‘You’re familiar with Rohypnol and succinylcholine?’
Rhian nodded. ‘Sux is used regularly.’
‘Have you ever accessed that drug for doctors when it was needed in an emergency?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, a few times. Why?’
‘Did you ever describe for your brother how muscle relaxant drugs are stored?’
The barest hint of recognition filtered across her eyes as the colour in her cheeks drained away.
‘There was this one time when we watched a cop series on TV. They used drugs to put someone into a sort of suspended animation.’ Rhian paused. ‘He wanted to know how easy it might be to get those sorts of drugs. All you have to do is look on the internet. Google it.’ She stared at Sara. ‘Are you talking about that poor woman who was killed in Llandudno?’
Drake broke in. ‘Can you tell me about Jeremy’s girlfriend?’
‘He’s told me about her and showed me a photograph, one of those passport photographs he kept in his wallet. I never met her. They haven’t been going out very long.’
‘How long has it been?’ Drake lowered his voice.
‘I don’t know, few months maybe.’
‘Didn’t strike you as odd that you’ve not met her?’
‘She’s a quiet person, private, doesn’t want a fuss. That’s what he told me.’
‘Of course. Has Jeremy had many girlfriends?’
‘No, Valerie was the first one he ever talked about. He was never good with relationships.’
‘Have you met many of his friends?’
‘Like I said, he’s not good with people. He tends to live on his own, you know, off the grid, as they say in those TV dramas.’
Drake took a moment to scan some of his notes. It gave Sara the chance to ask a question. ‘We’d need to talk to Jeremy. We’ve been to the house but he wasn’t there and the shed at the back was locked. He mentioned his other studio but I didn’t make a note of the address. I was wondering if you could help?’ Drake looked over, mildly surprised, admiring Sara’s audacity. At least it wasn’t a taped interview.
‘He used Mam and Dad’s old place near Betws y Coed.’
Drake hoped that she wouldn’t notice the intensity of his stare and Sara’s. And knowing Ellingham’s mobile could be located to that area fitted another part of the jigsaw together.
Sara managed an interested tone. ‘Perhaps you’ve got the full address and directions.’
* * *
‘Well done,’ Drake said as they scampered over to their car.
‘Thank you, sir,’
Drake’s mobile rang as he unlocked the car. It was Mike Foulds. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘Forensically aware – there’s nothing from the castle.’
‘Top of the class, Inspector.’
Drake threw Sara the car keys. ‘You drive. I need to get all the formalities done.’
Drake called Superintendent Price as Sara drove, explaining in detail why he needed a search warrant. Price listened without interrupting. Once Drake finished there was a pause, which unnerved him. ‘Get it done, Ian. I’ll organise a full team.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Sara slowed for the speed limits in Glan Conwy. Sunshine flooded through the clouds, glistening on the surface of the river that appeared through openings in the trees as they accelerated down towards Llanrwst. Minutes later an email arrived on Drake’s smartphone confirming the warrant. His superior officer had a tame magistrate, Drake thought.
Having no postcode rendered the satnav redundant so Sara relied on Drake dictating the instructions Rhian had given them earlier. Drake directed Sara through various turns, each marked by some landmark before a right-hand turn took them down a narrow lane. It led to a farm and then beyond it to an old barn and cottage. They were a little more than a mile or so from the van hidden in the forest. Rhian had explained that the cottage was let on a long tenancy to an elderly couple. They drew the car into the yard. Drake jumped out and began to scout around the premises. Moments later two police cars arrived with a posse of officers.
The sergeant had shoulders like bags of cement and hands like shovels. ‘What needs to be done, sir?’
Drake nodded at the barn doors. ‘Break it down.’
The sound of wood shattering and splintering filled the air as the heavy black battering ram made quick work of the doors. ‘Are we expecting someone to be inside?’ The sergeant asked, a contented look on his face.
Drake shook his head.
