Ellingham parted his lips but no words came out.
‘It belongs to you, Jeremy. It’s the same piece we just saw on the video from your studio.’ Drake spun round the laptop and pointed at the screen.
A strange pout crossed Ellingham’s face.
‘You left it there when you killed Hopkin.’
‘Really, Inspector,’ Fox said. ‘You haven’t shown any motive.’
Drake ignored him. ‘You killed Rhisiart Hopkin because you wanted to prove how great an artist you are. Let me tell you what I think about the scene at Hopkin’s home. It’s your sad and perverted idea of a piece of art. You left three clues, something that suggested three famous Welsh politicians. You wanted it to be your piece of work – a copy of a famous piece by Judy Chicago. You even left a postcard from Chicago airport. But Hopkin had never been there. What you didn’t realise was that Rhisiart Hopkin annotated every book in his library, usually with the date when he bought them and details of the seller. All the ones you left were clean, and no fingerprints.’
Ellingham tut-tutted and rolled his eyes at his lawyer, pretending to be tired of listening to such mumbo-jumbo.
‘It was going to be your secret masterpiece.’
Ellingham reached forward and took another sip from his water bottle.
‘You left the piece of green ceramic for posterity. But you had forgotten about this video. And because Hopkin was on the committee that rejected your work you wanted revenge.’
Drake glared at Ellingham who glared back.
Drake continued. ‘Do you know Noel Sanderson?’
Ellingham adjusted his position in his chair but made no reply.
‘I understand he’s a highly regarded artist with exhibitions and shows all over Europe.’
‘Bullshit,’ Ellingham spluttered through gritted teeth.
‘He was another artist chosen ahead of you for the Orme Arts Festival. How did you feel knowing he was a better artist than you?’
Ellingham settled into an intense stare.
‘He’s represented by the Anderson Gallery. So they obviously think he is a better artist than you. It must be galling to think that someone who has come to live in the area, and an Englishman, could get a place ahead of you. Did that make you angry?’
Drake pushed over the photofit picture of the man described by the girl at the end of the pier and the pinstripe-suited bushy-bearded individual who introduced himself as Damien Hirst to the letting agent in Conwy. ‘These are photofit images of the two persons of interest in our enquiry. Do you know who they are?’ Ellingham didn’t respond.
From underneath the various papers Drake produced the photographs of the dresses and wigs discovered in Ellingham’s barn the previous afternoon.
‘We recovered these items of clothing from your property. Do they belong to you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Now, tell me about your girlfriend. Where does she live again?’
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Ellingham stared through Drake.
‘Is she an artist too?’
‘You don’t know anything. I don’t want her involved.’
‘Does she have a number where we can reach her?’
‘Keep away from her. I’ve told you. It’s private.’
Drake paused, waiting for Ellingham to elaborate. He kept fidgeting with his hands. ‘How many girlfriends have you had, Jeremy?’
Ellingham clenched his jaw; his eyes burnt contempt. ‘You can go and fuck yourself.’
‘Valerie doesn’t exist, does she?’
No response.
Drake pushed over the image of the dress ‘Valerie Reed’ had worn. ‘This dress and various wigs were found in a property near Betws y Coed that belongs to you.’
Drake paused, hoping for a response. When it didn’t come he continued.
‘Do you admire installation artists?’
‘You don’t know the first thing about art.’
‘What would you prefer – to sell frequently or have your work in a museum?’
‘I cannot begin to explain to you what true art means.’
‘Try.’
‘You haven’t got the open, inquisitive mind that’s needed.’ He waved a hand in the air, dismissing Drake.
‘Your work is “utterly derivative” and “lacking in imagination”.
‘Bollocks.’ Jeremy adjusted his position in the hard plastic chair.
‘Gloria was right to reject your work because you’re not an artist.’
Ellingham hissed a reply. ‘Don’t ever say that. You have no right to say that.’ He shrugged off a calming hand Fox placed on his arm.
