Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  Two startled faces nodded in turn.

  Drake left them and met Foulds who peered into the thicket of trees.

  Foulds cast a wary glance around the woodland. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Drake gazed over to the trees. ‘We can’t leave the van undisturbed on the off-chance he might return. There could be valuable evidence. So we do a full forensic analysis of the van and replace the tarpaulin. I need fingerprints results as soon as you can.’

  ‘I know the drill.’

  Drake was already three paces down the track. ‘Let me know if you make progress.’ Drake turned to Sara. ‘Talk to operational support – get them to allocate a constable and a probationer to keep an eye on this van overnight.’

  She reached for her mobile as Drake did likewise.

  He dictated clear instructions for triangulation to be completed on three telephone numbers for the last two weeks with specific attention paid to the woodland they were walking through.

  The killer had hoped the van would remain undiscovered and Drake hoped that when he had parked it his mobile telephone would have been switched on.

  Chapter 31

  Drake left headquarters the following morning, annoyed that Foulds still had nothing to report about possible fingerprints from the van. A call chasing the results of the triangulation analysis had earned him a petulant response. So he determined to spend as little time as possible at the Orme Arts Festival committee meeting. The now-familiar Julie paced around the room in Canolfan Tudno like a scalded cat, adding to his frustration. She chewed furiously on one fingernail after another. She even paused to gnaw off a large piece before continuing her pacing. Marjorie looked as though the colour in her cheeks had been mechanically extracted.

  Drake checked the time on his watch. He had priorities to manage. His presence was an exercise to assure them that the WPS was doing everything it could.

  Drake noticed the slight tremor in Marjorie’s voice as she raised it and beneath her posh accent he heard West Country rhythms. ‘How the hell are we supposed to continue?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Are we next?’

  Julie simpered before slumping into a plastic chair. ‘I’m terrified.’ She reached over for the glass on the table in front of her and grimaced as she knocked back a mouthful of the whisky-coloured liquid.

  Drake glanced over at both women. ‘Did either of you know Noel Sanderson?’

  Marjorie was the first to reply. ‘Of course. He’s a fixture in the North Wales arts scene. Brilliant, brilliant.’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Awkward bugger,’ Julie said. ‘I never liked him. Too much of a posh git for my liking.’

  ‘Julie, how can you say that? He’s dead.’ Marjorie reached for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘Will you still exhibit his work?’

  Julie stared at Drake but she looked straight through him. Marjorie thrust her hand to her mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. What can we do? We can’t exhibit now. After what has happened.’

  Julie’s voice sounded shrill now. ‘And Rhisiart is dead too. There’s only us two left from the original committee.’

  ‘And now Jeremy and Amber,’ Marjorie said.

  ‘Where are they?’ Drake said, his interest piqued by their non-attendance.

  ‘I sent them a text and left a message on their voicemail telling them you’d be here.’

  Julie stood up abruptly, nearly losing her balance in the process. She paced around the room again. ‘Can you protect us?’

  Drake opened his mouth to reply but Julie cut in.

  ‘I mean, this mad man has killed Gloria and now Noel Sanderson.’

  Drake wanted to establish who might replace Sanderson, and whether that person might have the perfect motive. ‘Will you be inviting some other artist to exhibit instead of Noel Sanderson?’

  Julie screwed up her eyes at Drake, as though she couldn’t understand the question. ‘We simply don’t know. It’s too soon. There’s so much to discuss.’

  Julie stopped and stared at Drake. ‘Oh my God. You don’t think that Rhisiart was killed by the same man?’

  Drake cleared his throat, deciding to follow the official WPS line. ‘We believe that the death of Hopkin is unrelated to that of Gloria Patton.’ He hoped he sounded convincing even if he couldn’t convince himself.

  Marjorie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I can’t believe it. Wasn’t it a burglary that went wrong?’

  ‘We—’

  ‘Jesus, this is awful. I can hardly bear to think about it. I think we shall have to cancel the arts festival.’

