Dead on Your Feet Read online

  Dead on Your Feet

  by Stephen Puleston

  ~~~~~~~~

  Dead on Your Feet

  This book copyright © Stephen Puleston

  First edition published 2017 by Stephen Puleston

  The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Contents

  Stephen Puleston – some personal details

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Readers Club

  Stephen Puleston – some personal details

  Dead On Your Feet is the fourth Inspector Drake mystery. The story is based in North Wales an area rich in history and beautiful landscapes.

  After a degree in Theology from London University I trained as a solicitor. For many years I worked as a solicitor/lawyer in a small practice representing clients in the criminal courts and doing divorce work, all of which has given me valuable raw material for my novels. I still live and work in North Wales where the Inspector Drake novels are set.

  Readers Club

  Join my readers club and I’ll send you Dead Smart, the prequel novella in my Detective Inspector Marco series, FREE OF CHARGE – CLICK HERE TO JOIN. And members get advance notification of upcoming releases and any special offers. I have a strict privacy policy.

  Inspector Drake Series

  Brass in Pocket

  Worse Than Dead

  Against the Tide

  Find out more at www.stephenpuleston.co.uk.

  Facebook: StephenPulestonCrimewriter

  Twitter: @stephenpuleston

  Prologue

  Moving a body proved more problematic than I had anticipated. Luckily, she had left her car in a poorly lit side street, so knocking her unconscious and bundling her inside my van, parked nearby, should have been straightforward. My heart raced as I fumbled with her arms, trying to keep her upright. I pressed her against the passenger door of the vehicle as I reached for the handle of its sliding door. It stuck and I cursed silently. Then I heard the sound of conversation and noticed a group of young people at the end of the street, laughing and joking. Three figures moved towards me so I turned, trying to conceal the body I was propping up against the van. Now I tugged harder at the handle and relief washed over me as it flew open. I bundled her inside and drew the door closed with a reassuring thud. Seconds later I sat in the driver’s seat, thrust the key into the ignition and drove away.

  It had taken me a week to draw up a shortlist of venues; places where I could exhibit successfully, that would do justice to my work and display my art to the widest audience. I had eliminated three of the possible premises. One had a complex alarm system, judging from the flashing lights on a box screwed to the outside wall, and far too many locks on the back door. A second had limited access from the rear. I had pondered the third location because it had a wonderful plate-glass window but it was right next to a pound shop and I couldn’t bear the thought of exhibiting next to such a place. But a voice inside my head told me art must be for the masses and that I shouldn’t be so bourgeois and elitist. There was a café across the road so I had sat there, drinking coffee, eating dried-up carrot cake, staring at the location and persuading myself I had to dismiss my petty prejudices. I visualised how things would look, how people might react, the comments, the public acclaim. A group of three men congregating outside the shop caught my attention because of their posturing and raised voices. When two girls walked past them they started jeering at them. It was a disgusting spectacle – just like football hooligans. I wanted to rush over to admonish them but common sense prevailed.

  Did I really want my exhibition there?

  I left my latte and enough change for the bill and strode away in disgust. And disappointment too, because I had to restart my search. But being dedicated to my artistic practice meant having to deal with setbacks, pick myself up and refocus. I did just that over the next few days and soon enough I was rewarded when I spotted a recently closed shoe shop. The location was perfect, adjacent to a boutique selling women’s clothes and a delicatessen with expensive-looking cold meats and fancy cheeses from Europe on display. A brisk walk down the rear lane had established that the access was slightly smaller than I would have liked but practical nevertheless.

  It meant I could plan, which was always the most exciting part of any new project.

  That evening I passed the premises, checking carefully for any sign of activity from the nearby shops. Once I was satisfied nobody was around I parked some distance away from the lane at the back. I sat watching and waiting. Once it was quiet, I pulled out and drove down the deserted alleyway and reversed up to the rear entrance. I knew I had to work quickly.

  Moving the body into the building had to take no more than a few seconds.

  A makeshift timber platform enabled me to drag her from the van and in a few short steps I was inside. I closed the door behind me and struggled to move her into the storeroom behind the main shopping area.

  I returned to the van, its sides covered with the design of a shop-fitting company. It complemented the entire project, added an authenticity. Once I had finished moving the rest of the installation from the van I locked the rear door and returned inside with various sheets of plywood, lengths of timber and the blackout blind I needed.

  I had timed each section of work carefully. My chest tightened as I contemplated the prospect of being delayed. It pleased me when I finished setting up the electrical switches and circuit for the blind over the window bang on time. Now I focused on getting my installation completed. I had practised assembling the frame so many times it had become second nature, and in less than an hour I had everything constructed.

