Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  Caren took her opportunity. ‘I’ll go and see Mrs Evans while you talk to the driver sir.’ She was convinced that she saw relief in Drake’s eyes.

  *

  Drake had been pleased when Caren had suggested she speak to Enid Evans. Perhaps she knew him better than he guessed. It was just one of those situations where all that was needed was sympathy and reassurance.

  Caren took a right turn at the junction. But as Drake and Wallbank turned left onto the main road they almost bumped into Calvin Headley and a television crew. Headley was wearing the same suit that he had worn on the bridge near the scene of Mostyn’s death and the same virtuous attitude. The cameraman instinctively started filming, and Calvin Headley’s mouth fell open slightly, clearly delighted to see Drake. The journalist came closer.

  ‘Are you investigating this, Inspector Drake?’ Headley managed to infuse both condescension and enquiry into his voice. It was a potent mix; Drake’s face flushed and his chest tightened. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s been a death on the railway. It will make the lunchtime news.’

  Drake took one step towards the journalist and jabbed his forefinger into the man’s chest. ‘You’re just a scumbag. I don’t know how you live with yourself.’

  Drake felt a hand on his jacket and, turning, saw the worried gaze of Wallbank. ‘This way, sir.’

  Drake left Calvin Headley with a self-righteous expression on his face.

  By the time they reached the station car park Drake’s equilibrium had returned. Wallbank pushed open the door of the mobile incident room and took off his jacket, which he threw onto a table. A man was sitting in the far corner, staring at the floor and clutching a plastic beaker.

  ‘This is Harry Thomas. He was the train driver this morning,’ Wallbank said, as though Thomas wasn’t in the room.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Drake said.

  Thomas looked up, his bottom lip quivered, his eyes filled. ‘It’s the first time it’s happened to me.’

  *

  Two cars had been parked on the pavement outside Enid Evans’s bungalow. Caren walked down the concrete drive towards the side entrance. She pressed the bell and waited. Moments later the door opened but she couldn’t hide her surprise when Joan Higham appeared.

  ‘And what do you want?’

  Caren ignored the rudeness and used her most reasonable tone. ‘Is Enid in?’

  ‘Of course she is. She’s hardly going to the supermarket.’

  Caren crossed the threshold uninvited, catching Joan Higham by surprise. ‘Are you related?’

  ‘We’ve known Enid and Maldwyn for years. Dafydd does his accounts.’

  ‘Is she in the sitting room?’

  Joan gave a quick nod down the hallway. Enid Evans was sitting in the same chair that Maldwyn had occupied the week before. A man in his twenties stood up, who, from his pallid complexion and tapered chin, Caren guessed was Enid’s son.

  ‘Are you the police officer who was here last week?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Waits.’ Caren turned to Enid. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss Mrs Evans.’

  ‘This is Iwan, my son.’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘What? The bloody cops have done enough damage,’ Iwan said, squaring up to Caren.

  Enid spoke to him. ‘Stedda lawr a bydd yn dawel.’

  Caren’s Welsh was rudimentary but her understanding was confirmed when he sat down and pouted.

  ‘That inspector not with you today?’ Enid barely paused for breath. ‘Maldwyn knew he was out to get him. Rotten to the core if you ask me. And that’s what killed him. Couldn’t stand the shame of being wrongly accused. Can you imagine what it’s like having to face everyone in the village – looking at you and talking behind your back? When he knew that he’d done nothing wrong.’

  Caren listened without passing comment. She kept her opinions to herself. It had been the press who reported Maldwyn’s name. But it suited Enid to complain about the police.

  ‘I need to ask you about Maldwyn.’

  ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’

  ‘What was he like last night and this morning?’

  Enid frowned. ‘He was quiet last night. He was so frightened and upset after the interrogation. He went to pieces, didn’t say anything. He just sat in this chair, staring blankly into space. I’ve never seen anything like it. He didn’t eat anything or drink anything and when I went to bed he was still there.’

