Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

‘What!’

  Drake turned to look at the bridge and saw the lights of a camera unit and three men standing together with clipboards and equipment. How did they find out so quickly? He struggled out of the wellingtons and laced up his brogues before walking towards the bridge, squinting against the summer sunshine. Anxious faces appeared in the windows of nearby cottages and when he reached the tarmac he caught himself looking towards the Alfa, checking for scratches or bumps. He noticed Caren getting out of her car and then half running as she made her way towards the bridge. Her hair was the usual tangled mess and her blouse full of creases. She had a rolling gait that reminded him of his mother; the result, he suspected, of living on a farm.

  Behind him he heard the chatter of bystanders and a camera light came on, a bright shining glow. A voice shouted his name.

  ‘Inspector Drake, Inspector Drake.’

  Drake turned and saw the small man calling his name, his face vaguely familiar; he was dressed in a tight-fitting three-button suit, grey shirt and grey tie, and his clean-shaven head was shaped like a large bullet. He stroked a black goatee beard of perfect proportions. His head bobbed up and down as he tried to get Drake’s attention.

  Caren was by Drake’s side now. ‘So what’s happening?’

  ‘Ed Mostyn. Local man from the village apparently. You go and talk to the CSIs. I’m going to talk to this journalist.’

  Passing cars had their windows lowered, faces staring towards the scene. In the distance the mountains were even clearer as the morning temperatures rose, promising another beautiful day. Two young boys with fishing rods were talking into mobiles. A group of retired men huddled together, exchanging serious glances, their dogs pulling on leashes.

  Drake saw the journalist pushing his way past a woman with a young child.

  ‘Calvin Headley. ITV News,’ he introduced himself.

  Drake recognised the man’s face from the TV news bulletins and guessed that one of the uniformed officers must have given the journalist his name.

  ‘Can you give us a statement?’ he continued. ‘Do you know who the man is? How long has he been dead?’ The light of the camera shone into Drake’s face; he looked down at the journalist.

  ‘This is off the record,’ Drake began.

  Headley motioned to the cameraman who switched off the light.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything at the moment. The investigation is just beginning. We’ve discovered the body and at the moment that’s all I can tell you.’ He turned away, but Headley followed him.

  ‘Will you be setting up an incident room?’

  Drake didn’t answer.

  ‘Where can I contact you?’ he continued.

  ‘You’ll have to speak to the press office.’

  ‘Will you be in charge of the investigation?’ the journalist persisted, as he tried to face Drake, dragging the cameraman and sound recordist behind him. ‘Can I contact you again?’

  ‘Look,’ Drake said. ‘I can’t add to what I’ve said already.’

  The journalist turned away, disappointed.

  Normally Drake would have taken Caren with him to speak to the person who’d found the body but she had been late and he was annoyed, more annoyed than he should have been. The reporter added to the irritation factor. Drake heard Caren’s voice shouting instructions to the other officers, telling them how to do their job, so he decided to leave her to it. At least she would be out of his hair for a while.

  His mobile rang and, dragging out the handset from his back pocket, he saw his wife’s number. Deciding that he needed more privacy, he crossed the road, walking away from crowd. There’d been another argument that morning and he didn’t want everyone to hear his conversation.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Fine.’ He cupped the handset closer to his mouth. ‘I can’t talk.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Holyhead, there’s been a murder. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

  Sian had called on her mid-morning break from her GP surgery appointments. He often thought it would be nice to have a standard routine – knowing what was going to happen every day. Perhaps promotion to chief inspector would give him a routine, but then he’d probably miss the excitement of looking at dead bodies and watching CSI officers crawl over a crime scene in all weathers. He heard his name being called from the other side of the bridge. He waited for a car to pass and as he crossed the carriageway a uniform officer ran towards the bridge, shouting, his arms thrashing around.

