Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  Lance had emailed him several times during the morning and Drake spent more time reading the emails than he would have done on Price’s. Ahead of him was the task of telling the team that Lance was now the SIO, creating yet another knot of tension to deal with. There was no reasonable explanation for his demotion, and he tried to calculate what Lance might have read about him in his personnel file.

  An email from Malachy O’Sullivan reminded him to send a photograph of Mandy Beal, so he spent time trawling through the folders until he attached it to a reply. He was suddenly impatient with everything about the investigation. And there was an odd smell in his room, of that he was certain. Unless he could determine its source it would distract him for the rest of the day. Moving the bin and rearranging the chairs had little effect and even adjusting the latch on the window didn’t help.

  He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at his desk, when Howick knocked on the door.

  ‘Something you should see, sir.’

  Drake frowned as he turned to look at the young officer. His pulse increased a notch at the thought of having to speak to the team.

  ‘I’ve been looking at the CCTV coverage from the boat.’

  ‘It’s a ship,’ Drake said, repeating Captain Seymour’s admonishment.

  Howick blinked a couple of times, obviously uncertain how to reply. ‘It’s on the computer,’ he said eventually.

  Drake walked over to the board. ‘I think you should know…’ He could feel a lump developing in his throat. ‘Superintendent Lance has assumed the role of SIO for the duration of the inquiry.’

  Winder glanced at Caren. She puckered her cheeks and then frowned slightly. Howick stuck his hands into his pockets, but said nothing.

  ‘Is there any reason?’ Caren said.

  Drake had been thinking exactly the same himself. A heavy atmosphere hung in the room. Winder bowed his head slightly and looked at Howick. Another spasm of doubt ran through Drake’s mind that maybe his team knew something about this turn of events. They might have heard some gossip.

  ‘We get on with the investigation,’ Drake said, stepping towards Howick, who sat down and started clicking through various CCTV clips. Winder walked over and stood next to Drake.

  Drake said nothing as he concentrated on Howick’s screen. Caren put her tea down on the desk and fumbled noisily with the wrapping of an Eccles cake. Drake gave her a sharp glare.

  ‘Dave’s got something important,’ he said, raising his voice.

  Without turning his head, Howick started a detailed explanation of the CCTV coverage. After five minutes Drake cut across him. ‘What exactly did you want to show us?’

  ‘It’s the cameras near the stern door.’ Howick sounded flustered.

  More images of men in high-visibility jackets filled the screen. Howick explained that the ship was loading, ready to leave the port. Drake turned to look at Caren, the half-eaten pastry in her hand, the rest floating around in her open mouth.

  ‘Look at this, sir,’ Howick said, freezing the image of a man, stationary below the camera, his hands outstretched, a defensive posture to his body language. ‘I think this is Rhodri Owens, the ship’s deck officer. Something doesn’t look right.’

  ‘Have we got any statements?’ Drake said.

  ‘I’ve gone through the statements from the other officers on the deck, but nobody mentions Rhodri Owens.’

  ‘But all we asked them about was Rosen.’

  ‘There may be an innocent enough explanation to all this,’ Caren added, leaning on the back of the chair alongside Drake.

  ‘What else have you got?’ Drake gestured towards the screen.

  Howick clicked again until the image of the earring appeared. ‘That’s Darren Green.’

  ‘And who is he?’ Winder again.

  ‘Able seaman,’ Howick replied.

  ‘How do you know it’s Green?’ Caren asked, moving closer to the screen.

  ‘He wears an earring. I checked with his photograph.’

  Caren balled the remains of the cellophane wrapper and discarded it in the bin by her feet. ‘And if the intelligence from Merseyside police is reliable, he should be our number one suspect.’

  ‘So what are you thinking?’ Winder asked. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It was half an hour before the ship was due to leave.’

  ‘Just when Rosen went missing,’ Drake said. ‘I think we need to talk to Green.’

  ‘I’ve spoken with the ferry company already. He’s coming off shift at six in the morning,’ Howick said.

  Drake turned to Caren. ‘Better get an early night.’

  Chapter 19

  Drake pulled back the sleeve of his Barbour jacket and read the time. He knew from a Google search that sunrise was at 6:16 a.m. and, looking eastwards, he saw the first faint shards of light. At least it wasn’t raining as it had been the last time he’d stood on the quayside. He thrust gloved hands into both pockets, but there was no escaping the bitter wind blowing through the harbour. Caren, standing by his side, alternated between blowing onto the surface of a coffee and then sipping loudly. Even at this early hour, he was irritated by her eating habits. She had given him one of her usual odd glances when he’d declined the offer of coffee.

  The noise from the approaching ferry increased and he took a couple of steps towards the ramp. The sound of seawater that was churned by the bow thrusters smothered the broken speech from voices on radios used by the shore staff. Lights flashed and sirens wailed as the stern doors of the vessel slowly heaved open. Behind Drake engines of tractor units roared into life. Another five minutes passed until the ship had been secured and the ramp lowered towards the car deck. Drake saw familiar faces as he walked down into the body of the vessel.

