Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

‘Killing Gloria might have been revenge,’ Winder said.

  Drake nodded. ‘But Hopkin and Sanderson? Maybe the motive is about creating an opportunity to show off.’ It sounded outrageous, of course. Howells interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘What do we tell the press? Every news agency in the UK has asked me to comment. I even had one of the US networks calling because they’d learnt we had a serial killer on the loose. I need to write a press release.’

  ‘And I need to find this killer,’ Drake replied. ‘Put out a statement denouncing this appalling crime. Including an appeal for anybody who was in Conwy on the night Sanderson was killed to come forward with any helpful evidence. And also include an appeal for eyewitnesses who might have seen someone using a video camera or videoing on their phone on Llandudno prom.’

  ‘Come off it, Ian, without dates and times that will be impossible.’

  Grudgingly Drake acknowledged she was right. ‘Okay. But add that we have active lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Will you organise a press conference?’ Sara said.

  Howells paused before replying. ‘The superintendent will make that decision tomorrow.’

  It was late in the evening by the time Drake got home. He played the recorded messages on his home phone from his mother reminding him he had an arrangement to take the girls to see her next Sunday. She always reminded him, at least three times. Another message left by Sian asking if he could collect the girls from school one afternoon. It was too late to reply to either. He sat playing ‘Dark Side of the Moon’, a glass of whisky in one hand, trying to relax, but it was difficult.

  The images from the YouTube videos kept replaying themselves in front of his eyes. He had read dozens of tweets that included #Iamtheone. Once the initial few tweets had been broadcast various sick individuals had retweeted, sharing the original. The killer was out there revelling in this attention.

  When the Pink Floyd CD finished Drake left his drink and walked over to the window, staring out at the street outside, sensing sleep would elude him. He dragged on a coat, closed the flat door behind him and headed into town. Revellers poured out of a late-night bar, girls in short skirts giggled and hobbled around in high heels. It made him realise he hadn’t spoken with his daughters for a couple of days. He wondered how he would feel when they would be old enough to visit night clubs, have boyfriends. He shuddered at the prospect and hurried on past the closed shops and cafés.

  Eventually his eyes started to burn so he retraced his steps back to the apartment. He propped a scribbled note against the coffee machine to remind him to call the girls in the morning.

  * * *

  When the alarm woke Drake the following morning he couldn’t remember which day it was. He calmed his unease by reaching for the mobile telephone and reading the day and date. He showered, chose a navy suit from a German designer he had bought years previously when living with Sian meant more disposable income for purchasing an expensive suit. He draped the jacket over the chair in the kitchen, fingered the note from the night before and smiled to himself. He dialled his old home number: it was still difficult to think of it as just Sian’s number.

  ‘Hiya Dad,’ Helen said. ‘Are you going to be on TV again?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like that last time when you were in that press conference.’ Helen was older than Megan by two years but at ten she sounded like an adult.

  Drake asked her about school but got monosyllabic answers. He registered Megan’s voice in the background and Helen passed the handset to her.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten about Sunday?’

  Even at her tender age Megan could get reproach into the simplest of questions. ‘Of course not. I had a message from Nain last night. She’s looking forward to seeing you.’ Drake’s mother adored both girls and they enjoyed their time with her. ‘Let me speak to Mam.’

  Megan bellowed for Sian.

  ‘I got your message. I’m in the middle of—’

  ‘You’re always busy.’

  Drake paused.

  ‘Will you be able to take them on Sunday?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t disappoint them, Ian. Surely you can take one afternoon off work.’

  ‘I’ll call you later this week about the arrangements.’

  ‘I’d better get going or else the girls might be late for school.’

  After finishing the call Drake felt little appetite so he drank a coffee and left for headquarters. He squinted against the spring sunshine as he walked over to his car.

  Half an hour later he was parking outside the mortuary. He waited for the final bars of ‘Born in the USA’ to finish and left the car. The assistant still needed a personality transplant, but it must be depressing work shifting dead bodies around all day, Drake thought as he nodded him through.

