Worse Than Dead

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘How long will it take you to get to Holyhead?’ Lance said.

  ‘A little over an hour, depends on the traffic…’ Drake glanced towards his office. There was a sudoku in the drawer of his desk, which would be bound to calm him down, but with Lance there he couldn’t get to it. His eyes fell on the notes arranged on his desk: after today was over he would sweep them all into the bin and start a fresh notebook for Halpin. He might even tell Halpin that he was okay and coping and that the rituals weren’t suffocating him any longer. But he fretted about what Halpin would include in his report and then how the WPS and Superintendent Wyndham Price might react.

  Lance looked at his watch. ‘So you’ve got a couple of hours?’

  Drake had already decided to leave as soon as Howick and Winder had arrived.

  ‘Important case this, Ian,’ Lance said. ‘Keep me informed,’ he added, as he made for the door.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Drake said.

  Howick bowled into the Incident Room just before Winder, who was clutching a coffee mug in one hand and a sausage roll in the other.

  ‘Good morning, boss,’ Howick said.

  ‘Dave,’ Drake said, before nodding to Winder. ‘Let’s go,’ Drake said, before either man could sit down.

  ‘But… we’ve still got…’ Howick said.

  Winder put the coffee onto the table and threw the paper bag with the remains of his breakfast into the bin.

  Drake tried playing a U2 CD, but not even Bono’s voice could make it a beautiful day so he settled for silence instead and thought about his father. As a child he’d been to Ireland for a holiday. He could remember his father fussing over filling the boot of the car with luggage and how his mother’s impatience would be tested.

  The journey to Holyhead passed quickly; occasionally he caught a glimpse of Winder’s car in his rear-view mirror, and eventually he pulled up outside the same café where he’d received the first text from his cousin. They had an hour to kill and today, even bacon and eggs seemed appealing. Winder and Howick tried making small talk, but Drake had no interest in the prospects for Manchester United winning the FA Cup. He sent a text to Sian, but she didn’t reply so he stepped outside for privacy and called his father.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right,’ his father managed. ‘The bottom field needs to be fenced again this year and the ditch could be drained at the same time.’

  Drake wanted to say that he’d come and help one weekend, but he didn’t know what to say, so he mumbled something about being in Holyhead on business and that he’d call later.

  Back in the cafeteria a waitress arrived with the coffee and the food he’d ordered.

  ‘Is it time, boss?’ Howick said.

  Drake looked at his watch. As Lance had told them not to call at the town’s police station, nor at the Special Branch office in the terminal, Drake decided that sitting in the café was preferable to sitting in their cars. ‘Another half an hour.’

  The time dragged until eventually they made their way down to the port. Passes were waiting for them at the security gate and Drake drove through the terminal entrance and over the link bridge. They drew up by an old building, near the admiralty arch built to commemorate a royal visit in 1821. Behind them they heard the muffled announcements from the public address system of the fast ferry as it lumbered its way out of the harbour on a delayed departure.

  Forty minutes to go.

  Chapter 42

  Seagulls were pulling rubbish from an open bin near Drake’s car. The air brakes of a lorry hissed as it stopped a few metres away. The salty bacon dried his lips and he regretted not having any water. He undid his top shirt button and adjusted his position in the seat.

  Thirty minutes to go.

  Drake watched Howick manoeuvring his car over the concourse before pulling up by the side of a minibus. Drake sat and waited. The ferry steamed into view and slowly began a broad sweep as she entered the berth, stern first.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Cramp sent a jolt of pain up his leg and he wanted to get out and walk around, but he thought better of it. Activity built on the concourse as the ferry approached until eventually Drake saw the stern doors open. He tried to bite back any trace of anxiety when he dialled Lance.

  ‘Ship’s arrived.’

  ‘Loosemore and Beltrami haven’t moved. And there’s no sign of Valencia.’

