A waitress left their sandwiches with a teapot.
Huw continued. ‘Looking back, it was difficult growing up not knowing about your father. I feel a loss now more than I did when I was a boy. I suppose as we get older we value the things we’ve lost.’
The tea was too milky for Drake’s taste so he pushed it to one side.
The café gradually emptied and Drake was conscious he had interrogated Huw. It’s impossible to stop being a police officer, Drake thought. Questioning everyone’s motive, trying to fathom out why people do certain things gets to be second nature.
Drake’s mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket. He read the message for him to call headquarters.
‘Perhaps you’d like to meet my family?’ Huw said.
‘I suppose so…’ Drake looked at his mother. She returned a warm smile.
An uncomfortable feeling crept into his mind that he didn’t want to play happy families with a man claiming to be his brother. He wasn’t going to make any commitments until he told his sister and Sian.
‘In the future maybe,’ Drake said. ‘I’m separated so I’ll need to talk to Sian, my wife. And we haven’t spoken to Susan yet.’
Huw nodded. ‘I understand.’
Drake’s mobile bleeped again: another message, another request to call. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Drake made for the door just as his mobile rang. ‘Area control, sir, you’re needed at a crime scene. A man’s been murdered.’
Chapter 11
Drake almost tripped over the threshold as he went back into the café. He rushed over to the table where his mother sat with Huw.
‘Something’s come up. I’ve got to leave.’
He didn’t wait for a reply and hurried for the door, jogging back to his car and dialling Sara. ‘I’ve heard,’ she said.
‘I’m on my way now.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘I don’t want anything done to the crime scene until I arrive. Nothing, do you understand?’
‘Of course, sir.’
He was breathless by the time he reached the car. He thrust the mobile phone into the cradle and set up his hands-free. After he input the name of Llanrwst the satnav gave him two alternative routes. The first would take him through Llanberis, past Snowdon, and then over a narrow mountain road. The alternative was back along the A55 before turning south for the Conwy Valley. Deciding that the risk of heavy traffic on the dual carriageway might slow his journey, he chose the first route.
He powered around the edge of the castle, through one of the outer gates of the town walls and then out towards Llanberis. He had no police warning lights to help him clear the road but luckily the traffic was reasonably light. Minutes later he skirted round Llyn Padarn, noticing two small boats bobbing on the surface of the lake. He shot past the terminus of the Snowdon Mountain Railway and floored the accelerator. He reached the top of Pen Y Pass where walkers congregated around the youth hostel, either descending from the top of Snowdon or preparing for a hike.
Drake accelerated down the road cut into the steep sides of the mountain, heading for the Pen Y Gwryd Hotel where he turned left for Capel Curig. A couple of miles later he indicated left, taking a narrow road over the mountain that led down to Llanrwst. It was a gamble but he made good time.
At each corner, he prayed the road ahead would be clear, no caravans or dawdling vans transporting hill walkers. As he neared Llanrwst his mobile bleeped with the exact postcode of the property and he fiddled to punch it into the satnav while driving. In less than thirty minutes he had completed a journey that should have taken him forty.
He spotted the scientific support vehicle in the distance parked by the side of the road, two marked police cars behind it. He scanned for Sara’s car but couldn’t spot it. He pulled the nearside wheels onto the pavement and stopped the engine. He ran over to the house, carding the uniformed constable at the edge of the crime scene perimeter.
Sara and Mike Foulds were standing by the front door.
‘Where is he?’
‘In the sitting room,’ Sara said.
She led Drake inside the large detached property. A thick Axminster carpet and heavy dark oak furniture in the hallway gave the place a quaint, old-fashioned feel. Drake snapped on a pair of latex gloves before entering. He stared over at the body of Rhisiart Hopkin sitting in an upright leather wing chair.
‘Who found the body?’ Drake said, taking in the scene.
‘He has a housekeeper who comes in on a Saturday to do some of the laundry. She has a key. When she arrived she noticed the rear door had been forced.’
