‘Luned, check out the connection. Get some background on Glyn and Matthew Talbot. There wasn’t any sign of anyone living with Glyn when we visited his house and, Gareth, you chase Harry’s financial adviser for details of that trust he established.’
Drake turned back and stared at Richard Perdue. ‘Perdue is dangerous. He has to be the main focus for us.’ Drake paused. ‘We need a full background on him.’ He glanced at Luned who nodded back. ‘And chase the Midlands police about the image of the man with him when they visited Harry Jones.’
He realised something was missing. Finding a scrap of paper in the nearest desk, he scribbled something on it and pinned it to the board.
It read ‘unidentified girl’.
‘And we need to find that girl from the CCTV coverage.’
Drake settled back at his desk and moved the columns of Post It notes to one corner. From a drawer he found several sheets of paper and started a mind map on one page. It always helped him. There was something therapeutic about the physical act of grasping a ballpoint pen and scribbling.
He wrote Harry Jones’s name in the middle of the first sheet and added Fiona’s in a bubble to the right, then Nancy Brown’s underneath before filling an empty bubble with a question mark at the bottom. He paused for a moment, thinking about the unidentified woman recorded on the CCTV coverage from Harry’s office. Turning to the report from the sergeant in charge of policing Llanberis, he reread the details. It sounded bland, disinterested – ‘the usual channels have been explored’, ‘shopkeepers and local publicans and staff interviewed’ as well as ‘approaching known human intelligence sources’. The report had no details about how many officers had been deployed and a suspicion niggled its way into Drake’s mind that his request for assistance had been given a low priority.
On the left-hand side, he wrote the names of Muller and Perdue and drew arrows from their names to Harry’s.
A second sheet of paper was dedicated to Heulwen Beard. Bubbles on the right of that page had Muller and Perdue written inside them and on the left he jotted down Harry’s name, underlining it three times. Recalling the chalky face of Glyn Talbot reminded him that murder in the close-knit community of Llanberis was like an unwelcome ghost disturbing quiet certainties. He pushed both sheets together and Muller and Perdue’s names mirrored each other.
On the third sheet he wrote ‘bomb storage facility’. Was the incident there earlier that week connected to the two deaths? He had nothing to suggest it was. But he hated coincidences and the possibility that a shooting and the incident in the bomb storage facility could be unrelated seemed unlikely. Turning to the monitor he accessed the CSI report. If they could establish who had discharged the firearm he could interview him or her and build a case for a charge of attempted murder. He read the conclusions of the report twice – no evidence of any firearm and nothing to identify the culprit. The CSIs had discovered broken bottles and empty cans of lager and cigarette butts and discarded chocolate wrappings. Superintendent Price had called off the search once it was clear that valuable resources could be wasted.
Nothing in the background checks into the photographer suggested anyone would want to kill him. The significance of the bomb storage incident would have to be parked for now. The Incident Room had emptied by the time he finished scanning the photographs from the site. The graffiti and weeds and dereliction only reaffirmed that despite being near the town of Llanberis, it had somehow been forgotten.
A silence crept into his office, taking him back to evenings when his rituals could keep him at headquarters too late. Often Sian telephoning and insisting he get home would be the only check on his obsessions. Now he didn’t even have that, so he promised himself that once he’d checked the house-to-house reports he’d leave.
Officers had tramped around Llanberis, and the summaries produced suggested a community jolted by Harry’s death. Nothing of significance had been discovered and the preliminary reports of the house-to-house inquires around Heulwen Beard’s property were much the same. One of the officers had noted that a neighbour was a fisherman, who suggested the salmon might have been poached.
Drake looked again at the results of the triangulation reports of Fiona Jones’s and Wolfgang Muller’s mobile telephone numbers on the day Harry was killed but he knew the science was inexact and that pinpointing a telephone, even if it was switched on, was like searching for a small needle in large haystack. He dragged from his mind that Harry had an unsent text stored as draft on his mobile when he was killed.
Drake found the details – ‘where are you?’.
Finding Harry’s murderer would be easy – all they had to do was fathom out who the intended recipient was.
But was that the same person who killed Heulwen Beard?
Chapter 22
Drake drove the short distance from his flat to the estate where he had lived for so many years and parked his car next to Sian’s BMW. She gave him a courteous nod as she opened the door, and he followed her into the kitchen.
‘I hope this isn’t going to take long. I’m collecting the girls from a sleepover.’
It looked a typical Sunday morning; the remains of breakfast on the round pine table. Drake ignored her flouncy gesture of looking at her watch and sat down.
‘Susan is coming to stay next weekend with Mam. She’s bringing both boys with her. And my mother is planning a family party.’
‘Does that include…?’
Drake hesitated. ‘Mam has made a lot of effort to get Susan to agree to meet Huw.’
Sian flicked on the electric kettle on the worktop. ‘Do you want coffee or something?’ Drake sensed the sharpening edge in her voice.
‘No, thanks. It would be the perfect opportunity for Helen and Megan to meet Huw. After all—’
‘Don’t give me that stuff about him being family.’