  ‘Captain Seymour’s expecting you,’ one of the deck officers said to him, leaning towards Drake’s left ear to make himself heard. ‘Go up to deck A.’

  Drake and Caren heard the heavy pneumatic door closing behind them as they climbed the stairs through the vessel. He unzipped his jacket, removed the gloves and after five flights, taken too quickly, he stood on deck A, his heart pounding. The door opened and Captain Seymour strode towards them.

  ‘How can I help, Inspector?’

  ‘We need to interview Darren Green,’ Drake said, regaining his composure.

  ‘The AB?’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘He’s not on board.’

  ‘We were told he was working.’

  ‘He went off watch early. I think he’s got the flu. So he left twelve hours ago.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us?’

  Seymour looked surprised. ‘I was told to expect you. But not that you wanted to speak to Green.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you…’ Drake didn’t finish. ‘Thanks Captain,’ he said, before turning back towards the stairs.

  The car deck was a throng of activity. Drake hurried towards the ramp, but had to wait as a lorry with Lithuanian plates slowly hauled its way onto the quayside. He cursed silently his decision not to give Captain Seymour advance warning. Walking up from the car deck Drake could make out the silhouettes of the harbour buildings from the sunshine breaking over the horizon.

  The Alfa was still parked by the small office building, now alive with activity. He unlocked the car before joining the stream of lorries threading their way back to the main entrance.

  ‘Find the address,’ Drake said to Caren, as they turned towards the middle of the town.

  After a few minutes Drake pulled the car onto the pavement near Green’s house, a two-storey end of terrace.

  ‘There’ll be a back lane,’ Drake said, knowing that every terrace in the town seemed to have access from the rear. ‘You go to the front.’

  At the opposite end of the terrace of five houses, Drake found the narrow tarmac-covered lane. He broke into a brief jog until he reached a junction and saw another lane running behind the properties. A tall black bin was lying on its side, spewing out its con
tents and there was a strong smell of dog urine. He reached the end of the lane and peered towards Green’s house. But there was no sign of life, no lights or movement.

  He tried the latch on the gate but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed it, hard. Nothing. He thought he heard the sound of the doorbell and guessed Caren was trying to raise Green. He stepped back, concluding that the wall was well over two metres. Retracing his steps, he kicked away some rubbish from the bin before upending it and dragging it towards the entrance to Green’s backyard. He scrambled to the top of the bin, hoping it would hold his weight. The plastic sagged a little but, ignoring the angst that his Barbour would be ruined and that his brogues would probably be badly scratched, he climbed over the wall and fell heavily into a flowerbed full of nettles. He felt his hands burning and cursed.

  He reached for the mobile in his pocket and dialled Caren’s number. ‘I’m in the backyard.’

  ‘No sign of him. I’ve tried the bell and hammered on the door. Curtains drawn on the front window.’

  Drake had reached the back door by the time Caren had finished.

  ‘The back door is open. I’m going in.’ He killed the call and put the mobile back into his pocket before pushing open the door and stepping into a small room with a washing machine and tumble dryer. To his right there was a narrow door that he gently prodded with his foot. There was a foul smell from the toilet behind it, so he pulled the door closed.

  Moving to his left he stepped into a kitchen and shouted Green’s name, only for a moment wondering about whether he’d entered lawfully, and whether he’d have the lawyers on his back. But something wasn’t right. He flicked on a light switch and a shadeless bulb illuminated the kitchen; a pile of empty lager tins lay on the kitchen table alongside a takeaway pizza box.

  There was a musty smell to the hallway, as though nobody had cleaned for months. He called out Green’s name again before nudging open the first door he came to. It was empty apart from an old table, no chairs and no covering on the small window.

  The second door was to the room at the front of the house.

  Drake looked at the light switch, smudges of grease over its surface. Forcing himself, he flicked the switch, filling the room with a pale haze. He only took one step before seeing Daz Green sitting in a chair, blood covering his chest, a bullet wound centred in his forehead.

  Chapter 20

  A yellow tape marking the outer perimeter of the crime scene was already in place when Drake and Caren arrived back after a hurried breakfast in the local police station. One of the young uniformed officers they’d left at the house in their absence was standing alongside the Scientific Support Vehicle talking to an elderly man; a small overweight dog sat on the pavement by his feet. Drake could see the back of a white-suited CSI standing in the doorway.

  Winder and Howick arrived and as Drake gave them instructions his mobile rang. Recognising the number he took two steps away from the other officers, hoping he could talk privately.

  ‘I know who did it.’ MC’s voice was clear.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who killed Green?’

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘We can talk now.’

  Drake turned and looked down the street. MC was fifty metres away, standing on the pavement, mobile pressed to his ear, legs astride. A couple of elderly women jostled past him.

  ‘And I want to talk to you about Tom Vigo. I’ll get my sergeant.’

  ‘No way.’

  Drake clenched his jaw, anger building with his cousin. Family loyalty was one thing, but he couldn’t take the risk of talking to MC alone. Drake’s attention was drawn to Foulds emerging from the house and when Drake looked back towards the main road MC had gone. Drake killed the call and cursed. He stood for a moment, conflicted. Caren strode towards him. ‘Problem, boss?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s go inside.’

