She ignored the grumbling hunger pains in her stomach and gradually got into the stride of following the language Hopkin used. Within a year of the loan being advanced the tone of the minutes chilled. Hopkin was covering his back, Sara concluded, as she read a memorandum to Finch highly critical of Roger Buckland. None of the promised funds from the third parties had materialised.
By the final meeting Roger Buckland was being described as ‘aggressive’ and ‘argumentative’ and there followed a stream of emails from the area head office demanding an assessment of ‘the likelihood of default’. Once Sara read the letters from the bank’s lawyers, formal repossession proceedings looked inevitable.
Sara sat back and read the time on her watch. It was late morning and she had to talk to Drake. She strode over to his office and knocked on the door. He waved her in. There were three columns of coloured Post-it notes on his desk. An empty cafetière sat neatly alongside a china mug. Idly she looked for a coaster and it surprised her that he didn’t have one.
‘I’ve been through the various files from the bank.’
Drake waved to the visitor chair.
She sat down, drawing a hand through her hair, gaining a few seconds to compose herself. ‘Mr and Mrs Buckland had a business loan with Hopkin. It looks as though everything had gone wrong. The bank allege they had been misled by Roger Buckland to believe that the local authority and various charities might contribute but apparently it was all a lie.’
Drake threaded the fingers of his hands together and steepled them on the desk. ‘Why would that give him a motive to kill Hopkin?’
‘He blames Hopkin for calling in the loan, which means they would be insolvent, bankrupt even. So he seeks revenge.’
Drake raised his eyebrows. ‘And his wife isn’t selected for the arts festival thereby losing the opportunity of more exposure for her art.’
Having her conclusions acknowledged pleased Sara; it dispelled her apprehension that the enthusiasm of Superintendent Price and Drake for arresting Geraint Wood the night before and the resulting embarrassment might temper his response.
‘I don’t think we have evidence to—’
Drake held up his hand. ‘Just enough to talk to him. We’ll go and see him this afternoon.’
Before Sara could reply they heard Winder and Luned’s voice from the Incident Room and Sara and Drake joined them. ‘We spoke to Maureen at the charity shop and she reckons the van was an old white Ford Transit with a scratched wheel arch.’
‘Good. At least that’s some progress.’
‘But neither Maureen nor anyone in the shops nearby could remember seeing anybody parking the van or driving it away.’
‘I’ll get public relations to announce we’re looking for this sort of van. Good work both of you.’
* * *
It was late afternoon when Drake pulled out of the car park at headquarters. Several drafts of the press release about the white van had been emailed back and forth from the PR department before he was happy with the wording. He anticipated that the switchboard would get some crank calls but hopefully there might be a nugget of useful information too. He had given Sara’s shoes a surreptitious glance when she sat in the passenger seat. It was a hangover from his experiences of Caren leaving soil and gravel from the farm she shared with her husband. It always meant he had to vacuum at the end of the day. He couldn’t bear the thought of the car being left dirty overnight.
‘It’s hard to comprehend the possibility that a man of the cloth might be capable of murder,’ Sara said.
‘I suppose it’s the old cliché that everyone is capable of murder. But in the case of Roger Buckland we know he is.’
Sara nodded slowly.
Drake hurried along the dual carriageway, reaching a flat section where he could see the beach alongside the road stretching out into the distance. Soon he indicated for Rhyl and they passed row after row of static caravans. Eventually he slowed as they reached the thirty mile an hour speed restriction.
Rhyl was divided by a railway line. To the north were the bedsits and pubs selling cheap lager next to slot machine arcades that reflected a town dedicated to the instant amusement of its visitors. The opposite side had the occasional tree-lined avenue where the crime rate was lower. The River Jordan Community Centre stood in a narrow backstreet. Drake found a parking spot behind a rusty Land Rover and they made for the entrance.
The hinges of the battered old door creaked as Drake pushed it open. A nasty pungent smell of urine clung to the air, from the toilet to their left. A radio played somewhere beyond another set of double doors, in need of a coat of paint. Drake hesitated for a moment as he reached for the handle, contemplating how contaminated he might feel after touching it, but not wanting to embarrass himself in front of Sara; he pushed the door quickly. Luckily, it flew open and they entered another corridor that led down one side of the building. Music drifted out of the first room they found and he peered in through a glass section. Three people were huddled around the desk in the centre of the room. Drake entered, Sara following.
‘I’m looking for Roger Buckland.’
A man in his thirties, purple hair and nose ring, looked up at Drake. ‘He’s in the gym, mate.’ He nodded towards the opposite end of the building before returning his gaze to the papers taking his attention.
Scuff marks covered the walls, and the lino on the floor was cracked, curling up at the edges. One of the windows they passed had a pane missing, a piece of plywood pinned to the outside.
‘I can see now why the place needed so much work,’ Sara said.
‘It’s a right dump.’
