Devil's Kitchen_An Inspector Drake Prequel Novella Read online

Caren nodded. ‘Lots of people have red walking jackets.’

  Drake didn’t want Caren to deflect his enthusiasm. ‘Even so, he was there. And we know how cut up he was. He might have been up the mountain first thing that morning.’

  Drake thought about Scott’s shocked reaction when he learnt that Denise had been killed. But then he had been evasive when they’d interviewed him at his home. He was hiding something, Drake was certain.

  ‘Are you suggesting he could have killed Denise Trainor?’ Caren said.

  Drake paused, knowing they had no evidence; it was only idle speculation. ‘We need to interview John Scott, again.’

  ‘I’ve drawn a blank with building a picture of her background. It’s as though there’s a gap before she started at the university. We should go back to the Trainors’ property first.’

  They left headquarters soon afterwards. Drake pushed a Bruce Springsteen greatest hits CD into the player of the Alfa Romeo. Roadworks in the tunnels at Penmaenmawr and Llanfairfechan delayed their journey along the A55. Eventually Drake indicated off the dual carriageway. The earlier light drizzle had turned heavier and the wiper blades swished back and forth.

  A builder’s merchant’s delivery wagon had drawn up outside the cottage so Drake parked in a lay-by a few hundred metres away. He zipped his Barbour jacket up to his chin and drew the collar to his face, regretting not having an umbrella in the car. Caren flipped the hood of her parka over her head. By the front door Drake fumbled with the keys. Once inside he closed the door behind them.

  Standing in the hallway Drake recalled how as a young constable he had accompanied a sergeant and a detective inspector around the property of a man shot late at night. Drake had watched as the inspector absorbed the crime scene, listened as the senior officer told him to soak up everything about the victim’s circumstances.

  Someone would have to sort out the Trainors’ affairs, close the bank accounts, sell the cottage. Had they made a will? Something else for Caren to establish. He walked into the kitchen and stood for a moment imagining conversations at the pine table about students at the university, jealousies amongst the staff. He wondered what Jack Trainor found to talk about. Working from home made his life isolated, lonely enough for his mind to become twisted and bent. Drake joined Caren in the sitting room.

  ‘I found this box of old photographs.’ Caren nodded towards a tall bookshelf.

  She emptied the contents onto a glass-topped coffee table and flicking through them Drake recognised a young Denise Trainor.

  ‘There must be family amongst all these people.’

  Drake sat down on the leather Chesterfield. It was upright and uncomfortable. It suited Jack Trainor’s personality, Drake thought. He scanned the room, more thoroughly than at his first visit. It had a bleakness that depressed Drake, all dark heavy furniture, very formal. Half a dozen old prints of various castles hung on the wall – Drake noticed Caernarfon and Conwy but the others were drawings from odd angles.

  Drake stood up and went through towards the bedrooms. He realised because the cottage wasn’t a crime scene everything had been undisturbed, no fingerprint powder dusted over surfaces or investigators looking for DNA samples. The place was exactly as the Trainors had left it. Denise Trainor must have been expecting to return.

  Drake rifled through the clothes in Jack Trainor’s wardrobe. The shirts felt cheap, the jeans were threadbare, and the brogues at the bottom needed polishing, the heels worn with age. Caren appeared at the door. ‘Anything?’

  Drake shook his head.

  ‘I’ll go and check Denise’s room.’

  Drake sat on the edge of the bed and checked the contents of the bedside cupboard. There were chargers for e-readers, various handkerchiefs and some loose change. In the next room Caren was dragging hangers along a rail in a wardrobe. He looked out of a window over a paved area leading onto a piece of rough grass that needed cutting badly. Although it had been Caren’s idea to visit the property his initial enthusiasm waned and he decided they really had to make progress and get to see John Scott. A sound drew his attention. It came from outside as though someone was about to ring the bell. He knew it wasn’t Caren; he could sense her presence in the adjacent bedroom.

