photograph – the image of Mostyn’s body lying on the sand was clear. It was early morning and there were still faint strands of fog still visible. What turned Drake’s stomach was the sight of the fork impaled through Mostyn’s neck.

  ‘What the hell?’ Drake said.

  ‘Somebody must have been there first thing that morning to have taken these photographs,’ Winder said.

  ‘You mean there are more?’ Drake said, hoping it wasn’t the case.

  Winder opened several more in turn. ‘He was probably using the zoom on his camera.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. This is one sad individual,’ Drake began, until his mind focused. ‘So, someone was there that morning. A walker, a cyclist.’ Drake stopped abruptly. ‘And Jane’s body was found by a tourist out riding his mountain bike. We’ve got his contact details. I need him spoken to tonight. And I need more house-to-house completed near the beach.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Howick said.

  Drake turned to him. ‘Yes. As soon as.’

  Nobody said anything for a few seconds. It felt like longer.

  ‘I’ll contact Facebook and get them to take down these images,’ Drake said.

  ‘It might not be that easy.’ Winder sounded tentative.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They might not be against their rules.’

  ‘The image of a dead body isn’t against their rules? Caren, get hold of that cyclist. Dave and Gareth, find some uniformed lads from the local station to interview the householders near the beach. Somebody must have seen something. We need to know about anyone who uses the beach on a regular basis.’

  Drake stormed off to his office just as his mobile rang.

  ‘DI Drake.’ Immediately Calvin Headley’s voice put Drake on edge.

  ‘I’ve told you not to contact me.’

  ‘Can you give me an update. I was hoping—’