  Drake had been surprised when Lance had told him that three teams of plainclothes officers from Southern Division had been outside the men’s homes since the early hours. It only confirmed to Drake that Lance wasn’t to be trusted.

  The first lorries headed off the ship and over the concourse towards the terminal exit. It crossed Drake’s mind that there’d be a problem if the trucks were stopped at customs. But Lance had probably managed that as well, he concluded.

  Another half a dozen trucks emerged from the ferry. Drake strained his eyes to see if he could spot Caren. Her silence was disconcerting. He checked again the registration plates of the trucks they needed to follow. Then he saw the first and he could hear his pulse beating in his head, pounding until the blood seemed to boil. A text from Caren startled him – second on way – and then he noticed the Dublin plates crossing the concourse, followed by a silver BMW. The third truck followed very soon, Caren immediately behind it.

  He followed them through the port, praying that the port police wouldn’t stop them. Howick pulled in behind him. He let out a long lungful of breath when the vehicles passed through the check points undisturbed.

  After negotiating the bridge and the roundabout on the outskirts of Holyhead the trucks fell into a line, keeping a safe distance apart.

  Drake picked up the mobile on the cradle in the dashboard and dialled Caren.

  ‘No problems, sir. Nobody went into the car deck or near the trucks while we were sailing. Two of the drivers ate an enormous meal of steak and chips and another played poker for two hours.’

  The trucks kept a steady sixty miles an hour as they drove over the island towards the mainland. Occasionally trucks overtook them and Drake and Howick varied places and then fell back and turned off, only to circle and rejoin the A55. As they approached the Menai Strait the pace slowed and the traffic backed up, until it thinned out to cross the bridge in single file. Drake tapped his fingers on the wheel as he crawled along, sending texts to Caren and Howick in the queue. Lance called him again when the trucks were through the tunnels at Penmaenmawr and nearing Llandudno. Drake felt apprehension tugging at his mind. They powered on past Abergele and then inland away from the coast. Twenty minutes passed and they were approaching the border, and Lance would soon have to start making calls to counterparts in England.

  Drake was at the front of the queue when the first of the trucks indicated left off the dual carriageway. He followed, hoping that the indicating wasn’t a mistake. He pulled into the off slip ahead of the truck, which appeared to be staying on the A55 until the last minute. Then, it turned in and slowed dramatically. Drake accelerated towards the roundabout at the top and on impulse turned left into the industrial park, a decision rewarded seconds later when he saw the first lorry following him.

  He sped on until he found himself driving past one industrial unit after another. All around him were white vans and trucks pulling trailers so he slowed his speed just as the first truck indicated right for a junction. His mobile beeped and Drake read the text – ‘With them, boss.’ Drake pulled up before turning around and retracing his steps. He drove down the section of the industrial estate, watching Caren’s car in the distance.

  He hadn’t realised how large the estate was until the wagons had negotiated four different junctions and then slowed by a collection of storage units. The trucks came to a halt and Drake jerked his car to a standstill a safe distance away. He could see Caren and Winder’s cars parked on the pavement down past the entrance to the units where the lorries were manoeuvring slowly. In the rear-view mirror he spotted the van from the dog section
slowing.

  Drake dialled Lance. ‘They’ve all stopped at a unit in the Deeside Industrial Park.’

  ‘What’s your location?’

  Drake scanned for a notice board. ‘Zone T12.’

  ‘We’ll check it out.’

  Then Caren called him. ‘What’s happening, boss?’

  Drake glanced over at the trucks. The first had completed a reversing manoeuvre to the concrete platform and the open doors of the industrial unit.

  ‘We wait,’ he said.

  He called Lance. ‘Anything on the location, sir?’

  ‘Nothing yet. But Loosemore and Beltrami are on the move.’

  Drake felt a trickle of sweat beading under his armpit and he hoped the feeling of anxiety that was turning to real fear wouldn’t last.

  The second lorry had almost finished parking.

