Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  The postcards were of an airport and Drake removed one from its sleeve. ‘Chicago Airport’ was printed in small letters at the bottom.

  Fiona continued. ‘I wonder who he was going to entertain. He was always a private sort of man. He could be dead funny too – making jokes about different people.’

  ‘You mentioned a ‘lady friend’ when we first talked to you.’ Drake replaced the postcard and closed the album. ‘Would you recognise her?’

  ‘Well, which one?’ Fiona sounded embarrassed.

  Drake found his mobile and called Sara, asking her to send him an image of Gloria Patton. Seconds later a message arrived; he tapped it open, and the face of Gloria Patton filled the screen. He showed it to Fiona. ‘Oh yes, I saw her leaving a couple of times. A friend of mine has seen cars parked near the house at odd times.’

  Drake’s concentration immediately sharpened. ‘Has your friend spoken to any of the uniformed police officers?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think it might be helpful if I talked to her. Could you call her?’

  Fiona gave a puzzled look. ‘I suppose so.’

  Fiona fumbled with her mobile. Drake’s impatience grew. Eventually she found the right number and called her friend. ‘The police want to talk to you about Mr Hopkin.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think…’

  Drake reached over a hand, inviting Fiona to give him the mobile. She cowered slightly but did as she was told. He pressed it to his ear. ‘This is Detective Inspector Ian Drake. I’m investigating the murder of Rhisiart Hopkin. I’d like to speak to you.’

  The tone, which suggested he wasn’t arranging a business meeting, did the trick and having taken a postcode and address he handed the phone back to Fiona. He scanned the sitting room one last time, deciding he had seen enough.

  Five minutes later he arrived at the home of Zandra Tonks. Her appearance matched the exotic nature of her name. Her hair was a bright purple, her complexion fine and, being tall and slim, it was difficult to make out her age. Drake guessed she must be the wrong side of sixty-five and the right side of seventy. Two greyhounds, both a shimmering dark silver, stood by her side as she opened the door.

  ‘Inspector Drake, come in.’

  She led Drake into a small conservatory at the rear of the property and sat down, pointing to one of the soft chairs for Drake to do likewise.

  ‘Did you know Rhisiart Hopkin?’

  ‘Not really.’ Tonks shook her head.

  ‘Fiona said you mentioned noticing cars outside his house.’

  ‘I regularly walk the dogs. Twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, sometimes quite late. I take the same route every time. There is a footpath that leads through the woods near Hopkin’s property. A week or so before he was killed there was a car parked in a layby not far from his house. Struck me as odd. I could see the man sitting inside and when I got close he looked down as though he wanted to avoid me.’

  ‘Do you remember the exact date?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And was this morning or evening?’

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Nothing, and the only reason it stays in my mind is that when I returned he was still there. But he started the car and screamed off.’

  ‘What make was the car?’

  ‘I think it was a Ford.’

  ‘And colour?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘Were there other occasions when you noticed cars parked at odd times?’

  She nodded and adopted a more serious tone. ‘There was a car in the same place the night Mr Hopkin was murdered; I can’t be certain it was the same one but it was definitely red.’

  Looking for two red cars would be an impossible task, Drake knew.

  ‘It’s really important if you can remember whether they were the same car. Did you notice the registration number?’

  ‘I’m not normally a busybody, Inspector. But because of what happened the week before I paid a little bit more attention. It was RTF or something similar.’ Drake moved forward slightly in the chair; this was progress – he hoped that Zandra could drag more details from memory. ‘Can you remember the three numbers at the beginning?’

  ‘The letters RTF were at the beginning.’

  It made the vehicle very old, at least eighteen years old, Drake thought. Someone with limited means, which included all the artists in the inquiry so far.

  ‘Can you be certain both vehicles weren’t the same?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Drake stood up, making to leave.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tonks. Is there any reason why you didn’t come forward sooner?’

  ‘I did. I went to the mobile incident room and gave them my details. It surprised me when I didn’t hear anything. I do hope I won’t get anyone into trouble.’

  He left Mrs Tonks and headed back to his car, reaching for his mobile telephone at the same time. He would give the officer in charge of the Mobile Incident Room a dressing down.

  * * *

  Winder was finding it hard to become accustomed to working with Luned. It had been so much easier when Dave Howick had been the other detective constable in Drake’s team. But with Howick now a sergeant in Wrexham, Winder struggled with the different dynamic in the Incident Room. He couldn’t make out Luned, or Sara Morgan for that matter. It was going to take time to find the right rhythm for his working relationships. It might have been easier had their first case been a burglary or a missing person. Everything about the murder of Gloria Patton suggested a very sick individual was responsible. The death of Rhisiart Hopkin seemed unconnected even though they were running both inquiries simultaneously. Hours trawling through the statements from eyewitnesses outside the shop had produced nothing. And despite the grotesque scene there was no useable evidence. So Winder turned his attention to the direct cause of death: succinylcholine.

  His first call was to the main hospital in North Wales and after several telephone calls he eventually spoke to a member of the pharmacy team.

  ‘It’s kept in the theatre area in a drugs cupboard.’