  Chapter 3

  Drake marched over towards Foulds who was standing by a line of thick gorse that marked the boundary of an adjacent field. The CSIs stood aside once Drake approached, and he peered down into the hedge. Drake saw a length of timber and guessed it was over a metre in length, one end tarnished a deep red colour. He noticed shreds of flesh glistening at the edges. He gazed around the gorse bushes and then over to the field beyond, towards a farmhouse in the distance.

  ‘We need to secure the scene, Ian,’ Foulds said.

  ‘Of course.’ Drake wondered why the murderer had thrown the timber into the gorse bush. Perhaps the killer had been disturbed. Maybe he panicked, discarding it before making good his escape. But there might be some forensics on the timber – a microscopic piece of flesh was all they needed. Drake stepped back and glanced over at the bridge behind him. The tide had turned and water was advancing behind the CSIs and uniformed officers labouring over the mud, prodding at the damp surface with forks and their own pieces of timber.

  ‘And we’ll need a full search team,’ Foulds added.

  ‘Of course.’ Drake reached for his mobile. After a couple of telephone calls he located the search team supervisor on duty that morning, a Sergeant Brown based in Bangor. ‘DI Drake, Serious Crime. I need a full team for the search of a beach in Four Mile Bridge. A body was found this morning and what looks like a weapon was thrown into the gorse nearby.’

  ‘On a beach, sir?’

  ‘Low water is going to be later this afternoon. So you haven’t got much time. I suggest you coordinate with Mike Foulds. And I want to control the budget on this one so don’t call any officers on their rest days.’

  The reply sounded vaguely disappointed.

  ‘And bring metal detectors,’ Drake said before finishing the call.

  Caren joined Drake and they stood watching CSIs hauling boxes of equipment along the shore before erecting a tent over the gorse bushes – all under the expectant gaze of an increasing crowd of spectators on the bridge.

  ‘Can’t we close the road or something?’ Drake said.

  ‘Difficult, boss.’

  ‘We could divert the traffic.’

  ‘Can’t stop people walking on the road.’

  ‘Yes, but they might get in the way.’

  He could see the headline – Police overreact, village closed down – and for what? He watched the television crew as they stared over at him, waiting, as though by some act of telepathy he could communicate with them.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Caren asked.

  ‘John Hughes, the local shopkeeper.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About six-thirty.’

  ‘He was up early.’

  ‘Runs the post office. We’ll need to talk to him.’

  The water level was rising fast, and on the opposite bank Drake saw a small group walking along the shoreline, cameras in hand. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake…’

  He tried to calm his irritation. A man was dead. There would be a grieving family. Maybe a wife and children – and some of the locals wanted to take photographs. Uniformed officers on the bridge could move them away, Drake thought before realising that the rising tide would see to that. He stood staring over the water and on the opposite bank an elderly man, holding the hand of a boy, no more than ten, looked over at them.

  Drake wanted to shout at him. Tell him that he needn’t acquaint his grandson with death at such an age.
It struck him that his grandfather would never have done that and Drake recalled his childhood anger that his grandfather hadn’t lived longer.

  Caren, standing by his side, said something. He heard her but didn’t listen.

  ‘We need to see Hughes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘John Hughes. The man who found the body.’

  ‘Of course.’ His mind focused.

  They set off towards the bridge. He was making a mental checklist, telling himself he had to concentrate. There were glances and whispered comments from the crowd as they walked over the bridge into the village. Over in the distance he saw the rising water filling the narrow inlet on the other side. Small boats were bobbing up and down in the water. A man was pulling the oars of a dingy; fishing rods perched on one side.

  Drake rubbed his brogues vigorously on the mat outside the shop and brushed down the trouser leg fabric, but he failed to dislodge all the mud and sand. It was one of his best suits too and he worried that walking around in mud would cause it real harm. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window – at least the button-down shirt and blue striped tie looked tidy. He pushed open the post office door and heard voices raised in conversation, marvelling at the events of the morning. Ed’s been stabbed through the heart. No, it was an axe. Who could have done such a thing? Drake strode in, Caren behind him; a woman with a long face and a blue T-shirt turned to look at him. The conversations stopped abruptly. Five heads turned and five pairs of eyes bored into him.

