Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘How’s Sylvie?’

  MC stared at Drake, his eyes cold and hard.

  ‘In a fucking bad way. And once I know who got her hooked, then they’d better pray really hard. Because when I’ve finished with them it’ll be worse than dead.’

  Drake leant over the table and lowered his voice.

  ‘Stay out of trouble. You don’t want to go down again.’

  MC finished his drink and they left the café. Drake watched MC striding towards a black BMW and wondered how his cousin could afford it. He was always surprised how expensive it was to run his Alfa and Sian’s BMW on their combined salaries. MC gave him a nod and a brief wave when he drove past. Drake couldn’t decide if the meeting had been worthwhile or not. He couldn’t rely on the information but he couldn’t ignore it either.

  * * *

  Initially Dave Howick had been surprised at the financial arrangements between Rosen and his wife. There was a ‘domestic account’ into which they paid unequal amounts each month from their separate bank accounts and from which the mortgage and outgoings on their home were paid.

  Howick had been able to get Rosen’s internet password from the bank, after several difficult telephone calls, eventually having to threaten court proceedings, which seemed to frighten the supervisor sufficiently to win her cooperation. There were direct debits, insurance premiums (perhaps his wife had, after all, arranged a contract killing), standing orders for his membership of the flying club, of a local golf club and others to Investor’s Weekly and a Penny Share Tipping Guide. Howick felt his concentration waning after two hours, so he stretched his legs and went to the kitchen to make tea. It was the sort of laborious work he’d hoped to put behind him with a promotion to sergeant, and it was difficult finding the motivation for the day-to-day work in CID.

  Returning to his desk Howick resumed the task of trawling through the papers, gnawing on a chocolate bar between mouthfuls of tea. Alongside each of the bank statements were pay slips and P60s, all neatly filed in plastic pockets. Howick found annual payments to the Automobile Association and one-off payments to a company selling holiday villas. The Visa card payments included restaurants, pubs and petrol, nothing out of the ordinary. By mid-afternoon he came across a single debit entry for £10 to what looked like an Irish bank.

  ‘I cannot give you that information without the account holder’s consent.’

  The response from the call centre was predictable, but Howick was ready with his reply. ‘You already have the consent of the personal representatives of Mr Rosen to discuss everything with us. This is a murder inquiry,’ he added severely.

  Eventually the information was forthcoming. The transfer was to an account in the name of F. Rosen at the First Mutual Savings Corporation in Liffey Street, Dublin. Howick felt smug and self-satisfied that his hours of toil had produced something of interest. He now had to find out why Rosen had an account in Ireland, and why there was no other paper trail. After several futile telephone calls Howick found himself talking to Breda. She had a warm accent and he idly speculated whether the investigation would justify a trip to Ireland. Unless something remarkable turned up, it was only likely that the inspector would get the benefit of overseas travel. A couple of hours had gone by as Howick compiled a report for Drake when the telephone rang.

  ‘It’s some Irish bird for you,’ announced the male receptionist.

  ‘Is that Detective Constable Howick?’ Breda almost sang down the phone.

  ‘Yes, is that Breda?’

  ‘We’ve had some trouble tracing this account. We don’t have the address you gave us on any of our databases. Have you got a date of birth?’

  Howick imagined Breda with dark hair to her shoulders, long legs and a fair, clean complexion. She promised to call him back after she’d verified the data and within an hour the telephone rang again.

  ‘We found him,’ she said simply. ‘But the address you gave me was wrong. We have Mr Rosen living at an address in Rathmines. It’s a suburb on the south side of Dublin. I’ll email the statement through in the next five minutes. If you need any more help, Detective Constable, please call.’

  The last few words seemed to hang gently on his ears, caressing his hearing, enlivening the image he already had of Breda.

  The email was straightforward enough, confirming the details of the initial deposit and the address Breda had given him on the telephone. He opened the attached statements and as he read them Howick’s heart started to beat a little faster.

