Wood managed a shocked look. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘When did you last sell a piece?’
Wood looked at his lawyer, rolling his eyes in despair.
‘Let me turn to your current financial position. Did you know a man called Rhisiart Hopkin?’
Wood seemed puzzled. Williams butted in. ‘Where are you taking this line of questioning? Are you suggesting my client is involved in that murder too?’
Drake ignored the lawyer and looked straight at Wood. ‘Rhisiart Hopkin worked with the same bank where you have your bank accounts as well as your mortgage.’
Drake paused, hoping Wood could see exactly where his line of questioning was heading. ‘Your mortgage is in arrears and the overdraft you have with the bank has been called in.’
Wood leant on the table, peering over at Drake. ‘I had nothing to do with Hopkin’s death.’ His voice trembled.
‘Where were you last Saturday night when Rhisiart Hopkin was murdered?’
Drake saw the colour draining from Wood’s face.
‘This is a conspiracy. A fucking stitch-up.’
A message on his mobile from the custody sergeant interrupted Drake’s train of thought. ‘We’ll suspend the interview at this point.’ He glanced at Sara who completed the formalities of sealing the tapes.
‘How long is this delay going to be?’ Williams said.
‘Inquiries are ongoing. It is difficult to say,’ Drake said.
‘I must protest. This is quite unconscionable.’
Drake was on his feet, Sara behind. He gave Williams a benign smile and traipsed through to the custody suite where the sergeant was processing a drunk driver. The man scooped up his keys and personal items from the desk and then signed the custody record. The sergeant jerked his head towards the door into the area control centre. ‘There’s a woman at the main reception. Apparently, she’s hysterical. She’s demanding to see you about Geraint Wood.’
The interruption gave him the chance to call the search team supervisor. A pile of clothes and boxes full of video equipment, cameras, and an ancient laptop had been recovered. It meant more work for the forensic team. He called Gareth Winder. ‘Have you been able to trace any vehicles owned by Geraint Wood?’
‘We’ve just had the report in, boss,’ Gareth replied. ‘Apparently he owns a fifteen-year-old Ford Fiesta. Nothing else is registered in his name.’
Drake finished the call as Sara joined him. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a witness in reception demanding she speak to us about Wood. And I’ve just spoken with Gareth. He doesn’t own a vehicle apart from his Fiesta.’
‘He could have stolen one and then added the livery.’
Drake nodded. After talking to the witness he’d make a decision about what further progress they could make with Wood.
A few minutes later they sat around a table in one of the smart conference rooms just off reception in the area custody centre. Amber Falk, sitting opposite them, wore a multicoloured thin sweater, and long dreadlocks cascaded down her back. She chewed on her nails, her eyes restless. It surprised Drake when she had introduced herself as Wood’s girlfriend. He would have expected a Welsh girl but Amber had a harsh Geordie accent.
‘He’s not killed anyone. It’s not in him. He’s not capable of it.’
Drake opened his mouth to say something but she continued.
‘He can be stupid but he’s no killer.’
‘How long have you known him?’
She gazed over at Drake, focusing hard on his face as though she were trying to fathom out exactly what he had asked.
‘We are life-partners.’
More exciting than just partners or boyfriend/girlfriend, Drake thought.
‘Where do you live?’ Sara asked.
Amber gave her an angry look. ‘I’ve got my place of course. Everyone needs a little independence.’
Sara smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Does Geraint stay with you?’
‘Sometimes.’
Sara leant forward, attempting to put this anxious woman at ease. ‘Did he spend last Saturday night with you, for example.’
Amber relaxed. ‘Yeah, always on Saturday night. We went down the pub.’
‘We’ll probably need a few more details from you, a proper statement.’
‘Anything I can do to help. Geraint’s not a bad man.’
Drake hoped he could get more detail now that Amber appeared to be more amenable. ‘Was he with you last Tuesday?’
