[ebooktalk] two books

• From: "David Russell" <david.russell8@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
• To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
• Date: Tue, 30 Jul 2013 09:57:11 +0100

Hi


Two books attached.

DEAD PEOPLE
Also by Ewart Hutton Good People
EWART HUTTON
blue door




Dead People
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.

Blue Door
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk


Published by Blue Door 2013

Copyright © Ewart Button 2013

Ewart Button asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

HB ISBN: 978-0-00-739118-9
TPB: 978-0-00-750501-2

Set in Minion.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clay's Ltd, St Ives pic

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it
is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.





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to assure consumers that they come from forests that are managed
to meet the social, economic and ecological needs
of present and future generations.

Find out more about HarperCollins and the environment at 
www.harpercollins.co.ukgreen


































For Jean and the two Georges,
who left too early

4

















1





Boy had my life turned glamorous since my ejection from
Cardiff. Not too many cops get to start off their day trying
to chase down a character who is castrating ram lambs, and
end it in the company of a mutilated corpse. At that precise
moment, however, I was still at the crappy midpoint of that
day. And lost.
It didn't help that I knew exactly where I was lost. Pinpoint
stuff. The satnav was telling me that I was deep smack bang
in the middle of a conifer forest in Mid Wales. I could almost
smell the resin coming off the satnav screen. The problem
was that I was on a logging trail that didn't exist. It didn't
surprise me. I had had enough experience of forestry tracks
by now to know that they were a constantly shape-shifting
and mutating phenomenon.
'Sergeant, someone's nicked a bulldozer.'
I had taken the call in a moment of reckless altruism.
Helping out my local colleagues. And, admittedly, to take a


1
break from my sheep-molesting case, which was going
nowhere, and giving me the blues. A Forestry Commission
operative had called in to report that they had had some
plant stolen. Chainsaws, I figured, protective clothing, brush
cutters, a generator at most.
I hadn't thought big enough.
I met the guy in a large clearing where the logging tracks
forked off and wound up the hill. We were both working
on a Sunday, although he looked less happy about it than
I was. It was voluntary on my part. I had found even the
routine drudgery of updating my investigation reports preferable
to the stretched-out grey static numbness that constituted
the Sabbath in these parts. The prospect of chasing
down a lost bulldozer had seemed positively radiant for a
while.
From where we stood, I could see that rain and trucks
had turned the surface into a superfine slurry of light-grey
mud. Stripped branches from fir trees were strewn along
the side of the tracks, as if a religious procession had
suddenly taken fright and bolted off, leaving their devotional
foliage behind.
'Is this where it was taken from?' I asked, making a professional
show of casing the surroundings.
'No, it was further up. On a spur. We were using it to
clear a new trail.'
'When did you last see it?'
'Friday.'
No one had reported a bulldozer ripping up the streets
of any of the neighbouring villages. 'Are you sure it isn't
still up there?' I asked.


2
He gave me a hurt look.
'Okay,' I relented, 'I'll go up and check it out.'
He gave me directions. 'Don't you want a description?'
he shouted after me as I headed for my car.
I didn't need one. I knew it would be yellow and big, with
shiny stainless-steel hydraulic shafts, and that it would smell
of diesel and rust and that grim, grey, heavy clay that had
never been meant to be turned over into the light of day. I
also knew, in my heart of hearts, as I started my engine,
that I would get lost. I always did in these places. It was the
same, I reckoned, with the bulldozer. It hadn't been stolen.
It had just got lost. It had succumbed to the weirdness that
were forestry tracks.
I got out of the car now. The drizzle was as fine as a mist.
The silence was total. No birds. I looked out into the thick,
dark, matted mass of Sitka Spruce, or whatever the fuck
kind of trees they were. The perspectives were tight and
mesmeric. Strange and creepy. I wasn't cut out for this. Lost
in Pig Wales. A real country policeman wouldn't get lost.
He would find missing bulldozers, deliver lambs, and have
his own pet collie. Me, I still needed buildings and corners,
streetlights, signs that announced where I was.
I kicked a stone out over the edge of the track and incanted
a curse on DCS Jack Galbraith. It worked to break the spell.
I heard the sound of an engine approaching.
It was the Forestry Commission guy in his crew-cab
pickup. 'Where the hell did you get to?' he shouted, leaning
out of his window. 'I've been .waiting for you for half an
hour.'
'I must have missed the turning,' I confessed.


3
'Your people have been trying to get in touch with you.'
He let me try his radio. But the weirdness had got to it
too. An earful of feedback and static.
'It could be important. I'm going to have to go down the
hill to call in,' I told him, climbing back into my car.
'What about my bulldozer?' he shouted after me.
'I'll be back,' I lied. It was time to cut altruism adrift.
Perhaps, I prayed as I drove, they were calling in to say
that they had nailed my man. So that I could forget about
him and the veterinary equivalent of pincer pliers that he
was using to crimp the vasa deferentia of Badger Face Welsh
Mountain tup lambs. The bastard was selective. Just that
one breed, no others. And he could get close to them. He
obviously knew his way around sheep, and how to handle
them. I was supposed to be the good guy and they ran away
from me.
I pulled off the road as soon as the signal bars on my
mobile phone showed a flicker of life. I looked at the skyline.
Clouds thickening and greying-up in the south-west. I never
used to do this in the city. There, weather was something
that trailed on in, after the television news. Out here, I had
discovered that it was useful to know what degree of wetness
to expect.
I called in: 'DS Glyn Capaldi. Someone's been trying to
reach me.'
'Sergeant Capaldi...' the dispatcher gasped. But it wasn't
hero-worship, as I was soon to learn. It was excitement. She
was making her first real dead-corpse transmission. 'Detective
Chief Inspector Jones wanted us to get a message through
to you.' She took in a deep, savouring breath. 'There's a


4
possibility that human remains have been discovered. He
would like you to get to the site as soon as possible, and he
will call you there. I'll inform him that you are on your way
now, shall I, sir?'
'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' I said, trying to rein her in before
she cut me off in her eagerness to get back to Bryn Jones.
'You'd better tell me where I'm supposed to be going.'
'Sorry, sir. It's Cwm Cesty Nant--'
'Sweetheart,' I cut in over her big moment, as gently as I
could, 'could you just give me the coordinates, my satnav
system doesn't speak Welsh yet.'


It was the construction site for a wind farm. Not that far
from Dinas. I turned off the main road into a small, level
bottomed valley, with the ubiquitous tufts of forestry plantation
on the surrounding hills looking like a fungal disease.
The river was shallow and wide, and looked grander than
it was. The fields were peppered with moraine boulders,
and the occasional sprawl of waste from old lead
workings.
The track ran up a narrow cwm that curved round on
itself, cutting off my view of the valley. It was of recent
construction, crushed stone, professionally laid and rolled,
with proper culverts and drainage. Around another bend
the cwm widened and levelled out onto a small, marshy
plateau below the main ridge. I had arrived at the construction
site. Temporary buildings on jacks, parked cars, a couple
of crew-carrier pickups with the company logo, and diggers,
rollers and earthmovers standing idle. For a whimsical
moment, I wondered whether my lost bulldozer could have


5
run away from home to take up with this circus.
I drove up slowly, aiming for the knot of people and the
marked police car parked above the site huts. I assessed as
I got closer. Earth and stone pushed into low mounds from
where they were excavating for roadways and turbine bases.
Piles of fresh stone and drainage pipes waiting to go down.
A lot of mud and a lot of dirty water, standing and running.
The two uniform cops were talking to a couple of civilians
beside the roughly rectangular outline of one of the
base excavations. One of the civilians, I noted, trying not
to be surprised, was unmistakeably female. The remainder
of the onlookers, all site workers by the look of them, were
congregated on my side of the police car.
The big uniform with the bolt-on Stalin moustache,
Emrys Hughes, was the local sergeant, an old-school
up-country cop, who resented what he had taken to be my
intrusion onto his parish. The fact that I had never had any
choice in the matter hadn't cut any ice. I recognized his
sidekick, a young constable, but couldn't put a name on
him.
Emrys turned away from the two civilians and made a
show of watching my approach. Not quite tapping his feet,
but definitely playing a man whose patience was being
stretched. He bent his head and whispered something to
his partner. Both then made a point of staring at me and
grinning.
They shouldn't have. Now I was going to have to
overcompensate.
I got out of the car and looked slowly around, not focusing
on anything. Letting the message sink in that I was not


6
coming to Emrys. He shrugged wearily for the sake of his
audience, and sauntered over with his sidekick. 'You took
your time.'
I ignored the barb. 'Why haven't you taped the site off?'
He pulled a quizzical face and half spun around, as if to
make sure that I was really addressing him. He spread his
hands expansively. 'Where does the site end and the mud
pile begin? You tell me.'
He had a point. The excavators had been hard at work;
the entire area was a mess of churned soil and broken stone.
But this was political now. 'You . . .?' I pointed at his
sidekick.
It took him a moment to realize it was a question.
'Constable Friel, Sarge,' he answered, looking at Hughes for
support, some of the humour draining.
'Go and get the incident tape.' I turned to Emrys. 'And
you, Sergeant Hughes, are going to show me what we've got
here.'
He stared me out for a moment. Technically, we ranked
equal, but we both knew that I was the one who had been
called in to do the thinking. He shrugged and led off towards
the civilian couple. I approached them with my warrant
card held out. 'Detective Sergeant Capaldi,' I introduced
myself. The man took a pace forward. I held up my hand
to stop him speaking. 'Sorry, sir, I just need a moment on
this.'
I wanted to read it myself. Before anyone else's viewpoint
and opinions impinged. It took me a couple of beats to
focus on it, create an outline, trying to distinguish it from
its surroundings. The bones were a nasty grey-green colour,


7
the chest cavity full of earth, gravel and root filaments, the
unexcavated legs still under their cover of damp soil and
course grass.
For a moment it looked more like the thorax of a giant
crayfish than anything human. Then I realized why. The
head was missing. No skull. That's what had thrown me. I
knelt down to get closer. No trace of the smell of putrefaction,
but I hadn't expected it, skeletonization was too far
advanced. The body was slightly twisted, the arm that was
uncovered was minus a hand. I scanned around carefully.
To the side was a pile of material the digger had excavated.
The skull and the missing hand had probably been scooped
up with that. I took some close-up photographs with my
digital camera.
I stood up and smiled at the man now, nodding, giving
him his cue.
'I'm Jeff Talbot. I'm the site engineer.' He had a South
Wales accent, and looked vaguely familiar. He was medium
height, skinny, with an angular face and a worried expression
that was accentuated by the high forehead and receding
hairline. He was wearing a dark-blue quilted jacket, and,
like the rest of the site crew, a yellow high-visibility tabard
over it.
I stole a glance at the woman. She was prettier than I had
first thought, and smiled when my eyes caught hers. She
was also tall, but carried herself slightly stooped, as if to
avoid drawing attention. I registered blonde hair, full cheeks,
and that she was built in such a way that the duffel coat
couldn't quite hide the curves. She didn't look at all shaken
or disturbed to be standing beside a headless corpse.


8
X





'Has anyone touched it?' I asked him.
He shook his head gravely. 'Only to brush the surface
debris off. To confirm what it was. Then we stopped everything
and called you people.'
'Can I speak to the digger driver?'
'That was me. I was excavating this base.' He reacted to
my surprise. 'We're short-handed, we were working on a
Sunday to try to keep up to schedule.' He looked sheepish.
I expect he was breaking some sort of local by-law or clause
in the planning permission. I decided not to arrest him.
'Did you see the skull?'
'No. But I might have picked that up in the cut before.'
He nodded at the pile of excavated material. 'It could be in
there. We didn't think we should touch anything.'
I nodded my appreciation. 'It was the right decision. And
you did well not to do any more damage.'
'It was luck. The light was right for me, I just managed
to see it before I crushed it.'
I looked around carefully, but it was useless, the entire
periphery resembled an opencast mine. 'Tell me something.
I know it's difficult, but I want you to think back to just
before you uncovered this section. Was there anything on
the surface? Mounding? A depression? Any kind of marker?'
He thought hard, his face tight with concentration. When
he eventually shook his head it was like a small spring being
released. 'No. I'm sorry. If there was anything out of the
ordinary, I didn't notice it,' he said apologetically.
'You said you stopped when you realized what it was.'
'That's right.'
I looked down at the remains again. I was still getting a


9
huge insect's carapace. 'It's hard to tell.'
He looked puzzled. Wondering what I was getting at.
'That it's human,' I clarified.
'I just saw bones at first. I wasn't sure whether they were
animal or human, but I knew they would have to be checked
out. Tessa confirmed that they were human.'
I looked at the woman. She smiled, amused at my expression
of surprise.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' Jeff said, flustered, T should have introduced
you. This is Dr MacLean.'
'Doctor.' I nodded at her, trying to pull back my
composure.
She grinned. 'Don't get too excited, Sergeant. I'm not a
medical doctor. I won't be able to help you out on any
forensic technicalities.' She was Scottish, a touch of east-coast
inflexion in the accent.
'Dr MacLean's an archaeologist,' Jeff explained, 'she's
working on a dig farther up on the ridge of the hill. I asked
her to come down. In case this was in any way connected
to what she's working on.'
'We've discovered a medieval grave site,' she elaborated.
'Jeff wondered whether this body could have anything to
do with ours.'
'Does it?' I asked. 'Can you tell whether this is
medieval?'
She hunkered down close to the remains. I dropped down
beside her, our splayed-out knees almost touching. She took
out a pen and used it as a pointer. 'Can you see that?' she
asked, directing my eyes down to a point close to the elbow
of the one uncovered arm.


I caught it. A scrap of something with a dirty-brown
sheen to it, damp, a surface-texture like kelp. 'What is it?'
She turned her face to mine. 'Whatever variation on polyethylene sheet it turns 
out to be, Sergeant, I don't think they
were making it six hundred years ago.'
'Could it have got here independently?'
'I'm not the detective, but the material does appear to be
under the remains.' She smiled again, sympathetically, I
thought, but before I could confirm it, she stood up. I joined
her and heard Emrys Hughes smother a snort of laughter.
He wouldn't have known polyethylene if it turned up on
his breakfast plate, but he obviously thought that I had just
had my nose caught in a hinge.
'So the plastic could have been used as a wrapping?' I
asked.
She shrugged. It wasn't her business. It didn't matter. I
was airing the questions for my own benefit. 'Or as a carrier?
Something to stop the fluids leaking?' I turned to Jeff. 'What
was here before your started your operation?'
'Nothing. Just open hill.'
'No track?'
'A pretty rudimentary one.' He pointed out a track that
was littie more than twin wheel ruts that ran up to the
shoulder of the hill. 'That's a continuation of it. It goes up
to Tessa's . . . Dr MacLean's dig.'
'So you could have got a vehicle up here?'
'It would have to have been a four-wheel drive.'
The wind gusted. I felt it cold in my face. 'It's going to
rain. Have you got a tarpaulin we can use to cover the body
and the excavated material?'


'Sure. Are we going to be able to carry on and work round
you while you do what you have to do?'
So that's why he was looking so worried. 'Not immediately,
I'm afraid,' I said sympathetically, 'and then it's going to depend
on what we find before we can release the site back to you.'

'Jeff- ¦ '
We all looked round at the man at the open door of one
of the site huts who had just shouted. 'There's a call come
in for the cops.'
I looked at Jeff quizzically. 'There's no cellular reception
up here,' he explained, 'we had to put our own landline in.'
'Jeff . . .' Tessa put a hand on his arm. 'I'm going to go
back up the hill now. I'll catch you soon.'
'I'll come over.' He smiled wryly. 'It looks like I'm going
to have time on my hands.'
She bobbed her head at me. "Bye, Sergeant.'
'Goodbye, doctor,' I replied, feeling the formal distance.
I felt an irrational twinge of loneliness and wished that I
was playing in the same movie as she and Jeff.


They left me to take the call in a partitioned-off area of the
hut, with topographical-survey plans on the walls. The long
table was home to a cluster of tannin-lined mugs and a
bottle of tomato ketchup with a crust around the top like
a botched circumcision. On the wall above it, an ironical
placement if there ever was one, a calendar promoting drill
bits featured a heavy-breasted, naked woman with rosy
nipples and a blue hard hat.
DCI Bryn Jones's steady deep voice came down the line.
'Glyn, can you tell us what you've got there?'


I described it, sticking purely to the observational facts.
The line emitted soft static. He had put his hand over the
receiver. I knew exactly who he was relaying my information
to.
'Glyn, take an educated guess,' he said, coming back to
me. 'How historic is this?'
'It's gone to full skeleton,' I said, and started laying out
my reasoning path for his benefit. 'The ground is pretty
compacted, and looks like it hadn't been disturbed for a
long time before the excavators arrived. No sign of any
clothing, so it's either been in the ground for long enough
for it to have decomposed, or it was buried naked. There's
what looks like plastic sheeting present, so I would say that
we're not talking ancient, but not too recent either.'
'So it's unlikely that, as we speak, we'll have the villain's
footprints scorching the mountain dust as he makes his
escape?'
'Highly unlikely, sir.' I smiled; that wasn't Bryn Jones
speak, it had to be a Jack Galbraith line that he had just
recited.
'And the clues are not withering on the vine?'
'This particular vine resembles an opencast mine, sir.'
'Not exactly a productive evidence farm then?'
'No, sir.' I knew where he was trying to lead me, but that
was going to have to be their decision.
'Capaldi...' DCS Jack Galbraith's heavy Scottish brogue
boomed in. 'We've got a SOCO team, the forensic pathologist
and the forensic anthropologist all lined up. And I want
to keep them as a happy and productive bunch. So is
anything going to be served by them having to work under


arc lights through a shitty night at the arse end of the known
universe?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'I do not have a young, ripe, virgin girl in a communion
dress in that hole?'
'No, sir.'
'I do not have a vast array of female relatives rending
their garments and keening over the body?'
'No, sir.'
'So, Capaldi?'
'I don't think I should make that decision, sir.' I braced
myself.
'It's your fucking corpse, Capaldi, you're the finder. You're
supposed to be a professional, you make the call.'
'I would think it could all wait until the morning, sir.'
'Wise move, son.' He chuckled, but even that managed to
contain a threat in it.
Wise move indeed. I had just saved them from a night of
rain and bleak wide-open spaces. I just hoped it would be
remembered and appreciated. But, knowing Jack Galbraith,
I doubted it.


By the time I came out of the hut, we were losing light, and
the rain was sweeping in. Some strange vortex effect in the
cwm bringing it up the hill at us. But Jeff's men had managed
to rig a tarpaulin over the crucial areas, the half-exposed
skeleton and the mound of excavated material, and Hughes
and Friel had taped off the rectangle I had prescribed for
them.
Vehicles were leaving, a procession heading down the


access road. Jeff had obviously released his men. Mine were
attempting their own escape, Emrys keeping his head down
to avoid eye contact as he got into the passenger's side of
the patrol car. Which had been turned around and was now
facing downhill, I noticed. 'Sergeant!' I yelled.
He froze in his crouch, half inside the car. He wanted to
ignore me, but a conditioned reflex had kicked in at my
shout.
'Where do you think you're going?' I asked, approaching,
as he unravelled himself. Inside the car, I could see Friel in
the driver's seat, craning past him to watch me.
'We're going back down to take up our normal duties,'
Emrys stated challengingly.
'You're supposed to assist me here until I release you.'
His eyes narrowed meanly as he tried to remember when
that one had popped up on the order book. 'I thought your
people were taking over.'
'They are, but the SOCO team aren't starting the investigation
until tomorrow. Which means that we need to
secure the site.'
'It is secure. We've taped it off, the workmen have covered
it.'
'I need a watch kept.'
He looked at me disgustedly, realizing now where this
thing was going. 'Isn't that your responsibility?'
I smiled at him. 'That's right, and that's why I'm delegating
it to you. I have other things to do to get this investigation
started.'
He almost shook his head in defiance. Instead, he thought


better of it and smiled slyly. 'Sorry, no can do.' He tapped
on the roof of the car. 'We've just taken an urgent call
requesting assistance. Haven't we, Constable?'
On cue, Friel leaned over. 'That's right. Extreme urgency,
they said.'
I took Hughes's elbow. He resisted for a moment, then
let me steer him away from the car. 'Do you want me to
write this one up,' I asked him softly, 'or are you going to
be a good plod and do what I've instructed you to do?'
He bristled. 'Write what up?' he asked, a sneaky streak of
doubt cutting through the belligerence.
'That you've spun me a fucking lie to evade your duty.' I
held my hand up in front of his face to hush his protest.
'That landline I was on is the only communications tool
available here. No radio, no phone signal.' I made a show
of gazing up at the heavens wonderingly. 'And I don't see
any sign of Pegasus, or Mercury the Winged Fucking
Messenger, having delivered your urgent summons.'
He glared at me. I wondered whether I had taken him
just too far. He had a short fuse, and had laid into me once
before. Was he balancing the prospect of a reprimand against
the instant gratification of realigning the side of my face?
He snorted, and turned back to the car. 'Get out of there,
Friel,' he snapped.
I drove down the hill thinking that this was the investigative
equivalent of the Phoney War. I hoped that the body
we had uncovered didn't mind - whoever and whatever they
were - that the start for the search for justice was on hold
for a brighter new morning.
But I could feel the buzz starting. Much as my sympathy


went out to all those poor tup lambs I had been seeing in
their pens, huddled, stiff and ball-busted, this was a real
case. Jack Galbraith had to let me in on it. It was what he
had exiled me out here for. Like it or not, this was my
country now, and I was his man in it.
I stopped at the nearest farm entrance. Cogfryn Farm
neatly inscribed on a slate panel. It looked tidy. I made a
note of it. I would start there tomorrow. Then work
outwards. Build up a picture of the neighbourhood. The
people whose doors I would soon be knocking on. The
difference around here, from what I had been used to in
Cardiff, was that instead of shuffling onto the next doorstep
or garden gate when you were making enquiries, the move
could involve a couple of miles, a 500-foot climb, and a
stretch of mud that required an embedded team of sappers.
I turned onto the main road. The headlights swept the
direction sign: Dinas. I smiled wryly to myself. Whoever
would have thought that that would ever have meant going
home?

















2





If Dinas had been allowed to remain as an opportunistic
collection of shacks on a dubious ford on a secondary river,
it would never have known disappointment. But it hadn't,
it grew, and it got prosperity. Twice. Lead and sheep. And
lost it both times.
And then it got me.
I didn't have a choice about it. Dinas was prescribed for
me. The day that Detective Chief Superintendent Jack
Galbraith, obviously repaying my former superiors some
deep Masonic favour, rescued me from disgrace in Cardiff,
tucked me briefly under his wing, and then booted me out
of the nest and into the boondocks. I was to be his piggy
in the middle. His catch-all detective in the empty heartland.
In which capacity, I was kept busy chasing down missing
livestock, stalking stolen quad bikes and tractors, observing
first-hand how the full moon fucked people up, and generally
trying to avoid confrontations with the local cops.


Don't get me wrong, Dinas is not a bad place; it can even
be quite quaint in certain lights. It also helps if you have
somewhere else to keep on going to when you get to the far
end. I didn't, so I headed for the next best thing, the Fleece
Hotel.
I took a stool at the rear bar and nodded cursory greetings
to the few men in the room. They were all regulars, so
I was able to do that on automatic, a nod more to the zone
than the person.
David Williams, my best buddy in Dinas, and not just
because he owned the pub, was busy serving at the crowded
front bar. He saw me and smiled happily when he turned
to the cash register.
'Quite a crowd,' I commented.
He nodded contentedly. 'They've all come down from the
wind-farm site.'
Then I realized that this was where I had seen Jeff Talbot,
the site engineer, before. In the front bar. A figure glimpsed
occasionally, drinking with his men.
David finished up and came over and started pulling a
pint for me.
'So, what's the verdict on the body?' I asked, knowing that
the Dinas rumour mill would already have digested, analysed
and spat out its own theory.
He winced. It was a warning, but it arrived too late. I
turned in the direction of his almost imperceptible nod. A
middle-aged couple in rain-slicked coats were standing in
the archway between the two bars, staring at me. Their smiles
were clamped into a rictus. I didn't recognize them, but I
did recognize anxiety.


'Mr and Mrs Salmon,' David introduced them.
They flowed forward towards me like penitents released
into a sanctuary. It was hard to put a precise age to them
as the rain had smoothed and darkened their hair, and
freshened their skin.
'We heard about the discovery, Sergeant.' Mrs Salmon
spoke, her eyes glistening, scorching mine, already afraid of
what they might find there. Her look was accusing, as if I
was attempting to hide something from her.
'Up at the wind-farm site,' her husband clarified. He
gestured his head towards the front bar. 'We've been talking
to the workmen, but they say they don't know anything.
They said that you were the one to talk to. That you're in
charge.'
Even stressed, they both had the lazy vowels of Estuary
English. Essex or Kent.
'Can we go up there?' Her voice was pure raw entreaty. I
glanced down at her hands, already knowing that they would
be tightly clenched.
'Helen . . .' Her husband checked her, as if she had just
broken an agreement they had made.
'Please . ..?' she implored, ignoring him.
'There's nothing to see up there, Mrs Salmon,' I said
soothingly, stalling, trying to fathom what strange event
field she was trying to drag me into.
'It's our daughter, Sergeant,' Mr Salmon explained. I
waited for him to elaborate. 'We need to know what you've
found up there.'
'Who! Who you've found up there,' she corrected him in
a hoarse whisper, the tension arcing between them.


'Tell me about your daughter,' I said quietly to Mrs
Salmon.
'Evie. She left home. This is Evie . . .' Her voice a fast
stutter. She thrust a photograph under my nose. It showed
a young girl astride a fat pony, blonde hair in bunches under
a riding hat, a cautious smile, bright-blue eyes, and a spatter
of freckles on her upper cheeks. She lowered the photograph and looked up at me 
beseechingly. 'We have to know if it's
her that's been found up there.'
I placed another piece into the jigsaw. I turned to Mr
Salmon, hoping that he was less sparked. 'Your daughter's
gone missing?'
'Why won't you tell us?' she wailed, riding close to her
breaking point.
'What age is she? When did she leave?' I persisted, trying
to gently ignore her, needing facts, not hysterics.
'She'll be twenty-three now,' Mr Salmon explained,
throwing his wife a worried look, 'and she left close to two
years ago.'
It was hard to put an age to the kid in that photograph.
One thing I would be willing to bet on was that the 23-year
old version was no longer looking like that.
'We need to know . . .' She couldn't contain it; the tears
and the snot finally erupted. Her husband tried to comfort
her, but she shrugged him off.
I pictured it again. The dirty carapace choked with grass
and heather roots. Two years in that ground could have
turned a body to a skeleton. But that one had been in there
longer. Hunch and experience convinced me. That wasn't
their daughter.


I turned to face her. In the last few minutes, her face had
puffed up and welled out, into a frantic mask that had
abandoned any sense of caring about appearance. I spoke
slowly and carefully. 'It's too early yet. We don't know who
we have up there, Mrs Salmon, but I think we can be fairly
sure that it isn't your daughter.'
Miraculously, she dried up. 'How sure?' she challenged
me, turning, in that instant, from pure mush to
interrogator.
'Totally,' I lied. But it didn't worry me - I had inner
certainty. Boy was I going to regret it.


David and I watched him lead her off. Back out into the
rain. Turning themselves out of the inn. Their misery had
rooted deep.
'Another runaway kid?' I asked.
David dried a glass absently, and nodded. 'He's an
ex-fireman from Kent. Took early retirement. They bought
a run-down smallholding up at the head of a crappy valley.
They expected a teenage daughter to swap Bromley for the
dream of the good life.'
I could empathize. 'Mud and chicken shit.'
'Broken generators and no phone signal.'
'Still, she lasted it out until she was twenty-one,' I observed.
'On and off,' he corrected me, 'there was a time when
they had to keep fetching her back. This time she must have
found somewhere better to hide.'
'Glyn, you are here .. .'
I turned round. Sandra Williams had come through from
the kitchen. She looked tired and had wicked half-circles


under her eyes. She was carrying a cordless phone, her hand
over the mouthpiece. She proffered it. 'I didn't think you were, but I said I 
would look.'
I took the phone. 'Hello?' I said, hoping that I was not
going to hear the sadly familiar sound of bleating lambs in
the background.
'DS Capaldi?' The voice was brusque and authoritative,
with a North Wales accent. And familiar.
'Yes,' I answered warily, desperately trying to recall the
voice. 'Who am I speaking to, please?'
'Inspector Morgan.'
Oh, shit . . . Emrys Hughes's boss. A scowling red-faced
man with a widow's peak. He considered Jack Galbraith the
Antichrist. And, as his perceived little helper, I also qualified
for the rite of exorcism. 'How can I help you, sir?' I asked,
pitching for amicable.
'Who gave you the right to commandeer my men,
Sergeant?'
'I required their assistance to help secure a probable crime
scene, sir.'
'And subject them to exposure?'
'There is shelter available, sir.' I had an image of Hughes
and Friel safely ensconced in the site hut, drinking coffee
and choosing their favourite nipples from the drill-bit
calendar.
'That's beside the point. What you have asked my men
to do is totally unnecessary. You don't understand the terrain.
We don't have the same problems that you do in the city.
We don't have the ghouls and the vandals, and an intrusive,
prurient press. Tell me -' I could hear the scorn building in


his voice - 'who do you think is going to turn out on a
filthy night like this, in that wilderness, to dig up a pile of
old bones?'
'The person who put them there?' I suggested.
That silenced him for a moment. 'Don't be a smart alec,
Sergeant. That site has its own security. Sergeant Hughes
has informed me that there is a watchman.'
'Yes, but with respect, sir, he is only responsible for the
security of the construction site, not for a crime scene.'
He leaped over that one as well. 'And, in the meantime,
while my men are suffering the vagaries of the elements, I
find you well-ensconced in a public house.' The reprimand
came from deep within his soul and his faith.
I looked over at David Williams. My local informant. T
am currently in active pursuit of the preliminary aspects of
the investigation, sir.'
T am pulling my men out of there. And I am going to
complain formally to Detective Chief Superintendent
Galbraith.'
'Yes, sir,' I replied meekly.
'You should have stayed in Cardiff where you belong,
Sergeant Capaldi.'
'I know, sir,' I agreed wholeheartedly.
'We don't want or need your kind around here.'
'No, sir.'
David looked at me speculatively as I went back to the
bar. 'Trouble?'
'I've just upset the local mullah.'
I took a drink of my beer. Should I go back up to the site
and make my own night vigil? No. Morgan had been right.


Different rules applied here. And all I had ever really been
doing was punishing Hughes and Friel.
And I didn't regret it.


I did make a concession, though. I got myself up early in
the morning, while it was still dark. There was no moon,
the night was anvil black, the sound of the river kept up its
own incessant dynamic, and an owl hooted, flitting from
location to location like a trickster.
I drove over the wooden-plank bridge out of Hen Felin
Caravan Park. Jack Galbraith had forced me to live in Dinas,
and I had chosen to stay in a caravan. Unit 13, to be precise.
I needed the sense of impermanence, putting up with the
cold, the mould spores and the intermittent electrical and
water supplies, the very discomfort comforting me with the
knowledge that this surely couldn't last.
This time, even in the dark, driving up the valley to the
wind-farm site, I felt that I knew it better. Last night, when
I had got home from The Fleece, I had studied the OS map
and the electoral register. I had a loose fix on where people
lived. There weren't that many of them.
It had been cold at the caravan, but it was even colder at
the construction site. Higher, and more exposed to the raw
wind that was whipping in from the northwest, but keeping
the clouds moving too fast to rain. For the moment.
The morning was showing itself as a weak aura against
the ridge above the site. But the watchman was on the ball.
He was out of his caravan with a torch before I had shut
the car door behind me.
'Detective Sergeant Capaldi,' I introduced myself.


He checked my warrant card under his torch beam before
he looked up. 'Hi, I'm Donnie Raikes, I take care of security
here.' He shook my hand firmly. He was shorter than me,
but built better, and the light from the hut's open door
caught the gleam of two ring piercings in his right eyebrow.
'All quiet?'
'Nothing's fucking happened here since the glaciers
melted,' he replied with a yawn. A Northern accent, Yorkshire,
I thought.
'We've got a dead body,' I reminded him.
'I saw it. It looks like something the glacier dumped.'
'It's probably a bit more recent than that.'
He shrugged. 'It'll be a long-lost hiker, then. Nothing more
dramatic. Take my word for it, mysterious shit doesn't
happen in places like this.'
I nodded, acknowledging his wisdom, and looked round.
Objects were beginning to take form. Machines, huts and
the folds of the hills. 'Where's Jeff Talbot?' I asked.
'Asleep in his caravan.'
'Alone?'
Donnie grinned. 'Don't worry, we haven't gone native yet,
we haven't resorted to the sheep.'
I smiled dutifully at the tired old stereotype. I knew it
was irrational, but the information soothed me. That Jeff
wasn't with Tessa MacLean.
I waited it out in the site hut, drinking strong tea dotted
with atolls of powdered milk, until the SOCO team arrived.
The light was establishing itself now, but it was still early,
and from the way they bitched about the cold as we backed
ourselves into the wind to don our sterile suits I knew that


they were letting me know that they had had an even earlier
start than me.
They looked even more miserable when I showed them
the site.
'Is it any better preserved under there?' the leader asked
me, bobbing her head at the tarpaulin.
I shook my head.
"Where are we supposed to start?' she asked despairingly.
'There's no surface left.'
I sidled away from her anguish, leaving them to unroll
the tarpaulin and start erecting the tented canopy, while I
went to greet a new car that had just driven up.
Bill Atkins, the forensic pathologist, was a dour old guy
in his late fifties, who I had worked with before in Cardiff.
His eyes flickered in recognition, but he made no comment.
The forensic anthropologist, who introduced herself as
Sheila Goddard, was younger and carried herself around in
a bubble of enthusiasm, which even encompassed the wildness
of the countryside. I could see, as we walked up the
hill, that Bill Atkins was not sharing this.
I hovered behind them while they crouched over the
remains. Whispering to each other. Exchanging
observations.
Bill was the first to turn round to me. 'I hope you're not
expecting anything too dramatic from the in-situ inspection.'
'What will you be able to tell us?'
'Bugger all.' He shook his head and turned back to the
remains. 'Nothing on cause, or duration of interment, until
we get it dug up and back to the lab. Unless we get lucky


and find a bullet, or a knife, or an obvious trauma event.'
'What about age and gender?' I prompted.
He looked at Sheila, who shrugged happily. 'Maybe,' he
answered for both of them. 'We wait to see what's uncovered,
but the age is only going to be broad-spectrum.'
I thought of Evie. 'Could this be a young woman? Buried
two years ago?'
'I think the pelvic structure's male,' Sheila offered.
Bill pursed his lips. 'This soil could prove to be extremely
corrosive, advance the deterioration. But...' He tapped the
ribcage with a stainless-steel spatula. 'The patina and the pitting would make 
me think it has been in the ground for
a lot longer.'
I wafted off a silent thanks to the angel who looked after
my hunch skills. 'It's a possibility that the skull and the
missing hand were accidentally dislodged by the excavator,'
I offered.
Sheila shook her head. 'No,' she said cheerfully, beckoning
me down beside her, 'not possible. See here . . .?' She used
her own spatula to indicate the points where the skull and
the hand were missing. 'There are definite indications of
mechanical severance in both cases. And notice that the
wounds have exactly the same surface encrustation and
patination as the surrounding bone. If the separation had
been recent I would expect to see a cleaner bone surface at
the junction.'
I should have noticed that. The rocks that had been
touched by the digger had shown brighter scores where they
had been scraped. The same thing would have happened to
bone, the surface crud would have been removed.


'So their removal was contemporary with the interment?'
I asked.
'Or before.'
Which meant that we were probably not going to find a
hand on the end of the other arm that was currently under
the skeleton.
So why remove them? The obvious answer was to eliminate
the means of identification. The skull, if the teeth were
intact, could yield dental records, or even facial reconstruction.
But skeletal hands? Whoever had buried the body had
not wanted to take the risk that it wouldn't be discovered
before decomposition had taken the fingerprints.
I stood up slowly. Black magic? There was also a possible
ritual explanation that couldn't be discounted.
I looked around me, screwing my eyes against the wind.
Trying to see it. A featureless spot on an empty hill. What
gave this place its significance?


Back down in the valley I chose Cogfryn Farm as my first
port of call, on the scientific principle that it looked neat,
cosy, and the dogs were shut away. It was also not in the
Badger Face Welsh Mountain sheep-flock book.
I left the professionals up on the hill painstakingly excavating
the skeleton. I had no authorization to start an official
investigation, but I reckoned no harm could come from
putting out preliminary feelers. Get the taste of local
reaction.
Cogfryn was a low, two-storey stone farmhouse, with an
attached stone barn, both recentiy whitewashed.
'Mrs Jones?'


The woman who answered the door didn't seem surprised
that I knew her name. She was small, with her hair tied
back in a bun, wearing an apron, and was as neat as her
house. I showed her my warrant card and introduced myself.
'You'll be here about that body they've found up Cwm
Cesty Nant, I expect?'
'You've heard?'
She looked at me incredulously.
I laughed. 'I'm sorry, I forget how quickly news travels
around here.'
'My husband's busy with the lambing, but you're welcome
to come in.'
'I'd be grateful.'
She opened the door and stepped back to let me through.
'Watch you don't trip over the suitcase,' she warned as I
followed her down the hall and skirted a red and well
travelled case, which looked cosmopolitan and incongruous in this rustic 
setting. 'It's my son's,' she explained, as if
reading my thoughts.
'This is Owen, my son, and his friend Greg Thomas.' She
introduced me to the two men who were sitting at the
scrubbed pine table in the kitchen with mugs of tea and a
depleted plate of chocolate digestive biscuits in front of
them.
Owen Jones had a stocky build, close-cropped hair and
a bright smile, but what immediately struck me was his deep
suntan, which looked so out of place in these parts, especially
at this time of the year, when the rest of us had complexions
that made us look like we had just crawled out from the
under the boulder where we had spent our winter.


I put Greg Thomas in his forties, the same sort of age as
Owen. Lean and fit in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. His
brown hair was also shorn, and his face was weathered and
tight. As I nodded at him I saw how alert and attentive his
brown eyes were.
'That's quite a shock for Dinas,' Owen commented when
his mother announced the purpose of my visit.
'It's a dreadful thing.' Mrs Jones tutted in concurrence.
'Any idea who you've found?' Owen asked. I was aware
of Greg watching me closely.
'Not yet, we're working on it.'
'Owen, it's time to make a move,' Greg announced.
Owen laughed. 'Just when things are getting interesting
around here for the first time ever.'
'Owen!' his mother rebuked, but there was proud amusement
in her tone. I watched the sadness cross her face as
her son and Greg got up.
He nodded at me apologetically. 'Don't mean to be rude,
Sergeant, but we've got to go. Greg's driving me to
Birmingham airport.'
'Going anywhere nice?'
He smiled. 'Not really. Not unless you're into heat,
mosquitoes and oil-rig spotting. I'm catching a plane to
Lagos from Heathrow. I work in oil-field security,' he
elaborated.
I was left in the kitchen on my own as his mother went
to see him off. So that explained the suntan. I also realized
that his friend Greg Thomas had not said a word to me.
The wait gave me the opportunity to take in the room.
It was shabbily immaculate, a space that retained the


memory of baked scones and jam-making and damp socks
drying. It was an art director's dream of a certain rural
package, from the faded Royal Worcester plates on the
dresser and the vintage Rayburn cooker, down to the framed
photograph of a couple of gawky-looking kids on a crocheted
runner on top of a sideboard.
Mrs Jones returned, wiping the tears from her eyes with
the bunched-up corner of her apron. It was such a private
and homely gesture that it brought a lump to my throat.
'He doesn't talk about it, but I know that he has to protect
all those people from some very bad things that can happen
out there,' she said, explaining her lapse, and sitting down.
'I'm sure he can take care of himself.'
She nodded absently, her mind still far off in siege and
hostage situations.
'Does your daughter live away as well?' I asked, nodding
at the photograph, to divert her from her immediate
melancholy.
She surfaced again and looked at the photograph, a dim,
wry smile forming and crinkling the lines in the corners of
her mouth. 'I'm afraid poor Rose is no longer with us.' I
winced internally at my gaffe, but she was already moving
on. 'It was a long time ago now. Things heal.' And I saw in
her expression that gleam that I had seen so often in people
caught up in the excitement of terrible events that they had
never expected to experience, even on the edge of their quiet
lives. She shook her head wonderingly. 'It's a terrible thing
that's happened up there, finding that murdered body.' She
gave me a piercing look. 'If that's what it really is.'
'What do you mean by that Mrs Jones?'


She lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'I've heard talk
that it could have been the work of the wind-farm protestors.
You know, if they could make it look like an ancient
burial place, like the other one they've found farther up the
hill, they wouldn't be allowed to carry on with the
construction.'
I nodded, 'Interesting,' and wrote it down in my notebook.
But it was an unlikely scenario. Wind-farm protestors were,
on the whole, middle class, and the closest they got to civil
disobedience was shaking their walking poles in the air. And
even if Jeff Talbot, a civil engineer by training, had been
mistaken about the ground being undisturbed, where would
a bunch like that have got hold of an appropriate corpse?
But, for the moment, without anything more concrete to
work on, I was happy to entertain crackpot theories.
'You must know everyone in these parts?' I asked.
A slyly humorous smile spread across her face. She was
astute. By my reaction to the protesters theory she had
concluded that the body we had found was the real thing.
'You want me to tell you who I think might be bad enough
to do something like this?'
'I'm always interested in local knowledge.'
'And this is private?' she asked warily, but I could hear
the thrill in her voice.
'Strictly between you and me.'
'Gerald Evans, Pentre Fawr. I'll say no more than that.'
She sat upright, looking quickly around to make sure that
the walls weren't going to betray her. But she wasn't finished.
She leaned forward. 'And Mr Gilbert at Cae Rhedyn. The
man who messes up the river with his so-called gold mine.'


The Gold Mine Man. I remembered him. That's what
Sandra Williams had called him when she pointed him out
to me one day in Dinas. On the other side of the road, head
down, scurrying, carrying a ragged canvas shopping bag.
And dressed in what looked like a grey school blazer with
a scorch mark on the left sleeve. It was a cold day, but he
was wearing shorts, fat grey socks collapsed around the
ankles of his stick legs, his knees protruding like the knob
on the end of a shillelagh.
She saw me to the door. I sensed a reluctance to release
me. 'Is there anything more?'
'It's what my husband said about it, but I think it's a bit silly.'
'Go on,' I prompted.
'It's about the planes that fly over, the big slow ones, not
the small ones that fly too fast and make such an awful
noise.'
'The Hercules?'
'Maybe-' she shook her head dismissively, the ability to
name planes was boys' stuff - 'but they used to say that
sometimes they dropped bodies.'
'Why did they say that?'
'They said that they dropped dead bodies to see what
happened to them. They were trying to see if there was any
safe way that soldiers could jump from planes without
parachutes.'
'I'll look into that, Mrs Jones.' I was only partially
humouring her. It sounded like one of the half-crazed ideas
that Special Forces might actually contemplate. I put 'M' in
brackets beside the note. Something Mackay could help me
out with later.


Mackay and I went back a long way. We were tenuously
related, his family having a connection with the Scottish
branch of the Capaldi family. We had shared a reckless
adolescence before he joined the army and ended up in the
SAS. Our relationship had been troubled after that, and had
hit a real low when he took up with my ex-wife, Gina. Since
then he too had been dumped by her, and we had now
returned to our old close conjunction, but with the former
wildness hopefully burned-out.
I left Cogfryn and drove down towards the main road
instead of turning back to the wind-farm site. It would be
useful to get a feel for the valley in daylight.
Just before the junction I pulled in beside a sign I had
missed when I had driven the road in the dark: Pen Twyn
Barn Gallery. The driveway had been newly surfaced in
tarmac, and led to a large circular parking area in front of
a refurbished and freshly limewashed stone barn. Just up
the rise from the barn was the house, also restored, and
with a tasteful, contemporary, glazed rear extension. Money
had been spent on both the buildings. They were also both
equally shut up. I made a note of them. Pen Tywn had not
featured in the electoral roll.


On the way back I turned off the road at the signpost for
the by-way, an old drove track that wound up to the
ridgeway. I had checked it out on the OS map, and was
pretty sure that it would lead to Tessa MacLean's dig site.
And discovered a bonus. This particular spot possessed
a mobile-phone signal, a rare attribute in these parts. I
decided to put that call through to Mackay.


'Glyn, how are you?' The reception was fuzzy. But that
was par for the course when calling Mackay. He had
retired from the SAS, but the background chatter on his
line made you think of wind in a high desert and an old
truck's engine being nurtured with an oil can to keep
the mobile phone's batteries charged. Perhaps the regiment
gave them a filter to put on their phone when they
retired, just so they would be forever reminded of the
good old days.
'Mac, here's a bizarre one for you.'
'I'm listening.'
'Did you ever come across talk of an experiment that had
the military dropping dead bodies from planes at low altitudes
to assess if there was a possibility that live soldiers
would be able to handle the jump?'
He was silent.
'Mac?'
'Sorry, Glyn, I can't say.'
Can't or won't? I had learned over the years not to press
him on these things. 'Okay, let's try another tack.
Hypothetically, could such a thing ever have happened in
this country?'
'What have you found?'
'A body on a remote hillside. It looks like there's been
identity erasure.'
'It's not the military. All detritus would have been cleared
up. Mislaid body parts are not good PR.'
'Thanks, Mac' I closed the phone down. The elimination
of an admittedly weirdo theory was, I suppose, progress of
sorts.


I took off up the by-way. It was potholed, with grass
growing up the middle, but it didn't look too badly rutted.
I drove very slowly, ready to make my retreat at the first
sign of loss of traction, or drumbeats on the sump. I didn't
want to find myself explaining this distraction to Jack
Galbraith.
I didn't see the camp until I crested a rise. The dig, I
assumed, was under the canvas enclosure that looked a bit
like a bird-watching hide rigged up against a heather-topped
earth bank. The camp comprised a rickety caravan, a few
small tents and an old long-wheelbase Land Rover station
wagon with Queen's University Belfast on the front
door panel. The flash modern intruder was Jeff Talbot's
four-wheel-drive crew-cab pickup.
Tessa came out from under the tarpaulin at the sound of
my approach. She was wearing a sweatshirt, and dungarees
with earth-stained knees, and her hair was pulled back with
a red, knotted bandana. She had a tiny gardening fork in
her hand, and dirt on her forearms where the sleeves were
rolled up. She pushed her hair back with her wrist and a
smear of dirt appeared on her forehead. She looked great.
But I was not exactly getting a great big warm smile of
welcome.
And, lurching like I was, in my very ordinary car, on a
terrain that was better suited to pack mules, it was going to
be hard to casually announce that I was just passing and
had decided to call in to say hello.
I caught sight of Jeff as I got out of the car. He was
approaching from the campsite with a tray loaded with
assorted steaming mugs. He, for one, was making himself


useful. 'Hi,' he shouted over, 'you should have told me you
were coming, I would have driven you up the short way.'
'Thanks, but it's part of a circuit I'm doing. Trying to get
an overview.'
'What can we do for you, Sergeant?' Tessa asked.
'So this is the dig?' I retorted enthusiastically, hoping that
the way into an archaeologist's grace was through her work.
Jeff raised the tray. 'I'll just take these in for the crew,' he
announced, ducking under the enclosure like one of the
family.
T would have thought that you would have been very
occupied by now,' she observed.
'This is my occupation, Dr MacLean. Some people call it
being nosy.'
She almost smiled properly.
I gestured towards the tarpaulin. 'Has your man in there
still got his head and his hands?'
This time the smile broke through. 'Yes, why do you ask?'
'I'm just chasing possibilities. That maybe you had a
collection of headless and handless bodies here, and someone
had lifted one and dumped it down there.' I nodded towards
the wind-farm site, which was just visible.
She shook her head. 'Sorry, but we've only got one here,
and he's still intact. I'd invite you in to have a look, but
we're pretty crowded at the moment.'
'That's okay,' I said, not too upset about being unable to
share close quarters with the ancient dead. 'Do you know
what it is that you've got?'
'He's not an "it", he's our Redshanks,' she corrected,
mock-affronted.


'Yes?'
She laughed. 'It was a colloquial name that was
given to highlanders. From their red legs under the
kilt.'
I showed my surprise. 'Your guy's a Scottish
highlander?'
'We believe so. Some of the stuff we're turning up has a
definite Western Isles connection.'
'He's a long way from home.
She nodded. 'And I think that he came an even longer
way round. My theory is that he was one of the Gallowglass.
Pure happenstance. But it turned out to be wonderful for
us when someone found the remains of a brass boss from
a Highland targe here.'
'You've lost me.'
'A targe is--'
'A targe is a small shield,' I interrupted, 'I know that, it's
the Gallowthingy, that I don't get.'
'Gallowglass. They were mercenaries from the Western
Isles of Scotland who hired themselves out into the service
of Irish Chiefs. We think this one could possibly have been
a McNeil from the Mull of Kintyre.'
I looked around. Scrub grass, gorse and patchy heather,
everything bent over like supplicants by the prevailing wind.
If anything, this place was even more desolate than the spot
where we had found our body.
'What would a Scottish warrior working for an Irish
Chieftain be doing dying in a godforsaken spot like this in
the middle of Wales?'
She grinned at me. 'Good question.'


An idea drifted in. The timeline spanned six hundred
years. But could there be a Celtic connection?








































3





The big, dark Ford saloon, with new mud on the polished
bodywork, was parked at the construction site when I got
back. Jack Galbraith was here. I got out of my car, checked
my reflection in the window for rectifiable flaws, prepared
my psyche for tension, and started off up the hill to the
small canvas pavilion that they had erected over the grave
site.
'Glyn . ..'
DCI Bryn Jones was leaning out of the door of one of
the site huts, beckoning me over. I forgot to take a deep
breath of good clean air before I entered. They were both
heavy smokers. They had already created the effect of a
full-blown chip-pan fire.
'Preening yourself, Capaldi?' Jack Galbraith asked with a
sardonic grin. I glanced out the window. My car was in full
view. He looked pointedly at his watch. Ts this dereliction
of duty?'


'I was here earlier, sir. I left the experts to it. I've been
out getting the feel of the locality.'
He picked up a sheet of paper and flapped it in front of
me. It had the effect of diverting the smoke from both their
cigarettes into my face. 'Inspector Morgan has been bitching
about you.'
'Inspector Morgan doesn't think I should be here, sir.'
'Inspector Morgan doesn't like the competition? Wants
all the prettiest sheep for himself, does he?'
I tried not to smile. 'I wouldn't know about that, sir.'
He chuckled, pleased with himself, screwed the paper into
a ball and aimed it in the general direction of a waste-paper
basket, not caring where it landed. 'Sit yourself down,
Capaldi.'
Bryn had already taken the seat next to him, forcing me
to sit opposite them, like the suspect under interrogation.
They had an open laptop in front of them, connected to
the SO CO camera.
They were both big men, but the spread of their bodies
moved in different directions. Bryn Jones dark, squat and
powerful, Jack Galbraith taller, his face more angular, the
big head of swept-back hair betraying his underlying vanity.
'Have the forensics people been able to tell us anything
more, sir?' I asked Bryn.
'They think its male, and they think it's middle-aged, and
they're not even going to attempt to tell us how long it's
been up here until they get it back to the lab.'
I nodded, keeping my pleasure at Evie Salmon's continued
existence to myself. I made a mental note to call her parents
to confirm it for them.


'And we're the poor bastards who have to attempt to
identify him,' Jack Galbraith stated cheerfully.
'The other hand was missing?' I asked.
Bryn nodded. 'And no trace or residue of any clothing.
Every possible identifier has been removed. Only that plastic
sheeting, which, after all this time, is next to useless.'
'But at least we can discount suicide.' Jack Galbraith
chuckled facetiously.
'Ritual killing?' I offered.
Jack Galbraith snorted and shook his head contemptuously.
'It's a fucking hit. This place is just a dumping ground.'
I wasn't quite sure whether he was referring to the actual
grave or the entire locality he had assigned to me. 'Will you
be setting up an incident room, sir?'
Jack Galbraith grinned at Bryn. T think Capaldi's looking
for some action.'
'It's going to be desktop to start with,' Bryn explained.
'Marry up all the stuff SOCO and forensics can give us and
try to come up with an identity. Work the missing-persons
route at the same time.'
'You look crestfallen, Capaldi,' Jack Galbraith commented.
'It's a crime scene, sir.'
Bryn leaned forward, but kept his tone sympathetic. T
know, but there's nothing left here to investigate. Too much
time has elapsed and the site has been devastated.' He
shrugged. 'A place like this, if there were locals unaccounted
for, we'd have known about it long ago.'
'It's a hit, Capaldi. As I've already said, this is just the
rubbish dump.' Jack Galbraith made a pistol using his thumb
and forefinger and pointed it at me. 'Dope? Gang related?


Someone got caught fucking the wrong man's wife? Who
knows? I just know there's nothing here.' He clicked his
thumb, mimicking a firing pin striking. 'Kerpow . . . It's a
vanished legend. All those years ago someone drove out of
somewhere, dumped a body in the boondocks, and then
drove back to that place where things happen. The only
thing that happens here is the fucking weather.'
'You put me here, sir.'
He shot a smile at Bryn. 'Is this a complaint?' he asked
me.
'You put me here for this eventuality. To be in place when
bad things happened.' He was wrong. The tingle was telling
me that there was a local connection here.
He gave me a wise, mock-patient look. 'But I've just
explained, the bad things didn't happen here.' He scrunched
his eyes shut and took in a deep breath. 'Okay,' he said,
resigned to it, 'play my devil's advocate. And don't sir me
every time. It gets tedious.'
I took in my own deep breath and almost choked on the
smoke. 'Why here?'
'It's remote, hard to get to,' he came back at me quickly.
'A fucking good place to hide a body. Until the Save the
Planet Brigade decide to construct a wind farm.'
'As you said, it's hard to get to.'
'Meaning?'
'You would have to know it. And we're talking about what
was only a rough hill track in those days. I can't see a hard
man from Salford or wherever driving up it with a naked,
dismembered corpse in the boot, just in the hope that he
might arrive at somewhere convenient to dispose of a body.


And he would have needed to be in a four-wheel-drive
vehicle. And why travel so far out of the place where things
happen?'
He glanced at Bryn. 'Underline your point,' he commanded.
'They knew about this location. They had researched this.
Or they were living here.'
'Which makes them still around, does it?'
'It's a possibility.'
He looked over at Bryn again, who shrugged. He thought hard for a moment. 'I 
suppose it works on a PR level. We're
seen to be doing something tangible. Okay, Capaldi, go and
ask your questions. But I still say you're wrong.' He grinned.
'And don't step too hard on Inspector Morgan's toes,' he
added.
'Thank you, sir,' I said gratefully. Mentally I had already
hit the ground running.



PRIVATE - GOLDMINE - KEEP OUT


The sign had been daubed on the sheet-metal gate with red
paint that had dripped and run below the letters like fake
theatrical blood. It was written in English only, which
seemed to me to be a bit imperialistic. It was also a bit daft
if you valued your security and privacy, to advertise the fact
that you were sitting on top of a goldmine. Literally.
Mrs Jones at Cogfryn had intrigued me. Nice Welsh
farmers' wives don't generally finger their neighbours as
potential killers. So what had these two done that had placed
them beyond the pale?


Gerald Evans was in another valley, so I decided to start
with Bruno Gilbert, the Gold Mine Man. And it was a goldmine.
Deep boyhood mythologies kicking in from a time of
innocence, before big holes in the ground, putatively awash
with treasure, had accumulated sexual baggage.
I had remembered more of what Sandra Williams had
told me about him that day in Dinas. He was a recluse. No
one was quite sure whether he had been a schoolteacher or
a civil servant, or whether he had taken early retirement or
suffered a breakdown. He came into town for his shopping,
scurried about with his head down, and ordered his goods
by pointing.
He may have been pretty inept socially, but he had
managed to construct a solid pair of gates. Which, despite
repeated hammering and calling out, he wasn't opening.
Perhaps he just couldn't hear me. Maybe he was mining a
vein, or crushing ore, doing whatever it was that made the
place qualify as a goldmine in his book.
I was conscious of time passing. Jack Galbraith could
change his mind and haul me off this at any moment.
I studied the gate again. Three obstacles to progress: the
gate, the barbed wire on top of it and the fact that I hadn't
been invited.
I got over the height issue by standing on the roof of the
car. The coiled barbed wire on top was old, rusting and laced
with cobwebs that had trapped leaves and thistledown. One
good push would send it down like an uncoiling slinky.
On the other side of the gate, the track, flanked by a
pair of rusted Morris 1000 Travellers, turned round a sharp
bend out of sight. The hidden side of a sharp bend was


always tantalizing.
This was where an invitation would have been useful.
Technically what I was contemplating was illegal entry
seasoned with criminal damage. But fuck it, I reasoned, a
man who wasn't even capable of asking a shopkeeper for
his favourite cheese was hardly likely to have me dragged
up in front of the High Sheriff.
I dislodged the barbed wire and jumped down, landing
heavily, my heels kicking up two little geysers of dust.
Everything about this side of the gate - the air, the
vegetation - felt more desiccated. I wouldn't have been
surprised to see a bird sporting fluff instead of feathers.
I called out Gilbert's name again. No reply. No sounds of
any activity. I walked round the bend in the track. Ahead
of me, across a yard of massed junk, was a green timber
shack, with a rusted corrugated-iron roof, which was in the
process of deconstructing itself. The paint was peeling down
to rotting boards, the roof was slumping, and a couple of the windows were 
falling out.
'Go away!'
The voice made me jump. I hadn't seen him. I turned to
find him squatting in a niche in a bramble cluster that I
discovered later had overwhelmed an old tractor. He had
his head down and his fingers pressed to the sides of his
brow.
'Mr Gilbert?' I asked.
He shook his head.
I bent my knees to lower myself to his level, my warrant
card out. 'Mr Gilbert, my name is Glyn Capaldi, I'm a police
officer, I'd like to ask you some questions.'


He shook his head again.
He was an old man. Dressed in his usual shorts and a
faded khaki shirt, both tattered, his arms and legs deeply
tanned, but knucklebone thin. I couldn't see his face, but
his hair was grey and closely cropped in irregular patches
as if it was growing out after a scalp infection. Then I realized
that it was probably because he cut it himself, the angle
of the mirror, and the way he had to crank the scissors,
distorting things.
By not looking at me he was holding on to the pretence
that I wasn't really there.
I stood up briskly. 'Well, if you don't mind, I'll have a
look around. A setup like this must be fascinating,' I declared
chirpily.
'No!' He leaped up with almost alacrity. A definite crackle.
A creaky old elf unfurling. His eyes were blue and scared.
His face was lean and fissured, with a sparse dirty-white
billy-goat beard accentuating the length of his chin. His
expression was a definition of anguish. 'You can't! No one's
allowed in here.'
I took a couple of steps back to reassure him. 'It's all right,
Mr Gilbert. I promise, I'll stay back here, I won't go any
farther. But I do need to talk to you.'
'I've done nothing wrong.'
'I know, it's just a routine enquiry, I'm talking to everyone
in the valley.'
He shook his head. 'I don't have anything to do with the
rest of the valley. I can't tell you anything.'
'Have you heard that we've discovered a body at the site
of the new wind farm?' I watched him carefully.


'I don't care. That has got nothing to do with me.'
He wasn't even curious. As far as he was concerned it was
news from a dead planet. He just wanted to be left alone to
live the life internal that he had constructed around his
tumbledown Shangri-La.
He looked at me defiantly. 'She sent you here, didn't she?'
'She?'
He nodded in the direction of Cogfryn. 'The one at the
farm.'
'Why would she do that?'
A smile almost broke through. 'I used to have to chase
her children off my land. They came trespassing, poking
their noses into things.'
'That must have been a long time ago.'
He nodded sagely. 'It was, but none of them have ever
forgotten.'
I thought about it as I drove back. Okay, no butchered
and trimmed cadavers strung up on meat hooks, but the
visit had been useful in a couple of respects. Now, having
met him and seen his reaction, I was fairly certain that
Bruno Gilbert had had nothing to do with the body we had
found. And I now knew that Mrs Jones's finking had been
personal.
So what, I was now even more interested to know, was
the grudge that she held against Gerald Evans, a man who
was not even a neighbour?


I was twitching to brace Gerald Evans, but had to spend the
next day frustratingly back up at the construction site to
babysit the SOCO team, and oversee the removal of the


body, which was now ready to be trucked back to the lab.
I did manage to call the Salmons to give them the good
news.
When I eventually got to The Fleece that evening I found
that David Williams was no longer a happy man. His bounty
had decamped. The wind-farm construction workers had
been discharged and sent home or relocated until they were
required again.
'How long is this going to take your people to sort out?'
he grumbled as he pulled my beer.
'No idea,' I replied, slightly irked that I didn't seem to be
included among the people who were capable of sorting it
out. I waved reflexively to the group of regulars at the far
end of the bar.
Seeing them gave me an idea. 'Who among that lot would
know about the wind-farm site?' I asked David.
He looked at them appraisingly. 'Blackie Collins might.
He used to work at Pentre Isaf. It's way over on the other
side of the hill, though.'
I had heard the story. Blackie had worked man and
boy as a labourer and shepherd for the Haymer family
at Pentre Isaf farm. The sons who had inherited the place
had decided that life had to be about more than sheep
ticks, deflated livestock prices and splashing around in
organophosphate dips, and had sold it off as a riding
school. Not surprisingly the new owners hadn't seen
Blackie as an asset that would work in harmony with
prepubescent girls fixated on horses. So Blackie was now
living with his sister in Dinas.
I walked down to the far end of the bar. 'Blackie, can I


buy you a beer? Can I buy all you boys a beer?' I offered
expansively. There were only three of them, so it wasn't
going to break the bank.
They looked startled. I had obviously crossed a line. It
was okay to throw a greeting over, but intruding into home
space was something different.
I moved Blackie off to the side. He had lank grey hair,
watery brown eyes, and hadn't shaved for days. There was
a light brown staining on the whiskers at the corners of
his mouth. He didn't smoke, so I hoped that it was only
tea.
He looked at me mutely. He knew I was a cop. He was
wondering if a new and incomprehensible change in the
rules of life had caught up with him.
'You've heard about the body that was found over at the
place where they're building the new wind farm?' He nodded cagily. 'Cwm Cesty 
Nant. But I don't know
anything about a body.' It came out as a croaked whisper.
T know you don't. I just want the benefit of your local knowledge.'
He digested that warily. 'We were only over there when
we were taking the sheep off the hill.'
'There was nothing unusual about that place? Nothing
that makes it stick in your mind? Nothing to do with it that
you've ever heard people talking about?'
He shook his head. He was staring at me, his eyes round,
more confident now that I hadn't arrested him, or turned
him into a frog. 'You don't know who it is?' he asked
tremulously.
'It would have been a while ago. You don't remember


hearing anything about anyone disappearing?'
'I wouldn't be the person to ask.'
'Who would?'
He looked around furtively. His voice dropped. 'Gerald
Evans.'
I smiled inwardly. It was always a good feeling to sense
the spheres sliding into conjunction. A couple of them
anyway. 'What makes you mention him?'
He leaned forward. 'He used to steal our ewes,' he whispered,
'take them off the hill and change the marks to his
own.'
A rustler? Is that why the Joneses at Cogfryn had it in for
him?
'And he's filthy,' he added quickly, picking up on the
downshift in my interest.
'Can you explain what you mean by filthy?'
'There was a bit of snow on the ground a few years back.
The postman couldn't get up to Pentre Fawr, so he left a
parcel for him with us. This was before he got married.
From Holland, it said on the front. I don't know how it
managed to get opened, but...' He shook his head. 'It was
terrible stuff, Sergeant. And poor Mrs Haymer seeing it and
all'
I suppressed my smile. Dutch pornography. Nosiness
rewarded. I had an image of the huddled bunch of them,
sheepdogs included, all agog and aghast, the world of dildos,
butt plugs and bondage gear having just been revealed to
them.
He took a deep breath. 'But that's not the worst.'
'Go on,' I prompted


'He shot my dog.'
I pulled an appropriate face, grunted sympathetic noises
and retreated to my end of the bar. 'What do you know
about Gerald Evans from Pentre Fawr?' I asked David as I
climbed onto a stool.
'I've barred him from here.'
I looked at him with surprise. 'Why?'
'He shot Blackie's dog.' He shrugged. 'I've got to show
solidarity with my regulars.'
I was almost taken in. 'Come on, David,' I protested, 'that's
too altruistic for you.'
'The bastard cheated me once. He sold me a Land Rover
that had sawdust in the sump to stop it knocking.'
'Couldn't you take it back?'
'I couldn't afford the stress of the ensuing vendetta.'
'He's like that?'
'He's a mean fucker, Glyn, amoral and totally ruthless.'
'Sergeant. . .'
We both looked round. Jeff Talbot was standing in the
archway between the two bars with Tessa MacLean.
How long had they been in here? An irrational surge of
social panic gripped me. Had they seen me hunkered over
there with Blackie? Thinking that he was my buddy? Maybe
even my only buddy?
Jeff held up his mobile phone. He looked wearily grim.
'Sergeant, I don't know whether this is going to involve you,
but I've just had a call from Donnie at the site. He's scared
someone off who was messing around with our machinery'
'Any damage?' I asked.
'He's still checking, but it looks like they've managed to


screw-up the hydraulics on one of the diggers.'
I thought quickly. It could be saboteurs. The wind-farm
protestors that Mrs Jones had mentioned. Or it could be
something richer. I pushed my beer away virtually untouched.
'I'll follow you up there.'
I caught David smiling at me as I got into my coat. 'My
hero,' he pouted mockingly.
I shot him the finger, and followed Jeff and Tessa to the
door. Then I realized why them thinking that I might be
associated with Blackie had stung so much. I was jealous. And it was only 
partially sexual. The rest of it was to do
with the company they had found with one another. They
were outsiders in Dinas, they had bonded together to share
a common experience. But I was an outsider here too, and
it rankled that they hadn't thought to include me in the
party.
They hadn't recognized my kindred spark. It was more
than depressing, it was a shock to my system. Was I now
beginning to be mistaken for a local in the eyes of the outside
world?


