‘I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘I need you to assist my inquiry.’ Sara smiled.
Wood glanced up and down the road, assessing what prying eyes might have been looking out on the scene. Wordlessly Wood pushed the door open and Sara stepped inside.
In the kitchen at the rear of the property Amber Falk sat by a table nursing a large mug of a steaming clear liquid. A chamomile and mint odour hung in the air. She gave Sara a surprised look as she entered. Wood went to stand by Falk’s side. There wasn’t an invitation to sit down.
‘I’d like to know your whereabouts for the early part of this week.’
‘For fuck’s sake, do you still think I’m a suspect?’
‘It would be helpful if you could clarify exactly where you were Monday and Tuesday mornings between eight and midday.’
‘If you’re going to arrest me then shouldn’t I have a lawyer? Shouldn’t you be reading me my rights, like they do on TV?’
‘Tell her Geraint,’ Falk said. ‘Don’t play games.’
Wood baulked. Cooperating with the police was the last thing Wood wanted, Sara thought. Slowly, Wood let out a long breath. ‘We were in Buxton. We only got back this morning. Amber and me had our first joint show. Satisfied now?’
Sara paused. ‘Can someone confirm your whereabouts?’
‘Jesus, you people never stop.’
Amber raised her voice. ‘Just tell her.’
‘We worked twelve-hour days from first thing Monday constructing an installation for the show.’ Wood reached for his mobile on the table, scrolling through the various numbers until he found one in particular. Then he thrust the device towards Sara. ‘Nick can confirm, we were with him all the time.’
Chapter 37
‘Does that mean Wood is in the clear?’ Luned said, an edge of incredulity to her voice.
Drake sat behind his desk, staring at the junior officers in his team after Sara shared with them the details of her meeting with Geraint Wood.
‘It means he wasn’t around this week to put the beach hut scene together,’ Drake said. ‘But it’s only his word and that of Amber Falk that they were busy on Sunday preparing for their show in Buxton. It’s similar to the alibi they offered for the day after Patton’s death.’
‘Wood might have had an accomplice,’ Luned said.
It was the last sort of observation Drake wanted to hear. He began tapping the ballpoint on the pile of paperwork in front of him. He reached over and adjusted the photograph of his daughters a few millimetres.
‘The scene at the end of the pier might have been a copycat.’ Winder seemed determined to make unhelpful comments. ‘Buckland didn’t get back from Macclesfield until late Monday and on Tuesday he was working in the church’s charity shop all day.’
‘So that just leaves Ellingham.’ Drake turned to look at Luned. ‘How did you get on tracing his girlfriend?’
‘Nothing, sir. I can’t find her on the electoral roll. She doesn’t have any financial records I can trace with any of the credit reference agencies. And no National Insurance number.’
‘Try the banks direct.’
‘Already done, sir. But I won’t have the results until tomorrow.’
Drake paused. ‘Luned, go and talk to her. Call at Ellingham’s place. That’s the only address we have for her.’
‘How do we link Wood or Ellingham to the murder of Hopkin?’ Sara stared at Drake, willing him to reply. He felt Winder and Luned’s gaze boring into him too. Superintendent Price’s intention to remove the Hopkin inquiry from his team still rankled and until Monday the case was his.
He turned to Winder. ‘Gareth, fresh eyes on Gloria Patton. We’ve missed something. Now we’ve got a photofit, get around; talk to the eyewitnesses and go into as many premises near the shoe shop as you can. Somebody must have seen him, he must have bought a packet of cigarettes, a soft drink, chocolate bar.’
Winder nodded.
Drake looked at Sara. ‘Let’s focus on Wood and Ellingham.’
* * *
Sara focused on building a complete picture of Wood and after an hour, she called Drake over to see the various works of video art Wood displayed on his website. Rather than it being a distraction, Drake welcomed the interruption. He had barely finished working his way through the eighty-two new emails in his inbox without much enthusiasm.
