Then he reached for another book, which recounted the Eighth Army’s campaign in North Africa during the Second World War. The relief in his mind was palpable when he found another pencil annotation.
The next was one of the books written by David Lloyd George.
Blood thumped in his neck as he took it to the table.
Excitement built as he flicked past the title page and on to the first pages of the book without finding any annotation. He glanced round the investigators. There was a mixture of bewilderment and uncertainty on their faces. Methodically he worked through another two volumes authored by David Lloyd George. The earlier excitement turned to certainty and exhilaration.
He gazed at Fiona who was chewing her lip. His belligerence had given way to greater clarity. He stared over at the memoirs of David Lloyd George. Was he right that the killer had constructed the living room as another sick and deranged piece of art?
Drake turned to Mike Foulds. ‘I want every book catalogued, and notes made of whenever a book has a pencil record added by Rhisiart Hopkin.’ Foulds narrowed his eyes.
‘Maybe you think all this is necessary.’ Foulds crossed his arms. ‘There had better be a good reason for this extra work.’
Drake owed Foulds an explanation. For now, it could wait.
‘Let me have a full report once you’re finished.’
Drake looked over at Fiona. ‘I’ll take you home.’ Drake retraced his route to the home of John Yates. As Fiona left the car Drake leant over. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’
On the journey back up the Conwy Valley Drake pressed a Bruce Springsteen greatest hits album into the CD player and found one of his favourite tracks – ‘Thunder Road’. He had made progress. He tried to forget the probable, inevitable objection that Price might raise to his notion about the Rhisiart Hopkin crime scene. For Drake it answered that simple question – both deaths were connected. They were looking for the same killer.
A message reached his mobile as he neared the Black Cat roundabout. It was Huw Jackson reminding him about the party and telling him he was looking forward to seeing him later. Drake hadn’t mentioned the invitation to his mother or to Sian and definitely not to his sister. It intrigued him; part of him wanted to know about the family he never knew existed, but another part was wary, uncertain how he might feel, how he would react, how it would affect his memory of his father. What would his father have wanted? He knew the answer, so when he got back to his flat he showered and changed his clothes.
He stood in front of the mirror in the hallway and checked his appearance. There were bags under his eyes. A few good nights’ sleep might help, Drake thought.
* * *
The following morning restful sleep had eluded Drake. He yawned as he drove the short distance into headquarters his mind still thinking about the events of the day and evening before. Huw Jackson had been welcoming and his children, a man in his twenties and a daughter a couple of years younger, had been courteous and kind. They had also made him feel welcome and he had chatted easily to Jackson’s late wife’s family. The time had flown until he had made his excuses and left. On the doorstep Jackson had thanked Drake, grasping him firmly by the hand, telling him how pleased he was to see him.
Drake pulled up by a traffic light as early morning shoppers crossed in front of him. His father would have approved and he would call his mother later and tell her about the evening. But Sian and Susan would be different. For now he postponed any decision about what he would tell them.
He parked the Ford away from other cars before walking over to the main entrance. A smell of furniture polish hung in the air of the Incident Room and immediately he worried the cleaners might have disturbed the neatness on his desk. It pleased him that nothing had been moved, although the bin had been emptied.
He sat down and got straight into summarising yesterday’s events in a report for Price. He felt justified that the gut feeling Price had disparaged was vindicated.
Sara was the first to arrive and he acknowledged her greeting but carried on with his report. Gareth and Luned arrived soon afterwards and Drake tried to block out the noise drifting into his office.
He heard Gareth and Luned joking with Sara. Then the telephone starting ringing in the Incident Room. He heard Luned advise that Inspector Drake was in his office. He resented being interrupted so early.
The phone on his desk rang. ‘An officer wants to speak to you.’ There was a loud click on the line. Drake kept staring at the screen. He had written a clumsy sentence that didn’t make sense. It had to be changed.
‘DI Drake?’ It was a man’s voice, shaking. ‘Constable Geoff Williams.’
Drake heard shouting in the background and the sound of a woman sobbing loudly.
‘What is going on?’
‘There’s another body, sir.’
Drake stood up abruptly.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s sick and disgusting.’
‘Give me the details.’
Chapter 23
Drake accelerated hard out of the car park at headquarters. He jammed on the brakes as they reached the junction with the main road, their progress slowed by a funeral cortege. He slammed an open palm against the steering wheel.
‘Nothing you can do, sir,’ Sara said.
‘Who the hell gets buried on a Monday morning?’
As soon as the words left his lips he realised it was an idiotic statement. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the scientific support vehicle drawing up behind him. Moments later he nudged the car into the traffic, flashing his headlights and waving at the oncoming drivers. It did the trick, they slowed and allowed him in. Luckily the hearse wasn’t heading for the A55 so Drake managed to accelerate down to the dual carriageway.
Once he was in the outside lane, he floored the accelerator. He heard the sirens from patrol cars and an ambulance. He didn’t need the satnav to tell him the length of the journey to Conwy. Drake ignored the speed restriction signs and raced past the traffic before indicating for the turn-off for Conwy.
