Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘All he needs is one picture and he could make a shed load of money,’ Howick added.

  Caren clicked through the images, still thinking about the enthusiasm on Abbott’s face. ‘That’s what he said.’

  After a couple of minutes she stopped. A Range Rover pulled into a parking slot and the still photographs ran into each other.

  ‘He thought it was them because of the Range Rover.’

  ‘None of the Royal Protection Squad around though,’ Howick said.

  Caren nodded. The excitement building in her voice. ‘Take a look at these.’

  Martin Valencia emerged from the driver’s side of the Range Rover. From the passenger side Mandy Beal appeared, looked around and then pushed the door closed. She tossed her hair to one side and then threaded her arm under Valencia’s.

  ‘When were these taken?’ Drake said.

  ‘Two days before she was killed. Abbott went on holiday then for a couple of weeks. And when he got back he heard about Mandy’s death. And he’d seen Valencia leaving Mandy’s house one morning.’

  Drake stepped over to the board and tapped the image of Valencia. ‘So now we have evidence to link him to the Beal murder. And if only we could find MC.’ He banged the board with his fist.

  ‘Do we arrest Valencia?’ Winder asked.

  ‘We’ve missed something that ties everything together. Why kill Mandy Beal?’ Drake peered at the board.

  ‘Valencia was looking for her laptop. Maybe he thought that Rosen had given her something like a file or picture, maybe, or even a video,’ Caren said, wanting to make her contribution. ‘Maybe there was something incriminating that he wanted to dispose of.’

  ‘I agree,’ Drake said. ‘Let’s go through everything again. We’ve missed something.’

  ‘And Valencia?’ Winder said, a tone of developing disappointment in his voice.

  ‘I’ll talk to Superintendent Lance later,’ Drake said, turning to face the team. ‘We’ve got all the papers to go through again.’

  * * *

  Winder was convinced they should be arresting Valencia.

  They had the evidence linking him to Mandy Beal, as well as the connection to MC and Green. It would only be a matter of time until forensics would dig something up. He glanced over at Howick and watched as his colleague stood up and tried doing some exercises to his back. Winder turned his attention back to the flickering images on the screen, convinced that there was nothing to be gained by revisiting the CCTV coverage. By midday his stomach grumbled and he turned to Howick.

  ‘Lunch?’ Winder said.

  Howick glanced over at Drake’s office, but the door was firmly shut. ‘Ten minutes.’

  The canteen was quiet and they took their trays to a table at the far end.

  ‘Anything?’ Winder said.

  Howick chewed on a sandwich. ‘Nothing. We’ve gone over all of this before.’

  ‘I know. There’s something not right. We should be arresting Valencia now and banging him up. The CPS are bloody spineless.’

  Howick nodded slowly. Winder continued. ‘If we don’t lock him up now then he’ll…’ He ran out of something useful to say and started on a cheese sandwich.

  After fifteen minutes Howick drew back his shirt sleeve and checked the time.

  ‘We’re entitled to a lunch break,’ Winder said.

  Howick gave him a weak smile.

  * * *

  Drake spent the first half an hour preparing his desk. He placed the papers he wanted to read in a pile on the bookcase and then sat back, admiring the rows of neatly stacked Post-it notes. After carefully reading them, he divided them into piles, tearing up those in one pile and discarding them in the bin. Then he created a clear space in his desk and then started reading.

  If he was wrong and there was nothing new, then he faced the task of persuading Lance that they had to arrest Valencia. But he could hear the reservations and the comments about the motive. But with a man like Valencia maybe there was no motive and perhaps he simply enjoyed killing. But he reckoned that explaining that to Thorsen, even if he could persuade Lance, was going to be impossible.

  He decided to start with Rosen’s bank statements and he found himself approving of the order and system he had used to file and record his financial affairs. Then he reached for the credit card statements, hoping that Rosen would have used the same cross-referenced order.