  ‘Do you know whether he spoke to anybody else?’

  Enid clasped both hands tightly together. ‘He spoke to Rhys Fairburn. They were in the Cambrian Club together.’ She spat out the final words. ‘And later, he spoke to Dafydd Higham.’

  Iwan added. ‘He spoke to him often. Dafydd was going to help with the land business.’

  Caren turned towards him. ‘What do you mean?’

  Iwan pursed his lips. ‘Dad should never have got Higham involved. He was going to fix things, speak to Mostyn. That’s what Dad said…’ He glanced over at his mother for approval. ‘He should never have been arrested. He was an innocent man and you’ve killed him.’

  Caren was uncertain whether persevering would achieve anything further. ‘Did your husband sleep at all last night?’

  ‘He came to bed but I was so tired…’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘I should never have gone to sleep.’

  ‘Do you know when your husband got up?’

  ‘It must have been early. He put the rubbish out and laid the kitchen table for breakfast.’

  ‘Was there anything else, Mrs Evans? Did he say anything? Mention anyone’s name?’

  Enid clasped her hands again, and placed one on each knee. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

  *

  Drake ran a finger around his collar. Although it was early evening the video conference suite was stiflingly hot. He reached for a glass of water – it was tepid but at least it helped to moisten his lips. Superintendent Price sat across from Drake, both hands flat on the table in front of him. His mobile sat alongside a pile of papers that had an orange Lamy fountain pen perched on top. Price stared over at him.

  ‘Before we speak to ACC Osmond I need to know all the details.’ Price’s slow, deliberate manner unnerved Drake.

  ‘Maldwyn Evans was arrested on suspicion of indecent assault and murder of Ed Mostyn.’

  ‘And your evidence for the murder?’ Price had his chin propped on steepled hands now.

  ‘There was direct evidence of Evans threatening Mostyn. And Evans was in dire financial problems that were made worse by Mostyn’s refusal to sell the land he owned with his sister.’

  Price curled up his eyebrows. ‘And the evidence for the sexual offences?’

  ‘A direct third party complaint that he and Mostyn had been involved several years ago.’

  ‘And have the correct protocols been followed with the Sexual Offences and Child Protection team?’

  ‘They have been informed—’

  ‘Sergeant Robinson of the SOCP team has filed a memorandum that suggests the standard protocols weren’t followed.’

  Drake’s shirt tightened around his neck.

  ‘I wanted to give the murder investigation the highest priority.’

  ‘Let’s hope the ACC agrees. And how did the press find out?’

  The image of Calvin Headley filled Drake’s mind. ‘I don’t know. He must have spoken to neighbours.’

  ‘No question of there being any leaks?’

  A bead of perspiration gathered on Drake’s forehead. ‘Absolutely not.’

  Price checked the time, stood up and fiddled with the controls for the video equipment. Moments later the screen filled with the image of the ACC Osmond in Cardiff.

  ‘Good evening, Wyndham. DI Drake,’ Osmond said.

  The ACC was in his early fifties but the uniform and sheen of silver grey stubble made him look older.

  ‘Sir,’ Price
acknowledged his superior officer. Drake followed suit.

  ‘This is a mess. What the hell happened?’

  Drake wanted to clear his throat but even swallowing was difficult.

  ‘The arrest of Mostyn was lawful and justified,’ Price continued.

  After a few minutes Price had finished his explanation, interrupted by the occasional question from Osmond.

  ‘Have all the protocols been followed?’ Osmond said.

  ‘The murder investigation is taking priority, sir,’ Price said. ‘The SOCP team haven’t been fully involved yet.’

  Even from the screen Drake could see the look of surprise on Osmond’s face.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Wyndham. I don’t want there to be any room for the family to complain. That goes for you as well, Detective Inspector. Protocols are there to protect officers.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Price said. ‘Is the force doing anything about the journalist?’