  Dr Lee Kings cast a glance behind Drake. ‘Your beautiful new sergeant not with you this morning?’

  ‘You are not supposed to say things like that, Lee.’

  The assistant wheeled a trolley towards them.

  ‘Come on Ian. She’s gorgeous. Don’t be such a prude. You can’t be politically correct all the time.’

  Drake folded his arms, ignoring Kings’ comments.

  ‘I saw the photographs of the crime scene,’ Kings said, lowering the tone of his voice. ‘You’re looking for one sick individual.’

  ‘Have you seen the videos on YouTube?’

  Kings shook his head.

  ‘He’s been tweeting using the hashtag #Iamtheone. So I want you to tell me it’s the same killer.’

  Kings pulled back the sheet covering the body. Drake saw the intensity in Kings’ gaze, looking forward to the task ahead. Attending post-mortems as the senior investigating officer had always been the most challenging part of Drake’s work. The smell and the sound of saws and drills were the hardest to forget.

  ‘The killer might have used the same drug that caused Gloria Patton’s death. So we need to find the puncture wound,’ Kings said.

  The pathologist started a detailed examination of Sanderson’s legs, then his arms, before turning to the shoulders and neck. Then he smoothed his hands over the fleshy, flabby stomach. A few grey hairs protruded from Sanderson’s chest but otherwise he had little body hair.

  Drake cringed silently as Kings cut Sanderson open. Kings dictated aloud his conclusions as he worked, oblivious of Drake. Once he had finished Kings stood back. ‘Again, he has pulmonary oedema with no obvious cause other than possibly negative pressure oedema.’

  ‘Is that the same as Gloria Patton?’

  Kings nodded. ‘Build-up of fluid in the lungs was probably caused by a partially obstructed airway. The sux was administered directly into the muscle via the puncture wound on her arm.’

  ‘Does that mean he had medical experience?’

  ‘Not really. This sort of technical stuff is available on the internet these days. All you need to do is click on Wikipedia and it’ll give you a dozen ways to kill somebody without leaving much of a trace.’

  Kings paused before giving Drake a troubled glance. ‘I can’t find a puncture wound.’

  Drake nurtured a worry.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for the toxicology report,’ Kings added. ‘At least this time we’ll know which drugs to look for.’

  Kings leant over the body one more time, moving the head to one side. ‘There’s no sign of any bruising similar to the wound sustained by Gloria Patton. That suggests the killer was able to overcome Sanderson by administering some sort of drug, possibly something like flunitrazepam if he managed to slip it into a drink.’

  ‘In English?’

  ‘Rohypnol’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘Again the toxicology reports will tell us.’ Kings warmed to the prospect of such an explanation. ‘That might make sense. Rohypnol is mixed into orange juice or something to hide its taste. Once he’s unconscious the killer can administer the muscle relaxant.’

  ‘But there was no punctur
e wound.’

  ‘He could inject into the muscle from inside the mouth.’ Kings looked over at Drake.

  ‘So we’re looking for one clever individual.’ Kings made no reply. ‘When will you finish the report?’

  Kings rolled his eyes.

  ‘I need it yesterday, Lee.’

  ‘All right, I get the message. I’ll do what I can but I can’t promise anything.’

  Drake left Kings whistling along to a piece of classical music and once he was outside in the fresh morning sunshine he stood for moment, taking a couple of long, deep breaths. The ease at which anyone could access succinylcholine had disturbed him. He surveyed the sprawling hospital building. It meant the killer had probably disguised his identity by wearing scrubs and had walked around the theatre area with a confident swagger. But how would he have known where to look, what ampule to remove from the relevant fridge? Once they found that link it would only be a matter of time before they caught him.

  He drove back to headquarters and then straight for the crime scene investigators lab where he found Mike Foulds busy completing the forensic analysis of Sanderson’s clothes and his personal effects.

