Dead on Your Feet

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake gazed at the woman sitting under the window. She was slim and tall, again another pair of sunglasses hid her face. A multicoloured scarf was draped around her head. The sound of Sara’s mobile distracted him. He glanced at her as she killed the call.

  Foulds took another step nearer.

  Now Foulds’ mobile rang. And Sara’s again.

  A second later Drake’s mobile rang. Winder again. This interruption was going to earn him one hell of a reprimand. He answered the call, preparing a sharp comment.

  ‘You’re on a live YouTube feed, boss.’

  Drake glanced around. Foulds knelt by one of the deckchairs. Drake spotted the CCTV camera high up in the corner. He threw his mobile at Sara and then brushed past Foulds, ignoring the possible contamination of the crime scene. He ripped the camera from the wall, tossing it out of the door.

  Foulds was on his feet when Drake turned back to him.

  ‘Your man is a real joker. These are fucking mannequins.’

  Chapter 33

  My only regret was being unable to link up a camera on the outside of the other shopping booths at the end of the pier so that I could watch and share with an appreciative audience all the activity at my beach hut.

  There was a nice ring to the title – My Beach Hut. The whole installation and its subsequent discovery had a holistic feel. I felt a sense of achievement that I had been able to construct it in such a short period. As with all my work it had required complex planning, attention to detail. Leaving an ice cream to melt overnight would remind everyone of the sheer transient nature of our existence. They would probably have the remains forensically analysed. I chuckled to myself, thinking what the police officers would make of a melted Cornetto.

  Specificity. Such an expressive word. The sunglasses were originals from the sixties and all the clothes had been sourced from shops selling retro designer gear. More sand would have been good but it had been hard enough getting everything else in place. The bucket and spade added an authentic touch. As did the Cadaverine that I produced with my makeshift chemistry kit. It really did create the disgusting smell of death.

  The certainty of chaotic scenes at the end of the pier was all part of the installation, an extension, a performance carried out by the officers without them realising they were part of the artwork itself.

  I settled down at my computer, content my work was complete and hopeful nothing would prevent the installation being shared. When the two cleaners opened the door my pulse exploded. I started broadcasting, sharing to the world, knowing people could appreciate me at last.

  Even without the sound, I sensed their screams. Hands clasped to mouths, standing rigid for a moment until the frightened looks turned to a sickening realisation of what they might be facing. One of them dropped a broom, before fleeing out into the sunshine. The second camera I had rigged up gave a narrow but effective angle out onto the wooden decking immediately in front of the shopping booth. It wasn’t perfect but it would enhance everyone’s enjoyment.

  Two fat policemen arrived within minutes. One held his hands on his knees to gasp for breath. I even contemplated he might have a heart attack.

  And die.

  In my installation.

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to me.

  My increasing anticipation that My Beach Hut would have an added dimension was dashed as the officer gathered his breath. They kept talking on their radios clipped to their uniforms and soon enough Inspector Drake and his sergeant appeared. I edged closer to the monitor hoping to register the slightest facial expression. Annoyingly, they talked to the two women sitting on the bench and then the police officers. I guessed they must be waiting for the white-suited investigators.

  When Drake walked over to the doors, I almost squealed in excitement. My chest tightened. My breathing slowed. I hoped my audience were enjoying this is as much as I was. I switched to the camera inside and watched as he took those first tentative steps through the doorway.

  I held my breath. This was the most challenging and engaging part of the whole piece.

  He stared down at the deckchairs. How long would it take him to realise what was really taking place? He dipped a hand into his pocket and I saw him stab a finger at his mobile telephone. The girl standing behind him picked up a call too and then an investigator fumbled inside his pocket as well. Impossible. My worst nightmare. Someone warned them they were being filmed. I despaired, my heart sank.

  When his mobile rang again he answered. He glanced up and I knew then it was finished. I cursed. I suppose I knew there was a risk the broadcast would be spotted. But why so soon?

  He scrambled up towards the camera and the coverage abruptly stopped.

  I slumped back into my chair. My initial elation thwarted.

  I turned to the filming from the second camera but it lasted no more than another few seconds.

  Chapter 34

  ‘My Beach Hut – what kind of bloody title is that?’ Drake crossed his arms tightly and scowled at Winder’s monitor as they watched the coverage a second time.

  ‘My Bed and now My Beach Hut – not very imaginative,’ Winder said.

  ‘There’s something weird and voyeuristic about the whole set-up, as though the whole thing is one big performance,’ Sara added. ‘And that we’re a part of it.’

  ‘Switch the damn thing off,’ Drake said. ‘Where the bloody hell are the results of the triangulation requests?’

  Drake glared at Winder as Sara and Luned exchanged a glance.

  The sheer futility of the masquerade on the pier clouded his judgement as his anger and frustration built. He had to make progress.

  Winder cleared his throat noisily. ‘They should be available later today.’

  ‘In the meantime the internet is awash with this madman’s handiwork. And get the CSIs to expedite the tests on the chemical they found that was responsible for the smell.’