  * * *

  Drake stood in the kitchen at headquarters, looking at the coffee granules descending slowly in the cafetière. He’d recently changed the time he allowed for coffee to brew from two minutes to three and a half: apparently research he’d read in a Sunday supplement suggested this was the optimum time.

  After pouring the dark liquid into his mug he returned to his office, adjusted the coaster to sit exactly square to the edge of the desk and plonked the coffee on top. He fiddled with the mouse until he scrolled down to the calendar. He’d been trying to ignore the memo that simply said ‘TH’. A reminder from Price, before he’d left, about the counselling: it meant that he couldn’t miss it – there was no justification for cancelling it.

  Drake read through the membership list of the Anglesey Flying Club. He recognised the names of solicitors and estate agents, realising that addresses in the expensive parts of North Wales were only to be expected. There were a few Jones and Williams, but he guessed that for the average citizen of Anglesey the only flying they ever did was on their annual holiday. He cross-referenced the list of members to the syndicate supplied by Ellis-Pugh and stopped when he read the name of John Beltrami. He drank the final dregs of the tepid coffee and then sat back in his chair, wondering if there really was a connection to the Beltrami family.

  From the Incident Room he heard the sound of Caren and Howick returning after lunch and soon Winder joined them. Drake grabbed the membership list and stepped into the Incident Room. Winder opened a chocolate bar before taking a large mouthful and sitting down. Howick had an expectant look on his face and Caren was staring at the cluttered board.

  Drake had insisted on pinning to the board a cross-section drawing of the ferry, showing a complete layout of each deck. Alongside it was a list of all the crew members and another list of all the passengers. He had instructed that the lists had to be printed on sheets of A4 with a large font that made it possible to read the names without having to lean down and squint at them.

  ‘I’ve made some progress.’ Howick said.

  ‘So have I, of sorts,’ Drake said. ‘John Beltrami is one of the owners of the plane that Rosen flew regularly.’

  ‘The Beltramis?’ Caren said.

  Winder immediately began sorting through some papers on his desk. ‘The family from Rhyl?’

  Drake pinned the list of the members of the syndicate to the board. ‘You said you’d made progress, Dave?’

  ‘Got it,’ Winder said too loudly.

  Drake gave him an annoyed glance. ‘What’s wrong, Gareth?’

  ‘I thought the name Beltrami rang a bell. I found this in Rosen’s file,’ he said, holding up a sheet of paper. ‘It’s a reference for Rosen when he applied for the job of chief engineer. Signed by John Beltrami.’

  ‘So he must have known him very well,’ Drake said.

  ‘References can be meaningless.’ Howick sounded a cynical note. ‘And what’s more important is that Rosen had a bank account in Ireland. It had over €150,000 deposited.’

  ‘How much?’ Drake said, incredulity in his voice as Howick pinned an A4 sheet of paper to the board alongside the photograph of Frank Rosen.

  ‘€150,000,’ he said, drawing his hand over the sheet with a flourish.

  Winder, standing behind Drake, let out a brief whistle of surprise. Caren stared intently at the figures on the board, her face a mixture of surprise and interest.

  ‘Frank Rosen had over €150,000 in the First Mutual Savings Corporation.’
Howick stood back from the board.

  ‘What’s that in real money?’ Winder asked.

  ‘£129,538,’ Howick announced.

  ‘What are the details, Dave?’

  ‘Frank Rosen had an address in Ireland that he used for opening the account. An initial ten pounds was sent electronically from Rosen’s account. The rest of the deposits were made in cash.’

  Winder joined Drake and the others in staring at the board. The money changed everything, always changed everything.

  ‘Over what period of time were the cash deposits made?’ Drake said.

  ‘Last three years,’ Howick replied.

  ‘And the amounts?’

  ‘They varied. The smallest could be €5000 and the largest €12,000.’

  ‘Can we find out anything about the payments?’

  ‘I’ve asked the bank to trace paying in slips and any other paperwork they’ve got. I suppose we need to make contact with the police in Dublin.’

  ‘You’d better call the Garda. There’ll be a contact name and number for a liaison department.’

