Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘She had no idea about real quality. She believed art was there to entertain, Inspector. Nothing more than that. For her, it was sophisticated titillation. It never occurred to her that it might stretch the mind, challenge the norm, make people think. After all, art should make people think, don’t you agree?’

  Drake stayed silent. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions.

  Norma continued. ‘The Orme Arts Festival was an opportunity to showcase some really exceptional artistic work from everyone in Wales. But she wanted to make it local, parochial. I heard she thought about displaying Victorian bathing huts as though she were running a museum.’

  ‘Are you a full-time artist?’

  Norma pouted. ‘I have a wide-ranging practice, Inspector. I’ve been doing this for years. It may not be what you consider to be conventional.’

  There was nothing conventional about the letters Drake had read for a second time that morning in the car outside the studio, reminding himself of the comments Buckland had made in them, castigating Gloria Patton.

  ‘I’ve seen letters you sent to the committee members. Would you say it’s conventional to direct abusive comments and insults at them because you were rejected?’

  For a second Buckland looked uncomfortable.

  Drake waited for her to respond but she stayed silent. He decided to push on, relishing the prospect of asking her about them again.

  ‘When did you last see Gloria?’

  Norma shrugged.

  ‘Try and remember.’

  ‘Two or three weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, which is it?’

  Norma relented. ‘I don’t keep track of when I see people. Especially people like Gloria Patton.’

  ‘Did you know her husband?’

  Norma shook her head.

  ‘Where were you the night Gloria was killed?’

  She stepped nearer Drake. ‘I was here, all night. And there is no one to give me an alibi.’

  * * *

  Drake and Sara arrived back at Northern Division headquarters as Gareth Winder tucked into a lunchtime pastry. Luned turned a fork around a plastic container of salad. Drake strode over to the Incident Room board.

  ‘We’ve finished taking statements from the eyewitnesses who first saw the body, boss,’ Winder said.

  Luned stopped eating and looked over at Drake.

  ‘It was just before eleven. Two couples walked past the window. They were both taken aback when the curtain fell down. They thought it was a mistake at first so they stopped and stared in. They didn’t comprehend immediately they might be looking at a dead body.’

  ‘How did they realise it was a corpse?’ Drake said.

  ‘One of the men was a paramedic,’ Winder said. ‘The more he stared at Gloria the more he became unsettled and aware something was wrong.’

  Luned added. ‘He called emergency services.’

  ‘But dozens of people had stopped in the meantime, boss. That means photographs and videos of this all over social media.’

  Drake spoke slowly when he realised the implication of their comments. ‘So if it wasn’t for this paramedic, Gloria Patton might have been on display much longer.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Sara piped up. ‘Absolutely sick.’

  It was the most animated Drake had seen her so far.

  ‘Presumably that is what the killer wanted. He wanted the whole thing to be a spectacle.’ Drake stood back from the board and pointed at the photographs. ‘He wanted Gloria Patton to be on display. Gawped at by passers-by.’

  ‘I checked out the unmade bed artwork, sir,’ Luned said. ‘It was called My Bed by Tracey Emin. It sold for £2.2 million.’

  The vast sum involved jolted Drake. ‘How much?’

  Winder and Sara looked equally surprised. Drake continued. ‘So the killer replicates a piece of famous art in the middle of a murder scene. What the hell is he trying to tell us?’

  ‘Maybe he thinks an unmade bed isn’t really art,’ Winder added.

  ‘Perhaps he was suggesting his art was just as good as My Bed.’ Luned’s soft accent reminded Drake of the rural accents of his childhood.

  ‘So I wonder what he would have called it?’ Winder said. ‘Dead on Your Feet or something sick like that.’

  Drake gave him a sharp, reproachful glance. ‘Did we get anything of value from the eyewitnesses?’

  Winder and Luned shook their heads.

  ‘Nothing at all? What about the inquiries with the adjacent shops?’

  ‘That’s ongoing, sir.’