  Drake turned his back on the team and stared directly at the face of Roger Buckland on the Incident Room board. ‘Michael Spencer,’ Drake said to no one in particular.

  Winder again. ‘I ran a check on him, boss, as you wanted. He’s been clean for the past four years although he keeps some nasty company.’

  ‘That includes Roger Buckland.’ Drake’s tone was sinister.

  ‘I did some more digging around into the theatre group Buckland has been involved with.’ Luned sounded positive. ‘He’s been doing some filming. And—’

  ‘Filming?’ Drake raised his voice a couple of decibels. ‘Where the hell is he doing that?’

  ‘I checked the papers we received from the bank about his loan. He owns a smallholding in the country.’

  Drake stared over at Sara. ‘Buckland’s connection to Spencer gives us enough to bring him in for questioning and Norma can explain to us all about her relationship with Sanderson.’ Drake turned to Gareth and Luned. ‘Both of you go and arrest Norma. We’ll get them all into the custody suite and interview them separately.’

  Before leaving, Drake stood over his desk, telephone thrust to his ear, dictating instructions for a warrant to authorise a search of Buckland’s property before finding a suitably qualified officer to be in charge. Then he found officers to arrest Spencer and deliver him to the custody suite. Once Drake finished he headed down to the car park with Sara.

  Drake drove out of headquarters towards Rhyl, Winder and Luned following. Sara rang the area custody suite and Drake listened to her side of the conversation warning the sergeant in charge he’d have three customers that afternoon.

  The journey passed quickly as Sara jotted down Drake’s thoughts about their interviews with Norma and Roger Buckland. ‘I’ll do Roger Buckland and you interview Norma with Gareth. Luned can deal with Spencer.’

  It would give Sara her first taste of interviewing a suspect in a murder inquiry. Drake relished the opportunity of talking to Roger Buckland. After all, he was experienced at police interviews and Drake steeled himself for an aggressive confrontation. Lawyer
s would be called to attend, which meant more delays. Drake could easily see the interviews not happening until later into the evening. It looked like being another long day.

  He pulled up outside the River Jordan Community Centre.

  Drake spoke to the officers tracking down Spencer. They had arrested him in his flat on the outskirts of town. Moments later Winder rang to confirm they were outside Norma’s studio.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Drake finished the call and left the car.

  Drake dragged open the dilapidated front door and entered, Sara following. The rooms on the ground floor were empty so Drake hurried on up the stairs and into the gym where he saw Buckland supervising two young men hammering a punchbag.

  Buckland stared over at them as they approached.

  ‘Roger Buckland. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’ Drake made it sound as neutral as possible.

  Buckland gave a non-committal shrug, and left without a word to the boxers.

  The drive to area control was punctuated with messages from Winder confirming Norma Buckland’s arrest and a text telling him Spencer was already halfway to the custody suite.

  Once the Bucklands and Spencer were sitting safely in a cell each, Drake assembled his team in one of the interview rooms and ran though their strategy. Neither Norma nor Roger had requested a lawyer, which meant they could move ahead quickly.

  ‘Why haven’t they asked for a solicitor?’ Luned said.

  ‘That’s their choice,’ Drake said. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘Lawyers just get in the way.’ Winder sounded dismissive.

  Drake nodded at Luned. ‘I want you to interview Spencer. We need to know about the fingerprints.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Luned sounded pleased, business-like.

  Drake left first, heading for an empty interview room, tapes and notepad in hand. A uniformed officer delivered Buckland to the room and he sat down opposite Drake. Buckland smiled but his eyes flickered disdain.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Gloria Patton.’

  ‘Of course.’ The understanding tone to Buckland’s voice disarmed Drake who paused to glance at him.

  ‘Tell me where you were on the night of her murder.’ Drake scanned his notes before announcing the date.

  ‘I don’t keep an exact record of all the events in my life. I could have been in the centre or my office at the church. I know Norma was busy in her studio – she often works through the night. She finds that time of day tranquil and she isn’t distracted.’

  ‘If you can remember Norma was working how is it you cannot recall your whereabouts?’

  ‘Inspector, I lead a very hectic life and I have so little time to myself. Personal details like that seem distracting.’

  ‘Gloria Patton was known to you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And to Norma?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So it must have come as a shock when you learnt of her death?’

  ‘Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. I called to see Oswald and offered to pray with him in the hope I could offer some solace.’

  This was a new version of Roger Buckland – silver-tongued and condescending. Drake sensed him crawling under his skin already.

  ‘So when did you learn about her death?’

  ‘Well, I cannot be certain.’

  ‘Was it the day her body was discovered?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  Even Buckland’s accent had lost some of its rough edges.

  ‘So let’s go back. Can you remember where you were when you heard the news?’

  Buckland smiled at Drake as though he were a child to be scolded.

  ‘I want to assure you, Inspector, I had nothing to do with poor Gloria’s death.’

  Drake sat back and folded his arms. ‘I find it hard to believe you cannot remember that one thing. After all, she was in the art world where your wife works and she had rejected Norma’s work. You would have known suspicion might fall on you and Norma.’