Sara’s monitor flickered into life as the images of figures walking along the beach while the tide lapped at their feet filled the screen. Then it cut to the same faceless figures near a mountain lake.
‘That’s Cwm Idwal,’ Drake said. ‘Near the Devil’s Kitchen.’
Sara nodded.
Then they were back to the seashore where the water covered the man’s shoes, the damp spreading up his trousers.
‘How do they make a living from video art?’ Drake said.
‘From what we know of his financial position I don’t think he makes much of an income. It’s a hand-to-mouth existence.’
‘So the chance of exposure at the Orme Arts Festival might be a big thing.’
‘Wood had some exhibitions in galleries in Scotland and he began a course in some fancy art school in Germany but dropped out after a year. Then he dossed around various European capitals for two years before returning to Wales.’
Back in his office, Drake got back to the emails. There were two reminders from Superintendent Price chasing a briefing memorandum for the new detective inspector taking over the Hopkin enquiry. Hurriedly, Drake tapped out a reply before peeling off a yellow Post-it note and scribbling on it the words – urgent – memo to WP. It went at the bottom of his column of yellow Post-it notes. That evening he would sit down and finalise all the details.
Susan Howells from public relations sent a link to the recent news report carried by the Wales television channels featuring the photofit image. He wasn’t expecting the telephone to ring off the hook but a second email from her told him the usual cross-section of eccentrics and weirdoes had telephoned. One even suggested she had seen a man dragging two bodies along the pier.
Once satisfied he was up to date with his emails Drake turned his attention to the background of Jeremy Ellingham. Alibis from girlfriends and friends can be suspect, Drake thought. Nothing suggested Valerie Reed was unreliable and her presence in Ellingham’s home had been confirmed by the neighbour. Reading Ellingham’s curriculum vitae, Drake realised some dates were missing when he calculated Ellingham was twenty-eight graduating from the National Art College of Wales. But what had he done after leaving school? Drake’s instinct distrusted an incomplete picture so he googled Ellingham’s name and on the second page of the results the name of a gallery in Cardiff appeared. Once he clicked onto the site he discovered they represented Ellingham. Words like ‘innovative’, ‘exciting young artist’ and ‘candidate for Welsh artist of the year’ littered his biography. But Drake could find no recent reference. When he noticed they also represented Noel Sanderson his interest heightened.
He found a contact name – Egon Wentworth – and called him.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Ian Drake of the Wales Police Service, Northern Division.’ Drake indulged himself with the full formal introduction. ‘I’m investigating the death of Noel Sanderson.’
‘We were all so shocked. Have you arrested the culprit?’
‘The inquiry is still ongoing. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Noel Sanderson.’ Drake knew it sounded vague; it wasn’t the purpose of his call but Sanderson was a convenient excuse. Drake made scribbled notes, interrupted when appropriate, making Wentworth entirely comfortable.
‘I couldn’t help notice on your website that you represent Jeremy Ellingham. He is on the committee for the Orme Arts Festival.’
Wentworth guffawed loudly. ‘What? We represented Ellingham for about a year. He came here and got very abusive when I told him he should be looking to change career. I didn’t think he was an artist.
I told him to find another way of making a living. I’ve been meaning to remove his details from my website but I never get round to doing it. He is completely flaky; I’m amazed he is on a committee dealing with anything. He’s got some really weird ideas.’
Drake took a deep breath. ‘I’ve only met him a couple of times.’
‘That’ll be more than enough. When he was at the art school he had a hell of a row with his tutor. I know Milos very well.’
‘Milos?’ The name of the art critic opening the Orme Arts Festival at the weekend heightened Drake’s interest.
‘Milos Fogerty was one of his tutors. He thought that Ellingham was utterly unsuited to being an artist. His criticism of Ellingham’s work was harsh, brutal even. It was only because of pressure from Ellingham’s family he actually scraped through the course.’
