Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  Sara made to leave but remembered she had to ask about the two others whose images had been pinned to the Incident Room board.

  ‘Do you know if Noel ever met Norma and Roger Buckland?’

  Smith bridled. ‘No, I can’t say I do. But he did come here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Roger Buckland. He came here last night.’

  ‘Why did he call?’

  ‘He said he wanted to pray with me.’

  Sara frowned, wondering what had lain behind Roger Buckland’s visit.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him to fuck off.’

  * * *

  Sara shrugged off a light fleece as Drake walked into the Incident Room. He acknowledged her smile and breezed over towards the board. He turned to face the team. ‘I’ve just got back from the post-mortem. We’ll have to wait for a toxicology report for a definitive cause of death but the pathologist reckons it could be the same modus operandi as Gloria Patton.’

  He scanned the faces, recognising the concentration in their eyes.

  ‘The killer probably administered Rohypnol – the date rape drug – to render Sanderson unconscious before giving him a massive dose of some drug that caused him to suffocate. In the video posted on YouTube there are two glasses that seemed to have the remnants of orange juice, one of which could easily have been contaminated.’

  ‘Did the investigators find the tumblers?’ Sara said.

  Drake shook his head. ‘The whole crime scene is devoid of any DNA.’

  ‘I blame all these TV cop dramas,’ Winder said, leaning back in his chair, hands threaded behind his head. ‘Everyone gets to be an expert on crime scenes and police procedure.’

  ‘Mike Foulds even thinks the killer used a vacuum cleaner to make absolutely certain he didn’t leave any trace.’

  ‘Every killer leaves a trace, isn’t that the principle?’ Luned piped up.

  ‘Not if you can’t find it,’ Winder said.

  ‘Bring me up to date,’ Drake said.

  ‘I’m going back to Conwy this afternoon, boss,’ Winder said. ‘One of the lads from the local station thinks some of the shops have CCTV coverage.’

  Drake’s mobile rang and he fumbled for the handset from his inside pocket.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake, there’s a couple in reception demanding to see you.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Odd-looking woman – Amber Falk and a Geraint Wood. I’ve told them that you’re busy and…’

  ‘I’ll be down directly.’

  Drake glanced over at Sara, nodding towards the door. ‘Downstairs, we’ve got someone to interview.’

  Sara caught up with Drake as he hurried down the corridor towards the stairs for reception. ‘I saw Jack Smith again this morning, sir,’

  Drake mumbled an acknowledgement.

  ‘Smith gave me Noel Sanderson’s diaries for the last three years.’

  Drake was on the final flight of stairs, Sara a couple of steps behind him.

  ‘I thought operational support had recovered all the relevant paperwork?’

  ‘Evidently that wasn’t the case.’

  ‘How can we be expected to do a job if the basics aren’t done properly?’

  At the bottom of the staircase, Drake turned for the door to reception and held it open for Sara.

  ‘Roger Buckland went to see him last night.’

  ‘Buckland? Really?’ They reached reception and saw Amber Falk and Geraint Wood pacing around. Drake whispered to Sara. ‘You can tell me about Buckland later.’ He neared Amber and Geraint, reaching out a hand.

  ‘I understand you want to speak to me?’

  Amber gave his hand a single, brief, limp handshake. In contrast, Geraint’s handshake was firm and brisk.

  ‘We need to discuss things in private,’ Amber said.

  Drake gestured towards a conference room. A catch of a window eventually gave way after Sara struggled with it and fresh air streamed into the stuffy room.

  Amber and Geraint sat upright against the table, their elbows leaning on its surface.

  ‘It’s about Noel Sanderson,’ Amber said.

  Opposites attract, Drake thought, but Geraint was such a belligerent Welshman and her accent made her so obviously English.

  ‘Do you have any information that might be of interest?’ Drake said.

  Alongside him, Sara opened her notepad, a ballpoint at the ready. Drake sensed her staring over at Amber and Geraint.

  ‘It is most dreadfully sad about Noel. It must be terrible for his family,’ Amber said.