  ‘I want progress made, Gareth. Tell the uniformed lads to pull their fingers out. I want reports by later today. Names, addresses of people who might have seen something, anything and find her car – it can’t be that difficult.’

  Drake left the three officers in the Incident Room. Back in his office he flopped into his chair; he had to fathom out the significance of the murder scene. The interview with Buckland had only confirmed that she had a motive and although she seemed straightforward, Drake wasn’t going to dismiss her as a possible suspect.

  The possibility the killer might strike again dominated Drake’s thoughts. He read through the various reports including the preliminary post-mortem result: it said nothing different from the verbal detail Kings had already given him. A toxicology report would follow in due course. He would have to wait for a definitive answer on the cause of death, but if the puncture wound was anything to go on, it was looking increasingly like Gloria Patton had been poisoned. An email from Mike Foulds reminded him that he still needed to discuss evidence found at the crime scene so he left his desk and threaded his way through the corridors of Northern Division headquarters to the forensics department. He was buoyed by the knowledge that the garments, bedding, clothes and the apparatus at the scene had been handled by the killer, which meant he must have left forensic evidence. Skin samples, beads of perspiration, anything that might give them a DNA profile.

  Foulds had the laptop recovered from the crime scene open on a table in the main laboratory. He looked up and pointed to a stool.

  ‘Just in time,’ Foulds said.

  Drake sat down, waiting for Foulds to continue.

  ‘I would say the killer has a working knowledge of some basic electronics. A timer had been rigged from the laptop to a pulley mechanism. At exactly 10.57 it sent a signal that engaged a motor, which operated the curtains. It means the killer wanted to make certain the scene was presented to the world at a specific time.’

  Drake stared at the laptop, thinking it contributed to a profile of the killer as a very dangerous individual.

  ‘Have you made sense of why the body was placed in this upright position?’ Foulds said.

  ‘We have no idea.’

  ‘And this unmade bed?’

  ‘There was a famous piece of art a few years ago—’

  ‘I remember. Wasn’t it controversial at the time?’

  Drake nodded. ‘Can you tell me anything else about the laptop? Is there any information on there that can identify the killer?’

  Foulds glanced at the screen. ‘It looks quite new. There was nothing else on it, no word processing package, and no internet facility.’

  ‘Any fingerprints?’ Drake sounded less than hopeful.

  ‘None. I’m running some tests at the moment but I think one of those computer spray cleaners had been used. There was a faint smell of pine on it.’

  ‘What about the rest of the items recovered from the shop – did you find any evidence that might give us some DNA?’

  Foulds gave Drake a worried look. ‘The killer has been careful. I would have expected to discover fingerprints, partials at the very least on furniture, but there was nothing.’

  Drake sensed the familiar feeling that the inquiry was going to be far from straightforward.

  ‘And that suggests,’ Foulds continued, ‘that the killer wore gloves. And … I might be guessing, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he wore the sort of protective clothing
we use.’

  ‘You mean shoe-coverings, facemask, full one-piece white kit …?’

  Foulds nodded.

  ‘That would suggest he was forensically aware, but also well-prepared.’

  ‘It’s going to take time to get all the tests done on every piece of fabric, but we might get lucky.’

  ‘I need the results as soon as, Mike.’

  ‘We’re working on it. In the meantime, I’ll send you a list of all the exhibits we removed from the crime scene.’

  Drake didn’t have a chance to reply as his mobile rang. It was Winder. ‘I think you should get back here, boss. Something you need to see.’

  Chapter 7

  Foulds promised to expedite the forensic analysis but Drake knew it might take days, even weeks, to examine each piece of clothing and garment from the crime scene. He marched back to the Incident Room, intrigued by the urgent tone to Winder’s voice. Winder jumped to his feet when Drake arrived and walked over to the board, coming to a standstill by the newly added image of a man in his early twenties. Drake joined him, glancing at the photograph: the police national computer mug shot couldn’t hide the defiance in the eyes of a young man, clean shaven, but with long, thick hair parted in the centre.

