Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘So you’re Joanna Barnes?’ Drake said, looking at the other girl.

  The girl moved slightly on her chair. ‘Yeah.’

  Long curly red hair cascaded over her shoulders, which she adjusted with a quick flick of her right hand. She pushed out her chin, pursed her lips and fiddled with her hands on the table. Drake sat down; a heavy smell of stale tobacco hung around both girls.

  ‘Am I under arrest or something?’ Barnes said.

  Drake opened his notebook at a clean page and placed his biro in the centre. Then he adjusted it a couple of millimetres. ‘What do you know about Ed Mostyn?’

  ‘That slime ball promised me that ring.’

  ‘Were you his girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s worth at least two grand. That’s what he said.’

  Drake picked up the ballpoint, took the top off and wrote a few words on the notepad. It had the desired effect of distracting Barnes’s attention.

  ‘How long had you been going out with Ed?’ Caren said.

  Barnes shrugged. Then she flicked back her hair again. ‘A year maybe.’

  Drake underlined his notes with a flourish a couple of times. He looked up and saw Barnes swallowing, and then he wrote another sentence of notes.

  ‘And I want my clothes and there are photographs I want back.’

  ‘Clothes?’ Caren said.

  ‘Yeah. I left a lot of stuff in the wardrobes.’

  ‘Can you prove the clothes and photographs were yours?’

  Donna made her first comment. ‘You tell them what he did.’

  Barnes clenched her fist. ‘He took photographs of me, naked.’

  ‘Where did he keep them?’

  ‘On his laptop. And I saw other girls too.’

  Drake lowered his voice. ‘Other girls?’

  ‘Yeah. He was a bit of a perv really. Liked looking at pictures of young girls.’

  ‘Where did he keep the laptop?’

  Barnes shrugged and a look crossed her face that spoke of an immaturity that none of the carefully applied make-up and hair colour or painted nails could hide. ‘Can we leave?’

  Drake couldn’t remember a laptop on the inventory from Mostyn’s place – something else to check. He stood up, replaced the top of his biro and tucked his notebook under one arm. ‘We need to speak to someone first.’

  Drake and Caren left both girls looking terrified. The custody sergeant was a man who needed to lose two or three stones in weight. He held a handkerchief in one hand, mopping away the beads of sweat forming over his brow. Behind him a news programme was playing on a small television.

  After he’d listened to Drake the sergeant asked. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Give them a gypsy’s warning and let them go.’

  Behind the sergeant’s head Drake recognised the face of Calvin Headley on the screen. ‘Turn the sound up,’ he said.

  The sergeant found the remote and pointed it at the screen.

  ‘It has been twenty-four hours since the badly mutilated body of Ed Mostyn was found on the beach in Four Mile Bridge, a well-known local beauty spot. Mostyn, who was a popular local figure, had lived in the village all his life.’

  Headley dipped his head and the screen switched to an interview with one of the villagers, who was suitably shocked at the events, then back to a headshot of the journalist.

  ‘Isn’t that outside the station…?’ Caren said.

  Behind Headley, Drake could make out the dark shadows of the Holyhead police station.

  ‘In this fast-moving inquiry police sources have refused to confirm the details, but it is believed that two women are helping the police with their enquiries.’

  Chapter 8

  Drake sat by the kitchen table eating breakfast when he heard Sian’s footsteps on the stairs. He read the time, knowing that he shouldn’t be late. He chewed on a second piece of toast as she pushed the door closed behind her, pulled out a chair and sat down. She was wearing the thin dressing gown he’d given her as a Christmas present the year before. It occurred to him that perhaps she’d lost some weight; she looked thinner than normal and paler, too. Her blonde hair was already neat and it framed her delicate features perfectly. She clenched her jaw and her eyes darkened with determination.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the girls. You know we had that discussion about their schooling.’

  It had been over a month since Sian had made it clear that she wanted to move Helen and Megan to a new school that didn’t teach the girls through the medium of Welsh. Their conversation had descended into a difficult standoff with recriminations flying and had ended with Drake feeling resentful that Sian wouldn’t support him in wanting their daughters to be bilingual.