It was going to be a cold night. The light cloud cover was
fragmenting, there was already a light dusting of stars, Venus
low and bright in the west, and the fluorescent promise,
behind a far ridge, of a rising moon.
The construction site was lit up. As we drove closer I saw
that it was one of the company pickups, its headlights full
on, illuminating a parked row of assorted earth-moving
machinery.
I parked behind Jeff. Tessa didn't get out. I followed Jeff


to the pickup. Donnie Raikes got out as we approached.
'What happened?' Jeff asked.
'Someone's had a go at one of the diggers.' Donnie led us
towards the line of machinery.
'What kind of a go?' I asked.
'Watch your feet there,' Donnie said, taking my arm as
we stopped beside a mechanical digger, nodding at the
ground. A thick, viscous liquid that, in the dark, looked like
treacle, was pooling in a rut in the mud. 'Hydraulic fluid.
Someone's cut the hoses,' he explained.
Jeff bent down to inspect the damage.
'Did you see anyone?' I asked Donnie.
'I heard him, that's what brought me out of the hut. I
think he must have accidentally banged the side of the
machine. By the time I was outside he was storming off
down the gully.'
'Him?' I asked.
He smiled indulgently. 'It's usually blokes.'
'You've checked the rest of the plant?' Jeff asked.
'Yes. It looked like he was starting with this one, but got
careless.'
'Has it happened before?' I asked them.
'Not here,' Jeff said.
'And it's not usually damage,' Donnie explained, 'its
usually shunted onto a low-loader and then off on a long
haul to Romania or other such points.'
'Could this be the work of protestors?' I asked.
They exchanged glances. Donnie shrugged. 'I don't know,'
Jeff said, 'but why bother, the site's already shut down.'
'Is the damage fixable?' I asked.


'New hydraulic hoses. It's a question of waiting for parts
and a fitter. Which will not be a company priority up here
at the moment,' Jeff said, smiling wryly.
I turned to Donnie. 'Can you show me which way he ran
off?'
He looked surprised. 'It's night, Sergeant.'
'Humour me.'
We walked to the edge of the light-spill and Donnie
pointed out the direction the figure had taken. He had kept
off the track, knowing that a vehicle could have outrun him,
and instead used the gully that the stream ran down.
I walked forward slowly, shining my torch ahead. It was
rough, shelving terrain with irregular banks and terraces.
'You looking for footprints?' Donnie shouted after me.
'No, the shape of the ground. You say he just kept on
running?'
'Yes, as much as I could see.'
The guy had known what he was doing. Keeping up a
pace in the dark over rough terrain like this. He knew this
place, exactly where he was, and how to get out.
I felt it then. A prickle at the back of my neck. Someone
watching?
I turned around and quartered the side of the hill slowly.
But it was useless. Too many vast patches of dense shadow.
He went down the hill, I reminded myself. No one could
be watching me from up there.
Unless there was more than one of them?
Jeff banged on the side of the pickup to catch our attention.
'I'm going to take Tessa back up the hill now,' he
shouted.


'Wait for me, I'm coming with you,' I called up. I saw him
flash a look at Tessa, still inside the car.
'I'm just taking Dr MacLean back to her camp,' he
explained as I approached, not doing too much to disguise
his annoyance. 'I'll be back soon.'
'Good, I'll tag along for the ride.' I grabbed my binoculars
from my car, and got into the back seat of the crew cab
before he could launch another objection.
'It's dark, Sergeant, you won't be able to see anything.'
Tessa spoke from the front seat without turning round. I
wondered if I had just imagined a touch of intentional
ambiguity in her voice.
'It's the company I crave, Dr MacLean,' I announced
cheerfully.
I was conscious of her eyes on me in the rear-view mirror.
I was probably not making the best impression. The rumpled
creep on the back seat. Outside, by contrast, we heard Jeff,
manly and incisive, instructing Donnie to jury-rig a set of
lights over the earth-moving machinery.
He got into the pickup, and we set off. Lurching and
swaying on the rough track. No one speaking. One of those
ramrod silences. I watched the track unrolling in the headlights,
waiting for the moment to break it.
I saw the ground rise ahead and leaned forward into the
gap between the front seats. 'After we go over that rise we'll
be out of sight of your camp.'
'So?' he asked, puzzled.
'When you've gone over the top, slow right down, as if
you're negotiating a deep puddle or something, but don't
stop.'


'Why?'
'I don't want them to know that I'm getting out.'
'What the hell do you want to get out for?' Jeff protested.
'Who's "them" Sergeant?' Tessa asked, picking up on the
important question.
'I don't know, Doctor, it's just a hunch that I want to run
with.'
'This is crazy.' Jeff shook his head despairingly.
'Be careful,' Tessa said, turning round. This time, as she
looked at me, I hoped that she was seeing a little bit of the
Apache in my soul.




























4





I paused, crouched down, with the door open to get the feel
for the car's motion, and then tumbled myself out of the
cab, and rolled a couple of times with the momentum. And
stayed down, flat on the ground, still and quiet. Which was
not Apache training, but more to do with the fact that I
had winded myself.
I sucked in air, and watched Jeff's brake lights flicker like
an overworked Aldis lamp as he continued up the track. If
there were anyone out there watching, hopefully they would
assume that I was still in the car.
Or was I just being crazy? Allowing a spook impulse to
drive me to mad and essentially pointless acts? I suppressed
the thought. Just as I had already buried the one that told
me I was showing off for Tessa's benefit.
I kept low and worked myself up along the hidden side
of the rise to the top of the saddle. At that point I dropped
to the ground and crawled over, keeping my head below the


skyline, until I could see down into the construction camp.
Donnie was working on setting up the lighting. Standing
on top of the machines, moving over them like stepping
stones, stringing lamps onto an invisible wire. As I adjusted
to the soft swish of the wind and the backdrop of the night,
I started to hear the sounds of the generator and a radio
playing rock music coming up from the camp.
I started to get really cold. The chill in the wind pressing
in on my head, the damp cold clutch of the bare ground
working its way in through my clothes. Instinct told me to
move, to jump-start my circulation, but I knew that if I
really wanted to find out if there was anyone else out there, I was going to 
have to stay totally still.
I heard the sound of the engine announcing Jeff's return.
I smiled childishly to myself. He hadn't stayed very long. It
didn't look like an invitation for coffee and comfort had
been forthcoming.
The sound drew closer. Donnie had almost finished setting
up the line of lights, and nothing else moved down on the
site. It looked like I had been wrong. Then Jeff's engine note
changed. Out of gear. He had stopped.
The sound of his horn was an auditory shock that broke
the night up.
And it confused me. I only realized that it was a signal
when I saw Donnie jump down off the top of the last
earthmover in the line and trot towards a parked pickup.
What had Jeff found? I tried the binoculars on him, but he
was too deep in shadow.
I was about to stand up and run down the hillside to find
out when I saw him. A fragmentary movement in my


peripheral vision. I swung the binoculars, and when I
managed to focus I picked out a dark, crouched figure slipping
in and out of the shadows formed by the lights over
the line of machines. Unseen by Donnie, who had now left
the camp, and was driving towards Jeff's pickup.
I got up and started running down the hill, keeping low,
hoping that the figure would be too intent on his purpose
to look my way. I measured out the imaginary parabola in
front of me that would intersect with the line of machines.
I was back to being Geronimo until something hard, at
ankle level, took my feet out from under me. I was catapulted
into sudden bad momentum on a steep, stone-pocked
hillside.
Which reached terminal velocity with my face in a puddle,
and my mouth chewing on gravel, while I tried to pinpoint
what, precisely, was wrong with my head.
I stood up. The dizziness flared up behind my eyes like
the collision instant in a particle accelerator. The pain localized
and seared, as if a hot poker was being thrust into my
ear. I buckled, drooped onto my knees, and tensed against
a spasm of nausea.
This Apache needed help.
Everything had shifted into a fuzzy state. But I could still
make out Jeff and Donnie's headlights off to the side and
below me. I stood up again, slowly and carefully this time,
intending to call out and attract their attention. But I soon
realized that that process involved too many complex
actions. Instead, I decided to keep it simple and utilize
gravity. I stumbled down the slope in a series of wide,
wandering lurches.


They were changing the front wheel on Jeff's truck. I
staggered into their light, feeling like a demented old hermit
who has just spent the last forty days fasting on locusts and
thorns.
'There's someone in the camp . . .' I gasped, my tongue
working like an unfamiliar reptile.
They leaped into Donnie's truck and drove off with the
rear cab door flapping open. It was only later that I discovered
that I had been expected to get into it. Some hope.
I was still sitting on the running board of Jeff's truck, my
head in my hands, waiting for my world to come back into
some sort of order, when they returned for me. 'Are you all
right?' Jeff asked, and I heard the concern in his voice. 'What
happened?'
I knew better than to shake my head. T don't know.' Did
I have a memory of something that had suddenly appeared
out of the darkness to run for a moment beside me? Or
had that happened in a parallel universe? 'I think I tripped.
But I might have been nobbled.'
I heard his breath draw in. 'God, you look terrible . . .'
'What's happened with the machinery?'
'Don't worry about that now. I'm going to get you into
the truck. I'm going to get you to a hospital.'


I didn't argue. I saved that for the duty nurse at the Dinas
Cottage Hospital who confronted us. 'I'm sorry, but I'm
afraid we don't have an A & E department here.'
'He's had an accident,' Jeff protested.
'Which is why you'll need to carry on to either Newtown
or Aberystwyth, where they have the proper facilities.'


I didn't want to go to Newtown or Aberystwyth. They
were too far away. I could wake up there to find an officer
who outranked me telling me that I was off this case and
back on the trail of mutilated sheep.
T want to stay here,' I said feebly, letting go of Jeff and
grabbing at one of the tubular metal wheelchairs that were
lined up by the entrance desk.
'You can't,' she stated officiously, trying to block me.
'I can,' I returned defiantiy, wriggling into possession of
the chair.
'You can't use that,' she squealed, 'those are for the use of
our patients.' She appealed to Jeff. 'You'll have to take him
out of here, or I'll have to call the police.'
T am the fucking police!' I yelled at her, holding my
warrant card out in front of me like a silver cross against a
vampire. 'I have been injured in the line of duty, and I expect
some care in my fucking community'
They got their own back in the amount of hair they shaved
off above my right temple to clean the abrasions. Also in
the scrubbing brush they used, which looked more suited
to removing heavy-duty stains on the urinals than to the
healing arts. But I took it all without complaint. I was their
damaged goods now, and I had no intention of going
anywhere else tonight.
I had been treated for superficial cuts and abrasions, and
was under observation for possible concussion. They also
found and treated a nasty contusion on my left ankle.
Consistent, they reassured me, with having run into an
exposed tree root in the dark. Fine, I didn't argue, it kept
them happy to keep cause and effect in cosmic balance. But


I had no recollection of seeing any trees on that sector of
the hill.
Jeff came back into see me after they'd patched me up.
'You can tell me what happened up there now,' I said.
'How much of it did you miss?'
'Your puncture? Was it rigged?'
'A piece of two by four on the track studded with nails.
I thought one of the crew had got careless.' He shook his
head. 'I wasn't thinking. That's why I called Donnie over.
Leaving the camp open. We were even taking the time to
change the tyre, for Christ's sake,' he remonstrated against
himself.
'What did he get?'
'The hydraulic lines on the other diggers.'
The drugs they had given me kicked in. Jeff went into
soft focus. I tried to blink him back, but I had forgotten
what went where, gave up, and joined the undead.
I came to in the muzzy, grey, artificial twilight that
passed for darkness in the ward. Jeff had gone and my
head hurt.
I forced myself not to drift off again. I tried to concentrate
on taking myself back to that moment before I had found
myself launched off the hillside. Had someone turned up
beside me? Or could it have been a tree? But my memory
didn't want to play.
Because there was something else nagging.
I shifted tack. I brought back the picture of Donnie rigging
up his lights. What was wrong with that image? What jarred
with the information that Jeff had given me?
The hydraulic lines on the other diggers . . .


That line of machinery had not been task dedicated. The
diggers had been mixed in at random with bulldozers, self
propelled rollers and dumper trucks of assorted sizes. So
why had he been selective? His time must have been scary
and limited. If you were just trying to screw with the system
why not go down the line taking stuff out as you come to
it?
Why complicate it by just targeting the diggers?
Because the diggers were important.
Get back to basics. What do mechanical diggers do?
Diggers dig.
I felt the tickle in my kidneys, and my stomach lurching
southwards.
They wanted to stop us digging up something else on
that site.


Six o'clock in the morning. I groped in the bedside drawer.
Keys, coins and wallet, but no mobile phone. Then I had a
vague memory now of Jeff taking it from me when we had
driven here. Why had he taken it? Why hadn't he given it
back?
I dressed quietly. It was a bit ironic, I reflected - I had
bullied and wheedled to get to stay here, and now I was
doing a runner. The porter on the front desk eyed me curiously
as I approached down the corridor.
'Have you been discharged?' he asked.
I flashed my warrant card. 'I'm discharging myself.'
'Suit yourself.' He shrugged and heaved himself up reluctantly
to unlock the front door.
'How do I get some transport around here?'


He looked at me like I had just awakened from a coma.
'Do you know what time it is?'
'Isn't there an ambulance?'
He grinned maliciously. 'If you're discharging yourself
you must be better. You don't need an ambulance.'
'Ambulances take cured people home too,' I countered.
His grin widened, and he shook his head. 'Not at this
time in the morning.'
It was frustrating. There was no one around to appreciate
the urgency of the situation. There was no one around,
period. I was a cop on a mission, but the place was dead,
there wasn't even a milk float to commandeer. And it was
cold. It was that grey, miserable hour of the morning that
you know you were never meant to belong in.
And what was I going to do when I eventually got up
there? All the diggers had been put out of commission. But
that was the least of my worries. I was deliberately ignoring
the fact that I was soon going to have to stare at a whole
fucking hillside, with no idea where to begin searching.
The hospital was way outside of town. A drear, dark-stone
Victorian building that had once been a refuge for fallen
women. I started walking. It was too early to wake David
Williams up, but I had already figured that I could hot-wire
the old Land Rover that he kept parked and unlocked in
the rear yard of The Fleece.
It kept churning over in my mind. What else were we
going to find? Could the missing head and hands be buried
elsewhere on the site? I was so wrapped up in speculation
that I almost didn't hear the approaching vehicle.
And it was a big one. I stepped out into the road with


my warrant card in my outstretched arm, waving him down.
'Have you escaped?' the driver asked, pulling up, a short
cheery guy with red hair and a thick forearm perched on
the open-window ledge.
It took me a moment to realize that he'd made the link
between the dressing on my head and the hospital. 'No,' I
said reassuringly, 'I'm a policeman, I desperately need to get
somewhere where I can organize some transport.'
He looked slightiy disappointed that I wasn't an injured
loony on the lam. 'So where to?' he asked, shifting noisily
into gear as I climbed up into the cab.
I explained about the wind-farm site, but said that I would
be happy to be dropped off in the centre of Dinas.
'No worries, I'll take you up there,' he said chirpily, introducing
himself as Jim. 'We can pretend it's a car chase,' he
added with a grin.
He explained that he worked for the local animal-feed
mill and delivered to all the farms in the area.
'Anything unusual about the farms down the wind-farm
valley?' I asked.
'You're looking for someone for that body you've found
up there, aren't you?' he conjectured happily, jumping
slightly out of his seat to notch the truck into a recalcitrant
gear.
'Background only. My own interest.'
He thought about it for a moment. 'There's not that many
left that are still farms. Pen Tywn has been turned into some
kind of fancy shop that's hardly ever open. Then Fron
Heulog Farm, which is now the activity centre.'
'What kind of activity?' I asked.


'A bunch of Brummies bought the place. They take in
gang members from the city. It's supposed to help them see
the error of their ways. They get to come out here on a
break from thieving cars. Using our tax money to give them
a holiday because the deprived bastards have never seen a
sheep.'
I made a mental note of Fron Heulog. It contained the
elements of Jack Galbraith's suggested city connection.
'It's Cae Rhedyn after that?' I prompted.
'That's right. Crazy Bruno with his so-called gold mine.'
'I've been there.'
He glanced over to see if I was going to expand on Crazy
Bruno before he continued. 'Then there's the Joneses at
Cogfryn.'
'I've been there too.'
'Tidy farmers. Up from them there's The Waen. Old Ivor
Richards, who's let most of his land out to the Joneses and
the Pritchards, who farm Tan-yr-Allt at the head of the
valley.' He nodded to himself, working his way up an imaginary
map.
'Who around here, in your opinion, isn't a tidy farmer?'
'Ivor Richards, but it's the poor old bugger's age. He's lost
it.'
'What about farmers outside the valley?'
He glanced over at me, a shrewd look on his face. After
a moment he nodded. 'You want me to tell you about Gerald
Evans, don't you?'
'Why would I want you to do that?'
He smiled knowingly. 'Because he's the bastard that
everyone around here would like to see toasted.'


'Does he deserve it?'
'They say he tried to buy in infected sheep during the
foot-and-mouth. To get the compensation.'
'I've heard that rumour about a lot of farmers.'
'Yes, but he's the sort of bastard who would have really
done it.'
Gerald Evans was getting more and more interesting.
We turned off the main road into the valley. As we passed
the Pen Tywn Barn Gallery I thought I caught a glimpse of
a yellow car parked up by the house. 'When does the gallery
open?' I asked Jim.
'God knows. They're not like a regular shop, its all posh
and expensive, nothing in there for any local to buy. They
seem to turn up when it suits them.'
'They?'
'Two women. They say they're from Cheshire. Somewhere
posh anyway.'
Cheshire worked as a generic location for people who
were rich enough to escape from Manchester or Liverpool.
I craned round to get a last look at the place. My quick
reconnoitre yesterday had told me that they had spent
money on it. But why the hell would anyone with any sort
of business acumen open an up-market joint in a place like
this? A dead-end valley from which even the glacier had
packed up and left.
I glanced down the drive to Cogfryn Farm as we went
past. Fantasizing the sort of breakfast Mrs Jones could probably
conjure up.
'Stop here!' I yelled to Jim, as the image I had just seen resolved
itself onto my consciousness, erasing the vision of bacon.


I walked up the driveway to the farm. The dogs started
barking, bringing a man out of the lambing shed. He was
tough-skinny, weathered, and wore an old flat cap at an
angle that had probably never changed over the last thirty
five years.
'Mr Jones?' I called out as I approached.
He nodded warily, taking in the dressing on my head, but
making an adjustment in his expression for the fact that I
knew his name.
I held out my warrant card. 'Detective Sergeant Glyn
Capaldi, I met your wife yesterday.'
He held up his forearms, showing me the uterine gloop
and iodine on them to let me know that we wouldn't be
shaking hands. 'She mentioned it. So what can we do for
you this early in the morning?'
'I'd like to borrow that, if I could,' I said, nodding in its
direction.
He looked puzzled. 'Borrow what?'
'That.' I pointed this time. 'The tractor.'
He flashed me an anxious look.
'It's for official business,' I explained reassuringly.
'That's an old bugger, we just use it as a yard scraper. We
can spare you a newer one if you need a tractor.'
We walked up to the tractor. It was old and grey and had
a metal seat covered with dusty sacking. But it was the
hydraulic attachment with the wide bucket at the front that
had caught my attention.
'This is exactly what I need,' I said, tapping the bucket
with my foot.
He looked at me dubiously. 'Would you know how to use that?'


'No.' I smiled at him. 'But I think I know a man who
would.'


Driving the tractor was like perching on top of a giant crab
with a grudge. It buckled and scuttled and slewed up the
track, while I bounced up and down on the metal seat that
acted on my backside like a solid trampoline.
And it made a big, unhappy noise. So much so, that by
the time I rounded the last bend, Jeff and Donnie were
outside the huts watching anxiously for whatever was
coming their way. And their faces didn't exactly break out
into great big smiles of relief when they saw that it was only
me.
'What the fuck is that?' Donnie yelled.
I killed the engine. It protested with smoke, and fluttered
out. 'It's a digger,' I informed him.
Jeff shook his head sagely. 'No, it's not.'
'How far have you come on this?' Donnie asked.
'Only up from the valley.'
They shared a glance, and then, in unison, turned to look
up at me with overelaborate smiles. 'You should have called,'
Jeff said soothingly, 'I would have come and collected you.'
'I didn't have a phone, Jeff. You took it with you.'
He looked at me, puzzled. 'You asked me to. Said that
you wouldn't be able to use it in hospital and asked me to
look after it for you. It's up there in the office.' He looked
at me appraisingly. 'Are you sure they said it was okay to
leave?'
The memory lapse was worrying. But now I understood
Jeff and Donnie's reaction. Imagining the picture I presented,


with a big dressing stuck on one side of my head, and
lurching up the hill on an old tractor that I evidently couldn't
control. They probably thought that my mental faculties
were still back there in the hospital, sedated and resting in
a locker.
'Jeff, honestly, I'm okay, but I do need your help.' I
explained my theory. That the diggers had been sabotaged
to prevent us from using them to uncover the missing skull
and hands.
It was Donnie who saw the obvious flaw. 'The site's been
closed down, so why go to the bother?'
'Because Jeff here might just take it on himself to sneak
in a bit more work while we're not looking.'
Jeff flushed guiltily. 'But what do they get out of the
spoiling tactics? At best it's only a temporary respite.'
I had already thought this one through. 'Desperate measures
probably, but they might be hoping for an opportunity
to get in here and recover them. Remember, they know
where they're buried, they just need a pickaxe and shovel.'
Jeff looked up at the line of stationary plant. 'We haven't
got a digger, and we don't know where to look.'
'I've just brought you one.'
He laughed, but I noticed him looking at the tractor again.
As I had hoped, the engineer in him was rolling up its
sleeves, and nudging the sceptic out of the light.
T suppose...' He walked round to the front of the tractor,
dropped to his knees and squinted. 'It's a bit crude, but it
could work in a fairly primitive way. As long as we didn't
encounter rock.' He looked up at me, something new
crossing his mind. 'Is this official?'


I looked back at him for a moment. Gauging. How stuck
on rules was Jeff? 'What else have you got to do?'
He laughed. It was the answer I wanted. He faced the hill.
'But where the hell do we start?'
I followed his gaze. The hillside, still mostly in shade,
rolled up massively in front of us. This was the nightmare
I had avoided envisaging back at the hospital. But now I
had had a little more time to think it through. 'You start
where you would have if you were carrying on with the
job.'
'The roadway?'
'We have to be close. Something rattled them into action.'
He shook his head. 'The shale level's rising that way.'
'Is that bad?'
'No, it's good. Good for us,' he corrected himself. 'It means
that we can get a firm base down without having to go too
deep. But it's bad for you.'
By which he meant that it was not ripe grave-digging
strata.
'What about over there?' I pointed to where a large
rectangle had been pegged out where the ground sloped
away from us. It was dotted with tussocks. The grass, reed
and heather cover was charred. There had been a fire over
this area. 'Is that deeper soil?'
He nodded cautiously. 'Probably. That's the next turbine
base to be excavated. But it doesn't fit in with your theory'
'How?'
'The roadway access to this turbine goes round the top.'
He described an arc in the air with his finger.
His deflation was catching. I felt my energy levels sag.


Then I looked down at the pegged-out area again without
a civil-engineer's hat on. 'They wouldn't know that.'
'Wouldn't know what?'
'That you wouldn't excavate until you had the roadway
in above it.'
I ran down to walk the perimeter of the base while Jeff
brought the tractor over. I looked at it again, trying to see
it the way a guy who was already pissed off with digging
would see it. A guy with a bag over his shoulder, the hefted
weight of a human head and a pair of hands in it.
I looked behind me and got a fix on the tent that covered
the grave. Taking a straight-line bearing on it I walked slowly
away. I stopped when the ground began to rise. I tried to
get into the guy's mind. You've already dug one big hole,
you're weary, so does your mind work some sort of psychological
delusion on you? If you started going up a slope,
does it tell you that the hole you're going to dig would have
to be deeper?
I waved Jeff over. 'Start here,' I yelled.
I watched the blade of the bucket slide in easily. The
ground was soft. Jeff started to carefully peel the top layer
off. I waved for him to stop.
'What's the problem?' he shouted.
'We haven't got the time for precision. We may have a lot
of ground to cover. Just scoop the stuff up and dump it for
me to go through with the spade. Hopefully, if there is
something in there it'll come up clean in the bucket.'
'Aren't you meant to do this systematically and scientifically?'
he asked, looking concerned.
'I'll take the risk.' I said.


After all, I thought, as I sifted through the second pile of
spoil that Jeff had dumped beside me, if you accidentally
break a couple of fingers off, or crack a skull, there's bound
to be systems in place for rectifying things. The vital thing
was to locate them. Weld in another link.
I had my back to the tractor. It took me a beat to realize
that something had changed.
Silence.
I turned around. The front attachment of the tractor was
raised. Poised in front of me. There, minus its head, minus
its hands, minus its legs, perched upright in the tractor's
bucket, like it was sitting on a designer fucking sofa, was a
rotting, naked torso.

























5





The stink hit us with the olfactory equivalent of a water
canon. Jeff vomited over the side of the tractor. I cupped
my hand over my mouth and nose, checked my gagging
reaction, and forced myself to look, distracting myself from
the ghastliness by trying to remember the stages of decomposition
a forensic scientist I had once dated had taught me.
Autolysis had caused skin slippage on the chest. The green
tint of putrefaction was present, but the worst of the bloat
had gone, the gas and fluid accumulations already purged
out. Insects were crawling or dropping out of the huge
wound the tractor's bucket had made. But no adipocere yet.
I tried to remember. How long for the soapy deposits of
adipocere to form?
Her breasts had collapsed into triangular flaps on the
slumped chest skin. But they were still recognisable as
breasts. This was a she. This one was fresh.


I sent out a silent prayer to the angel who watched over
my hunches. Don't do this to me. Don't let this be Evie.
Evie left two years ago. This one still had skin.
Skeletonization would have occurred if she had been in the
ground for two years. It came back to me. Those gruesome
pillowcase lectures I had had with my forensic scientist.
Adipocere formation takes from several weeks to months
to form. There was no adipocere formation yet.
And Evie had been gone for two years. I clutched at that.
I found the legs. Down on my hands and knees with a
trowel, an old T-shirt of Jeff's soaked in aftershave and
wrapped around my lower face, keeping the worst of the
stench at bay. I had left Jeff with Donnie at the site huts,
still in shock. I had called this one in from down there
before I had come back up with my jury-rigged face mask.
I knew I should have left this bit to the experts, but it was
personal. I felt that I had desecrated her. She had been
chopped in half as a result of my instructions. I had to do
the best I could to make her at least symbolically whole again.
The bastard had left her shoes on. It turned her back to
human, and I felt my stomach churn again. Raised heels, thin
strap at the back, wickedly pointed, and still recognizably red.
One had been partially dislodged by the swelling that
accompanied decomposition. I took a photograph of it and
the leg in situ with my digital camera. For the forensic record.
Then I grasped the heel, closed my eyes, and pulled it away.
I took another photograph of the shoe, zooming in so that
the grotesque dead foot was not in the shot. If I was going
to have to show this picture around I wanted to keep it as
trauma-free as possible.


I stood back and looked down at the legs, still lying where
I had uncovered them. We hadn't scooped them up from
the deep. This was a shallow grave. Much more so than the
other one. And, given the condition of the body, it had to
be much more recent.
Why? The illogicality of it had started to crowd in on me.
Why bury something on a construction site just before the
work has started?
Because, in other respects, they had been clever. By setting
fire to the surrounding vegetation they had disguised the
freshness of the excavation. Just another one of the many
burned or blighted patches that scabbed the hillside. And
they would probably have had to bury her in daylight as
the torched heather would have shone like a beacon in the
night. Or wouldn't that matter around here? Was that why
this place had had been chosen? Because even God had His
blind spots?


Jack Galbraith and Bryn Jones turned up shortly after the
SOCO team and Bill Atkins. We were now all wearing white
gauze respiratory masks and white sterile suits, which gave
us the look and the fuzzy sound of the survivors of an alien
virus.
They both stared at the dressing on the side of my head.
'Husband came home unexpectedly, eh? Had to close her
legs a bit too quickly, did she, Capaldi?' Jack Galbraith
quipped, deadpan.
I assumed that I wasn't meant to answer that.
He made a big deal of taking in the whole scene and
groaned theatrically. 'How do you manage it? Didn't I say


it, Bryn? On the way back to Carmarthen the last time we
were here. "Just you watch," I said. "Just you watch Capaldi
fuck up the serenity. Watch him turn a nice, cold, total culde-sac
case into a fucking Hollywood spectacular." He looked
around him with unfeigned disgust. 'In Indian fucking
territory.'
Bryn was taking in the remains. 'Looks like this one's
coming off the desktop.' He glanced at me as he said it. I
couldn't tell whether it had contained a smile or a frown.
'Where's your big black box and your saw, Capaldi?' Jack
Galbraith asked eventually, breaking the silence that had
accompanied his ruminations over the corpse, which was
still sitting in the tractor's bucket.
'Sir?' I asked, wondering what was coming at me.
'Your amateur magician's kit. Saw the lady in half. Missed
the rest of the lesson, did you? The bit where they showed
you how to put her back together again?'
'I'm sorry, sir.'
He turned to Bryn Jones. 'I'm getting a very bad feeling about this.'
Bryn nodded his concurrence morosely.
Jack Galbraith came back at me. 'Tell us about it, Capaldi.
What brainstorm made you decide to start mashing around
this spot with that mechanical deathtrap?'
'It was a lucky guess, sir.'
He winced. He didn't think it was lucky. He could now
see part of his future stretching out in front of him with
an accompaniment of mud, drizzle and Inspector Morgan.
'The doc reckons she's been in the ground for anything
between four and eight weeks,' he reflected.


'Only a guess at this stage,' Bryn cautioned.
'Close enough to start running a working hypothesis.
When did the work start here?'
'Just under five weeks ago, sir,' I said. I had already asked
Donnie.
'So, he just managed to dump her in time,' he mused.
'If he was local he'd have known about the prospect of
the wind farm for a long time, sir,' I said.
He shook his head dismissively. 'He's not local. Give me
the stats on the first one again, Bryn.'
'Forensics are saying about six to eight years in the
ground,' he replied without consulting his notes. 'Male,
broad-spectrum middle-age. Zero identifying marks or indicators
as to cause of death.'
Jack Galbraith spread his arms, an index finger pointing
at each of the gravesites. 'Six years . . . Six weeks .. . What
the fuck is going on here?'
Bryn and I stayed quiet, we both knew that the question
was rhetorical.
'Head and hands gone in both cases,' Jack Galbraith ruminated
aloud, 'both bodies naked. It's too soon for a copycat,
and there hasn't been any publicity. We have to assume it's
the same workman.'
'Different genders,' Bryn observed, 'and this latest one
looks young, which would make different age ranges.'
So, no nice, tight victim pattern to work with. This guy
is not particular. And why the time spread?' Jack Galbraith
looked at me when he said it. 'Why six years between them?'
'We don't know that this is it, sir. The final victim count,'
I ventured.


'You win the coconut, Sergeant Capaldi, for providing the
answer we did not want to hear.'
'There's something strange, sir.' I had to share the illogicality
that had started screaming at me as soon as I had got
over my first visceral response to the sight of the body.
'Something strange . . .?' he said sarcastically, raising his
eyebrows, and letting me see his glance over at the corpse
in the tractor's bucket.
'They must have known about the wind farm. I thought
that was why they were trying to sabotage the diggers. To
get the evidence out before we could get to it. But why bury
another one here just before they started the site work?'
'He's not local,' Jack Galbraith said with conviction, 'this
is a dumping ground, I'm sure of it. So he may not have
known about the wind farm.'
'The site would still have been advertised, sir. Even if he
had managed to get the body up here before the work started
he must have seen that they were going to be pulling the
hill apart to build the wind farm'
He frowned. 'I'm changing my mind on this one. I don't
think these are professional hits. I think we've got a nut job.
I think we're going to find more. I think this is his dumping
ground, his squirrel's nest.'
'Why bury a fresh one, sir,' I persisted, 'if he knows it's
going to be discovered?'
'You may be right, Capaldi. Either he hadn't been keeping
up with the news, or that's what he wants. The thrill of
exposure. His craftsmanship coming out into the light. So
much so that he decides to welcome us here with fresh
meat.'


I had a sudden bad feeling, which I was not about to
share with my superiors. Could the sabotage of the diggers
have been a double bluff? Was my reaction the one they
had been maneuvering for? Had I been led here to find this
body? Had I been played for a patsy?
'That's when they fuck up, isn't it, Bryn?' Jack Galbraith
continued, happily mining his new vein. "When they start
to think they can play around with us.'
'I'd be happier if he'd left us with more identifiers,' Bryn
replied morosely.
Jack Galbraith pointed at the torso in the tractor's bucket.
'That thing there has to be DNA soup.'
'We're working on getting a mitochondrial DNA profile
off the skeleton, too. But where do we start the match
process?'
'Got any missing girls in your patch, Capaldi?' Jack
Galbraith asked with a smirk. 'That aren't covered in wool
and say, "Baa"?'
'I've got one that went astray two years ago.'
He frowned, he hadn't expected that answer. 'This one
hasn't been in the ground for two years.'
T know that, sir. But the parents will hear about this and
I'd like to try and reassure them.'
He nodded towards the torso. 'The sight of that is not
going to reassure anyone.'
I showed him the image of the red shoe on my digital
camera. T can ask them if their daughter ever wore anything
like that.'
'If she's been gone for two years, what's to say she didn't
buy the shoes in the interim?' Bryn asked.


'It would be an elimination, sir,' I pushed. 'We can then
start moving the ripple outwards.'
Jack Capaldi shook his head. 'She's not local. I expect the
poor cow was a tart from somewhere. But not here.'
Bryn shrugged. "We've got to start somewhere. May as
well clear the local field before we spread.'


David Williams had said that the Salmons' smallholding was
at the head of a crappy valley. In my book a valley was a
piece of level ground where the hills had come down to
rest. There was nothing level about this place. It was all on
a slant. The tilt in the land affected everything, the runty
trees, the stone field walls, even the weeds looked tired with
trying to find the true vertical.
I walked the last fifty metres rather than risk my car's
suspension on the deeply rutted track. It was a low stone
house with a patched slate roof, the rendered walls painted
sky blue, which, with the wind chimes, marked the owners
as outsiders. An old-model Isuzu Trooper was parked beside
the grass-choked hulk of a Ford Sierra, which had probably
died pining for the asphalt of Bromley.
Mr Salmon was in a field behind the house, bouncing on
the seat of an open-topped tractor, dragging what looked
like a rusty iron bedstead behind to scarify the grass. He
waved, and cut across at an angle towards me, the tractor
taking on the universal list of this place.
Mrs Salmon came round from the back of the house at
the same time as he arrived. He cut the engine. They were
both wearing blue overalls, and looked earnest and worried,
as if they had been expecting a visit from the foreclosure


man. Or perhaps it was the dressing over my injury, damaged
cops being a not-too-reassuring sight.
'Hello, Sergeant,' Mr Salmon called out warily. His wife
stayed tight-lipped.
'Hello,' I called back cheerily, 'I thought I'd call by to allay
any worries you might have.'
'Worries about what?' Mrs Salmon asked.
Oh, shit... I swore inwardly. The rumour-mill had stalled.
The news hadn't reached them yet. "We've found another body,
I'm afraid.' I found myself in the weird position of trying to
project casual reassurance into that announcement.
They both blanched. Her hand went to her mouth. He
tried to put an arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged
him off.
'Its a girl . . .?' Mrs Salmon croaked.
I nodded. 'Yes.'
'We showed you a photograph of Evie,' Mr Salmon reminded me anxiously.
'We can't go on visual evidence, I'm afraid,' I said, trying
to make it sound procedural, hoping that they wouldn't ask
me to elaborate.
'Have they done something horrible to her?' Her voice quaked.
'I'm sorry, but I can't go into details.'
'Does she fit Evie's description?' Mr Salmon asked shakily.
'You told me Evie left two years ago?'
'Yes.'
'And no one has reported having seen her since?'
They shared a glance. 'No.' Mr Salmon spoke for both of
them.


'I can't be precise at this stage, but I can tell you that
the time frame doesn't appear to match Evie's leaving. So
you may be able to help us to eliminate her from the
enquiry.'
'How do we do that?' Mr Salmon asked.
'By telling me if she ever possessed a pair of shoes like
this?' I passed the photograph.
Mrs Salmon grabbed it. She stared at it for a moment,
and then shook her head slowly, an expression of palpable
relief forming. 'No. Definitely not. She would never have
been allowed anything as tarty as that.'
I glanced at her husband, who was looking over her
shoulder. If anything his pallor had got worse.
'Mr Salmon?'
He pulled a weak smile and shook his head. 'Don't ask
me, I'm not an expert on the ladies' shoe front.' His voice
was hoarse and soft. His way of expressing relief, I thought.
'Poor girl.' She handed back the photograph. She beamed
at me. This one was someone else's problem. Her world had
clicked back into its safe and comfortable groove. 'Will you
stay and have a cup of tea?'
'No, thanks.'
'I'll walk you down to your car,' Mr Salmon offered.
I felt the bad vibe as soon as we started walking. 'Are you
all right, Mr Salmon?' I asked.
'Don't turn round. Please don't let her see you turn round.
Just keep on walking.' He still had the hoarse voice, but now
he let me realize that it wasn't relief. This was a man of ash
and lye, an absolute inversion of joy.
"What's the matter?'


'Those were Evie's forbidden shoes.'
'But your wife . . .'
'She never knew,' he interrupted. He took a breath, which
rattled in his throat. 'I caught Evie in those shoes one night
in Dinas when I arrived early to collect her from a party.
She hadn't had time to change back into the sensible ones.
They were meant to be a secret, she'd saved up her earnings
to buy them. I promised not to tell her mother.'
I kept on walking and waited for a reaction. But I didn't
feel the trapdoor drop beneath me. Just a wave of sadness.
No shock, no surprise, no horror. Had I instinctively realized that it was Evie 
as soon as I had seen those devastated
breasts and the piteous red shoes?
Poor Evie. I allowed her a short, silent benediction, and
prepared to concentrate on her father. He was in the pre
grief stage, he was on his way to hell, he had started the
flight, but didn't know the destination yet. He was open and
numb, and the state was as good as any truth drug.
He took a deep, shaky breath, and let the cry out from
the heart. 'We brought her here to be safe!'
'When did she start running away?' I probed gently.
'It wasn't running away to begin with. It started with not
coming home on the school bus. Hanging around in Dinas.
Then she started hitchhiking without telling us. Newtown
at first, then Hereford or Aberystwyth. She would only call us to pick her up 
when she ran out of money to feed herself.'
'Do you think she could have ended up living in any of
those places?'
He shook his head, beginning to catch a glimpse of the
abyss. 'We don't know. We've been visiting them all regularly


since she went away, walking around, just hoping we might
catch a sight of her.'
'Did she have any close friends here? Boyfriends?'
'She wouldn't talk to us about anything like that. She
would never bring kids she knew from school back here.'
'You said she saved up her earnings to buy those shoes?
Where did she work?'
'Babysitting, mainly. And she helped the ladies at the Barn
Gallery at Pen Twyn when it was open. And she used to
help Mrs Evans over at Pentre Fawr with her horses.' He
smiled wanly at the memory. 'She would help her with hers,
but she had no interest in our animals.'
I felt the spark. 'Would that be Mrs Gerald Evans?' I asked,
forcing myself to keep it flat. Pornographer, dog killer, rustier
and cheat. And now?
He nodded disinterestedly. His flight path was tilting. He
looked at me mutely. Despairingly. I knew that he wanted
me to make it right again.
I forced a smile. 'You said it yourself, you're not an expert
on ladies' shoes. Nothing's definite yet.' I inserted a sensitive
pause. 'But just to make the elimination certain, someone
is going to have to come out to see you.'
He looked at me dully.
'To take DNA samples. And if it will help, we can put you
in touch with counselling?'
He nodded slackly, and then put his hand out to stop me.
'I'm going back up to the house. I'm going to have to tell
her.'
I watched him walk back up the track towards her. She
stood on tiptoe and gave me a last cheery wave.


I pretended that I hadn't seen it. I couldn't wave back. I
was the one who had promised her that it wouldn't be Evie.


To David Williams's delight we were setting up the incident
room in the defunct ballroom of The Fleece. I had had no
part in the decision, but, for the prospect of his future
generosity, I didn't see the need to enlighten him of that.
The equipment was being delivered and assembled when
I got back to Dinas. The SOCO team had been increased
and were busy up at the construction site searching for more
bodies. I had gone back to see if I could help, but they had
made it very apparent that I wasn't on the guest list.
Jack Galbraith had returned to Carmarthen to organize
the command structures at that end. The bad news was that
Bryn Jones was not going to be acting as his Chief Apostle
as he had been called down to deal with a gypsy arson case
near Fishguard. We would have to wait for the whole team
to assemble tomorrow morning before we would know who was replacing him.
In the meantime I logged in the information I had got
on Evie Salmon, and started the process for the collection
of the DNA samples. I found a note from Bryn Jones
informing me that Jack Galbraith had agreed to include me
on the investigative team. I tried not to show my pleasure
in the midst of other people's pain and anguish, but it was
hard to keep the self-satisfied smile off my face. It was a sad
fact that the prospect of dealing with death and mutilation
felt like a return to the nest.
To compensate I floated out a silent promise to Evie. We're
going to get him for you. Him? Her? I recalled last night's


spooked hunch on the hillside, the phantom tree root.
Them?
I was helping the technicians assemble desks in the ballroom
when David Williams stuck his head round the door.
'I couldn't find you. I've just taken a call from Dr MacLean.'
'What did she want?'
'She asked if you'd call her back. She sounded a bit upset.'
I started to dial the number he had given me. I looked
up at the clerestory window. We still had light.
I borrowed David's Land Rover to handle the by-way.
When I reached Tessa's camp I was surprised to see a SOCO
vehicle parked by the dig. Tessa came out from under the
canopy as I parked. She watched me with a hand shading
her brow from the setting sun.
T heard about the accident,' she said, as I got closer.
I touched the dressing instinctively. 'It's nothing serious.'
She squinted at my face. 'It makes you look a bit lopsided.'
She softened the judgement with a grin.
'I got your message.'
'You didn't have to come all this way.'
'That's okay.'
She nodded. She suddenly looked preoccupied. T heard
that you'd discovered another body. Jeff isn't up to talking.
I tried to go over, but it's all cordoned off.'
'We're trying to keep the press out.'
'Is it another skeleton?'
T can't divulge that information, I'm afraid.'
'Please, Sergeant?' She didn't try to play it coy. It wasn't a plea.
She was just making it plain that this was important to her.
'In strictest confidence?'


She nodded once.
'We've found the recently interred body of a young
woman.' I didn't bother informing her that she had arrived
in two halves.
'Oh my God ...' Her face drained. A tremor ran through her. 'What's happening 
...?' She stared at me. The question
was involuntary.
'That's what we're trying to investigate.'
'I'm sorry.' She forced a smile.
I smiled back. But I was really wondering what had caused
this reaction. She had been so composed with that first
corpse. So what had upset her so much about this one?
She read my mind. 'I'm used to skeletons. It's the archaeologist
in me. Fresh graves disturb me. We have to sleep up
here at night, remember?' This time the smile broke through
to let me know that she wasn't entirely serious. 'Thank you.
It is actually better to know.'
'You're welcome. And I'm only ever a phone call away.'
She nodded gratefully, and then gestured behind her to
the dig canopy. 'I'd show you mine if it weren't so crowded
in there.'
'Who's here?' I asked, nodding at the SOCO vehicle.
'Your forensic anthropologist. She's come to make sure
that I haven't been duped,' she explained, more amused than
annoyed. 'At least mine was here first. And has an excuse
for being here.'
T thought you didn't know that?'
'This is an ancient ridgeway, so we're working on the
assumption that he probably died in transit and was buried
by his travelling companions.'


'Fellow Gallowglass?'
She shrugged and smiled wistfully. 'It's an intriguing and
romantic notion. We're playing with a loose theory that they
could have been military emissaries from the Irish going to
offer their services to the Princes of Maelienydd against
Henry II.'
'The Scots, Irish and Welsh against the English?'
She smiled. 'Sound familiar?'
We were distracted by the flap on the dig-enclosure
opening. The forensic anthropologist emerging, followed by
two SOCO people. She nodded, surprised to see me.
'Satisfied?' Tessa asked.
'Yes, what a beauty,' she enthused. The two women beamed
at each other, in joint communion over a corpse.
'You can discount this one?' I asked the FA.
'Definitely. How come he's so well preserved?' she asked
Tessa.
'I've had a soil analysis done. There's a lot of galena
present, which could explain it.'
'Right.. .' The FA nodded, digesting this. 'Fascinating.'
'Phew, in the clear . . .' Tessa exclaimed, mock-dramatically,
making a show of wiping her brow, as we watched the
SOCO vehicle drive off.
'What's galena?' I asked.
'It's a lead ore. It could have acted as a sterilizing agent.
Killed off the microflora and stopped total
decomposition.'
'Right.' I nodded sagely.
'Want to meet him?' Tessa asked?
I didn't really, but I didn't want to lose Tessa's grace either.


'Yes, please,' I said enthusiastically.
The light inside the enclosure was muted. There was a
soft hum of machinery. A dehumidifier, Tessa explained,
attached to the polythene bubble that protected and isolated
Redshanks from what had turned out to be his future. Two
young assistants, with their tiny trowels poised, looked up
patiently from the excavation that surrounded him, waiting
for yet another interruption to pass them by.
It wasn't a skeleton, the body was covered with desiccated
skin, the colour and texture of tea-stained parchment, and
there were even some scraps and wisps of what must have
been cloth, and the odd shard of leather that looked like
dried and twisted cat turds.
I scoured my repertoire and came up with noises appropriate
to the admiration of a long-dead and deeply dehydrated
Scotsman.
Tessa nudged me, and nodded towards the entrance.
'Well?' she asked, when we hit the outside air again.
'He looks like I feel'
She let out a short laugh. Then suddenly she was looking
at me with concern. 'Does it hurt?'
I realized that I hadn't looked in a mirror for hours. 'What
colour is my face?'
She cocked her head and studied me for a moment. 'It's
quite a rainbow around the dressing. Yellow through purple
with magenta highlights?' She qualified it with a grin.
T should have telephoned.'
She shook her head and briefly touched my wrist. 'No,
the visit was appreciated.'
It was a start.


6





Weirdly, I was wakened by silence. There had been an
owl flitting around outside, but now it had gone. There
was still the sound of the river, but that was a constant.
Apart from that, the night acoustic was flat and empty.
Too empty.
It was two o'clock in the morning and it was cold out of
bed. I pulled a sweatshirt on over the T-shirt I slept in, and
walked through to the living area to put my anxiety to sleep
so that I could get back there myself. As I approached the
large rear window that overlooked the river the clouds pulled back and the moon 
swathed the opposite bank with a pale
opalescent light.
The figure standing on the other side of the river outlined
by the strange light startled me.
A chill emanated from my brainstem and ran straight
through me. I started to look beyond time and reason for
an explanation before I forced myself back into the now.


Concentrate, I told myself. This is a man. He's here because
he knows you.
I went back to my bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans
and shoes. I half expected him to be gone by the time I got
round to the riverbank. A big part of me hoped that he'd
be gone.
He hadn't moved.
His head was in the shadow of a tree. It was those pale
heron-thin legs under the shorts that gave him away. 'Mr
Gilbert,' I called out across the river, 'what are you doing
here?'
'I remembered something,' he called back, his voice just
strong enough to be heard over the sound of the river.
'Come round,' I said, gesturing at the bridge, 'we can talk
in my caravan.'
'I can't cross the river at night.'
I should probably have realized then where this was going.
'Stay over there, I'll come to you.'
By the time I had run round he was waiting for me on
the other side of the bridge. He surprised me by holding
up a hand like a cop halting traffic as I approached my side
of the bridge. I stopped.
'Walk across backwards,' he instructed.
'Why?'
'Then you can see which ones are trying to follow you.'
I didn't argue, I just humoured him. I didn't bother
checking for the ones who might be following me, though.
I was too busy keeping an eye on my feet. It was tricky
walking backwards in the gloom on the shaky planks and
with gaps in the deck of the wooden bridge.


'Couldn't you have come over to me that way?' I asked
when I reached him.
He shook his head, his face deadpan. 'No. Mine have
learned the tricks.'
I saw a whole new minefield opening up there, so I didn't
pursue it. 'What did you remember?' I asked instead.
He stared at me intently. His eyes were very pale and he
was blinking. Probably myopic. The combined effect, with
his thin hair and the wispy beard, was of a goat on the verge
of distress.
'I remembered the lights.'
'At the wind-farm site?'
He nodded.
'How long ago?' I asked carefully.
He shook his head. 'Time doesn't matter to them. They're
beyond that construct. They wouldn't be able to get here
otherwise.'
I wised up then. 'Mr Gilbert, are you talking about
UFOs?'
His sad pale face lit up for a moment. 'Have you seen
them too?'
'Not for a long time. They're gone now.'
He dipped his head sadly. 'They must have completed
their mission.'
'Moved on,' I concurred. 'But thank you for coming to
tell me.'
He nodded gratefully. My heart went out to the poor old
bastard. He had sought me out. Had that last talk of ours
sparked something in him? A realization that he could still commune with 
another human being?


'Mr Gilbert, have you ever had any dealings with a Mr
Gerald Evans?' It was a long shot, but if I'd managed to
open a communication window I might as well try to take
advantage of it. 'From Pentre Fawr Farm.' I gestured off in
the vague direction of where I thought Evans's place lay.
He just stared at me expectantly, as if he was still waiting
for the question. I decided to bring it closer to home. 'Do
people still trespass on your land?'
This one got through. 'Not since I put the fence up,' he
answered. 'That stopped them talking about taking my land
back from me.' He chuckled.
'Who was that?'
'The son and the daughter and the other one. When the
girl was still alive.'
I assumed that the son and the daughter were the Cogfryn
children: Owen and Rose, the dead daughter. 'The other
one?' I asked.
'The one who was meant to marry her.'
'But she died?' I prompted.
He nodded.
'When?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know, I wasn't there.' The subject
didn't interest him. He stared at me. Even in the gloom I
could see that his expression had turned hopeful. 'Do you
think they'll come back?'
'Who is that, Mr Gilbert?'
'The lights.'
I patted him gently on the shoulder. 'I'm sure they will.'
I didn't bother to walk backwards over the bridge after I
left him. Perhaps, in hindsight, that was a mistake. It would


have saved a lot of grief if I could have seen who was trying
to follow me then, before it all went shitty.


The ballroom at The Fleece had been built in the twenties,
and had since functioned as a cinema, a bingo parlour and,
once, to the local population's total mystification, as a Hatha
Yoga centre. It had a high, water-stained ceiling, clerestory
windows that let in a drab dusty light, and pine floorboards,
the lacquered surface brittle and peeling like old nail polish.
It felt like the sort of place that could have been commandeered
to act as a temporary mortuary for train-wreck victims.
The circus had got into town early. When I arrived
everyone was busy eating the breakfast that David and
Sandra had provided. Proper filter coffee, croissants and
fruit. I wondered how long this would last.
Alison Weir, a DC from headquarters, who was to act as
collator, waved at me from behind her computer terminal.
There were two other male DCs from Carmarthen who were
on wary, sideways-nodding terms with me. Emrys Hughes
shot me a glance that would have burst a child's balloon.
Beside him three uniformed PCs hovered in their own territorial
space, new to this, not yet knowing what was expected
of them.
'Have I got a title?' I asked Alison quietly.
'Yes,' she said, without having to check the roster. 'Local
Liaison Officer. Impressive, eh?'
'It just means I know how to tell the different ends of a
sheep apart.'
Luckily we had a front lobby door that creaked. So that
when Jack Galbraith made his entrance we were all on our


feet. I was glad that I was the only one in the room not
having to brush crumbs off themselves. I wasn't glad to
see the man standing beside him. Kevin Fletcher. I caught
Alison's sidelong glance at me. She was gauging my
reaction. She obviously knew that Kevin and I had a
History.
Jack Galbraith stood by the door and took in the room.
His smile was meant to be easy, but we all knew we were
under inspection. He nodded towards the table with the
breakfast trays. 'I'm glad to see they're treating you well.'
We all chuckled dutifully, and felt immediately guilty.
He moved into the room and took up his stand in front
of the display board. Fletcher followed him. 'Right, as you
all know, I am the senior investigating officer. This is
Detective Chief Inspector Kevin Fletcher, who has been
seconded to us from Metro, and is going to act as my field
officer. DCI Fletcher will be in charge of the incident room,
and the day-to-day running of the operation.'
I winced inwardly. The bastard had had yet another
promotion. The last I had heard, Fletcher had been a detective
inspector. And it was almost as if he had been fitted
with a receptor that picked up on my anguish. 'Glyn ...' he
announced loudly, striding over to me with his hand out,
'... Glyn Capaldi, it's been a long time. How are you doing?'
He could have stayed where he was to acknowledge me. By
coming across he was making a statement, reminding the
others of the height that I had dropped from, unmasking
the leper.
'I'm fine, Kevin,' I said, shaking his hand
unenthusiastically.


'It looks painful,' he commented, drawing everyone's
attention to the fresh dressing on the side of my head that
we had all been trying to ignore.
He left me and worked the field, shaking hands all
round, and ended up back beside Jack Galbraith. In the
old days, I remembered, he would have looked smug,
now it looked like he had been taking lessons in benign
authority.
Jack Galbraith gave us the overview on the two bodies.
No identification was as yet possible on the skeletal victim.
Following my tentative identification they were now waiting
for DNA confirmation that the recent body was Evie Salmon.
Apart from the red shoes there were no remains or traces
of clothing in either of the graves, so it had to be surmised
that they both had been naked when they had been interred.
Also, so far, there were no indications as to the cause of
death in either case.
Galbraith held a silence for a moment, reeling in our
attention. 'These people were killed unlawfully. There are a
lot of theories that will fit, so let me give you mine, before
Kevin sends you to sleep with the forensic evidence.' We
chuckled on cue. He held up two fingers. 'Two bodies. We
are working on the possibility that there are more up there.
But, at the moment, there is no pattern, there is no clear
and shining path pointing the way ahead. So my hunch is
that this is a dumping ground, and that these people were
killed at a far remove. Someone tell me what's wrong with
that?' he asked, looking straight at me.
I obliged. 'If the young woman is Evie Salmon, she was
local. She also disappeared over two years ago.'


'Correct, Evie is the spoiler. But forget the emotive word
"disappeared" and stick with the facts. She left home two
years ago. She never disappeared, she has existed somewhere.
Statistically that somewhere is probably a city. And that is
probably where our man found his other victim.'
'It's too coincidental, though, sir,' I protested, 'to think
that Evie met her killer in a city, and he just happens to use
her particular back yard as a burial ground.'
Jack Galbraith beamed. I was unintentionally playing his
foil. 'It's not coincidence, it's our connection. Our killer has
an association with Dinas. Which is how he and Evie came
into conjunction. That's our starting point. Evie met our
man. Now, was this man from Dinas, or visiting Dinas?' He
paused and gave us his goshawk stare. 'Someone ask me
something pertinent?'
Kevin Fletcher complied. 'Why the time lag?'
Jack Galbraith nodded. It was the question he wanted,
which made me wonder if they were working a double act.
'Six to eight years. We may have to rethink this if we find
anything more on the hill. But let's stick with that timeline.
It's a big gap between psychotic urges. So maybe he'd been
able to sublimate them on less-extreme outlets. Then Evie
comes along. Still no outburst. They manage nearly two
years together. Then something flips. He regresses. But what's
worrying is that there is now a new element of showmanship.
As far as we can tell the first body's burial was meant
to be permanent. Evie was there to be dug up and put on
display. He even left her shoes on for us.'
'Is he changing, sir?' one of the DCs asked.
He shook his head. 'I don't know, I can't answer that yet.


But, people, if he has rediscovered the taste, we had better
get to him before he starts indulging again.'
An audible emotional whir ran through the room.
'Should we be warning the locals, sir?' I asked.
He smiled at me indulgently. 'We should be warning the
tarts and the homeless and the junkies in the city this bastard
is operating out of. Although we do not yet know where
that is, do we, Sergeant?'
'No, sir.' I recognized my shut-up cue.


Kevin Fletcher presented the forensic evidence. It was sparse,
nothing I hadn't already heard, except that we had managed
to identify the polyethylene sheeting as a grade used to wrap
and protect rolls of carpet.
One of the DCs put up his hand. Fletcher nodded. 'What
about the young woman, sir? Is it possible to tell if there
was a sexual element to this?'
Fletcher smiled grimly. 'We can't say yet. The lab people
are doing their best, but unfortunately the well-intentioned
excavators managed to turn her gynaecology into a ragout.'
A collective groan went through the room, and all eyes
turned on me. So that one was obviously doing the rounds
in Carmarthen. Had the question been a plant? Or was I
just being paranoid?
Fletcher uncovered the display board. There were mortuary
and site photographs of both the bodies, and a plan showing
the locations where they had been found. He jabbed his
finger over them. 'This is an out of the way spot. It's a long
way off the road, and it can't be seen from the valley. So
we're working on the assumption that whoever dug these


graves knew the territory.' His eyes caught mine for a
moment, as if challenging me to reclaim my theory.
'We have had one big break, though. We have found a
pair of bootprints that were missed at first because they had
been covered by running water. We think these were made
when he was running away from the site security guard.
We've managed to get a cast, and the boffins have been hard
at work trying to build up a composite of the man.'
He turned to the table, produced another photograph,
and pinned it to the board. 'Our putative killer's bootprints.
And now . . .' He picked up another, larger piece of paper,
holding its blank side towards us, and shaking it tantalizingly.
'Our composite,' he announced triumphantly, turning
it over.
Even Jack Galbraith laughed at our reaction to the anticlimax.
I had to give Fletcher credit, he was working his
audience well.
The composite was little more than a caricature. A pure
extrapolation of the weight and proportions of the body
based on the size and depth of the bootprint. All science,
no art.
Fletcher started nodding in anticipatory sympathy. 'I
know it's not great. But I'm afraid it's all we have for now.
So you officers at the coalface will have to work with it.'
A low, collective groan rose up from the uniform corner,
orchestrated by Emrys Hughes. You couldn't blame them.
They were going to be knocking on doors trying to jog
people's memories with a cartoon.
Jack Galbraith stepped forward. 'Let me step out of character
for once and play the wicked old stepfather.' A dutiful


laugh rippled through the room. He raised the composite
and held it out to face the room. 'Another spoiler. Because
this, of course, may not be our man. He may be wearing
an entirely different label.' He clicked his fingers at Alison
Weir.
'And what label is that, sir?5 she came back crisply.
'I am a wind-farm saboteur. I am an annoying, malicious
and destructive bastard, but I am not a killer. I want you to
keep that in the back of your minds. This may be a false
trail.' He scrutinized us all for a moment, and then nodded.
'Okay, Kevin, back to you.'
A copy of the composite was passed along the line to me.
I stopped listening to Fletcher's pep talk and studied it.
There was only one fact, which was the size of his boots.
His weight, his size and his posture were all conjecture. How
many of these variables would fit Gerald Evans?
I checked myself. I had never met Evans, so why was I
getting so obsessed with him? Why did I want him to turn
out to be a monster? I knew the answer. I wanted a local
villain to give my life here some meaning. I didn't want Jack
Galbraith to be right. I didn't want this place to be merely
a dumping ground. I wanted us to have consequence. I
didn't want to be left as merely the caretaker of a charnel
house.
I put my hand up tentatively.
'Glyn?' Fletcher gave me the stage.
'We keep talking about "him", but I think there could be
a possibility that there's more that one person involved.' I
saw Jack Galbraith glare at me, but I wanted this out in the
open. Just in case there was anyone else in the audience who


was having the same doubts. No hand shot up.
'What evidence have you got to back that up, Glyn?' Kevin
asked in the pleasant voice of a patronizing bastard of an
uncle.
I touched the dressing on the side of my head involuntarily,
beginning to wonder if I was about to wedge myself
into a big mistake. 'It's a hunch, Kevin.'
'Serial killers don't work in pairs, it screws up their agenda,'
Jack Galbraith announced gruffly.
'Yes, sir.' I didn't think it was politic to point out that,
with only two bodies, it was a bit presumptuous to be talking
about a serial killer.
I saw Emrys Hughes's hand go up in the uniform sector.
It surprised me. Could it be possible that he was about to
support me?
Fletcher nodded at him. 'Yes, Emrys?' He had done his
team-recognition homework.
'Hearth and home, sir,' he bellowed, misjudging the room's
acoustic.
Fletcher and Jack Galbraith shared a quick glance.
Reassuring each other in the company of hayseeds. 'I don't
quite get you, Emrys,' Fletcher said, smiling patiently.
'I know the people around here, sir. They know me, they
trust me.'
'I'm sure they do, Sergeant.'
'No disrespect to Sergeant Capaldi, but they're not going
to want an outsider coming into their houses to ask them
delicate questions.'
The realization flashed. The bastard... Emrys was trying
to hijack the case.