  ‘He was blackmailing somebody,’ Caren said.

  ‘One of his rich flying buddies,’ Winder added, having sat down, his feet propped up on the edge of the desk.

  Drake paced slowly back and forth before the board, his mind focusing on various lines of enquiry, blanking out the prospect of the imminent counselling session. The possibility of cancelling crossed his mind – pressure of work, new important case – but he imagined how Superintendent Lance might react and, more importantly, what Sian would say.

  ‘Maybe he won it on the horses.’ Winder again, grinning.

  Howick laughed, Caren snorted a dismissive comment and Drake ignored the banter, continuing to pace before the board.

  ‘I want details of his flying companions up on this board. Straight away. You just don’t have a shed load of money in a bank account without somebody knowing about it.’

  ‘I wonder if Janet Rosen knew about this money?’ Caren said.

  Drake looked over at Howick and Winder. ‘Both of you, find the syndicate members on this list.’ He turned to Caren. ‘Tomorrow we go and talk to John Beltrami.’

  Chapter 10

  Drake drummed the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel to the beat of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Thunder Road’. He’d noticed an odd smell as he got into the car that morning, hoping that Caren hadn’t carried in something from the farm on her shoes. He reassured himself with the knowledge that he’d be cleaning the car the following morning.

  Caren sat in the passenger seat, looking out over the sea towards the wind turbines, as they drove towards Rhyl. He took the junction off the A55 and soon found himself passing the box-like homes popular with the retirees from Manchester and Liverpool. Each seemed identical, patterned net curtains in the windows and small cars in the drive.

  For a town with little more than a flat sandy beach, Rhyl had earned its nickname, BBC – beer, bingo and chips – by opening pubs and arcades filled with slot machines. Drake turned left, along the seafront, eventually finding a parking space outside an enormous amusement arcade.

  ‘Did you notice the furniture shop we passed on the corner?’ Drake said.

  Caren shook her head.

  ‘Belongs to the Beltrami family. And they’ve got a carpet shop.’

  Caren bent forward, looking out of the window. ‘This arcade must make them a lot of money.’

  ‘The Economic Crime Unit has been after them for years. But they’ve never been able to bring a prosecution.’

  The Beltrami family had hovered on the edge of criminality for many years, attracting the keen but discreet interest of the Wales Police Service. No investigation had ever developed into anything of substance; usually the version of events from complainants would change, memories would suddenly become unreliable.

  ‘Let’s go and see what John Beltrami has to say for himself.’

  Drake and Caren walked through the arcade; it had a thick, warm atmosphere heated by hundreds of bulbs and various machines, and the occasional punter staring at the machines, willing the winning combinations to appear.

  A girl with heavy black eyeshadow, which made her look like an extra from a zombie movie, sat behind a glass screen at the far end. Drake tapped on the glass and she gave him a lazy look.

  ‘Mr Beltrami’s expecting me,’ Drake said.

  She picked up the telephone and said no more than half a dozen words, before nodding towards a door behind her. Drake and Caren took the stairs to the first floor. A small woman carrying a folder full of papers stood at the top and led them down a corridor lined with box and lever-arch files, all neatly annotated. Drake could see why gathering evidence against Beltrami would be difficult, and why every successful criminal needed an accountant and probably the occasional dodgy solicitor as well.

  She knocked on the door and, when she heard the shout from inside, stood to one side and pushed it open, allowing Drake and Caren to enter. The first thing Drake noticed were the two large indoor plants which had a healthy sheen, accentuated by the subdued lighting fitted to expensive-looking shades. Beltrami rose from behind a desk that would have suited the office of an important civil servant in a Welsh government department.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Beltrami said, sounding vaguely insincere. His voice had the rough, harsh edges of a Liverpool accent despite having lived in North Wales for years. Drake guessed he must have been mid-fifties; the expensive clothes made him look younger.

  Drake reached out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector Drake and Detective Sergeant Waits.’