  ‘The school I was telling you about does some of its teaching in Welsh.’

  A piece of toast suddenly stuck to the top of his mouth.

  Sian continued. ‘My Mum says—’

  ‘And what’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘She only wants what’s best.’

  ‘And you think I don’t.’

  He reached for the coffee mug and tightened his grip.

  ‘You’re taking this too personally.’

  ‘And how else am I supposed to be taking it? We agreed about the girls’ schooling.’

  She placed one hand over another on the wooden tabletop. ‘I’m not so certain any longer. The new school has an excellent record. My Mum knows the headmaster and lots of my friends send their children there.’

  Drake left the last of the toast and pushed his plate to one side. ‘You’ll probably prefer me not to speak Welsh to them.’ He drained the last of the tepid coffee and plonked the mug on the plate.

  ‘You’re just impossible to speak to.’

  ‘You’ve already decided. I haven’t been consulted. And your mother seems to know more about it than I do.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  Drake got up, marched over to the sink and with a flourish stacked his dishes into the dishwasher. Sian crossed one leg over another.

  ‘You’ll still talk to them in Welsh and there’s all your family.’

  He glanced at his watch again. He’d insisted the team get in for an early briefing. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘This is for the best, Ian.’

  ‘Can this wait?’

  Sian shook her head slowly.

  *

  Normally a Saturday morning gave Caren the opportunity for a leisurely breakfast but Drake had made clear that he expected the team to be working. She stood in the kitchen looking out over the nearby field where Alun was moving fence posts. She had missed him badly when his driving job had meant long periods away from home, but now that he’d found a job with a local company she had begun re-evaluating her life. Caren flicked on the electric kettle, her thoughts distracted by how she could avoid working on a Saturday in the future. Maybe she could get a transfer to a station as a custody sergeant, but the prospect of working in a stuffy custody suite with no windows, where the drunks would vomit on the floor and drug addicts howl in the depths of the night, was unappealing. Then there were other squads. The economic crime officers were always relaxed and they never had any dead bodies to look at. And a transfer back to uniform would seem a backward step.

  She and Alun had talked about having children, but their conversations had petered out somehow. There never seemed to be a good time for a discussion about their plans. If they did start a family the possibility struck her that she might be able to work part time. She laughed to herself at the prospect of what Superintendent Price or Drake might say to such a request. On reflection, working with Drake had certain attractions and in the last two years she had become accustomed to his way of doing things. There was a certain comfort in the familiarity of his routine and in the way he liked things done, even if he could be rude and abrasive. And during all the time she’d worked with him, he had never once tried a flirtatious comment, which she’d put down to the fact that he was married to an ice ma
iden who’d frozen his emotions.

  She decided that she’d have to talk to Alun first. Realising that the kettle had long since boiled, she clicked it on again and then made tea, accepting that she was going to be late. Alun wandered in, discarding his boots in a pile by the back door.

  ‘I thought you had to get to work?’ he said.

  ‘They can wait.’

  He smiled at her. ‘The boss wants me to work extra hours next week.’

  The family discussion might have to wait, Caren thought.

  ‘Will you be away?’

  ‘No, but I might be late back most nights.’

  ‘I’ve was wondering about asking for a transfer.’

  Alun sat down. ‘I thought you were enjoying working with Ian Drake.’

  Caren poured tea into two mugs and set one down in front of him. ‘I want regular hours. And if we want to start a family, then…’

  Alun reached a handover and touched hers. ‘Now that I’m more settled maybe we could think about it again.’

  ‘But we never really talk about it.’

  ‘I know the alpaca business took more of my time than it should have done. But I’ve got a regular job now. Let’s talk about it when we’ve got more time.’

  ‘I’m thirty next birthday. My Mum had two children when she was my age and well… that old body clock is ticking.’

  ‘I know. But I’ve only just started this job.’

