Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  He slammed an open palm against the dashboard as he thought how the investigation had been sidetracked into focusing on the activities of Somerset de Northway and his cronies with the young girls in the cottage. And all the time the answer had been right under his nose.

  It took them forty-five minutes to reach Vera Fraser’s house. He jumped out of the car and ran up the concrete drive to the front door, noticing movement behind the net curtains. He reached the bell just as Vera Fraser opened the door.

  He flashed his card so quickly that Fraser had little chance to read the details. ‘DI Drake. I need to ask you about Jane Jones.’ Drake didn’t wait for an invitation, barging directly into the hallway and through into the sitting room.

  ‘You told my officer David Howick that Mildred Jones had an affair. Are you certain?’

  Fraser sat down and curled one leg over the other knee. ‘Well…’

  ‘Do you know who she had the affair with?’

  Fraser gave him a guarded look. ‘I can’t be certain… But a cousin of mine… She saw Mildred with Dafydd Higham.’

  ‘So Jane must be his daughter.’

  ‘I don’t know about that…’

  Chapter 41

  Drake sat in the car, knowing he had to find Dafydd Higham. Quickly.

  He dialled the office number, breathing slowly, his thoughts dominated by the Cambrian Club dinner photographs taken by Higham. If it was true that Jane was his daughter it must have sickened him every time he saw one of those images. The men who had abused his own daughter, smiling at the camera, sharing jokes.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Higham isn’t here at the moment,’ the receptionist said. ‘Can I take a message? Can I tell him who called?’

  Drake rang off.

  ‘He’s got an alibi,’ Caren said. ‘His wife confirms that he was in bed all night…’

  And before she finished another piece of the jigsaw fell into place.

  ‘Richie Mostyn said Joan Higham had trouble sleeping; apparently it was common in their family. And then when we saw her the first time she told us she had no trouble sleeping. The night Dafydd Higham was away she couldn’t sleep. So what does that tell us?’

  Caren crunched the car into first gear and accelerated towards the main road, towards Dafydd Higham’s house. ‘He’s probably got a supply of sleeping tablets.’

  ‘And we’ve got to find them.’

  ‘But it’s all circumstantial. Nothing that will get the CPS to drop its case against Llywelyn.’

  It wasn’t long until they turned into the drive for the Highams’ property. The sun was warm as they left the air conditioning of the car. Drake strode over to the rear door, looking around for signs that Dafydd Higham was present, but the yard was empty. For the first time he noticed the outbuildings that had been refurbished, a new roof, new guttering and mahogany windows. He hammered on the door, giving Caren an apprehensive look. Her jaw was tight, her eyes small but focused.

  Drake peered through a couple of windows but there was no sign of movement.

  ‘Let’s go and have a look at these outbuildings,’ he said eventually.

  Drake tried the first door, but it was locked and, leaning down, he was able to see inside what looked like a converted workshop. Various tools were scattered on the surface of a bench. Caren had walked ahead and opened a set of double doors without difficulty. Drake followed her inside. In the middle of a makeshift partition of unpainted plasterboard was an unlocked door that Drake nonetheless struggled to open. When he did, he saw what looked like an artist’s studio, canvases stacked against a table and various cupboards screwed to the wall. Drake opened each in turn, examining various pots of paint and artists’ accessories until a white bag caught his attention. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and dipped his hand inside, where he found blister packs of prescription medicine. Quickly he scanned the leaflets, realising that the powerful sleeping tablets had been bought on the Internet.

  ‘You were right Caren,’ Drake said, turning towards her and holding the bag with two fingers. ‘Enough sleeping tablets for an army.’

  They retraced their steps and stood outside on the remains of old cobbles, in the cool shade of the midday sun. Drake looked over towards the end of the outbuildings, its door hanging off old hinges. He walked towards it and stepped into the gloom. A couple of quad bikes had been pushed into one corner, and various pieces of garden equipment dropped into an old dustbin. In the far corner the frame of an old garden cloche and stacks of timber stood against the wall, but underneath Drake spotted a piece of tarpaulin. Then he noticed the faint outline of a tyre track in the mud. His pulse beat a little faster, the anticipation building as he yanked the tarpaulin away and spotted the Vespa.

