Worse Than Dead Page 5

  Ellis-Pugh put the steaming coffee mugs on the table for both men. From a drawer he drew out a packet of digestive biscuits that he scattered over a plate.

  ‘What was Rosen like?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Generally unflappable, bit quiet.’

  ‘Did you notice anything different about him recently?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Anything really’

  ‘Can’t think,’ Ellis-Pugh said.

  Tim Loosemore added, ‘Frank Rosen was well liked and approachable. He was a regular flyer for our syndicate.’

  ‘Syndicate?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Yes of course. I should explain. A syndicate is a group of individuals who pool their resources and buy a plane together.’

  ‘Who were the others?’

  Ellis-Pugh passed Drake another piece of paper. ‘The names are on this list with contact details.’

  ‘Where do the members fly? Do you go very far?’

  Loosemore replied, ‘All over really. England, South Wales, Scotland, Ireland, the Isle of Man. Most of the members are professionals or local businessmen. It’s not a hobby without cost.’

  Ellis-Pugh snorted. ‘Damned expensive sometimes. And Rosen was as keen as mustard.’

  ‘He had a night flying qualification,’ Loosemore added. ‘Made him very popular for overnight trips.’

  ‘Are you aware of anybody who might want to kill Frank Rosen?’ The question sounded lame but it was the sort of enquiry Drake had to make.

  ‘I think I can speak for both of us, Inspector Drake,’ replied Ellis-Pugh. ‘From my knowledge of Frank I can’t imagine anyone who might want to harm him.’

  Loosemore nodded solemnly.

  Drake drank the coffee as he listened to Ellis-Pugh and Loosemore exchanging banter about their flying trips. By the time Drake had finished he had the impression that Rosen was no more than the hired help for a group of wealthy businessmen.

  ‘Would you like a guided tour of our humble surroundings?’ Ellis-Pugh asked.

  The surroundings comprised a changing room with some old lockers, without locks; mess room with tables, some armchairs and a very peculiar smell; three further rooms were occupied by a collection of furniture that would not have been out of place in a Second World War movie. Finally there was a grandly titled Committee Room, its hallmark being a clean carpet, tidy and unmarked table tops and a board on the wall inscribed with the names of the club chairmen. In the last few years Ellis-Pugh’s name featured regularly.

  Outside, Ellis-Pugh took him towards the hangar used by the flying club. It was large and cavernous, the wind rattling the zinc sheets that kept the building together. Drake counted twenty aircraft, all neatly parked.

  ‘Any security problems?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Not really, it’s not like having a car,’ observed Loosemore. ‘Occasionally the Special Branch from the port pay us a visit. Meirion sorts out all the notifications.’ He nodded towards his friend.

  ‘We lock the hangar every day,’ Meirion Ellis-Pugh said, raising his voice slightly, ‘and none of the aircraft have any valuables left in them.’

  Drake zipped his Barbour up to his chin as he made his way back to the car. In the distance he could make out the shape of the Carneddau mountain range rising beyond the flatness of Anglesey. Sitting in the car he rifled through his CD collection, choosing a Springsteen Greatest Hits album for the journey home.

  * * *

  An hour later he pulled into his drive and switched off the CD player. He picked up the newspaper lying on the passenger seat with its unfinished sudoku, which he knew he would have to complete later.

  Sian wore a pair of denims that made the best of her slim figure, a powder-blue blouse, the one he’d bought her as an anniversary present, and as a gamble, and an expensive, dark plaited leather belt had been threaded through the loops of the jeans. She kissed him lightly, before he slumped onto a chair in the kitchen, having taken a bottle of Peroni from the fridge.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘They’re at my mother’s. I did tell you this morning, Ian.’

  Drake nodded; he’d forgotten, of course. Sian sluiced water over broccoli spears before checking the stew bubbling on the hob.

  ‘I’ve just spent two hours in the Anglesey Flying Club. Did I tell you that I went flying once with a friend of mine years ago?’

  Sian nodded.

  ‘Rich man’s game, I suppose.’ He slugged a mouthful of lager. ‘Place was run by two real old-fashioned types. I’m sure I’ve seen Loosemore on the news, and the other one – Ellis-Pugh – was like something out of a comic.’

  ‘Is that Tim Loosemore the bio-scientist?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the one who’s been in the papers.’

  ‘His daughter was a year ahead of me at medical school. She’d look down her nose at those of us who wanted to be GPs. More money than she could spend. Her own Audi and a flat that Daddy had bought for her.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘She’s a consultant in one of the London hospitals now. And I’ve come across Meirion Ellis-Pugh through one of those charities our practice manager wants the surgery to support. His daughter has a very rare illness.’

  Drake didn’t say anything; he was thinking about the codes that Rosen had created. If he could bring the numbers under control the answer would surely be there.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to your mother,’ Sian said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mother. We discussed it this morning. She wanted to talk to you about your father’s treatment.’

  ‘No, today has been a blur.’

  Before Sian could respond Drake’s mobile buzzed. He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Inspector Drake,’ Lance said. ‘I’ve had the MD of the ferry company on to me. They’re insisting on getting the ferry back in service.’