  ‘I want to think about my options.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to make inspector?’

  She hesitated and looked over at Alun, knowing that he really didn’t know what was in her mind. ‘Things change.’

  ‘Let’s talk about this later.’

  Never, you mean.

  Caren took a mouthful of hot tea and Alun shifted uncomfortably in his chair until he finally got up. He turned towards her. ‘Toast?’ he offered and she shook her head.

  ‘I need to get going,’ Caren said eventually, when the tension in the kitchen became something she couldn’t break with a wise comment or remark. Standing up, she avoided kissing Alun who sat at the opposite side of the table. He mumbled a farewell through a mouthful of toast and she left.

  She pulled the back door closed behind her and walked down to her car, throwing her bag onto the passenger seat. She buzzed down the window and let the hot summer air freshen the inside. The tourists would be streaming down the Conwy Valley that weekend and it struck her then that Ed Mostyn had no one to mourn him. No wife or children and even his girlfriend had wanted to steal from his cottage.

  After half an hour she indicated for the junction to Northern Division headquarters and parked alongside Drake’s Alfa. She gave the alloys a second glance, noting that they glistened. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to scrub their car wheels clean.

  On her way to the Incident Room, Caren bumped into Winder carrying two mugs of tea.

  ‘Making tea, Gareth?’

  ‘I’d make you one… Only the boss is already complaining that you’re late.’

  She held the door open for her colleague but even so he managed to spill drops over the floor. Drake looked over and grimaced as he noticed. He gave Caren a brief smile and turned back to the board.

  Howick was sitting by his desk and gave Caren a nervous frown.

  ‘The most significant event so far is that we have evidence that Mostyn had a laptop. I checked this morning and it wasn’t on the search inventory,’ Drake said.

  ‘So we’ve got a thief as well,’ Caren said.

  ‘And we need to establish when he had it last.’

  ‘Must have been something incriminating on it,’ Howick said.

  ‘Joanna Barnes’s photographs, to start with,’ Caren said, adding, ‘and other girls too, apparently.’

  Drake stared at the image of Mostyn pinned to the board. ‘We can start on Mostyn’s papers, bank statements etc.… etc… We need to know everything about him: friends, and neighbours – all the usual stuff. And look out for a will or a copy. There must be something. And if not, then start contacting local solicitors next week. The search team picked up some personal effects in the sand near the body. They found a knife, some rings, a comb and a pair of Ray-Bans.’

  ‘Any forensics yet?’ Howick said.

  Drake raised his eyebrows in surprise. Howick nodded his understanding.

  ‘It’ll be impossible to trace that sort of stuff,’ Winder said.

  ‘Local chandlery shop and ironmongers might sell them. It’s not your average Swiss army knife,’ Drake said.

  ‘Might be available on the Internet,’ Howick added.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got for the time being, unless we turn up something from his belongings. We should have the forensics’ results back early next week. In the meantime we’re going to see Rhys Fairburn.’ Drake glanced over at Caren.

  Any lingering hope that she might be able to finish early was dashed and she smiled at him weakly. Caren was convinced that Drake wasn’t himself. In fact he had been out of sorts all week. He’d even worn the same shirt two days running and she was certain he’d worn the same red striped tie twice that week.

  *

  Drake said little on the drive to see Rhys Fairburn, which the satnav had told Caren would take fifty minutes. He spent time staring at the Sudoku page of the newspaper, occasionally scribbling a number down and, after forty-six minutes, she pulled into the drive of Rhys Fairburn’s farmhouse. A south-facing patio area at the side of the property was having a conservatory built on it and a tall man with thick black hair was giving directions to a stocky man in a T-shirt advertising the name of a local builders merchants. He broke off when he saw the car and walked towards them.

  They left the car and met him as he stood under a couple of wind-battered plane trees.

  ‘Rhys Fairburn?’ Drake said, producing his warrant card as Caren did the same. ‘Detective Inspector Drake and Detective Sergeant Caren Waits. We’re investigating the death of Ed Mostyn.’