Amber almost winced in concentration as she cast her mind back. ‘No. I was with my mother. She likes to watch the repeats of Downton Abbey. She’s old.’
‘So you didn’t see Geraint that evening?’
‘I’ve just said. Anyway he was with me first thing the following morning. He got to my place by seven. We went up the hills for a long walk.’
‘What time were you back?’ Sara asked.
‘After dinner, about two.’
Drake looked over at Amber. Years of experience told him that finding the truth meant looking beyond clothes or the appearance of a witness. She had struck him as truthful. It didn’t mean that Wood was innocent; it meant they had to dig a little further.
‘Are you going to release him now?’
‘I don’t make that decision.’ Although it was not strictly true, it helped Drake to avoid answering directly.
‘I’ll wait for him.’
Drake and Sara left Amber in reception and threaded their way back to the custody suite.
Sara organised two weak insipid coffees which they drank in one of the bare interview rooms. ‘At least she confirmed what he told us about the night Gloria Patton was killed,’ Sara said.
‘Doesn’t make him innocent.’
‘And she gave him an unprompted alibi for the time the videos were filmed.’
‘But he could have set up everything remotely.’
Sara nodded.
‘Everything suggests Wood is our suspect. The way Patton’s body was staged and the YouTube videos. And now his girlfriend comes in and offers an alibi. It could be carefully planned.’
‘We don’t have enough to justify charging him.’
Drake nodded; he knew as well as Sara they had no alternative other than to release Wood on bail. Drake finished the last of his coffee, grimaced at the disgusting taste, crushed the plastic in one hand and dropped it into a bin.
‘Let’s go and break the good news to Mr Wood and his lawyer.’
Chapter 18
Luned relished every minute of the inquiry. The speed, the urgency and the intensity had been intoxicating. All the activity yesterday had left her feeling winded. Nothing in her previous role in one of the regional CID units had prepared her for the frantic pace of Wood’s arrest and the fallout from his subsequent release. Last night she had fallen asleep on the sofa at home, exhausted but also pleased that at last she was getting to do some real policing.
The only drawback was working with Gareth Winder. But it was less than a week since she had met him for the first time and she persuaded herself that her genial nature had to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was her senior officer by age if not rank and that morning she determined that she would absorb how he worked. Learn from his experience.
Winder had insisted they leave headquarters before she had even opened her emails.
He drove to Llandudno with Radio 1 playing in the background. She hated the music the station played so by the time they reached the charity shop to interview Maureen her nerves were on edge.
Winder parked a little way down the street and switched off the engine. After leaving the car, he reached for the laptop in the rear seat and they walked over to the shop.
A faint musty smell from the clothes that hung from the display carousels tickled her nose. Luned squeezed past a heavily pregnant woman pushing a wheelchair with a toddler inside.
Winder reached the counter first, warrant card in hand.
‘I’d like to see Maureen, please.’
The woman gave Winder a frightened look before darting a glance at Luned, who forced a reassuring smile.
‘That’s me.’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
Maureen nodded towards a door at the back of the shop and after shuffling out from behind the counter she threaded her way past a stand full of greetings cards until she pushed open the door. Inside, another volunteer was sifting through piles of old clothes.
‘I need to ask you about the van that was parked outside last week.’
‘Yes. The inspector told me.’ Maureen seemed to have relaxed.
Winder glanced over at the table. ‘Can we sit here?’
‘Yes. I’ll find some chairs.’
Luned helped Maureen to release three plastic chairs stacked untidily in one corner. Winder leant over the table, laptop booting up.
All three sat down and Maureen stuffed her hands under her thighs, staring at Winder and the screen.
‘I need to show you some images of various vans.’
Maureen nodded. Luned struggled to tell how stressed Maureen was but she had already decided that if Winder was going to be too rude then she would butt in. Winder fiddled with the mouse and the screen came alive with the various images from the internet pages Winder had bookmarked.