  ‘How can I help, Inspector?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Frank Rosen.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Terrible of course and how is his wife…?’ He stumbled to remember her name.

  ‘Janet,’ offered Drake.

  ‘Yes, of course. How is she?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. I believe you knew Frank Rosen quite well.’

  ‘Only through the flying club. I’ve known him for four or five years. He’s a good pilot and I’m a poor one. I’ve learnt a lot with him, as has my daughter who’s flown with him more often than I have.’

  On the wall Drake noticed framed photographs of a smiling John Beltrami in a dinner jacket with Richard Class, the first minister of the Welsh Government, another with UK politicians and several of Beltrami with various celebrities all beaming smiles to the camera. Drake thought about the job reference in the folder on his lap.

  ‘Did you know he’d recently been promoted to chief engineer?’

  ‘Ah… I don’t think…’

  ‘He never mentioned it to you?’

  ‘He may have done. I can’t honestly remember.’

  Drake moved on, deciding he’d return to the reference later. ‘Did you meet socially at any time?’ Drake asked, thinking that there might have been a black-tie flying club dinner.

  ‘Other than through the flying club no, I didn’t.’ Beltrami sounded vaguely surprised by the suggestion.

  ‘Who were his friends in the flying club?’ Drake continued.

  ‘Well, I know he was friends with Tim Loosemore and I suppose Ellis-Pugh and the others in the syndicate. Have you asked Janet?’

  Drake ignored the question. ‘Did you know if he had any enemies? Anyone with a reason to kill him?’

  ‘I suppose everybody has secrets. Something they would prefer to keep that way. I’ve been in business a long time and people’s motives and desires and jealousies continue to fascinate me, Inspector. But with Frank I really can’t tell you anything. We all take risks, perhaps he took one too many.’

  Drake hesitated; Caren squinted at Beltrami. She’d stopped making notes, clearly uncertain what he really meant.

  ‘But you flew with him.’ Caren made her first contribution. ‘Did you talk about his personal life? Did he give the impression of having problems weighing on his mind?’

  Beltrami gave Caren a sharp look. ‘As I said
, we only flew together.’

  ‘Did you talk about his work?’

  ‘No, I don’t recall ever doing so.’

  ‘And about his wife?’ Caren continued, irritation in her voice.

  ‘Again Sergeant, sorry. I knew who she was but he never talked about her in that way.’

  ‘What way?’

  Drake creased his forehead, uncertain where Caren was taking the conversation.

  ‘The way you’re suggesting. In detail, in conversation.’

  ‘So what did you talk about? When you were together.’

  Drake interrupted.

  ‘It’s important Mr Beltrami. There must have been times when you stopped overnight. You socialised then.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t keep track of the conversations.’

  Drake opened the folder on his lap and handed a sheet of paper to Beltrami. ‘We found this job reference in the personnel file of Frank Rosen.’

  For a moment, Beltrami looked uncertain. ‘Of course. I was happy to provide Frank with a reference for the promotion.’ Then he drew a hand over his Rolex, in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Is there anything else Inspector? I am very busy.’

  He rose to his feet and took a couple of steps towards the door. Caren gathered her papers and as Drake turned he noticed a framed photograph of Beltrami shaking hands with the Irish Taoiseach, and another with a couple of Oscar winners. A smaller picture that was hanging to one side had Beltrami with his arms over the shoulder of a young man and a woman who were standing either side of him.

  ‘Family photograph?’ Drake said.

  ‘That was taken at the officers’ mess in the RAF base near the flying club. Ellis-Pugh had organised a dinner when Jade qualified as an instructor. And that’s my son, Jack.’

  Drake noticed the photograph of Beltrami with Jenson Button and he bent forward, trying to identify the racetrack where the image had been taken.

  ‘Are you interested in F1?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes, I try and visit a couple of the races each year.’

  ‘I’ve been to Silverstone a couple of times. And I went with a friend to Monaco a while back. But the demands of family make it difficult to find the time,’ Drake replied, thinking to himself, and the money. ‘Where was this taken?’