  ‘I’ve just come back from the post-mortem.’

  ‘Anything of interest?’

  ‘It was the same cause of death as Gloria Patton. He suffocated. The pathologist is going to organise toxicology tests. He might have been drugged too.’

  Foulds walked over to the clear panels of the Perspex box that encased Sanderson’s body. Drake knew the crime scene manager well and the dark, intense look on his face troubled Drake.

  ‘I watched the YouTube video. He must have taken a lot of time to get everything prepared. Describing him as forensically aware is an understatement. I can’t find anything, no skin fragments, or grit or soil and definitely no fingerprints. A couple of my team have been reconstructing the mechanism he used to keep Noel Sanderson upright. It was a simple wooden frame screwed to the floor once Sanderson was upright. He must have used some additional pieces of timber to brace the whole thing.’

  Drake stepped towards the wooden frame. Noel Sanderson had been strapped to it as he slowly suffocated. Drake chilled at the thought.

  Foulds turned up his nose. ‘You’re looking for a clever man, practical and very determined.’

  Drake turned to leave and glimpsed a television at the far end of the worktop. The screen had been frozen on the final frame of the YouTube video. Something took his attention. ‘Can you play that video again?’

  Foulds joined him. Drake tensed as he saw the white-suited killer preening himself around the office. Drake stared at the table in the background. On its surface were two glasses.

  ‘Can you enlarge those tumblers?’

  Foulds fidgeted with some of the controls until both glasses dominated the screen. Drake leant forward; the remains of an orange liquid was evident at the bottom of each.

  ‘Bastard.’

  Chapter 29

  It had been almost midnight the previous evening when Sara left headquarters, pleased to escape the fractious atmosphere. Drake had been abrasive, barking out instructions, making it difficult to know exactly what was on his mind. That morning the alarm woke her earlier than normal. She was determined to start the day pounding the tarmac. After a few warm-up exercises she set off for a brief run around the country lanes near where she lived. It cleared her thoughts, helping her prepare for the day ahead.

  Something niggled about the initial meeting with Jack Smith, Noel Sanderson’s husband. Perhaps it had been too rushed, or it might have been Drake’s abruptness; she decided to visit Smith again, and with Drake at the post-mortem it was the perfect opportunity. Routine maintenance work in one of the tunnels under the Conwy estuary delayed her journey as the trucks with registration numbers from all over Europe heading for the port at Holyhead slowed to a crawl. Eventually she emerged on the western side of the estuary and powered the car towards Penmaenmawr.

  After parking, she looked up at the old building owned by Jack Smith and Noel Sanderson. It looked drab, in need of render and a fresh coat of paint. From the outset of the investigation Sara had realised artists paid very little attention to the normal conventions of society. It was probably exactly that which made them artists, Sara thought, reminding herself of the apparent squalor in which Gloria and her partner lived.

  She walked over to the entrance and rang the bell repeatedly before Jack Smith dragged open the door. His stubble was a dirty white colour, the edges of the bags under his eyes edged in black. He wore the same dishevelled T-shirt and a pair of heavily stained jogging pants.

  Smith gave her a blank look. ‘What do you want?’

  Sara caught the tinge of alcohol on his rancid breath.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Noel.’ Sara smiled.

  Without saying anything further he turned his back on Sara, so she followed him inside and closed the door. Smith walked through into the main part of the building and Sara followed him into the large kitchen area. There was a makeshift table and benches constructed from recycled planks of wood. A daily newspaper lay in a heap by an old Lloyd Loom chair, a coffee mug had been plonked on the floor. Sara shivered; it would be the end of the afternoon before any sunshine found its way into the room. Until then it would be uninviting.

  Smith stood by the kitchen worktop staring out of the window. Overnight his skin had paled, the bags deepened. ‘Do you want a coffee or tea?’ He flicked on the electric kettle without waiting for her to reply.

  ‘Coffee, milk, no sugar, thank you.’

