Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

But Drake didn’t hear anymore before he cut the call. Drake spent the next two hours getting more and more annoyed with the various Facebook employees who put one obstacle after another in his way. Eventually he found himself speaking to an account manager called Jason – no surname offered – with a North American twang that put Drake more on edge.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do, sir,’ Jason said, almost apologetically.

  ‘I’m investigating a double murder and the owner of this account clearly has crucial information that could help us.’

  ‘Really sir. I wish I could help, but our rules don’t give me any leeway.’

  ‘What’s your email address?’ Drake said.

  Jason hesitated, and then Drake jotted down the details.

  It took Drake half an hour to visit the crown prosecutor’s office and get the correctly worded warrant issued and emailed to Jason. Caren stood up as he came back into the Incident Room.

  ‘Any luck?’ Drake asked.

  ‘The cyclist is back in Birmingham and I’ve got a DC from West Midlands going to see him.’

  He called Sian who sounded vague, as if she didn’t care what time he came home or indeed if he did. An hour passed. Drake read more of the statements from the house-to-house enquiries, before tidying the Post-it notes on his desk. He read through those that had already been actioned and then tore them carefully, before discarding them. Eventually he had three different columns of Post-it notes carefully aligned and he felt in charge again.

  Eventually he checked his emails and saw a new message from Jason. His pulse thumped as he read the details, hoping that this was the breakthrough they needed. He shouted through at Caren. ‘The account holder has an address in Bangor. Let’s go.’

  He left his room.

  Caren was already on her feet.

  ‘There’s an address in Bangor. And a name – Osborne,’ Drake said. ‘Caren, get a couple of the uniformed lads from the local station to meet us there. We’ll need stab jackets and batons for everyone. I don’t want to take any chances. And I want to catch this bastard.’

  Drake hammered the pool car down the A55 for the short journey to Bangor, Winder following behind him. The satnav took them off the A55 and past Penrhyn Castle until they reached the area near the bay. To the right was a new development of waterfront apartments and houses. Drake indicated left as instructed and found himself winding through a maze of narrow streets. He pulled the car onto the pavement a little way down from number eleven.

  A minute passed and the car got stuffy, so Drake opened the window slightly. The shouts from children playing nearby in the warmth of the summer evening drifted in. Then the local patrol car arrived and immediately Drake got out and marched over to the front door, while Caren went round the back lane.

  The net curtain moved slightly and then there was a shout from inside. Drake thumped on the door again. Nothing. And then it sounded like furniture was being moved inside and then more shouting. Drake fisted a hand and hammered on the door.

  ‘Police. Open up. Now.’

  Still the door remained firmly shut. Drake nodded to one of the officers holding a battering ram who steadied himself before swinging at the door. It gave way easily under the force and Drake rushed in.

  The smell of cannabis was overpowering. In the first room a girl of around twenty was sitting on a couch. She had long hair parted in the middle and her eyes had a glazed expression. She smiled inanely at Drake. A second room was a bedroom, even though there was not a single square metre of carpet exposed amongst the piles of clothes and junk.

  Two uniformed officers had gone upstairs and Drake could hear screams of protest. He went into the kitchen where the smell was stronger and, looking through the window, could see Caren handcuffing a tall thin man with hair to his shoulders and a beard to match.

  ‘Which one of you is Osborne?’ Drake said to the three occupants of the house, after they’d sat down in the front room. He was certain that the girl had no idea what was happening as she continued to smile at him in between scratching her face.

  ‘Nobody of that name here, man,’ one of the men said.

  ‘Do you know anyone called Osborne?’

  ‘Yeah. The Chancellor of the Exchequer.’ The tall man wriggled in his handcuffs.

  ‘And I’m sure the chancellor would want to know what you were flushing down the toilets,’ one of the uniformed officers added before handing Drake various papers he’d found.

  ‘It was just for personal use. And, hey, those are private papers. You can’t take them.’

  ‘Any computers or laptops?’ Drake said to one of the officers, who nodded back.

  ‘And some smartphones.’

  ‘You’ll go with these two officers to check your identity and for the time being we’re confiscating the laptops and computers, as we suspect they were used for distributing malicious communications.’

  It was getting dark by the time Drake stood outside the house with Caren. He flicked through the names in his notebook. There was a John Turville and a Sophie Elsworth and a Jeffrey Kernick, but definitely no Osborne.

  The uniformed officers had driven away the occupants. The girl smiled at Drake from the back seat of the patrol car.

  Caren looked up at the house number. ‘Think it’s a wind-up, sir?’

  Drake looked at the number eleven and made the connection with Osborne and the current Chancellor of the Exchequer who lived at number eleven Downing Street.

  ‘Of course. Fuck. The bastard.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘She’s late.’

  Price glanced at his watch after reading the briefing note Drake had emailed earlier that morning. He’d tugged at both ear lobes a couple of times and then rubbed his hands together vigorously.

  ‘So, what happened last night?’ Price continued, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘House-to-house drew a blank.’

  ‘Of course.’ Price read the time again.