  Fifteen minutes passed. He clicked on the radio, turned the sound down until it was barely audible and then switched it off. He opened the window, allowing fresh air into the car. He was convinced his breath must stink, so he rummaged through the glove compartment, hoping to find some chewing gum but only discovered a couple of dried-up wine gums.

  Then another fifteen minutes had ticked by.

  His mobile broke the silence.

  ‘We’ve lost them,’ Lance said. ‘There was a car crash on the A55 and they managed to slip ahead of the cars following them.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Any sign of them from the CCTV?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  Twenty minutes later Drake knew something wasn’t right. They should have arrived. The third truck had finished and its driver was now swinging the rear doors open.

  He dialled Lance again, who picked up after the first ring. ‘There’s no sign of Loosemore or Beltrami, Ian. And the units are part of a storage and warehousing business. We haven’t been able to find anything about the owners.’

  ‘We can’t wait any longer.’

  Drake started the engine.

  ‘I agree,’ Lance said

  Drake wound down the window and waved to the others as he powered towards the entrance. The trucks had been parked alongside each other, their tailgates open and the backs reversed towards the loading platform. He skidded to a halt and watched as Winder and Howick pulled up alongside him, both officers racing to the main entrance and leaving their car doors open. Caren drove past them beyond Winder’s Mondeo and the car jolted as she parked. The dog handlers’ white van pulled up behind her. Another few seconds passed and a BMW squealed to a halt near them. Immediately Drake was on guard but, then, driver and passenger emerged wearing the standard WPS-issue holstered small arms around their waist and warrant cards held high. They shouted. ‘Inspector Drake. WPS special operations unit, Cardiff.’

  They ran to the main building and followed the SOU officers who kicked open the unlocked doors. They found Winder and Howick handcuffing three drivers and two other youths; officers with dogs panting at their leashes rummaged through the first lorry. A small forklift was still running and Drake reached over and turned off the engine. He walked over to an office nearby and pushed open the door. There was a desk and some filing cabinets and three wooden chairs. Within a few minutes the dog handlers returned.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ one of the officers said. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s conclusive.’

  It wasn’t the answer Drake wanted to hear. The SOU officers returned with Winder and Howick.

  ‘The trucks are full of toys and garden equipment. A full search will take hours,’ Winder said.

  Drake took a couple of steps towards a window and looked into the main part of the warehouse, unease crawling through his mind.

  ‘What do we do next, boss?’ Caren said.

  Drake kicked a table leg.

  Chapter 43

  Drake drank heavily from a plastic water bottle.

  ‘Where have Loosemore and Beltrami gone?’ Caren said, standing by his side.

  ‘There’s no sign of them.’ Drake wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘But Rosen was so clear about the date.’

  Drake looked over at the officers working through the pallets of children’s toys and plastic tents and garden implements. With every minute that past, desperation deepened: what if the search wasn’t successful and the failure of the entire operation was down to him? He thought about Valencia’s voice on the recording. Maybe he knew that Rosen was recording their conversations. And perhaps the whole fiasco in the industrial estate had been one enormous tip off designed to divert their attention.

  He threw the bottle into a bin by his feet and marched out to his car, talking to Caren who followed behind him. ‘Let’s go back to headquarters.’

  ‘What about the drivers?’

  ‘Seize their mobiles and arrest them on suspicion of trafficking. Get them into the custody suite where they speak to no one.’

  Caren started to protest. ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t want them talking to anyone until we’ve worked out what’s going on here.’

  Caren nodded and signalled to Howick and Winder.

  Drake started the car and it skidded away too quickly. A dark, sullen mood enveloped him. There had to be an explanation and he had to find it. He was certain that Valencia was involved and that he was behind the killings. But without evidence there was nothing he could do and a sense of helplessness started to throttle his mind, stopping him from thinking in straight lines. He accelerated hard down the A55 westwards towards headquarters. He ignored the speedometer, but instinct told him to slow the car as he reached the turn-off for Colwyn Bay.

