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  Drake wanted to ask why and whether his father had found the solace he was after. He played with various questions in his mind, dismissing each in turn. Talking about religion or emotions had never been easy in the Drake family and, now more than ever, he felt tongue-tied and embarrassed.

  His father stopped by a gate and leant heavily on the top metal rail. He turned to Drake and looked him directly in the eyes.

  ‘If anything … I mean … When … You’ll look after your mother won’t you?’

  Drake felt his mouth dry, lips cracked.

  ‘That business with the photograph hit her hard. Do you know who sent it?’

  Drake wanted more than anything to say that they knew exactly who was responsible but all he could do was shake his head.

  They walked round the fields and his father pointed to the troublesome gates and poor pastures that needed attention every year. There were lengths of fencing that he wanted to change and he complained about the cost of the contractors that had given him a quote to complete the work.

  ‘I’ve had the results of the blood tests,’ his father said, wrenching open a stiff gate.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. Saw Dr Parry in the surgery.’ He bowed his head. ‘Not good. He was worried.’

  ‘What else did he say?’ Drake wondered what else his father wasn’t telling him.

  ‘He’s going to refer me to a specialist.’

  They kept up a good pace walking back to the farmhouse, Drake kicking at the tufts of long grass, his father looking out over the distance and commenting on the weather and predicting when the rain that was needed would arrive.

  In the house Drake found Sian sitting alone reading a newspaper and told her about the test results. She made a resigned face as her eyes softened.

  Lunch was roast lamb with all the trimmings; Megan and Helen argued over who was going to eat the last of the roast parsnips. Sian tried to encourage Drake to talk to his father with the occasional glance and grimace that he failed to comprehend.

  ‘We think that you should arrange to see the specialist privately,’ Sian said eventually, once the table had been cleared.

  He nodded slowly. ‘GP said there’d be a long wait.’

  ‘Always the same,’ his mother said, a frightened look on her face.

  ‘I can talk to the clinic,’ Sian said.

  Tom nodded.

  ‘How long would the wait be then?’ his mother asked.

  ‘A few days maybe,’ Sian replied. She looked at Drake. ‘Ian, will you go with him?’

  Drake looked across the table at his father, expecting him to reject any offer of help. It scared him to see his father nodding slowly.

  Chapter 20

  Monday 14th June

  Caren decided that the space between the BMW and the Ford Fiesta was just large enough to park her car. She pushed the gear stick into reverse with a loud crunching noise. She peered over her shoulder and manoeuvred the car backwards until the nose jutted out into the road. She finally parked neatly after the third attempt and switched off the engine.

  She picked up the notebook lying on the passenger seat and had her hand poised on the door handle when she noticed a tall man with thick-rimmed spectacles emerging from Fiona’s house. He carried his jacket casually over his shoulder, lowered his head and gave Fiona, standing on the doorstep, a lingering kiss. Caren watched the picture of domesticity unfolding before her. They exchanged a final word and, pulling the small gate of the front garden behind him, the man walked towards a Land Rover Discovery. It bleeped as his remote opened the vehicle.

  Caren had a biro in her hand as the four-by-four turned out of its parking slot. She had plenty of time to write down the registration number. She reached for her mobile.

  It took her a few seconds to get through to the right person.

  ‘Can you run these plates for me?’

  She reckoned by the time she was back at headquarters she’d have the name of Fiona’s boyfriend. She could just ask her, of course. But Caren was paid to be suspicious, so she waited in the car until Fiona had returned inside.

  Fiona wore a thin silk dressing gown that looked expensive – too expensive for Caren’s pocket – and a look of mild panic when she opened the front door and saw Caren. She hesitated before inviting Caren in. There was an empty bottle of champagne and two soiled glasses on a large square table in the centre of the sitting room. Fiona picked up a box of luxurious chocolates, making room for Caren to sit down.

  ‘Celebrating something?’

  ‘A friend came round … she’s … been promoted – bit of a celebration.’

  How the lie slips effortlessly from the lips, thought Caren. And then she wondered, why? Caren had seen the kiss and it looked like a regular domestic routine. She opened her notebook and glanced down the list of questions, knowing that what she really wanted to ask would have to wait.

  ‘I just wanted to clarify the position regarding Paul’s private life and about contact with the kids.’ Caren was trying hard to sound non-confrontational. ‘You told us that Paul wasn’t seeing the children very much.’

  Drawing Fiona into confirming her original statements was a good place to start.

  ‘He never made an effort. The kids hated going to see him.’

  ‘Anna has told me a different story.’

  ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’

  Fiona avoided eye contact, her arms folded and her body language defensive. Paul Mathews’s solicitor had been quite clear when he described Fiona. Very difficult. Very uncooperative. One of the worst I’ve seen.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Paul’s parents.’

  ‘The kids hated them too.’ Fiona narrowed her eyes.

  Caren persisted. ‘They wanted contact with their grandchildren.’

  ‘The kids wouldn’t go.’

  ‘But you were aware they were thinking about court proceedings.’

  ‘My solicitors dealt with all that. And anyway, what does this have to do with Paul’s death?’