  ‘Is the owner here?’ Drake said, as a man with a thick moustache and a grey polo shirt came through from a side door. Slim and toned, he was under thirty with an enthusiastic look in his eyes.

  ‘John Hughes,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll need a word. In private.’

  Hughes led them through into a small kitchen behind the shop, leaving a young girl in charge. As soon as the door closed behind them the voices started up again.

  Hughes stood by a worktop and turned an open hand towards the pine table. Drake drew out a chair from underneath and sat down. He noticed a film of grease on the surface and then folded his arms. Caren sat down at the other end.

  ‘I knew it was Ed straight off.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Caren asked.

  ‘Ed digs for bait. Goes out at odd times of the day. Every week in the summer. Funny way to make a living. I told him many a time to get a proper job.’

  ‘Why were you on the bridge so early, Mr Hughes?’ Drake asked.

  ‘I thought you’d ask me that.’ He gave a smirk. ‘Delivering the newspaper to Richie Mostyn at Bryn Castell – he’s Ed’s uncle. Same routine every morning. Regular as clockwork, me. Up at five when the deliveryman gets here. Then sorting the papers. I’ve got lots of regulars. I try and give them a good service.’

  ‘Do you deliver to lots of houses?’ Drake asked.

  ‘No. Most people don’t want to pay.’

  ‘Which house is Bryn Castell?’

  ‘The last cottage in the small row after the end of the bridge.’

  ‘Was Richie awake?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The fog was thick this morning. I haven’t seen anything like it for years. You should talk to him.’

  ‘How did you know Mostyn was digging bait this morning?’

  ‘At first I saw Ed’s dog running around like something demented. Then I walked to Bryn Castell and by the time I was walking back the fog had thinned and I could see the dog on the beach howling. I knew straight away something was wrong.’

  ‘And did you find the body?’

  Hughes’s voice broke. ‘I walked down onto the beach and I was almost sick. Never seen anything like it.’

  ‘How well do you know Ed Mostyn?’

  ‘Everyone knew him. His family has been in the village forever. He’s… I mean… was a local character.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Yesterday. Comes in every day for his paper.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who’d want him dead?’

  ‘You need to talk to his sister.’

  *

  Drake left Caren to take a detail statement from John Hughes, who seemed pleased to be the centre of attention. Outside, the summer sunshine warmed his face. He walked back over the bridge, threading his way through the inquisitive locals staring at the CSIs. In the distance he saw a police car parked in front of the flickering blue-and-white tape that guarded the entrance of the narrow lane, half concealed by a massive rhododendron bush.

  He walked over, ducked under the tape and headed up the drive. Bits of twine and fishing cord littered the route towards the cottage and a smell of saltwater and rotting fish stuck his nostrils. Outside the property several lobster pots lay discarded in no apparent order; there was a bench with small tools, knives and more fishing cord. The line of ridge tiles sagged and the roof was covered in a whitish slurry, protecting the slates from the winter’s storms.

  Drake heard the sound of a movement from the rear. He prised open a gate that hung at one end of a fragile fence of rotting timber, marking the divide between front and rear. He passed a south-facing window and, looking inside, noticed two cannabis plants growing on the sill.

  Drake saw the face of a uniformed officer peering out.

  ‘We’ve been expecting you, sir,’ the officer said, as he held open the door.

  Drake crossed the threshold. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Haven’t touched anything, sir. It’s a bit of a mess.’

  In the kitchen Drake recoiled in disgust. The smell of dead fish hung in the air. Packets of breakfast cereal lay flat on the table, spilling their contents. There was dust over every surface and dirty crockery was piled into the sink.

  ‘Think someone’s trashed the place, sir?’

