‘You didn’t find it?’
‘We’ll need to remove the laptop and computer,’ Sara said. ‘I’ll arrange for another officer to collect them.’
Smith gave her an insipid nod.
Drake scanned the shelves of books as Sara continued. ‘A family liaison officer will call in due course. I’m sure you will find their assistance helpful. And if you find Noel’s mobile telephone then please let us know.’
Once they were finished Smith led them back to the front door. Drake could see the sadness in his eyes, despair at the death of a loved one.
‘He seemed genuine enough, boss.’
Drake nodded.
During the journey back to headquarters, Drake explained his theory about Rhisiart Hopkin’s dining table. Sara questioned the logic, challenged the very basis for him making such assumptions. After all, Rhisiart Hopkin had an extensive library of history books.
‘If it was the same killer then why didn’t he or she publish messages on Twitter or Facebook or post a video to YouTube?’
It was the biggest flaw in his argument.
‘Maybe the killer isn’t ready to publicise the Hopkin killing. There is some perverted logic in his mind that says he needn’t boast about it. But he leaves enough clues to tease us.’
‘I still think it’s a different killer. What you’re suggesting is quite fanciful, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. The deaths of Gloria Patton and now Noel Sanderson are similar. Famous pieces of art have definitely been copied.’
‘That’s exactly what he’s trying to do with Rhisiart Hopkin.’
‘I don’t… what does the superintendent think?’
Drake fell silent.
‘I need to discuss it with him later.’
But he wasn’t expecting a positive response. Price would probably snort in disbelief, dismiss his notions as lacking any evidential value.
Drake slowed the car as they drove through the tunnel under the estuary. Moments later they emerged and he accelerated towards Colwyn Bay.
Drake walked through headquarters, his mind troubled by the prospect of a meeting with Price, when his mobile rang. Drake hoped Mike Foulds had something to report from the scene that morning.
‘I thought you should know the results of the fingerprint analysis of the books was inconclusive.’
Drake paused as a stream of uniformed officers left a conference room ahead of him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘No fingerprints on any of them.’
‘Nothing? I mean, that’s odd isn’t it?’
‘You’re the detective. All I can tell you is that we didn’t find any trace of prints on the books. Maybe Hopkin handled them with gloves, some people do that with valuable books.’
Or maybe Hopkin hadn’t handled them at all – just the killer. He was forensically aware after all.
Drake reached the senior management suite and finished the call. At least it was progress of sorts. It confirmed what he believed, that the books had been planted and didn’t belong to Hopkin, but could he persuade Price?
Drake smiled at Hannah who nodded at the door to Price’s office. ‘He’s expecting you.’
Price stood by his desk clutching the telephone handset when Drake walked in. The superintendent gestured to a chair. Drake sat down and noticed Price’s jaw twitching.
‘He’s with me now,’ Price said, glancing at Drake.
He nodded his head, growled and rolled his eyes at Drake as the one-way conversation continued. Finally, he slumped into his leather executive chair and blew out a mouthful of breath. ‘That was ACC Jones. He wants regular reports about the investigation. Did I tell you that I worked with him as a DI in Cardiff?’
Price hadn’t made eye contact and Drake worried that the involvement of senior management would mean more interference.
‘He was good to work with back then. A real team player, but now…’
Price could be abrupt – diplomacy didn’t come easily – but Drake had never heard him making any derogatory comments about a superior officer before.
‘So tell me about the latest murder.’ Price shuffled papers around on his desk.
‘It looks like another staged killing.’
Price creased his forehead and raised an incredulous eyebrow as Drake explained about the shark’s head and the images of the Jaws movie.
‘Wasn’t there a controversial piece of art involving a shark?’ Price said.
Drake nodded. ‘It was a piece by Damien Hirst. He preserved a tiger shark in formaldehyde in vitrine. It’s called The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living.’
Price spluttered. ‘What? A dead fucking shark?’
‘It must be the same killer.’
‘Dead right and a sick bastard at that. Who was the victim?’
‘Noel Sanderson. We’ve just seen his husband.’ It surprised Drake that Price didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Years ago there would have been a non-politically correct comment. ‘Sanderson was an artist. He specialised in big abstract canvases. And he was one of those exhibiting in the Orme Arts Festival.’
‘So was he connected to Gloria Patton?’
‘At the moment the only thing in common is the festival.’
Drake decided to discuss Hopkin with Price. Something connected all three deaths. ‘I had some more forensic work undertaken at Hopkin’s home yesterday.’
Price’s telephone rang and he gave a brief acknowledgement to the caller. ‘I’ll look at it now.’ Then he turned to Drake. ‘Go on.’
‘I think that Hopkin’s death was staged too.’
Price stared at the screen and clicked on his mouse. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was intended to mimic a famous piece of art by Judy Chicago.’
‘Really?’ Price wasn’t listening, his eyes still peering at the monitor.
‘Hopkin’s housekeeper says he had never been to Chicago.’
‘Chicago, what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s the artist’s name and we found a postcard of Chicago on Hopkin’s dresser.’
