‘We were providing a modest amount of sponsorship, no more than a few thousand pounds. The public relations department in headquarters approved it all. It’s part of the bank’s policy to raise its profile in the community.’
Drake closed the folder and looked over at Finch. ‘We will need all the records of Rhisiart Hopkin’s customers.’
Finch put a hand on a pile of papers in front of him. ‘This is a list of the customers he dealt with in the last three years. I thought that you might ask for that sort of detail.’
‘Did he have any difficult customers?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘People who may have complained about him. There must be some disgruntled individuals who weren’t happy with some of the decisions he made.’
‘Only one I can think of.’
Sara stopped making notes and stared over at Finch.
‘A couple of years ago Rhisiart withdrew the credit for a farmer who was in business with his son. Their farm wasn’t particularly prosperous and neither was a sideline in agricultural contracting. We did everything we could but in the end we couldn’t continue supporting the venture.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They came here one afternoon. Barged in, threatening Rhisiart and some of the staff. When they became abusive, we called the police but by the time they arrived they had already smashed his car. When the case came to court both men were given suspended prison sentences.’
‘I’ll need the names and addresses,’ Drake said.
‘I’ve highlighted their details on the top of this list.’
Finch dragged a hand over his double-cuffed shirt and read the time slowly enough to signal he wanted to finish. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Can we see his office?’
Finch looked surprised. ‘I can show you his work station. I don’t think you’d call it an office.’
Drake and Sara followed Finch out into the main office area. She noticed the averted glances from the occasional member of staff, all in similar colour-coordinated uniforms.
Finch reached a section of a long bench and stopped. He drew a hand in the air. ‘This is where Rhisiart worked.’
It amazed Sara that the desk was so small. She was expecting something altogether more grand, more bank-like, more prosperous.
Drake scanned the desk and Sara guessed he thought the same as she did. ‘Does he have a secretary?’
Finch shook his head. ‘We do all the admin ourselves these days. Rhisiart was a good typist and very proficient with IT. So we don’t have secretaries and we organise our own diaries. It is all on the computer.’
Sara peered down at the desktop, bare apart from a desk lamp, a pot of pencils and biros all in the corporate colours of the bank, a keyboard, a mouse and twin monitors. A stack of Post-it notes had been pushed under a monitor.
Drake tugged at the chair – it was one with a tall back and additional lumber support. He sat down and then turned to Finch. ‘Is there a password?’ He reached for the mouse.
‘We unblocked it this morning once we were told to expect you. Are you looking for anything in particular?’
Drake had speculated whether Rhisiart Hopkin recorded in his diary who his guests were to be on the night he died. Finch stood motionless by his side as Drake scanned the various entries for the last two weeks. Drake clicked on the mouse and seconds later there was a whirring sound from a machine nearby.
Sara turned to Finch. ‘Did he ever entertain customers at home?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did he ever mention difficulties with the Orme Arts Festival?’
‘I don’t think he was happy with the way that Gloria Patton or some of the other people in charge were running things. I read the last minutes of the meetings he sent me. I suspected things weren’t going as he anticipated.’
A young bank employee appeared with various sheets that Finch surveyed quickly before handing them to Drake.
Drake peered at them carefully, shaking his head slowly as he passed them to Sara. They had hoped for the identity of his dinner guests – two people crucial to the inquiry.
Drake stood up. ‘Thanks for your help.’
Finch accompanied Drake and Sara out of the bank’s offices and down into the spring sunshine. He paused for a moment, enjoying the fresh air. ‘I hope you find Rhisiart’s killer.’
‘So do we,’ Drake said.
* * *
An hour later Drake stood in the kitchen at headquarters staring at the electric kettle, waiting for it to boil. He tipped the exact measure of ground coffee into the cafetière and set the timer on his phone before heading back to his office with the coffee and a clean mug. The coffee had to brew for no more than two minutes and by the time he reached his office and sat down the mobile bleeped and he plunged the filter.
Following the same routine always settled his mind. It had a calming effect. An email from Superintendent Price had arrived during his absence that morning requesting a meeting at the end of the day. Drake gathered his thoughts together. Blanking out the activity from the Incident Room he poured his coffee, then rearranged the Post-it notes into appropriate columns – those that needed urgent and less urgent attention.
He’d just finished his first mouthful of coffee when the telephone rang.
‘I thought you should be the first to know,’ the pathologist said. ‘The toxicology report came back today. The death made me think about a case several years ago. An anaesthetist in Newcastle got fed up of his wife and used a drug called suxamethonium to kill her so he could marry his mistress. He thought he’d get away with it but his pharmacology wasn’t that good; they couldn’t detect the suxamethonium but found a metabolite – a breakdown product of the drug. So I asked for some additional tests on blood and tissue samples to be done. Gloria Patton had a high level of a breakdown product of succinylcholine in her system. It’s a substance used as a muscle relaxant as part of an anaesthetic.’
‘Did it kill her?’