  Caren paused; Fiona gave her a sideways glance and turned away. There was a shallow thud as letters fell on the floor in the hall, then the clanking of the gate closing behind the postman.

  ‘I need to ask you some personal questions about Paul.’

  Fiona turned to look at Caren.

  ‘Were you aware that he had suffered from chlamydia?’

  The question hung in the air like a bad smell but the look on Fiona’s face spoke volumes. Fiona turned to look out of the window. It was going to be another warm summer’s day and the sitting room was hot already.

  ‘No I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me,’ Fiona said eventually.

  Another whopper, thought Caren.

  ‘Is that all?’ Fiona asked, when Caren thanked her for her time.

  The early morning clouds had disappeared and the sky was clear blue. As she walked towards her car she caught a glimpse of Fiona’s silk dressing gown in the window of the sitting room. After she opened the car door and started the engine, a text message reached her mobile.

  It gave her the name of the boyfriend.

  Drake was about to suggest that someone open a window when the CPS solicitor got up and fiddled with the catch of the metal frame. It gave way with a squeaking sound, allowing fresh air to flood into the room. Phil Myers sat down heavily in his chair and drew a hand round his shirt collar, then wiped away a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘You know what Judge Machin is like,’ he said. ‘If all the paperwork isn’t pristine he’ll go for the jugular. My jugular in particular. So I want to go through everything again.’

  Drake made his impatience obvious by doodling in the margin of the morning’s newspaper, folded open at the sudoku puzzle he had already started. A couple of months previously he had been the Duty Inspector when a distraught woman rang emergency services. He had a woman police constable and a couple of uniforms in the team and they found Audrey Embers, a crumpled mess sobbing in her kitchen, n
aked from the waist down, a pair of jeans discarded in one corner and blood all over her face and T-shirt. She told them, between large gasping breaths, that her husband was at his mate’s house playing on the computer.

  On the other side of the council estate, they had to force their way past a woman standing at the open door, who screamed that they needed a warrant and that she’d sue. Eventually it had taken three of them to restrain him – Drake reckoned that a mixture of cocaine and lager had given him some added strength. Sat on by two police officers and then cuffed, he was bundled into the back of the car. The sight of domestic violence had always sickened Drake and he never shared the view of some senior officers that these incidents had to take a low priority. An assault was always just that.

  Phil Myers had been talking uninterrupted, reviewing the events, occasionally pausing and raising his eyes, looking for confirmation. But Drake was thinking about crossbows and song lyrics and numbers – always the number four. And the photograph of Roderick Jones lying on his mother’s kitchen table came back to his mind. Then he recalled the bewildered look on her face and it reminded him to chase forensics about the photograph and the envelope.

  This was wasting his time, he decided. He had to say something; he could feel his impatience rising.

  ‘This guy is a grade-one smack-head. Look, do you …’

  Howick appeared at the door. ‘Traffic have found a crossbow, sir.’

  Howick drove and Drake sat, playing with the air-conditioning control of the unmarked car and thinking about the possibilities of what finding the second crossbow might mean. Soon he gave up trying to get the dials to work and he opened the window. Howick was in the outside lane and the traffic was light. A coach, full of tourists on a Castles Tour, passed on the opposite carriageway.

  Howick slowed for the junction and then parked behind the Scientific Support Vehicle. Behind the flickering yellow crime scene tape Drake saw two large vans by the side of the road. Their bumpers were faded, the paintwork was scratched and rust streaked along the bodywork. Piled all over the kerbside were wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Two men wearing jeans and faded T-shirts stood to one side.

  A tall Traffic officer with a serious frown on his face walked up to Drake as he made his way under the tape.

  ‘We had an anonymous tip-off that these vehicles were illegal and that there might be drugs bound for Rhyl.’

  Drake nodded as they walked over, recalling the regular memos about the organised drugs trade in the nearby town. The officer continued.

  ‘When we opened the back of the second van and began a search we found the crossbow. That’s when we called you.’

  Drake stood by the rear door of the nearest van and looked down at the crossbow. It looked well cared for and clean. Maybe even recently used, thought Drake. Foulds appeared by his side and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Think this could be the one?’

  Drake shrugged, his mind turning to the two men standing by the kerb. The taller of them had his arms crossed and the second man was shorter but leaner, a defiant grin on his face. What struck Drake immediately was the second man’s ponytail and beard.

  ‘This is police harassment,’ the first man said.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ian Drake, and you are …?’

  ‘Tex. It’s fucking harassment. I could sue for this. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Second man now: ‘This has ruined our day in the car-boot. This is the best time of the year for us. We’ve lost hundreds because of you.’

  Drake curbed a desire to shout at both men and settled for simply telling them what was going to happen.

  ‘Two policemen have been killed with a crossbow. The officers have found a crossbow hidden in your vehicle. We are going to complete a full investigation of your vehicles and if there’s evidence to link you to their deaths then we’ll charge you with both murders. That always carries a life sentence and it means years in a high-security prison with few visits and fewer privileges and shit food. Do I make myself clear?’

  Neither man said anything. Behind Drake, Foulds and the CSI team were working on the vehicles.

