Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  Convery gave him a puzzled expression. ‘What do you mean?’ he spluttered. ‘She’s …’ He raised his arm, pointing at the window. ‘Anyone can see her.’

  ‘What the hell …?’ Drake stepped around Convery towards the window, Sara by his side. He only took two steps before looking into the shop. Sara caught her breath. ‘Christ almighty.’

  The body stood upright somehow with one arm outstretched, dressed in what resembled a Roman toga. By her side was a single unmade bed with crumpled sheets and discarded papers. Crockery with half-eaten food lay on the floor with piles of clothes and newspapers. Now Drake understood what Convery meant when he’d described the crime scene. He turned and called over to the approaching crime scene manager.

  ‘Mike, we’ll need a tent built over this shop window immediately.’

  Mike Foulds carried on walking.

  Drake shouted. ‘Do it now, Mike. The body is on display. Everyone can bloody see it.’

  Foulds stopped and turned, barking orders to the CSIs, gathering their equipment. On the other side of the road, Drake glimpsed an onlooker pointing a mobile telephone in his direction. ‘Stop that,’ he yelled. ‘This is a police investigation.’ The individual ignored him so Drake barked at the nearest officer to stop him taking photographs. Drake could only guess at how many other sick individuals had already captured images. He dreaded to think what might appear on the internet.

  He peered again into the shop. Sara held her hand to her mouth as she stared in at the murder scene. It was like nothing Drake had ever seen before. He spoke at Convery without making eye contact. ‘So how did the killer get access?’

  ‘The back door was forced, sir.’

  Drake glared at Convery. ‘Was the property alarmed?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Find out now. And don’t leave this scene until I tell you. Give all your details to this officer.’ Convery gave a frightened nod.

  Drake snapped on latex gloves; Sara did the same. He pushed open the door and entered. The sharp putrid smell of death was unmistakeable. Drake had experienced it before many times but his first reaction was always to choke back the nausea. They stood staring at the scene.

  Glancing through the plate-glass window Drake saw the CSIs rushing to erect a barrier over the window. Across the road groups of people gawped, some gesticulating at the shop, others with hands over their mouths in shock. Drake looked at the crumpled curtain at the base of the window and at the far end noticed a laptop computer and some electronic equipment linked to a pulley system. It suggested a killer with some technical expertise.

  ‘Shouldn’t we leave the scene to the CSIs?’ Sara said.

  Drake shook his head in response. The first few hours of every murder inquiry were the most important, the most crucial; they demanded his complete attention. He stared at the body; he wanted to absorb everything about this abhorrent scene. Why had the killer posed a dead body like this? What could be the motive?

  ‘We need to learn as much as we can here.’

  Drake moved a few steps into the shop building. At a guess, the victim was mid-fifties, propped up at an angle with her left arm extended as though she was pointing at something. Moving to his left Drake made out the timber frame supporting her. The whole thing was like a macabre scene from some B movie.

  Drake craned to see any blood, but there was nothing to suggest any violence.

  ‘The killer has made a wooden frame to support the body.’ Drake turned to a sickly-looking Sara.

  ‘There must be something holding up her arm.’

  Drake stared over the upright corpse. A flowing garment shrouded her left arm and cascaded over her body.

  Sara continued. ‘It’s like a pose from an ancient Greek statue in a museum. What the hell was the killer doing?’

  Drake scanned the rest of the room. Lying against the faux brown leather headboard were two pillowcases, one a deep turquoise, the other creamy yellow, but the sheets on the bed were white and blue. From the creases and stains, they looked well used. Drake turned up his nose. Draped over the bed in no apparent order was a pair of old jeans and shirts and various pieces of underwear.

  A cheap reading lamp sat on the bedside cabinet with an alarm clock, a collection of old coins and a woman’s purse. Instinctively he guessed the killer had left the victim’s purse as part of the sick charade. He wanted to march over, pick it up and establish the woman’s identity. But he would be breaking every protocol so he stood waiting for the crime scene manager to return.