‘But he is,’ Drake replied firmly. ‘And they know Susan and the two boys. And they haven’t seen them for a long time. In fact, I can’t remember when they last saw their cousins.’
Sian sighed, heaping instant coffee into a mug followed by hot water.
‘It’s just… I think it is too soon.’
‘You’re being overprotective.’
‘Hardly. We don’t know anything about this man. He comes into your life, upsetting things, badgering your mother, who seems to be completely oblivious to the impact it might have on the family.’
‘Helen and Megan have faced our problems. And dealt with it.’
Sian gave him a sharp look. She remained standing by the kitchen worktop, coffee mug in hand.
‘This is different.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Drake said. ‘Helen and Megan will have to get used to changing circumstances. What if you started a relationship with somebody else?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Sian stiffened. Her discomfort reinforced Drake’s suspicion there was someone new.
‘Come on Sian, be sensible. We can’t protect Helen and Megan indefinitely. They both realise that we’ve moved on.’
‘I’m still not certain it’s the right thing.’
Drake paused. ‘Keeping the secret about Dad’s relationship wasn’t right. It’s caused all this difficulty now and I don’t want to hide it from the girls any longer.’
Sian sipped on her coffee. He knew he was winning the argument. Sometimes doing the right thing meant making difficult decisions.
The chair scraped on the tiled floor as he stood up.
‘I’ll let you know what the arrangements will be.’
Sian put her mug down. He could see the vulnerability in her face; her careful orderliness was being challenged. If Susan, his sister, could face meeting Huw then Helen and Megan would take it in their stride.
‘Where is it going to be, this family party?’
‘Probably at the farm.’
‘I’m still not completely convinced.’
‘This is my family, Sian. I want Helen and Megan to meet their uncle.’
She gave a brief, puzzled frown and tilted her head. ‘Are you wearing aftershave?’
His cheeks flushed and he mumbled a reply before walking over to his car, starting the engine and driving away, realising it really was his former home. He was moving on with his life, resolving to make things better, different. Facing the challenges after his father’s death with confidence. Even if he was uncertain how things would turn out.
* * *
He glanced over at the board when he arrived at the Incident Room and spotted that the image of Harry Jones’s mystery love interest had replaced his handwritten sheet. Before he settled down to work, his mobile rang. Huw’s number appeared on the screen.
‘Morning, Huw.’
‘Ian. I wanted to talk to you about next weekend.’
‘Mam’s looking forward to it.’ It wasn’t strictly true as Drake was convinced she was apprehensive.
‘She’s asked me to bring Sioned and Wil but I’m not certain it’s the right thing to do.’
It was more a matter of how Susan, his, their, sister might react.
‘If Mam has invited them then I’m sure it will be fine.’
Huw paused. ‘Are you in charge of the murder investigations in Llanberis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sioned is working in one of the hotels at the moment – she’s taking a year out. Can you keep an eye out for her?’
It was a father’s natural concern for his daughter and probably the real reason for Huw’s call. He sensed Huw wanting reassurance that there was nothing to worry about. He would be the same if it were Helen or Megan.
‘Of course. Where is she working?’
‘The Fox and Hounds. She told me that the locals are pretty spooked. Everyone knew Harry Jones.’
An idea formed in Drake’s mind. ‘How long has she been working there?’ The locals of the pub might have more luck than the local uniformed officers in identifying the mystery woman.
‘A few months. She really enjoys it.’
Drake promised to contact his brother about the final arrangements for the following weekend and as he finished the call a message from Annie reached his mobile. Really sorry. Can’t make it tonight. I’ve got to go back to Cardiff. Back Tuesday – see you then xxx.
He recalled his brief conversation with her the previous afternoon when he explained that he couldn’t see her. The usual platitudes about ‘something having come up’ and that he was very sorry sounded hackneyed. The sort of phrases he had trotted out to Sian repeatedly during their marriage until they became meaningless. Was he being unrealistic to hope that things could be different with Annie? Now he wanted things to change.
He read the message again. He wondered why she had to go back to Cardiff. Had his feeble excuses for last night been enough for her to realise a relationship with a police officer wasn’t for her. How could he reply? Maybe he should ring her and find out what was happening. But he’d sound pathetic. It was only their second date – even thinking that word –‘date’ – made him uncomfortable. He tapped out a reply: Looking forward to seeing you xx. Then he decided to add – Safe Journey and toyed with the idea of asking – Everything ok? Deciding it was none of his business, he deleted the question.
He pressed send and sank back in his chair.
Visiting The Fox and Hounds suddenly sounded more interesting than poring over his desk so he gathered up his car keys and left headquarters before the rest of his team arrived.
A call to the pub told Drake Sioned wasn’t working until later that morning so he detoured around Deiniolen and drove towards Heulwen Beard’s home. The lawyer had lived in this rural community all her life, as had her father before her.
He stopped briefly at a passing slot for cars and took in the view, realising why it enthralled city dwellers. Foulds and the CSIs were still working through Gwelfor when Drake arrived.
‘Back again?’ Foulds said.
‘In the neighbourhood.’ Drake tried some humour.
‘Yeh, I bet.’