  ‘I can’t believe how you can do your job.’

  Sara paused, uncertain how to respond. Smith saved her the need.

  ‘Seeing all those dead bodies. This morning I woke up and all I could smell was decaying flesh from that room where I identified Noel.’

  The kettle switched itself off. Smith put a generous slug of whisky into his mug, poured water over the instant and then walked over to Sara. He sat on one of the benches opposite her. ‘You don’t want a…?’ He held up the whisky bottle.

  Sara shook her head.

  ‘It’s been difficult.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like.’

  Smith looked up at her as though he were checking her sincerity.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a little bit more about Noel.’

  ‘I gave a statement to one of the other officers. Was he killed by the same person who murdered Gloria Patton?’

  Sara fingered her mug and leant over the table slightly. ‘That’s one of the things we need to establish. What did Noel tell you about the man he was meeting?’

  Smith drew breath and released it slowly before replying. ‘I don’t know how much more I can help.’

  ‘Anything really, Mr Smith. The slightest details might be of value. For example, was Noel pleased he had been selected to exhibit at the Orme Arts Festival?’

  Smith smiled. ‘He was delighted. He couldn’t believe it. There is some hotshot art critic coming from London or one of those European cities. Noel thought it was a fantastic opportunity to have his work appreciated.’

  ‘Did he ever meet any of the other artists?’

  ‘The art world is very small. They all know each other. They all think the work done by the rest is rubbish.’

  ‘Did he mention Gloria Patton?’

  Smith winced as he took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Yes, I think so… He kept a diary.’

  Sara’s concentration sharpened. ‘Diary?’

  ‘Yes, he was a bit old-fashioned. He liked to keep things on paper.’

  Sara couldn’t recall any reference to a diary from the schedule of Sanderson’s belongings. Perhaps the officers from operational support were satisfied with the computer and a laptop, Sara thought, although she knew Drake would be unhappy the diary hadn’t been mentioned yesterday.

  ‘Do you know where he kept it?’

  Smith nodded. ‘I can probably find it.’

  He led Sara into a stud
y lined with plywood shelves. A small stereo system sat at one end, alongside it boxes all neatly labelled and numerous paperbacks. A quick glance told Sara they appeared to be in alphabetical order based on the author’s surname. Sara approved of the collection of television period dramas including the entire Downton Abbey series. Smith searched through the shelves and boxes until he found a collection of hardback diaries.

  ‘How far back do you want to go?’

  ‘Say, the last three years?’ Sara was only interested in the last few months in reality but decided three years sounded reasonable.

  Smith handed her three bound books. ‘I hope these will be useful.’

  Back in the kitchen, Sara no longer noticed the chill. She declined another offer of coffee and thought about Sanderson’s link to the Orme Arts Festival. Establishing who had a motive for killing Sanderson and Patton was the priority now.

  ‘I understand the festival committee has been discussing the possibility of cancelling the event. They have asked Amber Falk and Jeremy Ellingham to join them on the committee.’ Sara hoped she could elicit some response without Smith realising they were persons of interest in the inquiry.

  ‘The name Ellingham rings a bell vaguely. I seem to recall Noel mentioning his name. Perhaps he’d met him at one of these openings. Check the diaries.’ Smith pointed at the books piled in front of Sara.

  Smith organised a refill for himself, whisky not coffee, and sat down opposite Sara visibly relaxing as she asked him about Noel’s background. He’d had an idyllic childhood, the son of a vicar on the south coast of England. An only child, his parents had doted on him. His mother had died of cancer when he was in his early twenties. Her death had hit Sanderson hard as, without her, telling his father about his sexuality was difficult. But Noel’s father had been killed in a car accident before he could tell him.

  ‘I suppose moving to North Wales was escaping his past. He found it difficult to live with the guilt that he hadn’t been able to share something so intimate with his parents.’

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I write children’s fiction. It doesn’t make me a fortune, but it pays the bills.’