  ‘Do you have anything to add to the enquiry regarding the death of Noel Sanderson?’ Drake wondered why they had turned up at headquarters.

  ‘We knew him, of course. We liked his work.’

  Geraint butted in. ‘Fuck’s sake, Amber. Just get on with it.’

  She gave him a dark stare that had barely left her face before she turned back to look at Drake. ‘What Geraint means is there was a bit of an incident.’

  Geraint groaned. ‘Stop this malu cachu woman.’

  That Amber understood the Welsh word for bullshit amused Drake. But living with Geraint probably meant she knew a lot more common words.

  ‘What Amber is trying to say is that we had a blazing argument with him. When the committee told me I wasn’t going to get a place to exhibit I completely lost it. Well and truly fucking lost it.’

  Amber cut in. ‘We went to see him. Tried to reason with him. Pleading that Geraint had to have an opportunity. Noel was old for God’s sake. It should have been our turn.’

  ‘Where did this argument take place?’

  ‘We saw him when he was talking to Gloria Patton in her gallery. I did my best to talk Geraint out of confronting him. They were sharing a glass of wine, passing the time of day.’

  ‘I’m not proud of what I did, Inspector.’ Geraint’s accent deepened as he launched into his confession. ‘I called him a weasel. I told him his art was shit. I made some comments about him going back to live in England and if he had any interest in Wales he could at least learn the language.’

  Drake sensed that both had more to get off their chest.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Earlier this month,’ Amber said.

  ‘I take it there were other witnesses present?’

  ‘That’s why we are here,’ Geraint added in a slow voice. ‘I wanted you to hear the details from us before you heard it from anyone else.’

  ‘All you’ve told me so far is that you had an argument.’

  Geraint cleared his throat. ‘I may have said something a little stronger… I think I may have told him that he’d be better off dead.’

  Chapter 30

  Back in his office Drake sat by his desk as Sara recounted Jack Smith’s reaction to Roger Buckland’s offer to pray with him. He chuckled but quickly enough his mind turned to motive. There was a motive for everything.

  ‘Why did Buckland really visit Smith?’ Drake said.

  ‘If he killed Sanderson it would be pretty macabre visiting his husband.’

  ‘Roger Buckland is an oddball character. We know he’s got a violent temper so he’s probably quite capable of acting completely irrationally.’

  Sara rolled her eyes, unconvinced by Drake’s logic.

  ‘What did you make of Amber Falk and Geraint Wood?’

  ‘You’d better talk to the staff at Gloria Patton’s gallery. Try and find out if anyone recalls the argument. If they are involved I suppose they think themselves terribly clever, coming in, confessing to an argument that clearly gives them a motive for Sanderson’s death.’

  ‘Amber seemed genuine enough.’

  ‘I don’t trust any of these artistic types.’

  Sara scooped up her papers and left Drake.

  He reached over and switched on his computer. Seconds later the screen lit up. He dreaded the prospect of having to trawl through dozens of emails needing his attention.
He couldn’t simply delete them; each one had to be read and contemplated.

  Drake pondered the meeting between Roger Buckland and Jack Smith. Sara had been wise to see him again but he was still annoyed that the diaries had been missed so he fired off an email of complaint to operational support. He felt a growing unease that he had insufficient detail about Buckland. They knew about his criminal conviction and his violent temper but Drake had to spend more time getting to know Buckland. He found the file from the Merseyside Police. Buckland was the product of a broken home. He had never known his biological father and his mother had several failed relationships that resulted in three half-siblings. Drake took a moment to reflect that he now had the opportunity to build a relationship with his half-brother. He wondered whether Buckland regretted his fractured family relationships. It might only be a matter of time before those questions could be asked, Drake thought, starting to relish the prospect of an interview with Buckland.

  The reports from the social workers described the family as classically dysfunctional with major inter-generational issues. The only constant factor in his life had been the same secondary school. Buckland’s interest in the school’s amateur dramatic group grabbed Drake’s attention. The drama teacher praised his dedication and his stage presence that contributed to a production of Macbeth.

