Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  It had the desired result and the tone of further questions softened.

  Drake admired the mayor’s skill in getting them to rally around Gloria Patton’s memory and that evil shouldn’t defeat the pursuance of art. Once he declared the meeting over, small talk exploded around the room.

  ‘Did you expect that?’ Sara said.

  Drake shook his head.

  They got up and made to leave but Julie waylaid Drake, taking him by the arm. They joined the mayor as well as Jeremy Ellingham and Geraint’s girlfriend Amber Falk, both looking pleased with themselves.

  ‘I thought you should be introduced to the latest members of the committee,’ Julie said. ‘We won’t be able to appoint a new curator in Gloria’s place so we’ve decided that Jeremy and Amber will be on the committee to help move things forward.’

  Drake paused, staring at Ellingham and Falk in turn, trying to read the expression on their faces. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘We don’t want anything to prevent the festival from being a fantastic success,’ Julie continued. ‘We’ve got Milos Fogerty coming to the opening event, which is simply wonderful.’ She rattled off other names Drake didn’t recognise. ‘Jeremy was taught by Milos in art school.’

  ‘I’m looking forward so much to seeing him again,’ Ellingham said. ‘I shall be doing my utmost to make the festival a great success.’

  Falk piped up. ‘I really love Milos’ work. It’s such an honour to be on the committee.’

  Drake searched her eyes for the irony he wanted to believe was present. But she seemed genuine enough and Drake wondered what she had been discussing with Geraint Wood. They were an odd couple and having these two on this committee felt even odder.

  ‘Perhaps you might come along to our next meeting and brief us about progress.’

  Brief us.

  Drake could scarcely believe her request. He was standing next to possible suspects in the inquiry. But Ellingham had an alibi. And Falk had given Geraint Wood an alibi without prompting but it still didn’t rule him out. But what about Falk? Was she a person of interest?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Drake said through gritted teeth.

  Drake nodded at Sara and they left.

  On the pavement outside, Huw Jackson caught up with Drake. He motioned for Sara to go on without him and turned to Jackson.

  ‘I know you can’t talk about the case, but the council are very concerned about the whole business. It’s probably too late to pull out but given half a chance there are councillors who want us to cancel and take the financial hit. They believe that the publicity is going to be bad for the town.’

  Drake didn’t reply.

  ‘Ian, I appreciate that recent events are a bit of a surprise. I didn’t want it to happen like this.’

  Drake stared over at Jackson.

  ‘I’ve got a family party this Sunday at lunchtime and I was hoping that you might come. It would give you a chance to meet my children. I’ll send you the address. I’d really like you to meet my family.’

  Susan’s words rang in his ears. She would be furious if he attended. That might be reason enough to be there.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’

  Jackson smiled. The invitation seemed genuine, Drake thought. He walked back to his car wondering if the day could get any odder.

  Chapter 21

  Drake returned to headquarters by lunchtime that Friday after his visit to the father and son who had smashed Hopkin’s car. Hopkin’s death had left them unaffected… even pleased.

  ‘We hated him,’ the father had said to vigorous agreement from his son.

  ‘Did you know Gloria Patton?’

  ‘Who?

  ‘She was involved with the Orme Arts Festival.’

  The father guffawed. ‘Is that some poncy arty-farty thing with paintings?’

  Drake had opened his mouth but decided that explaining about fine art would be a complete waste of time. When both men had launched into a detailed itinerary of their holiday in Tenerife for the time of Hopkin’s and Patton’s death, including the names of the bars they visited each day, Drake knew he was wasting his time.

  Their farmhouse stank and Drake detoured back to his apartment to take a shower. The smell had got into his nose and even clung to his clothes.

  The Incident Room had an end-of-the-week feel. It was going to be a day of tidying the loose ends in the hope that by Monday the investigation would have minds fresh from the weekend. Drake settled into reading the complete forensic report from Hopkin’s home, which only confirmed the paucity of evidence. Fiona Blackwell’s fingerprints were all over the property as well as Hopkin’s and two others from the bedroom that weren’t on record. The glass shards scooped up by the back door yielded no evidence, which troubled Drake. If it was a typical burglary he expected some forensic trace, a piece of fabric caught on the door, soil or gravel brought in on the soles of shoes. It meant the culprit was well organised and forensically aware: exactly like the Patton scene.

  Finally, he read again the post-mortem report on Hopkin. Unlike the report on Patton it used the common language for a violent murder and death from a repeated attack with a large knife and massive blood loss. They had no murder weapon and no DNA evidence to help them. After a final catch-up session with the rest of the team Drake headed home. On Saturday he was taking his daughters bowling and for pizza.

  * * *

  He woke that Sunday morning refreshed from a good night’s sleep, knowing his time yesterday with his daughters had done him good. He recalled the smiling faces of Helen and Megan as they squealed with delight as the pins fell to their accurate bowling. And their disappointment that they couldn’t play for longer. Afterwards, over pizza and ice cream, Helen had asked if he was searching for a serial killer, and he’d realised his daughters were growing up too quickly.

