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  ‘Where’s Caren?’ he said, looking round the Incident Room.

  ‘Said she had to go out,’ Howick said. Drake stifled his exasperation; Caren knew she was supposed to clear things with him first.

  ‘Sir?’ It was Winder. ‘Are we dealing with a serial killer?’

  Drake started a reply when the door banged against the wall as Caren walked into the room carrying two large files under her arm. She dumped them on her desk, making certain they didn’t fly all over the floor.

  ‘Fiona Trick lied to us about Mathews seeing the children. He had regular contact every couple of weeks. I found a shed-load of letters from solicitors to Mathews about the problems he was having with contact.’

  Howick piped up, ‘But that doesn’t give her a motive to kill him.’

  Caren continued. ‘Recently, she’d been trying to limit the contact, being really aggressive. Making life awkward for him and telling him that the children didn’t want to see him and that he was a bad influence on them.’

  ‘I thought that was pretty usual for estranged couples,’ Winder added.

  ‘Then I spoke to Mr Mathews senior and his wife. They went to see the solicitors about getting an order for them to see the children.’

  Drake could see where this was going. ‘And that only made matters worse?’

  ‘Sure thing – she stopped contact altogether and then told Mathews that Anna wasn’t to be present when he saw the kids. The granddad, Donald Mathews, is ex-services – spent twenty years in the Royal Welch – so he didn’t take things lying down. He started a court case himself to see the kids. She went ballistic. Told Paul she would move away and that he would never see the kids again.’

  Drake began to feel that Caren was wasting time. ‘Look, that may be, but we’re investigating a murder.’

  ‘It is odd though, sir. You’d agree.’

  He waved a hand in agreement. She continued. ‘Amongst Mathews’s papers were letters from an insurance company. Mathews had a policy worth £300,000.’ Caren slowed her voice when she said the figures.

  Immediately all the faces turned towards her – mouths open, eyes alive to the possibility that money was the greatest motivator of all.

  Drake responded. ‘Who is the beneficiary?’

  Caren stood perfectly still and looked around the other officers. ‘The beneficiary is Fiona Trick.’

  ‘Better add her to the board,’ Drake announced. Winder whistled quietly and Howick crumpled his face into a serious expression as he stared at Caren.

  ‘And we need to add James Harrod too,’ Drake announced. ‘He’s got a conviction for violence and he was furious when Farrell assaulted Laura. Evidence: let’s go after the evidence. There has to be something in the songs and the numbers that we’re missing.’

  He paused before continuing. ‘The numbers could mean anything. They could be part of a house number or a street number.’ He wasn’t convincing himself and it wasn’t convincing the team. ‘But it could be a signal from the killer. That there are four victims or that Mathews or Farrell were the fourth together or apart.’

  ‘Or that one of them was,’ Caren added. ‘Whichever one was the intended victim, the other could have been collateral damage.’

  Drake baulked at the word ‘collateral damage’ – it sounded too American for his taste, too cold-blooded. He knew that serial killers were rare in the UK, even if American television was full of them.

  Howick followed Drake back to his office, a pleased look on his face.

  ‘Found the details of that blue Volvo for you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hire car. Took me a bit of time to track down the details but it’s been hired to a journalist who works for one of the tabloids.’

  Drake stared at the name, relishing the opportunity to meet the journalist and hoping the reporter would be at the press conference later.

  Drake recognised some familiar faces in the press conference but the reporter he really wanted to see was absent. His gaze settled on Robert Stone, who was uncomfortable in his chair as he looked nervously around the room. On the board behind Drake was an enlarged image of the photofit as well as the image of the face, without the disguise. It would probably fit a dozen faces in the audience that afternoon.

  Price’s voice was loud as he explained about the description available and how the WPS depended on the public being able to help. It wasn’t long until Price struggled to vary his answer to the same question asked a dozen different ways. The WPS had no idea who was responsible.

  Do you have any meaningful lines of inquiry?

  Is there any DNA?

  Will we have an announcement soon about progress?

  Price cleared his throat and then stood up. It silenced the voices in the room.

  ‘This is the most serious triple murder investigation the WPS has ever undertaken. We are using all our resources to apprehend this killer.’

  Drake watched the blinking, the swallowing, the quiet fidgeting, and the humming of the cameras but nobody said anything. Then Stone raised his hand.

  ‘Is it true that you’ve received the lyrics of a Queen song and that it’s connected to the investigation?’

  Drake sat in his office, his mind racing. He thought about his mother, then his father. He tried to comprehend why the murderer would want to send them the photograph. And now Stone was getting his information from somewhere. It had to be from inside the WPS but there was nothing he could do. He eliminated Caren, then Winder and Howick as culprits.

  Could it be Dr Fabrien? Could it be one of the support staff with a petty grudge?

  He flicked through the emails, and reading the results from the forensics test on the crossbow made him even more sullen. Nothing in the car: nothing from the crossbow.