  He stepped into the doorway, craned his head to one side and looked down towards the front door. Someone was outside. He could hear the scraping of a flowerpot being moved, and the sound of feet disturbing the chippings around the door. Drake took three steps along the hallway and then heard a key in the door.

  Drake paused. The door opened and John Scott walked in, a set of keys in his hand.

  11.00 am

  Scott lived in an old Welsh cottage not dissimilar to the Trainors’ but in need of substantial repair. He sat with two uniformed officers in the kitchen as Drake and Caren completed a search. The smell of dirty clothes and stale food hung around the place. Drake stood in the doorway of the bedroom surveying the chaos. A duvet hung over one side of the bed, unwashed clothes spilt out of a laundry basket and mugs of half-finished tea and coffee were plonked on piles of newspapers and magazines. Drake couldn’t imagine Denise Trainor snuggled under the duvet with Scott. He joined Caren who was searching through the bottom of a wardrobe in the second bedroom. She gave a brief exclamation of success after unzipping a large grey sports bag. She dragged it onto the floor and pulled out a red walking jacket. She stood, and held up the jacket. ‘It looks like his size, sir.’

  Drake knew it proved nothing. The words of Price and Caren about the popularity of red walking jackets came to mind.

  Drake walked around the room, which was just as disorganised as the main bedroom.

  ‘We might need a full search team,’ Caren said.

  ‘We’ll interview Scott first.’ Drake could imagine how Superintendent Price would react if he asked for a search team.

  Scott was still in the kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee. Both uniformed officers looked suitably bored; one of them was playing on his smartphone. ‘Is this your jacket?’ Drake said to Scott, pointing at the coat in Caren’s hand. He nodded limply and turned his gaze to his shoes. Drake picked up Scott’s mobile from the table. He gave both officers instructions to take Scott to the police station in Caernarfon and once the cottage was safely secured Drake followed them.

  1.29 pm

  Caren sat fidgeting with Scott’s mobile as they drove the short distance to the police station. Safely negotiating the security system Drake and Caren found the canteen. Caren organised sandwiches and Drake stared in disgust at the drying white bread and the grey ham between both slices. Then he looked at the coffee Caren had left by the side of his plate. It was almost transparent. He ate half a sandwich and pushed the plate with the rest of his lunch on it to one side. He watched as Caren enjoyed every mouthful but his appetite diminished as he listened to her running commentary through a half-open mouth.

  ‘There must be hundreds of texts here.’ Caren’s forefinger tapped repeatedly on the smartphone screen.

  ‘We haven’t got time to go through all his texts.’

  ‘I mean the texts to Denise Trainor.’ Caren stopped chewing, staring at Drake.

  ‘How many did you say?’ Drake took a mouthful of the tasteless coffee.

  ‘We’ll need to get forensics to transcribe all these. Some of them are really lewd. He certainly had the hots for her big time.’

  ‘Let’s go and find out what he has to say for himself.’

  They left the canteen and headed down to the custody suite and after completing the paperwork they escorted John Scott to an interview room. He sat down opposite Drake, a frightened look in his eyes.

  ‘How well did you know Denise Trainor?’ Drake said.

  ‘She …’

  ‘Were you having an affair?’

  Scott’s head dipped. ‘She was …’

  He stared at Drake and then at Caren. His eyes looked pained.

  ‘I know she was in love with me. I could tell from the way she touched me. The way she smiled at m
e.’

  Caren opened the smartphone in her hand. ‘You sent her intimate text messages regularly.’

  Scott nodded.

  ‘I couldn’t see any replies.’

  ‘She wanted us to be a secret obviously.’

  ‘Do you think she kept your texts?’

  ‘Of course, why wouldn’t she?’

  ‘But we didn’t find any of your texts on her mobile.’

  Scott gave her a sickly condescending smile. Drake let Caren continue with this line of questioning.

  ‘Tell me, John, how often did you meet?’

  He blinked furiously. ‘It was at the walking club of course. And we’d meet for lunch.’