  ‘We need to find Dafydd Higham now,’ Drake called over at Caren.

  He reached for his mobile telephone. He barked instructions to Winder. ‘Get a warrant issued for Dafydd Higham.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Drake had already finished the call.

  ‘Where could he be?’ Caren said.

  Drake immediately thought about the dinner jacket images. Only two of the men involved were still alive – Somerset de Northway and Aiden Hawkins. Then it struck Drake that it must have been Dafydd Higham in Crecrist Hall the evening de Northway was assaulted. He jogged back to the car. ‘We need to contact de Northway and Judge Hawkins.’

  Caren gave him a puzzled look. ‘I thought de Northway was in hospital.’

  They reached the car, Drake’s breathing heavy. They jumped in and Drake powered down the window. Caren accelerated away from the farmhouse, skidding to a halt by the main road.

  Drake fumbled with his mobile telephone, scanning the Internet for the hospital’s number. Pressing the handset to his ear, he muttered an encouragement for the call to be answered.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Ian Drake of the Wales Police Service. I need some information urgently. Do you still have a patient called Somerset de Northway?’

  Drake could hear voices in the background at the hospital reception. He didn’t have to wait long; a woman’s voice sounded reassuring, informative. ‘That patient was discharged yesterday.’

  Drake didn’t bother thanking her before he finished the call, repeating the details to Caren who was trying to overtake a tractor. ‘We should be there in fifteen minutes.’

  Drake dialled Price’s number, but his direct line was engaged. Drake cursed, and tried Winder instead. ‘Get an armed guard to the crown court to protect Judge Hawkins. There is every reason to believe that Dafydd Higham will try and kill him.’

  ‘Have you spoken with the super?’

  ‘Line’s engaged. Just do it. Tell him what we know. Speak to Judge Hawkins’s clerk and make sure he doesn’t leave the building.’

  Caren was already nearing the lane to Crecrist Hall by the time Drake finished. His heart pounded in his chest as the car raced past the small lodge cottage and skidded to a halt outside the front entrance. Drake ran over to the door but it was locked. He pulled the bell violently, but it made no noise.

  They ran together towards the back of the house, but the French doors he’d used before were locked. The grass around the house had been recently cut; fresh clippings were scattered over the sandstone paving slabs.

  ‘The rear entrance is over here,’ Caren said.

  A large oak door was ajar and Drake hesitated. He pushed it open, and rushed into the kitchen followed by all the ground-floor rooms in turn. He shouted de Northway’s name but there was no response. He ran up the stairs, Caren behind him, both looking into each room until they were satisfied the place was empty. The noise of his leather shoes reverberated against the servant’s wooden staircase and seconds later he stood outside.

  In a copse he saw the line of chimneys and the sagging slates of an old roof and set off towards it. Caren’s laboured breathing was noisy by his side; Drake wiped away the sweat from his brow but could do nothing about his sodden armpits. He undid his tie while running. The buildi
ngs looked like old stables – a couple had large doors, and from the furthest he heard a dull thud before the sound of a door squeaking open.

  He speeded up and, reaching the first window, peered through it, with Caren doing likewise. But the glass was thick with grime and dust. He tugged at the main door but it barely moved, simply rattling the attachments on the inside. He took a step back and thought about smashing a window until he saw a stone staircase leading to the first floor around the gable. Hoping he could get access from the top, he took the stairs two at a time. Fighting to keep his balance on the small platform at the top, he aimed a kick at the door. It fell away easily against his weight.

  Inside there was a wide mezzanine floor; below him, he saw de Northway. Drake tumbled down a wooden staircase, at the same time shouting at Caren to follow him, before jumping on the table and taking the weight of de Northway’s body hanging limply from a noose.

  Seconds later Caren appeared and helped Drake remove the noose while they both held de Northway’s body. As they laid him flat on the table, Drake pressed two fingers hard into his neck.