  After breakfast he couldn’t stop thinking about the culprit as a deranged artist whose tweets and YouTube videos really did reflect what he thought. Or else he was a sick individual who wanted to deflect the attention and make the WPS think it was an artist at work. So he decided to spend an hour at his desk.

  In the Incident Room he scanned the images of the persons of interest as he mentally ticked them off. Buckland had a motive for both killings, enough of a temper and a history of violence to make him a prime suspect. Drake couldn’t help but think they had missed something important in his background.

  The excitement at the arrest of Geraint Wood had been short-lived. His girlfriend had provided the crucial alibi Wood needed for the morning after Patton’s death but it still meant he might have killed Hopkin. Or had Amber been involved? Or perhaps both of them? There was no image of Amber on the board so his gaze drifted to Jeremy Ellingham, the other artist disappointed by Patton. But his girlfriend had given him an alibi, too, and he and Falk were now the two new committee members ensuring the festival would continue.

  He walked over to his room and booted up his computer before carefully moving the piles of Post-it notes to one side. He found Ellingham’s website easily enough and watched again some of the videos. None made any sense. None had anything he associated with art. An email from Luned caught his attention alongside one from Superintendent Price. He scanned Luned’s message referring to a gallery that had rejected Ellingham’s work as disgusting and sordid before she summarised a background search on Amber Falk that told him nothing new. Returning to read Price’s email, he saw with alarm his suggestion that if there was nothing connecting Hopkin to Patton it might be prudent in due course for another team to take over the Hopkin inquiry. It annoyed Drake intensely that Price was even contemplating such a thing. It was too early to involve another team.

  Grudgingly Drake acknowledged that nothing obvious connected the deaths. The crime scenes were different and the lives of Hopkin and Patton never crossed – except for the festival, and that niggled in Drake’s mind.

  His thoughts returned to the Patton crime scene and he remembered that Luned had pinned to
the board a photograph of it. That the Emin My Bed had sold for two million pounds shocked Drake. Where would someone exhibit it? Why would anyone want to buy it?

  He typed ‘unmade bed’ into a Google search and scanned the results. He followed various links and read comments about My Bed by Tracey Emin being described as iconic and representative of the irreverent British art of the nineties. Modern art had no boundaries and there was little chance he would ever understand it. How many ordinary people enjoyed this sort of art, Drake pondered.

  He spent another hour following the results of the search for modern art. The screen filled with dozens of images of multicoloured canvases. One article described Tracey Emin as one of the top-ten woman artists and so he searched other women artists and feminist art until he reached a page on the internet that he promised himself would be his last. This time he clicked on the images button and the screen filled with an eclectic mixture. Drake scrolled down, deciding he would spend only a few more minutes on this task, knowing he had wasted far too much time already.

  He closed the browser, overwhelmed by a feeling that he had missed something. Years of policing had taught him to follow his instinct. So he reopened the browser and searched again for feminist art. It was on the fourth line that he stopped and looked at the images of an elaborate dining table. Then he recalled Hopkin’s dinner guests, who they hadn’t been able to trace. Fiona Blackwell had never heard of him entertaining people.

  He followed the links to the Wikipedia page of Judy Chicago – the artist responsible for The Dinner Party piece. The place settings for The Dinner Party were for famous women in history. Drake’s enthusiasm waned.

  Chicago.

  A picture of the city’s airport had been tucked into the album on the sideboard.

  Yet Hopkin had never visited the place.

  Drake stood up, pushed his chair away from his desk and marched into the Incident Room. He had to remind himself of everything about the scene in Hopkin’s home. Things had to make sense. He squinted at the framed photographs on one of the shelving units. It was an image of Gwynfor Evans, one of the most prominent Welsh politicians of the previous century.

  An idea formed in his mind.

  He scoured more of the images the CSIs had taken. On the table was a discarded blister pack and at the time Drake thought nothing of it. But what if it had some symbolic meaning? Then from the depths of his memory he recalled a history professor from university speaking at length about the three greatest Welsh men of the twentieth century. He already had a link to Gwynfor Evans. Perhaps – though it was a weak link – the blister pack might signify the creation of the NHS and its founder Aneurin Bevan.

  All he had to do was find the reference to the third man.

  Behind the image of Evans on the shelves were books by David Lloyd George, the wartime prime minster – the third eminent Welshman? Drake counted the books quickly. At least two dozen. His pulse quickened and his mouth dried.

  He yanked the telephone off its cradle and found the home number of the lawyer handling Hopkin’s estate. ‘Don’t touch the house until we’ve been there again.’

  The voice sounded startled. ‘Of course. Can you tell me what this is about?’

  ‘Just do as I say and call Fiona Blackwell and tell her not to go inside.’

  Drake rang off without replying.

  He looked over at the board, convinced that now he had a link between Hopkin and Patton’s murders.

  Chapter 22

  ‘I hope this isn’t a waste of time.’ Foulds wore a casual shirt over a pair of washed-out blue jeans. He stood next to Drake on the drive at Hopkin’s home waiting for the rest of his team to arrive. It was Sunday. Children were shouting in a nearby garden and an elderly couple walking a Labrador both gave Drake and Foulds a long, inquisitive glance.