After half an hour Winder had shown Maureen various images of different makes of vans, but they all drew a non-committal reply. The image of a red VW Transporter filled the screen, which Luned thought unhelpful as it was a different colour from the vehicle Maureen had seen.
‘Imagine it in a white colour,’ Luned said, using her best schoolteacher tone. Winder clicked onto the next image, oblivious of Luned’s comment. Sometimes he could appear quite disinterested, Luned concluded.
‘It was quite old,’ Maureen announced before Winder had a chance to show her the next image. ‘It was rusty, I’m sure.’
She quickly dismissed a van made by Mercedes that obviously looked expensive and which Luned doubted would be the likely choice for a killer. Then Winder showed her a van made by Nissan and one by Citroen and she shook her head.
‘You don’t recognise any of these. At all?’ Winder sat back in his chair sounding frustrated. Maureen gave a worried look.
‘Can you show me the photographs again?’
Winder gave her a disdainful look and dragged himself back to the table.
Volunteers drifted in and out of the storeroom, casting the occasional quizzical glance towards the laptop.
‘If the van was quite old maybe we should concentrate on older versions of some of these makes,’ Luned suggested. It seemed obvious and it troubled her that Winder hadn’t thought of it.
He tapped something into the browser and then dozens of brightly coloured images of various vans filled the screen. Maureen leant over and stared with more interest at the selection Winder had found.
He scrolled down until he clicked on the second page while Maureen stared at the images.
Another few minutes passed until she pointed quickly to the image on the screen. ‘That looks like it.’
The relief in Winder’s face was palpable as he focused on the image of an old Ford Transit.
‘I remember that it had a rusty scratch mark on the wheel arch just like that one.’
‘Is there anything else you can remember?’ Winder added.
‘I told the other police officer that I couldn’t remember the number and I didn’t see anyone.’
‘Not even the name of the shop-fitting company?’
‘Sorry.’
Luned decided to butt in. ‘Do you remember seeing anyone get into the van – anyone acting suspiciously?’
Maureen swallowed hard and blinked a few times before stammering a reply. ‘No… the shop was busy. There were customers… I mean, I didn’t see anyone.’
‘You’ve been really helpful already.’ Luned smiled at Maureen. ‘Please contact us if you remember anything that might be of assistance.’
Maureen nodded as Winder closed the laptop.
The shop thronged with customers as they made their way to the exit.
On the pavement outside Luned stood alongside Winder who seemed to be deep in thought. ‘At least we know it was a Ford Transit.’
‘Let’s visit the other shops.’ Winder jerked his head towards the row of shops behind them.
Luned had expected this. Someone might have noticed the van arriving or leaving. Someone might have seen the killer. All they had to do was find that someone.
But after an hour of shaking heads and blank faces Luned realised it was a hopeless task. Winder sat in the car and blew out both cheeks in desperation.
* * *
Drake kept his office door firmly shut for most of the morning, emerging only to make a coffee. Apart from a brief nod of acknowledgement and a mumbled greeting he ignored Sara. It reminded her that last evening Drake had scowled and said very little when Geraint Wood stood by the custody sergeant’s desk as his release on bail was processed. Now she guessed that his disappointment that the arrest hadn’t led to Wood being formally charged contributed to his sullenness that morning. She remembered too the words of a fellow officer who warned her Drake could be annoying and ‘impossible to work with’.
She wasn’t going to make any snap judgements. Perhaps she was being too petty-minded. Nothing had been found to suggest Wood was working on any projects, or that he had any exhibitions in the pipeline. It added to the niggle in her mind that suggested he was desperate for a chance to exhibit at the Orme Arts Festival. Sara gazed over at the board and let her thoughts drift back to the interview with Wood, realising soon enough she was wasting time. She shook off her malaise and got back to the papers on her desk.