  ‘Call an ambulance. There’s still a pulse.’

  In the distance the faint sound of a motorcycle broke the silence.

  ‘You stay here; I’m going after that bastard.’

  Drake grabbed at the piece of old timber holding the door closed. It gave way easily under his weight and Drake made for the car. He pressed on, despite the pain of a side stitch.

  He jumped into his car, keeping the nausea at bay. The engine screamed as he accelerated in low gears down the lane to the main road. He could hear the approaching ambulance siren and looked right and left, trying to decide which route to take. He indicated right. He reached the next village and scoured the car parks for any sign of Higham. Reaching a crossroads, he accelerated through the traffic lights just as they turned to red. He called the local station on his mobile, requesting assistance, insisting they get all available traffic cars to the west of the island.

  He accelerated along a straight stretch of road, and in the distance caught sight of helmeted figure riding at a steady pace. Drake pressed the accelerator hard to the floor and the car hurtled forward. He switched on the police hazard lights and reached the motorcyclist within seconds. He got his car alongside Higham, before nudging him into the side of the road. Higham braked and when the motorcycle stopped he jumped off, leaving the scooter to fall into a ditch.

  Higham ran towards a farm gate and scrambled over it, falling flat onto the ground on the other side. Drake pulled the car nearer to the side of the road and headed off in pursuit. Higham was making good progress along the edge of a field sown with sugar beet. Drake’s brogues were uncomfortable as he slipped and banged against the dried-up tracks of tractor wheels. He started breathing deeply, blowing out deep lungs of breath.

  Higham fumbled over another gate and now Drake was within a few yards.

  Drake watched as Higham wrested his head free of the helmet, which he discarded into the brambles. He gained a few yards on Drake, until he fell headlong.

  Drake arrived seconds later, and leant down, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked down at Higham who was wincing in pain. ‘My leg,’ he said.

  Drake took a few seconds to allow his breathing to return to normal. ‘Dafydd Higham. I’m arresting you for murder.’

  Chapter 42

  When Drake returned to Dafydd Higham’s home a Scientific Support Vehicle and several marked police cars were parked in the yard. The Vespa, a neutral teal colour, stood outside the outbuildings, a couple of crime scene investigators working inside. Routine house-to-house enquiries and an appeal to the public would probably find an eyewitness who’d seen Higham’s Vespa travelling near Fairburn’s house on the day he was killed. And with South’s and Llywelyn’s evidence, any denial by Higham would be futile. Drake saw Mike Foulds emerging from an outbuilding and walked over towards him.

  ‘We found Mostyn’s laptop in the house,’ Foulds said. ‘Lots of pictures in files with no passwords. And pictures of Higham with Ray-Bans that his wife says he lost on holiday last year.’

  ‘Good.’

  More evidence.

  ‘And Higham’s been stockpiling sleeping tablets.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Drake said.

  A patrol car pulled into the drive. Caren emerged from the passenger side and Drake walked over. ‘How is Somerset de Northway?’

  ‘He’ll live. We got there just in time.’

  Drake worried that he had allowed an innate dislike of Somerset de Northway to cloud his judgement even if focusing on him at the time was logical.

  ‘Have you heard about the suicide note, sir?’

  Drake frowned and shook his head.

  ‘Higham forced de Northway to write out a note explaining what he had done with the girls in the cottages. How he was overcome with guilt and grief. And that killing himself was the only honourable thing left to do.’

  They both turned towards the rear door of the house as they heard a woman’s voice. ‘You can’t take that,’ it shouted, and Joan Higham appeared.

  Drake and Caren walked towards the house. Joan spotted them and marched over. ‘You’ve got no right taking my personal possessions.’ She raised a hand out towards the boxes being removed from the house by the crime scene investigators.

  ‘You should leave Mrs Higham,’ Drake said.

  ‘How dare you! This is my home.’