Hopkin had been stabbed several times. His head was slumped to one side, his mouth gaping open, eyes dull, staring blankly, the white shirt a blazing crimson. The more Drake stared the more he noticed the blood splattered over the walls and furniture. It had all the hallmarks of a vicious repeated assault. After the macabre crime scene earlier that week Drake wanted everything undisturbed until he could be present. He had spoken to Hopkin only a few days previously. It was too much of a coincidence not to be connected to the death of Gloria Patton. But this crime scene was completely different. A different modus operandi. A different killer?
‘It looks like a burglary gone wrong,’ Sara said.
Heavy wooden furniture filled the room, all sparklingly clean judging by the dust-free surface of a nearby table. Two bookcases occupied one entire wall with various encyclopaedia and book sets. A morning’s broadsheet newspaper lay carefully folded on a table next to Hopkin.
‘We’ll need to see the housekeeper.’
‘She lives in the town, sir. I’ve got her contact details.’
Drake paced over to Hopkin. The killer had been right there. He turned away and saw, at the rear of the room, a dining table. Noticing the place settings, Drake walked over. Three places had been set out and each place mat showed an image from a different capital city of Europe. The one of the canals of Amsterdam was the first to catch his attention. The cutlery looked unused and cotton napkins had been rolled carefully into silver rings.
‘He must have been expecting guests,’ Drake said.
‘We could ask his housekeeper if she knows anything.’
Drake didn’t reply. Laying a table for dinner so early that morning struck him as odd.
The sound of movement distracted Drake so he turned. Foulds stood in the doorway, a white-suited crime scene investigator behind him.
‘Seen enough, Ian?’
‘I need a complete picture of everything. Photographs from every angle—’
‘We have done this before and—’
‘There has to be something here about…’
‘Do you think it’s the same person that killed Patton?’
Drake fixed his eyes back at Hopkin. The bank manager had seemed out of place in the rarefied and artificial world of the Orme Arts Festival. His world was company balance sheets, profit and loss accounts and making a decent return for his employer. Their support for the arts didn’t include the risk of getting murdered. Every part of Hopkin’s life would have to be examined: friends and family talked to.
Drake said to Foulds. ‘Call me when you’re done.’ Then he detoured to the kitchen and found a CSI gathering glass shards scattered on the floor.
Drake registered the key in the inside lock just as Sara commented. ‘He wasn’t very security conscious by the look of things.’
Drake left the house, Sara following. A car pulled up as he drove away and in his rear-view mirror he saw the pathologist scampering up the drive.
Sara directed him to the address on the opposite side of town where the housekeeper lived. It was a bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac of half a dozen properties, and Drake imagined the conversation she might have with her neighbours, sharing the details of how she discovered the body.
Once he had parked they left the car and hurried over to the front door.
‘She’s called Fiona Bakewell,’ Sara said.
Drake pressed the be
ll and listened for movement after the chimes finished. There was a delay before he heard the sound of footsteps inside, his impatience building.
‘Fiona Bakewell?’ Drake said, holding up his warrant card.
The woman in the doorway had thinning silver hair, sunken cheeks and a pasty, off-white complexion. Drake guessed she was early seventies. He didn’t wait for an invitation and stepped over the threshold. ‘We need to talk to you about Rhisiart Hopkin.’
Bakewell appeared momentarily nonplussed but then she led them into a sitting room. The sofa and chairs must have been bought when she first set up home, Drake concluded from their worn and tatty appearance. Everywhere looked clean though and Drake approved of that. They sat down. What was left of the furniture springs groaned in protest.
He stared over intently at Bakewell. ‘Tell me everything you know about Mr Hopkin.’
She blinked repeatedly, brushed away a tear.
Sara pitched in, keeping her voice low. ‘It’s important for us to build a complete picture of his life so we can work out what happened to him or who might be responsible.’