  ‘Of course. But Inspector, I have done nothing wrong. And while my past may give you the perfect justification to suspect me I have left that world behind. I have experienced God’s forgiveness and the healing power of his love.’

  Drake paused and gazed into Buckland’s dark eyes, wondering how thin the veneer of sincerity really was. He expected the aggression he had seen at the gym, read about in the police reports, so Buckland’s charm offensive took Drake aback.

  ‘Let’s move on.’ Drake managed not to grit his teeth but it took some willpower. ‘I want to clarify some personal details.’

  Drake spent time getting Buckland to confirm where he was born and where he grew up and all about his schooling and teenage years. Buckland answered without hesitation, cooperating fully as Drake trawled through his life.

  Drake shuffled the papers on the desk in front of him and drew out a photograph of the red car parked outside the River Jordan Community Centre. He pushed it over at Buckland.

  ‘Is this the vehicle you drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it registered in your name?’

  Buckland sighed as though the whole process was tiresome. ‘You know full well it belongs to one of the members of my church.’

  ‘And you drive it with his consent.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Drake sat back, wondering if Buckland could guess where he was going next.

  He scanned a sheet from his file, checking the dates. Then he stared at Buckland. The eye contact would be direct – he wanted to measure his reaction.

  ‘Do you know where Rhisiart Hopkin lived?’

  Buckland swallowed. Of course he did but would he admit it? Would he risk a lie?

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘We have an eyewitness who testifies she saw the car outside Rhisiart Hopkin’s home several times in the days before his death.’

  Buckland blinked now.

  Drake continued. ‘And she gives a description of the driver.’

  Buckland forced himself to keep Drake’s eye contact until he couldn’t manage it and he looked away.

  Buckland kept staring at the table top. Drake waited for him to look up.

  ‘Rhisiart Hopkin was brutally killed in his own home. He was your bank manager. When he refused to support your business ventures you decided to take revenge. You have history of being unable to control your temper. I think you went to see him and there was an argument.’

  Still no eye contact from Buckland. Drake continued.

  ‘The argument got out of hand and you lost your temper. And you killed him.’

  Buckland raised his head and then stared directly into Drake’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  For a moment, the confession caught Drake by surprise. If his theory that Hopkin’s killer was the same person it meant Buckland had murdered Gloria and Sanderson.

  ‘It was revenge.’ Buckland’s confidence crumpled. ‘But I didn’t kill him.’

  Drake cut in. ‘What? Then why were you outside his home?’

  ‘I was going to complain to his superiors about him. I was desperate and I wanted to do everything to keep the community centre running. I learnt a lot about Hopkin. He was an unprincipled, promiscuous man with no moral compass. He had affairs with women in exchange for supporting their businesses. I have proof. You have to believe me.’

  For the next twenty minutes, Buckland gave Drake a commentary of Hopkin’s life.

  ‘I was going to build a dossier and send it to the bank. I wanted them to see sense and change their mind about my project.’

  Drake sipped from the plastic water bottle on the table, wondering if what he had just witnessed was another performance, more smoke and mirrors. He gathered the papers on his desk deciding he had to move forward.

  ‘Did you know Noel Sanderson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘He’s a local artist. And…’

  Drake pau
sed. Buckland wanted to tell him about Norma and Sanderson but something held him back. Truthfulness didn’t come naturally to Buckland, Drake thought, no matter how much he might have changed.

  Drake waited.

  Buckland faltered and stared at the desk top again.

  Drake reached over for the laptop and, opening it, found the CCTV coverage from Conwy. ‘How well did your wife know Noel Sanderson?’

  Buckland coughed.

  ‘When did you discover Norma was having a relationship with Noel Sanderson?’

  A smile flickered over Buckland lips but it soon died.

  ‘I forgave her.’

  ‘Answer the question.’ Drake had tolerated Buckland long enough. He wanted answers.

  ‘A few months,’ Buckland whispered.

  Drake clicked the laptop into life. ‘This is coverage we found from the centre of Conwy when you followed her.’

  He swivelled the monitor so Buckland could watch the scenes. Drake stared at him. From swagger to crushing realisation his world had been exposed. Buckland gawped blankly at the images.

  ‘You look pretty angry to me.’

  Buckland said nothing.

  ‘Angry enough to kill someone. And that someone was Noel Sanderson.’

  ‘I forgave her.’

  ‘But you couldn’t forgive Sanderson. That’s why you killed him.’

  Buckland shook his head.

  Drake continued. ‘I need to establish your whereabouts on the Sunday evening Sanderson died.’

  Buckland looked over at Drake, his eyes opening wide.

  ‘I was…’ he stammered. ‘I know exactly where I was. I was preaching in a church in Macclesfield and the following morning there was a prayer breakfast.’

  Drake frowned. ‘It’s convenient you can remember your whereabouts that evening but not for the night Patton was abducted and murdered. I’ll need the full details of anyone who can support your alibi.’

  Buckland reeled off names and addresses but he couldn’t recall telephone numbers. Drake scribbled on his notepad.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  Drake sat back. ‘We need to check out what you’ve told us. While we do that you go back to your cell.’