  After parking he marched up to the Incident Room. There was a dull pain at the corners of his temple so he darted into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. The Incident Room was empty. Tranquil. He stood by the board, staring at it, forcing his mind to think.

  It was the twenty-seventh.

  The month after Rosen had made the tapes so it had to be the right date.

  Valencia was bringing in a large consignment through the port in the wagons owned by Connors. Then he stopped and thought about the possibility that they’d followed the wrong lorries or that they’d got the wrong freight company. But Howick had checked out all the freight companies for all the sailings on the twenty-seventh.

  He had to check. Howick had been sloppy recently. Sitting at his desk, he riffled through the papers until he found the details. But it took him back to what he knew. The only consignment for the twenty-seventh had been the trucks they’d followed that morning. He blanked out the telephone ringing in the Incident Room. He had to think. He shut out the noise from the rest of the building. Maybe they were flying the drugs in, but without Rosen they had no pilot.

  He stood up, paced around, and then walked back out into the Incident Room.

  The images of Rosen and Mandy and Green peered down at him. MC’s photograph was pinned to the bottom corner. He had a narrow smile and intense eyes. The image of Valencia drawing a pistol in MC’s house sent a shiver through Drake.

  Maybe there was another ferry route that Connors and Valencia were using and they’d – he’d – wrongly assumed it was through Holyhead. Back in his office he googled the details of all the ferry operators from Ireland to the UK. A hectic few minutes of clicking took him to the website of a ferry company with a sailing from Dublin to Liverpool that arrived that evening. He checked his watch and realised they had over two hours until the ship docked. His mouth was dry and his chest was rigid with tension. The possibility of an informer struck him and he stopped and stared at the Post-it notes, his mind urging him to tidy and reorganise. Then he remembered how Lance had insisted he take over being the SIO and that everything went through his office. Drake decided that he was insane to think of Lance being involved and that there had to be another explanation.

  He found the contact telephone number for the port manager in Liverpool. He stood up when the voice asked him to wait for the third time.

  ‘Sorry, what was
it you wanted again?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ He raised his voice.

  ‘Meg.’

  ‘Well, Meg. This is an urgent police matter. Get me the port manager now or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.’ Drake dearly wanted to shout.

  The line was quiet before Drake heard another frightened voice.

  ‘How can I help?’ The man sounded young and he had a broad Scouse accent.

  ‘I need you to email me the inventory for the ferry that left Dublin this morning. And I want it done now. Is that understood?’

  ‘And how do I know—’

  ‘Don’t give me any of that bullshit. Just call Northern Division headquarters and ask for me.’ Drake dictated the number and slumped back in his chair.

  He heard a noise in the Incident Room and saw Caren’s face at his door.

  ‘Everything taken care of?’ Drake said without enthusiasm.

  She stepped into the room and sat down. ‘They were complaining like hell.’

  Drake shrugged. ‘There’s a ferry from Dublin en route to Liverpool. We might have got it wrong about them using Holyhead.’

  ‘But the connection to the crew…’

  ‘I know. But…’

  ‘They could be flying the drugs in. They could have another pilot lined up.’

  Drake stared at her, realising that he had to check. He reached for the telephone and punched in the number of the flying club but the call rang out. As he waited Drake’s mind ticked over the options. The drugs had to be coming in somewhere. Then, as he replaced the receiver, he thought of Caren’s last comment.

  Pilot.

  It kept repeating over and over until he knew the answer. And then the image of Jade Beltrami smiling at him in the conference room came vividly to mind and he slammed his hand on the desk.

  ‘That bloody bitch.’

  Caren frowned and, startled by his behaviour, she moved in her chair.

  He scoured the papers for a telephone number, growling at Caren’s offer of assistance. Then he grabbed the handset again and punched in the numbers. The call was over quickly and he made a second. He almost threw the handset down and then turned to look at Caren.