Against the Tide

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Do you need the address, sir?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Drake replied.

  Then he shouted. ‘Caren. Fairburn’s been killed.’

  He rushed for the door, grabbed his jacket from the stand and headed for his car. They raced over the car park and Drake pointed the remote at the car.

  ‘Get more of the details,’ Drake said as he accelerated hard through the gears until he was in the outside lane of the A55, almost reaching a hundred miles an hour. He slowed as he approached the tunnel under the estuary, but once he was clear he pressed his right foot to the floor. The traffic was light in the tunnels through the mountains, but slowing for the roundabouts at Penmaenmawr and Llanfairfechan only added to his frustration. A white delivery van delayed his progress and he pressed the car horn hard and cursed. Eventually the driver pulled into the nearside lane and Drake raced ahead.

  Drake paid no attention to the traffic police who passed him on the opposite carriageway and within a few minutes had left the A55 and was slowing to a roundabout at the top of the exit slip. The journey dragged until eventually he drove up the lane leading to the farmhouse and parked alongside two marked police cars. A uniformed sergeant stood by the back door.

  ‘Where’s the body?’ Drake said.

  The police officer dipped his head towards one of the outbuildings. ‘The workshop behind the black door over there, sir. Alys Fairburn, the widow, is in the house, hysterical.’

  A Mercedes 4x4 screamed to a halt just behind Drake’s vehicle. A woman in her thirties jumped out of the passenger seat, followed by the driver, a man about the same age.

  ‘His daughter,’ the sergeant said. ‘And son-in-law.’

  Drake noticed the woman’s tear-filled eyes and puffy cheeks as she raced past him towards the door, followed by her husband.

  ‘Let’s have a look at Fairburn,’ Drake said to Caren.

  A young constable guarding the entrance to the outbuilding stiffened as Drake and Caren approached. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of peat and manure. A single wooden enclosure was the only thing that suggested the building had once been used as a stable. Various implements were propped up against one wall and bags of agricultural lime had left a white trail along the cobbled floor.

  ‘He’s in the next section,’ the officer said, nodding his head into the main part of the building.

  Drake pushed open the door. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the wooden casement windows. He stood, staring at the body of Rhys Fairburn lying on his back. Force of habit made him snap on a pair of latex gloves. He gazed down at the body – a white shirt was blotched with dark stains and his hair was thickly matted from the blood covering his face. A pair of dark navy trousers was covered in dust and dried-up mud. Just behind and above his left ear was a large gaping wound. Instinctively Drake looked around for the weapon. He would have to leave the search to the CSI team. Fairburn’s visit to the workshop was unplanned, Drake thought, as he looked at the shine on the dead man’s brogues.

  Drake recoiled as he took in Fairburn’s neck and the two clear punctures wounds. Looking around, he noticed a workbench, its top littered with tools and various empty plant pots. Moving over the recently brushed floor, he knelt down by the body. He reached over and touched the dead man’s trousers. The deep throaty sound of a van engine drifted in from the farmyard and he guessed that the crime scene investigators had arrived. At least this time the crime scene investigators won’t be working against the tide, Drake thought. There was a chance for forensics. Behind him he heard voices entering the stable.

  ‘Where’s Ian?’ Foulds said.

  ‘In here, Mike.’

  Moments later Foulds stood by Drake’s side. ‘Jesus. It’s exactly like Ed Mostyn.’

  Drake turned to Foulds. ‘I’m going to see the family. Let me know once you’ve finished.’

  Drake moved past him, back into the stable and then out with Caren. He stood for a moment in the sunshine, taking a few deep breaths. He wanted to be certain that his emotions could never become accustomed to such horror; he had to sense the rawness of death.

  ‘Let’s go and see the family.’ Drake started walking over to the farmhouse.

  In the kitchen two women in their mid-fifties turned and stared at Drake and Caren. The taller one opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then Fairburn’s daughter strode in. She stood for moment and then blew her nose.