He made straight for a door at the far end. It led through into a long narrow room. Against one wall, a computer with two monitors and a complicated sound system stood silently on a purpose-built desk. Sara walked over to a cupboard and opened it. ‘Wow.’
Drake turned and saw the collection of CCTV cameras and cables and wires. The search team leader appeared behind Drake. He had a purposeful, workmanlike attitude. ‘You want to remove this kit?’
‘Everything.’ Drake headed to a door on the other side of the room. Behind it was a makeshift bedroom, single bed and a washbasin and tap. A large double wardrobe pushed into one corner drew his attention. He glanced over at Sara. She raised an eyebrow, sharing his expectation at what hung inside.
He walked over and placed a latex glove on the handle.
Chapter 43
The following morning Drake walked up to the two uniformed police officers seated near Milos Fogerty’s room and who stood as he approached. He had one simple question to ask Fogerty. For today at least. A more detailed interview would follow.
‘He’s had a comfortable night, sir,’ one of the officers said.
‘Good.’
‘And he’s eaten breakfast.’
Drake nodded and opened the door to let himself into the private ward.
Fogerty turned to look at Drake but he struggled to recognise him.
‘Detective Inspector Drake.’
Fogerty nodded. ‘I owe you my life. Thank you.’
Drake drew up a plastic chair near the bed.
‘I need to ask you about the attack.’
Fogerty was in his late fifties but his sickly complexion made him look much older. ‘Can you identify the person who assaulted you?’
Fogerty managed a nod. ‘Of course. Jeremy Ellingham.’
Drake had to be certain. ‘No doubt in your mind?’
Fogerty shook his head and took his gaze to the window. It was a warm spring day. Drake sat back. Now he had the conclusive evidence he needed.
* * *
Drake returned to headquarters and entered the Incident Room. He walked over to the board, knowing the team wanted to hear the result of his conversation that morning.
‘Positive ID for Jeremy Ellingham,’ Drake said.
Winder punched the air, Sara beamed and Luned nodded sagely. The tension ebbed away at the news. He turned to Sara who took the prompt. ‘We’ve been through all of the clothes we found at Ellingham’s barn yesterday. They match the descriptions of the clothes the fictitious Damien Hirst wore and there was fisherman’s gear too. And test tubes and chemicals in a shed in the garden.’
Winder butted in. ‘CSIs have found a copy of the recording made outside the charity shop on the morning the body of Patton was discovered.’
‘Good,’ Drake said.
Winder continued. ‘We’re still digging but it could be some time before we finish. What we did find was a receipt for a purchase on eBay for various books. Exactly the same ones lined up on Hopkin’s shelves.’
Drake said nothing, letting the significance sink in.
Sara broke the silence. ‘They don’t directly link him to Hopkin.’
Drake spoke slowly, emphasising each word. ‘But the books and the ceramic piece together are powerful circumstantial evidence.’ He turned and stared at Ellingham’s photograph. ‘But I want him to tell me what his motive was, in his own words.’
For the rest of the morning and early afternoon Drake listened to the results of background checks
on Ellingham. Nobody had been able to find a record of any exhibition by him in any gallery in Wales or London and definitely not Vienna.
By the afternoon Drake had arrived at the area custody suite ready to interview. Drake made a habit of choosing one of his better suits for an interview: today it was a sombre navy, narrow lapels, two buttons. The dusty pink shirt had the elasticated cufflinks he preferred, his tie dark with pink polka dots. He detoured to the bathroom on his way from finalising the interview plan with Sara. He took time to scrub his hands. He would feel grubby at the end of the interview so he wanted to start it feeling clean, sanitised. Looking at the reflection, he resolved to get a decent night’s sleep. And with the investigation at an end he might even be able to plan a couple of afternoons off with Megan and Helen.
Drake joined Sara in the small, confined interview room.