Sara trawled through the names of Rhisiart Hopkin’s customers. The list went back many years. Each entry had a summary of the customer and the business sector in which they operated. She began with the most recent. There were new accounts for dot.com companies and several for farmers and dozens for hotels and guest houses. A colour-coded system flagged reminders about the dates for reviews and the contact names for the owner, and sometimes the word ‘director’ appeared.
It was mid-morning by the time Sara had read back two years. None of the details caught her attention until she started on the older accounts. The name Mr and Mrs Buckland soon focused her mind so she scanned the particulars quickly, but there was scant information. She picked up the telephone handset and dialled the bank.
‘I’m afraid Mr Finch is in a meeting.’ The receptionist’s tone suggested the conversation was at an end.
‘Interrupt him.’
‘That won’t be possible.’
Sara bristled at the veiled disdain in the voice.
‘Let me explain something. We’re investigating the murder of Rhisiart Hopkin. Mr Finch has the details of Mr Hopkin’s files. I need to speak to him; you are obstructing me in doing so, and that could well be a criminal offence. So I suggest you interrupt Mr Finch, asking him to call me in the next five minutes. Otherwise, I’ll request a warrant from the senior investigating officer to search the bank’s premises and open a file about your uncooperative attitude.’
Sara slammed the handset down. It took her a few minutes to draft a formal letter addressed to the bank. Then after making a few minor adjustments she trooped off to the kitchen. Returning with a steaming mug of tea she plonked it down on the coaster near a small metal-framed picture of her two nieces as the telephone rang – it seemed to have a more insistent ring than normal.
‘Sergeant Morgan.’ Sara’s tone was measured, calm.
‘Roger Finch, I understand you want to speak to me.’ His voice betrayed none of the apprehension Sara might have expected.
‘I need the complete files of a number of customers Rhisiart Hopkin handled.’
‘We’ll need a formal written request.’
Sara had already anticipated this request. ‘What
’s your email address?’ She typed the details into her email system and attached the letter she had drafted earlier. ‘There’s a letter on its way as we speak. Can you email the papers immediately?’
‘I have to return to a meeting so it may—’
‘When I say immediately, Mr Finch, that is exactly what I mean. Will that be a problem? If it is I shall have to speak to my senior officers.’
Sara could hear his breathing down the telephone.
‘No, of course not. I’ll see to it.’ Sara smiled at the sound of his strangled voice.
The next hour dragged. She had sent Finch a list of a dozen customers but it was only the Bucklands that were of interest, at least for now. Sara heard Drake having a long conversation in his office. An email arrived from Finch. Its tone was conciliatory, offering his assistance and the bank’s IT department if there were any problems with accessing the documentation. The email was the first of a dozen or so, each with numerous attachments. She would need hard copies but for now the electronic versions would have to suffice. She scanned the first for any reference to the Bucklands. Frustration turned into a knot of annoyance by the time she reached the fifth attachment.
There was a Hennessy, two Williams, a Jones: eventually she saw the names of Roger and Norma Buckland. After opening the folder she read Rhisiart Hopkin’s notes. Initially, everything seemed positive. Hopkin summarised the youth club venture and community centre the Bucklands were hoping to start. Sara noted the occasional observation from Hopkin that Norma Buckland was ‘idealistic’ and ‘with her head in the clouds’ and she wondered if he recorded similar remarks about Roger Buckland. But the complimentary remarks reinforced for Sara that Hopkin was a typical chauvinist. She printed off a copy of the initial business plan that formed the basis of the application for a substantial loan to develop an old building. There were promises of funding from a local authority and indications that various charities were prepared to support the venture.
Hopkin made no critical comments, limiting his notes to observations about how the business could be a success. Sara skirted around the internal memoranda forwarded by Hopkin to Finch and his area office – it had far too much technical jargon. If it became important, somebody from the economic crime department would have to untangle its significance, Sara thought. For the time being she wanted to gauge the relationship between the Bucklands and Rhisiart Hopkin.
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