  Julie leant over the table. ‘We can’t do that. Everything has been arranged.’ Julie continued. ‘There are so many people depending on us, Marjorie. We can’t simply give up.’

  ‘I know, I know. But everything’s changed.’

  ‘We have the support from the bank. And the local council.’

  ‘Somebody else might be killed. It could be one of us. For Christ’s sake, Julie. We might be next.’

  Drake decided to interrupt. ‘All I can suggest is you take reasonable precautions, be careful. Please don’t make arrangements to meet anybody you don’t know alone.’

  Both women stared over at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘We will find this killer; it’s only a matter of time.’

  Before either woman could reply the door crashed open and Amber Falk entered. ‘It’s the most terrible news about Noel.’ Drake searched for insincerity in her voice, reminding himself again that Geraint Wood, Amber Falk’s boyfriend, had been rejected by the committee.

  She didn’t seem to be exaggerating and she seemed genuinely distressed. Behind him Drake heard voices approaching and Huw Jackson walked in; noticing Drake, he gave him a sombre nod. Following immediately behind was Jeremy Ellingham.

  Huw sat down alongside Drake. ‘Good morning, Ian.’

  Drake didn’t reply but allowed his gaze to follow Ellingham as he greeted Julie and Marjorie and then Amber.

  He heard Huw say something but he wasn’t listening. Drake stared over at Ellingham. He and Geraint Wood had alibis for the death of Gloria Patton. Drake’s chest tightened at the possibility that the results of the triangulation of the mobile telephones for both men might place them in Betws y Coed in the last week. Eventually Huw raised his voice. ‘Ian, how is Jack Smith?’

  Drake looked at his half-brother. ‘As you would expect.’

  Ellingham had found a seat next to Marjorie and the exchange of condolences had slowed. The older two women stared over at Drake and Huw Jackson blankly, expecting them to say something, take the initiative.

  Huw cleared his throat. ‘This is terribly sad. The leader of the council and the town mayor called me this morning offering their support. The local authority wants to ensure the festival continues despite all the recent tragic events.’

  Drake recognised the sincerity in Huw’s voice. Watching Julie and Marjorie, he saw the tension on their faces slacken. He listened as Huw regurgitated platitudes. Meaningless clichés, Drake thought.

  ‘I’ve spoken with the important sponsors including the bank and they all agree the festival should continue. I appreciate emotions are raw and you may feel it would be best to cancel but I’m sure that Noel Sanderson and Gloria Patton would want the festival to be a success.’

  Amber Falk and Jeremy Ellingham nodded immediately but Drake sensed reluctance from both women.

  ‘In the end it must be a decision for the committee. But we are doing everything we can to track down the killer,’ Drake said.

  ‘I am very worried…’ Julie said.

  Marjorie nodded now. ‘There are three deaths all related to the Orme Arts Festival. I think we’d be crazy to carry on.’

  ‘Three deaths?’ Ellingham said. ‘What could possibly lead you to suspect that Rhisiart was killed by the same person?’

  Drake ignored the question but stared at Ellingham for a moment. Was it a performance?

  Drake stood up and made to leave.
‘I hope I’ve given you as much reassurance as I can. I’ll be asking officers to interview you about Noel Sanderson in due course.’

  He scanned four frightened faces. Even so, a niggle of doubt crept into his mind. How many of these artists could be genuine, Drake thought.

  * * *

  Uninvited, Sara followed Drake into his room and made herself comfortable in one of the visitor chairs. The hour she had spent that morning at Patton’s Fine Art interviewing one of the staff felt wasted and from the drained look on Drake’s face she suspected his meeting had been equally unproductive.

  ‘I spoke to a girl at Gloria Patton’s gallery this morning.’ Drake pitched his head up and stared over at her. His eyes looked tired. ‘She confirmed Wood’s version of the argument with Sanderson.’

  Drake exhaled a long breath. ‘He’s still a suspect until we can exclude him.’