  Confidence was one thing he shared with Patton and Sanderson’s killer.

  Drake stood up, pushed his chair back and paced out into the Incident Room. He stared at the images of the two crime scenes broadcast on YouTube. It was more than confidence. It was a sick, menacing paranoia. The description from the estate agent of a man with an immaculate pinstripe suit and bushy beard suggested the killer enjoyed a certain theatricality: the dressing-up, performing in front of the camera. But the scene at Hopkin’s murder was different. Was Superintendent Price right? Was it simply a burglary gone wrong?

  Once he read the basis of Buckland’s appeal against the original murder conviction the more Drake realised it was bound to have succeeded. Although Buckland had launched an unprovoked vicious attack on the victim, it was clear the intention to kill couldn’t be sustained. Drake skipped onto the various parts of the documentation that dealt with Buckland’s imprisonment. An eight-year sentence for manslaughter resulted in his release on parole after six years supported by reports from probation officers that spoke of him as a reformed personality. The chaplain at the open prison where he had served his final few months spoke warmly of his committed Christianity.

  After his release from prison information about him was scarce. Drake turned his attention to the website of the church where he was now a pastor. His biography conveniently avoided any reference to his criminal conviction. There were references to various churches in the Liverpool area and to his training at an evangelical college.

  Another hour flew by as Drake read the details of each congregation. Luckily, the churches spend little time updating their websites and Drake found a bio page for a young-looking Roger Buckland. He read the details and section that made reference to Buckland’s work supporting a hospital chaplain.

  It meant he was accustomed to hospital procedures. He would have talked to doctors, gossiped with nurses, shared a joke with them. Would he have known how to access sux, Drake wondered.

  He stood in front of the Incident Room board, ignoring the activity around him, and stared at the image of Buckland. Then his gaze fell on Wood, and Drake replayed in his mind Wood’s confession earlier that morning.

  Wood had admitted that he wished Sanderson dead. Geraint Wood and Norma Buckland both hated Patton. Revenge as a motive for either of them sat uncomfortably for Drake. Perhaps they hoped to gain by getting their work exhibited at the festival with Sanderson out of the way. With Amber Falk on the committee that option fitted more easily into implicating Geraint Wood.

  The oddity of the whole arts festival committee baffled Drake. He stared at the face of Jeremy Ellingham. Despite Ellingham’s work being rejected he was now on the committee. Drake could even see his work being exhibited. That pointed the finger of guilt at Ellingham. Drake knew from Sara that Sanderson had met Ellingham. It reminded him that Sara had left Sanderson’s diaries on his desk so after returning to his office he sat down and opened the diary for the current year.

  Peering into a person’s life had become second nature for Drake, and Sanderson’s diary made the task easier. Every day had an entry for some event in his life, however insignificant, and Drake groaned to himself at the prospect of having to work through every piece of information. Sanderson had jotted down his appointment at a barbers and discussions with colleagues and friends. He scanned for Ellingham’s name, knowing he might miss something important. He found the name and alongside it a mobile number.

  Drake reached over and double-checked it against their contact number for Ellingham. They were different. Drake paused, focusing on why Ellingham needed two telephone numbers.

  He reached for the mouse on his desk and googled Jeremy Ellingham.

  A glossy website appeared and Drake clicked on a tab with the title ‘performances’ and watched Ellingham prancing around an empty stage acting two roles. The sound of taped laughter added to the absurdity of the whole scene. Another video had Ellingham walking in a deserted street, avoiding the cracks in the pavement. Drake clicked away and found a video of Ellingham hard at work in his studio. The camera panned slowly over pieces of ceramics and pottery on shelves and cupboards. Drake barely recognised the garden shed where he had first seen Ellingham. Drake guessed his girlfriend must have helped him tidy. He couldn’t immediately recollect her name so he surfed through the records to discover Valerie’s name.

  He silently cursed that her contact details were incomplete, so he instigated a search against her name.

