Nowhere to Hide, page 1
part #7 of Inspector Drake Series
Nowhere to Hide
An Exciting British Crime Thriller
By
Stephen Puleston
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Readers Club
Other Inspector Drake novels
Chapter 1
Panic gripped Dawn Piper’s thumping heart. She let out a long slow breath as she pressed her body tight against the wooden door that creaked a complaint. Her pulse spiked when a light came on in the small bedroom window at the top of the stone-built end-of-terrace property in front of her.
She leaned out as slowly as the fear pumping through her body would allow. A yellow streetlight cast a dull, soft glow along the narrow lane in her direction. She half expected to see the black Audi, graphite alloys and tinted glass parked on the street under the light, waiting for her. A red car filled with youngsters, music blaring. drove past and she enjoyed a moment of temporary relief.
Turning her gaze, she peered down the lane. It led into one of the other terraced streets and a sense of panic returned. Maybe he had parked where the lane emerged onto the street. Perhaps he was leaning on his car. Waiting for her.
Going home was out of the question – he knew where she lived. Only one person could help her now and negotiating the maze of side alleys and narrow lanes would be the only way she could make it unscathed.
She drew the zip of her fleece tight against her chin and started walking. It wasn’t cold, but she felt alone and frightened and it comforted her to feel wrapped up.
She slowed as she neared the junction and pressed herself against one wall until she could cast a surreptitious glance along the street. Her breathing returned almost to normal. A couple walking caught her attention. She watched them as they chatted amiably before their conversation died as they opened their front door. A few cars had mounted the pavement but there was no Audi in sight. Reassured by its absence she gazed at the houses. Lights burned in downstairs rooms, television screens flickered across net curtains.
She darted over the road and into another alley where tall walls bounded rear yards. The gloom enveloped her, matching her mood. It was easy now looking back, regretting past decisions, foolishly believing she was invincible, immune. She paced on.
Cats scrambled over bins with insecure lids. The stink of rubbish and urine grew stronger as she neared a property where music thumped. Oddly it gave her a sense of safety. Here, she was amongst people with ordinary lives untainted by the drugs that fuelled the desperation in the town. She jogged down to the end of the lane and another junction with a row of terraced properties. She stopped abruptly checking that he wasn’t there. And that it was safe.
The headlights of a car turned into the street and she crept back into the shadows drawing her face away from the light. The vehicle passed her and slowed before parking. She read the time. None to spare.
He couldn’t possibly know where her friend lived. Confidence built that he had abandoned his search when she reached the end of the lane and his Audi was nowhere in sight. She dismissed as paranoia a nagging doubt in her mind that he could have changed his car or, even worse, that he might have an accomplice with a different vehicle.
There was no time for self-doubt now: she had to get on.
She had to reach her friend’s place. She had to be safe.
At the next junction she glanced swiftly to either side and dashed across the road in the direction of the lane near the rugby club. There could be danger there she knew. She drew the collar of the fleece tighter against her face.
Her breathing became heavy and sweat pricked her brow as she walked purposefully towards the flat-roofed building by the goal posts. She kept her head low, but her eyes darted around. The smell of a barbecue lingered in the air. A man passed on the opposite side with a greyhound panting at a leash. She gave the customers of the club the briefest glance as they disgorged from the building and headed for the waiting taxis.
She darted into the lane and then ran to the bridge crossing a stream in a few quick strides. Ahead of her a tarmac path, badly in need of repair, stretched out over a field.
In the distance was her friend’s house; it reassured her that safety was in sight.
Moonlight was her only guide, but she had strolled along the path so many times she knew her way. She paused and glanced over her shoulder – nothing. Then she looked ahead – there was no movement, nobody waited in the street at the top of the field.
Clambering over a stile, she lost her footing and stumbled onto a grassed area. Only a few more feet, she was nearly at safety. She scrambled upright and then she noticed ahead of her the sidelights of a car. A vehicle she recognised. A black Audi.
A bead of sweat formed on her forehead and her right leg shook as she stood rooted to the spot. From the shadows a person emerged.
‘Hello, Dawn.’
She frowned away her recognition as her blood turned icy-cold when she sensed the presence behind her. A gloved hand smothered her face and mouth drowning out the gathering scream. Then a voice whispered.
‘You do realise there’s nowhere to hide.’
Then she saw the brief flash as he raised the knife and she knew he was right.