'What are you suggesting, Emrys?' Fletcher asked, Jack
Galbraith glowering impatiently beside him.
'That we work with the locals. Sergeant Capaldi can do the
incomers. There's plenty enough of them around, and he probably
speaks their language better.' He flashed a grin at his men.
Fletcher nodded sagely, digesting this. 'Glyn?' he asked.
What could I do? The bastard had sideswiped me. I could
smell Inspector Morgan behind this. But the awkward thing
was that he had a point. I had come across people here who
wouldn't give you the time of day unless you could prove
that your forebears had served as retainers with Llewelyn
the Last Prince of Wales. And he wasn't down on record as
having hired any Italians.
'It's a fair point,' I said, stalling, thinking hard for some
way to block him. Emrys was looking over at me, a triumphant
gloat lurking underneath the open and honest smile.
I wanted to ram something flat and heavy into his face. I
didn't give a shit for all the tosspot farmers whose company
I was going to be deprived of, but I did not want to miss
my chance at Gerald Evans. 'But I'm not sure whether his
men have got the requisite interviewing skills.'
'You're going to be using us anyway,' Emrys whined.
'Whichever way we work it, we're still going to be knocking
on doors for you. You set the questions if that's what's
worrying you.'
Jack Galbraith's mobile phone rang. The digitalized strains
of 'Scotland the Brave' surprised us all. He answered it,
turning his back to us. Kevin Fletcher looked suddenly abandoned.
He shot us a discomfited smile, like an actor who
had just lost touch with his prompter.


Jack Galbraith turned back round and held up his hand.
He needn't have bothered, he already had total silence.
'That's SOCO. They've just found another one. Skeletonized.
Early stage investigations showing broad similarities with
the first corpse. Although the forensic anthropologist
reckons that this one is female.' He passed his phone to
Fletcher. 'Take the details, Kevin.'
We were all stunned by the news. How many more were
we going to find? It looked like Jack Galbraith was going to
earn his serial-killer tagline.
He turned his attention back to Emrys Hughes. 'Are there
really that many people who have moved up here?' he asked,
sounding surprised and appalled.
'Oh, yes, sir,' Emrys replied.
He looked over at me. 'You talk to them, Capaldi. There
has to be some real weirdness among that bunch.' He shook
his head. I knew what he was thinking. The same thoughts
still visited me from time to time. The fact that people would
voluntarily leave a city to take up residence in the boondocks
placed them in a seriously disturbed category.


'Hold on . . .' Fletcher's muffled voice responded to the
knock I had just given on his door in The Fleece. He opened
it and looked surprised to see me. Behind him, on a faded
green bedspread, I saw his suitcase and the small piles of
clothes waiting to be allocated drawer space.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, Kevin. I know you're trying to
settle in, but.. .'
He held up a hand to quiet me. 'Boss or skip?'
'Sorry?' I wondered if I had missed a connection.


'Boss or skip? What's it to be?'
I smiled tentatively. 'Are you serious?'
'Fixing the demarcation lines, Glyn. It'll be good coming
from you. Set an example for the others.'
He was serious. And just when I'd begun to think that
perhaps I'd been a bit too hard on him, here he was, turning
into an even bigger arsehole than he'd been before. He
watched me expectantiy.
I held out the folder I had been carrying. 'I thought you
might want to see this.' He waited. I forced it out. 'Boss.'
He nodded, satisfied. 'What is it?'
'Some pre-investigation notes I've made.'
'Give them to Alison in the morning.'
'I thought you might want to be up to speed with them
first.'
He thought about it, and gave me a clipped nod. 'Okay,
summarize them.'
I glanced up and down the corridor meaningfully. He
took the hint and stood aside to let me into the room. The
furnishings were heavy and mismatched pieces of French
polished walnut and mahogany, and the air was thick with
a synthesized distillation of lavender or gardenia. The net
curtains in the bay window had random specks of bluebottle
and crane-fly legs caught in the weave. Sandra had
given him the best room in the house. 'Nice room,' I
observed, nodding appreciatively, trying to make him feel
special.
'No, it's fucking not,' he replied, closing the door behind
me, 'it's a place where furniture comes to die, and it smells
like an overworked hooker's crotch.'


'Is DCS Galbraith not staying?'
'No, rank has its benefits.' He clicked his fingers impatiently.
'Come on, Glyn, I'm tired, I've got to attempt to get
the suicide vibes out of this room, so just give me what
you've got.'
'It's a very brief profile of the people who live in the valley.
All the nearest neighbours to the crime scene.'
He looked unimpressed. 'And surprise me. Not one Son
of Satan among them.'
'Not in the valley.'
He opened the door for me. 'I know we go back, Glyn,
but no special favours here, I'm afraid. In future let's just
process everything through the official channel.'
I didn't move.
He stared me out for a moment, and then closed the door
again. 'I thought there had to be more.' He groaned. 'Spit it
out,' he commanded, sitting heavily on the bed.
'Emrys Hughes.'
He winced, demonstrating the weary burden of leadership.
'The man's got a point. This is a close-knit community.
They know him. But don't worry about it, it's not as if we're
going to get anywhere talking to the rednecks.'
'What about a redneck with a penchant for pornography
and criminal behaviour, and who's a known associate of
Evie Salmon?'
He frowned. 'Why is this the first time I'm hearing about
this?'
'Because I haven't talked to him yet. I want him, boss. I
want first chance at him.'
'You think Hughes will fuck up?'


'I know he will. He has obsequious genes. The guy's a
serial forelock-tugger.'
He looked away for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
'Feed me more,' he instructed.
'Gerald Evans is a farmer. He steals other people's sheep,
he shoots dogs,' I pressed down on the exaggeration pedal,
'and he imports heavy-duty porno from Holland. He also
has direct cross-country access to the burial site from his
land. He lives here, he knows the place. He's the only one
in the locality that fits under the umbrella.'
'Motive?' Fletcher snapped the question at me.
I shrugged. 'I can't say without talking to him.'
'How does Evie Salmon fit into it?'
'She helped his wife out. He had to know her. Maybe they
got as far as blow jobs in the hayloft. Then she moves. But
they keep in touch. Who knows, maybe he even set her up
in a fuck-pad somewhere. Evie was living away, no one could
connect them any more, and that's when she became safe
to be a victim.'
'DCS Galbraith is convinced it's an outside agency.'
'This makes more sense, boss.'
He pondered. 'If he's such a bad bastard, why haven't we
had him already?'
'Because he's careful. He does what he does on his own
land.'
'Okay,' he came to the decision, 'tomorrow morning, you
go and talk to him.'
'Thanks, boss.'
'And I go with you.'
My grateful face didn't flutter.


I walked back down the corridor, trying to see the similarities
between this pompous bastard and the Kevin Fletcher
I had originally known. I had been a raw DC in Cardiff
myself at the time, working the deadbeat stuff that the older
guys tipped out of their ashtrays for me to pick up: the
council-estate break-ins, the foreign-sailor muggings and
the over-the-hill hookers who were reduced to knee-tremblers
against lock-up garage walls.
He came in through the graduate-recruitment route and
I was assigned to him as a minder. We got on well then. He
was intelligent and we discovered that we both read books,
and liked films and music that bypassed the mainstream.
The sort of thing that could have fucked him if he'd ended
up with the wrong partner. I hadn't been quite so lucky, I
had been landed with the derogatory nickname 'Pablo' after
making the mistake of trying to turn one of my colleagues
onto an album track called 'Pablo Picasso' by an American
indie band called the Modern Lovers.
I showed him the ropes as best I could. I drove him round
the streets, pointing out the hot and the cold spots, introduced
him to my small but developing team of snitches,
and I put myself out there to watch his back. He learned
the shortcuts and the cynicism quickly, how to spot and
drop the no-hope cases, but, more importantly, how to nail
the bad bastards who had either fallen out of grace with
their protection, or had never had any to begin with.
I had thought we had the makings of a duo, a proper
crime-fighting team. Until the day I walked into the pub
that was our unofficial squad room and saw him nested
there with the big boys. I knew it was over when he grinned


at me and called out across the crowded bar, 'What are you
drinking, PabloV
Kevin Fletcher had started his ascendancy.
And me? I'd like to think that I retained most of my
integrity. Which was probably why he was now able to treat
me as his fucking slave.



































Ill
7





There was an air of charged suspense in the incident room
when I arrived the next morning. It had the quiet concentrated
intensity of the control deck of a submarine during
a depth-charge attack.
'What's happened?' I asked Alison, a whisper seeming
appropriate.
She inclined her head towards the room that Fletcher had
commandeered. 'Nothing's been announced, but he's been
on the phone a lot. And DCS Galbraith is on his way back.'
'So?'
'He was meant to be staying in Carmarthen for a couple
of days dealing with politics and getting the proper resources
allocated. He's just been on the phone and he's not in a
good mood.'
So, Galbraith descending in grumpy mode. That explained
the studied sense of doom in here. I smiled cockily. 'Shame
I won't be around to share the greetings.' I nodded at


Fletcher's closed door. 'The Young Pretender and I have got
a prior appointment.'
She flipped me a finger. I knocked on Fletcher's door,
opened it and stuck my head round. 'Ready, boss?'
He looked up at me from behind his desk, surprised and
distracted. He had a shaving rash and shadows around his
eyes. He looked like the victim of a sleep-deprivation curse
that he had begun to believe in.
'We're supposed to be going out to interview Gerald
Evans,' I reminded him.
The memory came back. He frowned. Hesitated for a
moment. And decided that misery preferred company. He
waved me in. 'Shut the door behind you,' he instructed.
I sat down in front of him and waited him out.
'We've found another one,' he said eventually. 'Under arc
lights. I was summoned up that hill at three o'clock this
morning.'
'Number four?'
He nodded morosely. 'DCS Galbraifh wants to see it in
situ before we make any kind of announcement.'
I took that as a warning that any leaks would be traced.
'Fresh or skeleton?'
'Skeleton. Similar condition to the previous two. No head,
no hands. Looks like its been in the ground for at least as
long as the others. And Evie Salmon's been verified by DNA.'
We both went quiet. So Evie was official. And the toll of
the anonymous ones was now three. And rising?
'Have you ever come across one like this before?' It was
an unguarded moment. He was actually looking for solace.
'We had that guy a few years back, who was killing


schoolgirls up the Valleys,' I reminded him. It had been a
case that we had both worked on. Still equally ranked then,
I remembered ruefully.
He shook his head. 'That was different. We could identify
the kids.'
'We've got Evie now.'
'She doesn't help with the spread. The others are three
big blanks. We can get a mitochondrial DNA profile on
them, but where do we go from there?' He groaned in frustration.
'It's a classic catch-22. To get a match we need to
find a close relative. To find a close relative we need to know
who the fuck the victim is.'
Boy did he have a big case of the morning blues. Or
responsibility fugue. I didn't care, I was excited about the
forthcoming confrontation. 'Or we discover Gerald Evans
stirring up heads in his acid bath?' I offered, reminding him
of our current mission.
He shook his head. 'We're not going.' He looked up at
me. 'How the fuck can I leave here with all this shit coming
down on us? And DCS Galbraith arriving at any moment.'
I made a big show of disappointment. 'So I'm going to
have to do this myself then, boss?' I asked, starting to get
up.
'No.' He flagged me back down. 'I had a talk with DCS
Galbraith about it. He doesn't want you disturbing the
locals.'
The deflation felt like a kick in the stomach. 'You told
him what we had on the guy?'
He flashed me an irritated look. T thought that over.
There's really nothing that solid there. We agreed that Emrys


Hughes can handle the initial interview, and, if he picks up
any bad waves, we'll take over.'
The bastard had copped out. 'But the guy's ripe for it,
boss,' I pleaded.
He shook his head resolutely. 'You're not getting Evans.
DCS Galbraith wants you to interview someone else. A man
Inspector Morgan has been bending his ear about. Some
incomer weirdo.' He searched his desk and found the relevant
piece of paper. 'A crackpot called Bruno Gilbert.'
'Gilbert's harmless,' I protested, wondering when Morgan
had joined the anti-Bruno crusade. I dropped the frustration
from my tone. 'I've already spoken to him, boss. I've been
out to see him. He's a fruitcake, but he's an inhabitant of
Planet Docile.'
'That may well be the case, but DCS Galbraith wants an
official report to that effect. We don't want the local plods
usurping the game and finding the perp for us. Because
that's one we wouldn't be able to live down.'
I got up. I now felt fucked over and narky. Kevin Fletcher
had successfully managed to share his morning malaise. Now,
instead of interviewing a hot suspect, I was on my way back
to the ruined kingdom.


Bruno Gilbert was still not opening his gates. And he had
re-attached the barbed wire. I got back up on the roof of the
car, pushed it down again, feeling less charitable this time,
and made my entry. I had almost considered faking it, basing
my report on my previous visit and Bruno's tale of UFO
sightings last night. Nothing would have changed. But Jack
Galbraith had an unfortunate knack for sniffing out shortcuts.


I had the same sense of suffusion this side of the gate as
before, as if the air here operated at a different density,
tamping down sound. Even the noise of a large bird I had
disturbed, a wood pigeon or a crow, crashing up through a
tree's foliage, had a muted quality to it.
I called out as I walked down the drive, warning him of
my arrival. There was no response from his previous niche,
and he didn't appear at the door of the shack. Perhaps he
was working in his gold mine. That prospect lifted me
slightly. Maybe this time I would get a glimpse of the
operation.
'Mr Gilbert, are you in there?' I rapped on the shack's
rickety plank door, and cocked my head to listen for sounds
off. Nothing came back to me. There was no lock. I clicked
the old-fashioned thumb-latch and pushed the door open.
Even without the sight of him I would have recognized
that particular combination of smells above all the others.
Blood and shotgun-discharge. Over the mildew, excrement,
whisky and bottled gas. It was probably only a trace odour
by now, something that wouldn't have registered on most
people's senses. But it was a smell that was imprinted on
my psyche. I would probably even react to homeopathic
levels. The smell of my Cardiff demise. The Farmer and the
Pimp.
I stayed in the doorway, partly to calm myself down, partly
for the overview. Trying to read the room, keeping my eyes
darting, staying away from the body, before it loomed too
large and obliterated all other perceptions.
Squalor. A one-room shack with a curtained-off cubicle
containing the galvanized bucket that he had used for a


toilet. The only window obscured by galaxies of cobwebs.
Generations of dust had mutated to take on the mass and
heft of dirt on the floor. Wooden plank walls that had once
been painted were streaked with rot, except in the tiny
cooking area, where grease had acted as a preservative. A
camp bed with stains on the covers that at first glance looked
like a deliberate pattern. A matching wardrobe and chest of
drawers, both with damp-blown veneer.
And the kitchen table.
He had used the surface to balance the double-barrelled
shotgun. The force of the blast had blown his chair back,
smashing it and him partly through the rotten rear wall, so
that they had come to a rest propped back at an angle. It
was through this gap in the wall that most of the light was
now entering the room.
It was too early in the year for a major fly strike, but
a large bird, probably a crow, had crapped on his chest
from its perch on his shoulder, where it had been gorging
on carpaccio of cerebellum. Both eyes were also gone.
Probably the amuse-bouche. Had it been the bird I had
disturbed?
I started back to the gate to get to the car's radio and call
in the cavalry. I stopped at the niche in the brambles where
I had last seen Bruno Gilbert crouched, and looked back at
the shack.
Nothing was going anywhere. Whenever this had happened
the vermin had since had time to come calling. There were
no hot clues cooling down.
I had the scene to myself until I decided it was time to
sound the klaxon.


I returned to the shack and stood in the doorway, taking
a couple of plastic supermarket bags out of my pockets, not
taking my eyes off the scene as I stooped down to put them
over my shoes.
I held myself there. It was time to stop being purely reactive. Read what it 
says, I instructed myself.
Bruno Gilbert had committed suicide.
It was so obvious. So why was I balking? Because it was
so obvious? Because I had only recently met him? He was
still fresh in my memory. Definitely a troubled man. But
from our two meetings I had come away with a distinct
sense that he had managed to come to some sort of accommodation
with his demons. And he had his gold mine.
So why do this? And why now?
I went back into the shack, taking care to stay on the path
that daily use had worn through the dirt. I scanned for
footprints, but there were nothing but scuffed marks. I bent
down to take in the soles of Bruno's shoes, which were
angled up due to the tilt of the body. The tread pattern
didn't match the cast that we had found at the wind-farm
site. And his shoes were too small.
From my crouch I saw a bottle of whisky and a glass that
had fallen from the table. Neither had broken. The whisky
bottle had obviously been not quite empty, the spilled
residue having cut a short, winding gulch through the dry
caked dust.
I made a cursory analysis of the wound. From the damage,
it looked like he had managed to fire both barrels simultaneously.
There was massive trauma to the right and rear of
the head extending from the neck to virtually the top of the


cranium, and as far as the right ear, which was hanging by
a small flap of tissue. It was also compounded by the postmortem
damage caused by rodents and birds.
How loud would it have been? The noise of a gun is
principally down to the sudden and massive expansion of
gasses. His mouth would effectively have acted as a crude
silencer, and the shack itself would have had a baffle effect.
Factor in the remoteness, the trees, and the chances were
that no one would have heard it.
I backed away. A glimpse of something white on the floor,
an alien colour in this midden. I bent down and shone my
torch on it. At first I thought it was a small piece of bone.
But it was too clean, no blood or gristle adhering. Then I
realized that it was a tooth. More precisely a fragment of a
tooth.
In front of where Bruno had last been sitting. Whereas
every other piece of bio-debris had been propelled to the
rear or the side by the blast. I took a photograph of it and
left it in situ. I wasn't about to tell the SOCO people how
to do their jobs, but I was going to make sure that this was
brought to their attention.


I found a pair of bolt cutters in a tool shed and used them
to cut through the chain securing the front gate. The circumstances
sanctioned it. This was shortly about to become a
high-activity zone, and the assorted participants were not
going to be too happy if they had to vault a barred gate to
attend to their specialities. Especially the poor bastards who
were going to have to carry Bruno out of there.
I got patched through to Fletcher on my car radio. He


emitted a prolonged moan, like the sky had just caved in
on him. When he'd finished swearing he told me that he'd
get a scratch team together and be over as soon as possible.
In the meantime he instructed me to secure the site and
stay put.
I had no intention of going anywhere. Because I was a
big kid who had just been left in charge of a gold mine.
Except I had to find it first.
And it wasn't all whimsy. This was more than the Pig
Wales version of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I was
getting a distinctly bad feeling in my kidneys about this.
Could the gold mine have anything to do with it? Could
the poor loopy old bastard actually have discovered the
wonder seam, the mother lode? And had someone else found
out? Was this whole thing simply coincidence, and entirely
unconnected to the other deaths?
To keep Fletcher happy I tied some crime-scene tape in
front of the open gate before I went off exploring.
I followed a well-worn path behind the shack and found
the sluice trays. But no sign of a classic timber-propped hole
in the face of the hillside. No sign of anything resembling
the entrance to a mine. The sluice trays were like big
barbecue troughs, supported on trestle legs on a raised
wooden deck. Bruno had connected a length of alkathene
pipe higher up the adjacent brook, using the water to sieve
the ore. But where was the ore coming from?
Bruno was an old guy. From what I understood about this
process it involved washing crushed stone through graded
sieves. Someone his age would not be able to carry buckets
of rock too far. So it had to be close to here somewhere.


The tap on the end of the alkathene pipe dripped. It had
formed its own miniature watercourse that ran down to the
edge of the raised wooden deck. But no puddle? Why wasn't
the water ponding against the edge of the deck?
I knelt down to look closer and saw the hinges set into
the top surface of the deck. Part of it obviously lifted. But
how? I looked up and scanned the trees. It took me a
while to see it. It was clever. The horizontal arm of a
davit, folded back into the foliage, camouflaging it. I
swung it out through the branches. There was a pulley at
the top of the arm, and a block and tackle lashed against
the raking spar.
I found the lifting bracket in the sluice tray. Disguised to
look like a simple tool that would be used to rake the ore.
It took me a couple of attempts but I managed to slot it
into its housing on the deck, connected the block and tackle,
and started hauling. The free part of the deck in front of
the sluice trays started to lift smoothly, hinged with a counterweight
like a bascule bridge.
It was impressive. It was elaborate. It was a lot of time
and trouble to go to, to hide a hole in the ground. But then
time was what Bruno had had lots of.
I climbed down using the metal rungs that had been fixed
to the side. It bottomed out about three metres down. There
was a collection of buckets, a small sled with metal runners,
and a stumpy but solid little hand-operated machine with
a hopper on top, which I guessed was an ore crusher.
Three tunnels branched off from the bottom of the access
shaft, slanting down. The tunnels were low, you would have
to crouch to move along them, and they all smelled of damp


rock and lichen growth. And rats? The romance was dropping
out of the gold-mining world.
I shone my torch into each of them. No light was reflected
back. Part of my funk was fear of the unknown. How far
in did these shafts go? How safety-conscious had Bruno
been?
I didn't have to do this, I reminded myself. I could just
wait until Fletcher arrived and slot meekly back into the
command chain. That prospect galvanized me into action.
I ducked down into the left-side tunnel. Everything was
clammy, and the air smelled immediately fetid, my crouched
body acting like a plug, keeping the fresh air behind me.
The tunnel was cut through a soft, shale-type rock, and
it was propped with timbers whose dank, dead bark peeled
back like old parchment. The shaft turned and dipped to
avoid obstructions of harder, sedimentary rock embedded
with reflective flakes of mica that caught the torch beam.
Everywhere beads of water dripped.
It was hard work, even without the claustrophobia. Bruno
had constructed the tunnels to accommodate his body, and
I was bigger. I began to feel the pressure change. It was
imaginary, I knew, but it didn't help to ease the sense of the
weight of the hill above me. I had also completely lost all
judgement of distance.
Periodically there were side shafts. I worked out that these
were where Bruno had been extracting his ore. They were
usually shallow enough to dismiss by using the torch as a
sounder.
Until I came to the one that absorbed light. Instead of a
roughly gouged rock face I was registering black. Total black.


I scuttled closer, half intrigued, half terrified. If it was possible
to have an optical illusion in a place where you couldn't
actually see anything, this was one. An illusion of absolute
darkness that turned out to be wooden and painted black.
Up on the surface, Bruno's shack was in a state of collapse.
He didn't paint things. So why had he taken such care with
this? I ran the torch round the perimeter. It was a door of
sorts, a plywood panel set into a frame. I felt my mouth go
dry, and a light quiver of tension shivering the end of my
fingers. What was in there that, even this far down, had to
be sealed off?
His explosives store?
No one in their right mind would have given Bruno
Gilbert access to a sparkler, let alone dynamite, but it was
the only answer that explained what I was looking at; that
went some way to diluting my fear. Something practical and
sensible to do with mining, with no spooky overtones.
But the reassurance didn't last, and I kept coming back
to it. Why was it here and why paint it black?
I prised it open with the screwdriver blade of my Swiss
Army knife. I imagined a slight hiss, a seal breaking, when
it opened. When I shone my torch in I thought the batteries
were dying. I couldn't pick out the end or the sides of the shaft. It was only 
when I stepped inside that I realized that
it was because this was such a large chamber. Bruno had
scooped a room out of the heart of the hill.
And I couldn't identify the half-familiar odour that was
now mixed in with the damp mineral smell of the rock.
My torch beam was useless for an overview in this large
space. It had just picked up another optical illusion. A


bedside table. I steeled myself for the instant of total darkness
and switched the torch off and on again quickly. The
beam was still picking up a bedside table.
Bedside tables do not feature in mine shafts. Bedside tables
live beside beds.
I moved the torch, and jumped back involuntarily, a stab
of panic jolting me like an electric clamp. The bed was
occupied. I forced myself to move the torch again. And
pieced together long blonde hair and a waxy shine on a
pale, pale face. And the sort of stillness you just know has
not changed in a long time.
I had a sudden flashback to McGuire and Tucker. Oh,
please, not again!
We needed more light. I forced myself not to touch
anything. Disturb nothing, I chanted the mantra internally.
Don't vomit. Don't piss yourself. Don't corrupt the scene
in any way.
I didn't have to force myself to back away. It was time to
slot meekly back into the command chain. Let someone else
take this over.


'Fucking hell, Capaldi, the state of you! Where have you
been?' Fletcher yelled at me as I approached. 'And I thought
I told you to secure the fucking site?'
He was congregated with one of the DCs and a couple
of uniforms outside the shack. I assumed the scratch SOCO
team he had assembled was inside. With Jack Galbraith?
I pictured how I must look. Soaked through, scuffed and
filthy, as if I had just crawled through an active sewer, against
the flow.


'I've found another one, boss.'
His authoritarian face cracked, just as I had hoped it
would. He looked at me as if I was deliberately strewing
dead bodies at his feet for him to trip over. 'What kind of
a fucking place is this, Capaldi?' he exclaimed, aghast.
'It's normally pretty peaceful, boss.' I told him what I had
seen. A woman's body in a bed.
'Dead?' he snapped.
'She looked so pale she could have been embalmed.'
'But you didn't check?'
I held my temper. 'I promise you, she was way past
rescuing. I didn't have enough light, and I didn't want to
compromise the scene by going in any farther with just a
torch.'
He held me in a reproachful stare for a moment to let
me know that he was not happy with today's performance
so far. He turned to one of the uniforms. 'Go in and tell
the doctor we need him,' he snapped, indicating the door
of the shack. 'Get me some overalls from somewhere,' he
instructed the other one.
'Is DCS Galbraith inside?'
He blanched. I had rubbed a sore spot. 'He's not here yet.
Some idiot accidentally cut the landline to the wind-farm
site. I've had to send a man up there to fetch him down.'
'So he doesn't know yet?'
'That we apparently have two more dead fucking people?
No, Capaldi, he doesn't know yet.'
I knew from past experience not to push him further.
Instead, I suppressed my smile and tucked it away in the
little mental bank I reserved for such private rewards.


I led the way back down the shaft. The heavy-duty flashlight
they had given me was like a searchlight in the confines
of the tunnel. The one that Fletcher was carrying behind
me projected a warped version of my shadow on the walls
ahead. The doctor Fletcher had commandeered from Dinas,
and a couple of members of the SOCO team, were behind
him. Somehow everyone but me had managed to acquire
protective clothing.
Had I been totally wrong about Bruno?
I tried to see him as a serial killer. But I couldn't get past
the problem of his timidity and his isolation. He seemed
to be too scared of people to kill them. And how could a
man like him have got close enough to someone like Evie
Salmon?
I pictured that ghastly wax complexion on the bed, the
long blonde hair. Was I about to be proven wrong?
And I had still not identified that odour.
I stopped outside the side shaft and let Fletcher come up
beside me to get the sense of the thing. I heard him sniff
the air experimentally. 'What's that smell?' he asked.
'I don't know. It's familiar, but I can't figure it out.'
He tensed himself. 'Okay, let's do it.'
I shone my torch on the bed to light the way for him.
The same blonde hair, but the complexion, in the light from
the high intensity beam, was now an unnatural pink. The
body was still pinned down tightly under the sheet and
blanket.
Fletcher was using his own torch on the floor to make
sure that he wasn't compromising anything as he crossed
to the bed.


And then it hit me. The smell. A recall. Unit 13. Mould
growth on plastic shower curtains. Underscored with the
scent of the kind of talcum powder that old ladies use.
It was too late to warn Fletcher.
As he reached down to pull the bedcovers away I saw that
he wasn't looking at the body. His squeamishness was his
undoing. If he had looked he would have seen what it was
before it leaped into action. But he didn't, and jumped back
in shocked reaction as the thing on the bed surged up,
released from the confines of the covers.
He looked now. 'You bastard, Capaldi!' he shrieked. 'You
fucking set this up!' The body's arms had popped up, and
its knees sprung into an arch. It was naked apart from a
pair of pants and a loose-fitting bra, and was the pink of
denture-plate acrylic. The expression of rage on Fletcher's
face was magnified and distorted by the torchlight. 'You are
fucking screwed!'
It wasn't dead. It had never been alive. Bruno hadn't killed
anyone.
I came closer. Fletcher was trembling. The release from
the sheets had skewed the blond wig. The odour was now
explained. An inflatable plastic sex doll. Its arms and legs,
held open in invitation, made it look like it had just fallen
from a tree trunk that it had wrapped itself around.
T didn't know,' I told him softly.
Behind me the doctor and the SOCO guys were at the
entrance of the chamber, their torches playing over the
inflatable doll. The relief in the air was palpable. I suddenly
realized that if they laughed, Fletcher was going to take it
personally. I would be even more fucked.


'Shine your torches over the walls,' I instructed, to distract
them from the absurdist comedy.
There was a dressing table against the far wall with a
rococo gilt-edged mirror, unguents on the surface, a hairbrush.
A padded stool in front of it. The talcum-powder
smell explained. A woman's short red dress on a hanger was
suspended from the wall beside it. A window painted onto
the wall. Blue curtains swagged back from a naively rendered trompe Vctil view 
out over a lawn to a white picket fence.
I turned my torch on the bedside table. A glass of water
topped with a film of dust. A romantic novel folded open,
which I knew would turn to papier-mache if I tried to pick
it up. On the far side of the bed there was a white WC bowl,
and a pedestal washbasin with a mirror over it. There was
no drainage system to connect either of them into. Like
everything else in the place they were pretend.
'What the fuck is this place?' Fletcher asked.
'Isn't it obvious? It's a boudoir.'
'This is sick.'
'No, it's not,' I said reflexively.
'You're not serious?' Fletcher sneered.
'It's sad, but it's not sick. It obviously gave him some sort
of comfort.'
Both our eyes swung to the plastic doll. 'Do you think he
fucked it?' Fletcher speculated incredulously.
I had a picture of Bruno sitting at the dressing table, the
doll a reflection in the mirror. Was he recreating a lost domestic
scene, or inventing one? T don't know.' I winced at the prospect.
'But I'm not putting my hand up its snatch to find out.'



We left the two SOCO guys in the chamber to start their
process and retreated with the doctor, who wanted to get
back to work on Bruno.
'What are we going to find down those?' Fletcher asked, indicating the other 
two tunnels, when we emerged into the
relative freshness of the access shaft.
'I don't know.'
'Is that where he's set up his Papa Bear and Baby Bear
fuck-pads?' he said meanly.
'We should be glad it wasn't a body.'
He watched the doctor reach the top of the shaft before
he turned back to me. 'You set that up deliberately to undermine
me,' he hissed accusingly. 'You knew exactly what was
lying under those covers.'
'Honestly, Kevin, I didn't--'
'Boss!' he snarled, cutting in over me.
'Fuck that,' I snapped back, 'we're on our own down here,
and you'd better believe that I'm not going to revert to
cadet-force japes in the middle of a murder investigation
on my patch, just to put one over on you.'
He laughed nastily. 'My patch! You're fucking welcome to
it, Capaldi. Throwbacks and failed weirdoes, just your sort
of people.'
'DO Fletcher.' Jack Galbraith's voice boomed down at us
from above.
Looking up, seeing him foreshortened and sky-lined, he
really did look like an emissary from a dark power.
Fletcher scrambled up the metal rungs. I took my time.
By the time I breasted the surface, Fletcher and Jack
Galbraith were ensconced together. Fletcher's right arm was


semaphoring to accompany his explanations.
The conversation broke up, Fletcher making his way back
to Bruno's shack, Jack Galbraith approaching me. I stiffened
expectantly. Behind him I saw Fletcher send me a look
compounded of anxiety and malice. It was a warning. He
was obviously sensitive to what his boss and I might be
discussing behind his back.
'You look like you've just lost the bog-snorkelling championship,'
Jack Galbraith observed.
'It's a bit damp down there, sir.'
He looked down into the shaft. 'So this is a gold mine?'
He sounded disappointed.
'Do you want to go down there and see what we found?'
I asked.
He looked at me incredulously. 'No, Capaldi, that is what
I employ people like you for. So just describe it for me, your
take on it.'
He nodded when I had finished. 'DCI Fletcher tells me
that you don't think that humping a piece of latex in an
underground chamber can be construed as weird
behaviour.'
'I didn't say it was normal, sir, just maybe not as deviant
as DCI Fletcher obviously found it. Mr Gilbert had a hard
time coping with people. So he invents a little corner of his
ideal world.'
'And tops people and chops their heads and hands off.
Where does that particular sideline fit into this ideal world?'
'I don't know whether he would be capable of that, sir.'
He used his thumb to indicate Bruno's shack over his shoulder. 'So what drove 
him to the final act?'


'We don't know that it is suicide yet, sir.'
He winced and shook his head. 'Capaldi, Capaldi.
Sometimes I despair of you. You've heard of Occam's razor?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right, so heed it. Stay rooted. Stick with the simplest
solution. Don't pull this away into fantasy land. We have a
demonstrable warp here. Definite signs of maladjustment.
You are too tolerant of strangeness, that's what got you here
in the first place.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Get more uniforms in and pull this place apart. This guy
had set patterns.'
The observation surprised me. He had done his homework.
'That's right, sir.'
'And it's now looking like killing people might be one of
them. So get this place broken down for me, and deliver me
Mr Gilbert's sins.'




















8





I delegated the search of Bruno's place to Emrys Hughes,
who arrived with the additional men. I didn't want to waste
my time looking for bodies that I was pretty certain wouldn't
exist. He didn't try to hide his smirk. His stance had been
vindicated by the example of another crazy incomer fucking
up in the game of life.
I didn't bother arguing with him. I wanted to check out
the surrounding properties, just in case someone had heard jj the shot. They 
might not have identified it as one, but if j
someone had heard something it could give us a I timeframe.
But first I had to get back to Unit 13 to change out of
my impromptu speleological outfit and get cleaned up and
into something that would make me presentable to the
public again.
I stood under the thirteen-and-a-half slow drips of tepid
water that constituted my shower and tried to make sense


of Bruno's apparent suicide. I corrected myself. His apparent
suicide at this particular point in history. At any other time
it would be tragic. Now, with its juxtaposition, it had the
potential to change the focus and direction of our
investigation.
I froze. The soap slipped from my hand. I ignored it.
Could that be the intention? Had this been manufactured?
Had Bruno just been set up as the fall guy?
Was it possible for someone to be that evil and
manipulative?
I slammed my eyes shut and shook my head to clear out
the judgemental crap. That was only going to get in the
way.
Take it back to the beginning.
Three people had been killed, their heads and hands had
been removed, and they had been buried over a period of
two years, approximately six to eight years ago. Which should
have been the end of the story.
Until the wind farm is announced. Which posits a real
danger of discovery. But this is a long-term procedure
involving consultations and public enquiries, the slow
grind of due process. It leaves plenty of time to remove
the bodies.
So why leave them in place? And then compound it by
adding a new one?
What does this act say about the status of the original
bodies?
I ran into a mental blank wall and went back to Evie. She
was the disruptor. She broke the pattern. Young and new.
What was she meant to tell us?


I took it back chronologically and broke it down into
sequence. The first body is uncovered. The diggers are sabotaged.
I dig up Evie.
Oh fuck!
We had been manipulated. They had taken over the
controls after we had discovered the first body. The whole
business with the sabotaged diggers was to alert us to keep
on digging. A way of picking up the reins and steering us
in the direction they wanted us to take. We had found the
first body, which meant that we were going to find the
others, so they speeded up the process to make sure that
we found Evie quickly. Complete with her distinctive and
identifiable red shoes.
Why?
To stop us concentrating too much on the other three
bodies? By ensuring that Evie was the second body
unearthed, were they trying to distract us from the collective
significance of the other three?
If I was right, Evie's murder had just been a device, a
counter-play in the game that the original murderer was
controlling.
I closed my eyes at the cold horror of it. She had been
murdered to provide the meat. The bastard had used her
as a fucking chess piece. He had carved her up to suit his
purposes, removing her head and hands to connect her to
the other victims. Just in case the location wasn't enough
of a clue.
And then he had figuratively chopped Bruno into the
mix.
It was a storyboard, designed to make us believe that


Bruno Gilbert was a retired serial killer who had reactivated
himself. That he had started killing again. But then we were
meant to understand that he had felt the ineffable pressure
as we closed in on him. No option left but to take his own
life.
Oh Jesus! If I was right, this bastard had murdered two
innocent people to provide a diversion. To shift us down
an investigative path that was going to lead to nowhere. Evie
had been used to draw us away from the initial focus and
to point us down the line, but Bruno was the one that now
switched the points. This part of the strategy was designed
to swing us in the direction that he had chosen for us.
The warm water in the tiny tank had drained, the shower
was turning cold. I shivered under it, but the discomfort suited my next grim 
realization. I had just worked out how
he was going to manage to consolidate this. How he was
going to complete the arc of the story. I flashed on the
underground chamber. Bruno's retreat from the world. The
red dress! It was as good as a suicide note. Because I now
knew as an absolute certainty that the dress was going to
turn out to be Evie's.
I bequeath you the total proof of my guilt.
As I towelled myself dry I realized that no one was going
to buy a word of this. Because in the real world that even
cops were a part of, the world of small pleasures and disappointments,
boredom and television news and the belly
laugh after the third beer, it still seemed incomprehensible
that a person could take the life of two others, for no other
reason than to send an investigative train down a branch
line that was going to swallow it up.


Bruno may not have known his killer. But Evie must have.
It had to be the person she had left home two years ago to
be with. She must have trusted him. Been proud of him.
She must have talked to someone about him.
And that's how I was going to get the bastard.


As I had anticipated, the Joneses at Cogfryn Farm had
been at full tilt in the lambing shed the previous night
and had heard nothing that wasn't associated with that
process. The three of them, Mr and Mrs Jones and the
labourer they employed, had all been in attendance at the
pens.
Fron Heolog, the activity centre, adjoined the gold-mine
site on the other side from Cogfryn Farm. I reread the
small file I had prepared on it. A couple called Trevor and
Valerie Home and her brother, Greg Thomas, all from the
West Midlands, lived there. It was a registered charity, which
they ran as a residential centre as part of a rehabilitation
regime for young male offenders, mainly street-gang
members.
Greg, the brother, was the guy I had met a few days ago
at Cogfryn Farm. The friend of Owen Jones who was driving
him to the airport.
According to my notes the place had been semi-derelict
when they first took it over, and it had taken about five
years of working part-time to refurbish the farmhouse and
convert the outbuildings to its current use. So, even though they had only been 
up and running for about four years,
they had had a presence in the valley when the first of the
bodies had been buried.


It turned out that the place was also one of Emrys
Hughes's betes noir. According to him it was a nursery of
imported urban malevolence peopled with young marauders
who were out to overrun Dinas if they could only free
themselves from their electronic tags.
Their sign was a big shiny cartoon sun with a wide smile,
dark glasses and a starburst of rays that turned to dreadlocks
on the top. Any idea of freedom stopped at the graphics,
however. The gates were automatic and locked. I got out
and went to the intercom.
'Yes?' A woman's voice, tinny behind the static.
'Detective Sergeant Capaldi.'
'Can you show the camera some identification, please,'
the voice asked wearily, not giving me time to state my
business. The security camera was mounted on the trunk
of a tree. I stretched my hand up to it with my warrant
card. The gates gave a little shimmy, and started to open.
The drive was surfaced with fresh tarmac, and lined with
new saplings protected by tree guards. I followed the signs
for Reception and drove into a courtyard formed by a low,
L-shaped, whitewashed stone building. A small group of
youths, a mixture of races, watched me cross the yard. Their
stares of practised defiance took me back to Cardiff. These
kids recognized me as a cop. I went back and locked my
car.
'I'm Valerie Home, I'm the voice on the intercom.' She
held the door open. I went in, shook her outstretched hand,
and she closed the door behind her. 'Please, sit down.'
She was short, had overemphatic cherubic curves in her
face, and unstyled, dense brown curly hair, all of which


combined to make her appear chubbier than she was. She
looked tired. The room was a converted cowshed, open to
the roof, National Trust paintwork, newly bought contemporary
office furniture, cheery prints, and a couple of
computers banked against the rear wall.
I sat down opposite her at her desk. I did a double take
on a framed photograph that was hanging on the wall above
her head. I had met both the men in it. At Cogfryn Farm.
Owen Jones and Greg Thomas again, but much younger
versions, with a young woman sandwiched between them,
the camera catching her with her eyes closed and a goofy
grin that she must have regretted later. It was a buddy picture.
The three of them packed tight together, the men with their
arms around the girl's shoulders, she with hers around each
of their waists.
Both men in army uniform. A new dimension. Did it
make any kind of a difference?
She cleared her throat to bring me back to earth. 'Sorry.'
I smiled apologetically.
She scrutinized me for a moment. 'We haven't dealt with
you before, have we?'
'No,' I confirmed.
'Well, have you actually caught anyone doing anything,
or is it just the usual, blame it on Fron Heulog?' she asked,
her smile weary and deliberately false.
'Blame what on Fron Heulog, Mrs Home?'
She blinked in surprise. 'You're not here ...?' She caught
herself. Something relaxed. She allowed herself a short laugh.
'I'm sorry, I'm so used to us getting the blame for anything
that goes wrong out there.'


I understood. Emrys must have been a frequent visitor.
Every vandalized bus shelter and unsolved crisp-packet theft.
'You're a convenient dark beacon?' I suggested.
'Tell me about it.' She sighed. 'So what can I do for you?'
'I'm trying to find out whether anyone here might have
heard anything unusual coming from the direction of Mr
Gilbert's place last night.'
'What sort of unusual?'
'Something that might have sounded like a gunshot?'
She glanced out the window. 'So that explains all the
activity over there.' She looked back at me. 'Am I allowed
to ask what happened? And has this got anything to do with
the bodies they've found at the wind-farm site?'
I smiled apologetically. 'I'd rather keep to what you might
have heard, at the moment.'
'The kids keep pestering us about it. It's almost made this
place cool for them.' She waited me out for a moment, and
then shrugged. 'Well, I personally heard nothing, over and
above the normal racket that goes on round here until they
all decide to settle down.'
'Could you ask the kids?' I pushed a card with my contact
numbers across the table.
'Of course, but they're the ones who are usually making
the racket.'
'What about your husband and your brother?'
She shook her head vaguely. 'We were all together until
bedtime.' Then she realized my question had been more
specific. 'They're not here, I'm afraid. It's a Tuesday. They're
down at the river doing things with rope bridges.' She saw
me glance at the group of youths out in the courtyard.


'There are always some who claim to be allergic to cold
water. But I will ask them when they get back.'
'How do you get on with your neighbour, Mr Gilbert?' I
deliberately kept him in the land of the living.
She thought about it for a moment. 'He keeps to himself.
We see him walking on the moors above here, but that's
about as far as contact goes.'
'He doesn't bother the kids?'
'Not intentionally.' She laughed at my puzzled expression.
'They think he's strange. The way he dresses and scuttles
around. Although anyone who would chose to walk in the
hills when they could be watching television is weird in their
book.'
I produced the new photograph of Evie we had got from
her parents. This was more recent. No sweet kid on a pony
this time. That had been the memory they wanted to hold
on to. This was more real. She was scowling, caught turning
away from the camera, not wanting them to take possession
of any part of her. Her hair was still blonde, but streaked
with pink highlights, and cut to hang straight, with a spiky
fringe. Her complexion was blotchy, but there was raw
energy in her expression, and she was attractive, in a disconcerting
way. 'Did you know her?' I asked. 'Evie Salmon?'
'No.' She replied without hesitating, a glum look crossing
her face, realizing who she was seeing.
'Ever heard of her?'
'Only from the rumours that are going around town. That
she's one of the victims.'
'She was young, Mrs Home. She might have been drawn
to the boys here.'


She shook her head. 'It may sound harsh, but we don't
let them fraternize with the locals. We tried it once and it
didn't work. We ended up receiving a torrent of abuse
from the so-called good people of Dinas.' She smiled. 'They
didn't appreciate their children's newly discovered language
skills.'
I made a point of letting her see me looking at the photograph
behind her desk. 'Your brother looks much younger
there.'
She looked surprised. 'You know him?'
'And Owen Jones. I met them both briefly at Cogfryn
Farm.'
She turned her head round to look up at the photograph.
Her expression clouded. 'That was poor Rose, Owen's sister.'
I hadn't recognized her from the photograph of the child
in Mrs Jones's kitchen. This time I was forewarned and let
my mouth bunch up into a tight little mark of respect. 'That
photograph's up there to keep her in our memory.'
I nodded.
'It was through Owen and Rose that Greg got the opportunity
for us all to buy this place,' she explained.
I waited for her to expand on that, but she got up instead,
making it clear that she was moving on to more important
business. 'Could you ask your husband or your brother to
contact me if they have any recollection of her?' I asked as
I left.
The group of youths were still outside. They eyed me
suspiciously as I approached them. I took out the photograph
of Evie and went up to them. 'Have any of you seen
this woman around?'


They didn't have a chance to answer. Valerie Horne
came out of the office behind me. 'There's no point in
showing them that. This lot have only been here for six
days.'
I drove off, musing on the photograph of Greg Thomas
and Owen and Rose Jones.
Either one of those men, on a dark night, could have been
the figure I had seen flitting down the line of earthmoving
machines. Could the other one have shape-shifted into a
tree root?
Then I remembered that Owen Jones was in Africa helping
the oil industry fuck up the planet. I bounced back immediately,
with the possibility that Trevor Horne, the brotherin-law,
was present, correct and available.


I drove on down to Pen Tywn Barn Gallery. I had checked
the council-tax records. The place was registered as a holiday
home and a business. Two ladies named Fenwick paid the
bills. They lived at separate addresses in Alderley Edge in
Cheshire. Sisters, I assumed. I knew just enough about those
parts south of Manchester to appreciate that the location
was extremely chichi. And probably full of rarefied Barn
Gallerys. So why export one to Pig Wales? It was like trying
to make a killing in haute couture in the land of the
loincloth.
Pen Tywn was too far down the valley from Bruno's place
to have heard anything short of a sonic boom. But, according
to her father, Evie had worked here part-time.
My mobile phone rang. I glanced down at the caller
display, intending to ignore it. It was Mackay. Perhaps he


was coming back to me with an update on how the army
disposed of its surplus bodies.
'Hi, Mac, just hold on a moment until I get off the road.'
I pulled onto the verge and cut the engine. 'Okay, I can talk
now.'
'I've been delegated to remind you that your Aunt
Doreen's silver-wedding bash is coming up.'
I groaned inwardly. 'My mother's been pestering you.'
'I don't call it pestering. I like her. And she's invited me
too.'
'It'll be grim.'
'She wants you there.'
'I can't promise anything, Mac, I'm working a big case at
the moment.'
'You tell her that. I'm only the messenger.'
'I took her out recently,' I protested.
'A cream tea in Monmouth,' he snorted derisively, 'she
wants to see you in Cardiff. She wants to show off her big
handsome son.'
'I can't go to Cardiff, Mac. I told you before, it's part of
the arrangement.'
'That's professionally. They don't want you acting the
superhero and arresting all their hoodlums. But they can't
stop you visiting your family, for fuck's sake.'
Superhero. Mackay had unintentionally hit the nail on the
head. My former bosses had used the PR device of turning
me into the heroic survivor of a hostage event, in an attempt
to salvage the situation when the farmer I had been minding
had gunned down the pimp who had fucked over his son
and daughter.


The problem was that my mother had bought into it. She
was unaware that she was showcasing a fraud when she
paraded me around the relatives.
The Vaughans, my mother's side of the family, were
staunch Methodists and solid railway-and-heavy-engi
neering people. Foreman class, with a deep-rooted sense of
their place on the social ladder. There had been general
alarm when she had announced that she was going to marry
my father. Not so much because he was a foreigner - as a
port, Cardiff had always been a tolerant city - but because,
being an Italian, he was assumed to be a Catholic. What
ended up really screwing their heads was the discovery that
he had turned his back on the Church of Rome, and was
an avowed atheist with communist tendencies.
My sister and I grew up sandwiched between the Methodist
Prayer Book and Marx's Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis
Napoleon. It's a wonder I didn't end up as a convicted parricide,
or at least a practising Buddhist.
And some of the mean-spirited old fuckers in the Vaughan
family still held a grudge. One of these days, at one of these
gatherings, the pretence that I was a knight in shining
armour was going to blow. One or more of them was going
to raise the point that, if I was such a big heroic deal, how
come I hadn't been promoted, and why had I been moved
out to where the street lights don't shine? For my mother's
sake I didn't want to be the cause of a schism in her family.
Til call her, Mac, I promise,' I said guiltily.
'As I said, she's your mother.'
'And while you're on .. .'
'What now?' he asked guardedly.


'A couple of guys, Greg Thomas and Owen Jones, I think
they were in the army together. Any chance of asking around
and seeing if anything turns up on them?'
'You're an opportunistic bastard, Capaldi.'
'Thanks, Mac' I hung up before he could get more inventive
with his epithets.
I had glimpsed a yellow car in the drive when I had been
driven past the Barn Gallery on my way (unknowingly) to
exhume Evie. It was still here, and turned out to be a wild
shade of egg yolk, parked out in front like a beacon. An
Audi TT roadster, 3.0-litre late model, so at least I didn't
have to revise my earlier opinion. There was money here,
and it was being flaunted.
The vertical blinds had been pulled aside in the glazed
threshing bay, and the double doors stood open. Because
of the way the sun was reflecting on the glass, all I could
make out was the patch of black slate floor at the
threshold.
'Do we have a customer?' The voice was raised, and there
was a cheerful trill to it.
She was coming down from the house. A beige coat open
over a short grey-black wool dress, tied to accentuate her
waist. A pair of sunglasses was wedged into her ash-blonde
hair, which had been expensively cut to look wind-ruffled.
The make-up was subtle and minimal and worked to soften
her sharp features. Her expansive smile didn't match the
careful brown eyes. Her shoes had heels, and threw a twist
into her walk, as she took the gravel and stone flags on the
path carefully.
'Ms Fenwick?'


Surprise flickered on her face. 'Yes, I'm Gloria Fenwick.
And you are .. .?'
'Capaldi. Detective Sergeant Glyn Capaldi.' I showed her
my warrant card.
'Ahh, right . . .' She made a big play of enlightenment.
'The mystery up the valley? We've been
wondering if we would get a visit. But we aren't going
to be able to help you much, I'm afraid. We're not
here that often.'
'We would appreciate any help you can give us.'
She tilted her head and regarded me with interest. 'Capaldi
. . .' She rolled the syllables. 'Unusual for round here, isn't
it?'
'I'm from Cardiff. My father was Italian.'
'No offence to Cardiff, but if I was Italian I think I know
where I'd want to be retaining my roots.'
'He came over to work for his uncle. He met my mother
and stayed on.'
She took the sunglasses out of her hair and nodded. 'Now
that's romantic' She smiled and tapped her teeth with the
end of the glasses. They were very white. 'I think you'd better
come and meet Isabel.'
I followed her into the barn. It took me a moment to
adjust to the dimmer light. Everything was shrouded with
dust covers. There were no recognizable shapes under
them.
'The birds get in and shit on everything,' Gloria
explained cheerily. She raised her voice. 'Isabel, the police
are here to talk to us about the stuff that's happened up
the valley.'


Isabel rose up into view from behind a large packing case
at the far end of the barn. She approached carrying a clipboard.
She was smaller than Gloria in every way. Thin, her
hair dyed grey and styled short; dark, deep-set eyes, the
skin tight on her face as if there was a clip on the back of
her head keeping up the tension. She wore a grey cashmere
polo-neck over loose camel-coloured trousers, and an
African tribe-load of thin silver bands tinkled at both
wrists.
'This is Detective Sergeant Capaldi,' Gloria said.
Isabel's smile, which had been flagging impatience, took
on a twitch of interest. 'Italian?'
'His father came all the way over from Italy to find a
Welsh bride,' Gloria answered for me.
'We buy a lot of our stuff from Italy,' Isabel informed me,
striding into a sales pitch before I could warn her she was
wasting her time, 'from Milan mainly. This is a piece by
Ricardo Spinetti.' She heaved the dust cover off. It was something
that was covered in vinyl the green of irradiated pond
weed, and it looked as if it was collapsing. Nothing gave a
clue to its function.
'I like that,' I grunted sagely.
'This is from Studio Abolition,' she said, pulling another
cover off. It was tall, a listing bundle of stainless-steel and
wood rods tied precariously together with pink, plastic
coated wire. She looked at me expectantly.
I nodded at the piece. Gloria smiled encouragingly and
reached in somewhere and flicked a hidden switch. A tiny
glow of intense blue light sparked in the heart of the rods.
'Ah, a lamp,' I declaimed, showing off my style cool.


'An installation,' Isabel corrected me coldly, dismissing
me as an Infidel. She turned to Gloria. 'The Max Rocks have
arrived from New York at last.'
'I think the sergeant needs to ask us some questions,'
Gloria said, telegraphing me a conspiratorial smile.
Isabel turned back to me reluctantly. 'There's nothing we
can tell you,' she said, looking at Gloria for confirmation of
this.
'She's right, I'm afraid,' Gloria agreed. 'We came down
a couple of days ago to find that the valley had apparently
turned into a slaughterhouse. Which is why we
haven't officially opened up yet,' she explained. 'Out of
respect.'
'Evie Salmon used to work for you?'
The two women looked at each other. 'The name's sort
of familiar,' Gloria admitted hesitantly.
'You haven't heard?' I asked.
'Heard what?' Isabel retorted.
'Evie Salmon's was one of the bodies we found.'
They winced at each other. They were both genuinely
surprised. Gloria shook her head. 'People round here don't
talk to us. We didn't know.'
I showed them Evie's picture.
Gloria clicked her fingers, a memory returning. 'The little
floosie who used to hang around . . .' She checked herself.
'Oh, shit, I'm sorry.' She pulled a contrite face and gave a
loose-shouldered, apologetic shrug.
'That's right, I remember her,' Isabel said in surprise, as
her own memory refreshed, 'about three years ago, just after
we'd opened the gallery.'


'Poor little cow,' Gloria intoned her in memoriam.
'She used to work for you?' I asked.
The two women looked at each other. Isabel shook her
head. 'No, if she'd worked for us we would have remembered
her when you asked,' Gloria said.
'As Gloria said, she tried to hang around, as if association
was going to conjure up style sense and taste,' Isabel
explained. 'Although I think she did ask once if there was
anything she could do to help out.' She looked at me challengingly,
as if responding to a criticism I hadn't voiced. As
you can see, we're not exactly catering to the mass-retail
market. More low-volume, high-value, and I'm afraid she
definitely did not fit that profile.'
'We had to gently steer her away and tell her to go and
play somewhere else,' Gloria added.
'Thank you for all your help.' I gave them a big, disarming, cuddly cop smile, 
and then turned to look admiringly at
the gallery. 'So you've only been here for three years?'
'Oh, no,' Gloria gushed, 'we've only been running the Barn
for that time. We've had this place for holidays for at least
thirteen years.' She looked at Isabel for corroboration.
Isabel nodded her head slowly. 'Fourteen in August.' Her
smile was clipped, and she gave me an assessing look, trying
to work out my angle.
I thanked them for their time. They both made a point
of watching me leave.
I watched them in the rear-view mirror. Only Gloria
waved. Thirteen years. That installed them firmly in the
timeframe. But that wasn't at the forefront of my
concerns.


Evie's father had definitely told me that she had worked at the Barn Gallery.
Who was lying?


The incident room was end-of-shift crowded. The buzz from
the discoveries at Bruno's place still resonating. Uniform
cops at the terminals writing up their reports. Emrys Hughes
walked amongst them with a phantom whip, like the overseer
on a tobacco farm. He saw me across the room and
gave me a cocky wave. He was obviously feeling happy.
Incomers were dropping like flies.
I finished writing up my own report and filed it with
Alison Weir, who was routing the dailies back to HQ in
Carmarthen for processing and assessing. I nodded at
Fletcher's closed door. 'What's happening in the War
Room?'
'They've called a briefing for tomorrow morning.'
I gave her my best charm-school smile. 'Can you run a
couple of background checks for me, please?'
She smiled back, unimpressed. 'Put them in your report.'
T have.'
'Then they will be done. If DCI Fletcher authorizes them.'
'What if you ran them for me before they actually got to
him?'
'It's not procedural.'
'What if someone screwed with the procedure by pulling
rank?'
She sighed and raised her hands in mock surrender. I
leaned in close. 'Whatever you can get on the people at Fron
Heulog Activity Centre.' She tapped the information in. 'And


the two women called Fenwick at Pen Twyn and addresses
in Alderley Edge, Cheshire.'
She finished typing. 'Okay, I'll get back to you when this
stuff comes through.'
I clicked my fingers. An afterthought. 'Can you check out
the flights from London to Lagos on Monday? See if a guy
called Owen Jones was on any of them.'
She mock-salaamed. 'Your wish is my command.'
'Thanks.' I nodded towards the door that led into The
Fleece proper. 'Fancy coming through and having a drink
when you're finished here?'
'Thanks for the offer, but I'll be heading for home.'
'Isn't that a long way from here?'
She shrugged. 'Here is a long way from anywhere.'
As if she had to remind me. 'Didn't they give you the
option of staying?'
She let me see her glance across at Fletcher's door. 'Home's
home, Sarge.'
I went through to the bar and slid my car keys across to
David. He stashed them on their usual shelf. 'Bike or taxi?'
he asked as he pulled my beer.
'Who knows? Let's wait and see. I might even walk home.'
He laughed, it was an old standing joke.
I took my drink and a newspaper and sat down at a small
table in a quiet corner. The newspaper was a front. To keep
people at bay. I wanted time to reflect. I needed to review
my thinking on Bruno and Evie for glaring fault-lines before
I pulled it out of the birthing pool tomorrow, in front of a
live and probably hostile audience.
'Gottcha . ..' Hands grabbed the back of my shoulders.


The fright almost nailed the top of my spine into my
cortex.
Tessa MacLean slipped round in front of me, smiling. Tm
sorry, I didn't expect quite such a reaction.'
'It's all right, I was miles away.'
'Okay if we join you?' She nodded towards the bar, where
Jeff was ordering their drinks.
'Feel free.'
She squinted at my face. I had given up on the dressing.
She nodded approvingly. 'Looking better.'
Her hair was down, she was wearing a loose, smoke-blue
cotton skirt that came above her knees, with no tights, and
a light-grey V-neck sweater with a single strand of bright
wooden beads, both of which drew me into her cleavage.
Or perhaps it was just a homing instinct. Her hair was shiny
and she smelled of soap and ionization.
'You're in here a lot these days,' I observed.
'Sandra lets me use a shower,' she explained, tossing
her hair to demonstrate. 'There's a certain whiff you can
acquire on a dig that begins to permeate if you're not
careful.'
'What about your team?'
'They're all geeks.' She laughed affectionately. 'It's a badge
of honour to them.'
She sat down, looking at me curiously. 'Are you okay?
From that expression it looks as if I've just managed to
summon you back from the land of the living dead.'
'I'm fine.'
T thought you would have been happier.'
'Why's that?'


She leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'I thought the
rumour was that you might have wrapped it up.'
I turned round and saw David at the bar. He waved. Tessa
grinned at me. 'Okay, but he had been talking to Sergeant
Hughes before he told me.'
The grin was infectious. 'Don't be fooled, Emrys Hughes
only looks like the Sphinx.'
She laughed and placed her hand over mine briefly. I
looked at her for significance, but she turned her head away.
Jeff brought the drinks over. I smiled up at him. If he was
upset to see me here he didn't show it. He had had long
enough now, I rationalized, to have made his move and
know how it was going to be received. Tessa smiled at me,
as if reading my thoughts.
Kevin Fletcher came into the bar. He had changed into a
blazer, and his hair was damp from the shower. I returned
his nod. Tessa glanced round. Don't invite him over, I willed
her.
She didn't have to. The bastard invited himself. He
approached with a wide smile. 'Hello, Glyn, mind if I join
you?' He nodded at Jeff, and fixed his offensive on Tessa.
'Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher,' he said, offering his
hand, 'but please call me Kevin.'
Tessa introduced herself. The small talk wobbled around
archaeological digs and the future prospects of wind energy. But Tessa had 
picked up on something that was resonating
along the invisible wire between Fletcher and me. 'Have you
two known each other for long?' she asked.
'We used to work together in Cardiff,' Fletcher
explained.


It was the smirk he used that did it. 'How's Linda?' I asked
spitefully.
On reflection, the look he returned may not have been
pure hate, but rather a thank-you for the opportunity I had
just provided. His voice faltered. 'The decree absolute came
through three weeks ago. She moved to Manchester with
her new partner.' He ignored my surprise and looked directly
at Tessa. 'I haven't seen my girls for over six months.'
'You poor man . . .'
Jeff and I exchanged a look of disgust. Smacked in the
balls by the feather of melancholia. Fletcher had his wallet
out and he and Tessa were poring over snapshots of his
kids. And a fucking Cairn terrier, I couldn't help but notice.
Jeff and I had to resort to a conversation about
engineering.
Fletcher got up to buy more drinks. Tessa mimed helplessness.
I shook my head and mimed in turn that it was
time for me to go. She placed her hand over mine and leaned
in close over the table. 'Don't you dare,' she whispered, 'you
brought him over.' I disputed that, but silently, because it
was a beautifully intimate moment that I didn't want to
spoil. Tasting her breath.
Fletcher caught the tail end and sat down aiming a scowl
at me. Tessa noticed. 'Why don't you two work together any
more?'
I froze. Fletcher looked at me curiously, and then back
to Tessa, a mean little twitch of a smile starting to work. 'Hasn't Glyn told 
you?'
'No. You knew him in Cardiff, I thought that perhaps you
could tell us.'


'I was in Swansea at the time it happened. I'd had a
promotion. But we all heard about it. Didn't we, Glyn?'
I had to look up. I felt sweat in the creases at the side of
my nose. 'Yes, Kevin-' I was off duty, he was about to
humiliate me, I was fucked if I was going to call him boss
- 'it was hard to miss, wasn't it?'
Fletcher leaned across the table towards Tessa. 'Glyn had
a pimp under surveillance. The man wasn't major-league.
What was the most you would have got on him, Glyn?
Procurement? Immoral earnings?'
'The guy broke people's lives up, Kevin.'
'Collateral damage. Not strictly our business.'
'Kevin?' Tessa leaned towards him.
He looked at her enquiringly.
'Is this going to be a nice story?'
'I'm sorry?' He smiled, surprised, wanting her to clarify.
'If it's not going to be a nice story, I don't want to hear
it.'
'You asked . ..' he said, perplexed.
T wanted you to tell me a nice story.'
'It isn't a nice story, Tessa,' I said.
She stood up. 'Tell it to me yourself sometime.' It was a
command. She bent down and kissed my cheek.
Women...! Once again that great big eternal exclamation
mark popped up behind my eyes.
'Time to go, Jeff.' Another command. Another boy in
thrall. She nodded at Fletcher. 'Nice to meet you, Kevin.'
We both watched her leave. The skirt swaying as her butt
cut lovely warped planes out of the world. Then Fletcher
and I stared at each other for a moment, hands tight on


our glasses. I got up and walked to the bar. David watched
me. I leaned across and poured the beer down the sink. He
passed me my car keys. I left without looking back at
Fletcher, the photographs of his kids and his dog still spread
out on the table in front of him. I didn't want to have to
feel sorry for him.



































