Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Weird, isn’t it, sir?’

  Drake said nothing.

  ‘Looks like something from a horror film set,’ Caren added.

  Drake was not himself that morning. He had said very little on their journey from headquarters and, more significantly, he had ignored most of the Sudoku in the morning newspaper.

  They reached the brow of a hill and Caren pulled the car to a halt, looking down towards the nuclear power station on the edge of the coastline. The plant looked peaceful and calm, but the plans for the new station were controversial.

  ‘We need to establish if Mostyn had a will,’ Drake said eventually. ‘Maybe there was something in his papers.’

  A microlight appeared above them and slowly skirted around the power plant. In the distance Drake could see the long, wide pebbled beach at Cemlyn Nature Reserve. Caren drove on to Cemaes. Drake fell into a dark mood again and she wondered if the rumours about him and his wife were true. She’d met Sian a few times and on each occasion she had decided that she liked her less.

  Caren found a small car park in the village and, once she’d reversed into an available slot, they made their way down through the main street. The sun was warm on their faces as they strolled down past the few shops that remained. They reached the bay and looked out over the seaside. Tents and windbreaks were dotted over the sand and children were splashing at the water’s edge.

  ‘The bakery must be down one of the side roads,’ Drake said.

  ‘I never realised it was so pretty here.’ Caren stood, looking out over the bay.

  By a pub they cut down a lane, and between two old cottages, their white walls glistening in the summer sunshine, they spotted a notice indicating the bakery. The building had a small sign hanging over the door and two windows had been placed as far as possible into a recess in the walls. A bell sounded when Caren pushed open the door and entered the shop. She was surprised at how large the place felt. A low bench was dusted with a fine covering of flour. Various baskets with different shapes of loaves were piled on shelves behind the counter. There were handwritten labels advertising sourdough, hundred-percent wholemeal and a Polish rye bread.

  A man with thick stubble walked from the back and looked at Drake, before giving Caren a warm smile. She guessed that Gwynfor Llywelyn would know all his regular customers and that he’d normally have spoken in Welsh, but it was summer and the village was full of tourists.

  ‘What would you like?’ he said.

  Drake flashed his warrant card. ‘Are you Gwynfor Llywelyn?’

  ‘Yes, what’s this about?’

  Drake glanced towards the back. ‘We’re investigating the death of Ed Mostyn. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Llywelyn lifted a flap at the end of the counter. Drake and Caren followed him through the bakery, the air thick with the smell of yeast and hot from the ovens that hummed in the background. A radio was playing from a small room and as Llywelyn pushed open the door Drake could make out the dying chords of an Eagles song. A girl with short hair and two rings in her right nostril was sitting by a desk, staring at a computer screen, various books of accounts in front of her. Llywelyn said something to her in Welsh and she gave Drake and Caren a brief nod before leaving; she was even thinner standing up than she appeared sitting down. A small white T-shirt clung to her body, accentuating her thin shoulder blades. Llywelyn leant against a filing cabinet, nodding towards the two chairs for Drake and Caren to use. Drake pushed one over for Caren and sat on the other.

  ‘I understand you knew Ed Mostyn?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  Drake hesitated. ‘Were you friends with him?’

  ‘It must have been his sister.’

  ‘We’ll be talking to everybody that knew Ed Mostyn, his friends, girlfriends and family. What we want to establish is what your relationship was with him?’

  ‘I met him a couple of times.’

  ‘Is that once or twice or more?’

  Llywelyn shrugged. ‘He came to one of the public meetings and we got talking. He was interested in our campaign to stop the nuclear power station.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘He came here.’ Llywelyn looked at his watch.

  ‘Did you ever see him at his house?’ Caren asked.

  ‘Once, that’s all. Look, his sister is a right bitch. She came in here one day, shouting and cursing. She even lost me business, some of my regulars won’t come in now.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘She was complaining like hell about that land they own. She said it was my fault that Ed wasn’t going to sell.’

  ‘And was it?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he? And I have a business to run.’

  Llywelyn made for the door and Drake stood up.

  ‘And where were you on the morning Ed Mostyn was killed?’

  Llywelyn looked around. ‘It was first thing in the morning. Where would you think? I was here, preparing.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for that?’ Drake said.

  ‘Nobody.’ Llywelyn crossed his arms and stared defiantly at Drake. ‘There wouldn’t have been any bread to sell unless I’d prepared. And you can check my sales for that day if you want.’

  They retraced their steps towards the shop.

  ‘Why are you objecting to the power station?’ Drake said.

  Llywelyn lifted the flap on the countertop.

  ‘It’ll mean the end of the Welsh language. Is that something you want?’

  A customer pushed open the door and the bell rang. It had an old-fashioned metallic ring to it. Llywelyn smiled at the customer and then turned to Drake.

  ‘You should come to the public meeting we have organised next week.’

  *

  Drake and Caren left. Outside, momentarily blinded by the sun reflecting off the gleaming whitewashed walls, Caren squinted and then raised a hand to her face before they walked back through the village.

  ‘Let’s check him out,’ Drake said. ‘I need to know everything about Gwynfor Llywelyn.’