  A couple of hours passed as he ran his fingers through the various pages. He read the entries for the cost of repairs to Rosen’s car and the crate of wine brought from an online wine seller. Then a single entry for a payment to a company struck him as out of place, so he flicked through each month and, satisfied that it was a one-off, took another half an hour to establish if Winder or Howick had identified the recipient. When he couldn’t find any reference to RacingStar, Drake sat back, hoping he hadn’t wasted more time. But the name niggled and on impulse he googled it.

  The first entry took him to a company offering cheap websites. He stared at the screen before surfing through the pages, wondering why Rosen had paid an internet company. The receptionist put him through to the Technical Support department and Drake listened to some soothing orchestra music as he waited.

  ‘I’ll need to check out that I can give you this information,’ the man said, once Drake had explained his enquiry.

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  After a couple of minutes the music stopped and he heard another voice, older this time. ‘I’m Malcolm Coles, the senior technical manager. How do we know that you are who you say you are?’

  ‘What’s your email?’

  Once Drake emailed Coles with Rosen’s death certificate and a standard notification from the WPS, he knew he’d have to wait for the information. He reached over for the next file and started reading. It was the ferry company’s HR file and the juvenile gratification at the memory of annoying Mortlake was broken when the telephone rang.

  ‘Frank Rosen bought a domain name from us last year,’ Coles said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He bought a domain name. And paid in advance for two years’ hosting.’

  ‘What are the details?’

  ‘I’ve emailed you.’

  The line went dead and Drake hoped that this was something that justified the time he’d spent on the task that afternoon. His inbox pinged and he clicked it open. He read the simple three-line email and shouted for Caren.

  ‘Why would Rosen need a website?’

  Caren stepped into his room.

  ‘What’s the website address?’ Winder said, through the open door.

  ‘www.bwthyn1234.co.uk,’ Drake said, forwarding Winder the email.

  Drake left his room, ushering Caren out until they stood by Winder’s desk. After a couple of minutes he raised his head. ‘Site is behind a password.’

  ‘There’s a password on the email.’

  Drake folded his arms and stared over at the board. ‘What could Rosen possibly need with a website?’ Drake felt excitement building in his chest.

  A couple of clicks later the screen filled with various boxes and columns with messages about updates and the latest version of plug-ins for the website.

  ‘Easy,’ Winder said. ‘Now let’s see what you’ve got.’

  He clicked on various tabs on the left-hand column and moved to a section called ‘media gallery’. A row of entries showed up on the screen.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Winder said.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ Drake asked.

  ‘This could be what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Just fucking well tell us.’

  Drake’s swearing had the effect of stunning everyone into a momentary silence.

  ‘There must be twenty voice files here. These are tape recordings of something. I’ll click on the first.’

  Drake stared at the screen; a voice soon broke the silence.

  ‘Turn up the heating Frank.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Sound of coughing
and spluttering.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Frank.’

  Then the sound of a door opening.

  ‘I don’t know how this works…’

  Sound of metal squeaking.

  ‘When’s the stuff arriving?’

  ‘You leave all that to us.’

  The final voice slurred badly.

  * * *

  Drake didn’t recognise all the voices on the tape but wanted to believe that he’d heard the voices of Loosemore and John Beltrami exchanging banter about the previous night in the Blue Parrot. He pulled his arms tight into his body and thought about whether this was going to give them the motive they needed.

  ‘How long does this last?’

  Winder squinted at the screen. ‘This is twenty minutes and the rest are about the same – some longer.’

  ‘I want them divided into five. That’s four each and then we listen to them and make notes. I want to know if you can identify voices, names and dates. Anything really.’

  Back in his office Drake sat heavily in his chair while he waited for Winder to distribute the various voice files around the team.

  By the end of the afternoon the recordings were swimming around Drake’s mind and he needed a break. He’d missed lunch but knew that to concentrate that afternoon, he’d have to eat something. So he left for the cafeteria and found a curling tuna sandwich and a cake called a millionaire shortbread, which got him thinking about Beltrami and Loosemore. And that millionaires were just like everyone else, greedy and jealous and risk takers. He justified to himself the ten minutes he spent on the sudoku as being necessary for his mind to get him back into the right routine.