  ‘Who has access to it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Simple question, Winder thought. ‘What system do you have in place to monitor who can access the drugs?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  Wading through mud would be easier than talking to this man, Winder thought. Before Winder could respond he continued. ‘Succinylcholine is a common drug that is used in operations and medical emergencies. It would make the running of the hospital impossible if the surgeons or doctors had to sign for every phial. In an emergency the medics need instant access to it.’

  ‘So anyone could swan in and pick up some supplies.’ Winder regretted his flippant language but the man had annoyed him.

  Winder heard an audible sigh over the telephone. ‘It’s not that easy. We do have some security procedures in place. I suggest you come and see for yourself.’

  Two hours later Winder sat in his car barely able to believe what the hospital described as ‘security procedures’. Every member of staff had a personal identity card that had to be swiped before accessing the theatre area. In a period of ten minutes Winder had noticed several nurses in blue and green uniforms and orderlies in mauve polos and cargo pants walk in as the door was propped ajar by staff members going about their daily duties. When the pharmacy manager told him that the other general hospital in North Wales didn’t have a swipe card system and that they ‘all knew each other’ Winder stopped thinking about the possibility of identifying a member of staff who could have stolen the sux needed. Basically anyone with a confident manner wearing the right clothes could waltz in and help themselves.

  His work that morning justified a lunch hour with his girlfriend in a burger bar in the middle of town. Afterwards, on the stairs to the first floor of headquarters he started to regret the large portion of fries as indigestion got hold of him.
>
  It only got worse when he entered the Incident Room and three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Detective Inspector Drake stood by the board, Sara and Luned sat by their desks.

  ‘I sent you a message.’ Drake glared at him.

  Winder flushed. He wanted to reach into his pocket, grab his telephone, check the screen, as if somehow the handset was to blame. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  He sat down, trying to compose himself. Drake said. ‘Let’s hear about the progress you’ve been making, Gareth.’

  Winder cleared his throat noisily. ‘I’ve been to the general hospital and basically anyone can walk in and take the sux used to kill Patton.’

  ‘But they’d need to know what they were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, boss. But that doesn’t take much. Just a Google search.’

  ‘Even so they’d need to play the part. You’d better circulate all the hospitals on the off-chance that someone noticed missing supplies of the drug.’

  Winder scribbled on his pad as Drake looked over at Luned. ‘Anything from inquiries around the premises round the shoe shop?’

  Luned launched into a detailed narrative almost listing each individual that had been interviewed.

  ‘A couple of individuals confirmed they saw the office refurbishment van outside the property the night before Gloria Patton was killed. We still have a number of people to interview. And—’

  ‘Focus on whether you can identify this vehicle through the CCTV system.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Winder could see Luned preparing to launch into another detailed analysis. Drake stood up and tapped a ballpoint on the picture of Gloria Patton.

  ‘I’ve interviewed an eyewitness this morning. She’s given me the details of two red cars that were parked outside Rhisiart Hopkin’s home. Gareth, you do a search against the registration number – she only gave me a fragment. And Luned, I want every CCTV camera checked out for the route down to Hopkin’s house on the afternoon he was killed.’ Drake turned, looking intently at Winder. ‘Gareth, help Luned, because we’ll need to scour the CCTV records for the previous week. The same witness saw another red car about a week before.’

  Winder’s enthusiasm sagged as he contemplated the hours of work ahead of him.

  Chapter 20

  Sara clipped her seat belt into place and Drake drove out of headquarters, passing a team of landscape contractors busy on the open parkland with strimmers and sit-on lawnmowers. Once they reached the dual carriageway Drake accelerated on towards Llandudno.

  ‘We’ve had the results of the financial checks against Roger Buckland and Gloria Patton’s husband,’ Sara said.

  A large Mercedes saloon sped past Drake, easily exceeding the speed limit. The unmarked police cars on the A55 would make certain the driver was stopped if he continued speeding.

  ‘So what are the details?’

  ‘Roger Buckland has a small regular income from the church where he works. It’s less than the average salary. But he’s got massive debts. He’s got a dozen various credit cards, as well as the bank loans we know about. He seems to have a hand-to-mouth existence.’

  ‘So what’s his motive? Killing Hopkin doesn’t get rid of his debts.’

  ‘Buckland has a hell of a temper.’

  ‘He discovers that his wife is having an affair with Hopkin. The red mist descends. He can’t control his anger, they argue. And…’

  ‘And Gloria Patton? Is he responsible for her death?’

  Drake indicated towards Llandudno and slowed at a roundabout. Norma Buckland certainly had a motive to kill Gloria Patton. Their financial position necessitated not losing a money-making opportunity, and not appearing at the Orme Arts Festival must have been a blow to their plans. But how was killing Patton going to help?

  Sara continued. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that Hopkin was on the committee with Gloria Patton. There’s nothing to link both deaths together. There’s no similarity and we haven’t had any messages.’

  Drake nodded. He could almost hear Superintendent Price making the same points at the meeting arranged for later that afternoon.

  ‘I don’t like coincidences,’ Drake said.

