Worse Than Dead Read online

  ‘They were cute,’ Helen continued. ‘I want to go and work in the zoo when I get older.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He’d found a page about various gorillas but decided against reading the text.

  ‘That’s what Mam said. She doesn’t like animals.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Helen pulled the book away from his hands and gave him the Welsh paperback. After removing the bookmark he started reading and soon found himself in the author’s make-believe world. It amazed him how adults could write for children. At the end of a chapter he closed the book and kissed Helen on the forehead. It wouldn’t be long before she wouldn’t want him to read to her.

  Megan, nearly two years younger than her sister, was already yawning when he sat on her bed. She passed him a Welsh book and she sat quietly as he read until he could sense that she was ready for sleep. He stood at the door and looked back at her as she settled under the duvet. He was pleased that the girls spoke Welsh to each other: it reminded him of his own childhood. Halpin had asked him about his family that morning and it had been painful talking about his grandfather. His rumination was broken when he heard Sian calling from the kitchen and he walked downstairs.

  ‘How did it go with Tony?’ Sian said as he entered the kitchen. She made her question sound detached, anonymous even. After the WPS had insisted that Drake have the counselling she had given him an I’ve-told-you-about-this-before look. She had even threatened that he might need medication if things didn’t improve with his rituals.

  She turned to finish plating a chicken stew.

  ‘Fine.’ He attempted brevity as he sat by the table.

  She stepped over towards him. ‘What do you mean? He is going to see you again?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Does he think he can help?’

  Drake reached for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and poured two glasses. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Ian, it is important. I hardly ever see you. The children hardly see you. And you need to be in charge of your rituals or it’ll destroy your life.’ She put the food down, sat on the chair and pulled it up towards the table. ‘And mine.’

  Chapter 13

  Drake drummed his fingers on the desk and then looked at his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. Caren stood by his door, waiting for him to say something and he sensed her struggling to find the right words. The radiator behind Drake was hot despite the increasing temperatures outside.

  The telephone rang and Drake snatched it from its cradle. ‘DI Drake.’

  ‘Thought you ought to know we’ve had some results from Rosen’s clothes. There’s evidence of drugs,’ Foulds said.

  ‘His work clothes?’

  ‘No, his clothes at home. If it hadn’t have been for the break-in we’d never have found them. We’re sending them to the forensic labs for a detailed analysis.’

  Drake replaced the handset after thanking Foulds. He stared at the telephone for a few seconds – MC had been right. Now he couldn’t ignore what his cousin had told him. And it meant telling Lance and possibly even the drug squad. He looked at Caren. ‘Mike has found drug residue on Rosen’s clothes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I saw a cousin of mine last week. He called me when we were eating at that place in Holyhead. He warned me that Rosen’s death was drug related.’

  ‘How would he know?’

  ‘He’s just been inside. And his girlfriend’s an addict.’

  ‘So how does this fit in with Rosen? Was he a supplier? Was he bringing drugs in through the port?’

  ‘Or maybe on the plane.’ Drake could see Howick in the Incident Room casting the occasional glance towards Drake’s office. Winder was late and Drake was annoyed. He’d often heard the young officer talk about the video games he played and from his frequent yawning and the deep bags under his eyes, it wasn’t difficult to conclude that Winder spent half the night chasing goblins around some imaginary castle.

  ‘How long before the ferry?’ Caren said.

  Drake glanced at his watch. ‘I need to leave in an hour.’

  Caren turned her back on him and returned to her desk.

  A worry nagged at him, that perhaps he should be sending Howick or Winder to interview the bank manager in Dublin. But he had to be certain that the right questions were asked. He needed to be certain that everything was double-checked. He drew his tongue over his teeth, convincing himself they were dirty and that, because he would be away all day, he had to clean them again. He scrambled in the bottom drawer of his desk and found a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  He got up and walked in silence to the bathroom. Pleased that it was empty, he cleaned his teeth vigorously and then stared into the mirror. He was almost able to see Sian staring back out him, with one of her looks. He threw the toothbrush in the bin and returned to the Incident Room. He stared at the board onto which a scale drawing of the decks on the ship had been pinned. He turned to Howick. ‘Get another board set up. This looks a mess.’

  Howick didn’t have time to reply as Winder strode into the Incident Room, holding a hot pasty wrapped in a napkin and sat down, ignoring the dark glances of warning that Howick fired in his direction. A piece of the pastry fell onto the desk. Drake managed to contain his irritation long enough to clear his throat.

  ‘Late night, Gareth?’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘I did say eight. You’re late.’

  Winder discarded the paper napkin into a bin and sat up straight. ‘Sorry, sir. The alarm…’

  ‘Shall we add Mandy Beal to the board?’ Caren said.

  Drake looked at his watch before turning to stare at the image of Rosen fastened into one corner of the board.

  ‘I thought it was suicide,’ Winder said, dabbing a corner of his mouth.

  ‘Wasn’t there a note?’ Howick added.

  ‘There was no sign of a forced entry or a struggle. And there was a suicide note so for the time being we keep an open mind. At least until we’ve had the results of the post mortem.’

