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  He parked outside the front door and watched his mother walk out to greet him. The sound of vulnerability in her voice on the phone had told him something wasn’t right.

  His mother was tall with short, grey hair and a round, warm face. She looked heavier than Drake remembered, but then she always complained about her weight.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Ian.’

  He kissed her and gave her a hug.

  She made tea and fussed about, offering him sandwiches and cakes.

  ‘Just tea, Mam, thanks.’

  ‘I’m really worried about your father. He doesn’t seem to want to do anything,’ she began. ‘It’s not like him: I know something is wrong. He’s made an effort today to mend the fences, knowing you were coming.’

  Drake listened as his mother told him her worries. His father had been losing weight, and she was trying to get him to eat, but nothing seemed to work. Drake could imagine how his father would get restless and introverted by his wife’s attention.

  ‘And he is so short-tempered,’ she added.

  And you can be quite awkward, Drake thought. Perhaps his father was just irritated by retirement, angry at the unfamiliarity of domestic routine. He considered suggesting a cruise, but thought better of it.

  After finishing his tea, he pulled on a pair of old wellington boots and made his way to the bottom field where his father was busy mending fences. He was wearing a one-piece overall and underneath Drake noticed a crescent-shaped band of perspiration on the T-shirt.

  ‘Not overdoing it, Dad?’

  ‘Take that jacket off and give me a hand.’

  ‘Another time maybe.’

  They stood and talked – about the fences, about how his father was going to improve the drainage in the fields, about the hedgerows and the grants available to stop farmers being farmers. It wasn’t like the farming his father remembered as a boy. They stood in the warm June sunshine, passing the time of day.

  Drake could sense his father knew why he had called and was making an effort, being too talkative. ‘Mam’s worried about you,’ he said eventually.

  His father bowed his head slightly and said nothing. Now, Drake knew something was wrong.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said.

  Chapter 11

  Monday 7th June

  Caren could hear Drake’s muffled voice through the door but it was difficult to make out exactly what he was saying. It reminded her how difficult it had been to fathom out Drake when she started working with him. One of her friends had curled up her nose when she’d heard that Caren was going to work with Drake. Rather you than me, she’d said, adding something about him being a bit odd.

  Caren had been thinking about the interview with Paula Farrell, pondering how Drake might have handled it better, how he might have been more sympathetic. She had often found herself softening the edges of interviews that he conducted with witnesses and grieving families. The interview with Laura Mott would need sensitive handling and she’d been considering the alternatives as she drove into work that morning, trying to decide on how best to mention it. After all, Drake was her superior, but it was an interview with a former police officer who’d made a complaint of sexual harassment, and it seemed only fair to her that it be handled in a certain way.

  It had been difficult finding Laura Mott. The address provided by human resources proved a blank and she wasn’t listed in the telephone directory. Eventually, Caren found a serving police officer who knew where she lived. After a long period of silence from Drake’s room, she tilted her head forwards trying to decide if he’d finished. She walked to his door and he waved her in.

  ‘Just finished,’ Drake said, adjusting the telephone on his desk and tidying the papers into square piles. Caren noticed two long columns of Post-it notes set out on the desk, neatly arranged by colour.

  ‘I was wondering, sir. Laura Mott.’

  ‘Yes. We ready to go?’

  Drake stood up. Caren took the initiative.

  ‘I think it might be better if I were to take the lead in the interview with her. She might be more cooperative with me. Might see you as a threat.’

  Drake narrowed his eyes slightly and rearranged the rest of the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Might do, I suppose.’

  Caren could see him working on the alternatives in his mind.

  ‘And we do want to get the most out of her. She might be crucial for the case.’

  Drake walked round the desk, reached for his jacket from the wooden hanger, and draped it over one arm. He cast his eyes over his desk and around the room. Caren followed his eyes – everything was in its rightful position, no empty coffee mug or scrap of paper out of place. A newspaper had been folded carefully and she noticed the half-finished sudoku with pencil marks in the margin.

  ‘Okay. You do the interview but I’ll interrupt when and if.’

  She turned to leave, pleased with her small victory.

  After a few minutes’ driving they’d left Colwyn Bay and were heading down narrow country lanes. Caren had her window open, and the wind ruffled her hair, blowing it across her face untidily. They found the house easily; a clean white painted sign at the bottom of a long drive made it difficult to miss. The driveway was immaculate, lined with new fencing and clean pebbles in the borders.

  Laura didn’t appear surprised when she found them standing outside her front door. She was five-foot-six with shoulder-length blonde hair and perfect make-up.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said, turning on her heels.

  They stepped into the hall – fresh flowers in a tall vase sat on a dust-free table – and followed her into the lounge. Laura waved vaguely at the sofas, and Caren and Drake sat down. Before Caren said anything, Laura spoke.

  ‘He was a slimy piece of shit.’

  Good start – it can only get better, thought Caren.

  ‘I was expecting you to contact me,’ she continued, sounding disinterested.

  ‘It took a bit of time to find you.’ Caren explained about the former address.