  Sara nodded. Drake could be infuriatingly rude and brusque but she had learnt that he was single-minded and thorough. ‘How did you get on, boss?’

  ‘Have we had the results of the triangulation analysis I requested?’

  She shook her head. Avoiding answering questions was another affectation she put down to his impatience.

  ‘Jeremy Ellingham and Amber Falk were both there. As were the committee members.’ He paused. ‘They’re frightened.’

  Sara could easily see why that was the case.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to Ellingham again. There’s an entry in Sanderson’s diary suggesting they met.’ Drake adjusted his position on the chair, straightening his tie before continuing, as though he’d been able to shake off some thick veil. ‘Buckland, Wood and Ellingham could all be simply wreaking revenge for having their work rejected by the committee, which would give them a motive to kill Hopkin and Patton.’

  ‘And Sanderson?’

  ‘He took a place in the arts festival one of them thought he didn’t deserve. Money and greed are the oldest motives known to mankind.’

  ‘But that implies that Hopkin’s death is linked to the other two. Although they are completely different.’

  Drake became silent again and she wondered if he was being pressurised by senior management about his theory explaining Hopkin’s death. It was just a theory after all.

  ‘We keep an open mind. Until we are ordered to do otherwise we’ll run both investigations together, and assume it is the same killer.’

  Sara nodded and shared a steely determined look with Drake.

  Drake glanced over at his monitor and she noticed the concentration on his face as he read an email.

  ‘I know that name,’ Drake announced.

  Sara waited for him to continue.

  ‘The CSIs found fingerprints inside the van. They are a match to a Michael Spencer.’

  Drake drew his chair nearer the desk. Sara could see him opening the link for Spencer’s details. He sat back abruptly. ‘Spencer was the man in the gym with Buckland. I arrested him years ago for beating his wife.’ Sara watched as Drake read from the screen. ‘He’s got a dozen convictions for violence.’

  ‘He could be Buckland’s accomplice.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Before Drake could add anything else Winder appeared at Drake’s office door. ‘You need to see this, boss.’ He stumbled over his words in excitement. By the time Drake and Sara had reached Winder’s desk the junior officer was clicking open CCTV coverage on his monitor.

  ‘I managed to recover a lot of CCTV recordings from the middle of Conwy.’

  Drake stared at the screen. The filming had been taken from a camera perched high above street level. It had obviously survived the cutbacks imposed by cash-strapped town councils.

  ‘It’s mid-morning two days before Noel Sanderson was killed,’ Winder said, clicking his mouse. The screen filled with pedestrians milling around the town centre. A timer at the bottom told Drake it was 11.36 am.

  ‘There it is: watch the two people coming out of the café.’ Winder moved away from the screen, allowing Sara and Drake an uninterrupted view.

  The seconds passed as they watched Norma Buckland deep in conversation with Noel Sanderson. She laughed at something he said and he smiled broadly. She touched his forearm. They focused on each other, neither paying any attention to the passers-by.

  They embraced before exchanging an intimate kiss.

  ‘Now that changes things,’ Sara said.

  ‘That was a snog, boss. If you don’t mind me saying so,’ Winder said.

  Luned, sitting next to him, sniggered.

  Drake stared at the screen. Sanderson and Norma parted lips. Only to kiss again moments later. They were artists, they’d have some plausible explanation, Drake concluded.

  ‘You won’t believe what happens next,’ Winder said

  Norma Buckland and Sanderson walked up the street and out of the immediate view of the camera. Then the image of Roger Buckland appeared. There was no disguising the tight jaw and the fiery anger in his face.

  ‘He doesn’t appear too happy,’ Drake said. ‘We are well overdue another discussion with Roger and Norma Buckland.’

  He strode over to the board and tapped a ballpoint on Buckland’s image. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

  Sara stared at the face of Roger Buckland, ignoring the first two rings of the telephone on her desk. Then she grabbed at the handset and listened to the chilling news.

  She looked over at Drake. ‘There’s another body.’