9





The background buzz in the incident room shut down. I
looked up, I had not slept well. Jack Galbraith and Fletcher
had walked in and were setting up at the desk in front of
the display board. Fletcher held up an unnecessary hand for
hush. Jack Galbraith nodded out at us. Both men looked
grimly pleased with themselves.
'Okay,' Jack Galbraith announced, 'let's start with some
good news, folks. It looks like the body count at the wind
farm site is going to stop at four. I don't pretend to understand
the technical stuff, but it appears that the geology of
the ground we haven't yet uncovered will not support
grave-digging.'
He let our appreciation of this news run through the
room before he gestured for Fletcher to take over.
He tapped his notes together, a stage gesture. 'As you are
all aware by now, the body of Mr Bruno Gilbert was discovered
yesterday at his home, and we are working on the strong


presumption that his death was self-inflicted. This, together
with evidence uncovered, has a direct bearing on the future
focus of the investigation.'
I put my hand up. He didn't like it, but shit, I wasn't going
to have him skating over evidence, as if we were only the
worker bees and didn't need to know where the honey went.
'Sergeant Capaldi?' He nodded at me coldly.
'What evidence is that, boss?'
'The red dress that was found in the mine has been identified
as belonging to Evie Salmon. I personally verified that
fact with her parents yesterday afternoon. We don't yet know
about the underwear that was found on the doll, but we are
hoping to get a DNA- or at least a fibre-match.'
A susurrus ran through the room. My premonition had
been confirmed. It didn't make me happy. I tried to picture
the Salmons when this had been presented to them and
wondered how fucking sensitive Fletcher had been.
He read out the relevant details of the autopsy report on
Bruno. I was only half listening, I was waiting for the opportunity
to make my pitch, and rehearsing it in my head. I
wasn't going to dispute the fact that death had been caused
by a shotgun turning his head inside out, or that a large
amount of alcohol had been found in his system. It turned
out that he had also been larded with Prozac, for which he
had a valid repeat prescription.
Out of it. Just the way you would expect the self
condemned man to be.
Fletcher went on to say that the other two tunnels had
revealed nothing of any significance; likewise the wider
search of Bruno's ground.


Jack Galbraith stepped forward. He slowly scrutinized the
room, holding us in a rapt silence, before he nodded. 'It's
time to meet the late Mr Bruno Gilbert.' He uncovered the
display board. Someone had been busy. Photographs of
Bruno Gilbert in various stages of his path through life were
shown, including a savoury few in the kitchen chair at the
end of that path.
Fletcher talked us through that life.
Bruno had lived with his mother in Newport, South
Wales. He had been a geologist working in the petrochemical
industry, which had necessitated frequent trips
abroad. On returning from one of these trips he had found
his mother dead in bed. Natural causes, an aneurysm.
Because they had been so self-contained, no one had
visited. He had come home and gone upstairs calling for
his mummy, only to discover that she had turned into a
pile of jelly.
He didn't report it. He put her in the airing cupboard to
dry out, and lived with her like that, in a big box he'd made
out of cardboard, for two years. She was discovered while
he was away on one of his field trips, when workmen had
to break into the house to investigate a suspected gas leak.
As in all the best haunted-house movies, the idiots opened
the box. He was eventually cleared of any culpability in her
death. But she was taken away from him and buried.
With her gone he went to pieces. He gave up on everything.
He was institutionalized to prevent him from starving
himself to death. In hospital they slowly worked on pulling
some focus into his life and providing him with medication that would enable 
him to at least cope.


Which is how he ended up in Mid Wales, patiently hewing
his way into the core of a mountain.
Jack Galbraith took over. 'A psychologist is building up a
more-detailed picture, but I think we can see a drift in what
DCI Fletcher has told us.'
Dead Mother Syndrome. Bruno was displaying a motive
as big as a billboard. Scrambled synapses voodoo. Scooping
out a mountain in order to return to the womb. Installing
a Rubber Woman inside that mountain, and outfitting her
with a murdered girl's dress. It wasn't a great big leap from
there to mass murder and cutting off the victims' heads and
hands.
And the investigative joy of it was that we didn't need to
look for a proper motive. The poor bastard was crazy, he
could set his own rules. We just had to delve back into his past life to see 
who had disappeared from it, and try to find
a match with the bodies we had found on the hill.
A branch line that could loop its way on into fruitless
infinity.
I put my hand up gingerly. Jack Galbraith frowned, but
he was in a good mood. He nodded. 'Sergeant Capaldi?'
I swallowed the lump in my throat. 'What if all this has
been stage-managed to divert us away from the real killer,
sir?'
He didn't blink. Jack Galbraith was nothing if not decisive.
He just swiped his flat hand across the room in front of
him like a stage director announcing a cut. 'I'll talk to you
later, Sergeant.' He turned his attention to the corner
containing Emrys Hughes and his uniforms. 'I want to thank
you and all your men, Sergeant, for the sterling work you've


put in.' He broadened the sweep of his attention. 'And that
goes for all the rest of you who will be standing down now
that we are shifting the focus of the investigation onto
Newport.'


To give Jack Galbraith credit, he did actually hear me out.
Later, in the privacy of Fletcher's office, just the three of us.
I laid out my hypothesis that Evie's death and burial, and
Bruno's suicide, had been staged to manoeuvre the investigation
into an endless cul-de-sac. As I unrolled it, I was
conscious that the vibes I was picking up were not those of
universal amazement and admiration.
When I had finished, Fletcher glanced over at Jack
Galbraith, looking for permission to come back at me. He
wasn't going to get it. This one was Jack Galbraith's baby.
He gave me a genuinely pained look. 'You always have
been a perverse bugger, Capaldi. Why now? Why dispute
the fucking obvious?'
'Because I met him, sir. I don't think he was capable of
the kind of violence involved here. I don't think he was
capable of any kind of violence. The gold mine was his
therapy, it was working for him. He managed to cope with
the loss of his mother by making the chamber and having
the doll there. It was a sort of shrine, it anchored him.'
'It's a strange sort of comfort, symbolically copulating
with your mother,' Fletcher observed snidely.
'He wasn't. Forensics haven't found any traces of seminal
fluids on the doll, have they?' Fletcher shook his head reluctantly.
'It was his mother's room he was recreating, not his
own bedroom, or a fuck pad.'


Jack Galbraith cut me off with a snap of his fingers. 'Sod
the psychobabble. Give me something concrete.'
'His feet don't fit the footprints we found.'
He shook his head and smiled slyly. 'I prepared us for
that eventuality. Remember? The possibility that the man
who screwed with the diggers could turn out to be nothing
more than a wind-farm saboteur?'
I had just been softening him up. Now I loaded live
ammunition. 'There was a tooth fragment in the hut. It was
in front of the body.'
'I'm not surprised. He used both barrels, the poor bugger's
head was broadcast over half of fucking Christendom.'
'But not in front of the body, sir. That's my point. That
tooth could have been broken prior to the shot, when
someone was trying to force the gun barrel into his mouth.'
Jack Galbraith looked at Fletcher.
'Where did the shotgun end up?' Fletcher asked me.
'On the table.'
'In front of him?'
I nodded. He had seen the flaw in my argument.
'The shotgun had a small raised sight on the end of the
barrel,' he explained to Jack Galbraith. 'When he fired, the
force drove him back in his seat, but the gun went the other
way. If the sight had caught the tooth, the recoil would have
propelled the fragment in the opposite direction from the
way that the body was travelling.'
Jack Galbraith took a moment to envisage it. 'Plausible?'
he asked me.
I nodded reluctantly, but came back quickly. 'The red
shoes and the red dress.'


He frowned. 'And what are you going to magic up for us
now?'
'The red shoes had been left on the body so we could
identify her as Evie. The red dress was hung up in the mine chamber to connect 
Bruno Gilbert to her. So that we would
assume that he had taken his life because we were about to
discover his terrible secret.'
He exchanged a glance with Fletcher. 'So, I can't see your
problem. As I said, why dispute the obvious?'
'What's your problem with the dress and the shoes?'
Fletcher asked.
'Evie left home two years ago. One of the reasons was to
reinvent herself. Get out of Hicksville. Why, when she does
turn up again, would she be wearing clothes from the life
that she had been trying to leave behind?'
'And your answer is?' Jack Galbraith prompted.
'Because it makes her easily identifiable. Just as her killer
wanted. Just as Bruno Gilbert's suicide makes him look
guilty. And the red dress seals it.'
He shook his head. 'I don't buy it. It's too tenuous. There
are too many good reasons why she could have been wearing
those clothes. You're simply manufacturing complications.'
Fletcher nodded in agreement.
'How would a man like Bruno Gilbert connect with
someone like Evie Salmon, sir?' I asked, trying to ease off
the desperation pedal.
'That's what DCI Fletcher is going to be taking the investigation
down to Newport to find out. That and the identities
of the other bodies. Evie left home two years ago; my hunch
is that the Newport-Cardiff metropolitan area was where


she went to nest.' He shrugged his big shoulders. 'As you
said, how someone like him sucked Evie into this is a fucking
mystery.' He stared at me. 'And you're going to try to help us resolve it.' 
The, sir?'
'Yes, why the fuck do you think I haven't been reaming
you out for that interruption in the incident room? Why
do you think I've given you this chance to tell your side of
it?'
'I don't know, sir,' I replied meekly. Although when I had
heard him telling Emrys Hughes that he would be standing
down, it had hit me that I might be about to get reacquainted
with the castrated-tup-lamb fraternity.
'Because, much as it pains me to admit it, you were right.
There was a local connection. We're going to find that most
of Bruno Gilbert's misdemeanours took place in Newport.
But Evie Salmon was local, and somehow he got her back
up here. That's your job now, Capaldi: trace the Evie
connection.'
'Thank you, sir.' I looked over at Fletcher and was happy
to see that he was not sharing my joy.


A reprieve. I was back in the saddle. Okay, I was only meant
to be an outrider who had been left behind to try to round
up stray facts in the dust of the main operation. But that
didn't worry me. As far as I was concerned, I was the one
at the sharp end, it was the main operation that was drifting
off into the tumbleweed.
And the first thing I had to clear up was Evie's employment
record at the Barn Gallery. Because either her father had been


mistaken, or someone had been lying. And the timeframe
for that lie involved a crucial stage in her development: the
period leading up to her decision to abandon home.
I walked out through the bar. David was restocking the
spirit-optics gantry. The sight of it brought me up short. I
had made a fundamental oversight. The autopsy had
reported that Bruno had a high volume of alcohol in his
bloodstream. I hadn't questioned it because I had seen the
bottle under the table at the scene. And because it appears
to be a well-documented fact that getting plastered smoothes
out the path to self-destruction.
But I had been forgetting my premise. If Bruno hadn't
committed suicide he wouldn't have drunk that whisky
voluntarily.
Did he even drink? Had he been force-fed the stuff to reinforce the myth that 
was being created?
I had found that tiny tooth fragment, but missed the
significance of a huge bottle of Scotch. I scrolled through
the photographs on my phone. The bottle was in the background
in the photo I had taken of the tooth. I looked up
and saw David looking at me strangely. I had been standing
there frozen in the middle of the room with my phone in
my hand like a texting-addled zombie youth.
'You okay?' He asked.
I pressed the zoom control until I could read the label.
'Bunnahabhain,' I said, looking up at him. 'It's an Islay malt.'
'I know.'
'Does anyone in Dinas sell it?'
He shook his head. 'Too specialist. You'd have to go to a
big supermarket or a wine merchant for something like that.'


'Do you know if Bruno Gilbert was a drinker?'
He looked at me with interest, waiting for me to expand.
'Please, David, just answer the question.'
'Not in the pubs in Dinas. Fuck it, Glyn, he would have
had to be able to talk to people to do that.'
I ducked back into the incident room. There was a definite
sense of the caravan packing up and moving on. I got Alison
to retrieve the relevant forensics file. Both the bottle and
the glass had been badly smudged, the only clear prints they
had lifted were Bruno's. I already knew that this had been
the same with the shotgun. And the shotgun had been
registered in his name. And he had bought the cartridges.
No mileage for me there.
I thought about going back into Fletcher's office to see
Jack Galbraith and adding this to my shopping list of Bruno's
suicide irregularities. But I knew what he would say. It was
never too late to start drinking. And facing up to the prospect
that you were about to be the instrument of your own
execution could seem like as good a time as any.
But Bunnahabhain?
Okay, the big supermarkets sold it. But round here it was
a pretty exotic taste. I would now be making a point of
looking at people's drinks cabinets.
Starting with the Salmons.
Up until now I had just thought of them as victims. But
no one could be excluded. And they had the closest connection
to Evie. As I drove up the hill I tried to think of a
scenario that could make it possible.
Could the three bodies have been unwelcome suitors?
But why kill the beloved daughter?


And if she had disappeared two years ago, and had only
just turned up dead, where had they been keeping her all
this time? The cellar? The cow shed?
It wasn't totally improbable. Cases of families enslaving
their children and forcing sex on them were not as unheard
of as they should be.
I pulled up where I had parked previously, before the track
up to the Salmons' house got too rough. The dead Ford Sierra
still wallowed sadly in the grass, but the Isuzu was missing. I
only hoped that it was Mrs Salmon who was driving it.
I was in luck. Mr Salmon came out of the front door. He
watched me approach as if I was the guy they sent round
to cart away the plague victims.
He was gaunt. Even in this short time of grieving he had
lost visible weight, the lines on his face accentuated, and his
eyes looked like they had been sucked out with a stirrup
pump, rolled in grit, and then rammed back in.
'I hate to disturb you, Mr Salmon, at this time, but there
are a couple of questions I have to ask.'
'She's gone. She says she can't bear to be here any more,'
he announced, his voice hoarse with anguish.
I felt for the guy. First, his daughter and now, his marriage.
I gave him a short burst of sympathetic silence and tightened
up my morose expression. 'I really am sorry to hear that.' In
the light of all this misery, how could I now ask him what
his favourite whisky was? 'How long have you lived here?'
For some reason the question seemed to soothe him
slightly. 'Eight years. We came here when Evie was fifteen.'
Fuck. They were within the timeframe. They stayed on
the list.


'When Evie left, was there any build-up to it? A family
argument or something else that triggered it off?'
He shook his head vacantly. 'No, it came completely out
of the blue.'
'She just literally walked out?'
'No. It was a Sunday. On Sundays she used to help Mrs
Evans out with her horses.'
Gerald Evans again. I felt the connection homing. I kept
my voice neutral. 'So she pretended that she was going there?'
'No, I know she went, because I drove her over. But the
strange thing is that she stayed and worked for the morning.'
He pulled a pained face. 'You'd think if she was planning
on getting away, she wouldn't have stayed around there,
would you?'
'Maybe she was waiting for a bus?' I suggested.
'There aren't any buses from Dinas on a Sunday. According
to Mrs Evans, Evie came to tell her that she wasn't feeling
very well, and could she give her a lift down to Dinas. Just
before lunch, this was. Mrs Evans offered to drive her home,
but she said that she had already called me and I was going
to pick her up in Dinas.' He looked at me sadly. 'That was
a lie. She hadn't called me. The Evanses dropped her off in
Dinas, and that was the last anyone round here saw of her.'
'Was that Mr or Mrs Evans?' I tried to contain the excitement
in my voice.
He shook his head morosely. T don't know.'
'What about luggage?' I knew that she had taken at least
the red shoes and dress.
'It must all have been in the big bag that she always
carried. Her mother used to get onto her about it, but she


said that she wanted to be prepared for something wonderful
that was going to come her way one of these days.'
That thought silenced both of us. 'You told me when we
last spoke that Evie had worked for the Fenwick ladies at
the Barn Gallery?' I asked eventually, changing the subject.
He looked at me sorrowfully. 'Is that important now?'
'It may well be. Can you give me any more detail?'
He shrugged, treating it as a distraction. 'It was the year
it opened. The year before she . . .' He faltered. I nodded
sympathetically. He continued, 'I used to drive her over on
Saturdays. She told us that she helped to keep the place tidy,
and made drinks for the customers.'
'You took her up to the Barn?'
'Oh, no.' He almost managed a smile at the recollection.
'She didn't want them to see my crappy old car. Those were
the very words she used. I used to drop her off at the bottom
of the drive, and then pick her up at the junction with the
main road in the afternoon.'
'You never saw the Fenwicks?' I didn't let him hear importance
in the question.
'I wasn't allowed to.' Another memory produced an even
fonder smile. 'But they must have thought a lot of her,
because they paid her really well. Sixty pounds cash was a
good days' wage for a youngster.'
I smiled and nodded my agreement. Because I couldn't
tell him that the Fenwicks hadn't been paying her.
Or said that they hadn't. And if not them, who had?
And what had she been doing to earn it?





I went over it as I drove down the hill. It was time to stop
thinking about Evie as a runaway kid. She was twenty-one
when she left. And she was a liar. I didn't like to malign the
dead, but it had to go into the character sketch. For all her
bluster and protestations about hating Dinas, she could have
gone years ago, and her parents couldn't have stopped her.
Okay, she used to haul off from time to time. Those
hitchhiking trips to Hereford and Newtown and
Aberystwyth. But she always ended up getting in touch
with her parents.
If she hated the place so much, why did she keep coming
back?
Because she was scared of the big wide world? Had she
been just an insecure little girl at heart? And if so, what had
happened to change that? To prompt her decision to leave?
And why in secret? She was an adult, why hadn't she wanted
her parents or anyone else to know?
The answer I kept coming up with was that she had met
someone she felt she could trust. Someone under whose
wing she felt secure. A protector. But for some reason that
person had to remain anonymous. Because they would have
been deemed to be unsuitable?
A married man? An older man? A married woman? A
woman?
An announcement on my phone that I had a missed call
from Alison Weir interrupted these speculations. I pulled
over and called her.
'Hi, Sarge, I was getting back to you on those background
checks you asked for.'
I took out my notebook. 'Okay.'


'That flight you wanted me to check is a confirmation.
Owen Jones took the Air France flight for Lagos on Monday.'
'Thanks.' I ran a line through that query to cross it out.
'The people at Fron Heulog, Trevor and Valerie Home
and her brother Greg Thomas, all came up on the radar.'
'Crime-syndicate bosses?'
She chuckled. 'Not quite. They all had to have CRB checks
because of their work with youngsters.'
T assume, because they're still running the place, that
there were no problems there?'
'No, totally clean. Trevor and Valerie Home have a long
history of fostering in Smethwick. The activity centre is a
sort of by-product of that.'
'Who funds it?'
'Local authorities, mainly. A small Home Office grant,
plus contributions from a variety of charitable
organizations.'
'Where does the brother fit in?'
'The Homes are the main movers; from what I can gather
he comes and goes quite a bit. The house is actually in his
name, so he's got a big stake in the operation.'
That reminded me about something his sister had said
about it being through Owen and Rose Jones that Greg had
got the opportunity to buy the place. I made a mental note
to try to check out what she had meant by that.
'No dirty sheets?' I asked.
'Just one minor smear. Which is pretty historic. Greg
Thomas got pulled in on a drunk and disorderly, and got
let off with a caution. You'll be interested in the arresting
officer.'


'Kevin Fletcher?'
She laughed. 'He got off with a caution, remember. No,
it was a PC Emrys Hughes. How's that for a small world?'
I made a mental note to talk to Emrys about it. Back
when he was a plain constable. That sounded like a long
time ago.
'Anything on the Fenwicks?'
'Clive and Derek. They're brothers, they run an import
export business in Manchester.'
So Gloria and Isabel weren't blood-related, they had
married brothers. That explained the big difference in looks.
'Any form?'
'No. But they are on the system.' I could tell from her
voice that she was teasing me out, leading up to
something.
'Cut the suspense, please, Alison.'
'They're in the TA. They've both got firearms
certificates.'
I felt it resonate in my kidneys. 'Rifles?'
'No, pistols. Target-shooting.'
Was I twitching needlessly? Even if they were in the
Territorial Army, to have been granted firearms certificates
they would have had to demonstrate that they were solid
and upright citizens. The type of people who tithe their
salaries to the upkeep of widows and orphans, and bathe
the feet of lepers. But guys who were into guns disturbed
me.
I also realized that it would be another good reason to
remove a head from a body if the preferred method of
execution was a bullet in the brain. They wouldn't want the


evidence left literally rattling around in the skull.
'Sarge?'
I hadn't heard the question she had just asked me. 'Sorry?'
'Do you want me to pass this on to DCI Fletcher?'
'No. Stick it on the file, but don't highlight it yet, or flag
it up for his attention. I'll take responsibility for the decision,'
I said before she could argue. I didn't want to give
Fletcher an excuse to extend his heavy-handed reach back
over into my territory.
Was that decision going to come back to haunt me?
'We're just about to break down the displays, Sarge.'
Alison's voice broke into my distraction again. 'What's
that?'
'We're shutting down the incident room. Everything's
going to Newport or Carmarthen. I just wondered whether
you wanted a last look at anything before it goes?'
Shit. A dilemma. I was on my way to Gerald Evans's place,
but Alison had just pricked my conscience. I had been so
obsessed with Evie and Bruno Gilbert that I had neglected
the other bodies. They weren't meant to be part of my business.
But I wasn't belief-restricted to the Newport-Cardiff
victims scenario.
I made up my mind. Gerald Evans had waited this long,
he could mature on the hook for a bit longer. 'Thanks,
Alison, I'm on my way in. I'd really appreciate it if you could
make up a file on what we have on the other bodies for me.'


It wasn't a very thick folder that she handed me when I got
back to The Fleece. I wasn't surprised. Not only had we still
not established identities, but we also had not been able to


determine the causes of death. With no organs or soft tissue
remaining, and no stiletto left conveniently wedged between
the third and fourth ribs, the pathologists were having a
hard time of it. Tessa was probably closer to finding out
about her 600-year-old guy than we were any of our victims.
I looked over the summary again. Two males and a female,
all minus heads and hands, and all skeletonized. All approximately
middle-aged and apparently in reasonable health.
They appear to have been buried over a two-year period,
with the first one - coincidentally the first one we had
found - the first to have been interred approximately eight
years ago.
And then there was Evie.
What does her presence say about the status of the original
bodies? I posed myself the question I had been unable to
answer before. And I kept coming back to it. He would have
had time, so why hadn't he removed the original bodies?
Why had he added an extra one instead?
I looked up at the map.
Evie was the outsider.
The spoiler. Jesus! I had just remembered the word that
Jack Galbraith had used. He had meant that she represented
the break from any sort of pattern, made us think that the
killer was diversifying. But what if it was manipulation again?
The addition of her body changed the perception of the
place. She turned it into what we were meant to think of it
as. The place that Bruno had supposedly chosen for his
dumping ground.
Without Evie, it was . ..? What? It came to me slowly. It
was special. Somewhere that was important enough for the


perpetrator to have taken the risk of keeping the bodies in
place. In the hope that, in the end, they might not be discovered.
That they could continue resting in some sort of
twisted kind of peace.
The bodies were specific to that place. They had a reason
for being there.
Had the wind-farm excavations disturbed a shrine? Could
they have been some kind of a sick memorial?
To who or what?
And how did the victims relate to it?
My mind raced. Had they known each other? It was the
first time this thought had struck me. We had assumed that,
because of the time lapses between the burials, they had
been random victims. Picked off when the urge to kill got
hot and sticky, just unfortunates in the wrong place at the
wrong time. But what if they had been connected? What if
they had been specifically targeted because they constituted
a group?
Would it make a difference?
Yes. Because it would mean that there had been a definite
and specific campaign. And, unlike random hits, rational
plans could be retraced.
So should I call Kevin Fletcher in Newport to share this
observation? No point, he would only treat it as coming
from the wrong side of the wisdom tracks.
I looked at the large-scale map of the wind-farm site that
Alison had left up on the display board for me. The positions
where the bodies had been discovered marked with
colour-coded crosses. The originals in a cluster to the east
of the site, with Evie way out on her own.


But that was to be expected. She had been thrown into
the pile to fuck us up.
Were the others saying anything?
Alison came up beside me. 'I've just checked, Sarge. We've
got spares, you can take that one with you, if you want.'
'Thanks.' This was going to look good on my caravan's
wall. And I already knew that I was going to lose sleep over
it. Trying to trace a pattern. Get into the mind of the guy
who had left those poor bastards up there.
Because surely this had to be a guy. So much physicality
involved. But I cursed inwardly for letting the doubt enter.
Instead of containing this thing, I had just expanded the
frontiers.
This was turning into real Boys' Own territory. Not only
had I made my acquaintance with a gold mine, but now I
had my very own treasure map to play with.
I distractedly thought about Tessa again. In Boys' Own fiction the girl wasn't 
even a fixture, never mind a reward.


















10





It was a Saturday afternoon, a bad day for finding red
blooded country males at home. But at least the shooting
season was over, which narrowed their options down
slightly.
I went out into the back courtyard of The Fleece where
I had parked, and found myself under a dark and violentiy
oppressive sky that had not been there when I arrived. It
was as if God had finally come to His senses, realised what
He had created, and rolled out the celestial equivalent of
weed suppressant over humanity.
'You might want to borrow the Land Rover.' David had
followed me to the door. He used his head to gesture at the
sky. 'They're forecasting snow.'
'It's nearly fucking April,' I groaned. 'What kind of country
is this?'
He laughed at my innocence. 'It's lambing time in Dinas.'



I looked up at the bruise-blue heavens. 'The little buggers
are meant to be gambolling under fluffy white clouds in a
bright azure sky.'
He shook his head. 'No, that's the day we call summer.'
I declined the offer of the old Land Rover as I wanted to
arrive with some credibility. The road narrowed down to a
lane that wound up a small valley running parallel to the
one with the wind-farm site. No river here though, just a
choppy stream fringed with spiked rushes and small clumps
of gorse, silver birches and alders. The pasture covered the
floor of the valley and ran partially up the sides, eating into
the bracken where the marginal lands had been improved.
I passed the entrance to Pentre Isaf, where Blackie Collins
had been dispossessed by the pony-trekking centre, which was
already showing the signs of its own failure in the paint peeling
off its hoarding, and the horseshoes askew on the gate.
I almost drove past the entrance to Pentre Fawr Farm. It
was too tidy. Not what I had been expecting: a new hardwood
five-bar gate; the name of the farm incised into a slab of slate
on one of the stone pillars, the letters picked out in silver
paint; the grass recently trimmed. Around these parts I was
used to farm names sloppily daubed onto old milk churns
rusted through to the colour and texture of brandy snaps.
The driveway added to my sense of disquiet. It was neatly
fenced off, and surfaced with new gravel, which crunched
evenly under the tyres. Farm driveways were usually a
lurching experience.
The farmhouse was red brick, with yellow-brick detailing
around the door and window reveals, and a horizontal
stringcourse band. The roof had been replaced with new


slate, and the windows recently painted, as had the barns
that formed a three-sided courtyard.
It was a nice place. This didn't fit the picture I wanted.
Neither did the trim row of stables with shiny horses
watching me curiously out of two of them, the motorized
horsebox parked in an open barn, and the pro-fox-hunting
stickers on the windscreen and front bumper.
The yard was clean. Where were the hens, the clumps of
variegated animal shit and the lagoons of leaked sump oil? This
wasn't Dinas, this was Surrey. As I walked towards the house I
began to get a sinking feeling that perhaps everyone disliked
Gerald Evans so much because he was too close to being English.
I rang the doorbell and heard the first sound of a dog. It
wasn't reassuring though, it didn't transform the place back
into a scruffy working farm. It wasn't a sheepdog going
mental and straining at its chain, it was something small,
yappy and pampered, yelping from deep in the house.
'Quiet, Tata ...' the voice came at me through the closed
door as it approached. High, and sure of itself, a ripe English
accent.
She opened the door and cocked her head at me. A confident
smile cramming surprise and enquiry into it. She had
thin blonde hair that flicked up at her shoulders, escaping
from a loose headscarf tied and draped around her neck
over a green, quilted, sleeveless jacket. I put her in her early
forties, although her complexion was cracking from either
too much dry sherry or too much hacking into the wind.
Her eyes were deeply recessed above thin, prominent cheekbones,
and her tight lips were still flecked with the residue
of a sickly pink lipstick.


Okay, she was wearing patchily, but she was still a far
remove from the trailer-trash-slut composite I had built up
as Gerald Evans's life-companion.
'Mrs Evans, I'm Detective Sergeant Capaldi. I wonder if
I could have a word with your husband, please.'
The mannered smile trotted over into frowning territory.
'Tata, shut up!' She turned and snarled at the dog, before
turning back to me. 'It's a dreadful business, and it's very
upsetting about poor Evie Salmon, but we've already spoken
to Sergeant Hughes. There's nothing more we can tell you.'
The tone was disinterest now - she had marked me down
as trade - and her body language was preparing me for the
door to be shut in my face.
It would pain me, but for the sake of progress I was going
to have to eat shit.
'It's your husband's judgement that I'm interested in, Mrs
Evans.'
That caught her attention.
'Between you and me,' I continued, 'most local people are
too insular, so I was hoping to get the overview of someone
with a broader perspective.'
The smile returned. T understand, and I'm sure my
husband would be only too happy to help, but unfortunately
he is salmon fishing in Herefordshire this afternoon.'
'Perhaps you could help?' I suggested, covering my disappointment.
'As Evie did work for you.'
She shrugged magnanimously. T can try.'
Tata and I trotted obediently behind her to the sitting
room, although, thankfully, she only felt the need to yell at
the dog. I took in the house as I walked through, including


the glass-fronted drinks cabinet, which was Bunnahabhainfree,
as far as I could tell. The place wasn't to my taste,
everything was overelaborate, and the rooms too dark, but
none of it was cheap.
She allocated me a seat, sat down on a sofa opposite,
curled her legs up, and allowed Tata to nestle on her lap.
'You're new in these parts?' she observed.
'Fairly.'
'I'm glad to see that you haven't allowed yourself to be
swayed by local tittle-tattle about us.'
'I ignore gossip, Mrs Evans,' I lied priggishly.
'Good for you. It's all down to jealousy, you see. We suffer from all this 
hostility because people are envious of my
husband's farming and business acumen.'
'What businesses are those?'
'He's an entrepreneur.' She threw it into the air and let it
fly away, and I knew better than to run after it.
'How did you get on with Evie?'
She made a regal show of thinking about it. 'She was not
the world's brightest girl. And she had no real passion for
horses. She worked here mainly for the money, I think, and
to get away from her parents.' She preened. 'But I like to
think that we were friends. With me more in the big-sister
role, of course, given the age difference.' She raised her
eyebrows, giving me the cue, but I didn't contradict her.
There was only so much toadying I could do without puking.
'Did she talk about any other friends?' I asked instead.
She gave me a pause to show that I had disappointed her.
'We shared a healthy scorn for the local populace.'
'But she didn't talk about boyfriends, or special friends?'


'No, but . . .' She went back to the memory. 'On about
two or three occasions, when she was having her lunch, a
very strange boy with yellow hair appeared.'
'Appeared?' I queried.
'Well, it wasn't magic, I suppose. He came over the hill
on one of those off-road motorbikes they use.'
'Did she tell you his name?'
She shook her head. 'Oh, no, we weren't introduced, and
I made a point of staying away. After the third time I had
to tell her that I didn't want motorbikes around, scaring
the horses. And it was fortunate that Gerald was never
here.'
'Why is that?'
'The boy looked sort of druggy. Gerald wouldn't have put
up with anyone like that on our land.'
'You mentioned that you thought that one of the reasons
Evie came here was to get away from her parents?'
She nodded.
'So it didn't surprise you when she left?'
'She was here, you know. She worked here that morning,
and then just went up and off in the afternoon.' She watched
for my reaction, but I prompted her with silence. 'But did
it surprise me? Yes and no, I suppose. She was forever
running down her parents, how they didn't understand her,
how this place was so awful. But she had been doing it for
so long I thought it had just become a ritual.'
'You drove her down to Dinas that afternoon?'
'No, Gerald did.'
I felt the warm tingle in my belly. 'This was lunchtime?'
I offered innocently.


'Yes, but Gerald was going to a meeting anyway, so he
volunteered.'
'So he didn't come right back?'
She frowned. 'No, I've just told you, he was going on to
a meeting.'
'How well did Evie get on with your husband?'
She went tight-lipped and hag-faced on me.
'Can I ask when your husband got back?'
'No.' She took her displeasure out on the dog, sweeping
it roughly off her lap as she stood up. 'I don't think that
that has anything to do with you, Sergeant.'
Which meant that it had been late.
And Gerald, from being possibly the last-known person to
see Evie in Dinas, could now turn out be the guy who had
whisked her off to Xanadu. To set her up in a pleasure dome?


A yellow-haired boy had now appeared on the scene, and I
still had to find out what Evie had been doing on her lost
Saturdays, but it was getting too late to carry on today. I
drove down the hill from the Evanses' place in the dark, and
David's snow had still not materialized.
But I had Gerald Evans in the cross hairs, and I was happy.
It had been a long slog of a week, and I felt I deserved a
Saturday night.
And I had spoken too soon. A cold rain that was starting
to take on the texture of sleet had begun as I drove into
Dinas. The town was filling up with other peoples' Saturday
night release. Including Gloria and Isabel Fenwick, by the
looks of it (I saw the unmistakeable yellow Audi parked
outside The Fleece).


I was only half right.
'Sergeant Capaldi!' Gloria had seen me come through the
door and was standing to grab my attention, jiggling up
and down, arm high, but not quite waving. She was wearing
a tight, roll-necked charcoal-grey wool dress that rode high
over black tights, and exaggerated all the contours.
I raised my hand socially, but she wasn't going to be
fobbed-off with that. She yelled at David. 'Get him a drink
on my tab, and another one for me.'
David tapped the top of the beer pump quizzically. I
dropped my voice. 'How many has she had?'
'This is the third large Shiraz,' he said, as he poured it.
I shook my head. 'Apple juice.' So much for Saturday
night, I thought, as I took the drinks over. 'Hello, Mrs
Fenwick.'
'Gloria . . . And what the hell is that you're drinking?'
'Apple juice. I'm driving.'
'So am . . .' She stopped herself with a big grin. 'Fuck,
you're a policeman.'
I put the drinks on the table and sat down opposite her,
raising my glass. 'Cheers! No Isabel?'
'Clive's driven down. He flew back into Manchester this
afternoon.' She leaned across the table and dropped her
voice to a whisper: 'I thought I'd be diplomatic and scarper
to give them some privacy.' She gave me a dirty wink. 'You
know, they haven't seen each other for a while.'
'Flew in from where?' I asked.
'Kuwait. That's where the Middle Eastern end of the business
is based.'
'Import-export?'


She raised her glass and smiled over it slyly. 'You've been
doing your homework, Sergeant.'
'It's a murder investigation, Gloria, we have to cover every
possibility.'
'And are we suspects?'
'Should you be?'
She held my eyes, the glass in front of her distorting her
amused expression, and I wondered whether she was playing
with me. She took a deep drink and didn't answer.
'The Barn Gallery?' I asked.
She cocked her head, wondering for a moment precisely
what I was asking. 'It's Isabel's baby, really. I'm happy to trot
alongside. We get to go to Milan and Barcelona and New
York and Berlin on big shopping sprees.'
'Have you ever questioned the gallery's location?'
She laughed. 'Isabel is convinced that she's creating a style
shrine. That sooner or later our exclusivity is going to bring
the customers to us. In the meanwhile, we wait to be
discovered.'
'Along the Welsh-tweed-and-crappy-pottery trail?'
She laughed again. 'No, a write-up in a style magazine
will do. And we're lucky, the economic truth is that we
don't have to worry about it. The other business can cover
it:
'What do you import?'
'Anything that's available to fill the containers we've sent
out there. The focus is on the export side.' She leaned across
the table again. 'Are you really interested in this, or are you
just trying to explore my motives?'
'I'm interested.'


'Meat pies are big; saveloys, faggots.' She smiled at my
puzzlement. 'We cater for the expat oil workers in the Gulf,
and all those NGOs that have sprouted in Iraq. You have
no idea how many people in those deserts have a craving
for a good old Cornish pasty.'
'And your husband, Derek, he's still over there?'
She nodded her head slowly. 'He runs that end of the
operation.' She made a big show of studying me. 'Are you
trying to suggest something?' She let it come out mock
shocked.
I ignored her banter, and reached over and picked up her
car keys from the table next to her purse. I dangled the Audi
badge in front of her. 'The business must do very well?'
A momentary flash of uncertainty sparked in her eyes,
and then she nodded. 'It pays for Isabel and me to play.' She
reached to take the car keys from me. I folded them into
my fist.
'I'm driving home now, Gloria. I'm happy to drop you
off, or you could call a taxi later, or you can see if David
and Sandra can find you a room here.' I stood up. 'Your
choice.'
I half expected anger. Instead, she stood up meekly, shook
her head to get her expensive hair back into shape, and
smoothed the dress down over her hips. It was a calculated
and practised gesture. She let me help her on with her coat.
I waited at the bar as she settled her tab with David. She
slipped her arm into mine. I looked round at her, surprised.
'For added stability,' she said cheekily. We walked to the
door and stopped to wait as some people entered.
What a terrible planetary fucking conjunction.


Tessa walked in. Tessa and her Little Diggers. Not even
Tessa and Jeff.
I saw her taking us in, in stop-motion: me, Gloria, the
hand on the arm declaring possession. She gave Gloria a
vague smile, and turned a cold, slow one on me. 'Goodnight,'
she said, and followed her charges into the bar.
Gloria read my expression: 'Oops . ..'
She picked up on my mood and stayed quiet for the ride
home. I turned up the drive to the Barn Gallery and my
headlights illuminated a Porsche Cayenne. These people were
seriously taking the piss in Dinas, where a Rover wasn't a
relic from Britain's manufacturing past, but an aspirational
dream.
'That's Derek's,' Gloria explained needlessly. 'Do you want
to come in?' she asked quietly, sounding completely sober
now.
'No, thanks.' I passed her car keys over.
She opened the car's door. 'I'd like you to. You don't have
to worry about Derek and Isabel, they won't be around.'
'You're a happily married woman, Gloria.'
She nodded slowly, kissed the tips of two fingers and
placed them on my cheek. 'Slight correction, soldier: I'm
not a happily married woman.'
Jesus, they were like fucking buses. I hadn't had any kind
of a relationship since Sally Paterson, and now two possibilities
come along at the same time, with the probability
that they would cancel each other out.
And still no snow.


Saturday night in Unit 13 with a reheated mushroom risotto


and the second half of a bottle of Sauvignon that had been
bad from birth. I got the malt whisky out for dessert (a
simple Glenfiddich - I couldn't run to designer Islay stuff)
and settled down in front of the gas fire, with the tumbled
sloshing of the river outside and the large-scale map of the
wind-farm site taped up on the opposite wall.
I gave up on trying to shape a pattern out of the crosses
on the map, put my head back against the big cold window,
and tried to review what I had.
Not much.
Either Evie's father or the Fenwicks lying about her
employment at the Barn Gallery, Gerald Evans as the last
person in Dinas to see her, and the conviction that Bruno
Gilbert had not killed himself. But earnest convictions did
not earn cash prizes.
I dozed off thinking about a yellow-haired boy.
And woke up abruptly because something had intruded.
Some extraneous sound had disturbed the aural background
of the river and the hiss of the gas fire. But it had no shape,
I hadn't been conscious enough to give it form. I got up stiffly
to check outside, reminding myself to be wary. The rain was
cold but fine, more of a suspension than individual drops.
I walked round the caravan with my torch, feeling
strangely uneasy. It was the same sensation I had had that
night at the wind-farm site when I had felt that I was being
watched. The same sense that had warned me that Bruno
had been outside the caravan waiting for me. I stopped and
ignored the rain and stood stock still to let the backdrop
settle down. Nothing more than the river and the dark tangle
of the alder branches shifting in the damp breeze.


It was probably bad-diet voodoo. Telling me to go to bed.


In the morning I drove over to Fron Heulog under the same
dark sky that now seemed to be tethered in place like a corny
harbinger in a biblical epic.
Valerie Home was waiting at the door of the office when
I got out of the car. She had registered surprise over the
intercom when I had buzzed at the security gates. Groups
of youths mooched around looking studiously bored or
genuinely disturbed by this stuff called fresh air and wide
open spaces.
'Morning, Mrs Home. I'm sorry to disturb you on a
Sunday.'
She gave me the sort of shrug that didn't quite excuse the
intrusion. T didn't get back to you because no one here
knew anything more about the girl.'
'Something else has come up I need to ask you about.'
'Okay.' Despite the drizzle she made no move to lead me
into the office.
'You may not have known Evie personally, and I have to
admit that we're going back more than a couple of years
here, but have you any memory of ever seeing anyone
matching her description over at Pen Twyn on Saturday
mornings? Or leaving there in the afternoon?' I gestured
towards the house and the Barn Gallery that were visible
on their rise. 'Or a boy with yellow hair?' I added.
She held up her hand. 'I've got to stop you there. I'm
never here on a Saturday. I go on the minibus that takes
the boys back to Birmingham, and come back in the evening
with the new batch. I spend the day in Smethwick, making


sure that my parents are getting on okay. I've done that ever
since we moved here.'
'What about your husband and your brother? Could I
ask them?'
She shook her head. 'My husband's busy with a group.'
She heard herself and relented. She was essentially a nice
woman, and not in the business of obstructing people. She
sighed. 'I'll take you over to Greg. He's in the barn.'
The barn had been fitted out as a gymnasium. The floor
was sprung-boarded, and marked out for various court
games. There were bars on one wall, a rope gantry that
swung out, and a climbing wall at the far end. Greg Thomas
was at a bench, inspecting climbing equipment. I reminded
myself that Emrys Hughes had once had a run-in with this

guy-
I saw the look of recognition cross his face as we
approached. I don't know whether he was conscious of it,
but he straightened up and moved away from the bench in
a way that made you aware of the power he was holding in
reserve. He looked like he could give even Mackay and his
former SAS buddies a run for their money.
'Hello again, Mr Thomas,' I said, shaking his hand. I felt
his grip testing mine.
He nodded. 'Anything we can do to help. It's a terrible
business, it's shocked everyone in the valley. We're not used
to things like this.' Like his sister, he hadn't lost the
Birmingham accent.
And his proprietorship of the valley surprised me. T know,
and I'm afraid it means that you've got to put up with the
likes of me asking all these questions.' I smiled jovially. It


wouldn't hurt for him to think that I was simpler than I
was.
'I thought the word was that it was all down to Mr Gilbert
next door?'
'We have to make a case for everything,' I said, noncommittal.
He didn't press, and I asked him the same questions
I had asked Valerie.
He thought about it and shook his head. 'If I had seen
her it didn't register. But definitely no yellow-haired boy,
that one would have done.'
'I'll ask Trev when I see him,' Valerie offered.
'But don't count on anything,' Greg said. He smiled at his
sister. 'When Val goes off on a Saturday its mayhem here
for Trev and me. Getting the place tidied up and organized
for the next bunch,' he elaborated.
'Go on...' She nudged him affectionately. 'You're welcome
to take over mum-and-dad duty any day'
He raised his arms in mock horror. 'Give me the gang
boys any day.'
I had a sudden illumination. Gang Boys! An image of Evie
and her yellow-haired boy flaunting the rustic mores of
Dinas. Rebels! Had they both thought of themselves as
bandits?
'What do you do about dope?' I asked.
They looked at each other, surprised by the sudden
topic-shift.
'You deal with gang members here,' I clarified, 'street kids.
A lot of them are going to be users.'
'What's your point?' Valerie retorted briskly, her tone
hostile now.


'Do you let them bring it in here with them?'
'Of course not,' she snorted.
"We're trying to let them see that there's a possibility of
enjoying themselves without using drugs,' Greg explained.
'It's one of the conditions of coming here, they have to be
clean. They're searched thoroughly before they leave, and
when they get here, they know they're not going to get
anything past us.'
I nodded. 'I see, thanks.'
'What's your point?' Valerie demanded again, angrily. 'Are
you looking to fit up some of these kids?'
'Not at all, Mrs Home. The opposite, in fact. I just want
to be able to help you.'
'And how is that supposed to work?' Greg asked.
'So that when irate, upstanding local parents find their
children's stash and try to blame it on Fron Heulog, I'll be
able to tell them, hand on heart, to look again.'
If they didn't buy my motive, they didn't pursue it. They
just wanted rid of me now. I was the enemy, I unsettled the
kids, I was not good for business.
But I'd got the answer I wanted. The kids had to come
in here clean. But a lot of them weren't going to want to
stay that way. They were going to need at least a bit of weed,
just to tolerate the rural weirdness. I knew these kinds of
kids. As well as being tough they were resourceful. And this
place had been operating for long enough for them to have
set up a system.
Now I was looking for a mark.
I drove out slowly and saw him, positioned in exactly the
right place, just where the track started to bend away out


of sight of the house. A white youth in an olive-drab army
surplus jacket, with long hair under a crew cap with a red
Maoist star, and with him a young black guy in a shiny
white sports two-piece with a pale-blue stripe down the
arms and legs.
They turned to watch me as I passed. Cool smiles of
amused hostility. I palmed a five-pound note and held it
up to the window as I cruised by. I stopped down the track,
out of sight of the house, and hopefully out of Valerie's
security-camera range.
They sauntered up irritatingly slowly. The black youth
stopped at the rear of the car and took up the watchman's
stance. Experience brought the white kid up to the passenger's
side, where the best things to snatch were generally
found. It also kept the car between us if, for some reason,
negotiations broke down and I decided to come running
for him.
He leaned down to the open window and nodded down
at the five-pound note I had laid on the passenger's seat. If
you're looking to suck me off, mister, you're going to have
to come up with a lot more than that.' He gave me a grin
and stuck his tongue into the side of his cheek.
'Are you soliciting?'
He knew the word. His expression didn't change. 'You're
the one doing the buying.'
'I'm looking for information.'
'What kind of information?'
'What's the local weed like?'
He cocked his head back, playing it mock-affronted.
'Whoa! How would I be likely to know that?'


'They stop you bringing your own in.'
'Some gets through.'
'Not enough.'
He looked at me carefully now. 'What's it to you?'
'I'm not after your supplier, I'm just trying to trace a
contact of his. I promise you I won't fuck up the score.'
He thought about it. I hoped he was thinking that he
didn't have to care too much as he'd be back on home turf
in less than a week's time, and any future scarcity wouldn't
be his problem. 'It works,' he said eventually.
'What works?'
'The hillbilly skunk.'
'Who do you buy from?'
He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head.
'That is a difficult question, mister.'
I added a ten-pound note to the five. He continued to
shake his head until I had added two more tens to the pile.
This was getting painful. I wasn't going to be able to put
this down on my expenses sheet. But his head-shaking had
hesitated. We had reached the point of balance. It was now
my turn to show reluctance and move as if to retrieve the
money.
He grinned and reached an arm into the car and scooped
the notes up like a practised dice player. 'All we know is that
he's called TB. The deal is we leave the money on the
shithouse windowsill on a Monday night, the weed is there
on the Tuesday.'
I drove away before Valerie caught up with me. I had just
spent £35 on what? A pair of initials. But at least it was a
confirmation that there was a local dealer.


Now I only had to find him, and hope that amongst his
clients, past or present, was a yellow-haired boy.








































11





But first I had a church to attend.
I had a choice of Methodist, two Baptist chapels - the
Zion and the Ebenezer - and the Church in Wales. Having met La Evans, I 
realized that, out of that lot, only the
Anglican community would fit her demographic. And,
assuming she was a churchgoer, would her husband accompany
her to give thanks to his Maker for His munificence?
I was back in Dinas, it was Sunday morning, I had nothing
to lose.
St Peter's, a tidy, simple church in dark local stone, was
in the old leafy quarter of Dinas that qualified as pretty. A
large and ancient yew tree flanked the path from the lychgate
to the entrance porch. The small line of cars parked outside
were fairly representative of the overseer class, but I was
flying blind as I didn't know what either of the Evanses
drove.
I parked in the lee of the wind and rolled my window


down. A straggle of hesitant voices, mainly out of tune and
trying to keep up with an ambitiously creaky organ, wafted
lightly from the building. The hymn was unrecognizable.
I caught the patrol car in my rear-view mirror just as it
rounded the corner into the small square in front of the
church. It pulled up behind me. I smiled to myself. Was I
witnessing a pincer movement?
Hughes's sidekick, Friel, was driving. Emrys got out of
the passenger's side and adjusted his cap with a businesslike
snap as he stood up. I watched him approach in the wing
mirror. He couldn't quite cover the smugness under the
grim expression he was preparing. I had seen this one before.
It looked like Inspector Morgan had given him permission
to kick my balls into touch.
'Capaldi, what do you think you're doing here?' he
growled, spreading his bulk in front of my open window.
I inclined my head towards the church and beamed up
at him. 'Basking in Grace, Sergeant Hughes.'
'We've had a complaint about you.'
'Have you been told to head me off at the pass?'
He scowled. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
I gestured towards the church again. 'Is Gerald Evans in
there? Or am I wasting my time sitting out here?'
'You were told to leave the locals to me. Mr and Mrs
Evans had already been interviewed. You turning up there
yesterday amounted to harassment.'
'Thanks.'
His scowl turned puzzled. 'For what?'
'For letting me know that he is in there.'
'This isn't a joke, Capaldi, I've been instructed to tell you


to leave the Evanses alone. And that especially goes for trying
to waylay them outside church.'
So Gerald Evans had a direct line to Inspector Morgan?
Probably the Masonic underground. I held Emrys's bull
stare for a moment before throwing the acid bath into his
face. 'Get in the car!' I snapped.
'What?' His righteousness deflated like a stomped puffball.
I caught a fleck of panic in his eyes. This wasn't meant to
happen. He was meant to be in control.
'Get in the fucking car now, unless you want your young
pal Friel to see you turning into a limp prick before his
eyes.'
He shot me a look of wounded anger, but there was
enough doubt laced in to let me know that he would comply.
I had my phone out before he opened the door.
'What are you trying to play at?' he blustered as he got
in, knocking his cap off in his annoyance.
I raised a finger to shut him up, and started tapping
numbers into my phone.
'Who are you calling?' he asked suspiciously, unable to
conceal an edge of concern.
'I want you to personally tell DCS Galbraith why you're
trying to block my investigation.'
His face crashed. 'It's Sunday.'
'That's right. I don't know whether he makes a habit of
humping Mrs Galbraith on a Sunday morning, or if you're
just going to catch him at the third hole on the golf course.
Whatever it is, he isn't going to be happy.'
He looked at me calculatingly. 'You're bluffing.'
I leaned over towards him, a big friendly threatening grin


on my face. 'I've been given the job of trying to trace Evie's
connections here. All of Evie's connections. And that includes
Gerald Evans.' I made a big theatrical show of pressing the
call button and held the phone out to him. 'It's all yours.'
He recoiled away from it, both hands out, palms up. 'Okay,
okay, turn it off!'
I put the phone to my ear and listened, catching the opening riffs of my 
answering machine before I cut the
connection. I grinned at Emrys. 'Mrs Galbraith gets to stay
happy.'
'You're a real bastard, you are,' he moaned sulkily.
'And you were just doing your job.'
'I've already interviewed the Evanses.'
'So why isn't there a report that says that he was the last
person to see Evie in Dinas before she left?'
'That was two years ago,' he protested.
'What the fuck did you ask them about?'
He gave me a hurt look. 'If they'd seen Evie Salmon since
she left. If they knew anything about the bodies. If they'd
seen anything suspicious on the hill.' He smirked meanly.
'You don't really believe that Evans was keeping her at Pentre
Fawr all that time?'
'He could have kept her in a honey pot.'
'What's that?'
'A flat in town somewhere. He could have been paying
her rent. He could have been her sugar daddy.'
He thought about it and shook his head. But the certainty
wasn't total.
'Why is he so unpopular?' I asked.
He used a slow shrug to give him time to calculate how


deeply to go into this with me. An outsider. 'He's been known
not to keep his word.'
I'd been in these parts for long enough to know that that
was considered to be nearly on a par with child molesting.
'Where does he get his money?'
'He married rich. She puts it about that he's a successful
businessman, but the word is that it all comes from her.'
That would fit. The hunting, the horses, the tidy farm.
Her priorities. What would he have spent his pocket money
on?
'You don't really think he had anything to do with those
bodies up there do you?' Emrys cut in over my
speculation.
I ignored his question. 'Do the initials TB mean anything
to you?' I asked instead.
He wasn't used to subterfuge. He went into a great big
pantomime process of pretending to think about it before
shaking his head too firmly. 'Doesn't ring any bells.'
'Who's the local dope dealer?'
The next performance he trotted out was sanctimony. 'We
don't have one. This isn't Cardiff, our kids don't need it,
they aren't twisted like that.'
I laughed into his po-faced sincerity. 'Come on, Emrys,
there's nothing twisted about smoking a spliff. I'm not
talking about bringing the Mexican cartels into town, just
recreational dope smoking. Stuff the Boys' Brigade would
do behind the club house without thinking they'd broken
some code of honour.'
He shook his head grimly. 'Not in Dinas they wouldn't.'
I didn't believe him. He was either in denial, or he didn't


want me showboating in his parish. Uncovering a crazed
dope monster from within the safe and cosy bosom of his
hand-knitted community. It didn't matter. I had a
fallback.
He was halfway out of the car when I remembered. 'You
once had a run-in with a young soldier. It was a long time
ago, I was told.'
He looked at me blankly.
'Greg Thomas. One of the people at Fron Heulog Activity
Centre.'
He slipped back into the seat. 'What's the problem?'
'Nothing, just background.'
He thought about it. 'You're going back about twelve ...'
He paused and shook his head. 'No, more like fifteen years.
It was a fight outside The Fleece. This was before David and
Sandra's time. Greg was here for the funeral of his fiancee.'
The one who was meant to marry her. Bruno's words came
back to me. 'Was Greg going to marry Owen Jones's sister?'
It suddenly made sense. I flashed back on the photograph
of the three of them I had seen at the activity centre.
He nodded. 'That's right - Rose. Greg and Owen were
friends in the army. He got to know the family when Owen
used to bring him back to stay. He and Rose got serious,
and then got engaged. They were going to live in Fron
Heulog after they were married.'
'But Greg ended up there anyway'
He nodded.
'Was that because of Owen?' I asked, remembering what
Valerie Home had said about their obligation to both Rose and Owen. Since Rose 
had died before she and Greg were


married I presumed that Owen had become the main
benefactor.
'Yes, Fron Heulog was his. His grandfather had left it to
him. He wanted Rose and Greg to have it. Even after Rose
died he sold it to Greg because he said it's what she would
have wanted.'
'They must have been close?'
'Inseparable. Right from when they were tiny, Owen was
always looking after her. He was really protective.' I had
meant Owen and Greg, but I let him continue. 'He was a
quiet kid, but he turned into a terrier if he thought anyone
was trying to mess Rose around.' He smiled. 'There was a
joke going round that he only went into the army because
Rose had told him she wanted to marry a soldier, and he
said he'd find one for her.'
I flashed back on the photograph again. It would have
been hard to tell who had been holding Rose the tightest.
'So he didn't mind Greg turning up?'
'He didn't turn up, Owen brought him home. After that
it was the three of them going around together instead of
just Owen and Rose.'
'She must have died young?'
'It was a real tragedy.'
'Illness?' I asked.
'No, a terrible accident. The Joneses and Greg were really
cut up about it.'
'The fight?' I prompted, remembering what had started
this line of the conversation.
'A bunch of hippies were taunting them about being in
uniform. Owen and Greg had had too much to drink and


eventually laid into them.' He smiled happily at the recollection.
'Ripped the dirty layabouts apart, they did.'
'And you let them off with a caution?'
He looked at me entreatingly. 'They'd been to a funeral.
She was Owen's sister and Greg's fiancee. They were in
mourning.'
I nodded my understanding. 'But I'll bet you truly busted
those hippies' balls?'
He broke into a big grin. 'Damn right.'
I let him go. And ruminated over the way he had talked
about Greg Thomas. Almost as if he had been adopted as
a local. Was it of any significance?


The sound coming from the church after Emrys left was
what I took to be the priest engaged in some sort of low
incantation. I wasn't that up on the order of service in the
Anglican convention, but I assumed that this was a contemplative
moment, and they weren't all about to come bursting
through the doors with their hands high in the air singing
Hallelujah.
I had time to put in a telephone call.
I had first worked with Constable Huw Jones on a case
involving a poisoned Montagu's harrier, and, after a spiky
start, we had come to like one another. Huw was a sensible
cop who kept out of departmental politics, and was happiest
up in the hills with something like a golden plover in the
eyepiece of his binoculars.
He may have spent half his time in the whin up to his
knees in bilberries, but he had more perception of what was
going on in the area than a combination of Emrys Hughes,


Captain Morgan and a police radio grafted together into a
new life form.
'Emrys Hughes tells me that there's no one dealing dope
in Dinas.'
I heard his low thoughtful laugh come down the line.
'Sergeant Hughes is a very pious man.'
'Meaning?'
'If he doesn't believe in dope dealers then there aren't
any. If he believed in them he would have to face up to
having a problem in his community.'
'So he's right, there aren't any?' I teased.
He laughed again. 'Only pagans fucking up other pagans.
Not his concern.'
'How about a pagan with the initials TB?'
He was silent for a moment. 'You're not on a crusade, are
you?' His voice was serious now.
'No, I just need some information.'
'Good.'Another silence. I hoped he was checking his notes.
'The man you're looking for is called Ryan Shaw.'
'TB?' I queried.
'Tractor Boy. His nom de guerre. Our Ryan thinks himself
cool and ironic'
'Address?'
'3 Orchard Close, Maesmore.' 'Thanks, Huw.'
'Do you want back-up?'
'Do I need it?'
'He's got a mean streak. He puts himself up there with
the hoodlums in Manchester he scores from. But only when
he's not in Manchester, of course.'


'He wouldn't stiff a cop?'
'You're going there as a cop who is overlooking his misdemeanours,
remember. That is going to give him a certain
sense of empowerment. He might try and screw you.'
'Thanks for the warning.'
Maesmore! I laughed inwardly. Ryan Shaw's ironic streak
was catching. It was a village about seven miles from Dinas
that had never recovered from the collapse of the lead
mining industry. Shortly after my arrival in the boondocks
I had been called out there to help the uniforms at a domestic
that had spilled out onto the scrubby patch of grass at the
front of some former council houses. A recollection of the
good neighbours going at each other with missiles in the
shape of abandoned shopping trolleys and springs from
burned-out mattresses, with junked shock absorbers
commandeered as impromptu cudgels.
I jerked out of my reflections and sat up with a jolt when I
saw that people were coming out of the church. I got out of
the car quickly and went to the other side of the lychgate. People
were milling around the porch, waiting their turn to say goodbye
to the vicar. Umbrellas went up as they came out from under
the shelter of the porch. In my hurry I had forgotten my coat.
People looked at me curiously as they came past. Some
nodded politely. Then I saw Mrs Evans in front of the vicar.
The big man beside her in a grey suit had his back to me.
He had a trilby in one hand, the other was patting the vicar
familiarly on the shoulder. His hair was dark and bushy,
and he had the build of a prop forward.
They turned to leave. Mrs Evans saw me as she was putting
her umbrella up. She put a hand on her husband's arm to


restrain him. He put his hat on, leaned down to hear what
she was saying, and then looked at me.
He was built like a man who didn't give a fuck what deals
he reneged on. More or less my height, about 1.9 metres,
but that's where the resemblance ended. He looked like he
was made of dense meat piled onto denser meat. His face
was florid, gruffly handsome, with the same meat theme,
and a nose that had been broken more than once and had
retained no memory of its original shape.
She tried to pull him back towards the vicar, but he shook
her hand off and strode down the path towards me. He
smiled like a hungry man with new dentures.
'You're a persistent fucker, I'll give you that,' he announced
loudly, striding towards me. Behind him I saw his wife
blanch as his voice carried back to her and the vicar.
'I need to ask you some questions, Mr Evans,' I said,
beginning to wonder if he was going to stop, or just walk
straight over me.
He pulled up short. He eyed me up and down, his expression
a combination of amusement and contempt. I got the
impression that this was his stock look, which he didn't
bother varying too much. 'You're getting wet, Sergeant.' He
put out a hand the size of an overinflated toad and propelled
me backwards under the lychgate. He then quickly raised
both hands to forestall any protest. 'Just helping you to get
out of the rain.' It was a show of power.
'You knew Evie Salmon, Mr Evans,' I said, ignoring the
assault. Complaining would just play to his agenda and give
him an excuse to shove me again, to demonstrate that he
had only been helping.


'Of course I knew her, she helped my wife out.'
'Did she ever help you out?'
A mischievous grin kicked in. This guy was not dumb,
he had picked up on my subtext. He leaned in close. I smelled
the sort of aftershave that he wouldn't have picked for
himself. T don't fuck around on my own doorstep,' he said
in a tone that kept it between us.
I smiled innocently. 'So it would make sense to move her
to neutral territory?'
He shook his head wonderingly, only now grasping where
I was going with this. 'Turn that insinuation into plain
English.'
'You drove Evie down from Pentre Fawr on the day she
left. You were the last person to see her in Dinas. Or were
you more generous than that, Mr Evans? Did you take her
somewhere farther?'
He stared at me calmly for a moment before he shook
his head. 'Tough shit, Sergeant.'
'I'm sorry?' I didn't like the small gleam that had appeared
in his eyes. It looked disturbingly triumphant.
'You're wrong. I wasn't the last person to see Evie.'
I didn't respond. I waited for the bombshell.
He smirked. 'After I dropped her off she walked across
the square towards Clive Fenwick.'
It felt like the tendons behind my knees had just been
severed. 'You know Clive Fenwick?' I blurted uselessly.
'Not too many Porsche Cayenne's in Dinas.' My surprise
and consternation delighted him. He summoned his wife. She
took his arm and pointedly ignored me. As they both left, the
last look he turned on me was, Crash and burn, fucker.


Clive Fenwick!
Evie and the Barn Gallery had come back into conjunction.
Or had she never left it?
I fought down the impulse to drive out there. I had just
gifted Gerald Evans the opportunity to piss in my face, I
didn't want the same thing to happen with Clive Fenwick.
I needed more information.
I needed the yellow-haired boy.
Orchard Close in Maesmore was another street of
former council houses, but it was an improvement on
the one I remembered from the tribal war. Some people
here had bought into house-pride. A few tidy gardens,
some front doors personalized, one house with a stuck-on
stone facade. Saplings had been planted in the communal
grass area; some of them had not even been snapped
off.
None of this makeover nonsense for number 3, though.
A motorbike under a plastic cover on the front lawn, broken
milk bottles by the doorstep, and a smashed television set
that appeared to have died where it had landed. A pimped
purple VW Golf with wide alloy wheels, a rear spoiler and
a straight-through exhaust pipe that could have served as
an escape tunnel, was parked outside, half on the
pavement.
I drove past slowly, making like an ordinary john who
was looking for an address. Scanning the sociology as I went
past. Realizing that I had been in too much of a hurry. I
should have done some background checks here. Because
these were semi-detached family houses. There was a real
possibility that Ryan still lived with his parents.


And that could have an effect on both of my options:
bribery or strongarm.
'Good afternoon. Is Ryan Shaw at home, please?'
'What the fuck's he done now?' She was the Fat and Scary
Mum from central casting, and had sussed me as a cop
just from the way I had knocked on the door. Everything
about her was loose, from the nicotine-blonde hair pulled
back into a ponytail, to the cheeks, jowls, chins and breasts,
right down to the mauve two-piece leisure outfit.
'I need to talk to him in connection with a murder
enquiry.'
'Fucking hell! He's moving up in the world.' She swivelled
her head. 'Ryan!' she yelled. 'You're wanted. Wait there,' she
instructed me, pointing at the front step. She left me and
went into the room opposite that had a television set the
size of a garage door on the wall. There was a pram in the
hall, and, I noticed, before she pushed the door closed, other
baby-care accoutrements on the floor of the television room.
Ryan came down the stairs fast, two at a time. He was
a bobbing boy. Couldn't keep still, body popping and
sneaking glances at all the reflective surfaces. I couldn't
work out whether he was on amphetamines, or just speedy
from a video game I had interrupted.
'Who you?' he asked, in a curious tone, but no surprise.
He was in his mid-twenties, handsome in an amorphous
boy-band way, with styled brown hair that lolled over his
eyebrows, and he was obviously fixated on body image. He
was wearing a tight sleeveless white singlet that showed off
his muscle groups, tucked into baggy black sweat pants
cinched tightly at the waist.