‘Did the officer give you any more details?’ Sara said.
Drake clenched his jaw as he recalled the description from the officer. ‘It sounds just like the scene of Gloria Patton’s death.’
Drake sped over the bridge towards Conwy and then through the one-way system until he found a marked police car parked at an odd angle. A second patrol car parked, blocking the traffic, two officers directing people away from walking up the street. Drake pulled up near the shop and switched on his hazard lights. Behind him a third patrol car arrived. Two police officers emerged.
‘Make sure nobody gets anywhere near this building,’ Drake shouted.
Sara strode ahead of him as they made for the entrance.
An ashen-faced uniformed officer stood in the narrow hallway. ‘Geoff Williams. You won’t believe this, sir.’
‘Show us.’
Williams led them upstairs to the first-floor office. The off-white colour of the bare wooden floors created a dirty-looking effect. Each wall had been covered with a similar white paint. Against the wall immediately in front of Drake was a table, its surface covered with CDs scattered in no apparent order. Williams walked over to the front window and grimaced as he nodded towards the far end of the room.
Drake stared in disbelief at the spectacle. His heart pounded against his chest. Williams had been right; whoever was responsible for this had a sick and disgusting mind. A man’s body stood upright in a large Perspex box. He wore blue jeans and his shirt had the logo of an expensive designer brand. But what took Drake’s attention was the plastic shark’s head pressed over the upper part of the man’s torso.
‘Jesus,’ Sara gasped.
The shark’s teeth glistened.
‘Another body dead on its feet,’ Sara mumbled through a hand clasped to her mouth.
In a corner a few feet away from the shark-headed man a monitor played edited scenes from the film Jaws. Robert Shaw and Roy Sch
neider embarked on the final part of the movie where they destroyed the giant fish.
Drake turned as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching over the wooden floor. He glanced over at Mike Foulds.
‘Fucking hell,’ Foulds said as he stared, open-mouthed. ‘It’s got to be the same killer.’
‘There has got to be some evidence, something that might tell us who this madman is.’
Foulds scanned the rest of the room. ‘Who found the body? Has the place been contaminated?’
‘A woman employed by a contract cleaning company found him sir,’ Williams replied.
‘Where is she now?’ Drake asked, moving away from the body.
‘Downstairs with my colleague. She was very distressed.’
Three more crime scene investigators entered the office as Drake and Sara made their way to the ground floor. Another uniformed officer introduced a woman in her fifties sitting in the staff area of the second-hand clothes shop on the ground floor. She wiped away tears as she saw Drake approaching. The colour of her skin reminded Drake of the floorboards upstairs.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Ian Drake, and this is Detective Sergeant Morgan. We need to ask you some questions.’
She gulped for breath and grasped a plastic beaker tightly.
‘Did you see anyone when you arrived?’
She blinked furiously. ‘I swapped shifts. I was only doing Jennie a favour.’
‘Did you have a set of keys for the office?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘The boss gave them to me. The place was supposed to be empty. I was only supposed to clean. Make sure everything was neat and tidy.’
‘Who do you work for?’
Sara jotted down the name of her employers. It would be the next thing on the lengthening to-do list that morning. As Drake left the shop, a message from Mike Foulds reached his mobile – Est id. Contact me.
‘Let’s go back upstairs; they’ve been able to identify the victim.’
Drake took the stairs to the first-floor office two at a time, Sara following. A white-suited Mike Foulds stood by the window thumbing another message on his mobile. He looked surprised when Drake walked in. ‘That was quick. Your victim is one Noel Sanderson.’
The name Sanderson rang a vague bell and Drake tried to drag the recognition from his memory. Drake turned to Sara. ‘Ring area control. Find out if a Noel Sanderson has been reported missing. And tell Winder to contact the cleaning company.’
Drake remembered the video taken from the van near the shop where Gloria Patton had been found. ‘Outside now,’ he said to Sara.
He bounded back downstairs, almost falling onto the pavement. Sara stood by his side. ‘Look for a van. Anything where he could be filming.’
Drake quickly scanned all the cars parked nearby and then jogged a few metres along the road, lowering his head so that he could peer inside each vehicle, but there was no sign of any camera equipment. He turned back and ran towards Sara who scanned the buildings on the opposite side of the street. ‘No sign of anything, boss.’ Drake loosened his tie. His mobile rang and he fumbled for it from his jacket.
‘I’m on my way to see the owner of the cleaning company,’ Winder said.
‘Call me as soon as you have anything.’
Drake noticed an estate agent’s To Let board fixed to the front elevation of the building. Drake tapped the number into his mobile and once his call was answered he demanded an address. He finished the call. ‘Let’s go and talk to the estate agent.’
They found the offices easily enough after a brisk walk. The place had a professional, busy feel with staff in colour-coordinated uniforms. A slim woman in her early thirties, with long hair and precise make-up got up and walked over to Drake and Sara. She smiled at them, obviously assessing their value as potential purchasers.
‘I need to speak to the owner.’ Drake showed his warrant card. ‘This is police business.’