  ‘I haven’t lived there for years – before I was married. And my married name is Harrod.’

  Caren nodded – that would explain the wild-goose chase.

  The room was like a photograph from one of the magazines you might flick through in the dentist’s waiting room. A large seascape dominated one wall above an immaculately polished sideboard made of some exotic wood. Laura sat across from Caren on the edge of another matching sofa, and Caren noticed the expensive jeans and the still more expensive perfume that hung in the air. Drake sat by her side, notebook in hand.

  ‘How long did you work with Danny Farrell?’ Caren asked.

  ‘Far too long.’ She emphasised every word.

  ‘I know you made various complaints about him—’

  Before she could finish Laura interrupted. ‘And each complaint was ignored. I don’t really want to think about it. But he’s dead now. At the time, I believed the complaints procedure might have worked. I followed all the right protocols. But it was no good.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit more about the complaints?’

  ‘Haven’t you read the file?’

  ‘Yes … but I was hoping you could … sort of fill in the blanks.’

  Caren noticed the perfect eye shadow above the unblinking eye contact – she could never spend the time such make-up needed every morning.

  ‘He was a slimy piece of shit.’

  Caren got the picture – the woman really didn’t like him.

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘It began with the groping in the car. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself. It just got worse after that.’

  ‘When did you make the first complaint?’

  ‘God, I can’t remember. It’ll be in the file.’

  ‘What did the investigating officer tell you to do?’

  ‘Follow the standard bullying procedure,’ she said. ‘And all that meant was seeing if I could resolve it myself. Fat lot
of good that did. He just got worse. Always made innuendos about having sex. And at the start, I’d just got married, so he must have thought it was a big joke.’

  Caren flicked through the file on her lap. ‘You asked to be moved.’

  ‘Twice. Two formal requests not to work with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing happened, surprise, surprise. Then I applied for a transfer – that took ages. I even applied to do the sergeant’s course. Then I made a formal complaint about him. Eventually that got some results – one of the officers in Traffic spoke to me about my career.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Drake interrupted.

  ‘Inspector Prewer.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She gave Drake a look that said what do you think?

  ‘Prewer suggested that if I wanted to move ahead with my sergeant’s exams it would be best if I reconsidered. By then I was getting stressed. It was affecting my work. I couldn’t sleep and Jim was furious. I thought about giving up quite often.’

  Caren sat back in the sofa and allowed her body to fold into the soft leather. Her eye caught the books of photographs of Snowdonia and back issues of Cheshire Life neatly arranged on the coffee table. They were all perfectly square, not a millimetre out of place – exactly as Drake would have had them. The eye contact disappeared when Caren asked about her husband. James Harrod was into property, refurbishments and commercial development. She wondered why Laura had needed the aggravation of police work if her husband was a successful property developer.

  ‘What did Jim think of Danny Farrell?’ Caren asked.

  ‘How would your husband react?’ She looked Caren straight in the eye.

  Caren blinked and thought about how Alun might react – storm down to headquarters and make a fool of himself probably.

  ‘Where were you on the night of the murders, Laura?’ Caren asked.

  ‘I was out with some girlfriends. Stayed over. I’ll give you their names. And James was in the Manor Court Hotel in Chester – business dinner.’ She sounded defiant.

  Caren scribbled down the details. The interview came to an end and Caren thanked her and stood up.

  ‘You have a lovely home, Laura,’ Caren said.

  ‘Thank you.’ For the first time Laura seemed to relax.

  ‘Lived here long?’ Caren continued.

  ‘Couple of years – we’ve been doing it up. Jim’s business is doing really well. I don’t need to work now.’

  As they left Caren caught Drake casting his eyes around the room, absorbing the details. Outside the gravel crunched under their feet as they made their way over to the car. Caren swung the door open and allowed the temperature in the car to cool as Drake took off his jacket before folding it neatly onto the back seat.

  ‘What did you make of her?’ Drake asked.

  ‘The house didn’t look lived in at all.’

  ‘Everything was new, as though she’d gone to a shop and bought the whole showroom.’

  ‘She’s an obnoxious cow with the perfect motive,’ Caren said, powering the window open.

  Drake kept darting glances into the rear-view mirror and on an impulse turned down into a narrow country lane. Caren gave a surprised look. He slowed the car, powered down the window and felt the fresh summer air on his skin. He glanced again into the rear-view mirror but the blue Volvo wasn’t there and for a moment he thought he might be too paranoid. But he had the registration, and a couple of telephone calls would find the identity of the driver.

  ‘Where are we going exactly, sir?’

  ‘When I was travelling to see my parents last night I was convinced I was being followed. The same blue Volvo was parked near the Archery Association on Friday. I’m certain that I’ve seen the car before.’

  ‘There are lots of blue Volvos around. My dad’s got one.’

  ‘Maybe it was when we were in Blaenau Ffestiniog.’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘It could have been behind me when I was driving to the area custody suite,’ Drake said.