  ‘It’s like that famous piece of art from years ago where one of those big galleries in London displayed an unmade bed,’ Sara said.

  ‘I know, I was thinking the same.’ Drake knelt, surveying the floor, wondering what else was scattered under the bed. ‘The whole thing is obviously staged … but why?’

  On the floor by the cabinet lay an empty bottle of vodka and near it a large bottle of continental lager stood upright. Drake couldn’t make out if it was empty.

  Behind him, he sensed the bustle of activity from the CSI investigators erecting a tarpaulin over the plate-glass window ready to screen the inside against prying eyes.

  ‘Let’s have a look outside,’ Drake said.

  They made their way to the back of the shop where a doorway led to a storeroom. The door was ajar, its broken lock hanging limply. Outside a uniformed officer straightened when they emerged. A road led down the rear of the adjacent shops; a couple of delivery vans were parked a short distance away. Drake cast his gaze up at the various buildings. All the premises were shops or offices, making it unlikely anyone had witnessed the activity the night before. But it still meant house-to-house enquiries, owners of the premises being interviewed, in the hope that somebody had seen something.

  Drake imagined the killer parking a vehicle, manhandling the body into the shop. It would have required careful planning – hauling a body around wouldn’t be easy. He turned to the officer. ‘Get the full details of anybody who passes. Whoever is responsible for this might still be around, watching this play out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sara said very little. For Drake it made a pleasant change from the detailed commentary Caren would have started.

  ‘Let’s go back inside. Hopefully the CSIs will be ready to start work by now.’

  They returned to the shop where Michael Foulds was dictating instructions to the investigators. A photographer stood to one side fiddling with his tripod. Drake stared at the scene; again, it had a hypnotic effect. Until they identified the victim and then spoke to her family there was little they could do.

  ‘We need to find some ID.’ Drake addressed Foulds as he tipped his head towards the cabinet. ‘Can you check the purse?’

  Foulds stepped towards the bed, waving the photographer to join him. Once they’d recorded the exact scene Foulds picked up the purse and flicked through the various debit and credit cards announcing the victim’s name – Gloria Patton.

  ‘Driving licence?’ Drake said.

  Foulds shook his head.

  ‘The bank can give us her address details,’ Sara added.

  Foulds placed the purse into a plastic evidence pouch and fastened it securely.

  Giving the scene one final look, Drake turned towards the door. As he did so a mobile telephone bleeped. It sounded muted and Foulds shared a glance with the officers in the room. Drake looked at Sara who shrugged her shoulders, telling him it wasn’t her mobile.

  Another message bleeped, this time harshly, as though the phone was sitting on a piece of timber. Foulds and Drake frowned and both glanced at the bed.

  Foulds moved over to the bedside cabinet, yanking open the bottom drawer. He pulled out an old mobile telephone. It buzzed again in his hand. He stared at the screen and then over at Drake.

  ‘There’s a message. It’s got a hashtag and then “I am the one”.’

  Chapter 3

  A series of telephone calls established Gloria Patton’s home address as being near a village
in the Conwy Valley. Drake drove as Sara entered the postcode into the satnav. He followed the directions out of Llandudno, retracing his earlier journey until he reached the roundabout for the junction onto the A55. He skirted underneath the dual carriageway before heading south. He still missed the Alfa Romeo GT he had recently traded in for a more practical Ford Mondeo saloon. His mother had told him he needed something sensible when he had to ferry his daughters around. But it wasn’t as much fun to drive as the Italian sports car.

  Sara’s mobile rang as they drove through Glan Conwy. He listened to her side of the conversation, trying to interpret what the caller was saying. ‘Thanks,’ she said before turning to Drake.

  ‘I’ve got the name of Gloria Patton’s husband – Hubert. Apparently they are both artists.’

  ‘What do you mean? Like painters?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘That was all the information operational support had available.’

