Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Did you socialise regularly?’

  ‘We were in the Cambrian Club.’

  ‘I understand you spoke with Maldwyn on the night he was arrested, the night before he killed himself. What did you talk about?’

  Higham fiddled with the bone china mug on the table and shrugged.

  ‘Did he mention the reason why he’d been arrested?’

  ‘I don’t remember much about the conversation.’

  ‘What did he say? Did he mention Jane Jones or Mostyn?’

  Higham avoided any eye contact with Drake. ‘As I have said, I don’t remember much about what he said.’

  ‘Did you discuss the sale of the land?’

  ‘He was very upset, almost incoherent…’

  Higham folded his arms and glanced over at his wife. Drake found the photograph from Evans’s house and showed it to Higham. ‘This is a photograph we found with Maldwyn’s effects. Do you know when it was taken?’

  ‘It was at one of the Cambrian Club dinners.’

  ‘Who is the third man?’

  ‘That’s a friend of Somerset de Northway. I’m surprised you don’t recognise him.’

  Drake took back the photograph and looked at the face again.

  ‘It’s Judge Hawkins.’

  Immediately Drake saw the resemblance. Hawkins was leaner but Drake could see the narrow sharp eyes he’d noticed in court. Drake took a mouthful of coffee. It was fresh, a welcome change from the instant most people served.

  At least they had the identities of all the men featured. Now they had seen four photographs of the Cambrian Club dinner although Fairburn and de Northway still had theirs on display. It was a small community where everyone knew each other but were the photographs merely coincidence?

  Drake’s mobile rang and he fumbled in his pocket. He recognised Caren’s number and pressed the handset to his ear.

  ‘We’ve found an address for Becky and Sue, the girls named by Tracy.’

  Chapter 23

  Twenty minutes later Drake indicated left into a small housing estate in Cemaes and read the text message on his mobile with the address. Number thirty-three was a semi-detached house with wooden window frames that needed replacing and an overall tired feel that properties acquired as a result of landlords who were disinterested in improvements.

  Drake left the car and strode over to the front door. There was no car in the drive and nothing to suggest any sign of occupants. There was no bell, so Drake hammered on the door. Immediately he heard muted voices, and moments later the door opened.

  He flashed his warrant card at the young girl standing in the doorway. She was no more than eighteen, but the defiant look in her eyes suggested she wanted to be a lot older. Drake looked over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m looking for Becky Jackson and Sue Pritchett.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Are they here?’

  ‘No.’ The girl angled the door towards Drake. ‘Becky’s at work. And I haven’t seen Sue for ages.’

  ‘Where does Becky work?’

  ‘In the bakery in the village.’

  Drake hesitated. ‘Is that the place owned by Gwynfor Llywelyn?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Where does Sue live?’

  The girl shrugged. Drake turned on his heels and left, guessing that as soon as the door was closed she would be texting a message to Becky. Drake drove down into the village and after parking walked down towards the bakery. All the loose ends and various threads intertwined in Drake’s mind as he faced the real possibility that the investigation was failing. Everyone was connected or it certainly appeared that way. And despite the billion-pound investment in a modern nuclear power station, the local community of Anglesey still wanted to keep its secrets.

  A thin veil of flour and a strong smell of yeast hung in the air inside the bakery. Gwynfor Llywelyn gave Drake a wary look as he finished serving the only customer. ‘What do you want?’ he said once the shop was empty.

  ‘I want to speak to Becky.’

  Llywelyn scowled. Then he raised the flap on the counter and Drake followed him through to the office.

  He recognised the girl he’d seen on his first visit. She was stick thin but that morning she had her hair, a deep scarlet, gelled to look like a spike. She still had the nose rings and callow, restless eyes. Drake had mulled over how he’d start the conversation – is it true you were abused? Who was involved? He’d never really ascribed to the touchy-feely, considerate school of police interrogation. He had a job to do, questions to be asked and he expected answers. But even so, a degree of sensitivity was required.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to Becky on her own,’ he said to Llywelyn, who gave the young girl a fierce look and left.

  Drake drew up a chair and sat down.

  ‘Becky, I know this could be difficult. I’m investigating the death of Jane Jones and Ed Mostyn. We’ve spoken to Tracy.’

  Becky swallowed hard. She tried to find things for her hands to do. Drake continued. ‘She’s told us about what went on in the cottages near where Jane was killed. She said that you and Sue Pritchett were involved.’

  Becky stared at her hands curled up on her lap. ‘They always liked Jane better than the rest of us.’

  ‘Can you tell me who was involved?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I only ever saw two them. That creep Ed Mostyn was one of them. He came here sometimes. Made my skin crawl.’

  ‘And the other one?’ Drake reached into his shirt pocket and found the photograph. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

  She put her hand to her mouth, caught her breath. ‘It’s that one in the middle,’ she said, pointing to Rhys Fairburn.

  Drake had expected her to identify Evans. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How old were you… when…?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you make a complaint?’

  ‘At the time we were frightened. Then later Jane didn’t want to. She wanted to go away and make a new life. She had money. I saw it, she had lots of it.’

  ‘How much?’