‘He’s had a colourful career then, hasn’t he? I know he mentioned training to be an accountant but it’s quite a change to be an artist.’ Drake threw a wide fishing net. It worked.
‘Accountant, is that what he’s saying? He did a year of a history degree at Aberystwyth, wanted to do everything in Welsh, refused to speak to tutors unless they spoke in Welsh, refused even to acknowledge their existence. Accountant? I find that difficult to believe.’
‘The Orme Arts Festival is giving him the opportunity of exhibiting his work.’
‘Then he’s dead lucky because nobody else will.’
‘Thank you for your time,’ Drake said, eventually finishing the call.
He sat and thought about his first meeting with Ellingham. Something had been out of place at the time but he couldn’t put his finger on one thing.
‘Why do you possibly think that would give me a motive to kill her? I’m an established artist. I have exhibitions all over the world.’
Drake replayed the last statement, knowing it to be a lie. Why would Ellingham have challenged him so abruptly about the purpose of his visit?
He read again the comments from Patton that his work was derivative and lacked imagination. No boundaries, Francine had said about Ellingham when they spent time in the gallery, and a sickening realisation dawned that he was the priority now. It was late in the evening by the time Drake finished building a complete picture of Ellingham. He cajoled school records from the local authority, and threatened a university administrator with the full power of the police before she would promise to email details of Ellingham’s attendance at Aberystwyth University.
A civil servant working in the human resources department of the National Art College of Wales was more cooperative. ‘We’re in the middle of digitising all our records so we might not get everything to you until tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks,’ Drake said, making a mental note to call them again in the morning.
It was early evening when Winder and Luned returned to the Incident Room. They both stood in the doorway to Drake’s room.
‘There was no one at Ellingham’s place,’ Luned said. ‘I spoke to the neighbour again who sent me on a wild goose chase into Llanrwst and then Betws y Coed because he thought Ellingham’s parents lived there.’
Drake recalled the emaciated man drawing on a thin cigarette next door to Ellingham’s home and it didn’t surprise Drake that he was unreliable. Winder stood behind her.
‘Nobody could recognise the photofit boss. And the charity shop was closed.’
Drake nodded. ‘We’ll call in the morning.’
After both officers had left, the yellow Post-it note demanded Drake’s attention but he was reluctant to give up on the Hopkin inquiry, so once the Incident Room was quiet he stood by the board scanning the panoramic image of Hopkin’s sitting room. Something had been missed. Something that linked the scene to his theory. Something to point them to the killer.
He spent the final hour of his working day with the yellow Post-it note stuck to the side of the monitor as he typed the draft of a memorandum to Detective Inspector Metcalf and Superintendent Wyndham Price. His interpretation of the crime scene sounded eccentric when exposed to the harsh light of objective policing. Metcalf would probably think he had gone completely mad. When his eyes started to burn and the small of his back ached and a yawn escaped he decided to leave for the night.
Chapter 38
The launch of the Orme Arts Festival merited a brief piece on the Welsh television news the following morning. The artificial light from the film crew glistened on the chain hanging around the mayor’s neck as he spoke about the council’s ambitions for developing the arts in Llandudno.
Drake chose a navy suit, clean white shirt and a tie with a ruby red stripe, all on the off-chance Price would want a progress report, perhaps even a discussion about the briefing memoranda he had emailed the night before. He left for headquarters and, after buying a newspaper, spent five minutes in his car challenging himself to try the fiendish Sudoku puzzle but his frustration turned to annoyance when he found himself stymied after only one square.
He kept thinking about the photofit image of a man with large heavy-rimmed spectacles who smoked. The glasses could be false but why would he wear them driving a van away in the middle of the night from the crime scene? Arriving early at headquarters he set out a copy of the photofit image on his desk alongside the images of Wood and Ellingham. It looked nothing like either man and, momentarily deflated, Drake clicked open both suspects’ websites. Wood wore glasses but Ellingham did not, and a disguise might change a man’s image. He watched the video from Ellingham’s studio that showed him at work. Ellingham put on a serious face and pouted occasionally before launching into a monologue about modern art that made no sense to Drake. The camera toured the inside of his studio. It was comfortable, familiar, as Drake had viewed it before. He had stood there speaking to Ellingham but the artworks on the shelves were different, as were the posters hanging on the wall.