  ‘Awful place to work – inside all that dust and flour every day,’ Caren said.

  ‘Maybe he likes the creative side of making bread.’

  ‘Bit of wild goose chase. What possible motive could he have?’

  ‘Maybe Mostyn had told Llywelyn he’d changed his mind. Llywelyn loses it and decides to finish Mostyn off. Maybe even possible that Mostyn has made a will which Llywelyn doesn’t want changed.’

  ‘You’re hypothesising, sir.’

  ‘I know. It’s dangerous.’ Drake Drake stopped outside a café. ‘But half a million pounds is one hell of a motive.’

  Chapter 6

  After a hurried lunch Drake and Caren left Cemaes and headed back towards the power station. After parking in the visitors’ car park they walked over to the main reception area.

  All three of the girls sitting behind the desk had the same fixed grins, white blouses and jackets with small metal pins in their lapels that matched the corporate logo of the power company. It all looked clean and highly organised. They smiled at every visitor and joked amongst themselves. Drake picked up one of the company’s glossy brochures from the table in front of his chair. He noticed various job titles: community liaison manager, project implementation director. And there were photographs with local councillors and dignitaries all smiling broadly. Drake slid the brochure back onto the tabletop as one of the receptionists glided towards him. Caren was engrossed in an edition of Country Life.

  ‘Inspector Drake.’ She gave his name an American twang that made it sound like a question. ‘I’ll show you through.’

  They followed her to a door at the far end of the reception, where she punched a set of numbers into the security pad. There was a dull buzzing sound and she pushed the door open, holding it so that Drake and Caren could pass through. After two flights of stairs there was yet another security pad by a door with a sign: Senior Management. She turned her body to hide the numbers tha
t she tapped onto the screen. She gave them a weak smile after finishing.

  A large oblong table dominated the room. Framed aerial photographs of various power stations lined the walls, but Drake didn’t have time to read the descriptions of each before the door opened.

  ‘Mark Rogers,’ the man said, holding out his hand.

  His handshake was firm and brisk. He had a strong jaw line and it was difficult to guess his age – mid-forties, Drake thought, a couple of years older than him. After pulling out chairs from underneath the table they sat down.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Ed Mostyn.’

  ‘Yes, of course. The staff explained. How can I help?’

  Drake found it difficult to make out his accent, probably from somewhere in the south of England and definitely a private education.

  ‘Ed Mostyn owned land with his sister that’s needed for the power station. He didn’t want to sell it. That must have caused a major problem?’

  Rogers folded his arms together and gazed through one of the windows. ‘It wasn’t helpful, certainly. The development is a major part of the government’s economic policy. There’s a lot of pressure to make certain that everything is dealt with smoothly.’

  ‘So the politicians in Cardiff are all in favour?’

  Rogers gave Drake a surprised look and moved forward slightly in his chair, resting his hands on the table. ‘This level of development is a matter for the government in London. The Welsh assembly in Cardiff is irrelevant.’

  ‘But you still need planning consent?’

  ‘Of course. And we need to make certain that we have all the land that we need.’

  ‘And there were others affected by Mostyn’s refusal to sell.’

  ‘Rhys Fairburn and Maldwyn Evans – both local landowners.’

  ‘Do you have their contact details?’

  ‘I can email them.’

  Drake reached for a business card that he slid over the table. ‘So if Ed Mostyn refused to sell the land he jointly owned with his sister, what was likely to happen?’

  ‘Difficult to tell.’

  ‘Could he be forced to sell?’

  ‘Ah… let me put it like this. We would prefer not to have the adverse publicity that a compulsory purchase order might generate. We’d probably find a way around it.’

  ‘So Evans and Fairburn wouldn’t get the money involved.’

  Rogers nodded slowly.

  *

  Half an hour later they approached the blue-and-white crime scene tape fluttering gently as it hung across the entrance to the beach. Hopefully the search team could return to the gorse and the surrounding fields in the morning, and for a moment Drake worried that he was already over budget.

  A young uniformed woman police officer stood by the mobile incident room that was parked in front of a converted chapel in the middle of Four Mile Bridge. As Caren parked, Drake saw the figure of John Hughes emerging.

  ‘I think we might do a quick background check on him,’ Drake said to Caren, as they watched him talking to the uniformed police officer.

  ‘But he found the body.’

  ‘I know, it could be the perfect cover. He knows suspicion would fall on him so he pretends to have found the body to throw sand in our face.’

  They left the car and Drake strode over to the large blue truck emblazoned with the logo of the Wales Police Service, leaving Caren with her mobile pressed to her ear, instigating a check on Hughes. Gossip had circulated around Northern Division that the designers had charged a six-figure sum for something that most officers thought their teenage children could have completed for the price of a takeaway meal and a large bottle of soft drink.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hughes.’ Drake smiled at the police officer, whose name badge read ‘Yvonne Gooding’.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  Drake gave her a cursory nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘I hope PC Gooding here has been looking after you?’

  ‘I’m glad you called round. There’s something you should know.’ Hughes leant forward, giving his voice a conspiratorial air.

  Caren had finished on the telephone and joined Drake and Hughes.