‘I always do a couple of hours for him on a Saturday morning. He likes company. I think he’s a bit lonely.’
‘What do you do for him?’
‘Cleaning, ironing – usual sort of stuff really. I’ve been with him for over fifteen years, ever since my husband died.’
‘Does he have any family?’
She shook her head. ‘His mother died about ten years ago. But I’ve never heard him talk about any brothers or sisters and he’s never been married. Well, not that I’m aware.’
‘Does he have any friends? People who might know him better?’
She bowed her head. ‘He seemed to be very busy with things. He was an important man in the bank.’
‘Do you have a key to his house?’
She nodded.
‘So what time did you let yourself into the property this morning?’
‘Just after nine. The back door was open but one of the panes was broken so I knew something was wrong. I called out and usually he’d be around, pottering, finishing breakfast. But I didn’t hear anything. Nobody replied. I got really worried and then I went into the sitting room and… there he was. I was almost sick, I rushed out.’
She swallowed hard and leant back in her chair.
Drake paused.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ Fiona added.
‘Did he ever complain about anybody?’ Drake said. ‘Mention anyone that might have a grudge against him?’
Bakewell didn’t reply; she found a tissue from a box on the table and blew her nose.
‘Never, he was a nice man.’
‘Does anyone visit the house regularly?’
She covered her face with both hands before rubbing the back of her neck. Drake frowned, and gave Sara a brief glance; she had noticed Bakewell’s discomfort too. He softened his tone now. ‘It’s very important, Fiona, if you can give us full details of anything and anyone that might be of relevance. The dining table was laid for three people. Did he entertain? Maybe a husband and wife?’
She shook her head. ‘He did have a couple of friends. He called them lady friends. I don’t know who they were, though.’
‘Did you see any of them?’
She glanced up, tight-lipped. ‘One Saturday morning I saw somebody getting into a car as I was arriving. I didn’t say anything, of course. It wasn’t my place.’
‘Would you be able to describe her?’
Fiona gave a non-committal shrug.
Walking back to the car, Sara looked at Drake. ‘What did you make of her, sir?’
‘Not much help.’
‘She was upset. It might be better to speak to her again when she is more composed.’
Drake opened the door. ‘Let’s get back to headquarters.’
* * *
Drake spent the rest of that Saturday in a blur of activity, knowing the first twenty-four hours after a murder were crucial. He stalked around the Incident Room barking orders, shouting instructions down the telephone to the uniformed officers doing preliminary house-to-house inquiries. It frustrated him that no senior member of the bank was available until Monday to discuss Rhisiart Hopkin’s current workload. The meeting with Huw Jackson crept into his thoughts occasionally and he made a mental note to call his mother.
He couldn’t ignore the possibility that he was dealing with the same killer. But nothing suggested the scene had been staged with the same theatricality. As Sara had speculated, it looked exactly like a break-in that had gone wrong. But Drake didn’t like coincidences. He kept bringing back to mind his discussion with Rhisiart Hopkin a few days previously. He would need a lot more than coincidence to be able to link both deaths together.
By late in the afternoon the crime scene investigators delivered various photographs that Winder pinned to a separate board erected alongside the one dedicated to Gloria Patton. The differences were stark. Hopkin’s bloodied figure sat on the chair in an ordinary pose. The furniture surrounding him was unremarkable. Drake moved his attention from one to another, ignoring the activity from the team behind him.
Luned came to stand alongside Drake. ‘Do you think they’re connected, sir?’
Drake cleared his throat. ‘Somebody had a motive to kill Rhisiart Hopkin.’ He turned to look at the young officer. She and Winder wore casual clothes. Drake hadn’t changed from the jeans and check shirt he’d worn to visit his mother and he felt uncomfortable at his lack of formality in the Incident Room.
Drake looked over at Winder. ‘Have we recovered his mobile telephone? What about a computer or laptop?’ Winder opened his mouth to reply but Drake continued. ‘We’ll need details of his diary. I want to establish what his movements were and requisition details about his bank account.’