  ‘We’ve made a complaint of course. You know, interfering with policing, prejudicing an inquiry etc.… etc… But the man is dead. And we are getting the blame.’

  Silence hung in the room for a moment.

  ‘I need regular updates,’ Osmond said. ‘And remember the bloody protocols.’

  The ACC nodded at someone in the room and then his image disappeared. The tension in Drake’s chest subsided a fraction.

  ‘We need progress, Ian,’ Price said.

  Drake let out a lungful of breath, hoping Price wouldn’t notice.

  Chapter 22

  It was seven-thirty am when Drake arrived to see Halpin.

  The mental health unit had a nondescript office in a side street. A sign with the name of the health board had been screwed to the door. He rang the bell and the intercom buzzed into life. He heard the sound of Halpin’s voice and once Drake had introduced himself the door clicked open. He followed the counsellor through into a room at the rear of the building, which contained two armchairs and where he had seen Halpin before.

  ‘How are things?’ Halpin started.

  Drake sat down and the soft cushion sagged under his weight. The room was cool. Halpin wore a brown herringbone jacket, the sort that Drake’s father would have found fashionable, with an open-necked shirt and his usual neutral expression.

  ‘You said I could contact you if things…’

  ‘Of course. Tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘I’m involved in this case. A man and a young girl have been killed.’

  ‘I read about it in the newspaper.’

  ‘My superior officer has been asking how I’m coping.’

  ‘And how are you coping?’

  Drake propped a foot over one knee. ‘Since Dad died it hasn’t been easy. It’s back to how it used to be. I can’t get things done unless I’ve dealt with other things in a certain order. In a way, it’s worse – I can’t even touch a door handle now.’

  Halpin ran a finger along his chin. ‘Have you tried the coping strategies we discussed?’

  Drake nodded. He took a deep breath and tried his best to blot out the comments from Price and Sian that were clouding his mind. After half an hour the concerned look on Halpin’s face had intensified into a quizzical gaze.

  Eventually Halpin said. ‘How are things at home?’

  The saliva in Drake’s mouth had dried and he ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Sian doesn’t know if she loves me anymore.’ It was easier telling Halpin than he’d expected.

  ‘And is the feeling mutual?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just that sometimes I have to do the things she hates. And…’ He wished it was as simple as giving up one thing for the sake of the other.

  Halpin waited.

  ‘Sian wants us to separate.’ Drake stared at a brown stain on the carpet.

  ‘Does she think it will be permanent?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’ Drake looked up at Halpin, wanting to remember what Sian had actually said. If it was only temporary then she might have said so, Drake thought.

  ‘Is separating from Sian something that you have been thinking about?’

  ‘I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Do you think the marriage is over?’ Halpin said.

  Drake stared at Halpin. It hurt to hear it in such cold objective terms. Sian had used a detached tone when she told him that a period apart might ‘help to mend their relationship’. And she had made it clear that his failure to address the rituals that drove her mad was simply not acceptable. She had made it sound like a cold-hearted business decision.

  ‘It’s just not that easy…’

  He’d agreed with Sian that they’d speak to Helen and Megan that evening. How do you explain to young children about their parents separating?

  ‘How are your daughters dealing with it?’

  Drake looked over at Halpin and knew then that he didn’t want them to have to deal with anything.

  *

  The columns of multi-coloured Post-it notes had been moved strategically to one side. Open on Drake’s desk was the local daily newspaper, its front page dominated by the tragic events from the day before. The train driver had been named and there was even an interview with a psychologist who claimed to be an expert in treating individuals who had suffered a similar trauma. Drake read the statement from Maldwyn Evans’s family criticising the press but pointing the finger of blame directly at the Wales Police Service for having falsely arrested Evans.

  Drake looked at the coffee granules descending slowly in the cafetière on his desk before pouring the coffee. A thin covering of creamy oil floated on the surface. He took the first mouthful and then carried on reading. He had tried being discreet when they’d left the house with Evans. But it was a small estate of bungalows and Drake imagined Calvin Headley flattering one of the neighbours into confirming the details.