Drake stood in the hallway admiring the oak panels. He could imagine local joiners fashioning them with chisels and round wooden mallets. It had taken precision and care to finish the substantial staircase, balustrades and handrails. He reached the first floor. It must have been an empty, lonely existence for Heulwen Beard, living in such a place on her own.
A musty carpet covered the landing and stretched into the first bedroom, which had a mahogany suite, with an empty wardrobe, a double bed with an ancient eiderdown and a chest of drawers – also empty. Drake shivered; the place felt soulless. New owners would soon discard the furniture into a skip, throw away the carpet, replaster all the walls and paint everywhere a brilliant white.
A makeshift study occupied the smaller bedroom. He sat down in front of a desk with a curved rolltop. A small key protruded from a hole at the bottom. He opened it and pushed the rolltop into its cover.
A pile of recent editions of Papur Padarn were stuffed into one corner. Alongside them were printed sheets with double-spaced type covered with red scribbled editing comments. Clearly Heulwen Beard had preferred to edit the old-fashioned way. Drake speed-read an article by Glyn Talbot about the history of the bomb storage facility. And another about the local railway that skirted the lake. More highbrow stuff.
Drake worked his way through the various drawers. He paused to admire the craftsmanship that had gone into assembling the dovetail joints in the drawer. There were letters in scrawny handwriting, one of which was addressed to Mr Beard. In the final drawer he fingered the plastic exterior of several photograph albums.
His interest piqued, he lifted them onto the desk.
It was a bespoke album – the words ‘Windermere 1980’ etched in faded gold lettering. It was like stepping back in time in more ways than one. Nobody does photographs any longer; cameras replaced by smartphones. He sensed the albums hadn’t been opened for years. Drake wondered what memories it rekindled for Heulwen Beard. He found out soon enough when he saw her face and that of Harry Jones as an unmistakable teenager peering at the camera.
All the images were of two young people clearly infatuated. And in the age before the selfie. Another holidaymaker must have taken the pictures of Heulwen Beard and Harry Jones holding hands, his arm threaded behind her back, pulling her close. Beard sat smiling on a steamer on Lake Windermere, eating a cream tea in a café, walking up one of the fells. It appeared blissfully innocent.
Drake worked his way through all of the photograph albums. There was a similar one for the Yorkshire Dales a year later. But when he tried to discover the albums for any subsequent year there was a gap – until he found an album, no expensive embossed name and year this time, simply a collection of photographs of Heulwen Beard and her father. The location looked vaguely continental. He noticed the occasional palm tree but he noticed a sign advertising Torquay.
At the bottom of the final drawer lay a carefully folded letter.
Drake opened and read with increasing astonishment a letter from an adoption agency – the language formal but polite. Did she want to have contact with her daughter? The girl had recently contacted them and wanted to meet her birth mother.
Immediately Drake thought about the images of Heulwen and Harry. Was he the father? Another secret the family didn’t want to share? He found an envelope for the letter and stored it safely in a pocket.
In a cupboard behind him were more of Heulwen Beard’s personal memorabilia. Photograph albums of her father and mother. Some old books wrapped in tissue paper. She had kept the record of her trips to Windermere and the Yorkshire Dales close. Immediately to hand, somewhere she could access them whenever she wanted. It must have been a reminder of something special and valuable, but also something she had lost.
Heulwen Beard’s bedroom proved a disappointment after the
small study. Dowdy old-fashioned clothes filled the wardrobe and a faint smell of mothballs tickled his nostrils. Back downstairs he made a cursory examination of the books in the main sitting room. Looking out from the French doors, he decided on a whim to walk out onto the veranda; he struggled with the lock, which eventually gave way.
After the musty atmosphere inside he welcomed the cool fresh air against his face. Harry Jones had worked all his life in Llanberis, the village Drake could see on the valley floor, and Heulwen Beard was a pillar of the local community – a respected lawyer from an old family.
Both were linked inextricably. Her daughter would have to be traced and identified.
A chill wind whipped up, sending swirling columns of mist high into the sky. Drake drew his jacket collar to his cheeks. Their only real suspect was a cockney with a reputation for dodgy business deals and gangster friends, but Drake couldn’t ignore Wolfgang Muller and his grudge against Harry and a link to Beard. Drake gazed down and thought about Fiona in her comfortable detached property, consciously ignoring her husband’s failings. Did she know about Harry and Heulwen? More importantly, did Richard Perdue?
As Drake looked over the valley it struck him that seeing Heulwen Beard and Harry Jones hand-in-hand as young lovers meant he might have to look for the culprit much nearer to home.
Chapter 23
Drake reached the car park of the Fox and Hounds and found a slot at the far end before leaving the car. A sign at the entrance advertised ‘Sunday Carvery’ and ‘Live Music’. The smell of stale chip fat drifted through the air. Condensation covered a window and from the shadowy figures behind it Drake guessed it was the pub’s kitchen.
Drake pushed open the outer door and after a narrow porch he reached the main pub area. Tables were being laid with menus and condiments. It had been a while since he had met Sioned but he soon recognised her as she sorted glasses behind the bar. She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement – his message to the landlord for her to expect him had been relayed. She waved him towards a stool.
A Time to Kill Page 16