He heard Ellingham joking with his solicitor as they approached along the corridor. Once inside Ellingham strolled towards the table and sat down nonchalantly. His lawyer dropped a blue legal pad and a fountain pen onto the table.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ Jason Fox had perfect manners, a thorough understanding of every aspect of police procedure and a terrier-like attitude to defending his clients.
‘Jason,’ Drake said. ‘You know Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’
Fox gave Sara a perfect-teeth smile.
Ellingham threaded the fingers of both hands together and started turning each thumb around the other. Drake stared at him, wondering exactly how he might respond.
Once the formalities were completed, Drake got down to the questioning.
‘I understand you’re a well-known artist?’
Ellingham nodded, preened himself, as though it were common knowledge.
‘Tell me about your work.’
‘I don’t have to tell you about my work, I’m an artist.’
But you can’t help yourself, Drake thought. He fingered a biographical summary the team had discovered.
‘This is from an article I found about your work. “My work examines relationships between mind and empirical objects with a special emphasis on everyday beliefs, political and social realities in which I seek to implicate myself personally.”’
Drake looked up at Ellingham. ‘It must have come as a disappointment when Gloria Patton rejected your work as inadequate for the Orme Arts Festival. She called it “utterly derivative” and “lacking in imagination”.’
Ellingham’s smugness evaporated into scorn.
‘As a well-respected gallery curator surely Mrs Patton’s view of your artwork riled you.’
‘She wasn’t a curator. She had no place being involved in the Orme Arts Festival.’
Drake sat back, waiting for him to continue, but he shut up.
‘Everyone we have spoken to in the art world speaks very highly of her.’
Ellingham blanked Drake.
‘Her gallery has exhibited some very well-known artists.’
Now Ellingham’s posture stiffened.
‘And she had made some inspirational decisions in choosing the cross-section of artists. A critic we spoke to thought she could have built a very successful business representing artists from her gallery.’
Drake gave Ellingham a kindly smile. He forced a reply through clenched teeth. ‘Her judgement was flawed, her taste pedestrian.’
Jason Fox leant over, whispering in Ellingham’s ear. Drake guessed the lawyer was warning him not to overreact.
‘Where were you on the night Gloria Patton was killed?’
‘I was with Valerie.’
‘Your girlfriend?’
Ellingham nodded.
‘Where is she now?’
Ellingham shrugged. ‘We split up.’
‘I’ll come back to her later. I’ve spoken about your work with the Anderson Gallery in Cardiff.’
Ellingham sighed heavily.
‘Tell me why they terminated their relationship with you?’
Ellingham said nothing.
‘Is it true your relationship with them broke down because of your behaviour?’
Ellingham shook his head in feigned disbelief.
‘The owner says that you became abusive and threatening once he had criticised your work, suggested you should seek a career other than in the art world.’
Drake continued to repeat the various comments about the quality of Ellingham’s work, his artistic integrity and, more importantly, his violent mood swings. By the end Ellingham’s nostrils flared widely and it looked as though his eyes wanted to jump out of his head. ‘They know nothing about art,’ Ellingham hissed.
At last, this interview might be going in the right direction, Drake thought.
‘Your career was over, wasn’t it? You were finished. Nobody wants to display your work. Now you’ll have to work for a living.’
‘I’ve got galleries all over the place eager to show my work.’
‘Name them,’ Drake snapped.
‘The negotiations are at a delicate stage. I have to keep everything confidential.’
‘This is confidential, Jeremy. If you had any galleries interested you’d tell me straight away.’
Ellingham flushed slightly. ‘Everything is at the pre-contract stage. I’ve already had some significant offers for my last three pieces.’
Drake shuffled his papers once again and found Ellingham’s latest tax returns. Drake had spent an hour calculating how much Ellingham’s meagre income represented as an hourly rate. He pushed the printed sheets across the table. ‘Can you confirm these are your tax returns?’
Ellingham swallowed and then pushed them back as dismissively as Drake had.