Drake inspected two more rooms, both empty, one of which had large damp stains discolouring the walls around the window. At the end of the corridor a staircase led up to the first floor. They heard sounds of feet scuffling and instructions from raised voices.
Calling the place a gym stretched the imagination. It had three tattered and ragged boxing punchbags hanging from the ceiling. A dozen elderly pieces of equipment stood neglected underneath a television screwed to a bracket high up on the wall, the music video muted.
A man in his late forties, give or take a few years, directed three men in their twenties punching the bags enthusiastically. He spotted Drake and motioned for them to stop. Drake scanned the three boxers, who had turned to stare at them; there was a flicker of recognition as he held the gaze of the taller. The man walked over to Drake and Sara, deep sweat patches around his neck and armpits.
‘Roger Buckland? Detective Inspector Ian Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’
‘Yes, how can I help?’
No matter how often Drake heard a Scouse accent it still sounded harsh, crass, even from the pastor.
‘Is there somewhere we can speak privately?’
Buckland frowned. Then he nodded towards the far end of the gym. ‘My office.’
Drake and Sara followed him into another room reeking of damp and decay.
Buckland sat down on a hard wooden chair and motioned at two similar chairs, inviting them to sit down.
‘Is this about the murder of Gloria Patton?’
‘We are investigating both the murder of Gloria Patton and the death of Rhisiart Hopkin.’
Buckland scowled. ‘I didn’t think they were connected.’
‘I didn’t say that they were.’ Drake stopped, gauging the reaction.
Buckland didn’t react, except to stare at Drake.
‘I understand that Rhisiart Hopkin was your bank manager. Tell me about your relationship with him.’
Buckland nodded. ‘I see where this is going. You think I have a motive to kill Rhisiart Hopkin. And because your searches have told you about my background you think I am the natural suspect. So, tell me, Inspector, what do you think about the power of forgiveness?’
‘What exactly do you do here?’
‘It’s sad that society jumps to conclusions. Everybody deserves a second chance. Don’t you agree?’
Buckland smirked, managing to notch up Drake’s irritation.
‘Second chances, Inspector Drake, that’s what we offer here. The ability for youngsters, young adults, anyone who has fallen by the wayside, to experience the redemptive power of the Gospel.’
‘And how does boxing do that?’
‘I’m a qualified coach. Everyone who comes here knows they don’t get judged. I treat everybody the same.’
‘Did Rhisiart Hopkin understand what you are trying to do?’
Buckland shook his head. ‘We had an agreement.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘This place has to be refurbished. We put together a detailed business plan, secured extra funding and had the whole project on a secure footing. We made commitments based on the bank’s promises and they changed their minds.’
‘Is it going to cause you financial problems?’
‘It will be sorted.’
‘Do you blame Rhisiart Hopkin for your predicament?’
Buckland raised his voice. ‘What you’re really asking is – did I kill him?’
Drake opened his mouth to reply but Buckland continued. ‘Because I’ve got a previous conviction you think you’ve got a compelling case. Well I can tell you now, Inspector, you’re dead wrong.’
‘The bank tell us that various promises of additional funding never materialised.’
Buckland sighed, as though an explanation was beneath him. ‘I’ve already been in contact with my lawyers. They say we’ve got a cut-and-dried case against the bank. I’m not going to let Hopkin and the bank stand in the way of this project.’
‘What did you think of Rhisiart Hopkin?’
Another contemptuous shake of the head. Even though he might be a reformed character Buckland still had a conviction for manslaughter, had been through the interview process, appearances in court, being banged up in a high-security jail. And that made him hard.
‘For what it’s worth I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him.’
‘Tell me why you didn’t trust him?’
‘He promised us the bank’s full support and then we discovered that he’d been talking about how the project was going to fail.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘The owner of the next door premises has been after this place for years. He told me he’d heard the building was going to be repossessed soon.’
‘That must have annoyed you.’
‘What do you think?’
Drake turned to Sara. A prearranged nod and on cue she asked. ‘Can you account for your movements on the night Mr Hopkin was killed?’
‘Am I a formal suspect?’
‘It will help our enquiries if we can eliminate you.’
Buckland guffawed. ‘Next, you’ll want to suggest that I killed Gloria because of what she did to Norma.’
Buckland was buying time, Drake thought.
Buckland drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop. ‘I was here, probably. After leaving here I usually go home, write a sermon or prepare for one of our Bible study groups.’
‘Is there anyone apart from your wife who could confirm that?’
‘You really are good cop, bad cop aren’t you? Or at least you’re trying very hard. I didn’t kill him.’ Buckland stood up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’
Drake glanced at Sara, his nod telling her they had to leave.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Buckland,’ Drake said, reaching out a hand.
Buckland stared at it without reacting.
Drake and Sara left and outside they paced over to the car.
‘What did you make of that, boss?’ Sara said before Drake started the car.
‘He’s an obnoxious character. Difficult to imagine him offering pastoral care. And he’s got the motive to kill Patton and Hopkin.’
Sara nodded.