  He kept thinking about the song so he turned to the computer screen and clicked on the Wikipedia icon, searching against 1979. Howick was miles out with Nixon as the American president and double-clicking on the name of Jimmy Carter brought up a separate page about the peanut farmer who became a one-term president. Drake knew from his studies at university that 1979 had been an important year in Welsh politics, with the failure of the devolution referendum followed by seventeen years of Conservative government. All of the commentators Drake had studied believed Mrs Thatcher’s policies contributed to the subsequent success of the devolution debate. Perhaps the killer was pointing them towards the year, towards some event that made the year relevant. Drake had been seven and he remembered the family holidays in a caravan and silly arguments with his sister. Now, he rarely spoke to Susan. And if he had to speak to her husband, things got worse.

  Outside he could hear the roar of the chainsaws echoing around the open space of the parkland – the tree surgeons were working late. He remembered the film of fine sawdust all over the car after their last visit. He had been convinced there was sawdust inside the car, which required a thorough cleaning. Sian’s reaction had been typically impatient, telling him the inside of the car was perfectly clean and that his obsessiveness was going to drive her mad.

  He made his way through to the Incident Room and dragged an office chair before the board. He stared at the photographs, the names, the numbers, and the song lyrics. 1979 must be important. The office was tranquil and he let his mind concentrate on everything they knew. He blocked out the muffled sound of a text message bleeping on his mobile and minutes later felt a pang of irritation when the telephone in his room broke the silence he was enjoying.

  He had missed something: of that he was sure. And what if they couldn’t stop the killer before the next death? It would be down to him. There would be recriminations. An investigation and a review – lessons to be learnt.

  Drake read and reread the song lyrics. Then he studied the statements and reports until his eyes hurt. He blanked out the noise from the late-night cleaning staff. He turned back his shirtsleeve, caught sight of his watch and realised the time. He jumped out of the chair and it fell back onto the floor.

&n
bsp; It was after midnight. He was hungry and thirsty. He knew he ought to leave but first he had to tidy his desk.

  Chapter 19

  Sunday 13th June

  Drake stood by the open patio door, letting in the fresh morning air. The house was quiet. A sense of disappointment briefly clouded his mind once he had realised there were no messages on his mobile, so he checked again. Then an unfinished sudoku puzzle nagged at his mind but he tried to resist it. He thought about his mother and the look of disbelief on her face when he’d explained about the photograph of Roderick Jones. There was still no sign of an appointment with the specialist and the thought of their family lunch today put him on edge.

  He heard movement upstairs and then the sound of footsteps on the staircase. Sian yawned as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Been up long?’

  ‘Not long.’

  She sat by the table. ‘Ian.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘You’ve been late home from work every night this week.’

  He sat down, sensing her mood was serious.

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘The girls complain they don’t see you.’

  ‘But I can’t just leave when we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.’

  ‘Didn’t you get my text on Friday? And why didn’t you answer the phone? Reception didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘I was in the Incident Room. I’ve told you. I might miss something. Something might happen. It’s hectic.’

  ‘Too hectic to be home at a reasonable hour at least one night in the week?’

  He got up and flicked the kettle into life. Once the water had boiled he waited: the water had to be off the boil for coffee. Then he filled the cafetière and pressed the timer on his watch. Sian rummaged through a cupboard for cereal and filled a bowl. He stood by the worktop and when the timer sounded, he plunged the coffee.

  ‘Do you always have to do that every time? How long is it?’

  ‘Two and half minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Would it be the end of the world if it was a minute and a half? This is beginning to control your life and ours.’

  Sian sat down and began eating her breakfast. ‘I think you should get counselling before the obsessions get the better of you.’

  He wanted to talk about the rituals but there was something holding him back, tugging at his mind. He could talk to Moxon; that was how things worked. Talking to Sian was different. He had to think in boxes, compartmentalise everything. When he talked to Moxon, it was just that and nothing else.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  He definitely wanted to stop the discussion going any further. He wanted to divert the conversation and his thoughts returned to the investigation. The numbers came back to his mind. The number four, and then three, as though they were unresolved clues in one of his sudoku puzzles. He looked over at the fridge and saw the number-shaped magnets clinging to the door. There was a four there too, and two threes. Numbers were everywhere, when he looked.

  ‘And another thing,’ Sian said. ‘We haven’t made love for three weeks.’

  Megan and Helen were sitting in the back seat of the car, firmly plugged into their iPods, the white cords dangling down around their T-shirts. Drake wanted to say something to Sian, something meaningful, something that might tell her he was in charge of his rituals, of the obsessions that could dominate his mind, enough for her to know that his behaviour could improve.

  He struggled, and the space between them seemed to amplify the silence and ramp up the tension when he couldn’t find the words. He thought about his possible promotion, but he made an effort to bury his ambition in a corner of his mind. After all, Sian earned more than him and she only worked part time.

  He had the window open a few centimetres and the cooling breeze blew against his face. After negotiating the tunnels near Penmaenmawr, he glanced in the rear-view mirror, and caught sight of the blue Volvo. He accelerated on towards Llanfairfechan and Bangor. To his right dinghies raced on the waters of the Menai Strait.