  ‘Detective Inspector Ian Drake. I am very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Ann Parry. Can we see my…?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  She gave him a rather pleading look.

  ‘Once the crime scene investigators have finished we’ll arrange to take your father to the mortuary. There will be some formalities of course.’

  Ann opened her eyes wide. She had probably seen a dozen television crime dramas where the next of kin have to make a formal identification, but it was never the same in reality.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to your mother.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘She’s in no fit state.’

  ‘I really must insist that I speak with her.’

  Caren smiled at Ann. ‘It’s very important for us to be able to speak to the person who saw him last. Your mother might be able to tell us what his movements were immediately before he was killed.’

  Ann’s lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

  Caren continued. ‘I know it will be difficult but it’s something your mother will have to face.’

  Drake looked past Ann. ‘Is there someone with your mother?’

  ‘Peter, my husband.’ She turned and walked out of the kitchen, Drake and Caren following behind her.

  She led them through a newly carpeted hallway, heavy with the smell of fresh paint. There was the sound of movement behind a stripped pine door, which was slightly ajar. Ann pushed it open and Drake saw Alys Fairburn sitting on a sofa, despair and disbelief competing in her expression.

  ‘This is Inspector…’Ann sat down by her mother but struggled to remember Drake’s name.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Caren Waits. My condolences. I need to ask you some questions.’

  Alys Fairburn stared at him. Her mouth fell open slightly. ‘There’s nothing I can say. He’s dead. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Was Mr Fairburn due to see somebody today?’

  Alys Fairburn shook her head, grasping the handkerchief between both hands.

  ‘Does he have a mobile telephone?’

  ‘In his study.’

  ‘My dad has an office at the bottom of the hall,’ Ann said.

  ‘And a computer?’

  Alys Fairburn blew her nose loudly. ‘He spent hours on the computer.’

  ‘Did he have a meeting with anybody?’ Drake persisted.

  ‘It was like any other day, I suppose.’ Alys Fairburn lifted her gaze and stared at him blankly. ‘We’re ordinary people. And now he’s… gone.’

  Drake looked over at Ann. ‘I’ll need to see his office.’

  She touched her mother’s arm and then left taking Drake and Caren down the hallway.

  Drake was surprised at the modern feel to the room, its computer set up with two monitors and a large printer on a shelf behind the desk. It had a neatness he admired. Caren stepped towards the bookcase and picked up a photograph in a glossy black frame. She tilted it and offered it to Drake – he nodded his recognition.

  ‘Do you know anything about your father’s movements today?’ Drake said to Ann, who was standing by the window with her arms firmly folded together.

  ‘Not really. It was another ordinary day. He visited the shops he runs as he always does. Mam said he had some meetings with some suppliers but… I don’t know. Who would want to kill him?’

  ‘Does your father keep a diary?’ Drake asked.

  Ann pointed at the PC. ‘He did everything on that.’

&n
bsp; ‘Did he have more of these photographs of the Cambrian Club dinners?’

  Ann looked at her blankly. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Drake sat down by the computer, pressed the ‘on’ button and stared at the screen. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ he said to Ann.

  She glared at Drake before leaving.

  ‘Better get started on his paperwork,’ Drake said to Caren. ‘I’ll see if there was anything on his PC.’

  Caren pulled out the top drawer of the filing cabinet and began sorting through papers. Once the computer had booted up Drake clicked on ‘My Documents’ and found dozens of folders, all neatly tagged with names and dates. He clicked on one entitled ‘Property’ and began opening the first of a dozen folders with addresses in different parts of the island. It struck Drake that Fairburn was very different from Maldwyn Evans. There were assets and a regular income that supported the lifestyle that Fairburn obviously enjoyed, judging from the file ‘Holiday’, which had hundreds of photographs of various destinations across Europe.