  ‘It’s a picture of Roger Buckland,’ Winder said.

  Drake leant against one of the desks. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s married to Norma Buckland. He was twenty when he was convicted of murder.’

  Drake’s pulse leapt. He walked closer to the board.

  ‘I did a PNC search against him,’ Winder said.

  ‘What are the details? How old is he now?’ Drake tried to fix the face of Norma Buckland in his mind. She must be mid-forties.

  ‘The photograph was taken over twenty years ago. Buckland was in a nightclub in Liverpool. He was really tanked up. He bottled some guy outside at the end of an evening. They had been arguing – all the usual stuff. So Buckland whacked him. Initially he was sent down for murder. He appealed and because it was only one strike his conviction was set aside and he was sentenced to eight years for manslaughter.’

  ‘Not the same MO as Patton. Her murderer was well-prepared and organised.’

  ‘I know, sir. But it’s a violent assault and he’s older now.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the officer who dealt with the case?’ Drake said, before remembering the lapse of time. ‘The senior investigating officer will probably have retired.’

  ‘I’ve called Merseyside Police already. Someone is going to call us back.’

  ‘So what else do we know about Roger Buckland?’

  ‘He’s now a pastor in one of the evangelical churches in Colwyn Bay.’

  Winder acknowledged the surprise on Drake’s face with a nod.

  ‘Apparently he became a Christian in prison. After his release he became a full-time pastor involved with a church in the Liverpool area before moving to North Wales.’

  ‘Let’s build a profile of Roger Buckland. If you don’t get a reply from Merseyside Police in the next twenty-four hours we’ll make a formal request.’

  ‘Gloria’s car has been found too, boss,’ Luned said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a side street not far from Canolfan Tudno.’

  ‘Any forensics?’

  ‘Unclear at the moment, but it looks undisturbed.’

  ‘Is there any CCTV available?’

  Luned shook her head. ‘The CSIs have moved the car to headquarters.’

  It meant a full forensic evaluation and more delays. Drake looked at Winder who had returned to his desk. ‘Any progress with the website?’

  Winder fumbled with some papers on his desk and then double-clicked on his mouse. He peered at his computer monitor. ‘Ah … I did speak to one of the civilians in the IT department. He told me that it’s very easy to set up this sort of website. It doesn’t have its own domain name. It uses Wordpress, which is a common way to establish a website on the cheap and there’s no fee to pay. The registration formalities only require an email address without any need to provide personal details.’

  Drake stared at the junior officer. ‘It has to be traceable. This killer sat in front of a computer somewhere and uploaded these images.’

  A silence fell on the room until Luned said what was on Drake’s mind. ‘Could a Christian pastor be a murderer?’

  ‘It’s not the same MO.’ Drake knew he was repeating himself, but it worried him that Buckland’s conviction years previously gave them scant reason to make him a suspect. If Roger Buckland was a reformed character was he capable of murder? And why? To avenge his wife perhaps? Drake shared a glance with Winder and Luned. ‘Do some digging into the Bucklands. It seems unlikely he was responsible for such a carefully staged murder but we need to learn a lot more about them both.’

  * * *

  On one side of Patton’s Fine Art was a charity shop and on the other a premises selling discontinued clothing, which didn’t make for the most salubrious location. Sara followed Drake towards a counter. The woman sitting behind it made no attempt to welcome them as prospective purchasers. Police officers could be spotted a mile off, Drake thought. He barely gave her a chance to read his warrant card before replacing it in his jacket pocket. She had dark grey bags under her eyes; a narrow hand and thin fingers made her handshake lifeless. ‘I’m Francine.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk to you about Gloria?’ Drake scanned the shop premises, looking for a door to an office or storeroom. A shelving unit against one wall had colourful greetings cards with images of Llandudno and other North Wales attractions. Another display cabinet had wooden bowls and immaculately turned wooden gifts with fancy labels attached with fine string. Next to the till were ballpoints and fluffy toys all advertising the wonders of a holiday in Llandudno.