Price didn’t respond so Drake paused, but it had little effect.
Drake persevered. ‘Judy Chicago built an enormous dining table to represent famous women. I believe the killer was trying to represent famous Welsh politicians.’ Drake continued with his explanation, watching as Price looked over at him with increasing incredulity. But he pressed on.
‘Why the hell would the killer want to do that?’
Drake shrugged. ‘Why did he build the…’ Drake struggled for the right word to describe the scene in the shoe shop. ‘Display? It was sick. Now there’s the death of Sanderson.’ Price had turned his attention back to the monitor. Drake persisted. ‘We’ve got another macabre death. They are all connected.’
Price looked over at Drake. ‘You’ve got nothing to suggest Hopkin’s death is the same sort of set-up as the other two. He was stabbed for Christ’s sake.’
‘But the evidence about the table—’
‘That’s stretching it, Ian.’
‘None of the Lloyd George books had any fingerprints. As though they had all been wiped clean.’
Price cocked his head. ‘I grant you that might be odd but it doesn’t give you any basis to suggest it was the same killer.’
‘But, sir, it makes sense if you…’ Drake stopped when he noticed Price had returned to stare at the screen on his desk.
‘The public relations department have sent me a draft press release. A local journalist has got hold of the fact the body was covered in a shark’s head,’ Price announced as he stood up and walked over to the printer that spewed out sheets of paper. He handed one to Drake who scanned the standard bland phrases assuring the public everything was being done to identify the killer and to interview witnesses, adding the special dedicated helpline number. It disheartened Drake when he guessed that within hours there would be dozens of crank calls.
‘Forget the Hopkin link, Ian. It’s a waste of time.’<
br />
Chapter 25
Someone said that politics was the art of the possible. I wonder what he would have said about my art. It is accessible and readily discernible by everyone. Except those with no understanding of the concepts behind my work and what it means and how it affects people. I didn’t risk taking another video, even though I was sorely tempted. I have so much more to achieve and I needed to be careful so I watched the charade from a distance. I wanted to laugh aloud when that detective came out of the office and looked around the street like some frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.
He scurried around with his sidekick like something from a pantomime.
I almost pissed myself laughing as they ran up the road staring into cars and gazing up at the windows of the buildings. Then I lost sight of them. I tried to guess where they would go first. I cut through to a side street and saw them entering the estate agents that handled the letting of the property.
Damien Hirst. Using his name had been inspirational. The agent had no idea. He didn’t flinch when I gave him the name and a phoney address. He was typical of the ill-informed, uneducated masses. Society had a lot to learn about how it saw itself and how it should appreciate fine art. They were taking so long and I wondered what they could be talking about with such a nonentity? Eventually they came out and I followed them back to their car.
I guessed they would visit the grieving family next. Preparation was key to all of this, of course, and I’d binged on all the television detective favourites for weeks beforehand just to get into the mindset of the police. I couldn’t leave anything to chance.
The war mongers would call Sanderson collateral damage. Nice phrase that. Makes me think of that film with Arnold Schwarzenegger where he slaughters a bunch of Colombians who killed his family.
I drifted back into the crowds milling around in the centre of town. I ate a late breakfast and drank bad coffee. A customer at the table next to mine spoke loudly about the SWAT teams arriving in the middle of Conwy. Everyone knows SWAT teams only exist in the US so he was another person whose whole life experiences had been formed by watching rubbish television.
A woman with a broad Liverpool accent shouted behind me. ‘Two people have been slaughtered. There’s blood and guts all over the place.’
For an instant I wanted to turn round and correct her. But I had to be careful. Not even that estate agent would recognise me if he came into the café and sat down by my side. So I enjoyed a contented feeling that despite the commotion I knew exactly what had transpired and that I was responsible. It was surely only a matter of time until I could share my success.
After paying, I left and spent an hour walking through the town. Seagulls squawked and shrilled around me and I found myself wandering down to the quayside where I stopped and watched the pleasure craft bobbing up and down on the sea. I walked over towards the castle and paid the entrance fee. I declined the offer of a guide book. King Edward I built the castle and imported English people to live in the new town constructed inside the castle walls in the hope of colonising Wales. Listening to all the various English accents that morning, I knew nothing much had changed.
You had to admire the sheer audacity of the king responsible. The castle cemented his place in history. As powerful art is remembered for centuries. Just look at van Gogh and all the great masters. A breeze picked up by the time I was on top of the battlements looking down into the town and over the estuary. Everywhere looked still and tranquil.
I retraced my steps through the narrow passageways of the castle, running a hand occasionally against the damp, cold walls. Outside, I sat on a low wall in the warm sunlight, wondering if I had to rework any of my plans for the next installation.
I paced over to the end of the grassy section, passing the remains of the royal apartments before I followed the passageway into one of the inner chambers I had chosen. As I entered, I stopped abruptly, shocked. A dozen or more children were shouting and bawling. This wouldn’t do at all. It was my space and I needed it exclusively. My chest tightened. I left and stood outside, my back to a wall, gently letting my breathing return to normal. I calmed as the kids barged past, followed by their parents calling out warnings to the sprogs to be careful as they ran around.