  Caren smiled and moved nearer Scott. She put the phone down on the desk. ‘Where did you meet for lunch?’

  ‘All over the place, all the time. We didn’t have a favourite place. Being with her was special.’

  ‘Tell me about one place where you had lunch with her.’

  ‘You want me to tell you about one place where we had lunch?’ Scott angled his head to one side, pursed his lips, feigning deep thought. ‘There was that place on the square in the middle of Bangor.’

  Drake butted in, getting Scott to confirm the name of a well-known national chain. Caren nodded at Drake who took the cue.

  ‘How did you know there were keys under one of the flowerpots by the door?’

  ‘Denise told me, of course.’

  ‘And why were you there this morning?’

  He bowed his head. ‘I wanted something… something to remind me of her.’ Scott lifted his head, blinking away tears.

  ‘So where were you on the morning Denise and Jack Trainor died?’ Drake folded his arms.

  ‘I was … you surely don’t suspect that I was …?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I was in my office in the visitor centre.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that you were there?’

  Scott blinked furiously. ‘Of course, Elaine saw me. Talk to Elaine Razzell.’

  ‘I’ll need her contact details.’

  Chapter 8

  1st October

  4.15 pm

  Visiting the café was a bad idea, Caren thought. The chances that any of the staff might remember Denise Trainor were remote but Drake had ignored her protests. She had learnt to accept his determination to examine every lead.

  Drake pushed open the door of the café and she followed. A wall of warm, moist air enveloped them and the sound of conversations from shoppers and the tinkling of spoons against mugs assaulted her ears. A long queue of customers stood waiting their turn. Drake hurried past them and gestured to one of the employees behind the serving bar. Discreetly he flashed his warrant card; Caren saw the perplexed look on the man’s eyes.

  ‘Is the manager available?’ Drake said.

  ‘Give me a minute.’ He headed for a door at the back. Moments later a woman, mid-thirties, five foot ten or so with a rolling gait, walked over to them.

  Drake showed her a picture of Denise Trainor. ‘We believe this woman is a regular customer.’ He tapped on Denise’s smiling face. It was the end of the afternoon and what little charm Drake possessed seemed to have deserted him. At least he could have introduced himself, Caren concluded.

  ‘We serve a lot of people here every day. It would be impossible to remember everybody’s faces.’

  Caren stepped nearer the woman. ‘Detective Sergeant Waits,’ Caren smiled. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Beverly Williams.’

  ‘This woman was killed earlier this week. We’ll need to ask your staff if they remember her.’

  Beverly glanced over towards the serving counter. The earlier queue had thinned. Then she glanced at her watch. ‘The evening shift will start soon. You could wait and talk to them as they arrive, and the current shift before they leave.’

  ‘How long will they be?’ Drake said.

  ‘Twenty minutes. Would you like a coffee?’

  Once they had ordered, Caren found a table in a quiet corner. Her mobile rang as she sat down. She looked over at Drake as she mumbled her acknowledgements to the caller.

  ‘The officers have been able to trace Denise’s sister.’

  ‘Good. How did she take the news?’

  ‘No reaction apparently. She hadn’t seen Denise for several years. They’re going to send me her mobile number.’

  A latte arrived for Caren and an Americano for Drake. He had been very insistent it had to have two shots of espresso and an equal amount of water. He gave the cup a suspicious look and then pierced the crema with his spoon.

  ‘What did you make of Scott, boss?’ Caren said.

  ‘He’s a fantasist.’

  Caren nodded. ‘I think we’ll be wasting our time here. My guess is he didn’t come here but he knows it’s such a busy place the staff won’t have a hope of remembering all their customers.’ Caren took a mouthful of her drink, before tearing open another sachet of sugar. ‘What would be his motive to kill Trainor?’

  ‘Revenge. He sees Trainor killing Denise, the woman he fantasises about and then he kills Trainor …’ Drake read the time. It was getting late in the afternoon and they still had to interview Elaine Razzell. ‘But it puzzles me that if Scott was the man Jack Trainor saw with his wife, why didn’t he mention him by name in his diary?’