  ‘I briefed one of the uniformed officers in Bangor to tell the students in the house that it was all part of a much larger operation against cybercrime and that they should all change the PIN numbers on their bank accounts and change all their important passwords.’

  Price straightened his tie.

  ‘The cyclist who found Jane Jones’s body was in Birmingham when Mostyn died.’

  Price’s telephone rang and he grabbed the handset. ‘Send her in,’ he said, before checking his tie one more time.

  The special adviser had a flat, round face, short hair and crystal-clear blue eyes. She wore a black pinstriped jacket over dark navy trousers and, for a woman who Drake guessed was in her forties, a very deep voice. ‘Kate French.’ She gave Price and Drake a politician’s smile.

  ‘Superintendent Price.’ Price shook her outstretched hand.

  Drake followed suit. She had a handshake to match the heavy make-up. ‘Detective Inspector Drake. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Let’s get started shall we,’ Price said. ‘I’m sure we all have a lot to do.’

  French sat down and turned to Price. ‘You must think my presence is a little odd and probably unwelcome.’

  She hesitated just long enough to give them an opportunity to disagree. They didn’t.

  ‘I have a role that involves coordinating policy between the governments of Wales and Westminster in the energy field. As you may know, there’s a lot of conflict between the various political factions and my job is to ensure that things go smoothly. The recent death of Ed Mostyn is a concern, of course.’ She corrected herself soon enough. ‘And tragic for his family. His decision not to sell the land caused some problems. And the government, both governments, want to ensure that nothing prevents the development proceeding.’

  ‘And the investigation is a potential problem? It could hold things up for months, maybe longer,’ Drake said.

  ‘While the proper course of events must take place and the investigation must leave no stone unturned, there is a certain political dimension to all of
this.’ She pitched her head to one side and looked at Drake. Her eyes said, we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

  ‘Political dimension?’ Drake said.

  Price added, ‘Kate, I’m sure that you want us to do our job without any interference.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  ‘But you’re hoping that the investigation can be completed as expeditiously as possible, thereby enabling the power company to proceed with its final land acquisition and removing any political dimension to the case.’

  A masterly display of diplomatic civil service double-talk, Drake thought, rather surprised that Price had managed it without any show of emotion.

  French blinked. ‘I’m sure I can rely on you, Wyndham.’

  By the end of an hour that had seen the best coffee served in china cups and some expensive-looking biscuits, French made her excuses and left, telling them both that she was visiting her elderly mother in a nursing home along the coast.

  Price and Drake showed her to the main reception. They watched as she left. Price turned to Drake. ‘That was a lot of fucking bullshit. Now we’ve got some spineless politician breathing down our neck.’

  *

  Drake swerved around some cuttings that had fallen on the tree-lined drive up to Crecrist Hall. A couple of hard-hatted tree surgeons hung from high branches, chainsaws hanging from straps. The drive had seen better times; the edges were crumbling and Drake had to keep a careful eye out for holes.

  The road opened onto a circular parking area of fine gravel with a small ornamental pond in the middle, the tyres of the Alfa making a soft grinding noise. He parked near the main entrance.

  The morning’s newspaper was open at the Sudoku page on the passenger seat – he’d managed ten minutes on the puzzle first thing that morning, always had to be ten minutes. Any less and he’d feel cheated, any longer and he’d feel that he was cheating the WPS. Crecrist Hall had five Georgian windows on the first floor and four on the ground floor, two either side of the front door, its surface glistening from the recently applied gloss paint. He pulled the doorbell and listened for movement inside. Eventually he heard footsteps echoing through the hallway. The door creaked open. A man about the same height as Drake but several inches more around the waist stood in the doorway. He wore a long-sleeved pink shirt with a yellow cravat, the sort that Drake had only ever seen in period dramas on the television. His paunch quivered over the waistband of a pair of red moleskin trousers, held in place by a thick leather belt. After the first glance Drake had decided that de Northway was an impressive caricature of an English toff.

  ‘Somerset de Northway?’ Drake said.

  ‘And who are you?’

  Drake flashed his warrant card. De Northway pitched his head up slightly and peered at the card.

  ‘I’m investigating the deaths of Ed Mostyn and Jane Jones.’

  De Northway lowered his head and gave Drake a long, hard stare.

  ‘May I come in and discuss the case?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, de Northway pushed open the door. ‘Of course you may.’

  The hallway was wide enough to hold a ceilidh and the supporting band. A couple of tapestries hung from high picture rails, but what struck Drake was the smell of slow decay that hung in the air. By a door in one corner Dafydd Higham stood, carrying a leather case in one hand. He gave Drake a hesitant smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ Higham said.

  ‘Dafydd does the accounts for us,’ de Northway said. He turned to Higham. ‘Dafydd.’ It came out like Davyd and the mispronunciation grated on Drake. ‘Go and wait in the breakfast room.’

  ‘We’ll use the morning room,’ de Northway said over his shoulder, as Drake followed him.

  A large empty fireplace stood centre stage in the room, its surround populated with various companion sets that were very much in need of a polish.