  He sat back in his chair. Thinking.

  He let his mind go right back to the start and Gloria Patton’s death. It had taken careful planning to avoid any forensic trace and to gather the resources to complete the macabre scene inside the shoe shop. Drake pondered the motive for her death. Convinced there would be something in her life, something about her background to point them in the direction of the killer, he decided to revisit everything about her.

  He found the papers removed from Patton’s gallery office and spread them over his desk in neat and orderly piles. After half an hour he opened the file with her comments on the rejected artworks for the Orme Arts Festival. The description of Ellingham’s work as ‘utterly derivative’ and ‘lacking in imagination’ made him realise he hadn’t paid enough attention to Ellingham as a suspect. It meant learning more about Valerie Reed, who had provided his alibi.

  The telephone rang as he wondered about his next conversation with Valerie Reed. He grabbed at the handset. ‘Yes.’

  A disinterested voice from area control announced. ‘A white van has been found in woods near Betws y Coed. You were to be notified.’

  Drake stood up abruptly. His chair fell over. He muffled the microphone and bellowed. ‘Sara.’

  He finished scribbling the details on a sheet of paper when Sara appeared on the threshold of his office. ‘Some hikers have found the white van.’ Sara turned on her heels and scampered back for her jacket. They left headquarters and raced for Drake’s car.

  ‘What do we know, sir?’

  Drake thrust his notes in her direction. ‘Uniformed officers are at this postcode.’

  He accelerated hard out of headquarters and switched on the blue flashing lights of the pool car.

  Sara tapped the postcode into the satnav then rang area control to track down the contact details for the officers at the scene. Drake ignored the speed limits as he raced down the Conwy Valley. The satnav took them up through the lanes and towards a thickly wooded landscape. Drake’s frustration increased as Sara struggled to make sense of the directions.

  Eventually Drake turned into a gravelled car park next to a ramshackle dilapidated toilet building. A tall officer ran down the track leading up
into the forest, his high-vis jacket flapping by his side.

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Drake nodded and they followed the officer, their shoes crunching on the loose gravel, a thick smell of pine and earth filling the air.

  Sara read the message that bleeped her mobile to life. ‘CSIs should be here in three minutes.’

  Drake acknowledged the information with a cursory nod.

  As the track narrowed a left-hand fork led up through the forest. In the distance, no more than three hundred yards, another uniformed officer stood, wide legged, hands on hips. Behind him were two hikers in grey walking trousers, holding poles propped against rucksacks at their feet. Drake increased his pace and by the time he reached the officer his chest was tight, his breathing shallow.

  ‘Over there, sir.’ The officer nodded through the thickening trees and shrubbery.

  Drake stared over and saw the green tarpaulin straddling something in a thicket nearby.

  He glanced at Sara standing by his side. ‘We should wait for the CSIs.’

  ‘The scene might have been contaminated already,’ Sara said, referring to the hikers.

  ‘Let’s talk to them.’

  Drake made his way over to a man in his forties who stood next to a woman of the same age. Both were slim, with short hair and healthy complexions, an outdoorish look in their eyes.

  ‘This is Russell and Diane Wright,’ the officer said.

  Drake dispensed with formalities. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened today?’

  Russell Wright gave a brief, frightened look before replying. ‘I had a call of nature. I went off the track and into the trees when I spotted the tarpaulin. I was intrigued why anyone would leave anything in this beautiful woodland. Then I noticed the tyre tracks and they looked recent. So I got curious and I went over and peeked at the van underneath. I’d read all about the white van with the removal livery so once I read the letters on the side I called 999.’

  Drake stared at him. ‘Did you see anyone?’

  Russell shook his head.

  Drake turned as he heard voices approaching. Mike Foulds and two crime scene investigators walked towards him. He turned back to Diane and Russell. ‘I’ll need your exact movements today with a precise route. And details of anybody you passed.’ Drake paused and lowered his voice. ‘This is important. I need your full cooperation not to tell anyone about this. Do you understand?’