  ‘The same goes for George Lamont.’

  ‘Jack Trainor would have known Lamont but the diary entry suggests Jack didn’t know this other man.’

  ‘So you think there was another man involved with Denise Trainor? Someone we haven’t identified.’

  ‘If Denise had a lover we’d need to put him on top of the mountain to make a case that he killed Trainor.’

  ‘Scott was on the mountain.’

  ‘And that other woman – Mary Hall.’

  Beverly walked over to their table and introduced them to two young members of staff who explained they were students. Drake showed them a photograph of Denise Trainor.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ one of the girls said.

  ‘Do you recall her visiting the café?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘She taught at the university.’

  Caren added. ‘And she might have been in with different men.’

  It had no impact and the girls gave them blank looks. A pimply man in his teens was the next to sit down. He had protruding eyes that gave him a permanently frightened appearance but his reaction was the same as his co-workers’. Caren could see Drake’s irritation building and she breathed a sigh of relief to herself when Beverly returned.

  ‘I’ll get the afternoon shift to talk to you now.’

  Two more young students sat by Caren and each stared at the image of Denise. The final girl who sat down had a long ponytail drawn down one side of her shoulder.

  Drake gestured to the photograph of Denise Trainor. ‘We want to know if you have seen this woman in the café. She was killed this week.’

  Immediately she raised a hand to her mouth but Caren couldn’t decide if it was from recognition or shock. The young girl peered at Denise. Then she reached over and studied it in more detail.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘We believe she was murdered,’ Drake added, glancing at Caren.

  ‘She was here a couple of times.’

  ‘Can you describe the person she was with?’

  The girl nodded. One of Caren’s palms suddenly felt sweaty.

  ‘He had a thick bushy beard. It was long and red. You know, they look really sexy.’ She glanced at Caren for agreement. ‘My boyfriend is trying to grow one.’

  Scott was clean-shaven, which seemed to exclude him from the trysts and confirm Drake’s opinion of him as a fantasist. Drake leant over towards her. ‘We’ll need a description of anyone else you might have seen with her.’

  Drake and Caren stood outside the café as late-afternoon shoppers wound their way to the car parks and the bus station at the bottom of the hi
ll. A message reached Drake’s mobile and he made one of his intense glares as he tapped out a reply. Caren felt her own mobile vibrate in her jacket pocket and fished it out but she didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Waits. You left a message on my voicemail for me to call you.’

  6.29 pm

  Traffic over the Menai suspension bridge had delayed the journey to a crawl. Drake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to Caren explaining that Malcolm Brown had been one of the contact telephone numbers she had found in Denise’s mobile. He read the time on the dashboard, wondering how he could explain another late evening to Sian. It was easy for her; the surgery closed at half past five and there was an out of hours service for the patients.

  Mulling things over in his mind had started to occupy more and more of his time. He rationalised it as being part of the job. He couldn’t switch off that easily.

  The address in Beaumaris was unfamiliar, although he knew the route to the town on the coast that had a reputation as a destination for wealthy retired families from England. Lights seeping out from the edges of curtained windows gave the tall, handsome properties a wintery feel and in the distance over the Menai Strait the lights of Bangor shimmered in the evening gloom. The satnav took them through the narrow streets and they pulled up outside an imposing terrace of town houses.

  The doorbell’s distinguished tone resonated through the building. It caused a brief yelping sound from a dog inside and then a shout of disapproval. The door opened and a man with an enormous red beard stood on the threshold. Drake and Caren exchanged a glance before Drake fumbled for his warrant card.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘May we come in?’ Drake said.

  Brown eased open the door. ‘I only got your message this morning when I arrived back in the country. I travel a lot on business.’

  The sitting room had the formality of the Trainors’ cottage but more discreet lighting and expensive-looking furniture. Drake and Caren sat opposite Brown on a large comfortable leather sofa.