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  Drake found a place to park in one of the side streets near the gallery where the Orme Arts Festival was launching in two weeks’ time. A large banner hung outside the entrance announcing the prestigious guest line-up for the opening. Various gallery owners and critics from Vienna and Berlin were due to attend.

  The committee had requested the meeting and Drake hoped the press would be kept far away. He wanted to avoid any awkward questions linking the death of Hopkin and Gloria Patton.

  The open window of a second-floor room let in some badly needed fresh air. At one end three tables had been pushed together with half a dozen chairs behind them. Drake scanned the room. He recognised Marjorie and Julie from the first meeting immediately after the death of Gloria Patton. Each gave him a brief nod. Jeremy Ellingham sipped from a plastic cup while deep in conversation with Amber Falk who now had a two-tone hairstyle, the top half a vibrant cream colour, the long shards below it a golden auburn. Nervous-looking individuals, occasionally sharing comments with their immediate neighbours, sat in the main part of the room. Others tapped away on their mobile telephones.

  A tall man with the air of a funeral undertaker walked in. Judging by the ceremonial chain hanging limply over the shoulders of his dark business suit, Drake guessed him to be the mayor. He joined the committee members, greeting each warmly. Drake and Sara found a couple of empty chairs at the back of the room and as they sat down Huw Jackson arrived. He diverted over towards Drake.

  ‘Hello, Ian.’ Jackson reached out a hand, which Drake shook. ‘The head of my department wanted me to attend.’

  ‘Of course,’ Drake said.

  ‘Perhaps we can talk at the end of the meeting.’

  Drake nodded before he turned his gaze towards the luminaries gathering at the main table, wondering what Jackson had on his mind. Much to Drake’s annoyance, as the mayor called the meeting to order, a man in his fifties entered – overweight with ruddy cheeks and a dishevelled suit with a tie that hung limply from an open-necked shirt. He mouthed apologies. Drake knew him as a nosy journalist.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Sara whispered.

  ‘He’s the local hack. Last person we wanted to see here.’

  The town mayor rapped two knuckles on the tabletop like a makeshift gavel. ‘I think we should start. The tragic events surrounding the death of Gloria Patton have made us all realise the great contribution she made to the development of the arts in Llandudno. The Orme Arts Festival was her brainchild; it inspired her every day. I know some of you believe the festival shouldn’t continue. Members of the public are rightly concerned about safety and security bearing in mind the horrific circumstances surrounding her death.’

  For the next half an hour various voices expressed their concerns that Gloria Patton’s death, so soon before the launch of the arts festival, would attract trolls and adverse publicity. The mayor and the committee members seated alongside him nodded respectfully, frowned at the appropriate times and occasionally scribbled a note.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake is here from the Wales Police Service and perhaps he could share with us the latest information about the inquiry.’

  The mayor gave Drake an encouraging, rather pleading look. Drake could see that he wanted to deflect any further comments about the cancellation of the festival.

  Drake stood up, buttoned his jacket and, sensing many pairs of eyes following him to the front of the room, composed his thoughts. He had been accustomed to speaking at press conferences, and being bilingual often made him a natural choice for the Welsh language news broadcasts. But usually he had time to prepare; now the mayor had surprised him.

  Drake reached the end of the tables. The mayor nodded again and gave an encouraging smile. Drake scanned the room, noticing the journalist adjusting his position, b
allpoint poised, ready to scribble down Drake’s every word.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mayor. The investigation into the death of Gloria Patton is still in its very early days. We have appealed for witnesses who might have been around the shop premises the night before she was killed or during the morning when her body was found.’

  ‘Are there any suspects?’ It was the journalist.

  Drake tried not to give him a hard stare, instead looking at no one in particular, but all he could see were dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him expectantly. ‘I’m sure you appreciate I cannot divulge details of the inquiry. Any of you who are involved in the art world will know that the circumstances of Gloria Patton’s death were unusual. Anybody with any relevant information should contact us as soon as possible.’

  Drake didn’t wait for any further questions and returned to his chair.

  ‘Thank you very much, Detective Inspector. I’m sure we all appreciate you taking the time to be here today.’ The mayor was already on his feet.

  ‘When are we going to discuss cancelling the festival?’ A voice from the middle of the audience piped up. ‘Gloria’s death was like something out of a horror film. We’re going to get all sorts of weirdoes coming to the festival because of what happened.’

  Drake noticed several heads nodding in front of him.

  ‘I think we need to have a period of calm reflection,’ Marjorie declared.

  Another voice, more strident this time. ‘Gloria Patton has been killed, for Christ’s sake. She was strung up like some exhibit in a funfair.’

  Drake became increasingly uncomfortable with comments made by some of the audience who wanted the arts festival cancelled. An elderly woman even stood up, her voice trembling. ‘None of us feel safe in our beds. There’s a madman loose. From what that inspector was saying earlier…’ She raised a hand and pointed towards Drake. ‘They haven’t got any suspects.’

  Drake felt like jumping to his feet, telling her that that was far from the truth.

  ‘I’m sure the police are doing everything they can,’ the mayor responded. ‘As for the arts festival, I’m sure we can all agree Gloria Patton would have wanted it to continue.’