The smile disappeared. She returned to her desk and picked up the telephone. Moments later a man appeared from an office at the far end of the room and hurried over to them.
‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan. A body was found this morning in an office that you have to let.’ Drake turned to Sara who gave the estate agent the address.
Drake lowered his voice. ‘Is there somewhere we can discuss this?’
‘Yes, of course. Come through.’
He waved Drake and Sara to a couple of chairs and sat down behind his desk.
‘What happened?’ he asked in hushed tones.
‘We need details of who owns the property and who had access.’
The agent made no reply but started clicking with his mouse as he stared at the monitor. ‘The property is owned by an investor who lives in London. We’ve been offering it as a self-contained office suite for the past six months. We’ve had six people show interest in it. We accompanied a prospective tenant only last week.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Damien Hirst.’
‘What?’ Drake spluttered. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘That was his name.’ The agent gave Drake a puzzled look.
‘Don’t you know who Damien Hirst is?’
‘I’ve never heard the name before, but I’ve got an address here.’ He scribbled the details on a Post-it note and thrust it over at Drake. Drake frowned, showed it to Sara.
‘Have you got a contact number?’
The agent stared at the screen again. ‘No… sorry. Normally we do take a number, but we didn’t this time for some reason.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He had a full beard, really thick, and he was dressed very smartly. He had a heavy navy pinstripe suit and dark rimmed spectacles.’
The description didn’t fit any of the suspects but the beard and glasses could all be props used as a disguise and Drake imagined Buckland or Wood or even Ellingham dressed like this.
Sara made her first contribution. ‘We’ll need a complete list of everyone else that you have shown around the property.’
‘Yes, I understand.’ The agent paled before their eyes. He clicked a few times with his mouse, and the printer behind him whirred into life. He picked up the printed sheets and handed them to her.
‘We may need to speak to you again.’
The agent looked startled. Drake and Sara stood up.
‘What if he contacts me again?’
Drake stared at the estate agent. ‘He won’t.’
Moments later they were standing on the pavement outside the agency when Drake’s mobile rang. ‘You were right, boss,’ Winder said. ‘Noel Sanderson was reported missing last night.’
Chapter 24
As Drake drove out of Conwy heading for the tunnel through the mountains towards Penmaenmawr, a message reached his mobile sitting in the cradle on the dashboard.
‘It’s a missing persons report.’ Sara stared at his screen.
The journey only took a few minutes to the nearby town and Drake found the address without any difficulty.
Drake parked and read the report, lodged late the evening before by Sanderson’s husband, Jack Smith. Reading that Sanderson was an artist, he made the connection. ‘I thought I recognised his name. He was one of the artists exhibiting at the Orme Arts Festival.’
Sara raised her eyebrows. ‘Someone has it in for them.’
Drake decided against sharing with her his theory regarding the death of Hopkin. He had a grieving husband to see. ‘Let’s go.’ Drake left the car and they crossed over to the black painted front door.
Jack Smith had a long chin and protruding eyes that stared at Drake and Sara in turn. His thick jet-black hair glistened.
Drake introduced himself and Sarah. ‘I’m afraid we have some news about Noel Sanderson. May we come in?’
Smith’s eyes filled with tears, his lower lip quivering. Drake didn’t need to say any more; the look on their faces must have told him instantly what he feared. They fo
llowed him through into a seating area with a high, vaulted ceiling and two immaculate leather sofas, one black and one white. They sat down opposite Smith.
‘He’s dead isn’t he?’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Drake replied.
Smith covered his face with the strong fingers from his broad hands. He brushed away the tears before finding a handkerchief and blowing his nose, composing himself.
‘Can you tell me where Noel was going yesterday?’
‘He…’ Smith faltered. ‘He was supposed to be going to see a new gallery owner, someone who wanted to exhibit his work locally. Somebody willing to offer Noel a much bigger share of the sale proceeds. When he didn’t return home I knew something was wrong. We were supposed to be going out for dinner. I called his mobile dozens of times and I called all our friends.’
‘Do you have the contact details of the person he was meant to be meeting?’
Smith shook his head. ‘Noel said he seemed to be well connected. He name-dropped various artists he knew. The man knew all about Conwy and gave Noel some flannel about it being an up-and-coming destination resort. Noel could be gullible sometimes.’
Colour slowly drained from Smith’s cheeks.
‘Where was he? I mean who found the… Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Did he suffer?’
Drake thought about the grotesque scene in the office building. ‘Noel’s body was found in a first-floor empty office suite.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘We’ll need you to make an identification later. But it would help us now if we could see Noel’s personal effects. Did he have his own studio? What sort of artist was Noel?’
Smith drew in deep breaths to calm his nerves but his voice shook as he spoke. ‘He’s… I mean… was an abstract artist. He liked to work on large canvases; he sought inspiration from the mountains and the sea and the wild open countryside around us.’
Smith stood up and led Drake and Sara to a room at the rear of the building. Sunshine flooded in from the skylights. A personal computer sat on a desk in one corner near a laptop. ‘Did Noel have a mobile telephone?’
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