  ‘I thought you might call. You’d better come inside.’

  He led them round to the rear of the property. A three-year-old Mercedes estate was parked next to a 4x4, a couple of years older. The buildings at the back of the property looked well cared for, the slates were new, the gutters were clean and the windows recently painted.

  Fairburn undid the laces of his farm boots and threw them into a pile in one corner of the small porch.

  After a couple of steps down the hallway Fairburn pushed open the door of an office and sat behind a small desk, leaning over it as Drake and Caren sat down. A small bookcase was pushed against one wall, its top littered with a set of framed photographs. Caren spotted one with Fairburn, a woman his age and three more with younger faces that Caren guessed were his children. Another two photographs had Fairburn smiling at the camera with three men in a black-tie dinner. Even though he was clean-shaven and his hair cut neatly, Caren recognised Ed Mostyn and the puffy face of Maldwyn Evans looking uncomfortable in a dinner jacket. The final face was a younger and leaner Dafydd Higham.

  Fairburn had a round face and a clear complexion made healthy by working on the land. His volume of hair was all-natural, Caren concluded, although it looked unnaturally dark. ‘Do you want some coffee or tea?’ Fairburn sounded unconvincing as a host.

  ‘No thanks,’ Drake said. ‘How well did you know Mostyn?’

  ‘I’ve known him a few years. I wouldn’t say we were close friends.’

  Drake continued. ‘He was preventing you from selling your land to the power company. So he must have caused you a problem.’

  ‘I don’t need to sell the land to survive.’

  ‘But having the money would be helpful.’

  ‘Well, of course it would. I have a successful farm. We manage over five hundred head of cattle and sheep and I’ve got regular contracts with a big supermarket. And I’ve got three small convenience stores.’ There was something rather too confident about Fairburn that Caren found unsettling. He had a too-go
od-to-be-true manner and he’d smiled regularly each time Drake had asked a question.

  ‘Is it true that you lent money to Ed Mostyn?’ Caren asked.

  Any confidence that Fairburn had built up soon evaporated as his eyes darted around. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘What was the money for?’

  ‘He got himself involved with a business running a fishing trawler. The whole thing was a disaster.’

  ‘Are you going to claim against Ed Mostyn’s estate?’ Caren asked.

  Now Fairburn gave her a wintry glare.

  ‘Where were you on the morning that Mostyn was killed?’ Drake said.

  ‘Same place as always at that time of the day: in bed. And I’m sure my wife will confirm that.’

  *

  Drake fell into a dull mood as they made their way back to headquarters, his thoughts dominated by Sian’s possible reaction that evening. Caren had tried to start a conversation in the car on the way back and he had nodded and agreed when appropriate, but mostly he wanted her to stop her stream of comments on the case so far.

  He pushed open the doors to the Incident Room and watched as Winder pinned various photographs to the board. Drake walked over towards him, past Howick sitting by his desk. He was wearing a bold checked shirt with a red tie that made him look like a second-hand-car salesman.

  ‘I googled the name of Joan Higham,’ Winder said. ‘She’s had her face in the newspaper. As did her husband. She’s a local county councillor and the chair of a local charity helping the homeless.’

  ‘And her husband?’ Drake said.

  Howick piped up. ‘Another upstanding member of the community with his own accountancy business. Employs half a dozen people. Sits as a magistrate and he’s secretary of the local Cambrian Club.’

  ‘What’s the Cambrian club?’ Winder said.

  ‘It’s a dining club. You know, businessmen and professionals. They meet for dinner and do good work in the local community. It’s a bit like the Rotary Club except that it’s only in Wales.’

  ‘Is it only for Welsh speakers then?’

  Drake interrupted. ‘No, Gareth. Anyone can join.’ He looked over at Howick. ‘And Maldwyn Evans?’

  Howick rustled some papers on his desk and found a photograph. He stepped over to the board. ‘Evans aged eighteen,’ he said, pinning a grainy black-and-white image to the board. ‘He was charged with drink driving.’