  ‘The finance department have been complaining about the overtime last month. So this exercise this morning had better be a valuable use of my team.’

  Drake hoped so too. A van pulled into the drive in front of them and two investigators got out. Once pleasantries were exchanged they trooped off towards the house. Drake opened the rear door and led the others inside. The living room smelt of old furniture, but as Drake surveyed it, he noticed nothing else had been changed. He turned his attention to the shelving at the far end of the room.

  ‘Did you dust all the Lloyd George books?’

  Foulds looked puzzled. ‘We would have dusted the shelves but not each book.’

  ‘I want all the Lloyd George books dusted for prints.’

  ‘What? Every book?’ Foulds said.

  ‘Drake nodded. ‘And all the photograph albums and any personal items you find.’

  ‘Is there a purpose to all of this?’

  Drake looked at Foulds, wondering what his reaction might be to his theory of a connection between Hopkin and Gloria Patton. He doubted Mike Foulds would be persuaded by his notion the killer had staged the dining room to mimic a work of feminist art.

  ‘I need a complete picture of all the forensics from this room – make sure we haven’t missed anything.’

  Foulds frowned. The look in his eyes told Drake he guessed there was more to it. Drake decided against risking further interrogation from Foulds and he reached for his mobile, excusing himself. ‘I need to speak to Hopkin’s housekeeper.’

  He had tried calling her three times on the journey down to Llanrwst but each time the call had gone to a messaging service. His fourth attempt failed too. He returned to the living room and spoke to Foulds. ‘I have to speak to a witness. I’ll be back shortly.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, turned on his heels and left.

  Drake jogged down to his car. It was a short drive to the home of Fiona Bakewell. The streets were quiet although Drake spotted a couple of walkers with hiking poles sauntering through the town. He parked outside her bungalow and walked up the drive. The doorbell rang out; the place sounded empty. He found a small gate that led to the rear of the property and pushed it open. An old wooden patio set stood on a random collection of concrete slabs, weeds poking out between the joints.

  He hammered on the back door but there was no sign of life. He heard someone shouting from the neighbouring garden. He turned and saw the face of a man in his seventies peering over at him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to Fiona.’

  ‘She’s not home.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Who exactly are you?’ The man folded his arms.

  It wasn’t the time for belligerence. Drake found his warrant card and walked over to the boundary fence. ‘Detective Inspector Drake, Wales Police Service. Do you know where she might be?’

  ‘Try her… friend.’

  This man was trying his patience. ‘Just tell me the address. It’s police business.’

  The man gazed again at Drake’s warrant card as though he wondered if it was a fake. He gave Drake the name of an estate in the town but was vague about the precise number although he identified Fiona’s friend’s name – Joe Yates. It took Drake another half an hour to find the small estate, knocking on two front doors before he was pointed in the direction of a bungalow, two galvanised planters either side of the front door with sweet peas climbing over a wooden trellis pinned to the wall.

  ‘Joe Yates?’ Drake had his warrant card ready as the door opened. ‘I need to speak to Fiona Bakewell.’

  Yates stared at Drake but shouted over his shoulder. ‘Fiona, someone to see you.’

  Drake heard movement in the house behind Yates, who filled the doorway. Moments later Fiona appeared. Drake didn’t bother with pleasantries.

  ‘I need you to come and look at something in Rhisiart Hopkin’s home.’

  She gave him a puzzled look. ‘It’s Sunday.’

  Yates added in a deep voice. ‘We’re going out now. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’

  Despite himself, Drake forced a pleading tone to his voice. ‘It would be very helpful if you could spare a few m
inutes.’

  It did the trick; Yates moved to one side as Fiona found her jacket and walked with Drake to his car. Foulds and his team were still hard at work when Drake entered the living room with Fiona. She looked, open-mouthed, at all the activity.

  Drake turned to Fiona. ‘Take a close look at these books. Have they always been there? Is there anything unusual about them?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. Surely you don’t expect me to remember all the books he had on the shelves.’

  ‘You must have noticed if he changed the books when you cleaned?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult… I mean. I dusted, of course. And I cleaned. But I didn’t keep track of every book.’

  ‘Take a good look. This is really important.’ Drake glanced over at Foulds whose expression had now turned to incredulity. An edge of self-doubt crept into Drake’s mind.

  ‘He had lots of books. He did a lot of reading.’

  Volumes on Welsh history, and various textbooks about the Second World War and the history of various famous families filled the shelves. There was not a work of fiction in sight, not a single Ian Rankin novel or even one of the classics from the nineteenth century.

  ‘Take a step back; I want you to look really hard. Do the books look familiar or are some new?’

  Fiona swallowed, stumbled over her words, obviously getting flustered. ‘It’s difficult. I know he made a record of when he bought every book.’

  ‘A record? What do you mean?’

  ‘I was here one day when a delivery of books arrived. He noted down in pencil inside on one of the first pages when he had bought them.’

  Drake stared back at the bookshelf. There was only one thing to do.

  He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Returning to the bookshelf, he removed delicately a biography of Winston Churchill. He placed it on the table, taking care not to finger the cover too much as he opened the book. On the title page he found in a neat pencil – ‘January 2013 Arden bookshop’.