  Spring sunshine glistened on the surface of the Conwy river. A cuddy took advantage of the high tide as the wide expanse of water stretched out to their right: eventually, it would narrow when the tidal effect dissipated as it neared Llanrwst and Betws y Coed. A few minutes after leaving Glan Conwy the satnav announced a left turn and Drake indicated. It took them through the country lanes above the valley until they found an old farmhouse, a chipped, slate sign – Tre Ifan – propped against a gatepost. He drew the car into the yard and they got out. In one corner, the sound of violins and crashing cymbals emerged from a wooden shed.

  Drake didn’t want to get his brogues any dirtier than he needed to so he avoided the larger stones and hollows as they walked over towards the sound of the orchestra. They stood on the wooden veranda in front of a door and Drake peered through the thin sheet of Perspex that covered the top half, but he could see nobody. He shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the music, then he yanked the handle, which gave way after a brief tussle. The room they entered had a small table, a dusty leather sofa, its arms and sides scratched, presumably by the various cats roaming outside. Behind another door, the music continued unabated.

  ‘Hello, Mr Patton,’ Drake shouted.

  The music stopped abruptly. Drake and Sara had their warrant cards ready when the door opened.

  ‘Mr Patton?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Morgan. We need to speak to you. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  Breaking bad news was always something Drake dreaded, but inevitably it was a part of his job that had to be faced. He’d been on courses about victim support and empathy but it never improved his ability or made the task any easier. Patton led them back into the room he had just left. Light flooded in from a window in the ceiling. Enormous canvases were propped against easels, each a cacophony of abstract squares and circles and interconnecting lines. Paint splattered the walls, the floor, every square foot and every square inch of the tables laden with artists’ materials.

  Patton’s grey sweatshirt was thin with age and Drake noticed his large hands that complemented his strong, powerful build. The painter was an inch or two taller than Drake at about six foot, with piercing dark green eyes. The table behind him sagged as he leant on it. He did not suggest that Drake or Sara sat down.

  ‘I’m afraid I have bad news about your wife. She was found dead this morning.’

  Patton didn’t move or flinch for a few seconds, then he frowned. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  Drake reached for his smartphone and scrolled to find the image of Mrs Patton’s purse. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Patton nodded.

  ‘Inside the purse were debit and credit cards.’ Drake dictated the details of the bank account number and sort codes. ‘They were all in your wife’s name.’

  ‘Where …?’

  Drake glanced at Sara who stared intently at Patton. At some point, he would be informed about the detailed circumstances. But for now it could wait. ‘Her body was found in a shop in Llandudno.’

  ‘A shop? What do you mean? Has she had some kind of accident?’

  ‘When did you see your wife last?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Were you expecting her home last night?’

  Patton rolled his eyes. ‘Normally I would have seen her at breakfast. We have breakfast together. I tell her about my plans for the day and she does the same. We sleep separately.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it odd that she wasn’t at breakfast this morning?’

  Patton shrugged then averted his gaze.

  Drake continued. ‘It didn’t occur to you to report her missing?’

  Patton made eye contact with Drake. ‘She could stay out sometimes. I never asked where. I guessed she would stay with friends. You know, a glass or two of wine and she couldn’t drive home.’

  Drake continued. ‘Do you know where she was going last night?’

  Patton stood up. ‘After working in the gallery she was going to that festival committee meeting. The whole damn thing has been taking over her life. Waste of bloody time if you ask me.’

  ‘Gallery?’

  ‘She has a gallery in town. It pays the bills and we all have to eat. Do you think I should call the staff there?’

  Drake hesitated, trying to fathom out what exactly was going on in Patton’s mind. ‘We’ll need the details. And what festival do you mean?’

  ‘It’s the Orme Arts Festival, of course. You must have heard about it. She was on the committee.’

  Drake folded his arms as he continued to stare at Patton. ‘I’ll need some contact names and numbers before I leave.’

  Patton nodded as Sara made her first contribution. ‘How long have you been married, Mr Patton?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Now Sara looked puzzled.