Chapter 2
Ian Drake had time to spare before the meeting at the Deeside community centre was due to start so he found a café where he hoped he wouldn’t look too conspicuous. But the carefully knotted navy striped tie, the white shirt under the dark grey suit, together with the file of papers tucked under his arm would probably give him away as a police officer to anyone interested in paying him attention. He should have read the briefing memoranda the evening before, but Annie had insisted that the final arrangements for their trip to Disneyland Paris at the end of the school holidays was his priority. Completing the details with his ex-wife Sian had been protracted and since everything had been finalised his daughters Helen and Megan had talked of little else.
An extended television documentary and recent high-profile press coverage had resulted in Superintendent Price insisting that Drake attend the Deeside Community Action Group as a senior member of the major crime team. Price’s comments about the effectiveness of the officers dealing with tackling the so-called ‘county lines’ drug activity couldn’t be repeated, and Drake wondered if his impending retirement was contributing to a certain exaggerated indiscretion. Price had muttered darkly at their last meeting that the appointment of his successor was imminent.
Drake sat at a window seat and the waitress who appeared by his table took his order for an Americano. She looked irritated when he insisted it have two shots of espresso. He laid out the file in front of him and began reading the paperwork. Working on a complex cross border drug investigation was difficult and the details of the three deaths from overdoses in the previous six months were harrowing. Drug dealers from the inner cities of England took advantage of children and vulnerable adults to sell drugs in their home areas using burner phones that called only one number: another untraceable mobile. The cynical activity of the city centre drug dealers using impressionable youngsters in the Deeside towns of Queensferry, Shotton, Connah’s Quay and north along the coast to Flint, sickened Drake.
The waitress returned with a coffee its surface a respectable cream colour. An Italian type biscuit in colourful plastic packaging nestled in the saucer. Drake stirred the drink needlessly – he never added sugar. It was mid-morning and the café was full of elderly women and young mothers with toddlers and pushchairs. Despite feeling out of place, nobody gave him a second glance, so he turned back to his papers.
The county lines suppliers from Birmingham or Liverpool had been staking a claim to the drugs trade in the north-east Wales towns straddling the Dee estuary. Drake read briefing notes from the detective sergeant in charge of the investigation. Progress was painfully slow, witnesses reluctant to come forward, Drake guessed that lives had been threatened, silence was safer than cooperating with the police.
The sergeant hadn’t established yet in which of the conurbations of England the gang directing the drug trade was actually based. The report referenced some second-hand intelligence that pointed to the users being in the Liverpool area and at other tim es Birmingham. No conclusion had been made about whether this meant a gang moving from one city to another or two separate organised crime groups. Frustration seeped from every sentence. Drake sympathised with the task the team faced.
Superintendent Price had included copies of correspondence from various stakeholders including the social services department of the local authority and belligerently-toned letters from a charity complaining at the inactivity from the police inquiry leading to the possibility of more deaths. More chillingly was the tone of reports from other police forces about the use of knives in county lines related violence and murders.
The absence of intelligence contributed to the impression things weren’t going well. Without evidence there wasn’t a great deal they could do and gathering that evidence could be painstaking and laborious.
The strength of the coffee pleased Drake and discarding the packaging on the saucer rim he crunched on the biscuit. He turned his attention to the minutes of the last meeting: recording no more than the briefest summary and at its end an agreed course of action. His role was to support the sergeant in charge of the county lines investigation, add gravitas, look important. Satisfied he was as prepared as he could be, he left enough change for the coffee and walked back to his car.
After a short drive he parked outside the community centre. A room on the first floor had been set aside with tables forming a square in the middle and eight chairs neatly arranged around them.
Drake recognised Sergeant Jim Finch standing by a table from an inter-departmental meeting. The officer had struck him as thorough if a little intense. He pushed out a hand towards Drake, whispering. ‘I’m really glad you could attend.’
‘Is it going to take long?’
Finch made certain no one else could hear his reply. ‘You know what these do-gooders are like. Depends how long they talk. We could be here for hours.’
Drake hoped that that wasn’t an accurate prediction. A tall man with an ill-fitting suit came over. A tie knotted clumsily hung below the collar of his shirt.
‘George Beedham – county councillor.’ He thrust out a hand.
Drake offered his own and Beedham yanked Drake’s hand towards him giving it a violent shake at the same time. ‘I hope you’ve got something constructive to tell us.’
The accent was typical of north-east Wales, a watered-down version of the harsh Scouse tones from Liverpool, but he had a politician’s inflated sense of his own importance. He made the statement sound as though Drake were single-handedly responsible for the area’s drug problem.
‘Good morning, Councillor Beedham.’
Activity at the other end of the room drew Drake’s attention and he glanced over Beedham’s shoulder as three women sat down, one of whom announced it was time to start.