  Once they’d all finished, Drake stood facing the team. He tugged at the double cuffs on his shirt and then ran a finger around his waist band. He nodded at Howick who spent ten minutes summarising the recordings he’d listened to. Rosen seemed to be forcing whoever was listening into a discussion about the delivery of cocaine or heroin. On a couple of occasions there’d been talk about the delivery from ‘our friends across the pond’ and then flights had to be delayed and there was controversy and some arguments. Rosen was the only one that sounded sober. Winder had the same pattern to the conversations he’d listened to. It was always the same: Rosen getting his listener to confirm things that he must have known. Drake kept nodding his head as Caren confirmed much the same as Winder and Howick.

  ‘Rosen wanted out,’ Caren said.

  ‘That’s obvious,’ Drake said. ‘The recordings I listened to are the same, except for one thing. There’s something happening on the twenty-seventh.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s the perfect motive,’ Drake said.

  Lance tapped a biro on the papers on his desk.

  ‘We’re transcribing the recordings as we speak but it’s clear that Rosen wanted to stop flying for these guys. Obviously he wanted to get out and enjoy his money.’

  ‘And Valencia didn’t want any of it.’

  ‘Started going on about respect and loyalty and family.’

  ‘Jesus, these guys watch too many of the Godfather films.’ Lance steepled his hands and hesitated.

  ‘And Saturday’s the twenty-seventh,’ Drake said. ‘Connors and Beltrami have three trailers booked on the early morning ferry. We’ve got enough to charge Valencia and Beltrami with conspiracy to murder. We should arrest them now.’

  Lance put up a hand to stop Drake.

  ‘Set up an operation to follow them off the boat. You’ve got thirty-six hours.’

  ‘But,’ Drake could see the certainty of an arrest disappearing. ‘We might be losing the only opportunity.’

  ‘It’s an order, Inspector.’

  Chapter 41

  Caren looked at the ferry as it approached the berth, bow first. Gantries were dotted all over the hard standing, bathing the loading area with a harsh white light. A truck from Poland pulled up behind a lorry from Hungary, parked under one of the metal towers. The driver climbed out, stretched his back, waved his hands slowly in the air, relieving tired muscles, and then walked slowly towards the drivers’ lounge tucked into the concourse. Caren’s unmarked car was an old Ford that O’Sullivan told her was the best the Garda could arrange at short notice. She got out, felt the stiffness in the small of her back; an ache drilled deep into her right shoulder too.

  She cursed Drake. Drake had narrowed his eyes when she’d suggested that having an officer on board with the suspect cargo might not be needed. He’d given her a look of exasperation that could be so annoying. On the crossing to Dublin she’d tried sleeping, but the sound of the engine and the creaking of the thin cabin walls had kept her awake. Caren had been met by O’Sullivan when she’d arrived the previous evening and after a briefing from Mallin she’d tried and failed to sleep on the narrow camp bed O’Sullivan had organised. He’d woken her before five and they’d travelled together to Dublin Port.

  She stared into the gloom, hoping to recognise the plates of the three trucks. Once the ferry was near the berth she watched as the tugs raced over the tarmac towards the ramp and men in high-visibility jackets milled around. More lorries arrived and her concentration sharpened as she watched the trucks jerking to a halt. With an hour until departure she started to feel apprehensive that perhaps something had gone wrong and that the lorries wouldn’t arrive and that the whole exercise would be a complete waste of time. She looked at her watch: another pang of worry. Then a lorry passed her, she recognised the plates and her pulse quickened. The mobile vibrated in her pocket, the message from O’Sullivan reading – first one. Another ten minutes passed until the second lorry arrived, followed quickly by the third. She left the car and wandered around the tarmac, hoping to catch sight of the drivers, so she weaved in between the various lorries until she almost bumped into one of the drivers as he lit a cigarette. He gave her a hard look and after mumbling an apology she pretended to be passing the time, stretching her legs. But she’d fixed the man’s face in her mind. He had three days’ stubble, thick, dark hair to his shoulders and eyes too close together – driver one.