  ‘She might have been overtaken by grief,’ Caren said.

  Drake cast another glance at his watch. ‘Caren. I need you to get background checks done on Robert James. All the usual financials. I want to know everything about him.’ Drake turned first to Winder and then to Howick. ‘How did you get on with the flying syndicate members?’

  ‘We only saw Eddie Parry. Aylford’s on holiday in his olive farm in Spain,’ Winder said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Parry was cut up about Rosen. Said he liked him. But he hadn’t seen him much.’

  Drake folded his arms and got some aggression into his voice. ‘So what about Parry? Who is he? We are investigating a murder, Gareth.’

  ‘He’s a rich farmer. He’s got a business letting out holiday homes and then he’s got a restaurant and—’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Drake said. ‘But do some background checks.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Winder sounded uninterested.

  ‘And Aylford – what does he do when he’s not picking olives?’

  ‘Dentist. He’s got three practices from Llandudno to Bangor. Lots of people working for him. Must be coining it. Last time I visited the dentist it cost me fifty quid. And I was only in for ten minutes.’

  ‘Dave,’ Drake said. ‘Make a note to contact Aylford when he’s back and concentrate on the tapes from the CCTV on the ferry. Gareth, I want you focusing on Rosen’s background. And Caren, talk to Mr and Mrs Beal again.’

  Before leaving, he checked his desk and his office one more time. Then he got out his mobile and photographed his desk and the empty bin on the floor. That would be a reminder for later, a reassurance of how he had left the office. No uncertainty then playing on his mind, no niggling worry that things weren’t tidy when he’d left.

  He sat before starting the engine, considering his journey to Holyhead. He took out Springsteen’s Darkness on The Edge of Town from his CD wallet, wiped the surface and slid it into the car
stereo, ready to have his mind absorbed by something other than the case. He was about a third into playing the CD a second time as he parked outside the terminal. After checking through embarkation he sat in a first-floor lounge with a few other passengers, a couple of men in suits and a group of youngsters with enormous rucksacks and hiking clothes. He didn’t have to wait long before an announcement called the passengers along a tunnel and then onto the fast ferry. He found a comfortable seat and fumbled for his mobile. No messages, but he looked at the photograph he’d taken earlier and, reassured, he closed the image.

  He dipped into his briefcase and produced a book of sudoku puzzles before struggling to find a pencil. Behind him he heard the noise of the sea water powering through the turbines as the craft moved out of the harbour. It wasn’t a ship – no conventional hull, but a vessel driven by a water jet engine that shortened the travelling time to Ireland by an hour.

  He concentrated on the sudoku before eventually going in search of a coffee. He answered a couple of messages from Caren and then watched as the Kish lighthouse appeared in the distance before the outline of Dun Laoghaire harbour became clearer.

  After half an hour, though it felt longer, Drake had shuffled through the terminal building, passing the watchful gaze of Irish customs and Special Branch, and finding himself standing in the main entrance hallway just as a man with long curly hair stepped towards him.

  He stretched out his hand. ‘Inspector Drake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus. I’m sorry I’m late. The fucking traffic is diabolical. Detective Sergeant Malachy O’Sullivan. We haven’t got much time, if you’re to see everybody before the boat back tonight.’

  Before Drake had a chance to say anything, O’Sullivan had turned on his heels and was marching out of the building, turning up the collar of his jacket against the chill wind whipping around the building.

  ‘Car’s over there,’ O’Sullivan said, jerking his head towards a line of parked vehicles.

  As he opened the door, Drake hesitated. The seat was filthy and the footwell covered in grime and dirt and pebbles.

  O’Sullivan jumped in and fired the engine into life. Drake fought the desire to brush his hand over the car seat before sitting down and closing the door.

  Drake noticed the heavy, clammy smell in the car and, casting a surreptitious glance, he noticed two empty McDonald’s drink containers shoved into the glove compartments of the doors. Malachy O’Sullivan squinted through the windscreen as though he badly needed glasses.

  ‘How far is the bank?’ Drake said.

  ‘No more than half an hour. In normal traffic. But today, Jesus.’

  Drake glanced at his watch. ‘Do you think we should call and tell him we might be late?’

  O’Sullivan braked hard by a set of traffic lights. ‘Did you see them fucking lights change?’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘The manager’ll be okay. Yer man’s only working in a bank after all.’

  Drake counted another five sets of orange lights turning to red that O’Sullivan drove through before they reached the middle of Dublin and the car was squeezed into a small parking space. O’Sullivan had a looping stride that made him appear taller than he really was. Drake followed the Garda officer into the bank and then to the rear where he peered down through a small window and shouted a greeting that Drake couldn’t understand.

  Seconds later, the door was opened by a young clerk who had a wispy beard and a frightened look in his eyes.

  ‘This way, please,’ he said.

  At the end of a corridor Drake heard the shouts of a man swearing down the telephone. O’Sullivan stopped by the door and the clerk raised a hand, pointing into the room. A portly man with a mass of jowls under his chin with some effort lifted his feet off a desk and waved his hand. O’Sullivan and Drake sat down as the man finished the call and replaced the handset.