‘It relaxes the muscles, stops the nerves communicating with them, so one effect is that the patient can’t breathe until it wears off. They usually give sux in theatre and then take over the patient’s breathing, but without them doing that the patient will suffocate and die.’
‘So how was it administered?’
‘There was a puncture wound in Gloria Patton’s arm, remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘It reminds me of medical students who used to have ‘sux runs’ where they’d inject themselves in the muscle and see which one could run the furthest before passing out. One of the group wouldn’t take part and had oxygen and a mask and bag ready for the runners until the sux had worn off.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
‘And stupid.’
‘So it’s possible she was alive when he began to assemble the wooden frame on which she was standing and the unmade bed and all the other crap in the shop window.’
‘Once the sux is administered the patient would have a few minutes, ten at most, depending on the dose and how it was administered, before they’d suffocate. Unless you know when the sux was administered I cannot answer your question.’
Drake shuddered. ‘So where could he have got this drug? Presumably they are heavily regulated.’
‘It was probably stolen from a hospital. Or maybe from the pharmaceutical company that supplies it.’
‘Was there any suggestion from Rhisiart Hopkin’s post-mortem that he might have been poisoned?’
‘I’ve sent a blood sample for a toxicology test but there is no sign of a puncture wound.’
Price would need to be informed, Drake thought.
‘I’ll email you the full report.’
Drake finished the call and sank back in his chair, wondering what progress he could actually report to Superintendent Price. His stomach hardened at the prospect of being quizzed by his superior officer. He called Foulds, hoping for progress on the forensic examination of the P
atton crime scene.
‘Have you been able to make any progress with the rest of the exhibits?’ Drake couldn’t think of a better word for the unmade bed; he didn’t want to call it an artwork. A woman had been killed. No one would want to associate her death with artistic endeavour.
‘The place was a shop, Ian. There are fingerprints all over the doors, door handles, door frames. But nothing on the bed or the bedside cabinet. The preliminary results of the bedding drew a blank. But it could be weeks before we can finalise every test. It suggests someone who was forensically aware.’
Every fingerprint would need to be eliminated in due course. It meant a mountain of paperwork. Drake pinched his lips together before shaking his head in frustration. ‘Whoever this is, he is a sick bastard.’
After the call ended he sat for a moment gathering his thoughts before walking over to the coat stand and reaching for his jacket. On the way to the senior management suite he detoured into a bathroom to adjust his tie, put a comb through his hair. He needn’t have bothered; Superintendent Price looked dishevelled, tired. He sat behind his desk and sighed heavily when Drake sank into a chair opposite him.
‘I hope you’ve got some news.’
Drake opened his mouth slightly but Price continued. ‘Every councillor for the entire county has been on the phone asking me about progress with the inquiry into Gloria Patton’s death.’
‘She was poisoned, sir. Apparently she had an abnormally high dosage of a muscle relaxant in her system. So the cause of death was suffocation.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me there is no DNA evidence so far…’
‘It’s proving difficult. The crime scene investigators believe the killer was forensically aware.’
‘For Christ sake, forensically aware.’
‘I don’t think there are any traces that are likely to provide us with any DNA.’
‘Next you’re going to tell me Patton’s death is linked to that bank manager.’
‘Well, it’s too early—’
‘One of the local hacks has been sniffing around looking for a story, suggesting we might have a serial killer on the loose in North Wales. Can you imagine those headlines? I think we should issue a press statement along the lines that the death of Rhisiart Hopkin is wholly unconnected with Gloria Patton and we are treating them entirely independently.’
‘I’m not certain—’
‘What do you mean? Is there anything to connect them?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Price reached for the telephone. ‘Then I’ll tell public relations to draft something up for release to the press.’ He read the time. ‘We might even be able to get it into the evening news.’
‘Don’t you think that might be a bit premature?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Ian. Is there anything to connect them?’
‘They were both on the committee that organised the Orme Arts Festival.’
Price placed his fingers on the handset. ‘Coincidence. Nothing more than that.’ He cocked his head to one side, lowering his eyebrows. Drake began to regret that the tone he used sounded a little too aggressive. He had worked with Price for a long time and he hoped the superintendent valued his opinion.
Before he could say anything else the phone on Price’s desk rang. He snatched the handset out of the cradle. He listened for a few seconds, gasped and his mouth fell open. ‘You won’t believe this.’
Chapter 16
Price and Drake rushed over to public relations. Price shouted at various officers and civilians who got in his way as he jogged through the corridors of headquarters. He leant a shoulder against the door, kicking the bottom at the same time. Drake followed him inside and saw the startled look on the faces of two women sitting by their monitors. He recognised Susan Howells as the most senior. She could always be a calming influence on Price.
‘You need to see this immediately, Wyndham,’ she said. In the hierarchical world of the WPS it still grated when Drake heard a civilian using the superintendent’s Christian name.
They stood looking over the shoulder of Susan Howells. Drake noticed a blood vessel pumping under Price’s right ear. Susan started clicking with her mouse and seconds later a YouTube channel appeared on the screen. It had the words #Iamtheone over a photograph of the promenade at Llandudno on a fine summer’s day.