  Drake lifted the top slice of the toasted sandwich and looked at the dirty-yellow-coloured mass oozing over the edges. He prodded the cheese and uncovered a slice of greying ham. He looked into the mug of coffee but it was so weak he could almost see the bottom. He took a spoon and stirred, as though it might turn into a double espresso. He was regretting agreeing to Moxon’s invitation for lunch.

  ‘How’s Sian?’ Moxon asked him.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  Drake was looking at the white specks of sugar on the front of his trousers.

  ‘Fine, fine … you know, busy. Rushing around. Like being a taxi driver.’

  ‘Must be great watching them grow up.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I always wanted kids.’

  Drake glanced over at the waitress, thinking that he might suggest a rescue attempt on his coffee – perhaps adding a spoonful of instant might help. The local radio played the lunchtime talk show in the background.

  ‘We’ve had another song lyric.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A song by Queen this time – ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love.’ The bastard sent some of the lyrics to my parents.’

  ‘You’re probably looking for some failed rock star.’

  ‘My mother’s really frightened.’

  ‘She must be. Do you think there’s a connection to the lyrics?’

  ‘They’re songs everybody knows,’ Drake said. ‘You hear them on the radio all the time.’

  ‘Rather you than me. What does Price think?’

  ‘That he’s leading us a merry dance.’

  Drake poked the pile of crisps on his plate and decided against them.

  ‘How’s the profiler?’ Moxon stuffed his crisp wrapper into his empty mug.

  ‘Working hard, I suppose.’

  ‘I reckon this profiling stuff is all crap. Smoke and mirrors. You could figure out most of it yourself.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree’. Drake glanced at his watch, knowing he had to be back at headquarters.

  ‘We’ll have to go out for a drink sometime,’ Moxon said, as they paid.

  Since Beverley Moxon’s death from cancer, Drake had seen less and less of his friend. As he mumbled his agreement, a pang of guilt hung in his mind – that he should have supported his friend better, but he dismissed it; his mind already returning to the investigation.

  Drake had seen Caren add two – or was it three? – spoonfuls of sugar to her tea before adding a dribble of milk and then squeezing out the teabag. There were spots of tea on the worktop and on the floor leading to the bin. Now he could imagine the mug spilling all over his desk. He reached for a coaster and pushed it towards her. He relaxed once she put the mug down.

  ‘What’s happening with house-to-house?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. All the teams have drawn a blank.’

  Caren fumbled with a large-scale plan, the towns and villages highlighted in yellow, before launching into a detailed explanation. Drake became nervous at the prospect of the carefully ordered papers on his desk falling all over the floor, so he stopped her in mid-flow, suggesting she pin the map on the board in the Incident Room.

  Drake used one hand to hold a corner of the map in place as Caren pinned the other to the board. Once Caren had finished they stood back and paused, looking at the towns highlighted in yellow, and the red circles showing the perimeters of varying distances from the Crimea Pass.

  ‘We’ve done Llanrwst.’ She pointed to the town. ‘And Blaenau Ffestiniog.’

  Drake moved closer to the board.

  ‘What do we know so far? He was in a red car. From the Crimea, he drove down towards Betws-y-Coed.’

  Caren interrupted. ‘We know he was following them earlier.’

  Drake stroked his chin, and then pulled at his lips before interrupting
her.

  ‘The car was found burnt out on an industrial estate outside Bangor,’ and with two quick strokes of a blue marker, he underlined the location of the industrial estate. ‘So we know he travelled from Blaenau Ffestiniog to Bangor.’

  ‘Where did he go in between?’

  Drake started by pointing to Anglesey. ‘He could have gone on to the island or down the peninsula or back over to Llandudno.’

  He dragged one of the chairs near to the board, sat down, and stared at the map and the circles around the towns. Nobody had seen the red Mondeo – the citizens of North Wales were safely tucked up in bed.

  Except one.

  Howick waited for the right opportunity. ‘I found the details about the second song, sir.’

  ‘What do you make of the lyrics?’

  ‘It’s not the lyrics that are important. It’s the year it was recorded.’

  Caren joined Drake staring at Howick.

  ‘1979.’

  ‘There was something special about that year. Has to be,’ Caren said.

  ‘Could be something else,’ Drake said. ‘A serial number, identification or a code.’

  He ran out of options, the frustration building in his mind. They were all numbers and his world revolved around numbers and rituals and now the killer was sending them numbers. He thought again about his parents and the photograph, knowing that the killer knew where they lived. It was as though the killer wanted to torment him.

  Winder’s entrance into the Incident Room, still talking into his mobile, broke Drake’s concentration enough for him to be annoyed. Winder dropped on the desk a bag of pastries that filled the air with a warm, sweet smell.

  ‘Good news, sir,’ he began, ending his call. ‘Just got back from Chester. Spoke to the receptionist at the hotel where Harrod stayed.’

  Winder tore open the bag and thrust it towards them. Caren looked hungrily at the pastries.

  ‘And?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Harrod’s a lying toe-rag. He left early in the evening.’

  ‘Really?’

  Winder nodded enthusiastically and then took a mouthful of pastry.

  ‘The receptionist saw Harrod’s car leave. It’s got personal plates – JH – same as hers.’