  Drake turned over to the second page of the newspaper and read with growing alarm an article on the ongoing investigations into Ed Mostyn and Jane Jones and how it was making no progress – ‘politicians concerned’ and ‘local people worried’ were comments frequently repeated. He searched for the name of the journalist responsible, suppressing the urge to pick up the telephone immediately and call the editor. He had little time, knowing that he had to leave for the meeting he’d arranged the evening before to see Joan and Dafydd Higham.

  He left his office, grabbing his jacket on the way out, but he stopped by the Incident Room board. A photograph had been pinned under the image of Evans. It was similar to the others he’d seen of men in dinner jackets smiling at the camera. It had in it Evans standing with Rhys Fairburn, Ed Mostyn and the same man that he’d seen in the image on the round table in the morning room of Crecrist Hall.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ Drake said pointing at the photograph.

  Howick replied. ‘It was with Evans’s papers.’

  Drake stared at the group and then at the similar photograph under Mostyn’s details. Curiosity finally got the better of him so he unpinned both images and slid them into his papers – maybe Higham would know if something connected all these men.

  *

  Drake fumbled through the glove compartment until he had found the CD of Bruce Springsteen’s Working on a Dream. He turned the volume up as he accelerated along the A55, hoping it would be a lucky day. On a whim he turned off the dual carriageway at the junction for Conwy and slowed as he negotiated various roundabouts until he was on the bridge crossing the estuary. To his right was an estate of houses in the marina development, the tips of yacht masts swaying gently. Ahead stood Conwy Castle, surrounded by the walls that had made the town such a fortress in the thirteenth century. Drake couldn’t remember when he had last visited it but decided that this was the sort of activity a father should do with his children. At the beginning of the week Drake had seen a flat in the middle of Colwyn Bay that suited his needs – close enough to collect Helen and Megan and convenient for headquarters. The agent had sounded reluctant when Drake had said he wanted to move in the f
ollowing weekend, mumbling excuses about the paperwork needed.

  Pedestrians and traffic slowed his journey through the narrow streets until eventually he left through one of the ancient gates in the town walls.

  He reached the Menai Strait and crossed over the Britannia Bridge, casting a quick glance at the fast-running currents. Plas Newydd, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Anglesey, shimmered in the sunshine. He accelerated off the bridge and within half an hour turned into the drive for the Higham farmhouse. It struck him that Joan Higham had shown little remorse at the death of her brother and that Dafydd Higham demonstrated an objectivity typical of accountants.

  He strode over to the back door and heard the bell reverberating through the house, but the place felt empty. He peered in through one of the windows; the kitchen looked tidy, draining board clear, work surfaces spotless – the sort of order that his mother would have liked. He tried the doorbell a second time and stood back, this time looking around for any sign of life. Then he heard movement, a chair being moved perhaps and footsteps behind the door. It creaked open and he saw the drowsy face of Joan Higham.

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep well last night. Recently I’ve been sleeping so much better, but last night I just couldn’t get to sleep. Come in.’

  Drake followed Joan into the kitchen. ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘He’s not here. He was at some accountancy dinner last night and stayed over at the hotel. I was expecting him back by now.’

  Drake nodded – it explained her tentative tone on the telephone the evening before. Joan busied herself making coffee for Drake and as she finished he heard the sound of a car coming to a stop. She poured the coffee and pushed a mug over the table towards him. Dafydd Higham walked in and dumped a small case on the floor. He wore a navy polo shirt and jeans. His hair had been cut more neatly than Drake remembered. He gave Drake a brief nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘Inspector.’

  Higham sat down next to Drake. ‘How can we help with the investigation?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Maldwyn Evans. How well did you know him?’

  ‘We were good friends. It’s tragic what has happened to him. I don’t think Enid will recover.’