  ‘How can I help?’ De Northway waved a hand over the sofas, as if it was beneath him to invite Drake to sit down. A long cord hung down by the side of the mantelpiece and Drake could imagine de Northway pulling it and waiting for a servant to appear, but his fortunes clearly didn’t stretch to the indulgences his ancestors had enjoyed. And Drake guessed this was a disappointment to his host.

  Drake sat down, de Northway opposite him. Drake noticed a hole in his shoe and the ragged seam on the turn-up of his trousers.

  ‘I understand you were in the post office very early on the morning Mostyn was found.’

  De Northway peered at Drake. ‘Early riser. Always have been, ever since my days in the army.’

  ‘What time do you get down to the post office?’

  ‘It was just after six-thirty. I like to support the local shop. In fact I like to support as many local Welsh businesses as I can. I think it helps.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘Not a soul. Nobody much up at that time of the morning.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Went to the shop but the place was deserted. I shouted for Hughes but the man didn’t reply. So I picked up my Telegraph and then drove back here. I checked the livestock in the bottom field and spoke to the farm manager; then I had breakfast. Do you want to know what I had to eat?’

  Drake stopped jotting in his pocket book and looked at de Northway, trying to fathom out whether he was being deliberately awkward.

  ‘How well did you know Ed Mostyn?’

  De Northway averted his eyes. ‘Everyone knew him. He had lived in the village as man and boy.’

  ‘I understand that he was a tenant of yours.’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  Drake squeezed the biro a little tighter. ‘He was only paying a low rent for the cottage—’

  ‘Look, if you’re suggesting—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I just want information.’

  ‘Yes. Ed was a tenant of mine. He paid a peppercorn rent, but he had to maintain the property. When he took the place it was a wreck. Nothing really but walls and a rotten roof. He practically rebuilt it.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  De Northway slanted his head again as if he was silently rebuking Drake, like a head teacher with a pupil who really ought to know better. ‘The tenancy comes to an end.’

  ‘So you get the property back.’

  De Northway nodded.

  ‘It must be very valuable then,’ Drake said.

  ‘That’s a minor consideration. Ed is dead. It is a most fearfully sad business.’

  ‘Do you own a lot of land?’

  The question earned Drake another dark look.

  ‘My family have been in Anglesey for four centuries.’

  Drake felt like saying and what good has that done?’ ‘Do you own the cottages near the sea where Jane Jones’s body was found?’

  De Northway sat back in the sofa and narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes. We do. They’re in a pretty bad state of repair. We did try to get consent to convert them years ago, but there were problems with access. One of them is let out to a local environmentalist charity.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Empty.’

  ‘Do you have keys?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll need you to find them for me before I leave.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘And you own the farm where Jane lived.’

  ‘The family owns a number of farms which are all tenanted. All on a proper commercial basis. I hope you’re not linking me to Jane’s death because I own the farm where she lived.’

  ‘I’m only trying to establish the facts. It’s very early in the investigation.’

  ‘Then I think your line of questioning is preposterous. I’ve been living in the community for all my life.’

  And you still can’t pronounce Welsh Christian names.

  ‘The two recent deaths are as yet unexplained. Whether you like it or not I’m going to be asking a lot of questions. About a lot of people. And you happen to be linked to both victims.’ />
  De Northway pursed his lips and gave Drake a sullen stare.

  ‘Where were you on the night Jane Jones was killed?’

  ‘I was here. My wife was poorly. I went to bed early.’

  De Northway got up and glared at Drake as though he was daring him to ask another question.

  ‘I’ll need the keys,’ Drake said.

  De Northway left him without saying a word. Drake walked around the room. The curtains were frayed, the wallpaper yellow with age. No money had been spent on the place for many years and Drake wondered if the de Northways were really as wealthy as everyone imagined. On a round table were various family photographs and one of de Northway with Maldwyn Evans, Rhys Fairburn, and another man, that Drake thought he recognised, all looking much younger, beaming at the camera. It was similar to the one they’d found in Mostyn’s cottage and then Drake at once knew that de Northway was the man they hadn’t been able to identify in that photograph.

  Eventually de Northway returned and, after giving Drake the keys, showed him to the front door, which closed with a loud thud behind him.

  He walked over to his car, hoping he had enough on de Northway to make him a formal suspect. As he pointed his remote at the car, his mobile buzzed in his pocket and he saw the name of Dr Lee Kings.

  ‘Ian, just thought you should know – Jane Jones was pregnant when she died.’

  *

  Caren sat next to Drake on a large L-shaped leather sofa. A couple of the panels of a wide expanse of tall folding windows were open, allowing a warm breeze to tug at the voile draped at the far end. The room overlooked a long beach flanked by dunes that stretched for miles out to the west. Small rocky islands jutted out of the surface of the sea and children with small dinghies and inflatables gathered at the water’s edge. A couple of jet skis powered across the bay. A chilled glass of Pinot Grigio would make it perfect, Caren thought.

  Julian Sandham had a pronounced Adam’s apple and having to face two police officers on his own meant it was racing up and down his neck. Drake had been less tactful than usual as he dismissed the pleas from Julian’s parents that they should be present when their son was interviewed.

  Drake began. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. How long have you known Jane?’