  ‘But we need to interview the crew properly.’

  ‘You’ve got tomorrow. After that the ferry restarts its schedule.’

  ‘But that could mean delays—’

  ‘Do your best.’

  Drake stabbed the mobile’s off button and cursed Mortlake. Then he took another mouthful of the cold beer before going in search of the sudoku and a pencil.

  Chapter 8

  It was still early morning when Drake crossed the railway bridge at Holyhead as a train pulled out of the station. Grey clouds shrouded the terraces and port buildings, but the promised rain had kept away. He turned left at a set of traffic lights and then down towards the port. Drake had spent a few months based in the town as a young officer, dealing with the drug dealers and petty criminals. Not to mention being entertained by the older officers with their tales of the terrorist movements through the port years before. It always had the air of a place that people passed through: nobody stayed except the locals.

  Long queues of lorries were parked, waiting for the next ferry; a few cars had already arrived and staff milled around the concourse. On the other side of the port Drake caught sight of the twin funnels of the ship.

  Drake collected a security pass and then they snaked their way through the port, passing the buses waiting for foot passengers before reaching the terminal. It was a short walk down the ramp into the vessel where Drake could see Captain Seymour and Mortlake waiting for them.

  He pushed out a hand. ‘Good morning, Captain. Mr Mortlake.’

  ‘Morning Inspector,’ Seymour replied. Mortlake made a brief grin and a nod.

  Upstairs in one of the lounges a table had been set out for Drake and Caren at different ends of the room. Mortlake stood, arms folded as Drake dumped a folder of papers on the nearest table. A clean antiseptic smell filled the air.

  ‘We’ve almost finished getting the vessel ready,’ Mortlake said. ‘You’ve got until this afternoon to interview all the crew.’

  ‘We’ll see how long it takes,’ Drake said, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.

  Seymour no
w. ‘The ferry has to be clear by late this afternoon. We’ve got a sailing this evening and I’ve a hundred lorries booked.’

  Drake knew from his conversation with Lance that he was under pressure to complete the interviews before the vessel restarted its service. But he wasn’t going to give either Seymour or Mortlake the certainty that he’d finish in good time.

  ‘We’d better get started then,’ Drake said.

  * * *

  An hour later Drake had seen four crew members and Caren had managed only three. He calculated that taking fifteen minutes for each of the individuals on his list would take just under seven hours without having lunch or toilet breaks.

  He took off his wrist watch and propped it into a position where he could read the face. It would have to be twelve minutes each from now on. Then he glanced down the list of standard questions Caren had drafted, wondering how many he could ignore.

  ‘Anything of interest?’ Caren called over to Drake when they’d finished seeing two of the crew at the same time.

  ‘Nothing,’ Drake said. ‘Bloody waste of time.’

  ‘Nobody liked him much.’

  Drake nodded back, as a young girl with dark freckles came through the door and sat down opposite him.

  * * *

  By two o’clock Drake glanced over at Caren and saw her shaking hands with one of the crew as he stood to leave. Drake walked over to her, finishing the last dregs of a bottle of spring water. He could tell from the look in her eyes that her conversations had been a waste of time.

  ‘Somebody must have seen Rosen,’ Caren said.

  ‘Maybe we just haven’t seen the right people yet.’

  ‘Who have you got next?’

  Drake glanced at the name of a second engineer – it didn’t sound Welsh.

  ‘Foreign-sounding engineer.’

  Drake noticed a face at the door and waved towards it. Second Engineer Stewart Van de Melk was a pallid, spotty youngster; Drake thought he looked far too young for the job. There was a nervous and agitated look in his eyes.

  ‘What was your working relationship with Rosen like?’ Drake said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Did you find him easy to get on with?’

  ‘OK.’

  Drake realised it was going to be a struggle so he diverted from the standard script.

  ‘Did Rosen help your career?’

  ‘Well, yes, sort of.’ He sounded defensive, before he explained about the qualifications he was aiming to complete. Rosen had helped him with his revision for an exam. Van de Melk drew a picture of Rosen as a straightforward colleague, helpful to subordinates.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Holyhead.’ Van de Melk sounded surprised. ‘My family’s originally from Holland. The Dutch navy was stationed here in the war. My grandad stayed on.’

  ‘Was Rosen good company?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you socialise with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who did he socialise with?’

  Van de Melk shrugged.

  ‘There was something…’ Van de Melk paused. ‘I heard an argument between Rosen and James about the promotion. I think James was annoyed that Rosen had been promoted before him. There was a lot of swearing and I heard James say he was going to kill Rosen.’

  Drake moved uneasily in his chair. James was further down on his list. This could be nothing more than a jealous argument, but on the other hand.

  * * *

  By the time Drake reached James three witnesses had recalled an argument between James and Rosen, making Drake decide that he needed more time with the engineer. James tried to protest that he had to work when Drake told him he’d have to call at the police station the following day. Drake assured him, tongue in cheek, that Mortlake would be more than happy to release him.

  Drake had five able seamen to interview and he guessed they would be long on brawn and short on brains.