Drake continued. ‘I recognised one of those lads in the gym. He was a regular wife beater. I was the SIO on a case when he was sent down. He’s not the sort to seek forgiveness – more like revenge.’
‘I’ll do a search on him, boss.’
‘Something about Roger Buckland doesn’t ring true.’ Drake sounded like a jaded, distrustful police officer. At that moment that was exactly how he felt.
Chapter 19
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.’
Susan, Drake’s sister, sounded at her wits’ end. Drake sipped the dregs of his breakfast coffee and reached over to switch off the voice of a politician avoiding answering questions about the negotiations for the United Kingdom to leave the European Union. Drake shared the exasperation of the interviewer about the evasions.
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘What do you think it’s like for me? The boys are doing exams, George has just taken on a new client and he’s frantic at work. Now, Ian, the business with this… man. I mean, it is preposterous. Does he want money? Does he want to make a claim against Dad’s estate? Does he realise the effect all of this is having on Mam?’
His mother had been remarkably phlegmatic about the situation, Drake thought. She accepted Huw Jackson’s sincerity. Susan reflected her concerns and not her mother’s, but telling her that might be tricky.
‘I hope you’re not going to have anything to do with him.’
‘Well, it’s not that simple—’
‘George thinks we should get lawyers involved.’
‘Lawyers?’
‘Yes, to warn him off.’
‘He doesn’t want anything.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘If he is our brother then—’
Susan almost choked. ‘Brother?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know something about him and his family?’
Susan kept her voice hard. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if we closed this little episode.’
‘What, pretend it didn’t happen?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘Don’t be daft, Susan.’
‘Don’t involve me or mention it to the boys.’ Now she sounded edgy. ‘What does Sian think? I am sure she agrees with me.’
Drake left a heavy pause hang between them. Her marriage to an accountant from Pembrokeshire who barely concealed his disdain for their upbringing in the Welsh-speaking rural community of North Wales estranged them even more. Drake was torn between wanting to learn more about his new extended family and his loyalty to Susan, even though it felt very thin at that moment. In the past, he would have discussed it with Sian. What was the right thing to do?
Drake checked the time. ‘Look Susan, I’m going to be late for a meeting with a witness. Why don’t you come to stay with Mam for a few days?’
He could hear the impatience in her breathing.
‘Then you can talk to her yourself. You might even meet Huw and make up your own mind.’
‘Really, when you’re in one of these moods you are impossible.’
She rang off before he could say anything else.
Drake found the papers he had collected from headquarters the night before and headed out for his car. After a brief journey along the A55 he indicated left for Llanrwst. Over to his right Conwy Castle dominated the estuary that curved away in front of him down the valley.
He had wanted to visit the home of Rhisiart Hopkin again. This time alone. He was missing something and intuition told him the murders were linked although the crime scenes were different. But gut instinct was never good enough. For now he had no idea how to justify to Superintendent Price his conviction the two deaths were connected.
The house looked forlorn when he parked in the drive. He stared out through the windscreen. The windows were old wooden casements with nets hanging from the top half. Chosen by Hopkin’s mother probably, Drake thought. Weeds pushed their way out through the surface of the ageing tarmac and dirty grey streaks discoloured the pebbledash.
He let himself into the house. The place smelt of a mix
ture of old furniture and the chemicals the CSIs had used. He walked into the sitting room and noticed a film of dust on the mantelpiece. It was never the same visiting the crime scene a second time. Now he had more time to order his thoughts as he scanned the room.
Hopkin had watched television here, read the newspaper, and entertained his friends. Drake turned around and stared over to the dining table still laid out with three places. He stepped around the chairs and stood wondering who the guests were or even if there had been intended guests the evening Hopkin died. He skirted round the table, its place settings and napkins undisturbed. The cutlery looked old but clean. He reached the sideboard at the end and saw the books and several binders of photographs. He recalled noticing photographs and postcards from a summer holiday in an open album when he first arrived at the crime scene. He picked up one of the albums but a noise from the kitchen disturbed him. It was the sound of the back door opening and then a voice.
‘Hello.’
‘Good morning.’ Drake made his way into the kitchen and recognised Fiona Bakewell.
‘Good morning, Inspector. I was going to start cleaning. The lawyers handling his estate wanted me to tidy the place up before they sell the house.’
Drake nodded. ‘I was looking at the photograph albums on the sideboard. Did he enjoy travelling?’
‘He liked to go to Europe mostly. He always went on the train. He loved them. His father worked on the railways, as did his grandfather who was the night stationmaster in Llandudno Junction years ago before the war. Mr Hopkin collected photographs of the railways.’
‘I’m sure I saw a postcard from the US.’
Fiona frowned. ‘He never mentioned going to America. I thought he was afraid of flying.’
Drake retraced his steps into the dining area and idly flicked through the album he handled earlier. As he searched for the postcards, he heard Fiona entering the room behind him.
‘He left everything to a charity so I guess the old place will be sold.’
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