  ‘Not here.’ Hughes beckoned. ‘Come down to the post office.’

  The shop was empty, the chatter from the day before having long disappeared. Closure seemed imminent, Drake thought, as he noticed that the vegetable selection included a tray with two ageing onions, four overripe tomatoes and a fridge compartment with only half a dozen yogurts on offer. Most of the customers probably shopped at one of the nearby supermarkets.

  ‘Around the back,’ Hughes said.

  It was the end of the afternoon, the second day of the investigation was drawing to a close and unless Hughes had something very constructive Drake knew his patience would fray. He had seen self-important men like this before and invariably they had nothing but gossip to offer.

  In the kitchen Hughes waved regally towards the chairs by the table. ‘There’s been a lot of talk.’ Hughes drew a hand over his mouth and paused. Drake waited, knowing he was expected to inquire. ‘People have been talking.’

  Drake sensed Caren wriggling in her chair.

  ‘Ed Mostyn owed a lot of money, to a lot of different people.’

  ‘To who exactly?’ Drake said.

  ‘A farmer called Rhys Fairburn to start with and—’

  ‘And who told you about this?’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘In that case there’s nothing I can do.’ Drake stood up.

  ‘But there’s more.’

  ‘Look, Mr Hughes,’ Drake slowed his voice. ‘I can’t rely on gossip. If you’ve got concrete evidence it’s your public duty to inform me.’

  Hughes looked taken aback, uncertain exactly how to respond but he soon regained his composure. ‘People come to me and talk to me. They trust me, they rely on my good sense.’

  Drake pushed the chair back. ‘If you’re prepared to give a statement, then talk to Police Constable Gooding. She can arrange for one of the CID team to attend.’

  ‘But I thought I could talk to you…’

  Drake moved towards the door, Caren a step behind him. ‘The mobile incident room will be here for the next few days. We’re interested in hearing from people that can provide us with definite information.’

  ‘There’s something else…’

  Drake stopped by the door and looked over at Hughes.

  ‘There was somebody else around first thing yesterday morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s a regular. Always comes down to the shop first thing.’ Hughes darted a glance towards the window.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this yesterday?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Somerset didn’t kill Ed. He’s not that sort of person.’

  ‘And what sort of person is he?’

  ‘Well, he lives up at the Hall – his family are the local aristocracy.’ Hughes was gathering confidence. ‘Somerset de Northway always comes in for his newspaper – The Telegraph, and he’d been into the shop while I was out delivering to Bryn Castell.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The paper wasn’t on the counter.’

  Drake stared at Hughes, wondering if there was anything else he wasn’t telling him. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t mention this yesterday. What’s de Northway’s address?’

  Caren jotted down the details and they left Hughes in the kitchen. By the time Drake and Caren had returned to the mobile incident room Winder and Howick had arrived and were both deep in conversation with Gooding.

  ‘Anything from the house-to-house enquiries?’ Drake asked Howick.

  ‘Nothing much yet, boss. There was nobody about. I spoke to one woman whose husband works shifts at the power station. He was the only one around at that time of the morning. And everybody knew Ed Mostyn.’

  Winder gave a brief hollow sort of laugh. ‘He was either loathed or loved.’

  ‘I found the same,’ Howick said. ‘Peopl
e either liked him, thought he was a nice character, or they thought he was a drunk and a layabout.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of people wanting to make statements,’ Gooding said, offering a clipboard to Drake, which he scanned quickly.

  ‘Are all these addresses local?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Drake was scanning the details when the search team supervisor arrived at his side.

  ‘We’ll be finished in the morning,’ Brown said.

  ‘What’s taking so long?’

  ‘Place is full of shit, sir.’

  A dull ache attacked Drake’s back and he stretched, hoping it might help. For the first time that afternoon he thought about Sian and felt uncertain as to the reception he’d get at home. Tomorrow morning there’d be another early meeting with the team and more dark stares from his wife. A message bleeped on his mobile. It was Superintendent Price – case review and update in an hour. Drake stared at the screen, then at the faces surrounding him and wondered what time he’d get home.

  *

  It had been a month since Superintendent Wyndham Price had returned from a six-month secondment to the West Midlands police force, and the new initiatives instigated by him had resulted in more meetings, more management memoranda and less time on police work. Emails from Price encouraged greater transparency, more ‘joined-up thinking’ and, whenever he could, he emphasised that everyone should be ‘working smarter’, which was a particular favourite of his.

  Hannah, Price’s secretary, gave Drake a warm smile that made her cheeks pucker. It had been obvious, even to Drake, that she had been pleased when Price returned. There was more enthusiasm in her voice, her high heels were back and she used significantly more perfume than during his absence.

  ‘He’s waiting for you.’ Hannah nodded at the door.

  Drake knocked and in response to a shout he opened the door, which slid over a thick pile carpet. Price had a telephone propped against his ear and was exchanging banter down the telephone. The certainty of dealing with Price, who knew about his past, was somehow preferable to the cold objectivity of his temporary replacement Superintendent Lance. Price waved his free hand towards the chair in front of his desk. Drake sat down and soon enough Price had finished.