Drake pushed over the images from the Patton murder scene. It shocked him to witness the admiring look in Ellingham’s face. He was enjoying all of this. Perhaps in his sad world this interview was part of his sick idea of art.
‘The scene where Gloria died is a sick and disgusting fantasy. It will never be seen by anyone. Never be shared and it is a testament to your sick and perverted mind.’
Ellingham raised a fist and let it crash down on the desk.
Drake ignored the tantrum.
‘The same is true for the scene at Noel Sanderson’s death.’ Drake found the CSI photographs and with a flourish set them out on the table. ‘You copied Damien Hirst’s work and killed Sanderson because he took your place in the festival and… because it was another… performance to satisfy your sickness.’
Ellingham stood up and shouted. ‘It’s society that cannot comprehend what I’m doing, what my work really means.’ He slumped back into his chair.
‘Jeremy, take a look at this last photograph.’ Drake tried a more upbeat tone, friendly, almost as he slipped the image of Ellingham outside the charity shop over the table. ‘Can you confirm this is an image of you outside the charity shop opposite the premises where you murdered Gloria Patton. You are entering a van from which recording equipment was used to broadcast on YouTube.’
Ellingham stared at the image. His lawyer did likewise. Ellingham looked up but behind his eyes there was nothing but a vacuum.
‘Finally, did you know Milos Fogerty when you were at art school?’
Ellingham drummed his fingers on the table. ‘He falsely accused me of all sorts of things. He made up allegations. It was all lies. And he was a crap teacher. His work belongs in the middle ages.’
‘And last night you tried to kill him.’
Ellingham shook his head.
‘The scene where we found Fogerty is exactly the same MO as the deaths of Patton and Sanderson. Once we have the toxicology reports I guess it will be the same drug too.’
‘I was in the cinema.’ Now Ellingham started to fidget with his fingernails. Drake curbed his desire to reach over and grab this lunatic by his collar.
Drake paused long enough to make Ellingham and Fox realise he had something important. ‘Fogerty identifies you as his assailant.’
The blank look of a mind utterly unable to comprehend his own failings returned to Ellingham’s face.
‘Jeremy Ellingham, I believe that you murdered Gloria Patton, Rhisiart Hopkin and Noel Sanderson and attempted to murder Milos Fogerty in order to salvage your artistic career and from some twisted perverted logic. Do you have anything else you wish to say?’
Ellingham sneered at Drake. ‘Nobody understands my art.’
Drake peered into Ellingham’s eyes wondering what exactly was going on inside his mind. ‘Well, you can explain it to the judge.’
Chapter 44
Drake woke the following morning, tired, grit floating in his eyes, his hand still aching. An image of the various facial expressions Ellingham had employed in his interview had filled his mind making sleep difficult. What chilled Drake was the realisation that Ellingham probably cared little. The deaths had been ghoulish and macabre and there was something evil, truly evil, in Ellingham’s mind that justified their deaths. Drake turned up the temperature of the shower until h
is skin tingled and he let the water pour over him, hoping he’d never have to confront someone like Ellingham ever again.
He skipped breakfast and went straight to the hospital to see Milos Fogerty after texting Sian to confirm when he was collecting Helen and Megan. He found a parking slot easily enough on a Sunday morning and walked over to the main entrance. A brisk walk through the wide, empty corridors took him to the private ward where Milos Fogerty was sitting up in bed. His skin had a sickly grey pallor that matched the misty tint in his eyes.
He gave Drake a blank look. A nurse pulled the door closed behind her as she left. Drake sat awkwardly on the stiff-backed chair next to the bed. Drake wanted to say he regretted they hadn’t discovered Ellingham’s involvement earlier. Fogerty’s ordeal might have been avoided.
‘How are you feeling?’
Fogerty nodded. ‘Okay, I suppose. What did Ellingham say?’
‘He’s in custody. He’ll be charged with attempting to murder you.’
Drake spent half an hour listening to Fogerty telling him about Ellingham.