  ‘Detective O’Sullivan.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘And this is Inspector Drake from Wales.’

  ‘Sam England.’

  ‘We want to ask you about the account opened by Frank Rosen,’ Drake said.

  ‘Sure thing.’ England ruffled the papers in front of him. ‘It was an ordinary account. Because he was a non-Irish national he had to open the account with a bank transfer.’

  ‘You told me there was an address,’ O’Sullivan said.

  ‘Of course.’

  England fumbled through the papers, cursing under his breath as he searched for the information.

  ‘The account was opened a couple of years ago,’ England said, the relief evident in his voice. ‘Yer man gave an address in Rathmines.’

  ‘I know, you gave me that information. We want to see everything. Stop messing and pass over them papers,’ O’Sullivan said, leaning over and grabbing the file. He started going through each one, giving England the occasional defiant glance and then passing individual sheets over to Drake.

  The file had various coloured forms with different numbers and codes.

  ‘What’s this one for?’ Drake said, holding up a pink form.

  ‘That’s the DS12/6.’

  ‘I can see that. What’s it for? Haven’t you got protocols for establishing people’s identity?’

  ‘Sure thing. We have to get three forms of ID, all the usual: utility bills, passport, etc.’

  Drake took a moment to flick through the papers before asking, ‘So what did Rosen produce for this account?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Let me have a look.’

  Drake passed over the folder and waited. England looked flustered as he went through the file. ‘All I can find is the—’

  ‘Tenancy agreement,’ Drake said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So the procedures weren’t followed—’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Well how would you say it?’

  ‘It must have been busy when yer man came into the branch.’

  ‘There are laws about money laundering, you know.’

  The look of astonishment on England’s face turned to fear. ‘There must be something missing. I’ll get the clerk who opened the account,’ he said, dialling a number.

  ‘Is Deidre Banks there?’ England waited until eventually he let out a gasp before exclaiming, ‘For fucks’ sake. How long?… Jesus.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘She’s on lunch.’

  ‘Australia. She moved there after the bank made lots of redundancies.’

  Drake, realising they were making no progress, riffled through the papers again. ‘Were all the deposits in cash?’

  ‘Every one, so far as I can see,’ England said after a cursory examination of the statements, his equilibrium returning.

  ‘I thought there were limits on how much cash a person could deposit?’

  ‘He was under the limit every time.’

  There was a cheerful note to England’s voice that Drake found annoying.

  ‘How many deposits were there?’

  England paused again. ‘Jesus, I’d have to count them all. Must be a couple of dozen.’

  ‘Didn’t that pattern set alarm bells off?’

  England managed an unconvincing shrug. ‘It must have been busy. We’re right in the middle of Dublin, Inspector. The place gets packed during the day. People in and out.’

  O’Sullivan cut in. ‘So you basically ignore the regulations.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ England protested.

  After getting copies of everything in the file, Drake and O’Sullivan left. Standing on the main street, Drake heard the sound of trams clattering over points and, after the warmth of the office, the spring sunshine felt fresh on his cheeks.

  ‘That was a waste of fucking time,’ O’Sullivan said, striding back to his car. ‘Let’s hope yer man in Rathmines is more helpful. And what sort of fucking name is England anyways?’

  * * *

  Caren sat across from Peggy Beal, who was wearing a thick fleece she’d pulled up close to h
er chin, even though the house was warm.

  ‘Is your husband in?’

  Caren had decided that enquiring about his whereabouts was sensible, especially as they’d declined the offer of support from family liaison. And Caren knew that when families did that there’d be problems in the future.

  ‘He had to go out,’ Peggy said, without looking at Caren.

  ‘I’d like to know about Mandy.’

  Peggy Beal looked up, a distant look in her eyes. ‘She was always very independent. We got on well. She would come over on her days off and we’d have something to eat and then sometimes we’d go out shopping.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you about her boyfriends?’

  Peggy found a handkerchief in her pocket and crumpled it in her fingers, taking her time to find the right words. ‘I knew there was someone. She mentioned someone special.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘No. And she never said much but I’d guessed he was married.’ Peggy stared over Caren’s shoulder through the window. ‘As otherwise she would probably have told me more about him.’

  ‘What did she say about him?’

  ‘She never said much. That’s what made it odd. I knew there was something wrong. But what could I do?’ Peggy stared directly at Caren for a moment. ‘It would have been nice to have had grandchildren,’ she added.

  Caren didn’t know what to say, so decided to move the conversation on. ‘Did Mandy ever give you any reason to think she had problems that would—’

  ‘You mean was she mentally ill? That’s what your boss would have said. Rude man.’

  Caren avoided her comments about Drake. ‘Suicide is always difficult to discuss.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘There was nothing that made me think she might kill herself.’

  There was finality to her tone that carried more conviction and certainty than the grief of a mother. Caren could see Peggy hurting as her mouth quivered and then tears filled her eyes. Caren decided on one final question.

  ‘Do you think there could be anyone who might want to see Mandy dead?’

  She hadn’t noticed Philip Beal standing at the door of the lounge, and when he answered, it took Caren by surprise.