As Drake pulled up a chair, Finch whispered, ‘The chair of the meeting is Toni Walker who works for social services; next to her is Olivia Knox, an outreach worker for a drugs charity. Watch the sparks fly between her and Beedham. Everybody else is here to make up the numbers.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ Drake whispered back.
Finch rolled his eyes.
‘I’m sure that everyone has read the minutes of our last meeting.’ Walker raised her voice just enough to silence the murmurs. Drake counted six other people around the square-shaped collection of desks. Beedham had his smartphone on a file in front of him alongside two ballpoint pens.
Walker continued. ‘I’m delighted to welcome Detective Inspector Ian Drake of the Wales Police Service to his first meeting of the Deeside Community Action Group.’
Drake silently dreaded the implication his attendance at more meetings was expected. He gave Walker a courteous nod.
‘Perhaps everyone could introduce themselves.’ Walker gave Drake an inclusive sort of glance.
Drake followed the various voices as the attendees announced who they were. Drake recognised most of the participants from the minutes of the previous meetings.
Walker turned to Olivia Knox sitting by her side once everyone had identified themselves. ‘Olivia, perhaps you can bring us up to date with the latest developments in the programme you’re pursuing.’
‘Thank you, chair,’ Knox said.
As Knox outlined various outreach work she and a body of volunteers were doing with vulnerable adults and youngsters deemed to be at risk, Drake glanced around the room. Beedham was paying little attention and fiddled with his mobile before adjusting the ballpoints needlessly. He struck Drake as a sort of cardboard cut-out figure of a councillor who had his own agenda and wasn’t going to listen to common sense from anybody.
Knox’s intense tone suggested that to disagree with her would be the height of stupidity. Occasionally she paused for dramatic effect after making a serious point which was met with equally serious nods and encouragement from some of the other participants. Drake struggled to remember their names, but he knew they were social workers or probation officers.
Knox lost the sympathy of the meeting as she droned on. It was about time Walker cut across her and invited comments, Drake thought. But she gazed over at Knox with a thoughtful sympathetic look on her face.
‘Isn’t it time we heard from some of the other stakeholders?’ Beedham announced.
Knox gave him an angry glare.
Walker looked perplexed, almost surprised, by his untimely interruption. ‘Well… I suppose… Olivia, have you finished?’
Knox shrugged, the irritation clear on her face.
A social worker sitting to the left of Drake made complimentary comments about the programme Knox had outlined referring to statistics compiled by the local authority suggesting drug usage was declining. From the surprised faces of the others present, Drake could see no one shared her optimism.
‘Come off it.’ Beedham raised his voice. ‘We all know that the county council’s statistics aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’
Even from across the table Beedham had been able to intimidate the social worker, who visibly cowered. He continued undaunted. ‘What I want to know is what the police are doing about it. Our streets are awash with drugs. We all know there are suppliers on every street corner practically. So why aren’t they being picked up, arrested, interrogated and locked up?’
‘I’m not sure it’s that easy, Councillor Beedham,’ Walker announced formally whilst glancing over at Finch and Drake.
‘It’s always very difficult to give specifics about operational matters,’ Finch began.
‘Don’t give me that crap,’ Beedham said.
Finch continued undeterred. ‘We are working on several lines of enquiry involving valuable intelligence. It would be improper to discuss the details of what’s involved.’
‘That’s really not good enough. We’ve had three deaths. Are they being investigated as possible murders?’
‘It’s—’
‘Isn’t it about time you did something? How seriously is the Wales Police Service taking all this, Detective Inspector Drake?’
Drake moved in his chair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Investigations like these are never easy. The last thing we would want is for a prosecution to fail because the evidence hadn’t been correctly assembled.’
‘That’s not an answer. It’s throwing sand in my face.’
Walker butted in. ‘We have to respect the formalities the police have to follow as part of their investigation.’
‘And we’ve got a right to expect the police to do everything they can to catch the people flooding drugs into Deeside.’
‘It can be a slow process,’ Drake said. ‘These drug dealers can be clever and resourceful.’
‘That sounds like an excuse to me.’
Drake took another few seconds. Beedham was getting under his skin. He was the most self-important little man and intensely annoying.
‘The practicalities of day-to-day policing make it difficult for us to provide you with specific information.’
‘Let’s move on,’ Walker said, to the obvious relief on the faces of the others around the table.
Beedham glared at Walker.
A youth outreach worker raised a hand to gain attention. The young man studiously avoided looking over at Beedham or at Drake and Finch and kept his comments directed at Walker. Beedham chortled but Walker ignored him.