  He slowed the car as a tractor approached, followed by a Volvo, but it was red and an estate car, but Drake still stared at the driver, fixing the image of his face in his mind.

  ‘So I thought we’d take the scenic route to see Sam Walters.’

  Caren propped an arm on the open window and looked out over the countryside as Drake negotiated various twists and turns. Eventually they pulled into an industrial estate alongside the main A55. When Drake got out he paused, but no blue Volvo was following them.

  Walters Bros had their livery adorning the side of a dozen large articulated lorries and smaller vans in the yard. The sign above the door had the company logo and the girl on reception wore a polo shirt with the corporate image stretched over her ample bosom.

  ‘We’ve got a meeting with Mr Sam Walters,’ Drake said, looking the girl in the eye.

  When he appeared through a side door Sam Walters was wearing a white shirt with button-down collars and the Walters Bros image sewn into the fabric. He led them through into a small office that had a window open without any appreciable effect on the temperature inside.

  ‘Tudor at the Archery Association tells me you do a lot with crossbows,’ Drake said, passing an evidence pouch over the desk. ‘Can you confirm this is a bolt from a crossbow?’

  Sam picked up the bag and gave it a quick cursory examination, turning it in his hands.

  ‘Yes. Looks like a very common projectile. Is this what killed …?’

  Drake nodded. Sam placed the bag carefully down on the desk.

  ‘Are there groups that use crossbows?’

  ‘The UK has no regulations about owning crossbows. Unlike some European countries where they’re classed as weapons.’ Sam sat back. ‘There’s a group of us in the Archery Association. We meet and socialise, have a bit of fun after work – that sort of thing. There’s nothing illegal in owning a crossbow. You can buy them on the internet. I know loads of people have done that. Then they give up and sell them on eBay.’

  ‘Can you tell what type of crossbow fired the bolts?’

  ‘They could fit a number of different types.’

  ‘Could you give us the name of different manufacturers?’

  ‘I could have done better than that. I could have shown you a couple of sample crossbows.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had a breakin a couple of months ago and two crossbows were stolen.’

  ‘I’ll need all the details.’ Drake couldn’t hide the urgency in his voice.

  Once they’d finished he dialled the officer in charge of the burglary and almost shouted down the mobile, demanding for the file to be on his desk within the hour.

  Winder spent the afternoon watching CCTV coverage, pretending he was an MI5 intelligence officer in a television drama. Somehow, tracking a red car through North Wales wasn’t quite the same. After Drake had told him to concentrate on Betws-y-Coed he double-checked all the possible locations for CCTV coverage. Even if the car had driven through the village, the driver could have turned off before reaching a camera. He knew it was going to be a needle-in-a-haystack job.

  He prioritised by trying to track the police car before the killings. He scribbled outline timings in a notepad on his desk, as he scanned the various traffic cameras. After a couple of hours he felt pleased as a timetable took shape. An earlier call to the garage where the car had stopped for petrol had secured the CCTV tapes. He flicked to the date and time recorder. He slowed the search until he found the right time. He pressed ‘play’ and watched Mathews using the petrol pumps, and then Danny Farrell getting out of the car.

  Winder tore open a chicken sandwich and gnawed at the bread as he watched them talking. A sports car pulled up on the forecourt and an attractive woman with long legs climbed out of the car. The patrol car pulled away but he let the CCTV coverage run on and continued admiring the woman’s legs as she filled her car with petrol.

  Then he saw a Mondeo passing and he
stopped eating.

  He put down the half-eaten sandwich and checked the timings. It was three minutes after the patrol car had left when the Mondeo passed the camera. Crafty bastard, he thought. Not quite clever enough, though. He replayed the coverage and zoomed in on the car, blowing up the registration number until he was confident he had all the digits. Closing the CCTV coverage on his computer, he accessed the DVLA database and within seconds had a full description. He felt excitement rising; now he knew which car to look for.

  Drake had been right: it was red – Admiral Red. He had the name and address of the owner. He fumbled through the telephone directory, but there were pages of Smiths and his impatience grew until he found the right number. He double-checked it again before making the call.

  ‘I sold the car a few weeks ago mate,’ Frank Smith replied, giving Winder the details of the garage where he had part-exchanged the vehicle.

  This was never going to be an easy case, Winder thought. His heartbeat quickened as he picked up the telephone and dialled the garage’s number.

  ‘This is Detective Constable Winder of the Wales Police Service. I’m ringing about the red Ford Mondeo—’

  ‘Oh good, have you found it?’

  Winder’s heart sank.

  Drake had become a regular visitor to the senior management suite on the top floor of headquarters since the morning of the murders. Drake smiled at Price’s secretary who motioned her head towards the door into Price’s office.

  ‘She’s arrived,’ Hannah said.

  Price stood up and walked towards the door as Drake entered.

  ‘Inspector Drake – this is Dr Margaret Fabrien.’

  Fabrien was about five-foot-seven, had a narrow face with a pronounced chin, shoulder-length hair cut into a neat fringe and expensive clothes. Her perfume was spicy and sensuous and filled the air.