‘I spoke to the CSI team earlier, boss,’ Winder said. ‘They promised to get me a list of everything they’ve removed from the crime scene first thing in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning? Why the hell can’t they do it tonight?’
Winder made no reply.
‘Take a detailed statement from Fiona Bakewell. And find out when a photofit of the woman Bakewell saw can be organised.’
It was late into the evening by the time Drake finally excused the officers in his team. None of them blanched when he told them to reassemble at nine am tomorrow. He sat at his desk scanning the various Post-it notes and had begun tidying his desk when his mobile rang. His mother sounded concerned.
‘I’ve just heard about that awful incident in Llanrwst.’
His mother had a healthy interest in gossip although Drake had explained many times that he couldn’t discuss cases, no matter how much publicity they garnered. ‘I’m sorry I had to leave quickly this morning. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Of course. What did you think of Huw?’
Clearly, she wanted to gauge his reaction. She seemed to be blaming herself for preventing his father from making contact with Huw over the years. Perhaps she needed reassurance that she was doing the right thing, making amends.
‘I was pleased to meet him.’
‘Perhaps we can meet up again; he’d like to see more of the family.’
‘You need to tell Susan.’
She paused; the silence spoke volumes. ‘Yes… I know.’
‘You can’t avoid it, Mam.’
Drake heard her breathing down the telephone. His sister wasn’t the easiest of personalities and he could imagine her overbearing reaction. Having a half-brother wouldn’t fit into her circle of Rotary Club friends and dinner parties in the posh suburbs of Cardiff.
‘Talk to her tomorrow. I’ll speak to Sian as well.’
Drake made no commitment to see Huw again even though he knew it was what his mother wanted. Her call had interrupted his concentration. In reality it was a welcome distraction as otherwise he might have stayed at his desk for longer, persuading himself he had to check and recheck the paperwork and ge
t his desk neat.
On his journey home, he stopped to buy a takeaway curry, making the same choice as he always did. Back in his flat, he found a Joe Bonamassa album on his iTunes and let the guitar hero’s chords fill the kitchen as he spooned chicken masala onto a plate. He tore at a naan bread and drank a bottle of lager, forcing his mind to relax. But the image of Hopkin in his chair wheedled its way to the forefront of his mind. Knowing that Roger Buckland had been responsible for a vicious attack as a young man made him an obvious suspect. Drake told himself he had to switch off but the events that morning with his mother and Huw Jackson reminded him that even his father had secrets. Were there more, Drake wondered?
Chapter 12
Despite all the activity yesterday I had slept well. There is something refreshing about making progress, completing the next stage in a plan. Moving forward with my career is about the only thing that gives me focus these days. Enough focus to make everything worthwhile. Seeing the police officers scurrying around my installation had been part of that process, an essential component in sharing my art. Soon, a much greater audience will enjoy my work. This is the important thing about great art: it has to be seen and enjoyed by as many people as possible.
I joined middle-aged couples strolling along the Llandudno promenade that Sunday morning, feeling the warmth of the spring sunshine on my face. As it was north facing it avoided the harsh prevailing winds from the south-west. I took my time, smiling to myself as I pondered my achievement. A woman on a motorised wheelchair buzzed past me but most of the walkers kept a sedate pace.
I swaggered a little, thinking about the sort of comments art historians would make. Nobody could doubt the authenticity of my work from now on or question my rightful place. I stopped to watch families playing on the beach. Two youngsters were building a sandcastle using plastic pots with slots in the bottom that they filled with damp sand. They squealed with delight when they upturned the buckets and the shape of four turrets appeared. Looking down the beach I noticed the tide was already turning. Their sandcastle would be gone in a few hours, it would be a transient memory, lingering from childhood. Permanent things, reminders of work that could be viewed repeatedly offered the only way to fix humanity with great art.
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