  Drake shook his head.

  From the kitchen he opened a door into a narrow hallway and found a small sitting room at the front. It would have been impossible to fit another piece of furniture into it. In front of the television were two small armchairs covered with blankets that reminded him of the quilts his grandmother made. A faded image of Mostyn with three men in evening jackets and black ties was propped in a black frame, an alabaster figurine either side of it.

  Drake saw a pile of newspapers under the side window and various magazines stuffed into a rack. It was obvious that Ed Mostyn planned to return. Leaving the room, Drake strode down the hallway before pushing open the door to a bedroom. He reached over and wrenched open a window to clear the muggy smell of sweat and bedclothes. From the kitchen he heard the sound of a radio crackling into life and the voice of the officer.

  He gave the bathroom and second bedroom a cursory glance before retracing his steps and eventually headed out through the kitchen into the morning sunshine. He walked down to the bottom of the garden, pleased to be outside. A shed with two large wooden doors and a brass sign with ‘Boson’ engraved on it stood alongside the boundary wall. Beyond it Drake noticed the advancing tide filling the inlet, and over in the distance he saw the heat rising from the RAF base. He yanked open one of the doors, to reveal piles of fishing tackle and equipment. The cottage and shed all meant more work for the search team, more overtime for the officers involved and then complaints from the finance department about the budget.

  Over his shoulder he could hear an officer talking to someone in the front yard. Drake turned and watched as a woman pushed her way through the gate in the fence, followed by the officer who’d been in the car at the bottom of the lane.

  ‘You can’t go in there,’ he said, raising his voice.

  She ignored him and carried on. When she saw Drake she stopped.

  ‘Are you Inspector Drake?’

  ‘And who are you?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Joan. Ed’s sister.’

  Chapter 4

  Caren stood outside the post office, eyes closed, letting the sunshine warm her face. A telephone rang behind her in the shop and she heard the muffled fragments of one snippet of a conversatio
n. A car horn startled her and she opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh sunlight. Her mobile hummed with a text message for her to meet Drake near Bryn Castell, so she made her way across the bridge and saw Drake standing on the pavement, deep in animated conversation with a woman she didn’t recognise.

  Drake had his hair a little longer than normal and Caren noticed scuff marks on his shoes that usually looked pristine. Drake had his hand on his hips, darting glances towards the bridge, a troubled look on his face. Normally, Drake had evenly balanced features that made him handsome in a neutral sort of way, but now his lips were drawn tightly together, his eyes narrowed. He was going to be rude to her very soon, Caren thought.

  ‘This is Joan Higham,’ Drake said, almost spitting the words out. ‘She’s Ed Mostyn’s sister.’

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Caren said.

  It was difficult to tell her age – Caren guessed mid-forties. She had broad hips and a flowing skirt that made her look older. Wisps of white hair caught in the light breeze like faint strands of silk.

  ‘I’ve arranged with Mrs Higham to see her tomorrow.’ Drake spoke to Caren, but he made it sound like an order for Joan Higham to leave. But she stood glaring at him. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Higham.’ Drake strode away, nodding for Caren to follow him.

  After a few steps Drake turned to Caren. ‘Dreadful woman.’

  ‘John Hughes can’t stand her. Apparently nobody likes her.’

  ‘Did you get a preliminary statement?’

  Caren nodded. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Let’s go and talk to Richie Mostyn.’

  Drake marched ahead of Caren, taking a quick look over towards his car and tilting his head as he examined it. Caren had, as always, glanced at the car as she passed it that morning; it was, or course, immaculately and enviably clean.

  The row of old cottages was set back from the main road, down a narrow lane. The windows were small and the walls thick, and the broad roof of weathered slates seemed to be in better condition than many Caren had seen. They were buildings with a history of families toiling the land and the sea to make a meagre living. Passing a new Range Rover squeezed into a parking slot, she pondered how many were now holiday homes.