  Becky looked at Drake wide-eyed. ‘Thousands, I saw it all in bundles.’

  ‘Where did she get it?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me. And anyway, nobody would have believed us.’

  ‘Where did she keep the money?’

  ‘How would I know? She’s dead.’

  Becky choked back a tear. Drake sat back, thinking to himself that once he found the answer to how Jane had acquired lots of money he’d probably find the answer to her death. And maybe even the death of Ed Mostyn.

  ‘Do you know where Sue Pritchett is?’

  Becky shook her head. ‘She worked here for a while. But I don’t know where she is now.’

  Drake thought about the possibility that the bakery might have some record he could use to trace her. ‘You do the accounts here, don’t you?’

  ’Yes. Why…?’

  ‘Do you have the national insurance number for Sue?’

  Becky folded her arms severely. ‘I can’t give you that information. He’d go mad. I’d lose my job.’

  Drake glanced back over his shoulder. The door to the office was firmly closed. There was a crowd in the shop, Llywelyn was busy. ‘He’ll never find out. And I’m sure you want me to find Jane’s killer.’

  Becky stared out into the shop. Then quickly she drew her chair nearer the desk, opened the bottom drawer and drew out a file suspended inside. Quickly she skimmed through the documents and then jotted a set of numbers on a Post-it note that she folded and handed to Drake.

  ‘Thanks,’ Drake said.

  She even managed a brief smile. He left the office, and as soon as he was outside dialled Caren’s number.

  *

  By mid-afternoon Howick had scanned dozens of folders with articles about the latest trends in farming and photographs of Evans and his wife in happier times, before deciding that he’d benefit from a brisk
walk, so he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and left headquarters. He returned half an hour later but his mind was now more dominated than before about his promotion.

  Howick had arrived at work that morning, convinced that the reason for the delay in the publication of his exam results meant only one thing: failure. Every day for the past week he’d pondered the possibility of calling and asking about the results. But each time he’d lost his nerve. It had actually occurred to him a couple of times to go home at lunchtime to check whether the results had been sent by post instead of the email that had been promised.

  The morning had been spent digging around in the private life of Maldwyn Evans. With their only tentative suspect mashed to a pulp by a speeding express train, Howick’s motivation to build a picture of Evans had flagged. Everything that Evans had told them about his financial position had been confirmed by the bank statements and the results of standard financial checks. Howick had little sympathy for the farming community that he saw on the television regularly complaining about their incomes and standard of living. They all appeared remarkably well fed. It became clear by the middle of the morning that Evans had been a disaster at farming. Letters from the business relationship manager of the bank criticised his business decisions and suggested that he should be looking for alternative sources of income.

  Howick stared towards the board and looked over at the names under the words ‘Persons of Interest’ printed in bold font. He doubted whether Evans could seriously be considered as a person of interest any longer. He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk and realised that he hadn’t seen a copy of the accounts for Evans’s business. But he didn’t have the patience to get the paperwork he needed for the Inland Revenue so he left it – promising himself to go back to it later. In any event, he still had more of Evans’s files to read.

  The file open on his desk contained the results of house-to-house around Evans’s home. He thought again about the sergeant’s exams. The promotions board would surely be able to tell him by now. He found the number on his mobile telephone and pressed the handset to his ear, clearing his throat at the same time.

  ‘It’s DC David Howick. I sat the sergeant’s exams some time ago. I was just enquiring about the results.’ Howick tried to eliminate any criticism from his tone.

  ‘Let me check.’ The voice sounded uninterested.

  As the silence continued, he tried not to think about how his entire future could turn on the conversation he was about to have. Maybe he should have waited. There was rustling sound. He watched Winder mouthing excuses about something, which Howick couldn’t interpret, before leaving.

  ‘I’ll need to get back to you. I don’t seem to be able to find the records.’

  Howick’s mouth dried; something invisible caught in his throat. ‘Thank you,’ he managed.

  More doubts crept into his mind as he got back to work. Maybe he should be looking for a transfer to traffic. He found it hard to concentrate, but turned his attention to Evans’s computer. He managed to boot it up without any trouble and spent the rest of the morning trying to put to the back of his mind the ever-increasing conviction that he had failed.

  Evans had various files that he’d marked ‘personal’ and ‘financial’. Howick clicked them open in turn. Eventually Howick spotted a folder marked ‘miscellaneous’. Inside it were more files with innocuous-sounding names. Howick clicked them open. Each in turn had more files, some occasionally with only a single document. He looked at the time on the clock at the bottom of the screen, wondering how long he could reasonably leave it before he called the promotions board again.

  Then he found a file called ‘various’. In it were folders, each protected by a password. Howick hesitated. He found Evans’s date of birth and punched the number in. No luck. Then he tried a variation of the same digit until he thought he’d exhausted all the various alternatives. He drew a blank again. Then he used the numerals from Evans’s telephone and his house number. Another dead end.