  Chapter 32

  A police motorcyclist led the way, siren blazing, every light flashing. Drake gripped the steering wheel tightly, the engine squealing in third gear as he accelerated for the A55. It was a short journey to Llandudno and no sooner had Drake reached one hundred miles an hour than he braked hard for the junction. Traffic cops cleared the exit slip road. Sara relayed instructions for the quickest route to Llandudno pier.

  Having an outrider ahead of him certainly helped.

  The wailing sound of the siren filled the cabin.

  ‘Find out when the CSIs are going to arrive,’ Drake barked.

  He listened to Sara’s brisk one-sided conversation.

  ‘They are three minutes behind us.’

  Drake nodded. He reached the end of the promenade, the rev counter peaking as he changed into third and almost collided with a small roundabout. Eventually he jerked the car onto the pavement near a marked patrol car.

  Drake and Sara jogged down towards the pier entrance, waving their warrant cards at several uniformed officers who were ushering the public off the pier.

  Drake’s shoes clattered on the wooden decking. Squawking seagulls perched on the railings and underneath Drake could hear the Irish sea lapping against the cast-iron columns. They passed several shopping booths: worried faces peered out from a Welsh gift shop, a leather goods seller and a retro and memorabilia store. Marching down the pier brought back old memories for Drake of family trips as a child. Buying candy floss and pestering his parents to let him ride the funfair attractions.

  This visit was entirely different. He wondered how many of the nail-chewing worried-looking customers and tourists realised they might have passed a murderer, mingled with somebody capable of three – possibly four – gruesome deaths.

  ‘How far is it to the end?’ Sara said.

  He glanced at her, noticing the wide beach and promenade stretching out behind them. It made him realise why people loved the Victorian elegance of the town. That afternoon it was peaceful and tranquil. He shuddered, thinking what might be facing him in one of the booths at the end of the pier.

  ‘Not far,’ Drake said.

  At the end, the pier widened and Drake noticed the main amusement arcade in the middle and then two officers in high-visibility jackets, obviously relieved to see him. Two women sat on a bench nearby, cleaning equipment, including an industrial vacuum, next to them.

  ‘DI Drake and this is DS Sara Morgan.’

  The uniformed officers introduced themselves as Ellis and Charle
ston; Drake recognised Ellis from a previous case, and the officer nodded at Drake. ‘Their job was to clean the shopping booth ready for new tenants.’ He tilted his head towards the whitewashed windows a few feet away. ‘When they opened the door there were two bodies sitting there.’

  ‘Have you checked for life signs?’

  Ellis shook his head. ‘There’s blood everywhere. And it smelt. You can tell they’ve been dead for hours.’ Charleston nodded his agreement.

  Drake turned to both women. ‘Did you see anybody suspicious when you arrived?’

  Two faces gazed up at Drake, wrinkled, pallid complexions. Drake guessed they were mid-forties. ‘Did you touch anything when you went inside?’

  Two heads shook in unison.

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the planking drew his attention and, turning, he saw Mike Foulds and two crime scene investigators approaching.

  Foulds arrived by his side. ‘It’s much further out than I thought.’ He stood, catching his breath, beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘What have we got?’

  Drake gestured towards the heavy wooden doors, their white paint shimmering in the sunshine.

  ‘After you,’ Foulds said. The crime scene manager dictated instructions to his investigators as Drake walked over to the empty shopping booth, snapping on latex gloves. He shared a serious look with Sara and then pushed open the door.

  Two bodies sat in wooden framed deckchairs at the far end, a pile of sand scattered by their feet. The man seemed to be in his seventies, a knotted handkerchief on his head, a pair of Ray-Bans, popularised by Tom Cruise decades earlier, perched on his nose. The dark flannel trousers and heavy shoes looked out of place. Blood stains smeared one wall and the heavy clawing smell of decay hung in the air.

  Drake’s mobile rang. Angrily he dipped a hand into his pocket; reading Gareth Winder’s name he declined the call. Foulds stepped towards him, the CSI photographer immediately behind him.