'Glyn Capaldi, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.'
I didn't produce my warrant card as I didn't want to make
it formal.
'CID?' he asked cockily, proud of knowing the lingo.
I nodded. 'DS.'
His head bobbed in slow acknowledgement. 'Heard of
you. You got talked about. You the dude who weirded-out
in Cardiff. Word is you topped a pimp.' He made a slow
motion gangsta pistol charade to demonstrate.
'Not quite.' I wondered how this prat went down with
the real scary guys he scored from in Manchester.
'What you doing at my crib on a Sunday?'
'I need your help, Ryan.'
His eyes took on a cunning glint. 'What kind of help?'
'Can I come in to talk about this?'
He inhaled audibly and wiggled his fingers in a pantomime
of terror. 'It's like a fucking vampire, man. If I let you
in then you can do all kinds of shit because I have given
you some sort of invitation.'
Okay, so I was going to have to do this on the doorstep
like a double-glazing salesman. 'You heard about the mutilated
bodies we've found at Dinas?'
He nodded. 'You working on that one?'
'Yes.'
'I'm impressed. That must be some kind of disturbing
shit to see.' He didn't sound impressed.
'Evie Salmon was one of the bodies.'
He clucked sympathetically. 'I heard. A bad break. But if
that's what you're here for, I can't help you. Our paths never
crossed.'


'I need to locate a friend of hers, a yellow-haired boy.'
He made a big show of deliberating. He even held his
chin between his thumb and forefinger and gazed off into
the middle distance. The bastard was taking the piss.
'This is completely off the record, Ryan.'
He dropped the goofy pose. 'But it isn't, is it? Nothing
ever is. I do you this favour, assuming that I'm able to, and
I'm admitting to something that perhaps I would be kind
of crazy to admit to.'
The guy was sharp. 'You'd be helping with a murder
enquiry. All the victims were missing their heads and hands.
Evie Salmon was found cut in half,' I elaborated, aiming for
his sense of injustice. He didn't need to know that I was the
one who had done that last piece of butchering.
'This dude must be some kind of a gruesome fucker.' This
time he did sound impressed.
T personally promise you that it will go no further. This
is strictly between you and me. I just need a name and then
I walk away, and you and I are good, and I will owe you a
favour.'
He leaned his head back, stretching his neck. It snapped
forward again. 'Forget about the future, man. Forget about
owing favours. Let's just say a straight five hundred here
and now.'
He was serious. 'I can't offer you that kind of money'
'Well that's a real shame, because that's the fucking price.'
We stared each other out. He wasn't going to buckle. He
may have been prepared to haggle, but I couldn't get into
it, not at that starting price. For information that might
turn out to be worthless.


'You don't want me as an enemy, Ryan. I could be bad
for business.'
'Oh . . .' he let out a theatrical moan of fear, and then
moved in closer to me with a scowl. 'Learn the game around
here before you try to put the threat on me. I provide a
fucking service. You as an enemy don't scare me, with the
friends I've got.'
So he was a snitch. That's why the bastard was so confident.
Which also put another possible perspective on why
Emrys had denied knowing anything about him. And Huw
Davies had intimated that he didn't want me upsetting him.
He was protected. Strongarm wouldn't work. And he had
set the bar on the bribery too high.
I took a breath to suppress my rising anger. This self
satisfied, puffed-out sleazeball was getting to me. 'That
bastard who killed those people is still out there. He could
do it again,' I appealed to him, little knowing how soon this
was going to appear to be prophetic.
He gave me a look to tell me to catch up on the lunacy
of what I had just told him. 'In that case, if it's going to
make me a target, I'd be fucking stupid telling you anything,
wouldn't I?' He waggled his forearms at me. 'Like how am
I going to manage my wanking without any fucking hands?'
He shouldn't have leered at me.
I shoved the door hard. It caught him on the shoulder
and toppled his balance. Before he could recover I had
crossed the hall and crashed in through the door to the
room opposite.
'Is there anyone in this family with a thread of fucking
decency?'


The two women on the black leather sofa watching a
game show on the enormous television looked round slowly
and up at me.
'People have died. Can you tell that heartless man of yours
to stop thinking about himself for once?' I addressed the
young woman on the sofa, who was also large, with dyed
black hair and matching eyebrows and eyelashes, and was
jiggling a chunky baby with a dummy in its mouth.
She shared a glance with Ryan's mother. Neither appeared
surprised or upset by my intrusion. Invasion and drama
were obviously not strangers in Ryan's life. She handed the
baby to Ryan's mother who turned back to the television.
She got up and flashed me an annoyed look. I waited for
her to ask me to fill her in on the cause of my outburst.
'Tell me if they win,' she called back to Ryan's mother, and
left the room.
I was sucked back to the television. It was mesmeric.
Phantasmagorical colours filled the wall. The game-show
host had a suntan like a cinnamon bun, and teeth like the
polar icecap. Compared to this, my little television in Unit
13 was like one of those gizmos that creates crude pictures
from magnetized iron filings.
When she returned, the three of us, baby, Ryan's mother
and me, were absorbed in the adventures of a walking,
talking yoghurt pot that was going to revolutionize our
digestive tracts. I was strangely reluctant to turn away from
the screen.
'The name you're looking for is Justin Revel and he hasn't
seen him for a long time.' She reached out on automatic
and accepted the baby that Ryan's mother passed over the


back of the sofa, a thread of drool still connecting them.
'And for your information, he's not my heartless man, he's my waste of space 
fucking brother.'
Ryan was not in the hall when I left. I warned myself to
be prepared for flak from my colleagues, but I was pretty
secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't be making a formal
complaint about illegal entry.
It's the women, I thought, walking to the car, the mothers
and the sisters, who are still looped into the simple thread
of common humanity. The warm glow didn't last, though.
History caught up with me as I got into my car. I remembered
that it was also the women who had cut the genitals
off the dead English soldiers after their defeat by Owain
Glyndwr at the Battle of Pilleth.
And the snow had started.


Justin Revel.
That name had to belong to an incomer family. I could
have routed my enquiry through Alison Weir in Carmarthen,
but I was reluctant to make this strand public at this stage,
and I reckoned that a name like that should not be hard to
trace. So instead, I drove back to my research facility in
Dinas.
A mug of coffee and the local telephone directory in front
of the wood-burning stove in The Fleece.
There were two Revels listed. Neither of them answered
their telephone, but at least the second one had an answering
machine. A well-spoken voice with a Home Counties accent
said that he was Julian Revel, and asked me to leave a
message. I did, saying that I needed to talk to Justin Revel,


and if he was related could he get him to contact me. I left
my contact numbers and hung up.
I then basked in front of the warm stove and indulged
myself, watching the snow coming down against the street
light outside the window, the flakes bigger now, the ground
starting to take cover, the night transformed by the reflective
luminescence and the muffling effect of the snow. It was
too beautiful at that point to worry about what a pain it
was going to be to get around tomorrow.
My phone rang.
'DS Capaldi.'
'Glyn.'
'Tessa!' My surprise hit the register on a number of
different levels. I had been expecting Justin Revel or his
father.
'This may be nothing, but I think we've just had a prowler
up here.'
That bastard who killed those people is still out there. He
could do it again.
Oh, fuck! Had I invoked something by saying that to Ryan
Shaw?
'Is everyone okay?' I asked.
'Yes. And I'm not sure whether this isn't just a big false
alarm,' she suggested apologetically.
'Let me decide that. I'm on my way now.'
'It's snowing quite hard up here.'
'I'll make it.'
The Apache in my soul was flexing his arms again.





12





I borrowed David's old Land Rover. It was late-season
snow - heavy, wet and unstable - and the magic went out
of it as soon as it was stepped on and turned the colour
and consistency of wallpaper paste. And it was hard to drive
in, even with four-wheel drive, each tyre trying to slither
off in its own preferred direction.
And Tessa had been right, it was snowing harder the
higher I drove up the by-way. I had to drive on dipped
headlights, the snow setting up too much of a dazzling
reflective wall with main beams on.
Tessa had seen my lights approaching, and opened the
door of her caravan as soon as I got out of the Land Rover's
cab.
'Thanks for coming up,' she said, letting me in and closing
the door on the weather. T only hope I haven't dragged you
up here under false pretences.'
I wiped wet snow off my eyebrows and nodded at the


other young woman in the caravan, who I recognized as
one of Tessa's helpers. Tessa's caravan was smaller and older
than mine, so why, I wondered abstractedly, did it seem
more homely and comfortable?
'This is Gemma,' Tessa said. 'Tell Sergeant Capaldi what
you saw.'
T came out of the toilet tent -' she gestured in the general
direction - 'and I saw someone peering in through Tessa's
window. I thought it might have been one of us at first,
playing a joke, so I shouted. They turned round, and when
they saw me they ran off.'
'You managed to see in thisV I asked, trying not to sound
too sceptical.
'It wasn't snowing so hard then,' Tessa answered for her.
'When was this?'
'The two women exchanged glances. 'About three-quarters
of an hour ago?' Tessa ventured. 'We had a quick look round
outside, but couldn't see anything. Then I thought I'd better
call you, given what's gone on down at Jeff's site.'
'Can you describe who you saw?' I asked Gemma.
T think it was a man. I can't be certain, though, because
they were wearing a long parka-type thing with the hood
up. But it was the way they ran off, it looked like more the
way a man would run.'
I checked my phone. If I ran into trouble out there, I
wanted to be able to call in the cavalry. There was a signal
here.
'It's not very stable,' Tessa said, reading my thoughts, 'you'll
lose it if you drop too far off the ridge.'
'I'm going to check outside.'


'Do you want me to hold a torch for you or something?'
Tessa volunteered.
'Thanks, but the fewer of us out there the better. And
don't worry if I don't appear for a bit.'
'Didn't Captain Oates say something like that and never
come back?'
'Thanks, Tessa.'
She smiled warmly. 'Be careful. I'll have the hot chocolate
ready.'
Tessa and her helpers had trampled the snow around the
caravan into slush. I checked the big rear window. There was
a large enough chink in the curtains to see inside. But why?
What had Tessa got to do with this? Unless the guy was a
voyeur. Some creep up from Dinas. But on a night like this?
I didn't like the feeling this was giving me.
The snow was still coming down hard. I walked slowly
out in the direction Gemma had indicated. I walked in a
slow zigzag pattern until I cut across footprints that displayed
the long stride of someone running. They were now partially
filled, but with the slush imprint from the wet snow they
were still distinct enough to follow.
The running stride continued at full stretch for about
fifty metres then started to slow down, until the prints
reached a point where their owner had obviously stopped
and turned round to look back. To check if he was being
followed? After this the stride-pattern shortened as he
reverted to walking. I was actually tracking this guy, reading
the signals. I was proud of myself, even though following
footprints in this wet snow was as easy as following an
airfield's flare path.


It hadn't occurred to me then that he might have wanted
me to follow him.
The one thing I didn't have was natural light. No horizon.
Just a constantly shifting swirl of snowflakes ahead. The
torch beam was fine when it was directed onto the ground,
where there was contrast, picking out the prints, but when
I raised it, all sense of distance and perspective vanished
into a dance of interference. Nothing seemed real, there was
no sense of substance, just an eerie blurring, like life inside
a ghost signal. The guy could have stopped in front of me
and I wouldn't have known it until I walked into him. That
thought slowed me down.
The tracks were keeping just to the wind-farm side of
the crest of the ridge. He was using a sheep track to keep
out of the heather and avoid the danger of tripping. Which
was either very fortuitous, or he knew that this particular
track was going to take him in the direction he wanted
to go.
I decided that this guy knew the hill. You don't just go
traipsing off into a blizzard choosing random sheep tracks
and hoping for the best.
Now that the first flush of excitement was over I was
feeling the chill factor in the wind. I had a good waterproof
jacket on, but my trousers were now soaked through from
the knees down to my boots. But at least my feet were dry.
I was aware of the dangers of hypothermia if I got too wet.
The trail was leading me farther and farther away from
the road, deeper onto the moors. But the chances were good
that he was still out there somewhere ahead of me. Still on
the hill.


It gave me an idea. I dropped into a crouch with my back
to the wind, undid my jacket, and pulled out my phone.
There was just enough of a signal. I called Headquarters at
Carmarthen. I explained quickly to the duty officer what I
wanted him to do, and read out the names and numbers.
It wasn't exactly science, but it might serve to eliminate a
name from the list.
I zipped up again and stood. I shone my torch ahead.
The prints were filling in fast now, but at least the sheep
track was still distinct through the heather. But this comfort
disappeared a couple of hundred metres farther on when
the heather gave out and was replaced by snow-covered
scrub grass. There was now no defined track, no texture,
just featureless white on the ground and flurry in the air. But at least the 
footprints were still there, the trail turning
back up towards the top of the ridge, where the ground
levelled out.
And then I came to the edge of the world.
It was as stark and dramatic as that. The snow suddenly
stopping, white becoming total blackness, with no
transition.
But the footsteps continued into the black.
The stupid laws of fucking attraction. It was a yawning
black void and I had this irrational compulsion to walk
straight into it. Because he had obviously gone ahead of me,
and how could I not follow? This was mano-a-mano bullshit,
even though my sensible side was screaming at me to pause
and work out what the fuck was ahead.
My concession was to move forward gingerly. I felt the
first seep of the drenching cold on my feet.


The bastard had led me into a dew pond. He had
marched straight in here. Had he known that I would be
following him? Worse, was he out there somewhere now,
watching me trying to pull my feet out of the freezing
peaty mud?
I shone my torch full circle, trying to keep any trace of
panic out of the motion. I couldn't make out the far edge
of the pond. To pick up his trail again I would have to walk
its perimeter, scouring the ground for where his footprints
emerged. Footprints that were fast filling in. And I didn't
know the size of the pond. And, even if I did find them,
would my own return trail have vanished by then?
He had led me and left me stuck like an insect on fly
paper, all options bar flight shut down.
Now the big question hit me.
Why?


I struggled back to Tessa's caravan cold, wet and worried.
Why had he come out of cover? And why choose Tessa's?
Was there something here that had drawn him in? Or had
he been deliberately trying to draw me out?
Or was I just being paranoid? Could it have been a lonely
shepherd looking to spy on some bra-and-panties action,
trying to get his rocks off?
Either way I couldn't take it to Fletcher or Jack Galbraith,
as, in their books, with Bruno already dead, I had no business
to be up here trailing a killer through a snowstorm.
Tessa opened the door to my knock. Her smile was one
of relief. 'I was starting to think about sending out the Saint
Bernard.'


I climbed gratefully into the warm space, and realized as
I did that it was the smell that was different in here. It was
something feminine that cut the odours of propane gas and
damp plastic.
'Glyn, you're frozen!' she exclaimed as she caught sight
of me in the light. 'You've got to get those wet things off.'
I peeled off my coat, which was starting to drip. She took
it from me and handed over a towel. This was softer than
anything I owned and had its own fragrance. I understood
then how much I was missing the peripheral grace that
women added to everyday objects. I rubbed my face dry
before I sat down to tackle my boots, only discovering how
numb my hands were as I struggled with the laces.
'Here, let me do that,' she commanded, kneeling down in
front of me. I winced with pain and relief as she rolled my
sodden socks down and reintroduced my blanched and
wrinkled feet to the concept of warmth. I glanced down.
They looked like something that should have been on their
way to the glue factory. They were my feet, but even I was
repelled by the sight of them. I flicked a glance to gauge
Tessa's reaction.
She wrapped another towel around them, started to
massage them dry, and smiled up at me unselfconsciously.
T don't often say this to the boys on the first date, but you're
really going to have to get those trousers off.'
There should have been a romantic riposte to that waiting
in the wings. More than, 'I can't just sit around here in my
underpants,' which was all I managed to come up with.
'Just wait there.'
She left me for a moment and came back with a pair of


grey sweatpants. 'They're going to be a tad short, but they'll
be a lot warmer than those sodden things.' I took them
from her. 'I'll go and make that hot chocolate while you
change.'
I peeled my trousers off and towelled my legs dry before
I pulled the sweatpants on. The elasticised waist was tight
on me, and my ankles were left stranded, but I was more
conscious of the fact that my balls were now nestling in a
crotch that had been last inhabited by Tessa. I quickly reintroduced
cold damp thoughts before an erection came along
to spoil this cosy fable.
She carried in the drinks and set them down on a table.
T had a call from one of your people,' she said as she picked
up my trousers and hung them on the back of a chair in
front of the gas fire.
'Did they leave a message?'
'Hold on.' She wiped her damp hands on her jeans before
picking up a notebook. For some strange reason that gesture
made me feel like we were sharing a small, comfortable and
continuing domestic intimacy.
She looked at me expectantly. I nodded. She read, 'Evans,
no reply. Fenwick, no reply. Valerie Home did answer, but
neither husband nor brother available.' She looked up. 'Make
sense?'
I nodded again. So, no eliminations this round, Any one
of them could have been on the hill. They were all still in
the picture.
'Fenwick?' she queried with a smile I couldn't fathom.
'Isn't that the name of your new girlfriend?' She sat down
opposite me on the long banquette under the rear window.


I felt myself colouring. 'Of course not.'
'You looked pretty cosied-up together when I saw you the
other night.'
'She'd been drinking. I was driving her home to stop her
using her car.'
She cocked her head sceptically.
'She's a married woman, Tessa,' I protested.
She smiled sweetly. 'So why wasn't her husband doing the
driving home?'
'He's abroad. In the Middle East.'
'While the cat's away?'
'It's nothing like that.'
She burst out laughing.
'What's so funny?' I asked, nonplussed.
'Your face . . .' She tossed a small cushion at me. 'So
serious.'
We stared at each other for a moment. I felt the nervous
flutter as I waited for something that might be construed
as an invitation to slip onto the banquette beside her. Her
expression turned curious. 'Do you want to talk about what
Inspector Fletcher was trying to tell me the other night?'
I hid my disappointment under a brave smile. 'Not really.'
'It's the reason you've ended up here?'
I nodded. Her gaze didn't lose its intensity. She wasn't giving up. 'I went 
soft,' I said reluctantly. 'I made certain
judgements that my superiors deemed to be unprofessional.
Basically, I allowed myself to be clouded by a sense of injustice.
Which I was told was none of my business.'
'Was that the official verdict?'
I shook my head. I was far enough removed from it now


to be able to display a certain amusement. 'Stress-induced
breakdown.'
'Is that what broke up your marriage?'
I frowned. It was my turn to look surprised. I had never
mentioned Gina to her. She smiled at my reaction. 'It's a
small town, Glyn. I heard talk.' I used silence to keep up the
pressure. 'Okay, I'm curious,' she admitted, 'but it's not
prurient. I like to know what I'm getting into.'
'The relationship went down the tubes long before that.'
'And?'
'Booze. As simple as that. I was drinking too much. I was
fed up with being the outsider, so I was drinking to fit in.
To be like one of the guys. Kevin Fletcher had managed it
and was soaring ahead of me career-wise. But I was overcompensating.
I was drinking to hide the disgust that I felt
about myself for wanting to be like one of the guys. I was
also doing it to avoid going home and having to face up to
how I was screwing things up.'
She looked at me closely for a moment before she spoke.
'I've seen you in The Fleece with a drink.'
'I've learned to control it.'
'AA?'
I shook my head. 'Sanity. I realized that I really didn't
want to be one of the guys any more.'
She laughed warmly. 'That works for me.' She shifted over
and patted the space on the banquette she had just vacated.
Just as I stood up there was a sharp and rapid knocking
on the door. Her eyes met mine briefly. A flash of regret.
Then she was off to open the door.
It was one of her team. I couldn't make out the words,


but there was a sense of something like panic in the delivery.
Tessa reached over and grabbed a coat off of the hook. She
looked briefly at me before she went out. All traces of regret
had vanished.
I stripped off her sweatpants and pulled on my cold and
clammy trousers, which was like climbing into two tubes of
wet cardboard. I put my socks and boots on again. The tone
of that voice at the door had warned me that any prospects
of cosiness tonight had disappeared.


The snow had diminished to a few raggedy stray flakes and
was melting fast by the time I got out of the caravan. I
walked across towards the light that was coming from the
Redshanks enclosure. Tessa emerged just as I arrived.
'What's the problem?' I asked.
She was silent for a moment. If she had been trying to
control herself it hadn't worked. 'You and your fucking
investigation,' she threw at me.
'What's happened?' A dark intimation surfacing.
'He's taken Redshanks.' She flung the enclosure's flap open.
Inside, her assistants parted to let me see the now-empty
polythene bubble.
'Now sort it out,' she snapped at me. 'I want him back.'
The ground surface was rapidly turning to meltwater. It
wasn't helped by the fact that Tessa and her crew had scrabbled
around and messed things up so much. Gemma, Tessa's
assistant, hadn't reported seeing him carrying anything, but
he could already have taken it and stashed it, ready to carry
off when left alone. The bundle would have been awkward,
but the weight would have been manageable.


This had to be connected. But why? Why take this risk?
Or was it another obfuscation?
I couldn't take this to Fletcher or Jack Capaldi. To them
it would be the local force's baggage. To involve them in the
theft of an archaeological artefact would only annoy them.
But I had to go through the motions. For Tessa's sake, if
nothing else. I called it in to Emrys Hughes.
'Can you repeat that?' he asked, not hiding his amusement.
I described Redshanks again. I could picture him
noting it down with relish. This was the ultimate zany
incomer. A 600-year-old desiccated Scottish warrior.
'It'll be one of those kids from Fron Heulog,' he proclaimed
with evangelical certainty.
'Why?'
'What use would anyone round here have for something
like that?'
Right, I thought to myself, every gang crib in Birmingham
has got to have its own thieved archaeological trophy. 'Just
put the word out, please, Emrys.'
I knocked on the caravan door before I left. Tessa opened
it. She didn't invite me in, just stayed in the power position
on the threshold, looking down on me.
'I'm sorry, Tessa.'
'I'm holding you responsible for getting him back.'
T couldn't have prevented this.' I tried not to sound too
hangdog.
She shrugged that one off. 'We were doing fine until you
brought your investigation into our world. So I blame you.
You make it right again and we'll take it from there.'
'I'll do my best.'


She pulled a mean face. 'No, you won't, you'll be too busy
chasing after your own bloody skeletons.'
'Will you pack up here?'
She flashed me a look full of scorn, and almost didn't
reply. 'The body was only the big physical manifestation.
There's more to it than that. We're also working on all the
peripheral stuff that will hopefully tell us who he was and
why he was here.'
'I'll find him for you. I promise.'
She shut the door in my face. I took some consolation
from the fact that she hadn't slammed it.


I got back to Unit 13 cold, wet and dispirited. The gossamer
illusion of sex and romance had been briefly awakened and
trailed in the air, before being transformed into the reality
of a sodden pair of trousers and boots that would have
made the ideal packaging for trench foot.
I changed into dry clothes and turned the gas heater on
in the living area. There was no new-message light on the
answering-machine display. I had hoped that Julian Revel
might have got back to me by now. I checked my mobile
to see if I had picked up any missed calls while driving back
through limbo spots. The call log was clear.
It was getting late. But this was important. I decided to
try him again.
'Julian Revel.' He gave his name a radio announcer's
clarity.
'It's Detective Sergeant Capaldi, Mr Revel, I'm sorry to
disturb you so late.'
'Didn't you get my message?' He sounded irked.


'I haven't had anything on my mobile.'
'I make a point of not calling mobile phones, they're too
expensive. I left a message on the landline number you gave.
I told you that I had nothing to do with Justin any more.'
I glanced at the answering machine again. There was no
light indicating a new message.
'You're his father?'
'Yes, but you're wasting your time. He doesn't live here,
and I have no contact telephone numbers or address.'
'I desperately need to talk to him about an investigation
I'm working on.'
He gave a humourless chuckle. 'Good luck. And if you
do manage to find the ungrateful little sod, you can tell him
that I'm still feeding his mangy cat, and I would appreciate
it if he could come back for it.'
'But there must be some--'
He interrupted. 'Hereford. Art college. That's all I know,
and all I care.'
'He's your son, Mr Revel,' I argued, knowing that it was
none of my business.
'No,' he responded sharply and with feeling, 'he's his mother's
son. He's not going to be mine again until the day comes
when I'm satisfied that I no longer have to worry about getting
calls from the police or Social Services, or deadbeats turning
up at my door and asking if they've missed the party.'
I put the phone down on all that fucked-up family
harmony.
Hereford Art College. The first solid lead. But I was not
going to be able to do anything about it at this time on a
Sunday night.


I frowned, remembering that he had said he had already
left a message. Out of curiosity I tried my answering
machine.
'My name is Julian Revel. I am returning the call from
the policeman whose name I couldn't catch. I have no knowledge
of Justin's present whereabouts, so please don't call me
again.'
And a bonus call.
'Glyn. You weren't answering your mobile. I'm getting
back to you on that information you asked for.' Mackay's
voice was precise and to the point.
I felt uneasy. The answering machine's light had been off.
I wasn't supposed to have any new messages. But I hadn't
heard either of those before.
I called my landline from my mobile and left a test
message. When I hung up the red light was blinking on the
answering machine.
I went back to the front door and checked the lock. There
was no way of telling if it had been forced. But it was hardly
a serious lock, kids' lunch boxes were better secured.
I had to assume that someone had already listened to
those messages. So that person now knew that I was interested
in locating Justin Revel. I was also very grateful that
Mackay was professional enough not to leave names on
answering machines.
It wasn't exactly high-tech hacking, but it was effective.
It looked like the spectre I thought I had been chasing
through the snow had brought the dance back to me. I
checked the phone and the room for visible bugs before I
made my next call.


'Hi, Mac, I'm returning your call.'
'You okay?' He had picked up on my shaky vibe.
'Yes, it's been a weird night.' I didn't elaborate.
'Okay. The two guys you're interested in were in the Signals
Regiment together. Greg Thomas made it to corporal before
getting a ticket out on a medical discharge.'
'How long ago was that?'
There was a pause as he checked his notes. 'Just under
fifteen years. The other one, Owen Jones, made it to sergeant.
His time expired five years ago. Sources tell me that he went
into specialist private security after that. I heard he was in
Afghanistan.'
'He's in Nigeria now. If he was in Signals, how come he
got into security?'
'He applied for and got a transfer to Military Intelligence.'
'Special Forces?'
'No, the hardware side of spook stuff. Some of the training
he would have gone through for that would have made him
a good prospect for private security firms.'
'What were the grounds for the medical discharge?' I
asked, swinging it back to Greg Thomas.
Another pause. 'Reading between the jargon, I reckon the
guy had a nervous breakdown. It was after he'd finished a
tour in Northern Ireland.'
'Were you over there at that time?'
He laughed. 'That's strictly on a need-to-know basis,
buddy'
'Could you find out for me, Mac? See if there's anything
like a big white whale that could account for the breakdown?'
I remembered then what Emrys had told me, about the fight


in The Fleece after the funeral, and that this probably coincided
with the accidental death of his fiancee. Grief had
probably fucked the poor guy up. Still, there would be no
harm in Mackay doing an extra bit of digging for me.
'Anything else, boss?' he asked sarcastically.
'Yes.' I heard him groan, he had not intended to be taken
literally. 'I may need you to look after someone for me for
a while.'


I drove to Hereford the next morning under a thin blue
sky, with the only remaining traces of snow being the stubborn
tonsures on the hill tops, although the quick thaw
was still evident in the brooks that were running brown
and full.
I had had to leave it to Alison Weir to work through
official channels to clear a path for me at the art college. It
meant showing my hand, but I knew from past experience
that they wouldn't release personal information if I just
waved my warrant card around.
Kevin Fletcher's call came through before I had even
cleared the border.
'I've just had to confirm an authorization for you to access
personal information off a database in Hereford.' He
sounded friendly enough, which meant that the bastard was fishing.
'That's right, Kev--' I checked myself. 'That's right, boss,
I've got a potential lead on a friend of Evie's.' I instructed
myself to keep it vague.
'You're stepping awfully close to the demarcation line
here, Glyn.'


'What line is that, boss?'
'The one that defines my particular area of interest.' By
which he meant he was closely guarding his geography.
'It's just the way it's tracking.'
'How close a friend?'
'I won't know until I talk to them. It's come down from
a third-hand source. So it could be a total waste of time.'
'Sure it's not an excuse to get down onto the flatlands
and ogle art students?'
I recognized it as a joke and chuckled. 'Positive, boss.'
'You're going to be sure to let us know what you find
there, aren't you?'
'You bet,' I chirped enthusiastically, and sublimated my
gag reaction by giving the finger to a flock of sheep I was
passing.
'Because if your end of things is slipping down this way,
you'll need to be ready to hand over the information you've
gathered.'
'How are you doing down there, boss?' I asked, heading
him off at the pass, so I could swear on record that I'd never
actually promised him anything.
'Not bad. Not bad at all. We've got some interesting
missing-person reports we're following up on.'
'Running into the crackles this end, boss . . .'
My thumb went into atmospherics mode and created the
effects of a lousy signal by switching my phone off.
Spring was further advanced in Herefordshire. The trees
were greening, the grass was losing its winter fatigue, and
the lambs looked bigger. And people were dressing lighter.
A bit too light in the case of some of the students I passed


as I walked into the art college. I was bustled through normal
reception procedures to an administrator's office, where I
went through a rigmarole to prove that I was the guy they
had been told to expect.
And, they told me, in the interests of fair play and data
protection they had sent Justin an email to advise him that
the police were about to have access to his contact details.
They had also tried phoning him to pass on the same information,
without success.
I wrote down Justin's contact details that a scowling
administrator read out to me in a disapproving voice off a
computer monitor screen that he made sure I couldn't see.
He made me feel like a born-again Stasi operative. When I
asked him for directions to Justin's address, he reacted as if
I had just asked him to join me in participating in some
particularly messy human-rights abuse.
Outside, a student with hair that looked like it had been
cut off the end of a hammock pointed me on the right track.
I just hoped that the college's email to him hadn't fucked
things up, and that Justin was not now hightailing it for
sanctuary. I contemplated whether I should try calling first,
to soft-sell myself, but decided that it might just act as
another flight-trigger.
The address was not far from the station. A quiet street
of three-storey Edwardian red-brick and render semis, most
of which had been converted to flats, with small front
gardens and the occasional lime tree on the pavement. I
parked my car at the end. I liked to arrive slowly on occasions
like these, getting the feel for my destination as I
approached.


As I got further along I smelled it. That unmistakeable
lightning-struck primal forest smell of stale smoke and
water. Recent fire damage. I flashed back on all the charred
beams I had had to duck under in my time, the ash sludge
on the floor, the abandoned dolls, the dead pets. The smell
brought them all back.
And I just knew, as I got closer and recognized the fire
investigation unit's van parked down the street, that I had
found the address.
The front garden was cordoned off with incident tape.
The first-floor bay window had blown out, and the white
roughcast render was blackened where the flames had
reached. There was nothing smoking now. And there had
been enough time since the incident to erect temporary
timber buttress supports against the front wall.
A fire officer came out of the front door. He gave me the
pained look the professionals use on rubbernecking ghouls.
I held up my warrant card.
'Gas leak?' I asked as he approached. I had seen these
things before.
His nod was noncommittal as he read my card and looked
at me curiously. 'You with the team?'
'Sort of. When did this happen?'
'Late Saturday night.'
I asked the question I didn't want to have to ask. 'Anyone
hurt.'
He pulled a grim face. 'The poor kid's in intensive care.'
Saturday night. I stacked it into the timeframe. On
Saturday night I had only just heard about the yellow-haired
boy. While I had been starting to mull over his existence, it


I don't like hospitals.
They remind me too much of my father dying. He was
admitted to one as a healthy man to have a minor operation
on his knee, and the place wrapped him in its embrace and
killed him. Necrotizing fasciitis. They said that the bacteria
must have already been present in his system, but even if it
had been, why hadn't they done what they were supposed
to do and fucking cure him? They weren't supposed to allow
him to die.
I left my car where I had parked and walked. I wanted to
use the time to think. In the interests of balance I even
started out by giving some credence to the fact that it could
have been a coincidental accident. Okay, I registered it as a
possibility and then moved on to the real meat.
The perpetrator was taking a risk. If this could be proved
to be something other than an accident, he was leaving
himself wide open. People might start listening to me, and


bring the investigation back home. But he must have figured
that into the equation. Justin must have been deemed to be
too dangerous. He couldn't afford him talking to us.
So when had he put this into operation?
It was already in the history books when he had heard
Justin's father's message on my answering machine. So that
wasn't the trigger. But hearing it had probably reinforced
his sense that he had done the right thing after all.
So it was probably a result of realizing that his master
plan had developed a glitch. Putting the frame on Bruno
Gilbert had had the intended effect: the main focus of the
investigation had moved to the safe waters of Newport. But
I had been left behind as an irritant to worry at the loose
ends in Evie Salmon's short life.
And now Justin Revel was in the ICU. And Redshanks
was where?
The fire-investigation officer I had talked to at the scene
had not been forthcoming, but he had hinted that they were
not looking beyond an accidental cause. Blinded by the light
sparking off Occam's fucking razor again. And there was
nothing I could give them to change that opinion apart
from a hunch, which was not a valid currency in their books.
I used my warrant card to pass through the system at the
hospital to the ICU unit, where I hoped to get a report on
Justin's condition. I had a look in the waiting room. In one
corner an elderly woman and what looked like her daughter were trying to stay 
as far removed as possible from the group
of four or five youngsters in the opposite corner with the
tribal markings of art students. Justin's friends. I marked
them down to talk to after I had found a doctor.


My phone rang.
Fuck! This was the ICU, I should have turned it off outside.
Two nurses appeared out of nowhere to give me admonitory
looks and frantic shut-down gestures. I imagined springs
and cogs flying as expensive operating and monitoring
machinery went haywire.
I checked the display. Fletcher. Perhaps he was ahead of
me on the gas explosion and had news for me. I held up
the phone in one hand and my warrant card in the other
to the nurse who was approaching and mimed that the state
of the nation was reliant on me being able to return this
call.
She led me out onto a roof terrace.
'Glyn, I'm just about to go into a meeting with DCS
Galbraith. Where are we on Evie's boyfriend?'
He was fishing again. Looking for something to take the
credit for. 'I haven't had an opportunity to talk to him yet,
boss, he's been involved in a gas explosion at his flat.'
'Sounds like bad timing.'
So Fletcher hadn't heard, and didn't care too much by
the sounds of it. 'He's in the intensive-care unit,' I added,
trying to elicit some sympathy for Justin.
'You often seem to have that effect on people.' He chuckled.
'If I'm not mistaken, you even managed to put me in there
once. Remember that?'
'No, boss,' I retorted crisply, suppressing my anger. Because
he was fucking mistaken. He'd twisted the slant. Yes, I had
taken him to hospital, but only after the high-speed crash
he had caused that had nearly killed us both. I had held
him then, tightly, blood trickling out of his left ear and from


the bridge of my nose, both of us covered with the shards
of the broken windscreen and the stop-motion memory of
the impact, while I had tried to absorb his convulsions.
I had brought him back from the edge then.
And now he was a detective chief fucking inspector with
the ability to bend memory.


I managed to finish the call without venting my anger,
knowing that the consequences of having my assignment
taken away from me were not worth the short-term satisfaction
of telling him that I was in total sympathy with his
wife for leaving him. In the corridor I caught up with the
nurse who had shown me to the roof terrace.
'What's the situation with Justin Revel?' I asked.
She looked at me strangely. 'This is the intensive-care
unit.'
'I know.'
She shook her head. 'We don't have anyone called Justin
here.'
'The gas-explosion victim?'
'Mary Doyle?'
'Mary Doyle?' I repeated the name as a question, not
understanding yet, but starting to see a chink opening up.
'That's right. The girl who was injured in the
explosion.'
That was all the news I needed. I thanked her and headed
back to the waiting room, trying, out of respect for poor
Mary Doyle's condition, not to be too joyful. I flashed on
the art students. There had been no boy with yellow hair
among them. But there had been one with a dyed-red thatch.


I opened one leaf of the double doors to the waiting
room, but stayed back in the corridor.
'Justin!' I shouted.
I scored on two counts. The red-haired boy reacted with
a jump, and gave a startled look in the direction my voice
had come from. And the other kids had all looked at him.
I went into the room with my warrant card out, and what
I hoped was my Good Cop facade in place.
'Justin Revel?' I asked, stopping in front of him.
He nodded, his expression a combination of confusion
and embarrassment at being singled out. He looked to his
friends for support, but they were caught up in the fascination
of a new tale unfolding.
'I need to ask you some questions about the accident.'
'I've already talked to some policemen about it,' Justin
protested meekly.
'Don't say anything without a lawyer, dude,' advised a
gangly guy with a tuft of blond hair under his lower lip,
and enough rings in his right ear to make it look like a
machine.
'Too much television,' I told him, flashing him a poisoned
look, before turning back to Justin. 'I really need to talk to
you,' I said, trying to project strength and trust.
Justin got up reluctantly and followed me out into the
corridor.
He was nervous. He wouldn't look me in the eye. His hair
was dyed emergency red and had been contrived to stick
up and out, as if styled to freeze the moment of jabbing his
fingers into an electrical socket. His complexion was pale,
the skin fine and freckled, his features still marching towards


adulthood. He was wearing a green-plaid heavy flannel shirt
over a lemon-yellow T-shirt, both of which clashed with his
hair and complexion, which was probably the desired effect.
'Did Mary Doyle live in your house?' I asked.
He looked at me uncomprehendingly.
'How come she's the one in intensive care?'
'She borrowed my keys.' He gestured back towards the
crowd in the waiting room. 'We were all out at a bar. We
were going to move on to Steve's place to ...' He cut himself
off, deciding that that information was best edited out of
the story. 'We weren't far from my place. Mary has a thing
about going to the toilet in bars. So she went to mine. She's
done it before.' He looked up at me for the first time. 'I
hadn't smelled any gas,' he said plaintively.
No, you wouldn't, I thought, because there was nothing
wrong with your system until someone deliberately fucked
it up. 'How long had you been out?' I asked.
He thought about it. 'Probably from about eleven o'clock
that morning. It was getting on for about 1 a.m. when Mary
went back to pee.' He'd answered my next question before
I'd asked it.
He hadn't been in the flat for over twelve hours. Plenty
of time for someone to establish and consolidate the
mechanics of the operation.
'Where are Mary's parents?' I asked, suddenly realizing
the absence.
'On their way back from Florida. They were on holiday.'
The poor guy was sick with worry and guilt.
Sadly, I wasn't going to be able to reassure him.
'It was meant for you.'


He nodded listlessly. 'I know. I should feel lucky. But I
just keep thinking about Mary.'
He hadn't got it. 'No, Justin-' I accentuated the words
very slowly, I needed him to climb on board now, to want
to get in under my wing and let me take over the controls
'it was deliberate. It really was for you.'
But first, he had to adjust to the craziness. That awful
things like this really did happen in this world. Even in
Hereford. His look went wild. He stared at me wide-eyed.
Trying to take this in. He shook his head. 'Who would ...?'
'That's what I'm hoping you might be able to tell me.'
Panic and concern were combining to form fear in his
face. For probably the first time ever his hairstyle matched
his expression.
T think this has to do with Evie Salmon's death.'
'Evie?'
'Yes, and by now, whoever did it knows he's screwed up,
that he got the wrong person.' I touched him gently on the
shoulder. It was important now to make physical contact,
let him know he had a prop. 'I need you to trust me. He
probably knows you're in here.' I saw the jolt as this news
hit him.
He looked instinctively back ;to where his friends were
sitting in the waiting room.
'No.' I shook my head. 'The less anyone else knows the
better.'


We used the ambulance bay at the rear, beyond the public
glare, where the damaged ones went in, and the dead ones
left. I instructed Justin to wait with a porter I had


commandeered to show me the way, while I went back to
fetch my car. I used a circuitous route as a precaution. But
I reckoned if he was watching anything, it would be the
main entrance to the hospital.
Unless there were two of them.
I bundled Justin into the rear seat-well and ordered him
to stay down and not move from there until I gave him the
all-clear. I had considered putting him in the boot for the
additional security, but reckoned that there was a risk of
him flipping. His emotional state was precarious. All this
new information, followed by the grave-like darkness of the
boot, and I could have ended up driving through Hereford
with him screaming and kicking the shit out of my boot
lid, which would not have made for an unobtrusive exit.
The porter watched me organize all this with a look of
mystification.
'I've been watching too much television,' I explained as
I drove off.
I took the Abergavenny road south-west out of Hereford.
It was going to be a long detour, but if I had a tail I wanted
them to settle in and get comfortable behind me before I
slipped in the sneaky move.
The weather was holding. The sky was still blue, a sense of
spring in the clarity of the light, a wonderful day to be out
for a drive in the country. The traffic was light, the cars behind
me were spread out and holding their positions, all bar one,
who was coming up the line, overtaking at every opportunity.
I let him come past me. A young guy in a hurry in an oldish
Audi A3. If he was trying some fancy footwork and attempting
to follow me from in front that was fine with me.


I came to the big roundabout at the end of the Abergavenny
bypass, drove around it at speed, and doubled back on
myself.
'Remember these,' I shouted back to Justin, and started
listing the make and colour of the cars in the opposite stream
of traffic. The cars that had been lined up behind me not
so long ago. I carried on until I reached the entrance to the
lane I had earmarked on the way down, and pulled into it.
It was screened from the main road, and, when I turned the
car around, I could watch the traffic going past.
I called out the description of the cars that went past for
Justin to tell me if they were on the list I had asked him to
memorize. I could remember them all myself, but I didn't
want to spoil his sense of involvement. I also wanted him
to start to feel that we were working as a team. I waited for
half an hour. None of the cars that had been behind me
drove past us.
I took to the country roads after that, up the Golden
Valley, sidling over towards Kington. I was pretty certain
that we weren't being followed, but as insurance I made
Justin stay down.
I pulled into a lay-by on the top of the ridge near Arthur's
Seat, with a spectacular view over the Wye Valley and the
Radnor hills to the north. I told Justin that it was now clear
for him to get out.
I stayed in the car while he walked around outside, trying
to stretch the kinks out of his muscles. I wanted him to
have this time to himself to let him get the sense that he
wasn't a captive, and that I was a good guy. I also wanted
to give him as much time as possible to clear the clog of


panic and dread from his system. The sort of thing that we
would have done in the old days with a quiet cigarette and
manly chugs at the hip flask.
He came back over and started to open the rear door. I
gestured for him to sit in the front.
'Okay?' I asked.
'Sort of.' He gave me a try-out smile.
'There's lots and lots of stuff you're going to want to ask
me,' I warned him, 'but I don't have time to answer it all at
the moment. Let's just start by saying that I'm taking you to
a place of safety, and then please let me ask the questions.'
'Where are you taking me?'
'A good friend's.' I held my hands up at him, palms out.
'Now, remember the deal?'
'You want to talk about Evie?'
'About you and Evie.' I looked at him for a moment. 'What
age are you?'
The question surprised him. 'Twenty.'
I nodded, my hunch confirmed. 'Evie was three years
older than you. How come you came to be friends?'
'My sister, Camilla. She was Evie's friend at school. They
let me hang around with them. When Camilla left home
after sixth form, Evie and I sort of stuck together.' He saw
my next question forming. 'Just as mates,' he clarified with
a small laugh.
'You didn't have your own friends?'
He smiled unselfconsciously. 'Most of the kids I went to
school with thought I was a bit weird. A bit too out-there
for Dinas. Evie was sort of in the same boat, so, by default,
we hung out.'


'Your sister left, why didn't Evie?'
He shrugged. 'Evie and I shared a problem. We both felt
we were better than the place our parents had dumped us
in, which was another thing that kept us together, but . . .'
He searched for the words.
I took a guess. 'You weren't sure you could hack it in the
bigger world?'
He nodded and grinned ruefully. 'We kept trying.'
I remembered Evie's father telling me of her hitchhiking
exploits. 'You persuaded Evie?'
'It was mutual support. We'd get somewhere, try to hang
out where the other kids were, but we never seemed to fit
in. We felt uncomfortable. We thought that we had the
attitude, that we knew the jargon, the right music, but it
was untried and untested. At the end of the day, we felt we
were walking around with big Day-Glo hick signs on our
backs.'
'But you didn't stay in Dinas, you went to art college.'
'I guess I grew up a little bit more. I realized you couldn't
learn everything off the Internet, you had to get out and
put your toes in the water, and keep them there. That was
our problem before. We ran back to Dinas as soon as things
got scary.'
'And Evie left too?'
'It was after I'd gone to Hereford.'
'Do you know where she went?'
He pulled an apologetic face. 'No, I'm sorry. Not if you're
looking for an address. I only know where she used to talk
about while we were still in contact.'
'Which was where?'


'Swansea, the Gower Peninsula.' He shrugged. 'It's a big
area.'
'Why there?'
'It's where the guy she'd met had a place.'
I felt the focus sliding into place. 'Tell me about him.'
'She wasn't allowed to talk about him. That's exactly what
she said to me. She wasn't allowed. Like he'd laid down
rules. Oh, she talked about how fantastic and wonderful he
was, and how well he treated her, and how confident he
made her feel, but she wouldn't tell me anything real.' He
thought about it for a moment. 'And I think she got a buzz
out of that. Teasing me with her strong, silent lover. Like I
had got my life in Hereford by that time, and she was telling
me that she had found her way out too.'
'Do you know how they met?'
He shook his head. 'No.' But he was frowning.
'What's the matter?'
T don't know whether it was actually some new guy she
met. I got the impression that it could have been someone
she already knew, but something had happened to change
the basis of the relationship.'
'What did Evie do on her Saturdays?'
He looked at me quizzically. 'Pardon?'
'She told her father that she was working at the Barn
Gallery for the Fenwicks. They deny it, but she was still
coming home with a wad of cash.'
He thought about it. 'You know Gerald Evans?'
I felt a rewarding flutter in my stomach. I nodded.
'Evie used to help out with his wife's horses. She told
me that he came up to her once and said not to mention


this to his wife, but he and some friends had a little private
gambling club they ran on the side. Just for the fun of it.
They called it Grass Vegas, which they seemed to think
was a real hoot, which tells you what kind of losers they
were. Anyway, he asked Evie if she fancied doing a bit of
hostess stuff for them. Had to dress-up in a skimpy
costume, pad out her tits and wear fishnet tights, while
she spun the little roulette wheel, or walked around with
a silver tray offering lines of coke. She hated it, but the
money was good.'
'Did they come on to her?'
'A few of them tried it, but she let them know that she
wasn't going to do any kind of deed with guys with turkey
necks or nose hairs. None of them pushed it, she said,
because they were all terrified of their wives finding out
about the club.'
Gerald Evans again. Justin had just provided me with the
equivalent of a big pipe wrench to dent that smug bastard's
boiler-plated self-assurance.
"What about Clive Fenwick, did she ever talk about him?'
'She said the women at the Barn Gallery were total bitches.
She thought one of the husband's was nice, though, but I
don't remember which one.'
'What about Greg Thomas or Trevor Home?'
He pulled a blank face. T don't remember those names.'
I looked out of the windscreen at the Wye Valley spread
out below me. At one point I had thought that we were
honing in on something, tightening the focus, but now we
were back out here on panoramic view, with a whole new
geographic area thrown in.
Poor Mary Doyle. What Justin had given me couldn't come
close to compensating her for being virtually flash-fried.
Okay, I had Grass Vegas, and the existence of Evie's lover
confirmed, and living around Swansea or the Gower two
years ago. But without anything more specific, I wasn't going
to allow myself to get too excited about it. And, much as I
hated to admit it, Gerald Evans was looking less and less
likely to be the prime mover here.
The only comforting thing was that the opposition probably
weren't aware of how little Justin knew. They hadn't realized
how rigidly Evie had stuck to the rules of disclosure they had
laid down for her. And now that I had disappeared Justin, I
was hoping that they were going to start getting twitchy.
But the spread had got too big for me. Driving around
Swansea and the Gower with a photograph of Evie was not
an option. Kevin Fletcher had to be told that he was going
to have to widen his operations base. He wasn't going to
like it. Especially coming from me.
My call caught him on a late lunch. That old familiar
ripple of conversations and the steady tinkle of glass in the
background. I kept the story simple - no point in mentioning
gas explosions whose cause I couldn't prove at this stage.
'Swansea, he said?'
'Swansea area. Nothing ever got pinpointed.'
'And this was all before she left home? Nothing to prove
that she actually went there?'
'Yes, boss.'
'And what am I supposed to do with this? Move my
operation out of Newport? Dip into the coffers and set up
a new team in Swansea?'


'I don't know, boss.'
'Hold on.'
That was the short phrase of doom. It meant he was about
to consult with someone. And if he was deferring to that
person's opinion, I didn't need more than one attempt at
guessing who he was at lunch with.
'Capaldi!' I winced as Jack Galbraith's voice boomed out.
'I instructed you to investigate Evie Salmon's background,
not to fucking abduct her boyfriends.'
'Sir?'
"We've had a complaint through our cdmpadres in
Hereford. I quote, "A scary-looking cop took our mate away.'"
Scary? My Good Cop facade obviously hadn't had time
to set properly.
'He's with me, sir. I needed to question him.'
'Why remove him?'
I closed my eyes, counted a beat, and went for it. 'I think
he needs protection. There was a gas explosion at his flat.
I think he might have been the target.' I kept my eyes closed.
'And who would target him?' he asked very slowly.
I saw the minefield opening up ahead of me. 'Someone
who's trying to confuse the investigation, sir?' I suggested
humbly.
'Did Bruno Gilbert look like a man who would inspire a
following?'
'No, sir.'
'And Bruno Gilbert is dead. Right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So drop this fucking nonsense. We'll do a fine trawl
through Gilbert's background and see if there's any


connection with Swansea. But if I hear another peep about
you still chasing after a live perp, you are off this fucking
case. And one more thing.'
'Yes, sir?' It was time to open my eyes again.
'Take that kid back to where he wants to go.'
I closed the connection and looked over at Justin. He
smiled sympathetically. Jack Galbraith's voice carries. 'Where
do you want to go?' I asked.
'I thought you were taking me somewhere safe?'
'Right answer.'
I drove on to Mackay's, an old farmhouse called Hen
Dolmen on the English side of the Radnorshire border. It
was an oak-framed house with a Victorian extension in
mellow brick, which hunkered down under a moss-covered
stone-tiled roof. It was a clutter of gables, dormer windows
and massive stone chimneys, a collection of wonderfully
restless elevations.
This, I had decided after my first visit, was the house that
I wished I had been born in. Two hundred years ago. Life
might have been harsher, but it would have been a hell of
a sight less complicated.
I had called ahead. Mackay had been expecting me. He
made me tea in the big-beamed kitchen, while Boyce, the
scary ex-army buddy who helped him run his corporateinitiative-training
enterprise, showed Justin to his room.
I sat at the big square limed-oak table in front of the
Rayburn and squinted at the low evening sun streaming in
through the window, dust motes jigging like live gnats.
'Thanks for this, Mac,' I said.
He raised his mug in salute. 'No problem.' His Scottish


accent had softened from years of having to slow his speech
down to be understood.
'How do you reckon they worked it?' I asked.
He didn't have to ponder, which was slightly disturbing.
'Pilot light off, for starters. Then they run the cooker-ring
taps full-on to get the gas-air mix up to the right proportions.
After that it's just a question of keeping that balance
going. A little nick in the feed supply, some compensatory
ventilation, and then they rig-up a spark device that's
going to be triggered by the door opening.' He clapped
his hands together, then threw his arms out into wide
arcs, like a physicist explaining the big-bang theory.
'Whatever they used, it's going to be blown the fuck to
kingdom come when that mother goes up and become
untraceable.'
'How come no one smelled it?'
He shrugged. 'Student accommodation. Rancid Central.
Curries, pizzas, last year's dishes still piled in the sink. And
they probably laid a light seal at the bottom of the front
door. A damp tea towel? Something that's not going to
look out of place in a burned-out messy flat, but not
something that's going to jam the door when they try
opening it.'
'Does this narrow things down for me?'
'Like?'
'Am I looking for an expert? Someone trained in sabotage
techniques?'
'It sounds like whoever rigged it knew what they were
doing.' He pulled a face. 'But that doesn't mean it's the guy
you're looking for. These people are out there for hire.'


'So it doesn't necessarily point me at soldiers?'
He shook his head regretfully.
'Talking about soldiers, has anything more come up about
Greg Thomas's breakdown?'
'Sorry, medical records are a bit hard to access. I've talked
to some guys I worked with over there, and they're spreading
the word. But those were interesting times in that part of
the world.' He chuckled grimly at the memory. 'Somehow,
we had a lot better things to occupy us than worrying about
a guy in communications who was buying his ticket to the
funny farm.'
'His fiancee died about the same time.'
'How?'
'Some kind of an accident.' It suddenly hit me. I had never
asked how Rose Jones had died. It had been fifteen years
ago, and I had just assumed that it had lain outside the
frame of reference.
'You okay?'
I returned to the planet to see Mackay watching me with
some concern. I nodded. 'Can you get back to your guys
and give them another bit of information. See if the name
Rose Jones does anything.'
'Okay.' He nodded carefully, but still hadn't taken his eyes
off of me. 'Do you want me to come to Dinas with you and
watch your back?'
It was tempting.
One way forward would be to create a crisis and send
Mackay running in through the front door, guns blazing,
so I could be there to net whoever came flying out through
the back door.


4.





Only two problems there. What crisis? And whose front
door?

Regretfully, I declined his offer.







































It was dark when I got back to Dinas. The fine day had left
its legacy in a clear night, with stars already visible; probably
a few planets up there, too, if I knew where to look. I knew
enough of the lore by now to recognize that there would
be a frost in the morning. Unit 13 would become the home
for all the stray condensation in the neighbourhood once
again.
The Audi TT and the Porsche Cayenne were parked out
in front, but the lights were out in the Barn Gallery. The
steps up to the house were illuminated by small bulkhead
lights set in the stone treads, and a motion-activated security
light came on as I approached the front door. I had already
clocked the CCTV cameras on a previous visit, so I knew
that my arrival was not going to be a secret.
But Gloria still played along with the game.
'Glyn!' she announced. 'What a nice surprise. Come on
in.'


The hall floor was deep-blue polished slate with a redand-yellow-ochre
Persian rug, and an open-tread oak staircase
leading up to a gallery with a green-tinted glass
balustrade. The interior of the house had obviously been
scooped out and remodelled, the original rustic Welsh
replaced by architectural chic.
'I hope this is social.'
I pulled a rueful face. 'Business, I'm afraid. And I'm sorry
to call so late, but I need to talk to your brother-in-law.'
She didn't drop the happy-hostess face, but a small spark
of curiosity jumped in her eyes. Til put you in the study
and go and see how he's fixed.'
She opened one of the matching oak doors off the hall,
switched on a light, and stood aside to let me enter. 'What's
your schedule for after?' she asked in a quieter voice.
I shook my head regretfully. 'Catching up on
paperwork.'
'If you change your mind . . .' She brushed the back of
my hand with hers, and replicated the invitation in her
expression as she left.
What would I have seen in a mirror if I had looked then?
What had changed in the last few days to make me
desirable?
I didn't have time to look around for a mirror. Clive
Fenwick emerged from the door on the opposite side of the
hall, and approached carrying a heavy glass tumbler of ice
murdered whisky, to signal that this was an interruption.
He had the meticulous scrutinizing squint of a VAT
inspector or a serious bridge player, and his tight and slender
build proclaimed that there was more to his recreational


activities than just playing golf. Squash? Tennis? Something
that he would make sure that he was good at.
He was of medium height, with male-pattern baldness,
the remaining hair on the side of his head close-cropped
and allowing the first of the grey to show. I put him in his
late forties, early fifties. An oval face, smooth features, small
frameless glasses, thin lips and no smile. His clothes were
restrained designer label.
'Thank you for agreeing to see me.' I started to offer my
hand, but an instinct told me that he would only make a
virtue out of ignoring it.
'Can you show me your identity, please, Sergeant?' There
was a chill of superiority in the request.
I produced my warrant card. Do whatever the customer
requires, I told myself.
'Thank you.' He nodded curtly. 'The women never inspect
these things properly.' He stared at me impatiently, no
attempt to put me at my ease.
'How well did you know Evie Salmon, Mr Fenwick?'
'She was the young woman whose body you found. She also
used to pester my wife and Gloria for a job.' He smiled snidely.
'Which part of that weren't you expecting me to answer?'
'The question was how well you knew her.'
It caught him off guard for a beat. 'And why has this
question been raised?'
The clever bastard had parried me. I had wanted him to
deny knowing her. I had wanted to trump this cold fucker
with my big card. 'We have a witness who claims that you
may be the last person she was in contact with in Dinas on
the day she left.'


He frowned. 'Left?'
'She left home two years ago.'
He gave me a look of astonishment. 'I'm supposed to
know this? And you seriously expect me to remember what
I was doing in Dinas two years ago?'
'She was seen approaching your car.'
He raised his head and spread his hands in a give-me
strength gesture. 'And on the basis of that, you've come round
here two years later, not just interrupting me, but with a
latent threat.'
'There was no threat, Mr Fenwick.'
He ignored me. 'Just because some young woman, who
I've never met, was seen near my car, I'm hauled in as the
last person to see her.' He fixed me with a cold, angry glare.
'And all because I have a distinctive car. I think that you've
allowed yourself to be hijacked by the politics of envy,
Sergeant.'
'You never met Evie Salmon?' I kept my own anger in
check.
He dipped his head. 'That's what I've just said. She may
have been seen approaching my car, but that coincidence is
as far as the connection goes. Isabel and Gloria can corroborate
the fact that neither my brother Derek nor I ever met
her.' His eyes bored into me again from behind his glasses,
and I caught a glint of hostile amusement in them. 'And if
you want to ask them, it would imply that you don't believe
me.'
'That won't be necessary, Mr Fenwick.' I forced myself to
keep crawling. 'And once again, I apologize for the
intrusion.'


I asked to say goodbye to Gloria. He made a point of
ushering me out of the study and closing the door, before
brusquely instructing me to wait in the hall. Gloria came
out with a smile on her face that was trying hard not to
upgrade to a smirk.
'Changed your mind?' she asked cockily.
I shook my head. 'Sorry, the paperworks still waiting for
me.' I inclined my head towards the door that Clive had
gone through. 'What does he drink?'
She pulled a quizzical frown.
'Was that whisky?'
'I think so. Horrible stuff, I don't touch it.'
'Could you find out for me, please?' I asked nicely. I was
just about to leave when I remembered something else, and
turned on the threshold. 'Swansea.'
She frowned, puzzled. 'What about it?'
'You don't have a holiday home down there as well, do
you?'
She shook her head. 'No. But Clive and Derek keep a boat
down at the Mumbles. That's near there, I think?'
'You don't go there?'
'No, Isabel and I keep well away. All that nasty, cold, wet
water.'
The Mumbles. The Gower Peninsula. A geographical
bull's-eye. But I hadn't been able to shake him up on the
Evie front.


Clive Fenwick was good. He was a gold-medal Olympic
eventer in stonewalling.
But was he lying? He was supremely confident that the


Fenwick women would back up his claim that he didn't
know Evie. But that was just common sense. If he was
screwing around he wouldn't have broadcast it to his wife
or his sister-in-law. And he could have met her independently.
Or seen her hanging around from afar and decided
that she was just the right ripe young ticket to set up in a
fuck pad. To share with his brother?
Near where they kept their boat? The environs of Swansea
and the Gower Peninsula, where Evie had told Justin the
love of her life was located.
Because an insecure and impressionable young woman
like Evie could easily have mistaken his nasty, domineering
arrogance for supreme confidence and control. She didn't
have the same experience of life's shits that I'd had, so where
I saw self-centred boorishness, she might have read elan and
urbanity.
I glanced over at the lights of the Activity Centre at Fron
Heulog. They bordered Bruno's land. And Rose, Greg's fiancee's
death was now nagging me. But Greg was another one
who had claimed no knowledge of Evie.
I closed my eyes tightly to redirect my concentration.
Because this wasn't just about Evie. I had to keep reminding
myself about that. Although perhaps she hadn't just been
thrown into the pot at random to confuse us. Maybe her
murder had been more expedient than that. A passion gone
sour? But what was the possible connection with any of
these people to the other three bodies?
Where was I going to find the crisis to smoke the bastard
out with?
Or could I be circling the wrong tree? Was my guy someone


who wasn't even on my radar? I didn't want to consider that
one. But this was getting depressing. Finding myself coming
up short every time I thought I was about to get an answer.
My phone beeped at the bottom of the Barn Gallery drive
to let me know I had received a text message.
When you're finished chasing married women, come and
buy me a drink at The Fleece. Tx.
I smiled. From the tone it looked like I might have been
forgiven. My mood tilted up the graph. If I was somehow
in the middle of a desirability phase, secreting pheromones
like a musk ox, then I may as well try to capitalize on it.


Tessa was sitting on her own with a tablet computer and a
glass of white wine on the table in front of her. She looked
up at me with a smile set for chagrin. 'I'm so, so sorry, Glyn.
I shouldn't have taken it out on you.'
'It's okay, you were upset.'
'And a real bitch.' She winced theatrically. 'And to think
that I had been giving you the relationship third degree.'
'As I said, it's okay' I sat down.
'Thanks.' She leaned over and squeezed my hand briefly,
then cocked her head and made a show of scrutinizing me
from a number of different angles.
'What are you doing?' I asked.
'Checking for signs of exhaustion.'
'Concerned that I might be overworking?'
She grinned. 'No, shagged out.' She saw the question pop
up in my face. "We saw your car in the driveway at the Barn
Gallery when we came past.'
I held up my right hand. 'Strictly business, Scouts' honour.'


'Grrr . . .' She reached out a clawed hand and made a
pantomime show of raking my face. 'But seriously, what do
you make of that outfit?'
'What do you mean?'
'How can they make any money?'
'I think they're in a different league from us, Dr MacLean.
I don't think they have to make any money.'
She pondered that. 'How's your case coming on?'
'If I said "slowly", that would imply some sort of progress.
In terms of movement, think pogo stick. I keep bouncing
back to the point I've just left.'
'As bad as that?'
I nodded.
'You need a holiday,' she instructed.
I spread my arms wide. 'People come here for their
holidays.'
'Wouldn't you rather be in Italy?'
A lot of people asked me that. I gave her my stock answer.
'One day, I'll spend some serious time there.'
She looked surprised. 'You don't go back?'
'We only ever went there a few times when we were kids.
Travelling wasn't so easy then, and my parents couldn't
afford it.' I looked at her apologetically. 'And I have to confess
that I didn't really like it.'
'Shame on you.'
'The food was strange, I couldn't understand the language,
and the local bad boys used to beat me up in an attempt
to impress my sister.'
She laughed.
I couldn't bring myself to tell her that it got even less


exotic. Summer holidays used to be a caravan at Borth. That
memory took me off on a tangent. The couple of really
wonderful summers we had spent with the Scottish branch
of the Capaldi clan on Great Cumbrae island in the Firth
of Clyde. Where someone's uncle had a boat, and I got to
hang out with the wild Mackay cousins who used to be able
to start the engine with a carved iced-lolly stick.
'You look happier,' she said, breaking into the memory.
'I'm sorry, I was miles away.'
She gave me a concerned look. 'You're tired.' She inclined
her head to the side. I followed her line of sight and saw
two of her charges playing pool. 'I'd invite you back for
cocoa, but I'm in Mother Hen mode again tonight.'
When I left The Fleece a little later and alone I picked up
a text message from Gloria. It informed me that Clive drank
Jim Beam.
Philistine.
It was only when I was nearly home that the thought
came to me. It was strong enough to make me turn back.
I drove past Pen Twyn and the Barn Gallery, and turned
around to come back the other way. The way that Tessa
would have come.
Even going slowly, with my headlights on full beam, I
couldn't pick out the parking area in front of the Barn Gallery.


