Written in Blood by Stephen Puleston

Author:Stephen Puleston
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2018-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Friday 4th April

7.45 am

‘Bore da, Dad.’

Drake loved to hear Helen’s voice with her good morning greeting and it lifted his spirits when she spoke to him in Welsh. She sounded so grown-up, too grown-up, Drake feared, realising he still missed seeing his daughters every day. Sian had warned him in a brusque tone not to be long and, determined that he and his ex-wife had to make the best of their situation, he agreed. He kept his conversation brief, asking Helen about one of her school projects. Megan sounded tired, disinterested, with no more than a monosyllabic exchange; he tried to sound upbeat, unaffected by her tone. He reminded both his girls that he was seeing them over the weekend.

Drake tidied away his breakfast dishes, made certain the dishcloths hung neatly from the oven handle and walked through into the hall. He pulled at the fold of skin under his eyes, hoping he didn’t look as tired as he had felt last night. He drew a comb through his hair, fastened his jacket and left the apartment.

He was walking down to the Mondeo when his mobile rang.

He didn’t recognise the number. ‘It’s Norman Turnbull.’

Drake paused for a moment and pitched his head up towards the early spring sunshine.

‘I’ll meet you in the Plaza Café in ten minutes.’

The line went dead before Drake had an opportunity to respond. Bloody journalists, who did he think he was – Jason Bourne?

The Plaza Café had a corner slot on the outskirts of the main street in Colwyn Bay. He pulled up a little distance away and scanned the cars parked nearby: all empty.

He crossed the road and over to the café. The greasy smell of frying bacon filled the air, with the loud conversations from a group of men in high-visibility vests sitting at one table, heavy work boots indicating a busy day on a building site.

He sat down. When a waitress came over he shooed her away with an excuse about waiting for someone to join him. He read the time from his watch, deciding he’d give Norman Turnbull ten minutes; after that he’d head over to headquarters.

Surreptitiously he scanned the customers. Two men sat alone, both busy reading a red-topped newspaper and supping enormous mugs of tea or coffee. Neither of them looked like a journalist, not that Drake knew what to expect.

On the other side of the café three women enjoyed their early-morning tea, taking turns to stare out of the window. When a minibus arrived, they trundled out. It reminded Drake of the excursions his mother would make for shopping in Chester or one of the outlet malls.

None of the other customers paid him any attention.

The waitress came back a second time. Drake offered the same excuse and glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes were almost up. Norman Turnbull would have to stop this cloak-and-dagger stuff if he wanted to be serious.

Drake made to leave as his mobile rang.

It was the same number again. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘Seashore Café in ten minutes.

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