  Drake clicked open the Outlook icon and found the calendar. A box opened with reminders – the first read year-end figures, urgent and another said contact cheese supplier. He clicked it closed and it occurred to him that Fairburn may have noted down any meetings he had for that day in his computer system. The first entry immediately grabbed Drake’s attention. It read ‘2.30 Gwynfor Llywelyn’. He sat back, tugged at his nose and then glanced at his watch, knowing they had another visit to the bakery to make.

  He scanned the various entries in the online diary but nothing else of relevance was obvious. Hours of work were needed on the computer so he found his mobile and called Howick, giving him instructions on how to find the farmhouse.

  Ann appeared at the door. ‘Do you want coffee or something?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Drake said, answering for both of them. ‘Did you know that your father was seeing Gwynfor Llywelyn today?’

  ‘He’s been pestering my dad to sell his bread. Dafydd Higham advised him against it. He said Gwynfor Llywelyn had a bad reputation. I always thought he was harmless enough.’ Ann rested on the doorframe.

  Caren had reached the second drawer and pulled out a folder. ‘More photographs,’ she announced, stepping towards the desk.

  Drake watched as she drew out of the folder images of the black-tie dinner. Now that a second Cambrian Club member had been killed, the inquiry had changed. Judge Hawkins will have to be interviewed, no matter what Thorsen says, Drake thought. But first he had to see Gwynfor Llywelyn.

  *

  Drake rattled the door to the bakery but there was no response from inside. He strained to hear the sound of a radio but the place was silent. Finally he knelt down and peered in through the small windows but inside the glass was covered with grime. Caren returned from the back of the building.

  ‘No sign, boss.’

  Drake reached for his mobile and rang headquarters. He barked instructions for Gwynfor Llywelyn’s address to be texted and moments later his telephone bleeped. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was a short drive to Llywelyn’s home, a terrace house with a neat front yard. A large blue-glazed pot stood alongside a terracotta planter, both filled with lavender by the front door. Drake hammered on the door.

  ‘Iawn. Pwy sydd yna?’

  Llywelyn’s voice sounded slurred as he asked who was there, even though he opened the door without waiting for a reply. His eyes looked glazed. Drake wanted to smell cannabis but the house was odour free – maybe he was sitting in the back garden, Drake thought.

  ‘I need to speak to you about Rhys Fairburn.’

  Llywelyn gave him a puzzled look. ‘Why?’

  Drake barged into the house and walked through into the kitchen, a bemused Llywelyn following behind him. He stood by an old table covered in crockery and empty bottles of beer.

  Drake looked intently at Llywelyn. ‘He’s dead.’ Drake focused on the reaction. Llywelyn let his mouth fall open, his eyes wide. ‘Rhys is dead?’

  ‘Where were you this morning?’

  ‘At his place. I was supposed to meet him.’ He drew a hand over his mouth. ‘When was he killed?’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. I waited around and tried his mobile and then I left.’

  ‘Did you see anybody else?’

  ‘Shit, this is terrible. He was going to sell my bread. He was a nice bloke.’

  If only you knew, Drake thought.

  ‘Funny thing was, I saw his car when I arrived and I thought he was at home.’

  The mobile in Drake’s pocket buzzed and he reached in and sent the call to voicemail.

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any other cars?’

  ‘The farm tractor was outside, as well as a motorcycle.’

  The mobile rang again; the screen said ‘Unknown’. He pressed to decline the call and turned to Llywelyn again.

  ‘Can you account for your movements for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I went to see my mam.’

  ‘We’ll need the details in due course. In the meantime don’t go anywhere near the Fairburn family.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I bloody well say so.’ Drake turned and strode out towards the front door, Caren behind him.

  They stepped out into the sunshine as Drake’s mobile rang again. ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Drake hit the accept button.

  ‘Can you confirm that there’s been another murder? I understand Mr Rhys Fairburn has been killed.’ The voice sounded authoritative, even calming.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Calvin Headley.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘But I’m sure the Wales Police Service would like to comment on a story that we’re running in tonight’s news.’