Tessa had lied to me. And why had she changed so abruptly
from the Ice Queen one minute, banishing me from her
kingdom, to the Sister of Mercy stroking my wearied brow
the next? This had to be more than just the normal strangeness
of women's ways.


Nothing was making sense. There were too many mysteries.
And it was literally freezing in Unit 13. I turned the
gas fire up full, wrapped myself in a blanket, sat down
on the banquette seat and stared at the map of the wind
farm site pinned to the opposite wall. This was becoming
a habit.
Talk to me, I urged it.
Tessa had been right. I was tired. But underneath that, I
felt a buzz. An excitement. Something was taking shape. I
couldn't put form to it yet, or resolve anything, I just had
to be patient and wait for it to surface.
I reviewed what I had.
My hunch was still telling me that Gerald Evans probably
had nothing to do with the bodies on the hill. But he had
lied to me. 'Grass Vegas' meant he had got closer to Evie
than he had admitted. He was a conduit to her other life,
and I now had leverage on him.
Clive Fenwick claimed to have no knowledge of Evie. But
he had the right geography. His boat at the Mumbles put
him in the territory.
Greg Thomas was another one who denied knowing
Evie. Could there be a connection between her and his
dead fiancee? Although there was that huge dilemma.
Something like eight years between her death and the first
burial. If the killings and burials constituted a memorial
dedicated to Rose, why had there been such a long delay
in crafting it?
And, while I was making lists, Owen Jones had seemed
more-than-naturally close to his sister. Her death would also
have affected him badly. But he was in Africa.


It was so cold the next morning that I woke to find that my
breath had turned to ice on the window. I dressed in my
clothes and blanket and wiped a patch clear on the window.
The frost on the grass a trapped white shimmer, but a pure
blue sky with the promise of early spring sunshine.
Nature had waited until the day of Evie's funeral to pour
its grace down on her.
I had time before Mackay delivered Justin to me. I drove
over to the police house where I found Emrys Hughes
watching Friel wash their car.
'We're busy, Capaldi,' Emrys greeted me fondly.
'I need to talk to you.'
'You're disturbing our concentration.'
'Emrys, Emrys . . .' I declaimed expansively. 'You should
know better by now. I'm just going to hang around and
pester you until you break.'
He gave up. 'Okay, whatever it takes to get rid of you,' he
said crossly.
'Rose Jones, Owen's sister, Greg Thomas's fiancee.'
'She's dead and buried, Capaldi. Leave the poor girl in peace.'
'Humour me.'
T told you before, we're going back about fifteen years
there.'
'How did she die?'
'It was a tragic accident.'
'Most of them are. Can you be more specific?'
'She went to visit Greg, while he was still in the army. Where
he was stationed. There was some kind of an incident. I can't
remember the details. I told you, it was a long time ago.'
'Just give me the broad-brush outline.'


'She was accidentally shot.'
An internal alarm went off. 'Did he take her onto a firing
range?'
'No, I told you, it was where he was stationed,' he repeated
impatiently, 'Northern Ireland. During the Troubles. It was
a bullet ricochet or something like that. A chance happening,
wrong place, wrong time. She was a real sweet girl, and they
made a wonderful couple. Greg was devastated. So was
Owen, but he was the rock who helped him and the rest of
the family pull through.'
I turned away from him. I needed to be totally still for a
moment.
I turned back. 'Where did Greg go? After he left the army?
Before he and the Homes opened the activity centre?'
He shrugged. 'Don't know. He came back on occasions,
to check up on Fron Heulog. He and Rose were going to
live there. He wasn't much of a conversationalist after that.
You know, unapproachable.'
How did this change things? I asked myself as I drove
back to Unit 13. It gave me Greg Thomas as a suspect and
revenge as a motive. But revenge on whom?
Who had paid the bride price?


Justin had insisted on coming to Evie's funeral. I didn't try
too hard to dissuade him. Funerals are strange and emotional
things, and close observance can sometimes pick up useful
underlying ripples of disturbance. I wanted to gauge reactions
there when people saw Justin.
But I also wanted him returned to safety. So I had arranged
for Mackay to bring him to Unit 13.


When they arrived I pulled Mackay to the side. 'Thanks
for bringing him.'
'That's okay. He's a nice kid. Boyce and I are enjoying his
company.'
'Greg Thomas.'
'What about him?'
'His fiancee Rose was shot in Northern Ireland. There
was some sort of incident and she got caught in the crossfire.
I need to know what happened, Mac, I need the details.' He
turned away from me. When he turned back I saw it in his
eyes. 'You already knew?'
He shook his head, but it wasn't a denial. 'Only the bare
bones, there's no real substance to it yet.'
'What do you mean?' His reticence was scaring me.
'I've been warned off.'
'Officially?'
'No, informally. It turns out that I know some guys who
were involved, and they're advising me to back off.'
'Is that it? Is that as far as we can go?'
He smiled. 'No. I'm just warning you, I'm going to have
to make some promises. There's going to have to be total
deniability'
'Whatever you have to do.'
I got Justin into the car. I tried to suppress what Mackay
had just told me. There was no point in speculating until I
had more details.
'How are you feeling?' I asked Justin as we drove to St Peter's
in Dinas. We were early. I wanted to be there to see everyone arrive.
'A bit creeped out,' he admitted, T don't know what to do
at something like this.'


'Just keep looking glum,' I advised.
'Evie and I used to talk about having a green burial. They
do them in the woods now in some places. Plant a tree over
you. She wanted a cardboard coffin.'
Typical, I thought, she wouldn't tell him about her
boyfriend, the guy who had probably killed her, but she'd
chatter on about how she wanted to be packaged after she's
dead. Because they were too young to believe that it could
ever happen to them.
'Do you think I should tell them?'
'Pardon?' I'd missed the gist of what he'd just said.
'Her parents. Do you think I should tell them what her
wishes were?'
I turned to park in front of the church. The empty hearse
was stationed outside. I pictured the coffin in the nave, the
flowers, the printed order of service, the rented vicar. I
turned to him with as gentle a smile as I could manage. T
wouldn't. I think the ball's rolled on a bit too far now.'
The Salmons turned up separately, each with their own
contingent. They both looked gaunt and broken, and their
formal outfits made them look like they had been dressed
in donated clothes by institutions that had only just released
them. Mr Salmon made a move towards his wife, but she
turned her back on him and rested her head on a friend's
shoulder. While her fate remained unknown, the absent Evie
had been the tenuous glue of their marriage; now that they
knew she was never coming home, the entire DNA of the
thing had collapsed irretrievably.
Kevin Fletcher arrived, immaculate in a black overcoat
and holding leather gloves that looked like de-boned


puppies. He would have made a good undertaker. If he
hadn't been secure in his conviction that we already had
our guy, I would have suspected him of being there for
the same reasons as me. So this must have been pure PR.
He had brought a couple of uniforms along with him to
dance attendance and identify him as the head honcho.
He called me over. I told Justin to stay in full view of
everyone and not to talk to strangers.
'Who's the strange-looking kid?' Fletcher asked.
'That's Justin Revel, Evie's friend.'
He scowled. 'I thought we told you to take him home?'
'No,' I corrected him with a smile, 'DCS Galbraith told
me to take him where he wanted to go. Justin told me he
wanted to attend his friend's funeral.'
He scrutinized me warily. 'I hope you're not trying to
work something here?'
'Like what, boss?'
He nodded towards the Salmons. 'This is all about the
fucking family, Capaldi,' he said out of the corner of his
mouth, while flashing one of his trademark brown-nosing
smiles at a smart-looking elderly woman. 'I don't want
you hijacking the occasion for your own private agenda.
It makes us look like we haven't got any feelings.'
'No one could accuse you of that, boss.'
I slipped back to Justin before he could work out
whether I was being disrespectful.
A lot of townspeople came to pay their respects. A few
farmers I recognized, including the Joneses from Cogfryn.
Jeff and Tessa turned up with Tessa's helpers, all dressed
up as best they could, given that they were living in the


equivalent of a shanty town. Tessa managed to signal a
small private greeting. Gloria and Isabel arrived, but no
Clive. Gloria's private greeting wasn't so private. And no
one from Fron Heulog.
'Recognize many people here?' I asked Justin. I was
disappointed. I was only getting the usual reactions of
open curiosity and mild reproach I would have expected
from a rural community to a slightly weird urban youth
in their midst. No expressions laden with obvious guilt
or anguish.
He shrugged. 'A few faces I remember. No one stands
out.'
'No one that Evie ever pointed out to you?'
He shook his head.
I grabbed his arm. 'What about them?' I had just caught
sight of Gerald Evans and his wife crossing the square
towards the lych gate.
'I saw her a couple of times when I biked over to see
Evie. And he's the one I told you about, the dude who
offered her the hostess gig.'
They had to walk past us to get inside the church. Evans
started to stare me out. It was pure macho bullshit, I had
expected it. I raised a finger and moved it in slow-motion
to close one nostril, and then gave a loud and exaggerated
sniff. His face went quizzical, he hadn't understood my
gesticulations. But his wife had noticed. I saw him incline
his head to listen to her. He shook his head. He half turned
and shot me a filthy look.
He still hadn't connected.
I air-snorted a line of coke again.


All I can think is that this was the moment when his wife
told him who Justin was. Because when he turned round
again his face had blanched.
The connection had hit home hard.


He knew that I was staring at the back of his head throughout
the service. It was probably one of the rare occasions that
he wished that he wasn't such a big bastard. I was making
him anxious. But he didn't dare turn round. It was all there
in the nervous gestures, scratching his ears, the finger down
the back of the collar or researching the incipient bald spot.
I got Justin out of the church fast. Most of the crowd
would be dispersing, only the hard core of relatives taking
the long drive to the crematorium. I wanted to get away
before Evans emerged. I wanted to keep him squirming.
Because I now realized that that was the only punishment
that I was going to be able to inflict on him. Because I had
just had my confirmation that it couldn't have been him.
He hadn't recognized Justin.
Which meant that he couldn't have been the one who
had been trying to eliminate him. Because he would have
to have known what the guy he wanted vaporised looked
like.
I took the call on hands-free on the way back to Unit 13
to deliver Justin to Mackay. I had been expecting it.
'Sergeant Capaldi, it's Gerald Evans.'
'How did you get this number?'
'From Emrys Hughes.'
'Have you been complaining again?'
'No,' he protested contritely. It was almost as if I had


accused him of being a very naughty boy. 'I think we need
to talk.'
'Which you'd rather not do in front of your wife?' I
suggested.
In front of anything remotely sentient, as it turned out.
He asked me to meet him at a defunct out-of-town Baptist
chapel. I was deliberately ten minutes late. His Land Rover
Discovery was parked on the grass verge. He was waiting
for me in the small walled graveyard that was bisected by
the path to the chapel's front door. He looked like he had
been pacing.
That restless energy was still in evidence. He was not used
to dealing with anxiety. It was fucking up his normal powerand-anger
response to situations. I would have to be careful
with this guy. Constraint and containment were not among
his more-developed social skills.
But I was determined to get in at least one figurative
punch to the nose before I had to dance off. 'Grass Vegas.'
He tried out a coy smile. 'What about it?'
'You fucked up, Gerald.'
He flared, savoured the anger for a moment, before having
to deflate. 'It wasn't just me,' he whined.
'You led me down the garden path with Evie.'
'What did she tell that weird kid?'
I winged it. 'All about the drugs and the illegal gambling.'
'The gambling wasn't illegal,' he protested righteously. Tt
was a private house.'
'What about the coke?'
He smiled warily. 'You can't prove anything.'
I smiled back. 'I don't have to. I just have to turn up at


your house to question you about it in front of your wife.
Then I leave you to do the explaining.'
'You bastard.'
'You should have used bald dwarves.'
'What the fuck are you talking about?'
'If you were aiming for elegant decadence. You should
have had dwarves walking around with the lines of coke on
the top of their heads. A young woman in a padded-out
bustier and fishnet tights is really passe.'
'What do you want?'
'Who was involved?'
It was him and three golf-club and shooting cronies, he
told me. I took down the names. The venue was the safe
male sanctum of a basement play-room in the house of a
recently divorced founder member.
'Why did you hire Evie Salmon?'
'Just to brighten the place up. You know, give it a touch
of sparkle.'
'What happened to her?'
He pulled a face. 'She stopped coming. She just gave up.'
'Did she give you a reason?'
'She said that she'd met someone who wasn't happy about
what she was doing.'
'Did she say who it was?'
He shook his head. 'No.'
'Could it have been one of the members?'
'Not one of the regulars. We would all have known.'
'When did she stop?'
He thought about it. 'Roughly six months before she went
away.'


But according to her father she had never given up her
Saturday work. So, if he was telling the truth, whoever she
had met had being paying her to keep up the pretence. Once
again I had come up against that wall. What was it about
this relationship that it had to be kept so secret? She hadn't
even been able to tell her best friend. Hell, I reminded myself,
Justin was her only friend.
The significance of something else he had just mentioned
clicked into place. 'You said "regulars". Were there more than
the four of you?'
'Occasionally we'd invite selected guests along.'
It didn't take much imagination to envisage the hypocritical
self-important pricks that made up their social circle.
I had a sudden spark on someone who fitted that
definition.
'Was Clive Fenwick one?'
'And his brother, Derek.'
'I want a list of the names. All the ones you invited while
Evie was working there.'
'This is going to come out like an anonymous tip-off,
isn't it? You're not going to drop me in it?' The bastard was
grinning at me. He thought we had fucking bonded.
I made a noncommittal grunt and pretended to be deep
in thought. I was no further down the road with the identity
of Evie's lover, but I was a happier man. I now had the
mean§ of putting Clive Fenwick's balls into the vice.







I let Evans drive away and leave me at the chapel.
I needed to force myself to reflect, and communing with
a load of dead Baptists seemed as good a way as any of
chopping my seething thought processes into more manageable
bits.
It also kept me in check. I had had one bruising encounter
with Clive Fenwick, and I needed to make sure that I was
in the driving seat next time we met. Which meant not
going in half cocked and riding on pure emotion, because
he was the sort of tricky bastard to come out of left field
and unseat me.
But first of all I needed to let Kevin Fletcher know about
Grass Vegas. He would be dismissive - it was located in Dinas,
therefore it didn't connect with his agenda, but if I didn't raise
it I could be in real trouble if it came back to haunt us later.
As well as the four founding members, Evans had given
me the names of the guests who had been invited while Evie


was still in attendance. These included the Fenwick brothers,
a couple of big land agents, three auctioneers, a solicitor
from Shrewsbury, an accountant from Chester, and a big
time local chicken farmer. There were some pretty powerful
people in there, and I needed clearance to go after them.
He heard me out. 'He definitely didn't say anything about
Bruno Gilbert being a member of this club?' he asked.
'Definitely, boss.' I didn't like to tell him that the only
invitation Evans and his ilk would have extended to Bruno
was as a stand-in for a rugby ball.
'It is historical.' He was musing. 'And there's no way we
could tie them in to dope without a live raid, and that is
not going to be any kind of priority given the budget situation,
and the type of citizen involved.'
'What do you want me to do, boss? We have established
a relationship between Evie and these men.'
'Historical, though, as I said. And their geography's all
wrong. But I suppose we could tackle them, see if there's
any way we can connect Gilbert to Evie through them. They
may have said something about her in front of him that set
his juices running.'
He seemed to have an idea of Bruno as some kind of
social gadfly, flitting around garden parties overhearing
conversations. I didn't contradict him. I didn't want him to
rescind my license to go forth and harry Clive Fenwick.


It may sound hokey, but there is a phantom within certain
ringtones that lets you know that bad news is arriving, even
before you've answered it. This was one of them. My first
thought was Justin.


'Sergeant Capaldi, something terrible has happened.
You've got to get over here immediately.' Her voice was
anguished, bordering on hysteria, and I only just made out
that it was Valerie Horne.
'Can you slow down, please, Mrs Horne?' But she was
gone.
With no explanation I just had my imagination to work
with as I drove fast to Fron Heulog.
Was it some sort of admission from Greg Thomas? Could
he finally have realized that he was running out of twists
and turns and hung himself from the new climbing frame?
I drove reluctantly past the entrance to the Barn Gallery.
But Clive Fenwick's reprieve was only going to be shortlived,
I hoped.
The security gate was open at the activity centre so I drove
straight in. There was an air of desertion about the place
as I went up the entrance drive. No clusters of sulky kids
suffering cold turkey due to shop-window and diesel-partic
ulate deprivation.
Was that it? The cause of her panic? Had Emrys Hughes's
ultimate nightmare come to pass? Had there been a mass
breakout? Were Dinas and the surrounding countryside
about to be ravaged by packs of wild gangsta youths trawling
for fun and mayhem?
The place wasn't quite deserted. A young Asian boy, about
thirteen years old, was standing outside the office. He looked
like he had fallen into an alien space and was waiting apprehensively
for something to bite him.
'You the policeman?' he asked as I got out of the car.
'Yes.'


'She told me to bring you.' He was already walking away.
I followed him down between the house and the barn.
We turned a corner at the end, past an old sheep-gathering
fold, and I saw the activity. Valerie Home was surrounded
by a semicircle of the younger kids.
She saw me and waved me forward. It wasn't a welcome,
it was all urgency.
The kids parted to let me through. They were standing
at the head of an old track that led down to the river, by
the side of a steep, earth-faced bank. The top of the bank
was lined by stunted hawthorns, the vestigial remains of a
former hedge, and there was a run of old holes and spoil
slips along its length, under the lip, probably a redundant
badger sett.
Valerie pointed.
And the shock shortened my life by a measurable factor.
The bone, grey-green, was lying on the inclined surface
of the bank. The soil around it was damp enough to still
have a metallic, freshly dug smell.
At the same time that I was trying to adjust to this, I
realized that we were inhabiting an unnatural silence.
Everyone was staring at me. The kids rapt, Valerie tense. All
were expectant. I was supposed to do something to explain
this, and bring their lives back to normal again.
'No one has touched this?' I asked.
Valerie shook her head. T can't promise. The boys who
found it say they didn't, but...' She inclined her head and
tailed-off.
'Is it from a real dead person, mister?' one of the braver
boys called out. A voiced ripple of disgust combined with


a frisson of horror went through the group.
'It's probably from a cow, isn't it, Sergeant? Or a sheep?'
Valerie suggested hopefully.
I went as close as I could without disturbing anything.
The loose earth was covered by kids' footprints and indentations
that I realized had been made by their knees. Why had
they been digging here?
And where was everyone else?
'Where are your husband and brother?' I asked Valerie.
'They're out on a trek on the moors with the older ones.'
'Can you take the children away from here, please?'
'You didn't answer the question,' she reminded me softly.
'I think it's an ulna,' I replied equally quietly.
She looked at me questioningly.
'One of the forearm bones.' Before this case started I
would have had a problem identifying it, but I had had
cause to get reacquainted with the sharp end of skeletons.
I put in the call to Fletcher, and left it to him to call Jack
Galbraith and organize a SOCO team. I put in another call
to DEFRA. I drove back down to the head of the track and
set up a makeshift perimeter with incident tape.
WHY?!
Why move the action from the wind-farm site to Fron
Heulog? Why bring it here when he had gone to such trouble
to fit up Bruno and get the investigation shifted to Newport?
I took a slow look around, and felt the chill as it dawned
on me. Because it didn't change anything. We were still in
Bruno's immediate neighbourhood. No one but me suspected
that this was the home ground.
But why bring the investigation back?


I didn't think for a minute that this was an accidental
discovery. We had been meant to find that bone. The bastard
had just thrown in another cryptic shift.
I used my digital camera on the bone. When I zoomed
in I realized that there was something wrong with it. From
the bottom of the bank it looked like the wrist-end of the
bone was still partially buried. It wasn't. It just wasn't there.
It looked like it had been snapped off.
Was it a coincidence that the part of the bone that should
demonstrate the severance markings where the hand had
been removed was missing? Was it fuck. But I knew that I
was going to be the only person who would be asking that
question.
Because all this was going to do was make poor old Bruno
look like an even more rampant serial killer than previously
believed.
WHY?!


Emrys Hughes and a team of uniforms turned up to spell
me.
He looked at the bone and turned to me with a significant
set to his face. 'Your Mr Gilbert was a busy chap, wasn't he?'
I had been right. Emrys Hughes was as good a representation
of the public cross-section as you get around here.
And he had jumped to the immediate conclusion that this
was down to Bruno Gilbert. Oh, the powers of perceptual
manipulation. This fucker should be in advertising.
'It's just one bone.'
He sucked in a big noisy, dramatic breath. 'There will be
more.'


'Well, you'd better get ready to roll your sleeves up, because
you and your guys are going to be fucking digging for them,'
I observed nastily.
I found Valerie and the younger boys in the canteen area.
She had calmed them down to a degree with fizzy drinks,
crisps and chocolate biscuits.
'Emergency measures,' she explained guiltily.
'Who found the bone?'
She searched the group with her forefinger raised. 'Darren,
Dewayne and Rocky.' She used her finger to point them out.
'Can I talk to them?'
She looked at me doubtfully. 'What's the legal position?'
I shook my head. 'It's not an interrogation. It's just something
I need to know now, while it's still fresh in their
memory.' She still looked concerned. 'You can ask it for me.'
I wrote it down. She sat the three boys down at one
of the refectory benches. I squatted beside her. The
remainder of the kids started to gather round, sensing
drama. 'Right, no one is going to get into any trouble
over this. In fact, the sergeant is very pleased with you
for finding it.' She looked my way. I nodded enthusiastically
on my haunches. 'But what I'd like to know is why
you chose to dig there?'
The three boys looked at each other, hesitant and nervous
now that the focus of attention was on them.
'Rocky?' Valerie prompted gently.
Please tell me 'a man told us to dig there I willed them
silently. A man answering the description of Clive Fenwick.
Or Greg Thomas. I didn't really care which, I just wanted
to end it.


'The dog was digging. We thought there might be something
good underneath,' Rocky explained tremulously.
'What dog was that?' Valerie anticipated my next
question.
He looked at the other two. They both shook their heads,
he joined in. 'Dunno, a black-and-white one. It run away
before we got close.'
A black-and-white one. In these parts that was the generic
description for dog.
'You don't have a dog?' I asked Valerie when we had moved
away from the kids. I hadn't bothered to infuse the question
with hope, I already knew the answer.
'No. We get our fair share of farm dogs passing through,
though. Especially if there's a bitch in season in the neighbourhood.'
She smiled wanly, she looked exhausted. 'What's
going to happen now?'
'A lot of people are going to be getting very busy,' I warned
her. She was a kind person. She worked too hard. And she
probably loved her brother.
She was probably going to end up hating me.


So now the bastard had recruited fucking Lassie. The scruffy
black-and-white Welsh version at least.
I pondered it while I drank my tea. Trying to figure out
the modus operandi. He had probably planted the bone,
scented the earth around it with some kind of allure de
chien, found a dog from somewhere, waited until he saw
that the boys were heading that way, and then released it.
There had been so much scrabbling activity around that
bank that the bait scent would have been dispersed. Even if


I could have persuaded forensics to look for it.
Clever bastard. It was a complicated and risky operation,
but at least, if my hunch was correct, he was working on
his own territory. But it still brought me back to the question:
why change the status quo at this juncture?
Because it widens the geography?
It doesn't shift the blame from Bruno, it just extends the
zone of the operation. So why does he want to
disseminate?
Because he wants to shift the focus!
He wanted to lift our attention away from the original
site. He wanted it to lose its importance. He wanted it to
be seen as just one of a series of multiple sites. It reinforced
my hunch that it could be acting as a memorial. The place
had a specific personal significance, and he didn't want us
trampling all over its sanctity. He wanted to shift us onto
unhallowed ground.
But why wait this long? That was the question that now
stabbed at me. If the spirit of the place was so important,
why hadn't he diverted us away from it before now?
I instructed myself to go back to first principles. This was
not the work of a classic serial killer. These bodies had been
put there over time to serve as a specific memorial. A memorial
to Rose? From her former fiancee?
And what did these bodies have to do with her? As far as
we could tell, after the third body had been buried, the
monument had been completed, because the killing had
stopped.
Until Evie.
But she had been cold-bloodedly murdered to serve a


purpose. To divert us. She had never been a part of the
original plan.
Oh, fuck!
If he hadn't killed anyone else during his active period
he wouldn't have had any more body parts at his disposal.
That's what had caused the time lapse. He had had to wait
until he had found some other source of suitable skeletal
material. Because there was no ulna superstore.
Or was there?
The only reassuring thing was that he wouldn't have gone
out there and killed a fresh victim to source the parts he
needed. Not because he would have had any qualms about
it, but because it wouldn't serve the purpose. It would be
too fresh. He needed to find a skeleton that would match
the profile of the others, both in terms of age and length
of burial.
This new bone was going to fit the original pattern. I was
certain of it.
And then, because he couldn't match the marks of the
hands being detached, as on the originals, because he was
working with something that was already a skeleton, he had
snapped the bone off above the joint. And because we had
swallowed his line so completely, we would find something
to account for the damage. Animal dispersal, agricultural
machinery, some rational explanation that would keep us
on track.
What were Jack Galbraith and Kevin Fletcher's reactions
going to be when I laid out this theory? It was a purely
academic conjecture. Because I wasn't going to tell them.
Not without something stronger than merely speculative


reasoning. I didn't want to be back on the hunt for a lamb
castrator.
So where did I start to look for that ulna superstore?


I was still stuck in that puzzle slot when the SOCO team
arrived. They went to work, measuring and photographing
the bone on its perch on the side of the bank, the forensic
anthropologist patiently waiting her turn. Dressed in their
white sterile suits they looked like a bunch of loopy acolytes
paying homage to a displaced holy relic.
Trevor Home and Greg Thomas had returned from their
hike with the older kids. They had been kept back from the
perimeter, and I hadn't been able to study Greg Thomas's
reactions. I suppressed the urge to face him. I didn't want
him spooked and running at this stage.
And how involved was Trevor Home?
Jack Galbraith and Fletcher arrived together. They strode
through the farmyard, glowering like hostile bailiffs in their
overcoats and Wellington boots.
'Have you seeded this, Capaldi?' Jack Galbraith asked
bitterly when he saw the bone.
'Sir?'
'Is this you playing out some kind of a revenge fantasy?
Bringing me down to the valley of the fucking bones again?'
He looked across towards the wind farm. 'How far are we
from the other site?'
'Just under a kilometre, sir.'
He groaned. T just hope that we don't have a procession
of dead bodies stretching between here and there. Shit, this
may not even be the terminus. This could be just another


way-station on the fucking slaughter trail.' He glared at me.
As if this was all my fault. He called the head of the SOCO
team over. 'Okay, when you've finished your photography
and measurements you can move the bone and start digging.
I want to see what else we've got in there.'
'That's a badger sett, sir,' I said.
He flared round on me. 'So?'
'It's protected by law. Technically, we have to apply to
DEFRA for a licence to dig it up.'
He stared at me, speechless. 'You're jerking my chain,
Capaldi. There could be a mass burial under there, and
you're telling me that I have to apply to the fucking Ministry
for permission to dig it out?'
'I'm arranging it, sir. I've been in contact with DEFRA.
I've told them that it's an emergency. I'm expecting someone
to turn up at any time.'
'Fuck that. Brer Brock can give up his secrets now.'
So much for my demonstration of initiative and
efficiency.
It was going to be slow. Teaspoon and toothbrush digging.
Delicate excavation. At least when you were uncovering a
whole body you could guess the perimeters, the rough outlines
to work to. Here, all we had was one bone. The assumption
was that the rest of them were somewhere deeper in the bank,
and not necessarily still in the convenient shape of a body.
I had tried to suggest that one bone may be all we were
going to find on this site, but no one was listening. Perceptual
manipulation was still at work. No one had yet started to
ask why only one bone had managed to detach itself and
levitate to the surface under its own steam.


And, an hour later, we still only had our original bone.
The rain had set in. A fine, soaking drizzle, wafting in on a
cold westerly breeze. Because of the bank and the slope, the
shelter that had been rigged was only keeping the excavators
dry. Even under the golf umbrella he was making Fletcher
hold up, Jack Galbraith was getting wet. And grumpier.
'There's fuck all else here,' he announced crossly, grinding
out the butt of his latest cigarette.
'Perhaps we should move down the bank? Try another
part of the badger sett?' Fletcher suggested. The DEFRA officer had since 
arrived and pronounced the sett inactive.
He shook his head. 'No, I've been thinking about it. Bruno
Gilbert would never have cached even one of his victims so
close to an established farm.' He turned to me. 'You're the
nearest thing I've got to a nature consultant. Why would a
badger have just one bone in its den?'
T thought they were vegetarians,' Fletcher commented.
I remembered the talk I had overheard from farmers
about badgers taking lambs and hens. T think they'll eat
anything. But this sett looks like it's been long-abandoned.'
I looked over at the DEFRA officer standing on the sidelines,
who nodded his confirmation.
'What about a fox?' Fletcher suggested, showing off his
knowledge of nature red in tooth and claw. 'Maybe it found
the original skeleton and has been distributing the bones
around for future use.'
T think that's what squirrels do with nuts, boss,' I offered
helpfully.
Jack Galbraith moaned. 'Over what sort of a radius do
these bastards roam?'


I shook my head. 'I'm not an expert, sir.'
'All available personnel tomorrow,' Jack Galbraith ordered
Fletcher. 'I want an expanding-envelope search out from
here.' He looked at me for confirmation. 'It shouldn't be
that difficult to see, should it? If a wild animal's been digging
up a human body?'
I had to try to stop this. 'It depends on how historic it is,
sir. Maybe the animal died and never got back to retrieve
the bone. The site may be covered up again.' I gave it a pause
to charge up my credibility. 'Or there is another
possibility.'
He eyed me suspiciously. 'Like what?'
'That you were right with your first hunch. That someone
has seeded this. To make it look like a burial site. Or that
it came from another burial site.'
'Why would someone do that?' Fletcher snapped. 'When
we already know who did it.'
Jack Galbraith made a pantomime of receiving illumination.
'No, Kevin, I think Capaldi means that the mass murderer on
this side of the fucking valley is attempting a copycat operation
to fit up the mass murderer on the other side.'
Fletcher laughed.
'Where are the tooth marks?' I asked, the thought
swooping down out of nowhere to rescue me.
'What tooth marks?' he asked, glancing doubtfully at Jack
Galbraith.
I turned the viewing screen of my camera towards them. If a wild animal had had 
that bone why didn't it chew it?'





They didn't buy it, though. Because Sheila Goddard, the
forensic anthropologist got excited. It was only guesswork
at this stage, she warned, but the bone, in terms of condition
and appearance, looked like a good match with the
others. She also tentatively suggested that it might have
belonged to a woman, which ramped up their alpha male
protector instincts.
'Before we enter the realm of the fucking minutiae,
Capaldi, we have to find the rest of the body,' was the curt
and succinct rebuttal Jack Galbraith used on me. Without
giving me a chance to explain that whoever had deposited
that bone would have made certain that it would be a match
with the others.
He left to oversee things from headquarters, where rain
was banned. Fletcher, faced with the prospect of another
night in The Fleece, used the excuse of getting the bone
down to the lab to make his getaway. He claimed that he
needed to pester the scientists for a quick mitochondrial
DNA profile. Just in case there was a match with one of the
other victims.
The blanket search for the putative carnivore-desecrated
grave was scheduled for the following morning. Fletcher,
with Bruno Gilbert already in the body bag, saw no glory
in returning for a cold search in a damp valley, so I, as
resident hayseed, was appointed coordinator.
Had the perpetrator just pillaged the ulna? Or had he
taken the entire skeleton? That was the possibility that was
concerning me when I got back to Unit 13 that evening.
Because if it was the latter, the bastard could skip around
the countryside dispensing bone after bone after bone, like


some kind of macabre paper chase, every time our interest
looked like flagging. And, if the perp was Greg Thomas, he
could scatter the contents of his ossuary all over Fron Heulog
land. Eventually it would be discovered that they were all
from the same body, but by the time that happened he could
have found himself another one. And so on, ad infinitum.
This time- and resource-wasting diversion bore shades of
the McGuire and Tucker investigation. We had been led
down some twisted routes and into some very dark places
on that one, but at least the body count had been lower,
and we had known the identities of most of the people
involved.
And I still had the problem about where he had acquired
his bone. Okay, there were cemeteries across the length and
breadth of the country piled full of the things. But how
would he know that he would get what he wanted? A middle
aged body that had been buried about six to eight years ago,
and which had turned into a skeleton. He had probably
nicked Redshanks, but this guy was too slick to try to pass
his old bones off as a relatively recent skeleton.
The age of the deceased and the date of the interment
were easy. There were burial records for those. The skeleton
was the crucial part. How would he know, when he excavated
whatever grave he had chosen to rob, that the coffin wouldn't
just be fuH'of cold corpse stew? Because some of those
containers were pretty damned solid, built like galleons to
sail the main of eternity and repel all boarders. The body
would do its best to decompose as nature intended, but
most of the beasties, microbes and fungal activity that should
have helped to strip it clean wouldn't be able to gain entry.


And then Evie came back to help me. Or rather, her friend
Justin had done so on her behalf, by telling me what she
had said to him.
A cardboard coffin and a woodland burial.
I went on the Internet and found the email addresses for
all the woodland and green-burial sites within a hundred
mile radius of a point between Dinas and Swansea. I sent
an email posing them all one specific question. There would
be no reply, until tomorrow, unless business was so brisk in
the nappy-knitting community that they had to run a night
shift. Which I doubted.
I put a call in to Mackay. 'Sorry if this looks like pushing
you, Mac, but are you any further on with the Greg Thomas
thing?'
'Not yet. I told you this was a sensitive one. All I've got
at the moment is that Greg Thomas was stationed over there
at the time, and that Rose Jones had come over to visit.'
'Who shot her?'
'I don't know yet. Although it does look accidental. She
was a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time when
some kind of firefight took off.'
'Between who?'
'Us and some bad guys. And before you ask,' he hurried
on quickly, 'I'm waiting to find out who they were.'
'The bad guys shot Rose?' I prodded.
'That's not actually definite.'
'What does that mean?'
'It looks like there's no ballistics report. No one found
the bullet that killed her.'
'Isn't that unusual?'


'Very.' He laughed. 'You didn't ask for straightforward.'
'Thanks, Mac. I'd appreciate it if you could get back to
me as soon as you know anything else. In the meantime,
can I have a quick word with Justin?'
'How are you doing?' I asked when he came on the line.
'Cool,' he enthused. 'I thought hanging out with old
soldier geezers would be a pain, but these dudes know some
amazing stuff.'
'Don't let them corrupt you.'
He laughed. 'They're cool, but it's not like I'm going to
enlist or anything.'
'I need you to think back to your talks with Evie.'
'Okay'
'The man she met. Weren't you curious? Didn't you ever
try to press for more information?'
'All the time. It was like she was teasing me. But she
wouldn't give out. Said that she had had to make a solemn
promise, and if she broke it she would be betraying his trust
and she'd never be able to face him again.'
'Did she ever talk about boats or sailing?'
He went quiet. 'No. No, I don't think so. Something dorky
like that I'd have remembered. But I have remembered something
about him she used to go on about. She used to keep
saying how fit he was.'
'Fit? As in attractive?'
'No, he had other words for that, like awesome and
gorgeous. No, this was like buff. You know, strong?'
'Like he worked out?' I had an image of Greg Thomas
when I had seen him sorting the gym equipment.
Remembering that I had thought then that he could have


given Mackay a run for his money.
'Yes.'
'Thanks, Justin. Get back to me if you remember anything
else, however small.'
'Glyn?'
I sensed the arrival of a serious question. 'What?'
'Mackay and Boyce?' He hesitated. 'Do you think they've
ever, like, really killed anyone?'
I laughed. 'No, they're full of bullshit.' He was young.
Certain dark truths deserved to be kept on the private side
of the barrier.




























We assembled at Fron Heulog in the morning. Two coaches
arrived filled full of curious cops, in various hill-walking
costumes, staring out the window, happy, for now, at the
change to their routine. Given the terrain and the weather,
I wondered how long that would last.
At the same time as our coaches arrived another one left,
taking the boys back to Birmingham. Our investigation had
curtailed their holiday, but none of them looked too upset
about it. The two kids who had finked on TB gave me the
finger as the coach drove past, and fanned out the banknotes
I had given them against the window.
The Home's let us use their barn as a briefing centre, and
Valerie, laid on coffee. Trevor Home and Greg Thomas
volunteered to help in the search, claiming that they knew
the lie of the land.
Was Greg trying to get brownie points for helping us out?
While in reality using it as an opportunity to keep close to


my tactics, and observe how much we were floundering?
I tried to turn his game by getting them to act as guides
to two of the teams. That way I could keep tabs on where
they were and get a report from the loyal troops on any
misdirection they might attempt. It also kept them separated.
I still wasn't quite ready to drop my hunch that there could
be two perpetrators.
I kept Emrys Hughes's sidekick, Friel, behind with me to
act as my contact man. I was going to be working my own
agenda, and didn't want to be distracted by answering
distress calls from lost or fed-up cops. Emrys wasn't happy
with that; not only was I poaching a member of his tribe,
but an underling was going to be cosied-up, warm and dry,
with the enemy, while he was out there getting cold, wet
and muddy. It wasn't personal, but Emrys was a bit too close
to Inspector Morgan, and I didn't want him getting nosy
about what could be regarded as extracurricular activities.
It was one of those days when the clouds had elected to
come down into the valley a-courting, bearing the gift of a
cold hammam. I watched the search teams file off into an
atmosphere that looked like it had been created by the steam
and liquid-nitrogen leaks in the kitchen of a cutting-edge chef.
I instructed Friel to keep in regular contact with the
groups and to mark their shifting locations on the large
scale map that had been set up. He armed himself with map
pins, and went at it with gusto, having obviously seen too
many old films that featured war rooms.
I shuffled myself off to a corner, out of his gaze, and
opened my laptop. I had had two replies to the email I had
sent off last night.


I called the first one, a green burial ground near Swindon
in Wiltshire.
'Are you conducting an investigation into satanic practices?'
the man who answered asked, after I had explained
who I was.
'No, just specific disturbances. As I said in my email, it's
fire I'm really interested in.'
'Because we contacted the local police here, and they've
been quite frankly lax in their pursuit of this.'
I tried again. 'Have you had a fire?'
'No, we've had a sacrificed rabbit.'
I cut him off and called the next number, a woodland
burial site in the Forest of Dean.
'You've had a fire?' I asked, going straight for the jugular
this time.
'Yes, are you following up on the visit the officer from
Lydney made?' the lady asked.
'Yes,' I bluffed it, 'remind me again when the incident
occurred?'
'Sometime on Saturday night or the early hours of Sunday
morning. It was spotted by one of our visitors. As you can
imagine, we were all very distressed. This is meant to be a
place of peace and repose.'
I went back through my mental calendar. Saturday
night was when Justin's flat had gone up. But, as Mackay
and I had discussed, that operation was so specialized
that he might have used a contractor. Even if he'd
rigged it himself, the Forest of Dean wasn't far from
Hereford, and he would still have had most of the night
to work in.


'No one saw the flames?'
'No, we're quite remote. That's what attracts most of our
clients.'
'Do you have security?'
'We have a fence.'
'No watchman or CCTV cameras?'
'We're a woodland burial ground, Sergeant, not Stalag
Luft 13,' she reminded me.
'And it was definitely arson?'
'Oh, yes. It's been so damp here that there's no way
anything could have burst into flames like that. Petrol, your
colleague thought, and a lot of it.'
'The ground's been scorched?'
'The ground, the poor trees. All those markers and memorials.
Why would vandals target us?' She sounded distraught.
'I've had to inform all the relatives that everything they left
for their loved ones has been destroyed.'
'Could you do me a great favour,' I asked sympathetically,
'and email me a list of the graves that were affected? The
names and ages of the deceased.'
As I had suspected, he had targeted a green burial site
because he knew that a degradable coffin would have
ensured skeletonization. And he had used the same scorched
earth tactic to cover his tracks as he had done with Evie's
grave. As long as he had been reasonably careful in levelling
the ground after he had exhumed his skeleton, the fire should
have covered the disturbance.
And it had been put down to vandals, just as he had
expected it would. Perceptual manipulation again. I was the
only other person who knew that there was now an empty


grave there. I had actually managed to outthink him. We
had intersected at last. But how to move from here to an
advantage? Even when I got the name of the body he had
stolen, I knew that no one was going to put their reputation
on the line to issue an exhumation order on the basis of
the evidence I had.
I was on a roll, though. I was picking up answers. But
not the one that I desperately needed to nail this bastard.
Where and when had he met Evie?


Anthea Joan Balmer. Aged fifty-three when she died and
was buried in the Bluebell Sector of the Hornbeam Haven
Natural Woodland Burial Ground. She was the only one who fitted the vectors in 
the list of names that came through
on the email. The occupants of the other graves in the
damaged area of the Bluebell Sector were either too old or
too young.
I took one of the metal body probes with me. Visibility
was improving, the wind had moved round to the northeast
and was blowing cold, replacing the low cloud cover
with a cheerless watery-blue sky.
I scrambled over the low stone wall that separated the
rear lawn of Pen Twyn from the open pasture. From here I
could see down to the front of the Barn Gallery. Gloria's
Audi TT was gone, but in its place was another piece of
expensive-looking machinery, this one a bit more discreet
than her yellow monster. A blue so dark that it was almost
black, four stainless-steel exhausts and a badge with a trident.
A customer?
My adolescent interest in motor racing came back to help


me. That car was a Maseratti. Jesus, that thing probably cost
as much as a combine harvester. I winced. I was beginning
to think like a redneck. Dinas was leaching into me.
I went to work on the lawn.
'What on earth do you think you're doing?' It was Isabel,
standing framed in the open French doors, in a clingy retro
black outfit that paid homage to Theda Bara. Even her
expression of outrage owed allegiance to the era of silent
film.
And it was a stupid question. It was perfectly obvious
that I was sticking a long metal pole into their grass. 'I'm
looking for a body,' I replied cheerfully.
'You can't do that here.'
'Why? Are you laying claim to the ones on your land?'
'You can't just walk onto someone else's property and
start damaging things. You need a warrant or something for
that.'
She was probably right, but I was prepared to take the
risk. I turned my back on her and went back to work with
the probe.
'Give!' It came out like a shriek. It had worked.
He was slightly flushed from running up the steps from
the barn when he crossed the lawn towards me. I heard
Isabel's shrill laugh waft up from the Barn Gallery. They
had swapped roles.
'Stop that at once,' he commanded, a vague tremolo in
his voice from the exertion.
I jabbed the probe in again. 'What we're looking for are
hollow pockets which may indicate where a body has decomposed
and collapsed in on itself,' I explained helpfully.


'Do you think you're funny?' He was in control of his
voice again.
'Do you?'
'You're going to be very sorry for this.'
'Clive, I'm not here for the fun of it. I know what you've
been up to.'
'I play golf with the Chief Constable, who I think might
be able to use a little bit of his influence on my behalf.' He
leaned forward and smiled nastily. 'Boss to boss, sort of
thing, just enough to earn you at least a severe fucking
reprimand.'
I ignored his threat. I lowered my voice to stop Isabel
overhearing. 'I know that you lied when you told me you
didn't know Evie Salmon.'
His eyes flickered, but he recovered control and tried to
call my bluff. 'Get off my land before you make things even
worse for yourself.' Instinctively, he had also dropped his
voice level.
'You Fenwicks are a worldly and sophisticated lot. Isabel
probably wouldn't give a toss about the gambling, or even
the coke, but not mentioning that Evie Salmon was dancing
attendance, that might raise some eyebrows. That might set
her to wondering whether you weren't trying to hide
something.'
I saw his face crash at the realization of what Gerald Evans
had done«to him. His glance twitched involuntarily to see
if there was anyone else in hearing distance.
He tried to stare me down, but the hauteur spluttered
out. He dropped his eyes. 'It was a hospitality thing. I was
invited after a round of golf. It was totally innocuous,' he


said sulkily, not yet quite able to surrender the reins of
power.
'More than once.'
He shrugged morosely.
'And not something you wanted Isabel to know about?'
He sensed the possibility of a deal arriving. 'What do you
want?'
'I want to know what really happened on the day Evie
Salmon left Dinas.'
He looked off for a moment, weighing up his prospects.
'She arranged for me to meet her.'
'She contacted you?' I asked. I was surprised. His phrasing
had put Evie in the driving seat.
He nodded glumly. 'That bastard Evans must have given
her my phone number. She asked if I had told my wife about
her.' He looked at me, the mean flash in his eyes again. 'I
know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but she was a malicious,
scheming little bitch.'
'What had you been up to?'
'Nothing!' he protested indignantly. Then he remembered
that this was meant to be a game of absolute truth. 'Okay,
I drove her home once and we ended up having a necking
session in a lay-by. Only once, and that was as far as it went.
I think she must have been setting up her future options,'
he observed bitterly.
'What did she want from you?'
'She wanted me to meet her in Dinas that afternoon, and
then to drive her to the station in Hereford.'
'Why you, if there wasn't any relationship?' I asked.
'I asked her that,' he said, aggrieved. 'She laughed and


said it was because I had the nicest car in Dinas. She told
me she wanted to leave the place in style.'
'Where was she taking the train?'
'She was cagey about that. She wouldn't tell me. And she
said she didn't want me hanging around the station after
I'd dropped her off, trying to sneak a look. As if I fucking
cared where she was going,' he snorted angrily.
'Did she say who she was going to see?'
He shook his head.
'Think harder,' I instructed.
'She was flaky, it was all just puff about clothes and cars and bands and how 
she never wanted to set eyes on Dinas
again.' He paused. A memory surfacing. 'There was one
thing, though.' He closed his eyes, concentrating. I didn't
press. 'She said something like it was lucky that she hadn't
told her boyfriend what we had got up to in my car. I asked
why, and she said it was because he knew how to kill people.
I asked if he was a soldier.' He paused.
'And?' I prompted.
'She didn't deny it. She just turned sideways in her seat
and gave me that infuriating, simpering little grin that made
you want to reach over and slap it off her face.'
The cog ratcheted round, bringing Greg Thomas another
notch closer to Evie.
My phone rang when I was halfway back to Fron Heulog.
It was Tessa's number.
'Hi,' I answered, conscious of the fact that she so often
seemed to call when I had been at the Barn Gallery. Then
I thought about the geography again. Or close to Fron
Heulog?


'Hi.' She sounded chirpy. 'Are you free tonight?'
I thought about Greg Thomas. Nothing was likely to
happen there in a hurry. 'Potentially,' I answered, curious.
'How about coming up here and I'll cook you a one-pot
dinner on the camping hob to reinforce my apology.'
I felt my loins drop into soft focus. 'What about the crew?'
'They're going to the cinema in Shrewsbury. They'll be
out till late.'
'I'll bring the wine.'
'Great.' She waited a beat. "What are you lot doing down
there? Sharon's just come back up the hill and said that the
valley's full of policemen.'
'It seemed like a good day to go out looking for bodies.'
'More?' She sounded concerned.
T personally think it's a false alarm. I'll tell you about it
later.'
'Right, but make sure you don't send all those men in
this direction, otherwise my girls might be tempted to stay
at home tonight.'
'What about you?'
She laughed. 'I'm not greedy. One reasonably athletic cop
will do me.'
I finished the call with an involuntary grin on my face.
But before I could get even flakier, another thought was
arriving to fuck with my head. A confusing and disturbing
one, riding in on a cold neural channel, dousing every vestige
of libido. Triggered partly by the apparent coincidence
behind Tessa's telephone calls. But mainly by the recall of
the sign on the side of her Land Rover, and the spark of a
hunch I had had when I had first visited the dig and had


wondered whether there could be a Celtic connection. Queen's University 
Belfast. And her Redshanks? They were
mercenaries from the Western Isles of Scotland who hired
themselves out into the service of Irish Chiefs.
Northern Irish Chiefs?
More coincidence?


My head was still seething when I got back to the Fron
Heulog barn.
'Friel,' I shouted over, 'go outside and have a fag.'
'That's all right, thanks, Sarge, I don't smoke,' he called
back cheerily.
'Well go and look at the fucking birds then.'
He took the hint.
I took out the card Tessa had given me when I had first
gone to her camp. Taking a deep breath to still the anticipatory
fear, I dialled the number.
'Archaeology Department, how can we help you?' The
voice was young, female and Ulster.
'Is that Queen's University Belfast?'
'Yes.'
'Can I speak to Dr Tessa MacLean, please?'
'I'm sorry, Dr MacLean's on a field trip, she's not
contactable through the university switchboard at present.'
'Can you tell me where she is?'
'I'm sorjfy, but I can't give out specific site addresses.'
'I'm a police officer.'
'I'm still sorry, but I hope you understand that the location
of an archaeological dig is very sensitive.'
'How about the wider geography?'


She laughed. 'I can probably manage that. She's in Wales.'
Then I called the real Queen's University number. The
one that I got through directory enquiries. And discovered
that Dr Tessa MacLean had retired two years previously.
Aged sixty-three.
Why was she doing it? What was her relationship to Greg
Thomas? And how the fuck were they funding this scam?
All Tessa's helpers on a day rate? The fake line to the fake
Queen's University staffer? I knew they were the wrong
questions to be asking, but it kept me away from the personal
side of things. The betrayal and the fear.
Like having to speculate on how close Tessa, or whoever
the fuck she was, had been to the actual events that had
resulted in the burial of Evie Salmon and those nameless
people on that cold stark hill. And the atrocity committed
on Bruno Gilbert. Not to mention poor Mary Doyle and
the shade of Anthea Joan Balmer.
I also had to accept that she had only been getting close
to me to keep tabs on the progress of my investigation. So
that she could report back to keep up the flow of obstacles
coming downstream at me.
That report of the Peeping Tom at her caravan? Pure
baloney. It had all been prepared to get me up there and
out on a fruitless chase after Greg Thomas in the snow, so
that he could get back and ream out all the available information
in Unit 13. But she had allowed a sexual possibility
to build. Only to have the discovery of the theft of Redshanks
curtail it. The prospect of a grope had obviously been considered
an acceptable sacrifice in the line of setting me up as
the dupe.


So what was the disappearance of Redshanks all about?
Was that supposed to send us off on another safari? Another
device to divert our attention?
And what was expected from me tonight? Was I going to
be stuffed, basted and roasted, with an apple stuck in my
mouth?
I got Friel to call the search squads back in when the
mobile catering wagon arrived to dish out lunch. I had no
appetite. I sat aloof in front of my laptop trying to make
sense of this new Tessa discovery.
Mackay's call blew all that out of the water. 'If I didn't
feel that I owed you something for all the shit I've put you
through over all the years I've known you, we wouldn't be
having this conversation. In fact, I'm still not sure that what
I did was bad enough to warrant this sort of fucking dowry.'
I sensed a genuine reluctance in him. 'On top of everything
else, you went off with my ex-wife,' I reminded him,
trying to clinch the deal.
'I can't talk about this over the telephone, or commit it
to an email.'
I looked over at the search teams, who all looked happier
now that they were temporarily in out of the cold, with
their coffee and burgers and doughnuts. I was supposed to
be in charge of this operation, I reminded myself. I was
meant to be their shepherd.
I came to a decision. Emrys Hughes could take charge of
the afternoon session. 'Can you meet me halfway?'


Mackay was already at the car park at the Elan Valley Visitors'
Centre when I arrived. Or rather his old Range Rover was


there. I had been through enough of these meetings now
to know to wait in my car until he appeared. It was an old
habit he couldn't kick, he had told me, making sure that
the only people who turned up for appointments were the
ones with genuine invitations.
Eventually, he materialized from a direction I had not
been expecting, and was already halfway across the car park
before I saw him. He looked tense and preoccupied, like a
man on his way to an oncologist for the results of a second
round of tests. It was his way of warning me that something
grim was arriving in the delivery van.
'We'll use my car,' he instructed, when he got to my open
window.
'Don't you want a coffee or anything?' I asked, indicating
the visitors' centre.
He shook his head brusquely. 'I don't want anyone's walls
or ceiling hearing this.'
On the walk across the car park, I gestured at the huge
canted face of the dam behind the visitors' centre. 'Italians
did the stonework on the Claerwen Dam further up the
valley,' I informed him, punching a bit of pride into the
statement, expecting some Wop banter from him in return.
Instead, he just looked at it blankly. 'This is bad fucking
news, Capaldi.'
I knew that he wasn't talking about the Italians.
'How's Justin?' I asked warily, after I had climbed into the
Range Rover, hoping that his mood or the bad fucking news
wasn't anything to do with him.
'He's good,' he replied in a tone that told me he didn't
want to talk about Justin. He turned in his seat to face me,


his expression pained.
He was worrying me. I was not used to him being so
taciturn. 'Thanks for getting back to me so quickly,' I said,
trying to draw him out.
He was silent for a moment before he nodded, accepting
my thanks. 'I can't give you any details.'
'I've signed the Official Secrets Act, Mac'
'So has the postman. It doesn't work like that. There are
levels of entitlement, and from where you're standing you
can't even see up to this particular window ledge.'
'Five people have been murdered.'
He shrugged regretfully. 'That's chicken shit compared to
the potential repercussions that surrounded this
operation.'
'You're talking past tense?'
'These things keep on resonating.'
'You can't tell me anything?'
'All the information is already there. The art is in stitching
it together.'
What was he telling me? The official version was just a
mask over the truth? A distortion? A shuffled pack? 'Rose
Thomas wasn't the innocent bystander she seemed to be?'
I tried.
'On the contrary.' »
'Her death was accidental?'
He nodded. 'You're cold. Forget her. She wasn't instrumental
to anything, not even a catalyst; she was just collateral
damage.'
'What about Greg Thomas?'
He shook his head. 'Only as the reason she ended up in


that wrong place. He doesn't figure either.'
Not to you maybe, I thought. But he was talking about a
bigger picture, not a grim set of murders in Mid Wales. He
was trying to lead me forward. I put Rose back into context.
He had already told me that she had accidentally been caught
up in some kind of a firefight. A bystander at a run-in with
Loyalist or Republican paramilitaries? 'It was an antiterrorist
operation?' I postulated.
'I can't answer a question like that.'
I spun my thought process. 'How about a pub-quiz
question?'
'Try me.'
'When was the Northern Irish peace process ratified?'
He smiled craftily, seeing the direction I was taking. 'Good
Friday, 1998.'
So, when Rose was killed, all the major players, Protestant
and Catholic, would have been involved behind the scenes
in the negotiations for a peace settlement. By that time there
was probably a general consensus for this thing to succeed.
So if the army was involved in a counter-terrorist action it
would probably have been against some kind of radical
splinter group who were trying to fuck up the peace process.
A realization was slowly dawning.
If the terrorists had been killed in that firefight, the process that had led 
us here wouldn't have started. The books would
automatically have been balanced. So, Rose had died, but
had her killers survived?
I shivered involuntarily. The motive was staring to take
shape. I forced myself to stay calm and work through the
bigger picture. 'Were some people imprisoned?'


'Ask yourself why that doesn't work.'
But it did work. It would make sense of the time lag. They
are put away for Rose's killing, but, with different degrees
of culpability, they received different sentences, which would
account for the gaps between the revenge killings - if that's
what they were - after they had been released.
Then I had to face Mac's truth. It didn't work because
they would have been released into a supportive community.
The killer might have been able to pick one of them off,
but three would have been impossible. But he had managed
to kill them, and cart the bodies to a remote cwm in Wales.
So they must have been living in a background where they
wouldn't have been protected or missed.
I nodded to myself as the next train arrived in the station.
No one had gone to prison. A gunfight with terrorists,
an innocent bystander is shot and killed, but no one pays
a judicial price.
'It wasn't a military operation per se, it was an intelligence
operation. Or it turned into one.' I let him hear me thinking
out loud. 'No one got blamed for it. The army covered it
up;
His expression remained open.
'And it was successful.'
His nod was virtually imperceptible.
The victims had given something up in exchange for
immunityfrom prosecution. They had opened up to Military
Intelligence. They would no longer have been able to function
within their own community. By talking to the enemy
they had signed their own death warrants.
Unless they were reinvented.


I looked at him carefully. 'Some bad people were given
new lives?'
'Maybe.'
I had to be satisfied with that. It was as far as he could
direct me while remaining within the limits of disclosure
he had set himself.



































Mac had told me to forget about Rose Jones. But I had to
come back to her now. This was her story. Her death was
central to the smaller drama that had splintered off and left
five people murdered in a tiny valley in Mid Wales.
In a way it was a love story. Except it had turned ugly
when the bereaved lover had refused to stay within the
conventional orbit of grief and mourning. He had exchanged
sackcloth and lilies for a blood curse.
If I was correct, because the three people he held responsible
for his fiancee's death had been allowed to go free, Greg
Thomas had undertaken a rite of vendetta. He had brought
her killers back to her childhood home, and created a memorial
of dead people for her. And had then spiralled off to
kill two more in an attempt to stamp out the brush fires
that our investigation had caused to flare up around him.
But how had he unlocked the secret of his victims' new
identities?


That was the problem that was preoccupying me as I
drove back to Dinas. It was an academic exercise - the three
graves told us that he had identified Rose's killers - but it
kept my mind off how I was going to deal with him when
I got back to Fron Heulog. With nothing more than a non
attributable testimony.
He had waited all that time before he had made his first
move. Which was why Rose's death hadn't set up any bow
waves when I first heard about it. It seemed to have happened
too long before to have any relevance.
That was the other thing that was niggling. The time
frames. Why hadn't the alarm sounded? Why, after disposing
of the first victim, had he been able to come back for the
other two? Either the authorities had not alerted them, or
no one had realized that the first disappearance might have
a wider significance.
And then, about two years later, he went for the other
two. A male and a female. Forensic and pathology evidence
couldn't be precise about the timing of the burials, but the
more I thought about it the more certain I was that they
had been killed at the same time, even though they had
been found in separate graves.
I pictured them as a married couple. Their joint killing
was accounted for by the simple economics of effort. He
couldn't just top one and expect the other to wait patiently
for him to return. Okay, he had the risk of transporting two
bodies, but what real difference was it going to make? If he
was hauled over they weren't going to make things any worse
for him on the grounds that he was carrying a bulk
shipment.


I was deliberately using these exercises to keep my excitement
suppressed. I was on my way back to Fron Heulog. I
could easily run into Greg Thomas. I didn't want anything
in my demeanour to betray my new knowledge, and possibly
spook him.
Because I still had to try to tie him to Evie. I was wondering
whether it would be worthwhile bracing Clive Fenwick again,
when that whole realm of speculation crashed as I turned
into Fron Heulog and approached the reception building.
Kevin Fletcher's car was parked there.
I reversed down the drive at speed, praying that he hadn't
seen me. I was thinking furiously to save myself. I had made
a supposition. I knew that three people had been killed. But
what if there had been more of them? It was a long shot,
but I was aware that I had just run out of options.
'Mac, its Glyn,' I was parked in a lay-by near Fron Heulog,
stooped down in the seat, trying to make myself as inconspicuous
as possible.
He picked up the edge in my voice. 'Are you okay?' he
asked, concerned.
'I know you can't give me details, but it's vital that I have
one piece of information.'
'What?' His voice was harsh.
'How many of them were there?'
The silence stretched out.
'Mac?'
'Sorry, Glyn.' He disconnected.
I felt an immense wave of disappointment ride in to
stretch the tension that was already wound up to the limit.
I cut the connection.


My phone beeped. I opened the text message: '4'.
I closed my eyes in silent thanks.
Because that was how I could bring this to the surface
without jeopardising Mackay or his contacts. We had
found three bodies, but four people had been given
immunity. We had one unaccounted for. I could claim
that he was my informant. That he had contacted me to
tell me about the deal, but insisted on anonymity. I could
imagine the suspicion on Jack Galbraith's face. This guy
coming forward now, out of the blue, was a bit of a
convenient coincidence, but who the fuck cares? It was
the result I was interested in.
I reminded myself that I didn't know if he was still alive.
But, apart from the murderer and Military Intelligence, no
one else did either. And if Greg Thomas tried to contradict
me he would be demonstrating a bit more inside knowledge
than was healthy for him.
A tap on my window brought me back to my uncertain
present. Emrys Hughes was staring in at me with his mouth
rammed open into a great big malicious grin. I smelled Schadenfreude. I also, 
at the very moment of seeing Emrys's
twisted joy, felt my newfound certainty about Greg Thomas
collapse. Some instinct was screaming at me that things
were not right. I lowered the window.
'Your boss wants to see you,' he announced with relish.
'How did you know where to find me?'
He cocked his head back in the direction of Fron Heulog.
'We were all watching your stunt-driving performance.'
And by 'all', I knew that he meant Kevin Fletcher
especially.


But at least I now had something else to give him. Trade
goods to barter for my perceived desertion. Because my
sudden and perverse loss of faith meant that I would not
be giving Greg Thomas up to him. The intimation was
telling me that I had to keep him to myself for the moment.
It was frustrating, but on a deep and currently impenetrable
level I knew I had to run with it.
I had my victims, and in Greg Thomas I had a guy with
a motive to kill them. I even had the Saint Rose that they
were dedicated to. So why, on a deep instinctual level, was
I suddenly not sure any more? I had picked up a nagging
doubt. Was there a flaw somewhere I couldn't quite see? An
inconsistency? Or was the problem that it all flowed forward
so perfectly?
Instead of clarity I now had more ink in the goldfish
bowl. I recalled what Clive Fenwick had told me of Evie's
boast. And, when I took the Greg Thomas blinkers off, I
had to accept that there was more than one soldier in this
valley. If I offered Greg Thomas up to Fletcher it would set
off an irrevocable chain of events. But that chain might just
be another paper trail that had been laid out for us. Another
baited trap. Just like Evie and Bruno.
Because I kept coming back to it. How would a civilian,
which is what Greg Thomas had been when the deeds went
down, have been able to access and act on such secret and
sensitive material as the new identities and locations of the
victims? The needle kept swinging back round to that obstinate
point.
I felt like a recaptured escapee being brought back in
under the jeering eyes of the camp guards. Fletcher had


recalled the search parties. Groups of men hung around in
small knots waiting for the coaches. In age and dress they
were wildly different from the youths who had shared this
space not that long ago, but both parties had the same sullen
expression. They had obviously not enjoyed their day in the
country. And, from the looks I was getting, I was the bastard
to blame for that, which I had probably compounded by
abandoning them.
Fletcher was standing outside the door to the reception
office with Greg Thomas and Trevor Home. Both men stared
at me as Fletcher registered my arrival and strode across the
car park towards me. I got out of my car and turned my
head away from them, not wanting my expression to betray
anything.
When I turned back, Fletcher was standing silently in
front of me, making a show of looking me up and down.
'Pretend that this is a hotel, Capaldi, and that you are our
guest here.'
'Why is that, boss?' I could tell that he had been rehearsing
this and that something clever was arriving.
'So that as the manager of this establishment I can tell
you to pack your bags and fuck off.'
'You're making a mistake, boss.'
'That's what they all say'
'Can we talk about this in private?'
'There's nothing to talk about.'
'You'll regret it.'
His eyes lit up. 'Don't try threatening me, Capaldi. You've
just been caught bang to rights in the dereliction of your
duties. What were you doing anyway? Sloping off for a quick


fuck? Having a couple of stiff ones with your lush-buddy
in The Fleece? I promise you, the Union won't be able to
help you squirm out of this one.'
'If you're not going to listen to me, Kevin, I'm going to
have to go directly to DCS Galbraith with this.'
I saw the two violently opposing forces grab him at the
same time. Fury at my insubordination and dread at the
invocation of Jack Galbraith. He was a seriously torn man.
Tt's vital that we talk in private, boss,' I whispered, my
tone offering allegiance and subordination again.
It was probably the whisper that swung it. He stared at
me curiously for a moment, and then swept away imperiously
towards the barn. I followed him inside.
'Well?' he demanded.
I scanned to check that there was no one within earshot.
T know the identities of the bodies.'
His face blanched, and it was his turn to check for listeners.
'How the fuck do you know that?' he asked in a low, choked
voice.
'An informant.'
'Where did you find an informant?' Surprise pitched his
voice higher.
'He found me.'
His look turned wary. 'This isn't another one of your wild
fucking hunches, is it, disguised as a legitimate source?'
'This is on the level, boss.'
He stared me down for a moment. 'You can give me
names?'
'No, not yet. He refused to be that explicit. But he gave
me the information to enable us to find out for ourselves.'