  ‘Call me Daz, mate.’ Darren Green spoke with a strong Liverpool accent. He was thickset, in his mid-thirties. Drake noticed immediately a film of grease over the seaman’s large hands and placed his own in his lap. Green sat back and narrowed his small, dark eyes until they were barely visible.

  ‘How well did you know Rosen?’ Drake asked.

  ‘He was sound. Never gave me any grief.’

  ‘Did you see him on the car deck on the morning of the murder?’

  ‘Look, the engineers never come down onto the car deck, it’s just the lads and the deck officers and a couple of the ABs.’

  Drake pursued this line of questioning and grudgingly Daz agreed that Rosen could have come down onto the car deck whenever he wanted. The air smelt dirty after Green left.

  When Seymour appeared at the door of the lounge, Drake knew that time was running short so he finalised the last interview. Drake was tired and hungry and he wanted a decent coffee. Caren stood up and stretched her back as Seymour strode into the room.

  ‘I hope you’ve finished,’ he said.

  ‘All done,’ Drake replied, tidying the papers on the table.

  Within ten minutes, Drake and Caren were sitting in the car on the quayside listening to the roar of tractor units firing up, as the first of the lorries were taken down into the vessel.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Caren said. ‘I know a decent place.’

  They drove back to the main entrance where Caren directed Drake to a nearby side street just after a sign for all-day meals. The staff at the converted chapel seemed to know Caren as she ordered a full breakfast – adding an additional fried egg. Drake settled for a bacon sandwich.

  ‘Makes you hungry,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being on the water.’

  Drake noticed the tin of a decent instant coffee brand and gave specific instructions about how much hot water should be added to the granules. They found tables to one end of the café and sat down to wait for their meals. When the plates arrived, Caren poured brown sauce all over the food and prodded the fried egg with her toast.

  ‘Lots of the girls think he was having an affair,’ she said through a mouthful of food.

  Drake nodded.

  ‘And there’s a lot of conflict and rivalry between the staff,’ Caren continued.

  Drake tried the coffee, pleased that the result was decently palatable. He took a bite from the sandwich and found himself enjoying the only food he’d had all day. ‘James and Rosen had a blazing row when Rosen was promoted before him.’

  ‘I’d heard about that too.’ A large dollop of sauce fell onto Caren’s plate.

  Once she had finished she pushed the plate towards the middle of the table and slurped noisily on her tea. Drake turned the mug around in his hands and finished the coffee. A message beeped into his mobile – can you talk? MC. Drake hadn’t heard from MC since his release from jail and was intrigued as to why he’d made contact now. The small café was too full for a confidential conversation, so Drake stepped outside. A couple of older men stood by the front door dragging on cigarettes, so Drake walked down the steps and along the pavement. He pressed the number.

  ‘MC. How are you?’

  ‘Are you looking for Rosen’s killer?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know—?’

  ‘I’ve got some information. We should meet.’

  Chapter 9

  It had been over two years since Drake had seen his cousin and a year since he had been sent down for robbery. As Drake pushed open the door of the café, he thought about his mother’s comment that MC was just like his father: un gwyllt – a wild man, with a temper to match.

  MC sat at the far corner of the café nursing a glass full of a clear liquid that he turned slowly, sending a lemon slice swirling around the edge. He nodded at Drake who ordered an Americano at the counter and sat down.

  ‘Been a while,’ MC said.

  ‘Your mother’s birthday party,’ Drake said, recalling a buffet in a local hotel with lots of family present. He’d spent
an embarrassed few hours sitting on the same table as MC, knowing that his cousin was facing prosecution and jail.

  MC nodded. He wore a leather jacket and a white cotton shirt with yellow and green stripes. His hair had been trimmed neatly and two days of stubble couldn’t hide the lean appearance.

  ‘When did you get out?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘How’s Auntie Gwen?’

  ‘Mam’s good.’

  ‘Where are you living now?’

  ‘I moved back into the house in Bangor.’

  Drake sipped the coffee, it was more bitter than he liked but better than most local cafés’ attempts at authentic coffee. ‘Look, you know the score with handling informants. I should have another officer present and everything recorded.’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘Regulations, MC. Let’s make this a social meeting shall we?’

  ‘Yeh, old times’ sake.’

  MC raised the glass to his lips and drank a small mouthful.

  ‘It’s drugs,’ he said.

  Drake swallowed more coffee and waited.

  ‘They bring in drugs and that bastard Rosen was up to his neck in it. Don’t know how they did it. Not yet anyway.’

  MC stared at the glass.

  ‘Stay out of it, MC. The drug squad should be involved.’

  MC snorted, raised his head and blinked hard before pursing his lips. ‘Prisons are full of drug dealers. And they think being sent down is an occupational hazard for them.’

  ‘Don’t go after this MC. It’s not a battle you can ever win.’

  ‘I shared a cell with a con who was doing a fifteen-year stretch. If they’d caught him the day after he was nicked they’d have found four times as much cocaine and heroin. He was just happy to do his time and then get out, dig up the drug money and retire to Spain.’

  ‘Every time we bang one of them up, it’s one less on the streets.’

  MC started drumming two fingers on the table. ‘They treat it like a business. Measure the risk and rewards, all that shit. Except they’re dealing with people’s lives.’