‘Jesus.’ Price’s voice sounded throttled.
‘This must be your suspect,’ Howells said. ‘He’s put together this YouTube channel so that everybody can look at his work.’ She clicked on the static image of the inside of the shop and quickly it filled the screen. ‘It’s exactly the same video that he uploaded to his website.’
‘Can’t we do something about this?’ Price made a grinding sound with his teeth.
Howells looked up, sharing an are-you-serious look with both Price and Drake.
‘The video has already had one thousand hits.’
‘There has to be something we can do.’
‘There are two more videos.’ Howells clicked away from the first and onto the static image with the now-familiar #iamtheone in large Gothic-like font. ‘You won’t like this.’ She lowered her voice.
Once she had clicked on the image the screen filled with the word ‘Pursuit’. Then a montage of still photographs of Gloria Patton, outside her gallery, visiting the supermarket, walking her dog. Abruptly they ceased, replaced by images of her getting into her car. Nobody said anything. Drake stared dumbfounded.
Once it had finished Howells moved to the next video.
Drake caught his breath, unable to believe what he was watching. The orchestral theme played through the speakers. Drake didn’t recognise the music but he recognised the scene being recorded. It was inside the shop and they watched in disgust as a white-suited figure busied himself around the unmade bed. He adjusted the props, ruffled the sheets, stepped back and admired his handiwork. The camera was on a tripod in a corner, Drake thought. The images looked high quality, professionally assembled.
Price leant forward, squinting. ‘Fucking hell,’ the superintendent said eventually.
‘There’s more,’ Howells said.
She clicked on the third and final video. After the opening scene the word ‘Observation’ appeared before cutting to the moving images of the pavement the morning the murder was discovered.
‘Stop that image now,’ Drake shouted. ‘Where the hell was he filming from?’
‘My guess is he was in a car or a van.’
The video continued until the first police officers arrived at the scene.
Then Drake saw hands raised to mouths, disbelief shared among the onlookers. The oddest part of this sick scenario was watching himself arriving, followed by Sara. He could remember talking to the police officer but had little recollection of speaking to the civilian by his side who he remembered as the property manager. There was something hideously entrancing about the whole thing.
‘What do you want me to say to the press?’ Howells said.
Price didn’t reply; he kept staring at the images.
Howells switched off the last of the videos.
‘I have to draft a press release. Is this connected to the murder at the weekend?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ Price snapped. ‘Use all the standard wording about wanting as much help from the public, particularly anybody who might have been in the area around the shop on the day Gloria Patton was killed.’
‘But I’ll need more detail than—’
Now Price sounded angry. ‘Email me a draft straight away.’ He turned to Drake. ‘Let’s go.’
‘The filming looked very professional, sir.’ Drake hurried to keep up with Price. Was it too much of a coincidence that Geraint Wood was an artist who specialised in video installations? ‘One of the persons of interest makes videos for a living.’
Drake almost bumped into Price as he stopped mid-stride.
‘Well, arrest the sad fucker. Take his place apart, seize all his equipment.’
/> Price was overreacting; he often did. Common sense would have to prevail.
Price continued. ‘Speak to the lawyers about whether there’s anything we can do about the YouTube videos. It was a crime scene, for Christ’s sake. There must be something we can do.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get the team organised to arrest Wood.’
‘Keep me informed. It could be a long night.’ Price marched away.
* * *
Back in the Incident Room, Drake addressed the team, his voice raised. ‘There’s been a development. Our killer has launched a YouTube channel so the whole world can see his sad little life.’
Winder clicked on his mouse. Moments later he opened up the YouTube channel and Sara and Luned watched in stunned silence as he played the various videos. Drake saw the disgust and shock on the faces of his team. Once they finished he walked over towards the board.
‘They all look professional. The only person of interest so far who makes videos is Geraint Wood.’ Drake pointed a finger at the photograph of the artist. ‘So let’s dig a little deeper into Wood’s life.’
Drake allocated the task of establishing the details of Wood’s finances to Winder and Luned while Sara scoured for intelligence about his family background. Back in his room Drake typed ‘Geraint Wood artist’ into the search engine on his computer. The first entry was Wood’s website and the second that of the gallery that represented him. Drake read the biography and profile for Wood, blanking out the conversations in the Incident Room. He reread a quote from Wood, wondering what the hell he meant:
I am a seeker. Searching, aching for that essence of neutrality. When everything baffles the paradigm and sends challenging and ultimately masked and deeply disturbing messages to the subconscious about one’s true self. The rhizomatic discipline needed to conquer existence and its existential reality is only a small part of what challenges me.
A page on the gallery’s website featured two of Wood’s videos. Drake clicked on the first, called Truth or Lies? The video involved twenty minutes of blurred images of individuals; it was difficult to tell if they were male or female sometimes, crossing railway lines and tracks from different countries all over the world. Then there were cows in static locations and then men in suits, wearing bowlers and homburgs staring at the animals.
Dead on Your Feet Page 11