  This was a futile exercise, he decided, and settled back into his chair heavily, realising that soon he’d have to involve the forensics team but that would mean delays. So he tried to picture Evans using a computer and whether he’d keep passwords in a folder somewhere. His father had a moleskin notebook with all his personal details: bank account number, password for internet banking and all his pin numbers. Howick had warned him frequently that he might lose the notebook but his father was afraid of hackers extracting the information from his computer.

  So Howick rummaged through Evans’s papers until he finally found a small notepad with a ring spine. The first pages listed addresses for family and colleagues but by the final few pages expectation had built in his mind until he read the details he needed and his pulse beat faster.

  He typed in the password and pressed ‘enter’. He did a double-take, scarcely believing what was on the screen: dozens of thumbnail images of young naked girls. Then on impulse he went back to Evans’s emails and searched for the name of Ed Mostyn. After half an hour his patience was rewarded.

  *

  Howick’s constant fussing about his exam results was getting on Winder’s nerves. Even when Howick wasn’t saying anything Winder could tell that his mind was distracted. There were regular glances at his watch and occasional sighs of irritation, and the lapse in his concentration had made it hard for Winder to work effectively. The promotions board need to put Howick out of his misery, Winder thought.

  By mid-morning Winder was halfway through the box of papers relating to Somerset de Northway that he had put to one side the previous week. He read the name ‘Crecrist Enterprises’, knowing it had been a thread he’d ignored. The possibility that he had missed something of relevance began to play on his mind. He typed the name of the company into a Google search, hoping that the results would be irrelevant.

  By the middle of the first page a spasm of guilt jolted into his mind. As he read a newspaper article he hoped that it didn’t have any relevance to their inquiry, but the more he read the more he knew he was going to have to find an explanation for his delay. He read the article a second time before deciding to double-check the facts. He needed a map, and the location of both Tyddyn Du and Mostyn’s cottage. It was another ten minutes until he had found the location. He chewed one of his nails, imagining Drake’s reproach when he explained himself.

  Then he remembered the accounts for Crecrist Enterprises.

  It was time for a visit to the economic crime department, Winder concluded, reaching for the telephone.

  *

  Howick could barely contain his enthusiasm. The answer machine had clicked on as soon as he rang Drake’s number. Then he tried Caren but all he heard was her voice inviting the caller to leave a message and if there was anything urgent to ring headquarters. He had more luck with Winder.

  ‘Gareth, where are you?’

  ‘In economic crime. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Get back here.’

  Howick tossed the mobile onto the pile of papers on his desk just as Drake and Caren pushed open the door. ‘I’ve been trying to call you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Anything urgent?’

  ‘I’ve been working on Evans’s computer. You need to see some of these photographs.’

  ‘What photographs?’

  Howick sat down by his desk and Drake and Caren stepped over towards him, leaning over his shoulder. He’d only managed a couple of clicks of the mouse when Winder barged in. Howick found the file that he’d analysed. He clicked on the slideshow button and the images gradually appeared. The girls were teenagers with narrow waists and young faces that stared into the camera apprehensively. The occasional image had them fully clothed, pouting or caught mid-twirl but most were of the girls naked, their breasts undeveloped, small round lumps of flesh with erect nipples. One of the girls tried to give a seductive look to the camera. When the screen filled with the first of a series of images of the girls lying on a bed, their legs spread in the air,
Caren gasped. Howick glanced up and saw the dark, troubled look on Drake’s face and the horror on Caren’s.

  ‘How many different girls are there?’ Drake said.

  ‘I’ve counted four, sir,’ Howick said. ‘And they were sent to Evans by Ed Mostyn.’

  ‘So Joanna Barnes was right. Did he send them on to anyone?’

  ‘There’s only a passing reference in an email from Mostyn to the photos. Evans must have deleted them.’

  ‘Stop,’ Drake said as Howick clicked on one image. He leant forward. ‘That’s Becky. I saw her today. She named Fairburn and Mostyn as her abusers.’

  ‘Is Jane Jones one of them?’ Caren said.

  Howick found another image. ‘She looks a lot younger. But I’m sure it’s her.’

  Caren stared at the monitor. ‘Where were these taken? Only it looks like the bedroom at that cottage. Go back to some of the other photographs.’

  Howick did as he was told and scrolled back until Caren stopped him. ‘Look, I told you,’ she said. ‘See that ceiling is curved? It’s definitely that cottage.’

  ‘That certainly makes sense with the comments we’ve had about what took place there,’ Drake said.

  Howick shifted his position in his chair. ‘There’s more, sir.’ He clicked back to where he’d stopped the slideshow before. Soon enough there were various grainy images of men sitting around a table, a bottle of wine and various glasses in front of them, and a young girl sitting on each knee. ‘These pictures must have been taken with a very old camera phone. But that’s Maldwyn Evans, Ed Mostyn and Rhys Fairburn right enough,’ Howick said.

  ‘I wonder who took the photographs?’ Drake said slowly.

  *

  By late afternoon Drake stared at the Incident Room board, not really focusing on the faces or the details, uncertain whether he had learnt anything from speaking with Dafydd Higham. The images of the girls and the details from Becky meant evidence. The sort that any prosecutor would relish.

  Caren joined him and he turned towards her; she had a determined look on her face. He tapped on the dinner party photograph.