  ‘We’ve arrested your husband for multiple murders. We have to go through all his papers. If you’ve got a complaint, take it up with Superintendent Price or the chief constable or your MP or anybody else you want. But if you get in our way I’ll arrest you.’

  Drake turned away, leaving Joan Higham, hands on hips, glaring at him.

  *

  By early evening Drake sat with Caren in the interview room looking at Dafydd Higham. His small dark eyes peered unblinkingly at Drake. To his left Don Hart, his solicitor, looked uncomfortable in the narrow plastic chair and no matter how he moved his substantial frame, he wasn’t able to find the right position.

  ‘Don.’ Drake glanced over at the lawyer, who was a regular in the area custody suite.

  ‘Bloody hot in here,’ Hart said, undoing his tie, jowls flapping over his open collar.

  Drake sat down and, once he’d completed the formalities, looked up at Higham.

  ‘You’ve been arrested for the attempted murder of Somerset de Northway. I’ll read his preliminary statement.’

  It was no more than a few sentences but Drake looked up regularly, trying to gauge the response in Higham’s eyes. Whenever he thought he saw a reaction, Higham’s black lifeless eyes snuffed it out.

  ‘Dafydd. Why did you try to kill Somerset de Northway?’

  Higham shook his head slowly.

  Drake ignored him again. ‘You and your wife stood to make a lot of money once the land had been sold. Is that why you killed Ed?’

  Higham crossed his arms, pulled them tightly to his body and smirked at Drake.

  ‘Now is your opportunity to explain everything,’ Drake said. ‘Did Ed discuss his private life with you?’

  ‘You’ve got no idea.’ Higham spat out a reply.

  ‘Did he invite you to join their little parties at the cottage?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the attempted murder of Somerset de Northway?’ Hart interjected.

  Drake turned to him abruptly. ‘I’ll conduct this interview anyway I choose.’ Higham sneered at Drake when he looked back at him. ‘After you’d killed Ed Mostyn, you decided to set up Gwynfor Llywelyn. He was the natural scapegoat, had a motive for killing Mostyn and you knew that he was in love with Jane. The murder of Rhys Fairburn just made it easier to create a picture that Llywelyn was the guilty party.’

  ‘And why exactly would I want to kill Rhys Fairburn?’

  Drake hesitated and pressed the small of his back against the stiff plastic chair. A person’s natural instinct was to engage and Higham was
the sort to believe he was cleverer than any policeman.

  ‘You were aware that Rhys Fairburn and Somerset de Northway had a liking for young girls. In fact, the younger the better, mostly under sixteen.’

  Higham rolled his eyes.

  ‘For the purposes of the tape, can you confirm that you were aware of their activities?’

  Higham coughed briefly. ‘Yes. Ed Mostyn told me. He’d been involved. I thought it was disgusting. They were paedophiles taking advantage of young girls. They should have been locked up.’

  ‘Can you help us with the names of the girls involved?’

  Drake watched as Higham tried to work out exactly what was going on. He pushed over the table a photograph of Tracy sitting on Fairburn’s lap. ‘You know who this girl was?’

  Higham shook his head.

  ‘Did Ed Mostyn ever mention Tracy?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘And there are three other girls that we can’t trace.’ Drake pushed over three more photographs. ‘Do you recognise any of them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Drake paused, staring over at Higham. ‘Did Ed Mostyn mention to you that Jane Jones was one of the young girls targeted?’

  Higham swallowed hard. Drake had his answer.

  ‘He might have mentioned her name.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  Higham gave a puzzled look. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, you’ve told me that you thought what they were doing was disgusting and that they should be locked up. I want to know how you felt, knowing that these middle-aged men had been having sex with Jane, your daughter.’

  *

  ‘You should have seen the look on his face,’ Caren said, putting down the pre-packed sandwiches and soft drink onto her desk. Howick and Winder had already finished their lunch; a mug of coffee sat on the desks in front of each of them.

  ‘What did he say?’ Winder said.

  ‘His mouth fell open. I could almost see his tonsils.’

  Howick grunted a brief appreciation of Caren’s comment.