  Drake said nothing.

  ‘Is it true that you think a serial killer is at work?’

  Drake didn’t bother even saying ‘no comment’: he killed the call, and then glared at the mobile before realising he was squeezing the handset tightly in his right hand.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Who’s going to be next?’

  Drake stood by the board, quietly suppressing a yawn – he had woken at six am, his mind racing with possibilities. He turned to look at the team.

  Howick stood by his desk, legs slightly apart, powder-blue shirt, tie neatly folded. Winder sat at his desk, shirt open to two buttons, a couple of days’ stubble on his head. Both men shared a dark, hard intensity in their eyes as they looked over at Drake standing by the Incident Room board. Caren leant on her desk, her hair pulled back into a rough knot. He didn’t need to tell them that things had changed. The photographs of the smiling Rotarians had taken on a new significance with the murder of Fairburn.

  ‘Did you see the television last night, boss?’ Winder was the first to say anything.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Press is mad to run scare stories like that,’ Howick said.

  Caren nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘I’ve got a list of the members of the Cambrian Club. We need to go through all the names and see if any of them have come up in the investigation so far.’ Drake hesitated. ‘And then we need to dismantle Fairburn’s life. I want you to go through everything. And it needs to be done today. There has to be a connection between Fairburn and Jane Jones and Mostyn.’

  ‘And Evans, sir?’ Caren said.

  ‘Maldwyn Evans,’ Drake said, turning to look at Caren. ‘Let’s assume that someone wanted both Fairburn and Mostyn dead and that the same motive exists for others in these photographs; Evans killing himself must have been convenient for the killer.’

  ‘Stretching it a bit, boss,’ Winder said.

  Howick added, ‘So it puts de Northway and Judge Hawkins in the frame as possible victims.’

  ‘Or perpetrator,’ Drake said.

  There was an awkward silence, as Drake looked around the team. He returned to his office, knowi
ng he had to gather his thoughts before seeing Price.

  He worked on his notes for Price, noticing an unusual silence in the Incident Room. Initially he found it unnerving until he was reassured by the team’s palpable concentration.

  An hour had passed when he saw Flanagan, a civilian computer geek, walk past his door. Drake guessed that one of the team was making progress. He got up and walked through to see Winder standing over Flanagan, who was staring intently at Howick’s screen.

  Howick looked up. ‘Could be nothing, sir. But there are passwords on these files.’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ Flanagan’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Drake stood and waited. Flanagan muttered occasionally, as it obviously took longer than he expected. Then he stopped and leant forward in his chair, both elbows propped up on Howick’s desk, chin resting on his hands. Winder gave Drake a brief shrug of his shoulders. Flanagan settled back to tapping away on the keyboard, until he shouted like an impassioned football supporter. ‘Yes.’

  He double-clicked on the various folders and then into the files.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Flanagan said quietly, as the images of young girls filled the screen.

  By the time Flanagan had finished there were several dozen photographs of young girls. Some they’d seen before, others not. And then Flanagan clicked open the images of Maldwyn Evans and Fairburn with young girls on each knee and another man with his back to the camera.

  ‘Hold it,’ Drake said, voice raised. ‘Who’s that?’

  Howick leant towards the screen. ‘It’s difficult…’

  ‘Then solve it and quickly. I need to know who else was there.’

  ‘Looks like they were taken in the same place as the others,’ Caren said.

  Drake sounded breathless as he recognised the scene. ‘It’s the de Northway cottage. It comes back to that man every time.’

  ‘These men are sick bastards,’ Caren said slowly.

  Howick and Winder nodded.

  ‘I need all these images cross-referenced to the ones from Evans.’ Drake checked the time and cursed under his breath. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the super. And get a photographer to look at all of them. If it’s the same cottages I want to know. I need progress by the time I get back.’