A doctor on a ward round came to see Fogerty so Drake left, pleased that Ellingham’s final victim had been spared. But his guilt that he hadn’t discovered the truth sooner still lingered. He drove to headquarters mulling over exactly what the prosecution lawyers would make of the case. They always liked things neat and clear cut. In this case, the motive was coloured and tainted by a sick mind.
Drake drifted back to the Incident Room. It was empty. He slumped into one of the chairs near the board and stared over at it. They had played musical chairs with the photographs on it since the death of Gloria Patton. He stared at her face. And then at Hopkin and Sanderson. Ellingham’s gaze drifted into oblivion. It was one sick performance. Followed by his peroration in the interview. Now he was waiting for the applause. How would he deal with the appearance in court and the life sentence, Drake wondered.
Drake read the time. If he left now he would be on time. He wasn’t going to be late.
He left headquarters and drove over to collect Helen and Megan.
Sian opened the door and gestured him inside. She wore a well-pressed pair of jeans and a white blouse. Drake remembered fumbling with the buttons before it was flung to the floor of their bedroom. Now Sian’s bedroom.
She stood in the hallway, hands on hips. ‘Is the case finished?’
‘You look well, healthy.’
She smiled and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He had seen the same smile a hundred times before and he smiled back. He thought about suggesting they do something as a family, something together but she looked away and shouted upstairs for Helen and Megan. Soon enough they bundled down the stairs, but it was another ten minutes before both girls were ready.
It was a warm spring morning as he made his way through the tunnel under the estuary at Conwy and then through the mountain at Penmaenmawr and Llanfairfechan. Everywhere looked peaceful. Families would be visiting Conwy for the day, children running round the castle, oblivious of what had happened there hours earlier.
He slowed as he neared the lane leading down to his mother’s smallholding and he gazed over Caernarfon Bay. Three microlights buzzed around the sky.
‘C’mon Dad,’ Helen said as he dawdled. He accelerated down to the house where his mother was waiting.
‘What’s happened to your hand?’ Mair Drake said.
‘It was nothing.’
‘Has it been seen by a doctor?’
‘Yes, Mam. Don’t fuss.’
Mair Drake liked lunch early, like most farming families, and by half past one they had finished her meal of roast lamb, roast potatoes, roast parsnips and carrots. Helen and Megan managed to demolish enormous portions of trifle at the end.
Drake sat with his mother once the girls had left the table. Unwinding seemed easy in the home he had known as a boy. Even though his flat was home now, it still felt temporary.
‘Have you spoken much to Susan?’ Mair said.
‘I haven’t had time.’
‘She’s still very angry.’
Drake nodded. ‘I’ve suggested she come and stay. She can discuss everything with you and perhaps meet Huw.’
‘What did she say to that?’
Drake shrugged. ‘She didn’t seem too keen.’
Mair had a resigned look on her face. Drake continued. ‘Huw invited me to a party at his place last weekend. He was caught up in my recent case through his work and I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. I met his family and they seemed nice, friendly.’
Drake stared over at his mother, unable to instantly read the emotion in her face. He thought he registered disappointment and regret until she gave a brief smile. ‘I’m glad. Your dad would be pleased too. It was something we should have spoken about. Done something about… all those years ago.’
A brief silence drew itself over the table between them. Drake wanted to tell her that keeping secrets was destructive and in families poisonous but his anger was mellowed by the fact she was now confronting his father’s past and facing her future.
‘Is that big case finished now?’
Drake straightened in his chair, happy to move on from his sister and Huw Jackson as topics of conversation.
‘Yes. Luckily. The man responsible is in court tomorrow so the details will be all over the TV news.’
They sat around the table for another half an hour making small talk. Mair Drake talked about her friends, sharing the everyday minutiae of her life and Drake found himself relaxing.