When he heard movement in the Incident Room he left his office, glancing at his watch.
He looked at Sara shrugging off her coat. ‘Let’s go and visit the charity shop.’
Sara jiggled the coat back onto her shoulders as Winder and Luned sat down. Drake stared at the board.
‘He’s a good actor,’ Drake said. ‘He likes performing.’
‘That suits Ellingham and Wood,’ Sara said.
Drake kept staring at the board, picturing Wood or Ellingham dressed up as an imitation Damien Hirst or as a clichéd fisherman. His mind turned to the anaesthetic the killer had used. ‘Is there anything in the background of Jeremy Ellingham or Geraint Wood that gives them a connection with a hospital?’
Three pairs of eyes stared over at him blankly.
‘Ellingham has a sister,’ Luned announced in a slow, determined manner. ‘I’ll find out about her.’
‘And Geraint Wood, his best friend from school might be a doctor or a nurse.’
Sara piped up. ‘Not everybody has the gumption to walk into an operating theatre and know where to steal the right drugs and be convincing in whatever role he chooses.’
A nagging doubt wormed its way back into Drake’s mind as he stared at Ellingham’s face. ‘And we still need more information on Ellingham’s girlfriend?’
The silence from the team behind him unsettled Drake.
‘By the time we’re back I want to know everything about Jeremy Ellingham’s family and his girlfriend.’ He nodded at Sara and they left.
Drake took the stairs down to reception two at a time. His mobile rang as he approached the car. It was Superintendent Price. ‘I want to meet this afternoon.’
Drake opened the Mondeo, and Sara climbed into the passenger seat.
‘We’re going back to interview a possible eyewitness this morning.’
‘I’ll expect you at one o’clock.’
From the brevity of the conversation Drake couldn’t make out Price’s mood, which only added to his anxiety. He started the engine and left headquarters for Llandudno. After five minutes he turned to Sara. ‘The super’s bringing in a new team on Mon
day to take over the Rhisiart Hopkin case.’
Sara didn’t hide the surprise on her face. ‘I didn’t know.’
Sara asked nothing further about Hopkin, which pleased Drake, and their conversation was dominated by going over everything they knew about Wood and Ellingham.
Two nights earlier Drake had stood outside the shop noticing the flickering CCTV camera and now he had to recheck himself whether the system was working. He parked on the side streets nearby. Passing an optician’s, he noticed the advertisement for contact lenses, disposables with a special offer for a month’s trial.
Focusing his mind on Jeremy Ellingham brought flooding back to his memory the image of the artist rubbing his eyes: and they had protruded slightly.
‘Are you coming, boss?’ Sara said.
Drake realised he was staring into the window. ‘Ellingham wears contact lenses.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘When we first met him his eyes protruded and they were bloodshot, you know, like people who have ill-fitting contact lenses.’
‘It could be hay fever or maybe he’s allergic to something.’
Drake ignored her reservations. ‘The eyewitnesses who saw him driving the shop fitter van says he wore glasses. We’ve been working on the basis that they were a prop. But they were real. He was avoiding the risk of losing a contact lens.’ Energised by his new zeal, Drake followed Sara towards the charity shop.
A single customer flicked through a carousel of blouses. The saxophone introduction from ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty played in the background. The woman behind the till smiled as he neared. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Morgan. We’re investigating the murder of Gloria Patton. We spoke to two other members of staff last week.’
‘What day was that?
Sara consulted her pocketbook. ‘Tuesday.’
‘Then it was probably Jean or Maureen. We have lots of volunteers and they all work different days. I’m Penny, the manager. I was away last week on holiday.’
Dead on Your Feet Page 25