  In the adjacent lane, driver two was still in his cab, his head thumping to the music from the earphones. All she could see was the reflection of the cabin light off his bald head so she walked on, fearing that someone might think she was acting oddly. Luck was on her side with driver three. He was checking around the vehicle for loose brake connections. He wore a pair of baggy jeans and a thick fleece that Caren could see, even in the half-light, was streaked with dirt.

  She carried on down the various lanes of lorries. Behind one she heard the sound of a driver urinating; cigarette smoke drifted in the night air. Eventually she returned to her car and watched as lorries, some hauling trailers, streamed off the ferry, followed by a mini bus and then cars. A tall man wearing a hard hat began directing traffic and soon she was driving down into the ferry, passing the gesticulating arms of the deck officer.

  She found the bar near the lounge that was reserved for long-distance drivers and settled to read a paper. Driver three arrived first and sat in the lounge sipping a coffee and soon enough drivers two and one arrived. It was difficult to tell if they knew each other from where Caren sat. They sat separately, watching the television in the corner. Caren tapped out a message on her mobile and waited. She thought about eating when the smell of fried bacon drifted through from the cafeteria. When her mobile beeped she read the message and left for customer services.

  Seymour was waiting for her when she arrived and he took her through into an office behind the bridge. A man with a brown T-shirt with ‘New York’ printed on the front sat before a computer screen.

  ‘I was only told about you five minutes ago,’ Seymour said edgily.

  ‘I need access to the CCTV footage.’

  ‘This is Mark Halton,’ Seymour said. ‘He’s part of the night crew.’

  Seymour said to Halton, ‘Mark, I need you to help DS Waits.’

  Caren turned to Seymour. ‘And we need the car deck monitor
ed.’

  ‘The deck officer will cover the lower deck and the bosun is on the top deck.’

  ‘We need two of your crew on the lower car deck for the entire sailing.’

  ‘I can’t do that. We simply don’t have the manpower.’

  ‘Wake someone from the day crew.’

  Seymour glared at her. ‘This could cause me big problems. I’ve got regulations to keep.’

  ‘And we’ve got a murderer to catch.’

  Caren sat down, rather pleased that it had been easy to get her own way. Whatever Drake had said to him must have worked. She started explaining in clear terms to Halton what exactly she needed.

  * * *

  Drake slept badly and when he woke his pulse began to hammer, so he got up without disturbing Sian. He’d woken twice – or maybe three times – in the middle of the night, noticed the time before cursing his mind for forcing him to wakefulness.

  He sat at the kitchen table, a mug full of instant coffee in front of him, and his mobile by its side. Once Caren had texted he made various calls before showering. Sian was awake when he finished. He reached for a dark-navy suit and a cream shirt. He hesitated, not really knowing where he might be at the end of the day or whether he should wear a suit or not but indecision was replaced by a determination that Beltrami and Loosemore and Valencia had to be caught. He chose a heavily striped tie to match the shirt.

  Breakfast passed in blur with Drake thinking all the time that he had to get to headquarters, even though he knew he’d have to wait. In the car he glanced at the clock on the dashboard: Caren would be on the ferry, waiting for it to depart. He drove to headquarters, barely concentrating on the traffic.

  Lance was standing by the board in the Incident Room, which immediately put Drake on edge.

  ‘Have you heard from Caren?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Everything went as planned.’

  ‘No one else knows?’

  Drake nodded, wondering whether he’d ever discover what Lance was doing.

  They turned and blankly stared at the crowded board. Drake looked at his watch again, but only ten minutes had elapsed since he’d last read the time.