'Explain.'
'Those are the bodies of former Northern Irish paramilitaries.
They were involved in some security operation that
resulted in them being given a change of identity. Military
Intelligence will be able to provide the original identities.
They can then be cross-matched with living relatives. Their
mitochondrial DNA will match that of the closest ones we
can find in the female line.'
'Northern Ireland!' His expression skewed from puzzlement
to bewilderment.
I nodded. 'DCS Galbraith will have to open up a direct
line to the high echelons of the MOD to get access to the
files. They're probably not going to be very happy about it,'
I added, just to warn him that this was probably not going
to be a particularly warm and friendly cross-cultural
experience.
'How the fuck did we end up over there?' he asked,
bemused.
'Someone died over there, boss, and someone else took
their revenge.'
'Don't go all fucking cryptic on me.'
I wasn't being cryptic, I was working myself back into it.
Because the mental itch had suddenly stopped. I was beginning
to realize how the killer could have tracked down his
original victims. I had just remembered something that
Mackay had told me.
I also had a motive, but what spoiled it was some seriously
fucked-up geography.


Fletcher turned away from me to digest it. I imagined he


was rehearsing his call to Jack Galbraith. And all that wasted
time, effort and the cost of manpower on the Bruno Gilbert
sideline was probably also running through his head.
So much so that he wasn't ready to give it up yet. 'How
reliable is this informant?'
'Totally.' I gave my invented informant an impeccable
character.
He frowned. His mind was racing. 'Bruno Gilbert could
have met them. Realized that these were the perfect victims,
because they could be disappeared without any
comeback.'
'Did Gilbert have any connections with Military
Intelligence?' I asked, not unkindly.
He shook his head. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment
to balance his burden. 'I'd better go and put that call in to
DCS Galbraith,' he said reluctantly.
'At least we'll be able to dignify the victims with names
now, boss,' I called after him as he left the barn.
I called Alison Weir in Carmarthen. I needed her to check
something out for me before I confronted Greg Thomas.
Otherwise, I could be alerting a guilty man and giving him
a chance to flee.
In the interim, I had time to act on Tessa. Try to find out
what her role in this was, and, if nothing else, neutralize
her.
If I knew Ffetcher, he would be making the best of a bad
situation and moving up into Action Man mode. He would
be striding into the fray, anxious to be seen as the guy who
was on top of this case. The acolyte might have delivered
the raw materials, but he was going to show how flare and


elan went into producing the finished results.
And I had a big headache in the shape of Tessa. He was
not going to like her apparent role being introduced retrospectively.
I would have to argue later that he hadn't given
me the time to bring her into the story.
I had suppressed her because she had got to me. It may
have been manipulated, but that small touch of near intimacy
we had shared still meant something. I felt that I owed
it to her to make sure she was treated with some sensitivity.
I wanted to be the one to brace her, rather than some faceless
plods using strong-arm hick finesse.
I sneaked off the reservation before Fletcher could assign
me to some bullshit duty. I commandeered Emrys Hughes
and Friel as back-up. I told them to give me a five-minute
start and then to follow me up to the dig in the Land Rover.
And to stop anything that was coming down the other way
in a hurry.
Emrys would have protested, but he was confused. He
had delivered me to Fletcher, relishing the prospect of
mayhem, and was now wondering why I was still wandering
around with my balls swinging free.
The morning's drizzle had kept the by-way up to Tessa's
camp nicely muddy, and the car felt as if it was trying to
make a break for an independent existence as it slewed and
bucked its way up the track.
I would have seen the approaching Land Rover earlier if
I hadn't been concentrating so hard on keeping the car
under control. When I did register it, it was only fifty metres
away on the rutted single-lane track we were both sharing.
And it was making better progress.


Was Tessa making a break for it?
I turned the wheel sharply and skidded to a slanting stop
to present the widest barrier I could, and jumped out and
held up my warrant card. The Land Rover stopped in turn.
With the setting sun in my face I couldn't see who was
driving. But it soon became apparent that the Land Rover
had only stopped to change down into low-ratio four-wheel
drive, as it slowly heaved itself off the track and started to
make the wide, lurching curve that would take it round and
past my blockade.
I ran to intersect it, my feet splashing and slipping on the
sheep-shit sludge at the bottom of the puddles between the
grass and heather tussocks. How was I going to stop this
thing? Jumping in front of it would be great pantomime,
but short on results, and potentially lethal. It was at moments
like this that I regretted that they didn't issue us with huge
.45 Magnum handguns.
The window slid open. T don't want to stop or we'll bog
down.' It was one of Tessa's helpers behind the wheel, smiling
at me nervously, not quite in control of the big vehicle. The
other three of them were also smiling.
'She's waiting for you,' she informed me as she went past.
Was that a threat or a promise?


The Redshanks camp had an empty feel to it. It had the air
of a place that had run out of its purpose for being there.
Had I been duped? Could Tessa have been smuggled out in
the Land Rover? I berated myself for not having stopped it
when I had had the opportunity.
The sun was dropping and lighting up the underside of


the clouds above the western horizon with a vibrant burned
orange wash. From this elevation it was a beautiful sunset,
the deep shade rolling across the valleys like something
tangible. Of all the fucking evenings for the sky to get
romantic, I reflected bitterly.
I knocked on the caravan door and stood back so that I
could keep the rear window covered as well. I was in a
turmoil. She was taking too long to answer. If she was in
there she must have heard my arrival.
I was about to give up when the door opened. Tessa was
in a baggy grey sweatshirt and black jeans, with a large towel
on her head and an evolving look of surprise on her face.
'Glyn . . . you're early . . .' She let the surprise morph into
a welcoming smile. 'That's not fair.'
'What's not fair?'
'You caught me washing my hair. You weren't meant to
see the build-up. I was meant to be all primped, poised and
perfect by the time you turned up.' She stepped back from
the door. 'Come on in.'
I walked in to the smell of water vapour and shampoo.
She closed the door behind me. 'Why the long face?' she
asked chirpily. 'And where's the wine you promised?'
I turned to face her. 'It's over, Tessa.'
She frowned. 'That's a bit presumptuous, isn't it? When nothing's actually 
begun.'
She was good. Her expression read amusement over
controlled irritation. She was also very lovely, I thought, as
she unwound the towel from her head and let the damp
hair drop. She rubbed it absently with the towel as she
watched me. She wasn't wearing a bra and her breasts


oscillated with the movement. I wasn't sure whether she was
deliberately building that distraction into the picture.
'You're not Dr Tessa MacLean.'
She raised her eyebrows and contemplated that statement
for a moment. 'So who am I?'
'I don't know. I think that you were planted here to keep
an eye on the gravesite. That's why you became buddies
with Jeff in the beginning. Because there was always the
possibility that the construction works wouldn't disturb
the bodies and everything could just return to normal. But
when they were uncovered, you attached yourself to me,
so that you could follow my progress and report back.' She
continued to watch me, deadpan. 'You got me up here the
other night with that story of the intruder.' I stopped myself
mid-flow. I had been about to say that the pointless pursuit
in the snow had given him time to search my caravan, but
that would have been achieved anyway, just by her calling
me up here. So what had been the point of that?
'And I suppose I engineered the theft of my Redshanks?'
she asked, her voice flat.
I nodded, trying not to let her see that this was another
thing that was puzzling me.
'Am I being arrested?'
'That depefids on the extent of your involvement. It's not
too late to start helping us. You could begin by telling me
who you're working with?'
She nodded reflectively. 'Okay, where did we go wrong?'
She laced the question with an unexpected tint of mockery.
'You should have lost the Northern Ireland connection.'
She turned away and took an anorak down off a peg. It


surprised me. And it disappointed me. I had been expecting
more of a reaction.
'You can dry your hair first. Change into something
warmer.' I was trying to be a nice guy.
She gave me a withering look. At that moment I saw an
intrinsic change in her. Something hardened. 'Follow me,'
she commanded.
She went out the door. I took a couple of quick steps to
catch up, and then slowed down when I saw that she wasn't
trying to run. She was striding over towards the enclosure
that had housed Redshanks.
She held the flap open and fixed me with her eyes as I
passed through. 'I had hoped for more from you,' she said
regretfully, 'but when you come out to the arse-end of the
universe, what else can you expect but arses?'
I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.
The light inside the tent was brighter than outside, and it
was strangely quiet without the background noise from the
small generator that had been keeping Redshanks' temperature
and humidity controlled inside his plastic bubble.
Tessa opened a large box, took out some kind of an
instrument, and whipped the cover off. It didn't look archaeological.
It looked like something that should be sitting on
the bridge of a new-generation warship.
She raised a flap at the rear of the tent and located the
instrument on a peg on a small metal tripod. 'Look through
that,' she ordered, her voice hard and cold.
It was essentially a pair of high-intensity binoculars incorporating
night-vision lenses. I adjusted the focus ring, and
the door of the Barn Gallery at Pen Twyn leaped out at me.


There was an eerie green tinge to the image. I turned to her
for an explanation.
She nodded at the binoculars. 'That's why I've been
keeping tabs on you. You keep barging into my fucking
investigation.' She gestured with her head down towards the
Barn Gallery. 'Continually messing around with the Fenwicks.'
I read the warrant card she handed me. She outranked
me. Christine Stewart, an inspector with the Metropolitan
Police Art Theft and Forgery Division. The bad feeling was
now here to stay.
'You kept giving us heart attacks every time you turned
up down there. Were you going to give them the willies?
Scare them off? Make them wonder if this place wasn't as
safe as they thought it was?'
I nodded at the binoculars. 'That's how you knew I had
been there? Why you kept wanting to know what I'd been
doing?'
She nodded.
'Why didn't you tell me before? Why didn't you warn me
off?'
'Because you're not meant to know about this, even now.
Local law enforcement is never informed of an operation
in their area because it could change the dynamic of their
dealings wfth the people under surveillance. I'm only
showing you now to get you off my back. For good,' she
added portentously.
'What have they done?'
She thought about it, and then realized that the damage
was already done. 'They're smuggling looted archaeological
treasures out of Iraq. Sending them back in the containers


that they ship their meat pies out in. They're using this place
for distribution.' She gestured towards the wind-farm site.
'Until your little lot erupted down there they thought that
this out-of-the-way corner was as safe as it gets.'
'If you know all this, why haven't you rounded them up?
Why haven't you seized the shipments?'
Her smile was pained. 'We have, all the stuff has been
intercepted and electronically tagged. Now we want to know
who's doing the buying.'
I spread my hands out in front of Redshanks's empty
bubble.
She understood the question. 'He was our cover. It makes
for great surveillance. An archaeological dig. How much
more non-threatening and geeky can you get? A bunch of
scatty bluestockings. We even exchange waves with them
when we drive past the Barn Gallery.'
'Is he real?'
'It depends what you mean by real. As an object, yes. He's
a kit of parts that gets trotted around surveillance gigs. We
invent a different background story to suit the particular
situation.' She chuckled mirthlessly. 'I obviously chose the
wrong one in this case.'
I was even more confused. 'But I was here when the
forensic anthropologist inspected him. She verified his
provenance.'
She nodded, with more than a hint of superiority in the
gesture. 'Because she was shown a high-level Home Office
directive when she was in here, instructing her to confirm
that the lump of carbon fibre and nylon we were calling
Redshanks was the genuine article.'


I shook my head. 'You've no idea what an awful coincidence
this has been. Starting with your choice of dig site
and the university you used for a front.'
'Reflect hard and verify before you jump to conclusions
in future, Sergeant.'
I coloured at the rebuke. 'I'm very sorry, and I promise
you this won't go any further.'
'I know it won't.'
We heard the sound of the engines at the same time.
Tessa's team's Land Rover crested the rise first, closely
followed by Emrys and Friel's. I winced inwardly. The girls
had obviously been stopped and shepherded back up the
hill. And I knew that if Tessa asked Emrys he would just
look sulky and tell her that he had been following my orders.
She groaned theatrically. 'And now it gets even more
fucking heavy-handed.'
'I'll get rid of them.'
She gestured down towards the Barn Gallery. 'And while
you're at it, why don't you all jump up and down and wave
before you go?'
'Do you want me to go and see Gloria Fenwick and make
up some sort of reason for us to be up here,' I suggested
helpfully, but already knowing that this attempt to rehabilitate
myself Was hopeless.
She shook her head. 'No, Sergeant Capaldi, I just want
you gone.'
I looked at her for a moment, a thought surfacing. 'Did
you know my history?'
She thought about not answering, but then nodded slowly.
'When the bodies started appearing down there I asked for


background details on all the officers who might be crossing
my path.'
'So you knew about Kevin Fletcher and me?'
'The gist of it.'
'So why did you make a point of bringing it up the other
night at The Fleece?'
T wanted to see how you would handle the pompous son
of a bitch.'
'And?' I prompted.
'Don't you remember? I took pity on you and rescued
you.'
I swallowed and took a breath, and set hope into my face.
'I don't suppose we could take a memory pill, and start off
with me knocking on your door again?'
She looked at me carefully for a moment. A smile almost
formed. 'If it's any consolation, my interest wasn't totally
confined to work.'
But no memory pill.


















Why couldn't she have come up with some petrified Anglo
Saxon axe warrior, rather than Redshanks, I grumbled to
myself as I slunk down the hill following Emrys's Land
Rover. Then she could have pretended to have been employed
by the University of East Anglia, or some equally neutral
institution. That way I would probably now be arriving at
her caravan door with a bottle of wine, a new shave, and
my label as Quaintly Attractive Welsh Detective Sergeant
still intact.
A missed-call message beeped when I got back into the
valley. It too"k me a moment to recognize the number. Alison
Weir. I put out a silent prayer of thanks that she had
responded to the urgency of the request.
After I'd heard what she had to tell me, I sat there silently
contemplating my next moves, trying to work my way
through the foreseeable variables, and hoping that the
unforeseeable ones would fall kindly.


It was now fully dark. Time to go calling.
'It's late, Sergeant.' Valerie Home's voice was tetchy over
the intercom.
'It's very important, Mrs Home. Can you tell your brother
that I urgently need to talk to him.'
'Is he in any kind of trouble?' her voice lowered
protectively.
'Not if he's prepared to be totally straight with me.'
She buzzed the gates open. As I went down the drive I
was aware that she would be reporting what I had just said
to Greg Thomas. I had now shown my hand. I had to hope
that it was the right one. Because I was also aware that there
could still be two of them involved. But, if there were, I was
at least now fairly confident that it wasn't Trevor Home that
I had to worry about any more.
The security lights were on outside the reception building,
but without the search parties or the gang youths hanging about,
the yard had an air of desertion, like a shut-down film set.
Greg came out of the house and crossed the yard. 'We'll
use the office,' he announced gruffly as he passed without
stopping. I followed him up the steps to the door. He
unlocked it and threw a half-eaten apple out into the night.
He formalized the encounter by sitting behind the desk.
I sat down opposite him. 'What's this all about?' he asked,
his expression and tone hostile. I looked up at the buddy
photograph above his head and silently rebuked myself for
not having foreseen this possibility before now.
'By our best estimates, Evie Salmon was murdered, butchered
and buried approximately six weeks ago. Can you tell
me where you were then?'


He scowled. 'You're not serious?'
'I'm very serious, Mr Thomas.'
'And I've already told you that I never knew her. Are you
making me out to be a liar?' he asked truculently.
'No, I'm just trying to find out what your movements
were about six weeks ago.'
He considered protesting again, but thought better of it.
'Here, I suppose. Around here. I haven't been anywhere for
a while.'
'So you haven't got any particular alibi?'
'What would I need an alibi for?' The question had genuinely
surprised him.
'We think we know the identity of the bodies we've found
up at the wind-farm site.'
'What has that got to do with me?' he asked, puzzled.
'They were the paramilitaries who were involved in the
incident when your fiancee, Rose Jones, was accidentally shot and killed.'
He just stared at me uncomprehendingly for a long
moment, his mouth open. 'Oh, Jesus!' His hands came
together as if in prayer, and his head drooped over the desk.
'Oh, for fuck's sake . . . Oh, Christ . . .' His head started
shaking rhythmically.
'Is there anything you want to tell me?'
He turned the head-shake into a negative.
I waited him out.
Eventually, he looked up. His expression was still etched
with shock and his eyes were ghastly. 'You can't think that
I had anything to do with this?' Shock had gone deep into
his voice as well.


'At first, I thought it was you. Just the way I was meant to.'
'What do you mean?'
'He's set you up, Greg. He knew that once we'd started
down this line we would discover that you're the one with
the motive.'
He looked suddenly frightened. He shook his head in a
sharp denial. But he had made the same connection. He
knew exactly who I was talking about.
'What was puzzling me was how you could possibly have
obtained the information about where to find the victims,'
I continued. 'You were a civilian by then. And then I remembered
that I'd been told that Owen Jones had transferred to
Military Intelligence. It slotted together. You had the motive,
but he had the same motive, and an advantage. He had the
means of access to the information.'
He shook his head weakly, still trying to make sense of
it. 'He's my best friend.'
'I don't think Owen has friends. Not in the way that you
or I would think of them. I don't know him like you do, so
perhaps I can see it better, but I think that he treats people
as utilities that can be brought into play whenever a particular
occasion calls for it.'
But he still wasn't ready to accept it. 'If he wasn't my
friend, why did he introduce me to his sister?'
'Because he needed to be in control of who she was going
to marry.'
'But he didn't know I was going to marry her,' he
protested.
'Then he would just have continued to bring carefully
selected buddies home until, finally, she did. But, crucially,


they would have been his choke. He would have done the
initial screening. You may not have realized it, but you would
have been vetted for suitability before you were invited to
Cogfryn. That's what he was doing for his sister. As far as
he was concerned, he was in charge of her life. Always had
been. Those three people took that away from him, and for
that they had to die.'
'He let me buy Fron Heulog,' he argued, shifting to another
tack.
'Not because you were his great good friend, but because
you were a part of Rose. He had already decreed that the
two of you were going to live there. It was just continuity.
But now that the Bruno Gilbert ruse looks like it might be
about to run aground, he needs another fall guy. I'm afraid
you became expendable, Greg.'
'Why?'
'Because, at the end of the day, he could apportion some
of the blame to you. If you hadn't done that tour in Northern
Ireland, Rose wouldn't have come over to see you, and she
wouldn't have been killed.'
Another cog creaked round. 'Do you drink whisky?' I
asked, while he was still digesting that.
He frowned at the randomness of the question. 'Yes.'
'Bunnahabhain?'
'Amongst others; I've got a thing for Islay malts.'
'Can you show me?'
He got up. By now he knew better than to question me.
I followed him across the yard to a single-storey extension
on the side of the main farmhouse.
'This is my apartment,' he informed me as he unlocked


the door. 'Val and Trev use the main house.'
He led me into an open-plan living room and kitchen
with a vaulted ceiling. It was bachelor red-and-cream, with
a wood-laminate floor, black leather three-piece suite, and
blond-wood furniture. The room was clean and tidy apart
from the remains of his dinner, which were still sitting on
a glass coffee table opposite the television set.
He opened a cabinet. I saw bottles stacked in rows, more
than I could count at a glance. I made out Ardbeg, Bowmore
and Lagavulin before his back blocked the view.
He turned round frowning. 'I was sure I had a bottle.'
'It's gone?'
He nodded, puzzled by the absence.
'And Owen was round here recently?'
'Yes.' He frowned again. 'What's the significance?'
'Bruno Gilbert was forced to drink most of it.'
He took that in and his expression blanched. 'That
couldn't come back to me?' It was more plea than
question.
'On its own it's only circumstantial. But it's all part of
the Gestalt.'
"What does that mean?'
'The bigger picture adds up to more than all the little
parts taken individually.'
'Is there more?' he asked anxiously.
I looked round the room. I felt a twinge. It was almost
spectral, as if I was picking up a trace of the same intruder
who had been in Unit 13.1 just knew then that the place
had been seeded. Probably the bedroom. If I hadn't stalled
in my original purpose and had taken Greg Thomas to


Fletcher after all, I was convinced that a search warrant
would uncover at least trace evidence of Evie and Bruno
here. Enough to keep the finger pointed.
"Where does Owen stay in the UK when he's not at
Cogfryn?'
'He's got a cottage in Port Eynon on the Gower Peninsula.'
The gears whirred, meshed, and locked home.
'Have you been there?'
'Yes. It's an annual event. A long weekend. Sea fishing and
surfing.'
'Did you ever make any impromptu visits? Just turn up?'
He shook his head. 'No, you don't do that to Owen. He
likes everything organized.'
'When you were there, were there any signs of a woman
living there?'
'There were always girls' things around, wherever Owen
lived.'
'But you never met any of them?'
'Not there.'
Where would he have shipped Evie off to, I wondered. I
was distracted from this speculation by the sight of Greg
frowning and shaking his head.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
'This doesn't work.'
'Why not?'
'Owen's in Nigeria. I drove him to Birmingham Airport
myself.'
'That's right, you saw him onto one plane. And I'd already
checked that he'd got on the flight in London. He was out
of the picture. Africa makes great cover. Or so I thought.


That's why you eventually became my target. But I've had
one of my colleagues check again. He left that flight in Paris.
Which gave him plenty of time to get back.'
'He came back here?' He knew it was a pointless question,
but it gave him time to adjust. He shook his head, still
confused. 'Where's he been staying?'
'That's been bothering me too. But he was brought up
here, he knows the area like the back of his hand. So where
could he find total concealment?'
'One of the Cogfryn barns?'
'Too close to home. The farm dogs would sense him. No,
I think that he might have literally gone to ground.'


I drove up the approach track to the gold mine with my
headlights full on. If Owen was watching, I wanted him to
realize that this was the only car, and that I wasn't sneaking
up.
I stopped in front of the gates and put the call in.
'Where the fuck are you, Capaldi?' Fletcher demanded.
T can't say, boss. I'm calling to tell you that the man we're
after is Owen Jones, the brother of Rose Jones, who was
killed in Northern Ireland. He's got a house on the Gower
Peninsula. You'll get the address from Greg Thomas at Fron
Heulog. I think we'll find that that's where Evie was living.'
'Are we going to find him there too?'
T don't think so. He's going to be going on the run. We
need to get a bulletin out to airports, stations, ports and all
mobile units.'
'Going to be . . .? Are you adding fortune-telling to your
fucking skill set?' he asked angrily.


'This is more than a hunch.'
'I want you back at The Fleece.'
'Later, boss.'
I disconnected, cutting him off in mid-protest. I had a
bloodbath to try to avert.
I had to climb over the gates, which had been secured
with a new padlock. I walked down the line of the static
cortege of ruined and bramble-choked cars and past Bruno's
shack, which seemed to have taken on even more of a list.
That same sense of attenuation was in the air, as if we were
working to different natural rules on this side of the fence.
At the sluices the cover of the mineshaft was closed. But
I had already decided that he had to have a way of opening
it from the inside.
Because I had figured out that Owen had set the mine
up as home base. An intuition that I desperately wished I
had never received. Because now, in all conscience, I was
going to have to act on it.
After he had murdered and buried Evie, when the situation
with the burial site was still in flux, he could have
remained at a safe remove, monitoring things from a
distance. But once the bodies had been discovered he had
to move back in. First, to kill and set up Bruno. Then, when
I looked like fucking up his diversionary plan, to keep close
to what I was getting up to.
But everyone had to believe that he had returned to
Nigeria. He had to stay hidden. Once we had cleared it of
its crime-scene status, what better place to go to earth than
a creepy mine tunnel?
This was his old stomping ground. He was probably using


a motorbike or a quad bike to get around. With his intimate
knowledge of the country he didn't even have to stick to
the roads. This was where he and Rose used to play as children.
He had demonstrated that he knew his way around
the mine when he had sneaked Evie's dress into Bruno's
substitute-mother's boudoir.
He was either already in there, or he was soon going to
return. Either way I had to set the meeting in motion. I
wasn't looking forward to it, but I owed this to a lot of dead
people. And to people who were alive at the moment who
I didn't want to see dead.
I had prepared Fletcher for the possibility of Owen going
on the run. I could be prescient about it because I was going
to grant him that option. Not as any kind of favour, but
because the vital thing was to get him out into the open.
He would be armed and he could take people out as they
approached down the tunnel. He could do too much damage
in that confined space.
How much of a surprise would my arrival be to him? I
wondered. Did he still think that he was in control? Or was
desperation starting to set in?
The important thing was not to surprise him.
I stood at the top of the shaft. 'This is DS Capaldi. I am
alone and unarmed, and I am coming in,' I declaimed into
the evening air, hearing my voice drift onto the hillside,
sounding like a prat.
I opened the hatch and climbed down to the bottom and
repeated the announcement. I felt the terror close in as I
got down on my hands and knees and started to crawl along
the first tunnel. Even with the beam of my torch filling the


space ahead, the light seemed to have a sinister quality, an
absence of anything warm or spiritual, the tunnel walls
striated and facetted, as if they had been gouged-out by a
huge and desperate burrowing thing. Claustrophobia manifested
itself in a sense that the tunnel was actually contracting
behind me. Collapsing like a rotten artery, cutting off my
escape route.
I was hyperventilating and sweating. I had to convince
myself that these were all sneaky tricks created by my mind
in an attempt to make me abandon what it considered to
be a fucking crazy notion and not conducive to the survival
of the body that it was conditioned to preserve.
I stopped and forced myself to repeat my arrival announcement.
'This is DS Capaldi. I am alone and unarmed.'
It was strangely comforting to hear my voice rolling on
down the tunnel. It broke the isolation. Even the torchlight
took on a new vibrancy. I was my own good company. I felt
the tension ease slightly.
I continued to repeat the announcement until I reached
the chamber Bruno had dedicated to his mother.
Inside, all the former smells of spinsterhood and latex
had disappeared and been replaced by the same mineral
dampness that pervaded the rest of the mine. I swung the
torch beam round slowly. The furniture had been removed
by Forensics. I played the light over the trompe Vczil painting
of the window, which seemed even more sad and primitive
now that it had lost the context of the pretend room.
I shifted the beam to the next quadrant, and illuminated
the sleeping bag and inflatable mattress on the ground. But
it wasn't those that made me catch my breath. It was the


shapes behind them that seemed to have no logic in this
place. And then all too much of logic, as their form and
intent combined.
Gas cylinders.
So had Owen prepared a treat for our arrival?
I moved the torch beam again and a terror archetype
overwhelmed me. The two dead things had been arranged
on the floor in a simulation of sodomy. I forced myself to
do a double take. Only one dead thing, I reminded myself,
the realization diluting some of my fear. Redshanks was
synthetic. And so, by elimination, the skeleton that he
appeared to be humping, his sightless eye sockets and rictus
grin adding demonic intensity to the performance, had to
be the mortal remains of poor Anthea Joan Balmer.
I invoked a silent imprecation on the sick bastard, and
then I was visited by blindness.


I had instinctively shut my eyes against the sudden incandescent
flare of light that seemed to explode right in front
of my face, but I still held the afterimage on my retina like
a popped flashbulb.
I felt a tug on my torch. I resisted the reflexive instinct
to clutch harder, and loosened my grip and let him remove
it. I told myself to stay absolutely still.
'There's a shotgun pointed at you,' he warned.
I nodded carefully, acknowledging it.
'Turn away from me slowly, sit down and put your head
between your knees, and put your hands out behind your
back.'
I sank to the ground and did as I was told, trying not to


remind myself that this was a classic execution arrangement.
He slipped the loop of a cable clip over my hands and onto
my wrists, and pulled tightly, the thin plastic cutting in
painfully as the ratchets caught and held.
I opened my eyes experimentally. He had a huge flashlight
trained on me. I could see nothing past it. I kept my head
to the side, my eyes averted from the beam. I didn't want
to look down; that would make me appear too much like
a victim.
'What the fuck are you doing here?' There was a taint of
tension in his tone, although he had obviously been aware
of my presence for long enough for it not to have come as
a surprise.
'I came here to head off the carnage.'
'Are there more of you outside?'
'No, I'm alone. No one else in the force knows I'm here.
I promise you that.'
'That's a bit fucking stupid.'
'Listen to me.' I put command into my voice. It was vital
that he saw me as an equal. T worked it out, Owen. I knew
you'd be holed up in here. And I knew you'd have guns.
Probably more than that shotgun. I came here on my own
to stop you killing other people, and then probably getting
killed yourself.'
'Are you offering yourself as a sacrifice?' I heard the puzzlement
in his voice.
'You won't shoot me.'
'No?'
'There's no advantage to you. Work it out.'
'You tell me.'


'You haven't been doing this at random. Every time you've
killed someone you've gained something from it. It was
justice with the ones you killed for Rose. Insurance from
Evie. A diversion from Bruno. There's no gain from killing
me. I'm a policeman. You'll just be hiking up the
wrath-storm.'
'I would be gaining time.'
'That's what I'm offering you. You don't need to kill me
for that.'
'What are you talking about?'
'It's over, Owen. I know what went down. Greg has realized
too. Soon everyone else will. I'm giving you a head
start.'
'Greg won't turn me in.'
'He doesn't have to. They know about your place in Port
Eynon. No matter how carefully you think you've cleaned
it up, we're going to find traces of Evie.'
He was silent, absorbing the logic of that. 'Why are you
here? Why are you telling me this?'
'I've already explained. I want you out of here. Sooner or
later, someone's going to put things together the way I did.
I don't want you here when they do, because they'll come
in force and they'll come armed.'
'Since when have you cared what happens to me?'
'If we're being brutally honest here, Owen, I don't give a
fuck what happens to you. But I do care about my colleagues.
I don't want a load of twitchy cops facing up to an armed
gunman in a mineshaft. You're going to end up dead, and
the chances are that some other people are too, and I'm
trying to prevent that. That's why I've come here to warn


you. It's over now. But you still have some time left to act.
If you stay here we'll find you. I'm not promising you
anything. If you run we'll probably still catch you, but at
least that way there's options open for you, and who knows,
you might even get away.'
Without eye contact I had to imagine him weighing it
up.
'I've got this place wired.'
'Why?' I had already figured that out, but it was important
to let him hear my surprise. I needed to persuade him that
this was out of character. An act of desperation.
'In case it comes to negotiations.'
'You're holed up in a rat trap, Owen. That's not the way
you play it.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You're a planner and an enactor. A soldier. You work
through the contingencies, calculate strategies, move yourself
forward. But most importantly you give yourself space
for maneuvering. You're not the kind of guy to dig yourself
into a hole and threaten to blow yourself up. That's for
losers.'
'How the fuck do you know so much about me?'
T recognized your gift to your sister.'
'Are you trying to shit me?'
I looked at him as directly as I could without scorching
my eyes on his flashlight. 'Why did you bury them where
you did?' I asked quietly. 'No matter how hard I looked at
it, I couldn't see any significance in that place.'
The silence extended for so long that I thought he wasn't
going to answer.


"When we were kids, Rose and I found a dead buzzard up
there. Not a mark on it. We each held an outstretched wing
and it was as big as us. Looking back, it had probably been
poisoned. But to us it was perfect. It was as close as we had
ever been to something wonderful. Something so powerful.
So we buried it. And that became our special place.'
'You were very close to her?'
'She was my sister. She trusted me to do things for her.
She relied on me. I found her future husband for her. When
they had children I was going to be the best fucking uncle
in the world.' He was quiet again for a moment. 'And then
those bastards killed her!' he spat out.
'I heard that it wasn't deliberate,' I suggested carefully,
'that it might even have been our guys.'
'It doesn't matter. They were the cause of it. They killed
Rose. They didn't deserve to just pick up a new life and go
on as if nothing had happened. They had to pay.'
'We only found three bodies. What happened to the
fourth?'
'He died before I could get to him.'
'His former compadres catch up with him?'
'No, thank Christ. If those pricks had got there first the
others would have scattered. No, just to prove that there is
a God in His Heaven, leukaemia got the bastard.'
'Did you use your MI contacts to find them?'
T asked around. I had to be patient. I had to work fucking
hard to find the right source.'
'That's why it took so long?'
'Yes.'
'You waited about two years after the first one. Why didn't


the other two get spooked and cut and run?'
'Because I kept him alive.' I heard the pleasure in his tone.
'You imprisoned him for all that time?'
'No. Not literally alive. Only on paper. I kept paying all
his bills.' He laughed. 'And spending his Social Security
payments.'
'The other two were married?'
'The other two were bastards who gave up any shred of
human dignity when I came for them,' he spat at me angrily.
I veered away from the danger topic and let him see me
gesture towards the dead-sex tableau. 'I understand why you
stole the skeleton, but why did you take Redshanks?'
'The what?'
'The body at the archaeological dig.'
'That thing's a pile of plastic'
T know.'
'The Northern Ireland connection spooked me. Then you
and the so-called professor looked like you were getting
chummy. I had to make sure that MI hadn't rumbled who
the bodies were, and that you weren't pooling information
with them. When I saw what they had in that tent, I realized
it was a surveillance gig and had nothing to do with me.'
'You still took the body'
'An exercise in disinformation.' I heard the cocky smirk
in his voice.
'How did you meet Evie?' I asked it quickly, trying to fit
it in as part of the seamless flow of the conversation.
He was silent. I didn't push it. I had heard the pride in
his voice. He was enjoying the recounting. It went hand in
hand with the power he felt he had over me.


'I was in the UK between jobs. I had just finished a tour
in Afghanistan and was waiting for the security clearances
to go through for the job in the Nigerian oilfields. I was
having some renovation work done at home, so I was staying
at Cogfryn. I saw her a couple of times standing by the
road.'
'Near Pen Twyn?'
'A lay-by just down from there. The next time I saw her
I stopped and asked if she wanted a lift. She said no, she
was waiting for someone. But the look she gave me, I got
the impression she was sorry about that. So, I went and
parked down the road, just out of sight. I was curious.'
'Gerald Evans picked her up?' I asked.
'Yes. I was leaning against my car. I was looking buff, if
I say so myself. I made a point of giving her the look as
they went by.'
'You had a nice car?'
'BMW M3. How did you know?'
'Evie liked nice cars.'
'I went back there the next week. I could tell that she was
attracted. She told me about the Evans gig, how it creeped
her out, but she needed the money.'
'You offered to pay her?'
'That's how it started. It wasn't sex at first, it was just a
bit of fun. I could afford it. And it stuffed Gerald Fucking
Evans.'
'But you told her not to tell anyone about you?'
'That began as a bit of a joke. I was playing the man of
mystery.' He went silent. 'Funny that, isn't it? Do you think
these things are meant to happen? That somehow, even right


at the beginning, subconsciously, I knew what I was going
to have to do to her?'
I didn't want to get into a cosy speculation about predestination
with him. I also didn't want to tell him that I knew
why he had made Evie promise not to tell anyone about
him. That he hadn't wanted his mother to know that he
was hanging out with someone she would have regarded as
inappropriate. 'She moved in with you?' I asked instead.
'She kept harping on about how much she hated Dinas.
How she felt protected by me. How much she loved me and
couldn't do without me. By that time, I was driving her up
and down to the Gower on Saturdays. She was getting a feel
for the place. I thought, Fuck it, she's attractive, not bad
company, all right in bed, and with my job I didn't have to
be around her all the time. Let her look after the place when
I'm away.'
'What went wrong?'
'She lost her fear of the big wide world, and got to be a
bit too fucking free. Started hanging around with the third
rate wannabe surfers down there. The dope-and-cider
brigade and their mash-up barbecues on the beach. I was
thinking of turfing her out the next leave I got, and then
Mum sent me a cutting from the paper.'
'The wind farm?'
'Of all the fucking hills in Wales!' he declaimed bitterly.
T panicked at first. Thought I could never go home again.
Then I thought about Mum and Dad, what they would
think when they heard. After that I started thinking a bit
more carefully. That there was still a chance their excavations
might miss the bit that was dedicated to Rose.'


'Or, even if they did, there was a way round it that wouldn't
lead to you?' I ventured.
'It took some fucking working out,' he said, sounding
pleased with himself. 'As I said, it's strange the way things
fall into place. Because Christ knows how I would have
managed it if Evie hadn't turned herself into a slut.'
'Or if Bruno Gilbert had been normal?'
'No one was going to miss him. It was a kindness, in a
way. What kind of a life did the crazy old bastard have?'
I wanted to tell him that this place would miss Bruno,
that his loss diminished the natural balance, but I forced
myself to keep quiet. He had reached the end of his narrative.
He knew that he had decisions to make.


I could tell by the movement of the torch beam that he had
just checked his watch. I felt my heart rate surge. It was the
gesture of a man who was preparing for action.
'Where's your car?' he demanded.
'At the gate.'
'Keys?'
'Left-hand pocket.'
'Turn round, face away from me.'
The torch beam jiggled. I heard the faint sound of metal
against rock, and then felt his hand in my jacket pocket
rooting for the car keys. He had had to put the gun down
to release a free hand. Was there an opening? I flashed
through the permutations, and realized that, with my hands
tied and my back to him, I didn't even have surprise on my
side.
And I didn't want to jeopardize his momentum.


He took his hand out of my pocket with the keys. I was
conscious of him rearranging himself. He would have the
gun under control again. This was the point, I recognized,
where my forward planning had stopped. From here I had
left it deliberately vague and fluffy.
'Let's move,' he ordered.
He went down the tunnel backwards in front of me,
keeping the torch pointed in my face. I had to shuffle along
like a penitent on my knees, my hands still tied behind my
back causing me to sway painfully against the walls.
He stopped before we reached the entrance. I saw the
shotgun for the first time as he poked it into the torch beam.
The barrel had been cut down. It was a vicious short-range
weapon. 'From now on you are going to be totally silent,'
he instructed. He pushed the gun forward. 'Put your forehead
against this.' I hesitated, hearing the tension in his
voice. He jabbed the barrel at me, barely missing my right
eye. I leaned forward until I felt the metal pressing on my
forehead. He lowered his voice. 'I'm turning the torch off
now. We're going to continue in the dark, without a sound.
If I stop feeling that pressure against this fucking gun, I'm
just going to fire both barrels into the dark and leave what's
left of you here. Understand?'
'Yes.' I wasn't going to argue. He had gone through a
mood change. Now that we were moving, he had rewed-up
to righteous anger. He was cranking himself up for flight.
Becoming more dangerous.
'Your life is now in your hands. Just keep your head
pressed to the metal.'
The light went out. The centre of my universe was now


a painful pair of third eyes that felt as sharp as pastry cutters
against my forehead, and I made them the focus of my
entire being as we commenced our shuffle down the tunnel
again, him in front of me, moving backwards, as before.
We emerged into the shaft. He removed the gun barrel
from my forehead, and grabbed my bound wrists and pulled
me upright. It took me a moment to realize that we were
no longer in total darkness. I looked up. Above me it was
more deep dark blue than black. As I adjusted I started to
make out stars. The hatch on the sluice deck above was open
as I had left it.
'Turn round,' he hissed quietly.
I complied. This was where he was going to hit me over
the head and leave me. I clenched my eyes shut and tensed
myself, preparing for the violence.
The sudden sense of a cord tightening around my neck
was even more of a shock because of its unexpectedness. I
started to throw my head around to stop him getting a
strangulation hold, but stopped when I felt the now familiar
gun barrel tighten itself painfully against the hollow in the
back of my head at the top of my spinal column.
'I'd stop struggling, if I were you,' he advised with a
chuckle, sounding pleased with himself, 'the gun's strapped
to the back of your head, so you'll either choke yourself to
death, or you'll cause my finger to jerk on the trigger.'
'This is crazy, Owen,' I whispered, trying to fight down
the hysteria that a sawn-off shotgun welded to the top of
my spinal column was creating, 'I'm only going to slow you
down.'
'Shut the fuck up, and start climbing,' he hissed, steering


me over and pushing me against the metal rungs on the
side of the shaft. He straddled me and pushed against my
back in a tight creepy intimacy as we climbed up like a pair
of conjoined and clumsy toads.
He stopped us just before the lip of the shaft, and, using
the shotgun to control me like the stick on a Balinese puppet,
he forced me to raise my head up over the rim. I was a
human white flag. He was using me as a sounding board
for either a searchlight or a shot.
But the night stayed still and dark.
'Okay,' he whispered when he was satisfied that the night
was not going to break apart, and we continued the awkward
stumble out of the shaft.
We stood there at the top of the shaft in silence as he
took his bearings. The skewed geometry of the climb had
caused the cord around my neck to nearly choke me, and
I used the respite to haul in big reserves of air.
I was the only sound. I became aware of it. My heavy
breathing was the only thing that was disturbing an otherwise
total silence.
It was unnatural. The night seemed to be holding itself
in an expectant suspension.
He pushed me forward, using the shotgun like a goad to
the back of my head. There was no moon, but the cloud
cover was light enough to navigate by silhouette, the track
showing up as, a lighter entity between the darker masses
of Bruno's twisted shack and the trees and matted
undergrowth.
What was he going to do at the locked gate? I had mixed
feelings about the problem that that was going to present


to him. He was either going to have to take the risk of
untying me to get me over, or he was going to have to
abandon me on this side. But if he did that, what sort of a
state was he going to leave me in?
We turned the corner on the track that led to the final
approach to the gate. I did a double take. Was it a trick of
the dim light?
The gate was open.
I tensed.
'What's the matter?' Owen whispered angrily, picking up
on my reaction.
I shook my head. I could make out the darker outline of
a car on the far side of the gate.
'Is that your car?' he whispered tensely.
'Yes,' I lied.
We shuffled forward. The night broke apart. The car's
headlights erupted on main beam, pinning the two of us in
the middle of the gate opening. The blue strobe light on
top started flashing to reinforce the message. I turned my
eyes away from the light onslaught and gagged as the cord
tightened on my neck and the gun barrel gouged even harder
into the back of my head.
'You bastard,' Owen hissed into my ear as he socketed
himself against my back.
T didn't--' I started trying to tell him that I was as
surprised as he was, but he cut me off with a twist of the
gun barrel that tightened the cord like a garrotte.
'There's a gun tied to the back of his head,' he yelled out.
The voice came out of the light. 'You're making things
even worse for yourself, Owen.'


Kevin Fletcher. Of all the possible fucking saviours! What
a bittersweet irony.
'You are covered by armed police officers,' he continued
'And I told you, this gun's tied to the back of his head.
You can't take the risk. I'm a trained fucking soldier,' he
shouted defiantly, 'and I promise you, if you force it, my
last reaction will be to squeeze the trigger.' He twisted the
barrel again. 'Tell them, Capaldi.'
'I'm strapped in pretty tight here, boss,' I managed to
wheeze, the cord cutting in savagely above my Adam's apple.
Fletcher stepped out into the light, as if he had just walked
into a photo opportunity.
This was going to be reported later as an incredibly heroic
action on his part. But he had never been in any danger. I
know because I was the dead meat between him and
oblivion. The shotgun was secured so tightly to the back of
my head that Owen had no field of shot. He had restricted
his options. If he did shoot he wouldn't be given the opportunity
to get the gun clear and load again. Whichever way
it went, I would be the only victim on the side of the angels.
Fletcher walked towards us slowly. He was wearing the
same overcoat that he had worn at Evie's funeral. I hoped
that that wasn't prophetic.
'That's far enough,' Owen warned.
Fletcher spread his arms to show that his hands were
empty, and kept on coming. He had a strangely satisfied
smile on his face.
He stopped immediately in front of me and leaned
forward slightly so that only Owen and I would catch his
whisper. 'We don't care.'


'What?' Owen asked, puzzled.
'We don't care,' Fletcher whispered again. 'In fact, you'd
be doing us a favour.'
'He's one of yours,' Owen protested, not hiding his shock
at the realization that Fletcher was talking about me.
Fletcher made a point of smiling at me. It felt like the
equivalent of a final pat on the head. He turned to Owen
and shook his head. 'Only on paper. In real life he's just
fucking trouble.' He contemplated it for a moment. 'So there
you have it. Your choice.'
He started backing away.
'Is he serious?' Owen whispered. I could hear the alarm
in his voice.
'Probably,' I whispered back.
Fletcher started to raise his arm.
'Okay,' Owen yelled, 'I'm backing off.' I felt a painful whack
on my back as the gun dropped free of his hand, and a
sharp pain as if a long bamboo splinter had just been thrust
down the length of my ribcage.
I caught Fletcher's smile flash triumphant, and, out of
the corner of my eye, to make my humiliation complete,
saw Emrys Hughes and his sidekick, Friel, move in to take
charge of Owen. Fletcher had been bluffing. There had been
no armed-response unit.
It wasn't in any training manual that had ever been
devised. There was no such move as the deliberate 
placeyour-colleague-in-jeopardy
gambit. It was the sort of trick
that, if I had attempted it, would have been condemned as
irresponsible, dangerous and foolhardy. But he had the rank,
the grooming and the PR nous, and I just knew that he'd


be credited for a brilliant tactical move. Even if no one had
bothered to consult the tethered goat.
But at least I had the consolation of knowing that it had
worked. I had got Owen out of that mine, where he could
have fucked up so many of us. And, as a reward, I was now
left standing there with the gun still hanging from the cord
around my neck with all the weight and psychological heft
of a fucking anvil.
But what was perhaps even more disturbing was the
expression that I saw on Fletcher's face as he directed a
glance towards me.
Regret?
Or was I only imagining it?

























And of course, Kevin Fletcher was the hero of the hour,
while I came across as the dumbfuck patsy plod who had
allowed himself to get caught up in the situation.
But even all that glory didn't stop him getting carried
away with his metaphors and accusing me of being a
fucking-vigilante-maverick-loose-cannon liability. Luckily,
I was in the hospital at the time, getting checked out for
various contusions and suspected cracked ribs, so I was able
to work the sympathy vote. And even he had to grudgingly
admit that I had produced the results. If I hadn't prodded
Greg Thomas with the shock of enlightenment, Fletcher wouldn't have been able 
to sweat Owen's hideout in the gold
mine out of him. So, in the end, my merit badges balanced
out my misdemeanours, and I found myself right back where
I had started.
The second time round that is. Dinas, not Cardiff.
Big deal.


I never did get round to asking Owen Jones how he had
killed. Something warned me off. He was okay handling
what he had done in the abstract, where he could convince
himself that he had acted nobly for his sister's memory, and
had been inventive in diverting our attention. But I had got
the impression that if, while he had a gun to my head, I
had brought it round to the practicalities of blood and
butchery, his state of denial could have turned
demonstrative.
We never found any of the heads or the hands. Portable
and easily disposable, I suppose. We had had to satisfy
ourselves with the theory that he would have used a shot
to the head. It was a good one to adopt. It salved something.
Death would have been quick.
The house at Port Eynon turned out to be Evie Central.
He had been too cocky; he had assumed that we would
never be knocking on that particular door. He hadn't cleared
anything. The broad outline and the minutia of her life were
still there. He was linked to her on every level, from the
macroscopic down to fibres and mingled fluid stains on his
mattress. And then we got really lucky. His cottage wasn't
on mains drainage. We found blood, bone and soft-tissue
residues that matched Evie's in both the pipe work and the
septic tank.
Forensics revisited Bruno's treasure chest and started to
find cross matches with fibres in the Port Eynon cottage.
He wasn't talking. But we had the victims and the motives
and were building up evidence to place and fix him at the
scenes where both Evie and Bruno had been murdered. The GPS was going to let us 
run with it. And I was going to be


the star witness. Tidied up and popped into a suit, I was
going to be the unfortunate hostage who had been held at
gunpoint while Owen spilled his guts out to me.
I asked Jack Galbraith if I had a choice in the matter. This
was too reminiscent of the PR fiasco they had woven around
my fall from grace in Cardiff. That memory was still a raw
wound. He had looked hurt, and then mean, and told me
that my presence was so vitally important that unless I went
forward voluntarily, he was prepared to personally upgrade
the damage that Owen Jones had inflicted, to improve my
credibility on the stand.
Because we were only going after him for Evie and Bruno.
Jack Galbraith and the Chief Constable had been
summoned up to the MOD. The other three bodies were
going to remain a closed book. Stormont was going through
one of its periods of seismic activity, and it was deemed
politic to keep old wounds firmly sutured. It was assumed
that Owen Jones would not be loudly confessing to the
additional murders.
I made a point of keeping away from the Barn Gallery. I
was too keenly aware of the focus on the place, and would
have felt like a rabbit in the cross hairs. Not that I would
have been welcome. The few times I saw Gloria after that
in Dinas, she was polite, but distinctly standoffish. Either I
had outlived whatever usefulness she had seen in me, or
Clive had put in a good word for me.
David Williams got his wind-farm workers back in The
Fleece. Although he confided in me that he was surprised
that Tessa and the Redshanks crew had moved to another
pub. I said nothing. That one still hurt. And then I heard


that the Redshanks carnival had upped sticks and left town.
Shortly after that, unmarked furniture vans were seen at the Barn Gallery, 
stripping the place, and the Fenwicks disappeared
into folklore.
Tessa never did get round to taking the memory pill. Or
if she did it was some other lucky bastard that she forgave.
I went round to Fron Heulog to try to make my peace.
They never raised the barrier for me. Their loss. It means
the local weed will continue to arrive on the shithouse
windowsill on Tuesday mornings.
The one piece of bright news that finally made spring
blossom for me was that Justin brought Mary Doyle up to
visit. She had made a complete recovery, apart from a small
burn scar on her left temple, which she was happy to describe
as 'funky'. And she and Justin had turned from casual friends
into an item, and were now sharing a flat in Hereford, which
had had the mains gas disconnected.
Justin still hadn't gone back to see his mother or his father.
Although he did get me to go round to his father's to pick
up his cat and to deliver it to the home that he and Mary
were now able to offer it. And he was a regular visitor at
Mackay's farmhouse, where he and Mary had been commissioned
to paint a mural on the wall of the barn that was
used to put corporate executives through their paces.
I stood at the back of a pleasingly large congregation of
well-wishers and relatives when Anthea Joan Balmer was
reinterred in the Bluebell Sector on a beautiful late-spring
morning. I wished her a peaceful and undisturbed
eternity.
And Gerald Evans?


Well, Gerald Evans was a case of slowly maturing vengeance
that I was working on.
The big consolation I had on returning to normal cowboy
duty was that my sheep molester had turned himself in. It
transpired that he felt that his work was now done. He had
been a breed fanatic who had been on a crusade to preserve
the genetic purity of Badger Face Welsh mountain sheep.
And I had just taken a call from Emrys Hughes and agreed
to help make up the numbers on a nocturnal stakeout that
Inspector Morgan had organized. Normally, I would have
told him where to stick his stakeout, but I was feeling the
need to rehabilitate myself with the local force.
How was I to know that this was going to be the start of
another terrible chain of events?


























ISBN 978 1 78029 052 2 US$28.95


CHRIS
COLLETT
BLOOD AND STONE


Grieving the death of his ex-lover,
Detective Inspector Tom Mariner
has taken two weeks' leave to
recuperate, seeking peace and
solitude in a remote corner of
Wales. The last thing he imagined
was to find himself caught up in a
murder investigation - with himself
as the prime suspect. But when his
walking holiday is interrupted by
the discovery of a dead body in
the woods, Tom finds the local police
taking an inordinate interest in him
and the reasons for his presence in
the area.

As the body count rises, it becomes
clear that there are a number of
disturbing secrets being kept behind the closed doors of the ancient stone 
farmhouses that populate the region - and as those secrets
gradually unravel, it turns out that
Mariner isn't the only one to have come to the picturesque Caranwy valley to 
escape a troubled past.





isni 07R I 7HQ29 052 2 LK£ 19.99
The Tom Mariner Series from Chris Collett



THE WORM IN THE BUD
BLOOD OF THE INNOCENTS
WRITTEN IN BLOOD
BLOOD MONEY
STALKED BY SHADOWS
BLOOD AND STONE





available from Severn House
Chris Collett






























Creme de la Crime
This first world edition published 2013
in Great Britain and the USA by
Creme de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England SM2 5DA.

Copyright © 2013 by Chris Collett.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.


British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Collett, Chris
Blood and stone. - (A Tom Mariner mystery ; 6)
1.Mariner, Tom (Fictitious character)-Fiction.
2.Murder-Investigation-Fiction. 3. Police-England
Birmingham-Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9'2-dc23


ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-052-2 (cased)


Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.

All Severn House titles are printed on acid-free paper.

Severn House Publishers support The Forest Stewardship Council [FSC],
the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that
are printed on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo.


MIX


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Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd., iFalkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
T J International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall



ISj
ONE


Day One



Every now and again, there is an exquisite moment in
one's interactions with other human beings that hits the
sweet spot dead centre. Capturing a split second of pure,
unadulterated surprise on the face of a loved one is such a
moment; like the joy of a young child on the Christmas morning
when his parents, against the odds, have succeeded in providing
a desperately wanted toy. Too fleeting and transient for any
lasting pleasure, the next best thing is the anticipation, which
can, in its way, be more of a thrill than the moment itself.
Glenn McGinley had that feeling now, electrifying every fibre
in his body, making his nerves tingle the way they did immediately
after a hit of cocaine, and temporarily anaesthetizing
his pain. McGinley was a firm believer in heaven and hell.
The idea had been sold to him early on and its simplicity had
always made perfect sense to him. Logic therefore dictated
that in the not-too-distant future he was going to burn in the
fiery furnace. He'd done enough bad things in his life to make
it a certainty. But thanks to a chance conversation, he had seen
the light. Not the kind of light strong enough to redeem his
corrupted soul, but the kind of light that made him want some
company when he got there. There was no harm in that, was
there?
He had the minicab driver drop him and his plastic bin bag
off a couple of streets away: no sense in announcing his arrival
when his sole purpose was to surprise her. Night and day, for
weeks now, he'd lain on that wood-framed cot picturing the
expression on her face when she saw him again, and the prospect
evoked an intensity of feeling close to euphoria. But, like
Christmas morning, everything had to be orchestrated perfectly;
he couldn't afford to screw anything up, so the important thing
right now was to remain focused. Concentration had never been
one of his strong points. Right back in nursery school, that
much had been obvious. But if he could just keep it together
for a bit longer, he just knew that it would be worth the effort.
Dusk had turned to night hours ago, leaving the cold and
windy streets deserted, which suited him fine. He approached
number twenty-two from the narrow alley running between the
gardens of the back-to-back rows of post-war social housing.
Good old Kirkby. True, the place had moved on from being the
grim sink estate it had been in the 1970s, since when, tower
blocks had been ripped down to make way for more respectable
mixed-economy housing. In a defiant gesture Liverpool FC had
even relocated their training academy out here. But it was still
a shit hole. McGinley was headed to the old part; the place
they'd moved to thirty years ago, away from the back-to-back
slums and into a brand spanking new slum, the widow and her
sons. It was all part of the fresh start that didn't turn out to be
quite what any of them expected. Even now, in the threebedroomed
house there was a room set aside for him, in case
he ever chose to 'return to the fold' (her words). But she'd laid
down too many conditions for that ever to happen. He'd been
back plenty of times since he'd left, but always under cover of
night and always without her knowledge. She would never have
suspected anything. Sometimes it was useful having an old girl
who'd become a trusting and naive religious nut.
McGinley's senses were heightened as they always were on
re-entry; the feel of the cool evening air on his skin, the sharp
smell of a recent rain shower that accentuated the sour notes
of rotting refuse each time he passed a cluster of wheelie bins.
As expected, there were no lights on at the house. She'd
followed the same strict routine for years and he had no reason
to believe it had changed. Whilst other middle-aged women
would have been at the bingo or in the pub, her Thursday nights
were spent at the mission, helping those 'less fortunate' while
making every effort to educate them about where, in their
miserable lives, they were going wrong. She'd been doing it
for years, ploughing doggedly on, at the very same time that
her own family slowly disintegrated in the background.
The back gate was locked as usual, but McGinley had always
been spare and lithe, and now, with the additional weight loss,
he was practically skeletal. It took him a matter of seconds to
scramble over - his traditional mode of entry - swinging the
plastic bag ahead of him, and drop lightly on to the path on
the other side, beside the garden shed, erected when they'd first
moved here to accommodate Dad's old tools and belongings
that she couldn't bear to part with. Fumbling for the padlock,
he stuck in his key. Ice-cold in his hand, it was stiff from lack
of use and took some effort to turn, but then as far as he knew
he'd been the only one to come in here in twenty years.
The air inside the shed was musty and undisturbed, dominated
by the overpowering smell of creosote. This was in truth
the only space on this earth McGinley could call his own and
the territory was at once so familiar that the light streaming in
from the street lamps allowed him to locate exactly what he
needed almost straight away. As he retrieved the camouflage
rucksack from the far corner, something scuttled lightly over
his hand and he had to stifle a cry. Shit! His heart pounded for
few seconds, then he shook his head in disgust; after everything
he'd endured, to still be scared of spiders. It took him a matter
of minutes to transfer his stuff from the bin bag to the dusty
canvas sack, and after that he reached up on to a high shelf,
behind a row of cobweb-strewn paint tins, and took down a
steel toolbox. This too had an ancient padlock, for which
McGinley was the sole key holder. The contents of the box
were functional enough, but unlike most things in this shed,
they were designed not for construction but destruction.
Removing a couple of items from the top tray, he pushed
them deep into the pack. They might prove useful later on.
But what he lifted out last, and with reverential care, would
come into its own very soon. He wondered what his mum's
pals would think if they knew what she had been harbouring
for years in her own back yard. Resting it in his palm for a
moment, he savoured the comforting weight of it and felt his
heart begin to pump a little harder. He checked the mechanism,
which operated as smoothly as - well (he allowed himself a
smile) a well-oiled gun. Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be . . .
Charles Bronson in Death Wish 2. From his inside jacket
pocket McGinley took the gift his room-mate had given him
two nights previously and screwed it on to the barrel. It was
a perfect fit. Astonishing what could be obtained in a Category
C if you knew who to ask.
Finally, pulling on the latex gloves acquired at his last medical
appointment, McGinley emerged from the shed, closing the door
quietly behind him. He waited for a moment in the shadows,
reassessing the houses on either side. He'd already noted a presence
in each property, but as long as he was careful there would
be no need for anyone to notice what was going on next door.
The illuminated kitchen to the left stayed empty; lights in the
house to the right were upstairs, behind curtains drawn shut. He
walked softly up the footpath and tested his key in the back door.
This time it turned easily and he stepped into the hallway and
back into the 1950s, and air thick with the smell of furniture
polish and abstinence. Locking the door again behind him,
McGinley groped his way in the darkness along the hall, past
the open kitchen door, where the light glinted back at him from
the old-fashioned appliances, and into the lounge. She'd had a
shift-round since he was last here, and amazingly there was new
furniture. He dragged one of the heavy armchairs around so that
it faced the door and settled into it. It was quite comfy actually;
one of those reclining ones. For his own amusement he played
with the mechanism for a few minutes, firing off an imaginary
shot each time he slammed up the foot rest, until he got bored.
By now he was desperate for a drink or a fag or both, but he
needed a clear head and the smell of smoke would immediately
announce his presence, so the only thing left to him was to wait.
Tucking the gun down out of sight between his outer thigh and
the armrest, he leaned back and closed his eyes.



TWO



Tom Mariner paced the confines of his canal-side home,
polishing his left shoe with a kind of restless fervour as
if, somehow, the effort might hold in abeyance the thick
cloud of grief that approached like a vast unstoppable weather
front. Shoe-cleaning had been his first responsibility as a small
boy. 'A man's job' his mother had called it, and as he was, even
at the age of four, the man of the house, the task had fallen to
him. Ever since, he had found a comforting familiarity in the
evocative smell of the wax polish and the simple, repetitive task,
and it had become his last desperate hiding place. Mariner knew
about the cycle of grief; the voyage through shock, denial, anger
and sadness, and he knew too that it was inevitable. Until now
work had been his salvation. The last weeks had been chaotic,
with several major cases hitting the courts at the same time,
commanding his full attention; demanding that he be focused
and objective. There was no place for raw emotion. But
tomorrow reality would come crashing in and already he could
feel the edges beginning to fray.
His mobile rang; it was Tony Knox.
'Boss. How's it hanging?'
'Oh, you know, down and slightly to the right as usual,'
Mariner said, irritated by the expression.
'You okay for tomorrow?'
Mariner could hear the diffidence in his sergeant's voice,
everyone treating him like a fragile piece of porcelain. 'I'm
fine,' he said, feeling anything but. His charcoal-grey suit
hung on the door in its plastic dry-cleaning cover and the tie
he'd chosen, one that she'd bought for him, was looped around
the hanger like a careless noose. Everything ready, except for
him.
'I'm picking up Millie at quarter to; we'll be at yours at
about ten,' Knox said. 'See you then.'
'All right,' Mariner confirmed. Somehow, while he wasn't
looking, Knox had conspired with DC Millie Khatoon that
she would drive Mariner down to Herefordshire, not quite
trusting the old man to do it himself, and taking yet another
surreptitious opportunity for the close surveillance that
somehow he was failing to convince them he didn't need.
Underneath it all though, Mariner knew that their intentions
were sound, so he didn't complain. And this time tomorrow
it would all be over and both Millie and Knox would need to
rethink their boundaries. Mariner glanced down at his shoe,
which by now was shined to a varnish-like gloss. Placing it
carefully down next to its partner he picked up the remote,
switched on the TV, and dropped on to the sofa in another
futile attempt at distraction.