  ‘Gloria and I weren’t married. My name is Oswald.’

  ‘Do you have any children? Or someone that we could call on your behalf?’

  Oswald shook his head. ‘Her mother died a couple of years ago and her father died when she was a child. We don’t have any children. We are both dedicated to our art. Nothing else matters. We both decided long ago that having a family would prevent us from developing as artists.’

  ‘Does Gloria have a studio she works from?’ Drake said.

  ‘We adapted two of the bedrooms in the house.’

  ‘We’ll need to see them.’

  Oswald glanced at his easel, not attempting to leave the studio. Drake’s patience finally ran out. ‘Now, please.’

  He glanced at Sara whose dark look matched his own feelings as they walked over to the farmhouse with Oswald. He showed them to the studio that Gloria used and then to her bedroom. He waved a hand lazily over a desk, a laptop and a dressing table. ‘You’ll find all of her stuff here.’

  As Oswald made to leave, Sara used a kindly tone. ‘Would you like us to inform anyone? We can arrange for a family liaison officer to call. They are specially trained to deal with circumstances like this.’

  ‘Circumstances?’

  ‘Gloria was murdered.’ Even Drake could sense the chill in her voice.

  ‘That is awfully kind of you, sergeant, but I can perfectly well manage on my own account.’ The heavy emphasis on awfully resulted in a narrowing of Sara’s eyes.

  ‘Where were you last night Mr Oswald?’ Oswald was by the door when Drake spoke.

  Oswald stiffened, giving Drake a wintry glare. ‘I hope you don’t think—’

  ‘Routine, I assure you.’

  The glare hardened into contempt. ‘I was here all night.’ Then he paced away.

  Once Oswald was out of earshot Sara turned to Drake. ‘What an obnoxious man.’

  ‘Maybe he’s in shock.’

  ‘Perfectly well manage on my own account,’ mimicked Sara, not quite getting Oswald’s Home Counties accent.

  ‘Let’s make him a person of interest in the inquiry. He’s an artist after all. Did you see the size of his ha
nds? He could easily have moved her body. We’ll need to find out who benefits from Gloria’s death.’

  Sara nodded.

  Drake folded the laptop into a case he found under the dressing table as Sara rummaged through a chest of drawers full of Gloria’s clothes. He picked up an old-fashioned Filofax lying next to some face cream and flicked through it absently, his suspicions deepening about Oswald after his odd behaviour. ‘We’ll need to take most of the stuff back to headquarters. Gareth and the new DC can work through the laptop and her diary.’

  Half an hour later Drake and Sara made their way downstairs, finding Oswald sitting in the kitchen by a battered table nursing a green bottle of continental lager. He gazed up at Drake, who caught a sense of sadness in the man’s face now. Drake immediately recalled the scene in the shop earlier with the bottle of lager and vodka discarded by the bed and wondered if there was a connection.

  ‘An officer will call to take a full statement from you in due course,’ Drake said.

  Oswald gave him a feeble smile before taking another long slug of beer. Then he held up a sheet of paper. ‘These are the names you wanted.’

  Drake scanned them; he had hours of work ahead of him. ‘Does Gloria have a car?’

  Oswald nodded. ‘An orange Peugeot.’

  ‘Registration number?’

  He looked back blankly at Drake. ‘No idea.’

  ‘We’ll need you to make the formal identification.’

  Drake half-expected him to object, finding some clever justification for not doing so. But he just nodded. They left him sitting silently, a long-distance stare in his eyes.

  A couple of the cats walked over the roof of Drake’s car but jumped off as they saw him approach. Back on the road, Sara turned to Drake. ‘What did you make of him, boss?’

  ‘One minute he’s belligerent and then he’s sad. He didn’t seem to be affected by Gloria’s death.’

  ‘I thought artists were supposed to be an emotional bunch. But his eyes looked empty.’

  ‘Once we’ve established a time of death, and established her movements last night we’ll have another conversation with Hubert Oswald.’