After piling the dishwasher with the dirty dishes, Drake and his mother took Helen and Megan to the beach at Dinas Dinlle. They walked up the beach of pebbles and sand towards the mouth of the Menai Strait and lifted their heads skywards as a light aircraft came into land at the nearby airport. It was clear day and to the west Drake could see Holyhead Mountain and then, after turning back, the Lleyn peninsula stretching out into the Irish sea. Drake knew his daughters would want to visit the café by the car park and they sat at a table in the window as Helen and Megan finished off a large ice cream sundae each.
Back at the farmhouse Drake kissed his mother lightly on the cheek. Then she hugged her granddaughters tightly before kissing them both. They didn’t complain and he knew they loved spending time with his mother. He had enjoyed the visit too and he promised himself he would do it more often. Driving back to Colwyn Bay, his thoughts turned to the paperwork that awaited him in the morning. He yawned as they neared Colwyn Bay, his tiredness overwhelming him. He struggled to find the words as he left his daughters at Sian’s house. Tonight he would sleep, safe in the knowledge that Ellingham was behind bars.
Epilogue
Drake returned to Mold Crown Court for the last two days of Ellingham’s trial. Drake scanned the faces of the jury members; it always fascinated him trying to fathom out what exactly was going on in their minds. Was there a natural leader? Somebody to assume the role of foreman in the retiring room. Spotting that person was difficult as they stared at the judge summing up the evidence, directing them as to how they should be considering the evidence. It cannot have been easy, Drake thought, with Ellingham having not entered a plea to any of the charges he faced. A not guilty plea had been formally entered on his behalf.
At lunchtime the jury retired to consider their verdicts and Drake contemplated returning to headquarters, but it was a journey of at least half an hour back to Mold from Colwyn Bay so he decided to wait. He found an old-fashioned café with net curtains and stiff wooden chairs, ordered some lunch and spent an hour and a half reading the newspaper and finishing the difficult Sudoku puzzle.
Each individual piece of evidence made the case against Jeremy Ellingham overwhelming but the jury would need to be satisfied the case had been proved beyond reasonable doubt. As the afternoon dragged on Drake became increasingly worried and when the jury was sent to a hotel overnight an edge of despair crept into his mind.
He returned the following morning with Superintendent Price and Sara
. They killed time making small talk with prosecution lawyers and some of the journalists who had gathered in force with film crews. It was after lunch on the second day when the jury filed back into the air-conditioned courtroom. Even the prosecution lawyers looked tense. Journalists with notebooks pressed against their knees stared over towards the jury. A frown briefly creased the judge’s forehead.
A court clerk stood up, adjusting the black gown draped over his shoulder. ‘Members of the jury, have you reached a decision on which you are all agreed?’
One of the two people Drake had down as the foreman stood up.
Drake held his breath tightly.
The man had a thin, reedy voice. ‘Yes.’
The court clerk started with the murder of Gloria Patton – guilty.
Drake let out a breath, his upper body sagging. It would mean a life sentence. Then the same question about the verdict on the charge of murdering Noel Sanderson – another guilty verdict. Drake looked over at Ellingham sitting in the dock flanked by two security officers. He was fidgeting with the nails of his right hand. Drake looked back at the jury foreman who had just been asked about their verdict on the Hopkin murder charge.
Drake’s chest tightened.
‘Guilty.’
‘And on the count of the attempted murder of Milos Fogerty.’
‘Guilty.’
Drake lurched back against the rear of the bench, the wood making a cracking sound. Price nodded contentedly. Drake noticed Sara tapping her clenched right fist discreetly on her thigh. He felt like jumping up and fisting the air.
The judge wasted little time in sentencing Jeremy Ellingham to four life sentences with a minimum term of twenty-eight years. In reality this meant at least thirty, maybe longer, behind bars once the parole system had ground its way through Ellingham’s file. Drake watched intently as the security guards led Ellingham down into the bowels of the court. The atmosphere inside changed, faces brightened, conversation was more relaxed.
Drake made his way outside with Superintendent Price and Sara, and they stood on the paved area by the main entrance.
Dead on Your Feet Page 29