  But he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that MC might know something important, something that might help. Foulds was waiting for him by the front door.

  ‘Good Morning, Ian.’

  ‘Mike.’ Drake was still thinking about MC. Perhaps he ought to talk to Lance; he worried about the consequences of not getting MC to talk to him and then worried about the consequences of talking to MC. They stepped into the front room, which was still curtained.

  ‘Lots of blood and signs of a struggle,’ Foulds said.

  But Drake wasn’t listening. He stared at Green sitting in the chair, blood scarring his face. It was too hot in the room; he glanced over at the curtains, wondering if the neighbours had heard anything and then he considered whether the house-to-house would turn up anything of value.

  ‘Is the pathologist on his way?’ Caren asked Foulds.

  Drake turned as he heard her voice and focused again on the task in hand.

  ‘Should be here in an hour,’ Foulds said.

  ‘We’re going to look around,’ Drake said, making for the door.

  He walked through into the kitchen, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He’d paid no attention to the empty pizza boxes and discarded cans of lager strewn over the kitchen table when he’d first entered the house that morning but the smell hadn’t changed. He ran a finger over various pieces of crockery on the drainer before moving to one side half-empty boxes of cereal discarded on the worktop – there had to be something rotting somewhere, but he couldn’t find the source.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Caren said as she started to open wall cupboards.

  Drake didn’t say anything. Even the window looking out over the garden was dirty. He itched to wash from head to toe but was unable to even turn on the tap to wash his hands – there were black rings of mildew around its base, and old water pooled next to the sink. Stepping out into the rear garden he smelt the feline urine that hung in the air. A radio played in the distance and he could hear the muffled conversations from the rear yards of nearby houses. Opening the gate, he stepped into the lane behind the house and wandered down to the junction with the tarmac path that lead behind the main street. He stood, looking at the rear of the houses, noticing the occasional loft conversion and dilapidated gutter. Green’s killer could have gone left or turned right and disappeared up the side streets and rear alleyways. No CCTV camera for miles. Retracing his steps back to the house, he found Caren finishing in the kitchen.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she said simply.

  ‘Let’s go through.’ Drake nodded at the doorway.

  They worked through each room in the house. It looked as though Green hadn’t entered the living room at the rear for months, maybe longer. Dust had settled in thick waves over every surface, plastic bags were piled into a corner and the theme of disorganised chaos continued in the bedrooms upstairs. Two large speakers had pride of place either side of a large television screen, strategically placed so that Green could watch television propped up in bed. Drake didn’t want to think about what was causing the smell in the bathroom. After half an hour Drake and Caren stood on the front doorstep, the sound of crime scene investigators busy inside the house drifting outside. Drake heard a noise behind him and saw Foulds emerge.

  ‘Bloody hot in there.’

  ‘Anything?’ Caren asked.

  ‘Nothing yet. It will take us all day.’

  By the junction with the main road, Drake saw Winder and Howick comparing notes. Arms were raised, fingers were pointed and they set off in different directions.

  ‘Let me know soon as you’re finished,’ Drake said to Foulds. ‘And we will need to retrieve his personal details as soon as we can. He was single, but he must have had a family somewhere.’

  Foulds nodded before taking a deep lungful of clean air and stepping back into the house.

  ‘The ferry company should have details about his next of kin,’ Drake said.

  It was a short walk to the port office and as they approached the railway bridge a train slowly pulled out of the station. The ferry company had a building overlooking the p
ort, squeezed between two platforms of the railway station. After buzzing an intercom Drake introduced himself and the door clicked open. A small woman with fierce black hair stood in a doorway of the first-floor landing.

  ‘Anne Hegarty,’ she said, offering Drake her hand, its nails painted pillar-box red.

  ‘I want to speak to the port manager.’

  ‘Is it about that man Daz Green?’

  Drake hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t have been surprised that the news had spread so quickly. It was a small town, everyone knew each other’s business and Green would have acquired more friends in death than he probably had alive. Rumours would become half-truths, confirmed in the pubs from reliable sources and by the evening there’d be a dozen versions of the events circulating.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not personally,’ she said. ‘But one of the girls that works in the office used to be part of the on-board catering staff.’

  Hegarty led them into a small office with a round table and waved a hand towards plastic chairs as an invitation for them to sit down. Drake stood and leant his hands on the back of a chair.

  ‘We’ll want the personnel file.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hegarty’s gaze floated over the chairs.

  Once she’d left Drake stepped towards the window and looked down at the port below. The sun’s rays glistened on the engine oil floating on the surface of the harbour.

  ‘Have you worked in Holyhead, sir?’ Caren said.

  ‘Custody Sergeant, hated every minute.’

  In the distance Drake could see a narrow bloom of smoke rising from the funnel of the ferries berthed at the far end of the harbour. Drake heard voices in the room behind him and turned just as Mortlake entered, followed by sheepish-looking Hegarty.