  Ropes and wire and fasteners held her in place.

  Perspiration prickled my forehead and I gulped down some water before turning to the rest of the work. Once I had everything set out, I carried out final adjustments to make the whole piece come together. Nobody could ever say it lacked detail.

  I stood back and admired my handiwork.

  Chapter 1

  Despite having lived on his own for several months, Ian Drake was still unaccustomed to his new domestic routine. He sat by the kitchen table finishing a bowl of muesli, listening to the morning news on the radio. The new coffe
e machine that had pride of place on the worktop was one of the first purchases he had made alone, without input from Sian, his estranged wife. He finished his Americano and glanced at his watch. He missed his daughters, especially the hurly-burly of breakfast time. Briefly, he contemplated calling them but knew it would be a bad time.

  He cleaned and dried the breakfast dishes before carefully stacking them away. Then he scanned the kitchen, checking that everything was neat and tidy. He walked through into the hallway and stopped by the mirror. A recent haircut had tidied his appearance, and he brushed away some imaginary dust from the lapels of his navy suit. That afternoon he was representing the Wales Police Service at a meeting of a police and community liaison forum. Superintendent Wyndham Price had made it quite clear officers of inspector rank needed to play their part in building relationships with local communities. Even so, Drake suspected it wasn’t the most effective use of his time as a detective.

  He peered more intently at his reflection. Was the suit looking a little shabby? Did it need to be dry-cleaned? He adjusted his tie a few millimetres to find the perfect position underneath the collar of his white shirt.

  His mobile rang and, fishing it out of his jacket pocket, he was surprised to see Sian’s number.

  ‘Good morning,’ Drake said.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got long. I need you to collect the girls from school this afternoon.’

  Drake paused. Her tone was almost threatening, but he knew that mornings were often a stressful time for Sian.

  ‘I’m representing Superintendent Price in a forum later …’ He heard her huff of exasperation down the telephone.

  ‘I’ve got an important meeting about a dying patient with the palliative care team.’

  Now it was a matter of life and death.

  ‘I should be finished in good time.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Can I speak to the girls?’

  ‘Not now, I’ve got to get them ready for school. I’ll speak to you later.’

  Drake heard the line go dead. How hard could it have been for Sian to let Helen and Megan speak to him?

  After pulling the door to his flat closed behind him, he made his way down to the car, exchanging greetings with the elderly man from the apartment above him. It was a short drive to the newsagent’s, where he bought a newspaper. Immediately he turned to the Sudoku puzzle. He solved four squares quickly, which lifted his spirits. He would find five minutes mid-morning and more at lunchtime to complete the rest of the numbers.

  Indicating off the main road, he skirted round the wide-open parkland next to Northern Division headquarters and parked away from other vehicles. Before his meeting with Superintendent Price, he planned to read the background details of his new detective sergeant – Sara Morgan. With his previous partner, Caren Waits on maternity leave and awaiting the results of her inspector’s exams – which Drake thought would be no more than a formality – there was every possibility Sara would be a permanent fixture.

  Draping his suit jacket over a wooden hanger he smoothed out the shoulders before placing it on the coat stand in his office. Drake sat behind his desk, pleased the neatness he’d left the night before had been undisturbed.

  Drake turned his attention to Sara Morgan’s personnel file. He read the complimentary remarks from a detective inspector he knew. But working as a sergeant, making decisions, directing junior officers required a new set of skills. Drake recalled the words of wisdom he had received as a newly promoted young sergeant from the wizened inspector who retired to a flat in Spain soon afterwards – ‘never forget who’s the boss, lad’.

  Then he started on the minutes of the previous meetings of the community forum. The document was laced heavily with references to involving various stakeholders to improve transparency and build public confidence. All the usual jargon, Drake thought.

  By mid-morning Drake felt up to speed and walked over to the senior management suite.

  ‘Good morning, Ian.’ Hannah had worked for Price for years so her informality was nothing new.

  ‘Morning Hannah. I’ve got a meeting with Superintendent Price.’

  ‘I know, take a seat.’ She nodded to one of the visitor chairs. Drake overheard her on the telephone telling Price he had arrived, and moments later he appeared at the door to his office and waved energetically at Drake. He wondered whether Sara Morgan was with him already.

  ‘Come in, Ian.’