‘Assuming you work a forty-hour week your equivalent hourly rate is about half of the minimum wage. You could earn more working behind a bar.’
‘And your question is, Inspector?’ Fox said.
Drake addressed Ellingham directly. ‘In the last two years you’ve made barely enough to pay your rent, pay your electricity bill or buy food. Would you agree with my description that you are desperate for money?’
‘I’m an artist, I don’t do things for money. I live for my art. I prefer to live as a pauper than prostitute my work.’
‘Your work was described by Gloria Patton as “utterly derivative” and “lacking in imagination”. And she’s an expert so she would know.’
Ellingham picked at his lips and gave Drake a spearing glare.
‘The scene in the shoe shop where Gloria’s body was found was the work of a twisted mind.’ Drake arranged various photographs of the scene on the table and Fox peered over at them. Ellingham glanced at them impassively but Drake thought he caught a glint of admiration or even pleasure. He lowered his voice and slowed his delivery. ‘I think you hated Gloria so much that you killed her. Nobody would do this to her unless they were really perverted. Because she rejected your work you decided to show her body as some sick, distorted representation of art. You knocked her unconscious by a blow to the head before administering a muscle relaxant causing her to suffocate. It was a brutal and inhumane way to die.’
Drake sat back. A silence filled the room.
Ellingham tilted his head and sneered.
‘Did you hope the world would appreciate looking at a dead body?’
Ellingham ignored him.
‘Nobody in their right mind would think arranging a corpse as you did could be construed as art.’ Drake paused. ‘It’s murder. So explain to me why you killed her?’
Ellingham ignored him.
Drake leant over, jabbing a finger at the images on the table, raising his voice. ‘Look at them. Now, Jeremy. The scene was intended to mimic My Bed by Tracey Emin, considered to be a great example of British art. So you built the scene at the shoe shop to copy her work – making it utterly derivative and lacking in imagination. That summarises your art, doesn’t it?’
Ellingham straightened. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me about art?’
Drake
shared a look of incredulity with Sara, who continued the questioning as planned. ‘Is it true you have an interest in Welsh history?’
Ellingham folded his arms and stared at Sara with hooded eyes. Drake saw the faintest glimmer of recognition, acknowledgement in his eyes.
‘It’s a fascinating period of history.’ Ellingham sounded patronising.
‘Did you know that Rhisiart Hopkin was on the committee that turned you down for the festival?’
Ellingham made a brief ineffective shrug.
‘That must have annoyed you?’
He stared over at Sara, an annoying grin playing on his lips.
‘We found a receipt in your computer for books you bought. The exact same books were left at the home of Hopkin the night he was killed. Why did you leave them there?’
Ellingham opened his mouth but thought the better of replying.
‘Is that the only evidence you have to link my client to Hopkin?’ Fox said.
Sara ignored him. Be patient, Drake thought.
From a box by his feet Drake fished out a laptop, which he opened on the desk. A few seconds later he clicked on the film from Ellingham’s website. ‘You can confirm that this is a video from your website?’
Ellingham and Fox stared at the monitor.
Ellingham nodded. Drake moved the screen away from Ellingham’s gaze and let the coverage run on until it came to the image of the green piece of ceramic pottery; he froze the images. ‘What sort of art do you make?’
‘My practice is multidisciplinary.’
‘Do you paint?’
Ellingham sighed in disgust.
‘Pottery or ceramics?’
‘Never.’
‘So, to be clear, you don’t sell paintings or ceramics at all?’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ Ellingham drawled.
Drake then produced the photographs from Hopkin’s home and spread them out on the table.
‘This is the inside of Rhisiart Hopkin’s home.’
Ellingham and Fox leant over the photographs.
‘You can see the books Sergeant Morgan mentioned. Please look at the mantel.’
Drake stared at Ellingham and saw the surprise in his eyes and the descent into paranoia approaching. ‘Is the green ceramic piece familiar?’
Dead on Your Feet Page 28