  Sian broke the silence. ‘We should suggest your father go private.’

  He knew from what Sian had said that paying for a private appointment would be the only way to avoid the waiting list.

  ‘I don’t know that he’d agree.’

  ‘If he wants an early appointment it’s the best thing to do. With all the NHS cutbacks these days …’

  ‘How long would he have to wait?’

  Sian sounded positive, ‘Only a few days. I could talk to the clinic.’

  He turned off the main road and slowed, eyeing the Volvo behind him. He took a detour and Sian looked at him anxiously.

  ‘Something I need to do.’

  Reaching for his mobile, he pressed a speed-dial number, eventually getting through to the patrol car he’d passed minutes earlier. He reached a long, straight section of road, and for a moment thought the Volvo had gone but it reappeared and he sensed the anger building as he gripped the steering wheel hard.

  Moments later he heard the officers’ voices confirming they were right behind the Volvo. Drake slowed the car to a stop as the patrol car flashed its lights and sounded its horn at the Volvo, forcing it to stop behind Drake’s car.

  Drake strode over to the Volvo; the window powered down slowly. The driver stared straight ahead chewing hard on some gum. Drake knelt, hoping he could control the urge to reach in and throttle the journalist.

  ‘If you ever follow me or my family again, I’ll arrest you. Is that clear?’ Drake said through clenched teeth.

  The driver still stared straight ahead. There was a camera with a telephoto lens on the passenger seat and various notebooks and pencils.

  ‘This officer has some questions for you.’

  Drake left the reporter to an interrogation from the Traffic cop and restarted his journey.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Sian said.

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  He drove through the villages that he had passed through a hundred times before, almost on autopilot – as if the car knew its own way to his parents’ home. At the top of the drive, he stopped the car. Sian turned towards him, an uncertain look in her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Isn’t that a wonderful view?’ Drake said, looking out over Caernarfon Bay.

  Sian gazed out through the windscreen. An air sea rescue helicopter hovered over Llanddwyn Island in the distance, the white render of the lighthouse shimmering in the summer heat.

  ‘You’ve seen this view a thousand times before, Ian.’

  ‘You don’t appreciate things when you’re younger, do you?’

  ‘Your mother’s expecting us.’

  They bumped down the track and pulled up outside the house. His mother was on the drive as soon as he switched off the ignition and the girls had opened the rear doors and jumped out, calling to their Nain as they did so.

  His mother had a tired look in her eyes and she squeezed his arm as he kissed her.

  ‘A young policeman called twice yesterday. Elwyn Thomas’s son from the village.’

  Drake looked blank.

  ‘You know, his father delivered eggs. He had a bad stammer.’

  Drake nodded and looked round for his father. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s gone to chapel.’ She made it sound routine even though his father was not a regular worshipper. Drake opened his mouth but the words faltered. He wondered at first why she had not gone with him – they did everything else together. He gave his mother a serious look and could see the don’t-ask-any-more expression on her face. His father had been a member of the congregation all his life but Drake couldn’t remember when his father had last attended a service. Until the teenage years of rebellion Drake had gone to Sunday School, usually with his grandfather and grandmother, who would collect him in their battered old car that coughed and spluttered its way down into the village.

  Before he could think of anything to say Sian had slammed closed all the car doors and
was standing by his side.

  ‘Hello Mair.’ Sian kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Let’s have some tea,’ Mair Drake said.

  Sian gave Drake a bewildered look, raising her shoulders slightly in a gesture that asked what she was missing. He smiled back weakly.

  The house was cool and a welcome change from the sultry temperatures outside. By the time the tea had brewed and a plate of biscuits had been set on the table Drake heard the sound of his father’s car crunching against the gravel of the drive. He looked well, tanned, and walked with confidence, but there was a sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Looking well, Dad,’ Drake began.

  ‘He spends all his time in the fields. Feels at home when he’s outdoors,’ his mother said, her voice laced with regret.

  ‘Weather’s been hot recently,’ his father said.

  She poured the tea and Drake and Sian sat at the table in the kitchen crunching biscuits, waiting for the tea to cool. His father changed into a rough white polo shirt, crumpled and yellowing with age. He took a long draught from a full mug of tea.

  ‘Need to check down the bottom fields. Coming, Ian?’

  His mother gave an impatient look that his father didn’t notice. Drake found a pair of old boots, the leather scratched and torn and they both left the house. Drake squinted at first against the sunshine; it felt hotter now and he could feel the first tinge of perspiration on his forehead. They strode down through various gates towards the bottom paddock where his father kept the pigs.

  ‘Your Aunt Minnie was in chapel this morning. Asked about you.’

  The recollection of a stick-thin fierce-looking woman with a blue rinse came to Drake’s mind. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Complaining about her hips. Waiting for an operation.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mam go with you?’

  ‘She didn’t want to face people, knowing … you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d started going back to chapel.’

  ‘With everything at the moment … Well, it was the right thing to do.’