I relaxed as I stepped back inside.
The empty room.
I closed my eyes and imagined the place full of English knights and Welsh servants from the thirteenth century. I had carefully thought out each step of the installation’s construction. I rehearsed it again in my mind. The sound of approaching voices broke my concentration so I headed for the exit.
After all, I had tweets to send.
Chapter 26
Reports from the crime scene in Conwy filtered back to the Incident Room where Winder had been unable to concentrate on the work in hand, much to Luned’s annoyance. After Drake and Sara had rushed out earlier that morning Luned focused on the to-do list on her desk.
She wanted to convince herself that settling into a working routine with Winder was going to take time. She needed to be patient, but he was so annoying. She hoped that monosyllabic answers to his comments would encourage him to get back to work. It didn’t seem to have any effect; he even rang the area control office and flirted with one of the girls. Then he called the police station in Conwy, managing to waste twenty minutes gossiping with the officer about the discovery of the body. So she focused intently on the unfinished tasks Drake had allocated from the week before.
There were hours of CCTV coverage from various cameras covering the route from Llandudno to Llandudno Junction and down the Conwy Valley. It had been difficult knowing exactly where to start. But the village of Glan Conwy had a strictly enforced thirty mile an hour limit so she decided it might offer the best opportunity for recording the number plates of vehicles.
She took a moment to reread the various statements and remind herself that she was looking for a red car – possibly with the letters RTF, uncertain age.
She settled on a date fourteen days before Hopkin’s death despite Drake’s suggestion she go back only seven days. Even if it meant working late that evening and every other evening that week she was determined to make an impression on Inspector Drake.
It took her a couple of hours to become accustomed to the angle of the cameras and she settled into a routine of fast-forwarding the coverage so that she could spot red cars without having to watch in real time. By mid-morning she rubbed her temple, hoping that the developing headache would disappear.
She stared at images of various vans and trucks, including oil and fuel delivery tankers. Builders merchants’ lorries passed back and forth regularly during the day. She finished the first day and sat back in her chair before deciding to organise a coffee. She looked over at Winder. He was chewing gum energetically, clicking on his computer while staring at the screen.
‘Coffee?’ Luned said.
‘Great, thanks and bring that packet of pastries I left in fridge this morning. I’m starving.’
In the kitchen Luned readied two mugs as the electric kettle boiled. Winder had previously warned her that Drake was fussy about his coffee so she was careful not to disturb the small cafetière and his cup and saucer. Sellotaped to the inside of a cupboard door was a list of the team’s preferences so she checked for Winder’s choice. Then she returned to the Incident Room and dropped the bag of confectionery onto Winder’s desk before putting his milky coffee alongside it.
A smile creased his face as he pulled out a Danish pastry before offering her one.
‘No thanks, I’m not hungry.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Winder made a contented sound as he ate through his first mouthful.
Luned went back to her desk. Another hour took her towards the end of the second day and idly she calculated it might take her two full days to watch the coverage from each day. A nagging doubt filled her mind that going back fourteen days hadn’t been such a wise choice.
She recognised some of the familiar builde
rs merchants’ lorries by the third day. There were more caravans and cars with bicycles strapped to carriers on roofs and tailgates. It surprised her there hadn’t been more red vehicles. She noted the number of each one and then requested the details of every registered keeper from the DVLA system. Nearly all had been from visitors with addresses across the border in Cheshire or Liverpool. She assembled a list of the local cars and called various startled members of the public, mostly happy to tell her the nature of their business in Glan Conwy.
By lunchtime, Winder wandered over to her desk.
‘How are you getting on?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Have you heard about the latest body?’
She shook her head.
‘Some sad bastard has dressed up the victim with a plastic shark’s head.’
Luned raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The body was standing up in a tank. That’s what the sergeant in Conwy told me. We are dealing with a right psychopath.’
‘It sounds like a piece of art by Damien Hirst.’ Luned couldn’t remember the title but guessed Winder didn’t know who Damien Hirst was. He gave her a quizzical look.
‘The boss will tell us all about it when he’s back.’
‘Of course’
‘I’m going for a sandwich, are you coming?’
Luned shook her head. The prospect of watching CCTV coverage seemed more enjoyable than spending time with Winder. ‘I want to finish this, bring me a sandwich back.’
Luned got back to work.
By the evening of the fourth day she had another half a dozen cars to be eliminated. She sat back and stretched her arms over her head. Another red car appeared onscreen; this time it held her attention and she couldn’t immediately think why. So she reached for the pause button and rewound the coverage five minutes. She stared at the monitor, wondering if she was going completely mad. The lunchtime sandwich Winder had brought lay half-eaten on her desk.
A red car returned. She paused the coverage. She frowned and did a double-take. Then she realised it wasn’t the red car that caught her attention but the orange vehicle with a black roof in front of it. Gloria Patton had an orange car. She drew herself tightly up to the desk. She scribbled down the registration numbers for both vehicles and punched them into the system.
Dead on Your Feet Page 18