  ‘I suppose we could use Gloria’s office.’ Francine got up and gestured to the staircase at the rear. The first floor extended further back over the rear of the property than Drake had imagined from the ground floor. Large canvases similar to those he had seen in Hubert Oswald’s studio dominated one wall. He noticed the price tag on one, almost as much as his monthly income. It surprised him – he would never pay such a sum for what looked like a confused mass of colour. Smaller paintings depicting popular tourist locations all over North Wales hung on another wall. Fine art seemed to be a loose term when it came to describing what Gloria Patton was offering in her premises, Drake concluded. He wondered what made her qualified to be the curator of an arts festival and remembered Norma Buckland had raised similar doubts.

  Francine pushed open the door at the far end of the gallery, and Drake and Sara followed her inside to a small office. Drake grimaced at the cluttered desk with papers strewn in no apparent order under the window to his right. Two filing cabinets had been pushed against a wall and alongside them cardboard boxes were piled on a table; underneath were even more boxes, some with leaflets and papers evident. Against the far wall to his left were several plywood shelves, all heaving with books and papers.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Drake said, unable to curb his criticism.

  ‘She wasn’t the tidiest of people,’ Francine said.

  Luckily, there were enough chairs for them to sit down near the table.

  ‘How well did you know Gloria?’ Drake said.

  Francine’s bottom lip quivered but she quickly regained her composure. ‘I’ve been working here for four years so I knew her pretty well.’

  ‘What was she like to work for?’

  ‘Fine … I got on well with her.’

  ‘Did she have any enemies do you think?’

  Francine hesitated.

  Drake pushed on. ‘I know she wasn’t very popular with the artists that she disappointed in her role as the curator of the Orme Arts Festival. I understand she received letters from Norma Buckland. Did you know about them?’

  Francine jerked her head towards the filing cabinets. ‘She kept them filed away. At the time she didn’t think too much about them. S
he certainly wasn’t worried about Norma Buckland. It was Geraint Wood she was frightened of.’

  Drake recognised Wood’s name from the list Rhisiart Hopkin had given him the previous afternoon. He glanced at Sara who already had a ballpoint and her notebook ready. He turned to Francine. ‘What can you tell us about Geraint Wood?’

  Francine settled back in her chair. ‘He came in one afternoon, bold as brass and in a hell of a temper. He started shouting and cursing at Gloria, telling her that she didn’t have a clue about art, wasn’t qualified to be a curator. He was extremely abusive, and he used foul language towards her.’ Francine shuddered.

  ‘How did Gloria react?’

  ‘She was quite calm, until he began to threaten her and jabbed his finger in her face. He even poked her in the shoulder a couple of times.’

  ‘So he got physical with her?’

  Sara stopped making notes and used a serious tone. ‘Did she report it to the police?’

  Francine shook her head.

  For the next few minutes, Drake elicited as much detail as he could about the incident with Geraint Wood. Sara nodded to Drake once she had finished recording her notes. Francine slumped, almost withered, in her chair. ‘I hope I never have to experience anything like this again.’

  ‘I’ll need to see the letters she received from Norma Buckland,’ Drake said.

  Francine paused, then let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, of course.’ She stood up and dragged open one of the drawers of the cabinet, rifling through its contents until she produced several folders, which she handed to Drake.

  ‘These are the files relating to Buckland and Wood and that man Jeremy Ellingham too.’ She skimmed through the contents absently. ‘She thought he had no concept of boundaries in his art.’

  She thrust the papers at Drake as a voice called out from the shop below. ‘I have to go – there’s a customer. Is there anything else?’

  Sara replied before Drake had a chance to. ‘Thank you. You’ve been really helpful. We’re just going to take a look through Gloria’s papers.’ Francine left them with a brief nod.

  ‘I’ll get to work on some of these other papers, boss.’