  Drake’s brogues sank into the soft carpet. Price jerked a hand at a chair and Drake sat down. Price did the same, pulling his chair to the desk, giving his shaved head a scratch. Drake was accustomed to the regular affectation. It occurred to him that if his hairline receded too far he might resort to shaving his head. He thought it might make him look like a thug, but a comb-over would make him look like an old man, a prospect Drake didn’t relish.

  ‘Have you seen the newspaper?’ Price held up one of the broadsheets.

  Drake felt guilty that he had gone straight to the Sudoku that morning and that the affairs of the world might have passed him by.

  ‘We’ve had requests for details of how many foreigners were prosecuted in Northern Division last year, how many were convicted and how many were sent to prison. It’s mad. What the hell do the press think? That we can spare time and resources to put this sort of data together?’

  He slumped back in his chair. Price having a rant was commonplace and probably did the superintendent good. Drake made a mental note to check the headlines.

  ‘Thanks for going in my place to the meeting this afternoon.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘I almost throttled the chairman of that group after the last meeting. The man is a complete idiot.’

  Now Drake realised he was merely a substitute for Price.

  ‘I’ve read most of the minutes of the recent meetings.’

  Price stared at Drake. ‘Have you?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Do you want me to brief you when I get back, sir?’

  For a moment Price looked worried. ‘Whatever for?’

  The telephone rang, sparing Drake the need to reply.

  ‘Send her in.’

  Sara Morgan walked into the room. Once the introductions were over and hands shaken, Price pointed to a chair next to Drake. Sara had thin auburn hair drawn into a plait that brushed her shoulders. She had fine delicate cheekbones, modest blusher, discreet lipstick and no earrings. She wore an expensive-looking navy suit, the sort Sian favoured for work at her GP surgery. The contrast to the disorganised and shabby appearance of Caren Waits could not have been more acute.

  ‘Sergeant Morgan, as we’ve not met before I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to welcome you to Northern Division headquarters. In due course Detective Inspector Drake can deal with all the formalities.’

  There were protocols for everything these days, Drake thought. Inducting an officer into his team meant forms to be filled and boxes ticked. Once completed, the paperwork would be returned to human resources to be double-checked. Price spent another twenty minutes explaining how he liked things to be dealt with and that he was ‘an old-fashioned copper’ who valued ‘team work’ more than anything.

  Drake listened patiently, unimpressed by Price’s pep talk – he had heard it before, many times. He expected Hannah to interrupt with coffee and biscuits but the door remained firmly closed. Once Price finished his speech, Drake left with Sara. They exchanged small talk on their way back to Drake’s office and once there Sara sat down uninvited, the tension from their meeting with Price dissipating.

  Drake fumbled for the right paperwork out of a drawer and deposited it all in the middle of his desk. ‘Tell me about your work in Inspector Owen’s team?’

  Sara didn’t have time to reply as the telephone rang. Drake stared at it for a moment, annoyed at the interruption – the induction had barely started.

  He reached for the phone. ‘DI Drake.’

  He listened.

  ‘When was the body found?’r />
  He scribbled something on a notepad.

  ‘Are there uniformed officers at the scene?’

  He slammed down the handset and stood up abruptly. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 2

  Drake crunched the car into first gear and tore off out of headquarters. He hurtled down to the A55, the main road that ran along the North Wales coast.

  ‘The CSI team is on its way,’ Drake said as he flashed his headlights at the vehicle in front of him. He sounded the horn and the traffic scattered to the nearside lane. ‘A body has been found in a shop in Llandudno.’

  ‘Are there uniformed officers at the scene?’ Sara said.

  ‘Three lads from the local station. Their names are on my note.’ Drake found the scrap of paper in his pocket and thrust it at Sara.

  Minutes later, they reached the junction for Llandudno and Drake indicated off the dual carriageway. In the distance, he heard an ambulance siren. He raced on towards the town and at the brow of a hill saw the Victorian resort bathed in the spring sunshine below him. A roundabout should have delayed his journey but the tyres screeched a complaint as he almost took it on two wheels.

  He slowed when he saw officers ushering people away from a shop and cajoling others on the opposite side of the street to move away. He parked and jumped out. Sara followed. After showing their identity cards to two uniformed officers, they pointed to a man talking to another officer near the door of the premises.

  ‘DI Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Morgan.’

  ‘This is James Convery, sir.’ The uniformed officer said. ‘He’s the property agent for this shop.’ Convery stood with his back to the shop window and Drake could just spot the crumpled remains of a blind or curtain stretching along the base.

  ‘It’s disgusting. Foul. Who could do such a thing?’

  At the sound of a slowing engine Drake saw the scientific support vehicle drawing up. He looked back at Convery. ‘Who found the body?’