THREE



McGinley had been far from disappointed. In fact the
much-awaited moment exceeded all his expectations.
It was coming up to eleven when he finally heard the
key turning in the lock; must have been a lot of souls to save
tonight. He braced himself for what was to come. A light flicked
on in the hall. There was shuffling and voices; she wasn't alone.
He heard them go into the kitchen, a kettle being filled. His
heart began to pick up speed. Finally her slight form, trussed
up in that vile travesty of a uniform, appeared in the doorway
and a sixty-watt bulb illuminated him in all his glory.
'Hello Mum.' Despite the burning hatred that filled his chest,
McGinley forced a smile and watched the domino effect of her
facial muscles as they reacted in sequence. What was especially
satisfying was the noticeable brief and transient hope that after
all these years the prodigal son was returned; that he had finally
come to his senses, which, in a way, he had.
'Glenn. In heaven's name . . .' she managed to splutter. But
in a split second she saw what he held in his hand and realized
too late that he was not here for forgiveness but for
retribution, and like snow thawing and sliding off a roof, he
saw optimism mutate into disbelief, and then finally the recognition
of what was to come.
Another face appeared beside hers, peering almost comically
around the door frame. 'What's going on, Brenda?' A man
stepped into the frame alongside her, tall but stooping, his hair
straggly and grey. He was more frail than the last time
McGinley had seen him, swamped by the overcoat he wore
over his identical uniform. Fuck me, thought McGinley, the
Major, forgot about him, dirty old bugger. Well he was going
to get more than he bargained for too.
'I've got something for you, Mum,' McGinley said, ignoring
him, 'from me and Spence.' And his heart pumping with
elation, McGinley raised the gun, aimed at his mother's chest
and fired twice; once to kill and once for luck. She crumpled
to the floor with a dull thud, and the old man moaned in terror.
'Your lucky night too,' smiled McGinley, and before the Major
could react, shot him twice in the stomach. The old geezer
toppled like a statue, writhed for a moment on the floor while
something gurgled unpleasantly in his throat and then he lay
still, his eyes staring into some far-off distant place.
McGinley exhaled as with shaking hands he took out his
cigarettes and lit one up, drawing on it deeply and taking great
pleasure in blowing out the smoke into the uncontaminated
atmosphere. In the light the place looked stark and bare, with
the basic furnishings and a marked absence of the decorous
frills that were commonplace in most homes these days. There
were no family photographs of the two sons who had each in
their way brought shame on the family. Without turning on
any more lights McGinley went up the stairs and looked out
of the darkened front and back bedrooms. Everything was as
quiet as when he'd arrived, and there was no indication that
anything he'd done had drawn special attention to number
twenty-two. He would make his escape while it was still dark,
but until then he had a few hours to find the rest of what he'd
come for and help himself to anything that he thought might
come in useful to him over the next few days.
The kitchen was stocked with the same stuff he'd grown up
on, but McGinley's appetite was for bland food these days so
it suited him. He scavenged a few slices of dry bread, a small
hunk of cheese and half a packet of biscuits that would sustain
him for a few hours.
Next he turned his attention to the sideboard in the living
room. The keys to the car and lock-up were easy enough to
locate, thrown carelessly into an old ash tray, and easily identifiable
by the fob. Going through the sideboard drawers
McGinley found a tin containing a bit of loose change and a
couple of fivers, but the familiar old brown envelope was more
elusive. He nailed it eventually, caught down behind a pile of
papers in the drawer, the faded number still written in biro on
the corner. He gave it a shake to check that the keys were
there, and stuffed it in his pocket. Lastly, there were facts to
be checked. Sliding back the doors of the main cupboard, he
sorted quickly through the pile of old magazines and papers,
including endless copies of the War Cry. One carried the
headline 'Vengeance is mine, Saith the Lord'. Wholly unoriginal
of course, but apt in the circumstances and impossible to
resist. Tearing it carefully around the edges he placed the
slogan beside the two bodies and it pleased him. But none of
the rest of this stuff was any good, it was all too recent. What
McGinley was looking for, the box files of old cuttings and
mementoes she had preserved since they were kids, was gone.
Maybe she finally had given up on him and had thrown it all
away. A tinny carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.
He'd have to watch it. His mother was not a party girl and the
neighbours knew it. It wasn't ideal, but to maintain the charade
of normality he was going to have to continue the search by
the light of his torch.
Switching off the downstairs lights as he went, McGinley
climbed the stairs and searched the bedrooms, but the wardrobes
and cabinets were small and contained only clothing and day
to-day items. He was surprised to find a computer in the tiny
box room that had been made over into a sort of office, but
again his torch picked out nothing of what he was looking for.
It was as he was crossing the landing to descend the stairs
again that he thought of the one last place they might be.
Fetching a stool from the bedroom, he climbed up and
released the loft hatch, sliding down the integral aluminium
ladder. When the beam of light first swooped over the stack
of cardboard boxes, he was dismayed by the scale of the task;
he would be here all night sorting through this lot. But then
it struck him that the arrangement was too neat; the boxes
were proper archive boxes that were all precisely labelled in
the same careful handwriting. They must belong to the Major.
He would have brought them with him when he moved in;
yet another way of completely dominating his ma's life.
Towards the back of the loft space he eventually spotted a smaller stack; an 
odd assortment of cardboard grocery boxes
and battered suitcases. That was her stuff. Heaving himself up
through the hatch, McGinley picked his way carefully across,
treading on the joists. In the second suitcase he found what
he was looking for, an envelope of yellowing press cuttings,
old tickets and letters, along with one short newspaper report
of a death in custody, and the subsequent internal police investigation
that exonerated the officers involved. A second cutting,
barely two column inches, described a tragic suicide. As a
teenager McGinley had once overheard an indiscreet neighbour
talking about the 'bad luck' that seemed to follow the McGinley
family around. The Major no doubt described it as 'God's
will'. But McGinley knew they were both wrong. Everything
happened for a reason. This time, the reason was him.
Folding away the loft ladder and closing the hatch, McGinley
was overcome by sudden exhaustion. Having found everything
he wanted, he lay down on the bed in the spare room for a
couple of hours' sleep. As he drifted off he thought about how
weird it was that he could be so relaxed with two dead bodies
lying in the hall downstairs. These days he was a light sleeper
and had no worries that he would wake before dawn. But just
in case, he set the alarm of his cheap digital watch for three a.m.

Mariner lay flat on his back waiting for the sky beyond the
curtains to lighten. It had been after midnight when he'd
climbed the stairs to bed but, like so many nights of late, his
brain had refused to log off. His body felt heavy and lethargic,
weighed down by the prospect of the day ahead. But when he
could more or less see without the aid of electricity he forced
himself to get out of bed and pull on jeans and an old sweatshirt.
There were preparations to make.
Downstairs in the kitchen he brewed a mug of tea, but
abandoned it on the worktop, too queasy to drink it. He'd been
prevaricating, but could do so no longer. Along the hallway
by the front door, Mariner unlocked the half-door that went
down to the cellar. Cool, stale air wafted out, and he had to
suppress an instant, though fleeting, ripple of fear. Switching
on the light, he was presented with nothing more threatening
than what looked like a subterranean Oxfam shop; the discarded
but 'might come in useful' stuff he'd accumulated since he'd
moved in here nearly twenty years ago. An old vacuum cleaner,
boxes of books and old LPs, pictures and picture frames
brought from his mother's house. But the biggest pile by far
was of walking gear; several previous generations of boots,
rucksacks and camping stoves, most of it obsolete, along with
the equipment he used now. And that was what he'd come
down for this morning. On the rare occasions when he was
compelled to retrieve anything from the cellar, Mariner's
strategy was always the same: identify what's needed from
the vantage point at the top of the steps, go down to fetch it
and return as quickly as possible to the hall, with one eye on
the open door at all times, in case it should suddenly and
inexplicably slam shut. He was well aware that his fears right
now were irrational. But they were grounded in real and terrifying
experiences, so recognizing that fact did nothing to
diminish their power. Today two forays were enough, and
stacking everything in the hall, Mariner closed and locked the
cellar door again, before opening his front door on the chill
morning air. It took several journeys to load everything into
the back of his car bit by bit, arranging his kit carefully as he
always did, like a neat jigsaw puzzle, everything in its rightful
place. For the first time he allowed himself to think beyond
this day. He'd tried to make his escape once before, but had
been thwarted. This time was going to be different.

McGinley woke at the bleeping of his alarm, feeling groggy
and sluggish. The sky was beginning to turn grey. Gathering
his things and locking the door behind him, he exited the
house the way he had come, emerging cautiously, just in case
his presence had aroused attention. As he walked away he felt
slightly heady, with what he imagined to be the satisfying
feeling of revenge. This was how the old geezer at Long Lartin
had said it would be. McGinley hadn't known whether to
believe him at the time, but it was true, like a cleansing of the
soul. 'Don't go out with a fizz, go out with a bang,' he'd told
McGinley. 'Make people sit up and take notice of you. It's
the last chance you'll get.' And this was just the start. If the
rest of it worked out as planned, it was going to turn into
something monumental.
Although he'd started young and had built up an impressive
record, McGinley had always been small time, a tiny cog in
someone else's machine. He'd snatched at opportunities as they
were presented, and he'd relied on other people to create them
for him. With the occasional exception of petty offences he'd
never felt secure enough to go it alone, or to engage in any
long-term planning, but he couldn't get over how well this was
playing out - better than he had a right to expect. Now he began
to wonder if, with a bit of effort, he could have been more
ambitious with other enterprises. Some of this new-found confidence
of course came from knowing that now he had absolutely
nothing to lose. Ironically the onset of physical weakness was
making him strong. No one could touch him and that feeling
of power was extraordinarily potent; he felt invincible.
His only tiny regret from last night's episode was that the
moment of execution had been so short-lived. It made him wish
that he'd filmed it, if only on a mobile, so that he could replay
it and enjoy those few seconds all over again. But common
sense told him that success depended on keeping things simple.
In many ways the anger had gone out of him by now, too. Ma
wasn't a bad person, not in the way that some people are, but
she had let them down. If she had done her job properly, things
would have turned out differently, and for that she'd had to be
punished. No, it had to be enough for him that she would be
denied a peaceful old age. And he'd have to content himself
with the images that lived on in his head.
There was more to do, and right now he had to focus and make
sure his getaway was as clean as the operation. Once the bodies
were discovered it wouldn't take long for the police to work out
what had happened or who was responsible. But by the time they'd
joined the dots they wouldn't stand a hope in hell of catching up
with him. Duck and cover. He'd been learning about that for most
of his miserable life. Retracing his steps along the streets, keeping
to the shadows, he came to the row of lock-up garages. The
up-and-over door seemed to roar and clang in the quiet night as
he opened it on the old generation puke-green Astra. It was perfect;
average enough not to draw attention, and before he set off he
carefully checked the tax disc, plates and all the lights, reassured
that she'd kept it all up to date. With luck it would be a while
before there was any police interest around here, but he had form,
and the last thing he needed was to get caught out and be pulled
over for a minor traffic offence. The adrenalin spike was starting
to flatten now and the pain in his side was coming up to meet it,
but he had to keep his wits about him for just a few more hours
until he could relax.



FOUR



Day Two


I

t was still early when Mariner had finished his packing so
he made another mug of tea in the hope that it might settle
his stomach, then forced himself under the shower. Glancing
down he saw a crimson spot drip on to the pristine white floor
of the shower cubicle, a pinkish rim spreading out from it and
making it look like a small fiery planet. It was joined by
another, then another to form a whole miniature solar system.
In reality it was a nose bleed. He'd been plagued with them
lately, though luckily so far they were mostly first thing in the
morning. Stress-related, the doctor told him when he'd casually
mentioned it at his last medical. Stress from what? Mariner
had almost asked, before realizing what a stupid question that
was. Stepping out of the shower, it took him several minutes
to stem the flow enough to be able to shave properly, and he
left his white shirt on its hanger a while longer.
He was knotting his tie when he heard the sound of a car
engine and glanced outside to see Millie Khatoon and Tony
Knox, arriving exactly on time. So this was it. The discomfort grumbling away 
in his belly suddenly bubbled up into his
throat in a bitter surge, and with the repeated and insistent Nil' jchiming of 
his doorbell ringing in his ears, he ran for the
ojbathroom and consigned the mug of tea to the toilet bowl,
v jlWhen the retching subsided he swilled his mouth out and
Isplashed cold water on his face. It was a white, gaunt visage
that stared back at him from the mirror. He'd never had much
colour but the strain of the last few weeks was showing in jthe pallor of his 
skin. The white flecks in his hair were on the
I
13


increase too and even the blue seemed to have drained from
his eyes, leaving them hollowed, with dark shadows underneath.
Not for the first time he considered feigning an illness,
thinking that perhaps if he refused to acknowledge today it
might seem less real, less final. But common sense told him
that in time it would be something he'd live to regret. The doorbell rang 
again, more insistently. Resolute, Mariner dried
his face, jogged down the stairs and, grabbing his overcoat
from the hook he strode out of the house, slamming the door
shut behind him. 'Come on then,' he said, tossing his car keys
at Millie. 'Let's get this over with.'
'And good morning to you,' said Knox, throwing his colleague
a glance. 'I'll see you down there.'

McGinley had driven carefully out of Liverpool via the Mersey
Tunnel and on to the Wirral under cover of the breaking dawn,
acutely aware that once he got beyond the large conurbations
he would be increasingly conspicuous. He was making excellent
time through the Cheshire country lanes, and what he thought
might be a tricky piece of navigation was turning out to be
surprisingly easy. Although he'd ceased to believe in 'the big
man' many years ago, suddenly McGinley had the sense that
some greater power really was on his side, helping him along.
He'd learned about computers while he was crashing at
Froggie's place in between stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure.
Apart from the porn on tap (Froggie's mouse was always
suspiciously sticky) his mate had banged on about Friends
Reunited. McGinley didn't have the faintest desire to be
reunited with anyone he'd been at school with, not to begin
with, anyway, and within a few short minutes he'd decided
that the whole concept was total bullshit. Just an excuse
for the successful wankers of the world to show off to
everyone else about how wonderfully their lives had turned
out, while, at the same time, rubbing the noses of people
like McGinley into the shit that was their wretched lot. But
when McGinley stumbled across the name 'Lindsey
Appleby' he couldn't resist a peek.
He hadn't thought about her for years, but once he did, it
became obvious to him that, like his mother, Lindsey Appleby
(or Daker as she was now called) had also let him down. Badly.
She'd done all right for herself of course, he could see that from
the profile - married to Tim, a property developer - with an
address on the footballer territory of the Wirral. It was all so
disappointingly conventional. Would love to hear from anyone
who knows me! screamed the blurb. McGinley took that as a
challenge and got Froggie to show him how to send an email,
typing it out painstakingly with his two index fingers. He was
fully prepared for it to be ignored, but Lindsey had confounded
his expectation and responded almost straight away as if they
really were old friends. He was immediately sceptical. Doubtless
she just replied in the same vein to everyone who contacted
her, which simply confirmed for McGinley what total bollocks
it all was. So he emailed a question to try and catch her out:
remember the sparrow? He never got the response because days
later he was arrested for breaking and entering (well if people
would leave their bathroom windows open when they went out)
and social networking isn't exactly encouraged in Strangeways.
But that encounter across the interweb had stayed with him and
it was when he was planning his escape route that McGinley
had happened to notice how close he would be passing to where
Lindsey Daker and her perfect life existed.
It made complete sense that he was going to cross this area,
of course, and time was on his side. There was going to be a
lengthy wait at his destination anyway, so why not make a
short detour? What did he have to lose? He quite literally had
time to kill. That had made him chuckle, and it was disappointing
that he couldn't share his wit with anyone. It was
altogether possible of course that Lindsey no longer lived at
the address posted on the website, but on balance McGinley
thought it more likely that she would, and he saw it as an
opportunity; some might even see it as an intervention of fate.
He had no idea about the minutiae of Lindsey's life, though
he could take an educated guess. He'd assess the situation,
and if it looked as if it would be too complicated then he
would just drive on. Lindsey was only a bit-player; an optional
extra. There were bigger fish to fry.
The detour had brought McGinley, as expected, into a very
affluent neighbourhood. These were the homes every tart on
Merseyside aspired to. The houses, if that was what you could
call these palatial structures, were built with privacy in mind,
and often could barely be glimpsed behind the tall trees, thick
shrubs and long driveways. But privacy cut both ways, with
a handy flip side called concealment, and the further he drove
into these privileged country lanes the more McGinley warmed
to this part of his adventure. Finally he came to the address
scrawled on the torn-out notebook page. Jesus it was a big
bugger; modern and angular from what he could see behind
the screen of conifers. Must be six or seven bedrooms. What the
fuck did they do with them all? It was a little after five in
the morning now and McGinley was banking on Tim the
property developer being a workaholic. A couple of hundred
yards back he'd passed the entrance to a water processing
plant. He drove back there and parked up behind cover of
some dense bushes to wait until a more civilized hour.
By secondary school McGinley had already been marked
out as a weirdo. Everybody seemed to know about what had
happened to his dad, but far from being sympathetic they
treated him with suspicion. Probably the old git's fault in the
first place. Had to be some truth in it. That family's trouble.
Stay away from them. Then, soon after they moved to Kirkby,
Ma got religion. Not any old religion but the sort that comes
with maximum potential for humiliation, so there were
suddenly plenty more reasons to ostracize him. It spread like
wild fire that he was in 'the army' and taking the piss out of
a McGinley became a new curriculum subject, especially if
they were seen up at the shopping centre in uniform at the
weekend. It was something else to add to the growing catalogue
of shame, from his old-fashioned clothes and hair cut, to his
crap school bag, to his family history. When he wasn't being
taunted, mostly he was ignored - until Lindsey Appleby came
along. Lindsey was on the outside too and went her own way.
She was well-off and lived in a big house that wasn't technically
even in Kirkby, but her mum and dad were social workers
or something and thought it was character building for her to
go to school with council estate scum. They were opposite
ends of the spectrum. While McGinley was really desperate
to blend in, Lindsey went out of her way to be different. It
was the start of punk and she dyed her hair and put safety
pins through her ears. She chose not to hang out with the cool
kids, which in itself made her cool. But because of her mum
and dad, she also had to be nice to everyone.
McGinley rode to school every day on an old second-hand
pushbike with a torn saddle and no mud guards. One day, as
frequently happened, the chain came off. Usually he could put
it back on, but on this day it was so tangled it got jammed and
he was forced to walk. He saw Lindsey up ahead some distance
away, crouching over something. As he got up close he saw it
was a sparrow flopping around on the pavement unable to fly.
She enlisted him to help carry it the rest of the way to school.
For the remaining time that his broken bike forced him to walk
to school, he found her waiting for him by the same garden.
The first time he nearly pissed himself with fear.
'Where's your bike?' she asked.
'I couldn't fix it.'
'All right, I'll walk with you.'
Terrified, McGinley wondered what the hell he would say
to her. He didn't have to worry. Lindsey did all the talking,
questions mostly, along with comments on their classmates
and teachers that were savagely funny and observations of the
world in general.
McGinley didn't know why she was interested in him. It
would have been different had he been anything like his kid
brother, Spencer. Spence was beautiful. People had been saying
that since the day he was born. He didn't have McGinley's
frizzy hair or bucked teeth (back in the days before braces
were the norm). Spence had a sweet disposition too, and that,
ironically, had been his undoing.
Lindsey's attention had lasted for one wonderful term, when
finally it seemed that McGinley might emerge from his lonely,
friendless existence. Desperate to keep Lindsey's friendship,
he started to bring her things - mostly sweets stolen from the
local corner shop. He was deft and he was fast and it was one
thing that he could do well. To start with Lindsey encouraged
him. Payback for your dad, she called it. Two fingers up to
the filth. And by the time she started to go all self-righteous on him, 
McGinley was in too deep. He'd come to the attention
of a talent scout. Not for Liverpool or Everton, but for Lee
Brodie and his gang of about-to-turn-professional thieves, who
recognized a housebreaking asset when they saw one. The late
Seventies were a boom time for portable electronic equipment
and McGinley became an expert in acquiring it. Lindsey,
though, had long ceased to be impressed and when two boys
in school uniform were seen leaving the scene of a newsagent
burglary, she shopped him. It was for his own good, she said,
and it didn't seem to matter to her that it wasn't even him.
The escapade got McGinley expelled from school; he never
really went back and he never saw Lindsey again. In fairness,
he couldn't blame Lindsey entirely; his life would probably
have turned out crap anyway, but she hadn't exactly helped
things along. And now he had a chance to redress the balance.
At seven-forty a top of the range Mercedes slid smoothly
past McGinley, the only occupant a male driver, and as it
disappeared around the leafy corner McGinley caught sight
of the rear personalized plate: DAK 4. Perfect. Taking what
he needed from his rucksack, McGinley proceeded back to
the house on foot. He was ready to scale the walls if necessary,
but there was no need. Hubby had obligingly left the
electronic gates open. Tosser. The 'hers' Merc, a little SUV
crossover, was on the drive in preparation for the school run.
McGinley strolled past it and around to the back of the big,
modern house. He sank back as the kitchen door suddenly
opened and an exuberant spaniel ran out. Game over, McGinley
thought, but the stupid mutt bounded right past him and on
to the end of the garden, racing around the shrubs and sniffing
after animal trails. McGinley sidled along to the kitchen
window and, peering in, his eyes fell on the kind of domestic
scene that was being replicated the length of the country.
McGinley had seen the photos online, so was prepared for
how much Lindsey had changed, but even so it was hard to
reconcile the girl he'd known with the woman before him now.
Gone were the panda eye make-up, pale skin and plum lipstick.
She looked good for forty-six; sleek and gym-toned in tight
fitting jeans and some kind of flowery shirt, her hair was
lightened to a fake blonde, and fell to her shoulders. The hair,
black and glossy as it was back then, was what McGinley
remembered most: that and her tits. They all used to queue
up to watch her playing netball in her slightly too tight aertex
shirt to see if they could get a glimpse of her nipples.
Lindsey was talking to a boy of about ten or eleven - one
son, Jon - who sat at the breakfast bar, one hand lethargically
taking a spoon from a cereal bowl to his mouth, the other
cupped around some kind of hand-held gaming toy. In response
to her words, but without taking his eyes off the game, the
boy got up from the table and slouched out of the room.
McGinley chose that moment to make his entrance. Lindsey
looked up in astonishment: strike two. McGinley liked the
symmetry of repetition. 'Hello Lindsey,' he said.
But then she floored him. 'My God, Glenn McGinley,' she
replied, without missing a beat. Confused, she screwed up her
face. 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Fuck. She really had remembered him. For a moment it
nearly threw him off course, until he thought back to the
humiliation of her casual abandonment. And now of course
he'd put her in a position to spoil his plans. Having come this
far there was no alternative but to finish it. He raised the gun
and watched her eyes widen. 'Sorry, Lindsey,' he said, actually
meaning it, and he fired twice.
Lowering the weapon, McGinley caught a movement on
the edge of his field of vision. The boy had reappeared in the
doorway and stood silently terror-struck, staring at him, with
eyes spookily similar to his mother's. McGinley stared back.
It was tempting to leave the boy be. The kid would suffer, but
he still had his dad; he'd get over it. No matter that he could
describe McGinley in detail to the police. Then McGinley
noticed the dark stain spreading down the boy's trouser leg.
He'd pissed himself, a coward after all. Suddenly McGinley
saw Spencer standing there, shame written across his features,
and anger rose up in him. This kid didn't know he was born.
McGinley pressed the trigger twice more.
Before leaving he walked over and looked down dispassionately
at Lindsey's twisted body, still beautiful if you
ignored the dark hole in her chest. And those tits; in other
circumstances he'd have been tempted to slide a hand inside
her blouse, but the medication had put paid to any inclinations
of that nature, and besides, he didn't know how much time
he had. A woman like Lindsey was bound to have some kind
of domestic help. He was just rifling through his pockets for
his cigarettes when he heard the door open and a voice behind
him said, 'Morning, Mrs--'
McGinley turned to see a young man dressed in outdoor work
clothes. He'd stopped abruptly, aghast as he took in the scene,
and McGinley reckoned he had about three seconds before he
dived for his phone. Raising the gun again, he shot the man in
the chest, registering the wedding ring as he fell. Shit. This
wasn't in the plan; two more victims he hadn't factored in. This
could get out of hand. For a moment he was frozen to the spot,
casting around him, half expecting someone else to appear. Then
panic galvanized him and he ran back out through the kitchen
door and to the car. Getting his breath back he lit up a cigarette
to steady his nerves. He couldn't afford to lose it now, before
the job was finished. What he'd achieved so far was mostly for
him, but now he was on a promise. If he didn't accomplish this
last, then it would have all been for nothing. With trembling
hands he restarted the car and in minutes was back at the junction,
picking up the road where he'd left off.



FIVE



DC Millie Khatoon drove carefully through the back
streets of West Heath and Longbridge, the only sound
in the car the radio chuntering on low volume in the
background. 'Well, at least the rain's held off,' she said eventually,
accelerating down the slip road and on to the motorway.
'Might not be too bad.'
'Mm,' Mariner concurred distractedly, noting the clouds
above that grew increasingly grey and threatening. He understood
that she was making conversation and was only talking
about the weather, but he couldn't see how this could ever be
anything but the most appalling day.
'It'll be all right, sir,' she soldiered on. 'This is the worst bit.
After today you'll be able to, well, you know . . .' She tailed
off and they lapsed into silence once again. Suddenly she said,
'You do know, Boss, that if you ever want to talk . . .'
'Yes. Thanks,' Mariner cut in, before the embarrassment got
too much. He cleared his throat. 'Have you got a date for your
exams?' he asked, in the only way he could see of changing
the subject. Millie's promotion to Detective Sergeant was long
overdue in his opinion, and he'd been encouraging her to put
in for them now for months.
'Actually I haven't quite got round to it yet.' She was apologetic.
'Well you should,' Mariner retorted, a little more sharply
than he'd intended. 'You're wasting your skills running round
after me and Tony Knox. I've always said that you've got great
potential, but you need to make a start.'
'I know. It's just - it's been so busy lately . . .'
'There's never an ideal time,' Mariner reminded her. 'You've
just got to get on and do it.'
'Yes, Boss.' She seemed about to say something else. Mind
your own bloody business, would have been fair enough. But
she left it at that and as Mariner didn't have anything helpful
to add, the silence reclaimed the car. A song came on the radio
and Millie turned up the volume. Perhaps it was a song she
particularly liked or perhaps it was simply a way of removing
the necessity for further interaction.

The A55 west was a good fast road, and McGinley had to
work hard to resist pushing too hard on the gas. Although
anxious to put as much distance between him and those bodies,
the enormity of what he had just done was beginning to hit
home, and he would blow it completely if he drew attention
to himself now. So he forced himself to keep at a steady speed
that enabled him to blend in with the mostly heavy goods
traffic that was heading west in the early morning. Once the
police had found the bodies and worked out who it was they
were looking for, it wouldn't take them long to identify his
car, and then to pick it out on the CCTV that lined his route,
but he could live with that. They'd be so fucking delighted
with their own brilliance that it would be some time before it
occurred to them that it was exactly what he had intended,
but he couldn't let them get to him before that. He turned on
the radio to catch the eight o'clock news, but there was nothing
yet to indicate the discovery of his first two victims. All in
all, what with the stops to have a piss, and another to get his
medication down him, the journey took just over an hour.
Coming into the town he was reminded that Wales wasn't
always about male voice choirs and pretty scenery. He headed
first for the rounded steel hangar of the ferry port, then, seeing
a Lidl supermarket, left the car there while he went into the
terminal to buy his one-way ticket to Dublin, making sure that
he stopped to examine it right in front of a security camera
before he ducked out of the building again.
The supermarket was just opening up, so McGinley took
the opportunity to stock up on a few essentials. He broke out
into a sweat beside the spirits, but he wouldn't have the capacity
for carrying bottles yet and he couldn't succumb. His side was
starting to hurt and, standing in the checkout queue, he felt a
sudden wave of exhaustion from the night's activities, but
things were starting to get busy around here, so it wouldn't
be wise to hang around for too long. Back in the car he wolfed
down the last of the bread and cheese, washing it down with
some milk and more painkillers. A light rain had started to
fall so, putting on his waterproof jacket and a woolly hat, he
retrieved his pack from the boot, locked the vehicle and set off towards the 
railway station, dropping the keys into an
industrial waste bin along with his ferry ticket.
So far McGinley had been blase about his visibility, but
from now on, if this was going to work, he needed to avoid
being noticed. Buying his train ticket, he kept his head down
under the rim of his hood. He was one of a handful of people
at the train station, manual labourers and commuters mainly
from the look of it, the slaves to conventional working hours,
but the busyness made it easier. As far as was possible without
drawing attention to himself, he kept close to other passengers so he didn't 
look like a man on his own. Now that the thrill of the night before had worn 
off he felt wired and edgy; today
was a day of uncertainties. There was no way of knowing
how long the police would take to work things out, or if they
would be fooled by his decoy. So meanwhile he had to cover
as much ground as possible at the mercy of public transport.
Today was the one day when everything could go right or
wrong.

Mariner flinched as an icy drip tumbled from a gap in the wooden
rafters high above, smacking the back of his neck and sending
a shiver through him. He breathed in ancient wood and incense.
Aside from the rain drumming on the roof of the little country
church, the congregation was hushed, the customary pause
allowing everyone his or her personal thoughts of the deceased.
Mariner could have stood there for days and it wouldn't have
been enough time to revisit the memories, or to conduct the
necessary mental and emotional self-flagellation. Nine weeks
on, and still his imagination could not stretch to the full comprehension
that Anna, bright, passionate and full of life, lay, at this
moment, cold and motionless in that insubstantial box in front
of the altar, and that he was never going to see her again. The
muscles of his mouth trembled involuntarily and he clamped his
lips together to avert the spasm. He sucked in a breath, and from
the corner of his eye saw Millie cast him a surreptitious glance.
Silently he willed her not to reach out and touch him; a comforting
arm on his right now and he'd completely fall apart. Then mercifully
the two minutes were up, the vicar gave the blessing and
as k.d. lang's rendition of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' echoed
around the chamber, the mourners began to stir, picking up
belongings and working their way slowly out of the tiny chapel
and into the rain. Mariner stuffed the order of service into his
inside jacket pocket as he shuffled along the pew, noticing for
no reason that Millie's was the only brown face here.
They stood then in the sodden grass while the burial was
conducted, amid all the cliches about the Gods crying down. Mariner wasn't one 
of those who went forward to cast earth
on to the lowered coffin. If anyone had asked he would have
said he didn't believe in the symbolism. 'That's crap,' Anna
tormented him, inside his head. 'You just don't want to get
your hands dirty.'
'It was a good service.' Tony Knox fell into step beside him
as they made their way out into the canopy of trees that
provided some shelter from the wet April afternoon. Mariner
didn't know what could possibly constitute a 'good' funeral
for a woman cut down so young, but he appreciated what his
sergeant was trying to do, so he nodded in agreement anyway.
'Still can't believe it though, even now,' Knox went on.
The neither.' Millie grimaced and shook her head.
'Tom? Tom Mariner?' They turned as one to see a man in
his forties coming towards them, blond and dark-eyed; he'd
been among the chief mourners on the front row of the congregation.
Dr Gareth. Mariner had always said it with sarcasm and
realized now that he didn't even know the full name of the man
who had effectively snatched Anna from him. Unfairly perhaps,
Mariner thought 'Dr Gareth' suited the man, implying as it did
some kind of false and shallow familiarity. Looking towards
him now, Mariner did a double take. At Gareth's shoulder was
a young woman, petite with cropped brown hair, at first glance
a ringer for Anna. His sister? Mariner didn't think so. He was
carrying a small cardboard box. 'I thought you might want to
have this,' he said, holding it out to Mariner. 'There was some
stuff of yours. I thought you might like it back.'
Taking the box from him, Mariner lifted one of the flaps
and peered inside. Anna's face appeared before his eyes. 'Ta
da!' she cried, showing off the russet-coloured cashmere scarf
he'd given her, their last Christmas together. His gift buying
had never been very sophisticated, but this unprompted effort
had been an unqualified success and she'd worn it often.
Tony Knox must have seen his face and recognized the
tactlessness of Gareth's gesture. He stepped forward to take
the box. 'Here, boss, let me--'
'No, it's fine,' said Mariner, his voice husky with emotion.
He forced himself to look at Gareth. 'Thanks.'
'No probs,' with a brief smile, Gareth turned away. The
young woman tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and
together they headed off across the churchyard.
'Christ,' said Knox. 'Is that his new bird? He doesn't hang
about, does he?'
'Who knows,' Mariner said, distracted, closing up the box
and tucking it clumsily under his arm. Who cared? They stood
there for a moment, adding further awkwardness to the growing
accumulation, until, with some relief, they all saw the two
uniformed police officers emerging from the church to walk up
the path out on to the road. One of the men acknowledged
Mariner with a brief nod, throwing them a lifeline of normal
conversation.
'Have they made any progress?' Knox asked.
Mariner shook his head. 'They're pretty sure they know
who was responsible but there's not enough evidence to even
pull him in. They can triangulate a couple of mobile phone
calls made to roughly that area, but there's no clear reading
of the registration number of the van from motorway CCTV
and one of the chief suspects has a pretty unassailable alibi.'
'What about Lottie?' asked Millie.
'Too traumatized to be a credible witness,' Mariner said.
'She can't remember any useful detail. The descriptions she
came up with could be any of a number of men; there was
nothing unique about them. I think they've even tried hypnotherapy.'
The casual tone of his voice belied the hopelessness
he felt inside; Anna dead and her killer still at liberty. Although
grateful for the effort his two colleagues had made to support
him, now that the formalities were over he was impatient to
be away from here, away from the platitudes and the sympathetic
noises, to go somewhere where he could lick his wounds.
After another silence that seemed to go on forever, Knox
finally said, 'Right, we'd best be getting back then, d'you think, Boss?' His 
glance sought and received confirmation from Millie.
'Yes, but I'm not coming back with you,' Mariner said. Millie
and Knox both stared at him. 'My stuff is all packed in the back
of the car, and I've booked a couple of weeks' leave, so I'm
going on into mid-Wales to do some walking.'
'On your own?' said Millie.
'That's the general idea, yes.' Mariner looked pointedly at
Knox. 'I tried to do it once before.'
'It was a bad idea, the state you were in,' Knox defended
himself.
'I know,' Mariner conceded. 'But I'm perfectly fine now. I
just want some time to myself.'
'But I don't . . . will you be all right, sir?' Millie asked.
'Sure you don't want me along?' Knox checked again, his
shoulders hunched against the cold, and hands thrust deep into
his coat pockets. 'The gaffer would clear it, you know.'
'There's no need,' Mariner said, though he shared Knox's
certainty about DCI Sharp. That was exactly why this time
he'd been forced to spring it on them. They were desperate to
keep an eye on him, make sure he wasn't about to come off
his hinges. They didn't get that it was the very reason he needed
to be on his own; to work through his grief in his own solitary
way. 'And someone's got to keep the mean streets of Birmingham
safe while I'm away,' he added, not without irony.
'Does Katarina know?' asked Knox. That was below the
belt.
'Like I said, it's just for a couple of weeks,' Mariner reminded
him.
This time Millie couldn't resist reaching out to squeeze his
arm. 'Well, look after yourself, sir,' she said, doubtfully.
'I will,' Mariner assured her, forcing some brightness into
his voice. He and Knox shook hands.
'See you in a couple of weeks then, Boss.' He made to
move away then changed his mind. 'You are coming back,
are you?'
'Course I bloody am,' said Mariner. 'What else would I do?
Watch how you go now,' he added. 'And thanks for. . . you know.'



SIX



While they were saying their goodbyes, Mariner had
become increasingly aware of a man standing a few
feet away, apart from the crowd and hovering on
the periphery, as if he didn't quite belong. In late middle age,
his black umbrella kept the rain off a balding pate and wild
white hair that grew down into the upturned collar of his long,
dark overcoat. Mariner felt he might know him, a feeling
confirmed by the glances cast in his direction as, not as bold
as Gareth had been, he waited patiently for the right, opportune
moment. But as soon as Mariner parted company with Millie
and Knox, the man took his chance and came over, stepping
carefully on the boggy ground, his right hand outstretched in
greeting.
'Inspector Mariner? Paul Jenner,' he introduced himself. 'We
met once before, several years ago. I am - was - Anna Barham's
solicitor.'
Of course. It seemed like a whole lifetime ago when he and
Jenner had met, during the course of the investigation into
Anna's brother Eddie's death. Even back then the man had
seemed close to retirement. Mariner was amazed he was still
going, though the Barham family wouldn't be requiring his
services much any longer. With Anna's death almost the whole
family unit was gone; parents and two siblings all unnaturally
killed, but in three entirely different sets of circumstances,
years apart. What were the odds against that?
'How can I help?' Mariner asked, genuinely puzzled about
what Jenner might want with him.
'It concerns Jamie Barham.'
'Jamie?' Conspicuous by his absence, Anna's sole remaining
close relative was her younger brother. But Mariner hadn't
expected that he would be here. With severe autism and
learning difficulties, Jamie would have found the whole ceremony
incomprehensible and intolerable. He might perhaps
notice that his sister had stopped visiting him at the residential
facility where he now lived, but he would, in time, get used
to it. Suddenly Mariner knew exactly why Jenner needed to
speak to him and it hit him like a train. 'I'm still Jamie's
guardian in the event of Anna's death,' he said.
'Yes,' Jenner confirmed. 'That's exactly it.'
So Anna hadn't passed that particular responsibility on to
Gareth. Christ.
'There's no need for alarm,' Jenner said, quickly, perhaps
seeing Mariner's reaction. 'Nor is any immediate action
required. The staff at Towyn Farm have been informed of . . .
events. I think they had hoped to send someone along today,
but it seems they were unable to after all. Jamie's place at the
facility is perfectly secure, and the trust fund set up for him
will cover his costs for the foreseeable future, so everything
is in hand. I suppose it's just a question of keeping in touch
and perhaps when you have time I can talk you through the
legalities. Let me give you this, and perhaps you'd like to give
me a call when it's convenient.' He passed Mariner his business
card and, digging in his inside pocket, Mariner proffered
his in exchange.
'Thank you. And I'm sorry, Inspector. You must be feeling
Anna's loss as keenly as anyone.'
Watching Jenner totter away, Mariner wondered how much
he knew about what had happened between him and Anna. It
didn't sound as if he was entirely ignorant.
Jamie, his responsibility? That was a bombshell. He couldn't
begin to grasp the enormity of it. Mariner had never in his
life had to take responsibility for another human being - at
least, not in the legal sense. He'd felt it sometimes, especially
recently since Katarina had come into his life, but that was a
role he had chosen and had never been official. The Towyn
Farm community where Jamie lived was not far from here. It
had been part of the rationale for Anna moving out from
Birmingham. But the move had happened shortly before he
and Anna had split, so Mariner had never been. He would
need to go and make himself known, and the sooner the better.
He had set off this morning with a plan, but meeting Paul
Jenner had changed things. On his way back to Birmingham
at the end of his leave, he would go to Towyn and at least
introduce himself and find out if Jamie even remembered him.
Despite the atrocious weather people were hanging around
the church yard, reluctant to go, reluctant to leave her. Mariner
knew the feeling, but it couldn't go on forever. There was just
one person he needed to speak to before he left. He found
Anna's best friend Becky standing, temporarily alone, sheltering
inadequately under a spreading conifer. Know I'll Never Find
Another Yew.
'I'll be making a move,' he told her.
'Aren't you coming to the house?' she asked, referring to
the cottage Anna had latterly shared with her new lover.
Mariner shook his head. 'I've said goodbye. Don't want to
make it awkward for anyone.' As he spoke his gaze drifted
over to Gareth, the new girl clinging to him, in earnest conversation
with Anna's friend Lottie. Poor Lottie. She and Charles
were meant to have been marrying in this very church in just
a few months. Instead the woman had buried her husband-to
be and a good friend here only days apart.
'Well, it's up to you of course,' Becky said. 'You're going
back up the motorway?'
'No. I've got some leave due. I'm heading out to Wales, do
some walking; clear my head.'
'Good luck with that.' Becky made a show of peering out
from the shelter of the branches at the grey sky overhead, and
the relentless downpour. 'Seriously though, mind how you go.
The roads will be bad.' She seemed about to say something
more, but instead stretched out her arms and, after an awkward
hug, in the course of which Mariner nearly dropped the box
he was carrying, he turned to go, stepping back out into the
rain. He'd walked ten paces when he heard Becky's voice again.
'It was a mistake you know,' she called after him.
'What?' Mariner turned back, not sure of what she was
saying.
'Leaving Birmingham; leaving you.' She cast an anxious
look towards Gareth but he was too far away to hear. 'Anna
had got it wrong. She realized that. She sent me a text that
day, telling me she'd seen you. She was so excited. I think it
made her think about what she'd been missing. She would
have come back to you if she hadn't, you know . . .' She tailed
off, reluctant to say the word. 'I'm sure of it.'
Thanks, Becky, Mariner thought bitterly, as he trudged back
to his car. Twist the knife, why don't you. Now to all the other
crap weighing him down, he could add the knowledge that if
Anna hadn't been stabbed to death by a complete moron in a freak road-rage 
incident, he might have got her back again.
Thank you so much. Accommodating the cardboard box upset
his system in the boot, forcing him to redistribute his rucksack
to the back seat of the car. By the time he opened the driver's
door his vision was blurring and it took him several seconds
before he could blink it back into focus again and make his
hand steady enough to get the key in the ignition to start the
engine.
SEVEN



In practice it had all gone more smoothly than McGinley
could ever have envisaged. For once the British rail network
had operated with something approaching efficiency and
apart from the obligatory unexplained twenty-minute wait
outside Shrewsbury station that had threatened to make him
miss his connection, each leg of his journey had passed without
incident. He'd kept a surreptitious eye on the news-stands and so far had seen 
nothing, though he knew the story might well
have broken on the broadcast media by now. He wondered
which of them had been found first. It didn't matter really; if he'd done the 
job properly (as he was confident he had) no one would be looking for him here. 
And as long as he remained
inconspicuous, there was nothing to worry about.
Being invisible had always come naturally to McGinley. If he had to sum up his 
existence in one word, it would be
'insignificant'. His attire meant that he could make a rough
attempt to pass himself off as a walker - more Rambo than
rambler - but the hiking community were an eclectic bunch
and so far he'd got away with it. Luckily throughout the day the weather had 
turned increasingly foul, so when he finally
disembarked from the last train he could reasonably take cover
again beneath his woolly hat and the hood of his cagoule.
What was less satisfactory was that the age of his waterproof
meant it let in the rain, especially now it was pissing down. He'd passed a 
couple of outdoor clothing shops, but he had no idea what a new jacket would 
cost, and his funds were
limited, so he would have to manage. All this wasn't to say that he was home 
free just yet. His destination for tonight was one he'd frequented before on 
many occasions but not for years. He was banking on it being unchanged. There 
was B Plan B if that went pear-shaped, but it would be much less
latisfactory. He was beginning to feel tired and badly needed to rest.
As he left the town walking out along the main coast road,
things were looking promising. To the right, on the seaward side
began a tentative row of static caravans, set back behind a simple
chain link fence and presenting a barrier from the dunes and
then the sea. The row expanded into two and then three as the
caravan park grew, and by the time McGinley reached the main
entrance the site was about six vans deep, with more than a
dozen rows on either side. But despite its size, McGinley was
heartened to see that in terms of facilities and sophistication, any
kind of modernization had passed the park by. It remained basic
and workmanlike, with just a small office building beside the
farm gate entrance, to house the manager and supplies of calor
gas. There was no shop, swimming pool or social club. In fact
McGinley was surprised the place had survived. What it did have
going for it of course was its proximity to the natural amenities
of sea and coastline, and the lack of frills meant that it attracted
a particular clientele: hardened surfers and birdwatchers, and
like McGinley's dad, fishermen, all of whom would continue to
provide him with useful cover. Even this early in the season
there were, he noticed, just enough cars dotted around for his
arrival to go unnoticed.
Whether late in the day or early in the season, or perhaps
because of the rain, the office was all closed up, and McGinley
walked on to the site unchallenged. Navigating a path between
the trailers, the hazy memories of the geography resurfaced
and he headed in what he remembered being the right general
direction. Picking up the sequence of numbers, sure enough
he came to the unit he wanted. None of the vans looked in
great condition but number seventy-one, if anything, looked
relatively well-kept. The pale green outer shell was clean, the
wooden steps to the door freshly varnished and the nets up at
the windows, which would give him the privacy he needed,
looked clean and white. For an awful moment McGinley
suddenly thought that perhaps the old bag had sold up after
all, even though she'd retained the keys, and that some other
family was keeping it spick and span. But the Yale from the
old brown envelope slipped easily enough into the lock and
once inside McGinley was further reassured by the array of cheap trinkets that 
had sat on those shelves since he was a
boy. A strong wind had got up and was cutting right through
him so it was with some gratitude that he stepped into the
chill, quiet interior and closed the door. With a clink, he set
down the carrier bags of provisions he'd just bought and took
out three bottles of cheap Russian vodka. When this was all
over he was going to celebrate in style. But that would be on
another day. The place was freezing and he had no way of
knowing when it had last been inhabited, or when the utilities
had last been paid. He didn't even know how all that worked,
so decided it would be too much of a risk to turn on the gas
or electric, which meant he was in for a chilly time, but at
least he had a welcome shelter from the worst of the elements.
He'd rest up until tomorrow and once he was satisfied that the
smoke screen was firmly established he'd put phase three into
action.
For now he unpacked some of his few possessions from the
rucksack, among them the old envelope he'd retrieved from
the loft, and he tipped out its contents on the small Formica
table that delineated the dining area. On top of the pile was
a plain white postcard with an address on the back, in an
unfamiliar hand. The message was written in his own ten-year
old scrawl. Dear Mum, we are having a nice time. We have
been rock climbing and we have been to a water fall. Today
we had sausages and beans and chips. Hope your well, love
Glenn. Underneath his name was the barely legible scrawl of
his younger brother. Seeing the date on the postmark, a fist
gripped McGinley's heart for a couple of seconds. It was the
very year it had happened. Collecting up the rest of the papers
he put them back in the envelope. Then washing down a
handful of painkillers with more milk, he grabbed some blankets
and lay down on the couch to try and get some sleep.

It was not yet four o'clock but it seemed almost dusk-like as
Mariner carefully drove through the drenched village lanes and
out towards the main road north-west, the water crackling and
hissing under the wheels of his car. The strange half-light
continued until eventually the sun, where ever it was, sank
down completely, sucking the remaining light from the sky.
He continued on, through countryside and small villages, each
one seeming smaller and more remote, until all that lay beyond
the windscreen wipers was a vast black emptiness, and the only
way that he could differentiate the fall and rise of the gradient
in the road was through the changing pressure in his ears. After
a couple of miles Mariner became aware of a blaze of headlights
in his rear-view mirror. They had gained on him quickly and
were now right behind him, the glare fully illuminating the
inside of his car. It was a high vehicle, some kind of SUV, and
driving much too close for the wet conditions. The narrow
winding road made it impossible for Mariner to pull over and
let the other driver past. He increased his speed slightly in an
attempt to open up a gap, but the driver behind simply matched
his pace, closing in again. Mariner touched his brakes gently,
thinking it might prompt the vehicle to back off, but if anything
the driver seemed more determined. Mariner's irritation began
to rise. He had nothing against people driving too fast and
killing themselves, but he didn't see why he should be part of
that equation. For several miles this cat and mouse continued
until finally the road widened a little and, slowing right down,
Mariner signalled left and pulled over. For a moment he thought
the other car was doing the same and it flashed through his
head that history was about to repeat itself, but then, at the last
minute, the other vehicle accelerated past him and the dazzling
headlights veered off into the distance. Tosser.

'Christ, this is a nightmare.' Tony Knox was leaning forward,
straining to see the way through the sheet of rain that fell from
the sky, exacerbating the blanket of spray thrown up by the
column of HGVs in the slow lane of the M5. He'd slowed to
fifty, but inevitably there were idiots overtaking at thirty miles
an hour faster, even in these treacherous conditions.
'Do you think the boss will be all right out there on his
own?' Millie said, gazing out of the window.
'It's his way of dealing with everything,' Knox said. 'You
know him, he likes a bit of space. And I offered to go with
him, didn't I?'
'He's so vulnerable just now though . . .' Something on the
radio caught Knox's attention and, breaking off suddenly he
leaned forward and turned up the volume for the news bulletin.
The headlines concerned an elderly couple who had been
discovered during the day, shot dead in their home in Kirkby,
Merseyside. They listened to the details. Burglary was cited as the probable 
motive, though the random selection of the
house of what otherwise appeared to be an ordinary working
class couple was so far baffling police.
'Sorry,' Knox said, when the bulletin came to an end. 'I tend
to tune into stuff up there.'
'Of course,' said Millie. 'Your old patch wasn't it? What sort of place is 
Kirkby?'
"The kind of place where incidents like that aren't exactly
unheard of,' said Knox. 'Think of Liverpool's answer to Chelmsley
Wood. It'll be a domestic of some kind.'
The journey back to Birmingham took longer than usual
and it was a relief when Knox had dropped Millie off at her
house and later pulled into his own drive. He rolled his shoulders
to ease the tension. He could feel the tickling at the back of his throat that 
signalled the start of a cold. It was dark, but the rain had almost stopped by 
the time he let himself into his house. Nelson, his adopted border terrier, 
greeted him in a state of high excitement and immediately bounded back into the 
kitchen hovering by the door to be let out into the garden. It could only mean 
one thing: that Michael, his young neighbour
who usually walked the dog, had not been round. It was the third time this week 
he'd reneged on their arrangement
without warning or explanation, and on this occasion would
have to mean a financial penalty. The lad had to learn that he
wouldn't get paid for what he didn't do. The last couple of
times Michael had been round Knox felt sure he'd smelt
something vaguely herbal on his clothes, though he couldn't be absolutely sure. 
He wondered if Michael's mum Jean knew
what was going on. He decided to let it rest for now. Up until
now his relationship with the lad had been a reasonable one
and he didn't want to spoil it by sticking his nose in
unnecessarily.
Heating up a microwave cannelloni dinner for two, Knox
took it into the living room where he settled down to watch
the Channel Four news. Among the inevitable top stories of
severe weather and flooding across the country, one of the
lead items was of the double murder on Mersey side. Knox
had departed that force under something of a cloud and,
apart from the occasional visit to extended family, hadn't
been back there for some years. He'd lost touch with his
colleagues and didn't recognize the SIO for this inquiry.
What was reported only served to reinforce his first impressions.
It would be a domestic of sorts, as was so often the
case. There had additionally been a series of shootings in
Cheshire, but Knox didn't find out if any link was being
considered, because at that moment his phone rang.
Automatically he doused the volume on the TV before
picking up the hand set. It was Jean.
'How are you?' she asked.
'Fine, thanks,' Knox said, wondering what had prompted
this. A while back he and Jean had enjoyed a bit of a fling,
but it hadn't lasted long. She was an attractive woman and
Knox had since come to understand that he'd been her getback-on-the-horse
shag following the death of her husband a
couple of years before. They'd parted amicably though, and
since then Knox had sometimes wondered if, when she was
ready, they might pick up again where they'd left off.
Tonight she was apologetic and harassed. T should have let
you know sooner, I've told everyone else. Michael will be fifteen
on Sunday, and I wanted to warn you that he's having a party
tomorrow night. And since I can't afford to hire anywhere I'm
stuck with having it here. It goes against my better judgement,
and I'm terrified of the Facebook effect, but apparently all his
friends are having them, so it's pretty much expected.'
'Sounds like fun,' said Knox, drily.
'I'm dreading it to be honest.'
'You want me to steward?' Knox asked. 'I've got some
experience in crowd control.'
'That's really kind, but I think I'm sorted,' she replied, a
little too quickly. 'Pete Lennox, a colleague from work, has
offered to help out.' Knox wondered if Pete Lennox was the
driver of the flashy Mazda sports car that had lately been much
in evidence on Jean's drive, often late at night. He had a
tendency to notice these things. 'Besides,' Jean added. 'I'm
not sure if having a policeman on site . . .'
'No, you're probably right,' Knox agreed. 'But if you change
your mind, you know where I am.'
'Yes, thank you.' She hesitated. 'Has Michael been to walk
Nelson today?' she wanted to know. There was something in
her voice.
'It doesn't look like it,' Knox said. 'Is everything all right?'
'I don't know,' Jean sighed. 'I've hardly seen him in the
last few days. No, that's not true. It's more like weeks, if I'm
honest. When he gets in from school he just goes straight out
again, then he doesn't come home again until late.'
'But he is coming home.'
'Yes, although I don't know why he bothers. He can barely
bring himself to say two words to me.'
'He's a teenager,' Knox said, conscious that he was pointing
out the obvious. 'That's how they are.' He spoke from personal
experience. He'd seen his own two kids through their rebellious
phases, although mostly from a distance. Theresa, his
ex-wife, had handled much of the fallout.
'I know.'
'Is he turning up for school?' Knox asked.
'As far as I know. He leaves the house at the right time
every morning. But I do think he's started smoking.' There
was a pause at the other end of the line, the cue for Knox to
disclose his suspicions. But something stopped him.
'You want me to talk to him?' he asked instead.
'He's not here right now - of course.'
'I'm sure he'll be fine,' said Knox, with more certainty than
he felt.



EIGHT



Mariner restarted the car. The rain, mirroring his mood,
seemed to beat down harder than ever, drumming on
the roof of the car in a macabre tattoo. Rounding a
bend, his headlights, on full beam, bounced back off the reflective
band on a jacket sleeve; a man, head down in full
waterproofs, pack on his back, was pounding along the side
of the road. Slowing down, Mariner pulled over to the verge,
and as the figure caught up with him, he flicked on the interior
light and lowered the passenger window. A face appeared,
bearded, raw and dripping.
'Where are you going?' Mariner asked. 'I can take you as
far as Tregaron.'
The man raised his arms to waist level. Tm pretty soaked
through,' he said, in case Mariner hadn't noticed.
'That's okay,' Mariner said, reaching behind him to shove
his rucksack out of the way. 'Put your pack in the back there.'
Opening the rear door, the man wrestled his own rucksack
into the back seat then climbed in beside Mariner, pushing
back his hood. 'This is most kind,' he said. T hoped to get
there sooner, but the visibility on the hill back there was bad
and I got utterly lost.' Removing a sodden glove, he offered
Mariner a cold, wet hand and they shook. 'Jeremy Bryce,' he
said, catching his breath.
It was a firm grip and in the dim, interior light Mariner
made his usual quick inventory, getting an impression of a
man in his late fifties or beyond, grey wispy hair going in all
directions and his lower face obscured by a substantial white
beard and cheeks reddened by the elements. Mariner was
reminded of Raymond Briggs' Father Christmas.
'Tom Mariner,' he reciprocated and, putting the car into
gear, he moved off.
'Well if there's one thing that can always be relied on, it's
rain in Wales,' Bryce observed cheerfully.
'This year more than most,' Mariner agreed. 'How's the
Paramo working out?'
'Sorry?'
'Your jacket,' Mariner clarified. 'It looks like one of the new
Paramos. I've just bought one myself but haven't tried it yet.'
'Oh, it's excellent,' Bryce said. T might look wet through,
but underneath I'm dry as a badger.'
'A badger?'
Bryce laughed. 'Sorry, a malapropism I overheard once. It kind
of stuck.' He was English, but well-spoken and his voice was
accent-free, making it impossible to guess where he was from.
'Where are you heading?' Mariner asked. He dabbed at the
windscreen as the condensation from Bryce's damp clothing
began to mist it.
'I'm walking the Black Mountain Way, with a few of my
own variations, some intentional and some not. I'm having
mixed success with accommodation so far, too. A couple of
nights ago I got to a place only to find that the pub had closed
down years before.'
'It's happened a lot recently in these remote areas,' Mariner
said. 'You haven't booked anything?'
'Oh no.' Bryce shook his head and drips flew. 'At home my
whole life is governed by timetables, meetings and deadlines.
Now and again I feel the need to climb down from my ivory
tower and out on to the open road, as it were, with no schedule
and no commitments. It's liberating.'
'I know what you mean,' said Mariner. It was exactly what
he had planned for himself. 'Do you know this area well?'
'I wouldn't say well. But I've been here before, years ago.
How about you; where are you aiming for?'
'I'm starting out from Tregaron and heading west in the
first instance and then, who knows.' Mariner tried to sound
vague. Although Bryce's intentions seemed to mirror his own,
something prevented him from sharing that. However convivial
this man might be, the last thing Mariner wanted to do was
to attract a companion. A blaze of lights appeared on the road
ahead: a petrol station. Mariner checked his fuel gauge. 'I
could do with filling up,' he said. 'Do you mind?'
'Not at all,' said Bryce. 'I can enjoy the benefits of being
warm and dry for a few more minutes.'
The filling station was an old-fashioned one, with no self
service nonsense and a proprietor who moved at a leisurely
pace, so it turned out to be almost twenty minutes, but eventually
they were back on the road. After a while the dark,
confining hedgerows gave way to pavements and a string of
street lights that marked the way; they were coming into a
settlement.
Bryce peered through the misted windscreen. 'That looks
like a pub up ahead,' he said suddenly. 'Do you know, I
think I might try my luck there after all. I'd really like to
bridge the gap that I've missed this afternoon. Does that
sound eccentric?'
'Not at all,' said Mariner, feeling some relief that they would
be parting company. 'It's exactly what I'd want to do.'
In the village centre he drew up outside the Lamb and Flag
Inn. It was small and unpretentious, no more than a stone
cottage set a little way back off the road.
'Thank you very much for the ride,' Bryce said, beginning to
assemble his things.
'I'll wait here for a few minutes,' said Mariner. 'Make sure
that you can stay the night. If not, you can come on with me
into Tregaron. It's a bigger town; there will be more options.'
T appreciate that.' Bryce got out of the car and, heaving
out his bulky rucksack, he disappeared into the pub. Moments
later he returned, minus his backpack. 'It's fine,' he grinned,
peering in the passenger window. 'They have rooms.' He tilted
his head back towards the pub. 'Can I buy you a drink for
your kindness?'
Mariner looked up at the rain still pattering steadily on the
windscreen. 'Thanks, but I'll be on my way,' he said. 'I'd like
to get to Tregaron in time for dinner.'
Bryce stuck his hand in through the window again. 'Of course.
Well, thank you again for the ride, and have a good journey.'
'You too,' said Mariner. 'Let's hope the weather improves
- for both of us.'
Mariner drove on, arriving in Tregaron twenty minutes later.
The Star Hotel was in the centre of the town and little more
than a glorified pub itself, but it had a decent-sized well-lit
car park in which, with the landlord's consent, Mariner could
leave his car for a few days. His room was typical British
small-town hostelry: cool and slightly musty, with cheap furniture,
thin curtains and a TV on a bracket attached to the wall.
Leaving his bags unpacked, Mariner went straight down to
the bar, taking a couple of maps with him. There were few other
customers: three young men in overalls standing at the bar
enjoying a loud and laddish conversation, and a middle-aged
couple at one of the tables. The place was inviting enough, with
a living-flame fire and the small TV screen deep enough into
the corner to be largely ignored, though when the news came
39


on the barmaid turned up the volume. The main story involved
a couple of shootings on Merseyside and the Wirral, and speculation
that the key suspect may have headed south and across
into Wales. Great, thought Mariner, I hope Millie doesn't hear
that. She'll be out here with a rescue party.
Glenn McGinley. From habit, Mariner pinged a mental sonar
far into the depths of his memory, but it registered nothing.
The couple at the adjacent table were also watching intently
and Mariner nodded towards the screen. 'Good thing I didn't
know that earlier,' Mariner quipped. 'I picked up a hitch-hiker.
He wouldn't have been so lucky.'
They smiled politely in response, and Mariner returned to
studying the menu. It was pretty standard fare; Mariner
ordered lasagne and chips and settled down with his pint,
reacquainting himself with his maps. He'd been to this area
several times before, once for a whole summer, but that was
years ago, and he needed to re-orientate himself a little before
he set off tomorrow. 'Where do you want this, love?' He
looked up into the smiling face of the barmaid, who stood
beside him balancing a steaming plate expertly on her arm.
Mariner hastily cleared a space for her to deposit his dinner.
Around forty, she was blonde and brassy and as she leaned
over him, Mariner got an eyeful of a deep cleavage exaggerated
by her low-cut, tight T-shirt. After he'd eaten Mariner
ordered another beer and chaser, then another, and another.
It had been a tiring day, but had opened up a wound, and the
longer he stayed here the longer he could avert the unwelcome
thoughts that would come crashing back into his head the
moment he was alone.
'It's okay, Bob, I can lock up,' Mariner heard the barmaid
call out and suddenly he realized that the towels were on the
taps and he was the only remaining customer. She came round
to his table to collect the empty glasses.
'So what are you selling?' she asked.
'Sorry?'
'The maps and the suit, I figure you must be in travelling
sales. What is it, agricultural machinery or fertilizers?'
Mariner smiled indulgently. It wasn't the first time that the
mistake had been made. 'Neither,' he said. 'I'm on holiday.'
'Crikey, you dress a bit formal for your holidays, don't you?'
Mariner shook his head. 'I was at a funeral this afternoon.'
'Oh God, sorry.' She made an apologetic face. The and my
big mouth.'
Mariner eyed his scotch glass, still with an inch or so
remaining. He was already feeling pretty light headed. If he
drank that all at once he'd probably pass out. 'Sorry,' he said.
'I'm keeping you up.'
'You're fine.' Her smile seemed genuine. Her face was
carefully made-up, her skin a smooth and creamy layer of
foundation and lips flawlessly rendered in scarlet lipstick.
Mariner was mesmerized by her voluminous breasts, and the
faint definition of her nipples against the flimsy taut cotton.
In contrast her nails were long and elaborately painted and
Mariner was suddenly aroused by the thought of them digging
into his flesh. A perfect hybrid of soft and hard, she wasn't
at all the kind of woman Mariner was ordinarily attracted to,
but at this moment, mellowed by alcohol, he was so turned
on he was sure she must be able to tell.
'Was it someone close?' she asked.
'What?'
'The funeral? Someone you knew well?'
'Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend,' he corrected himself as a pain
needled him in the chest.
She was studying him and the row of empty glasses on the
table. 'Not that ex, by the look of you,' she said sitting down
on the bench beside him. 'I'm sorry. She must have been quite
young. Was she ill?'
'She was killed in a road-rage incident.'
'My God, that's awful.'
Mariner's hand was resting on his thigh, and tentatively she
reached out and laid hers over it, curling her fingers around
and under the palm. Mariner wanted to press it against his
stiffening cock, but instead they sat there unmoving for several
minutes, until at last she reached out and picked up his glass,
swallowing the last mouthfuls for him. 'Come on,' she said.
'Let's get you upstairs.'
Unsteady on his feet, Mariner ascended the stairs feeling the
gentle pressure of her hands on his back, and when they got to
the landing she took the key from him and unlocked the door,
stepping back to allow him inside. As he passed, Mariner
couldn't resist slipping an arm round her waist and leaning in
for a kiss but, the smile unwavering, she carefully disentangled
herself, placing a palm flat on his chest. 'Oh, I don't think so.
You seem like a nice man, but I'm not that sort of girl'
'I know,' Mariner said, piling on the pathos. 'But the sort
of day I've had . . .'
She appraised him for a couple of seconds, her eyes lingering
on the place where by now his erection was making a tent of
his trousers. Sensing his chance Mariner cautiously reached
out and cupped a hand under her weighty breast, smoothing
his thumb over the nipple and feeling it rise beneath his touch.
She caught her breath. 'Have you got condoms?'
'Yes,' Mariner said quickly, idly wondering if condoms were
governed by sell-by dates. He didn't have long to think about
it. One minute she was gazing at him, prevaricating, and the
next Mariner knew they were tumbling backwards into the
room, and as he pushed the door shut with his foot, she was
dragging off his jacket and pulling open his shirt.
'Just not too much noise,' she hissed into his ear. 'I don't
want to have to answer any awkward questions in the morning.'
In the event, noise was the last thing they had to worry
about. Things were going fine until Mariner reached for the
condom. In that instant of a pause he suddenly, for no reason,
saw Anna's face looking straight at him, and immediately the
key part of his anatomy changed its mind. For several moments
he tried frantically to remedy the situation, but after a while
it became obvious that it wasn't going to work, and the mood,
if there was one, had gone. The room went horribly quiet.
'Sorry,' he said, breathlessly. He was about to add 'this has
never happened before' but that wouldn't have been strictly
accurate. It was just that it hadn't happened in a while. And
what would she care about that anyway?
'It's all right,' she sighed, making it sound anything but.
'You don't have to explain. It happens, I know.' To old codgers
like you. Too much booze I expect.'
Being patronized didn't make it any better. 'Is there anything
I can . . .?'
'No, it's fine.' Somehow she wriggled out from beneath
him. They hadn't turned on the light and now, frozen with
shame, Mariner lay on the bed listening while she pulled her
clothes back on, and without another word, let herself out of
the room. Then he muttered one single, bitter expletive.
For the rest of the night, Mariner slept fitfully in the bed that
was too soft and giving, reliving his humiliation. The rich food
lay heavy in his stomach and his dreams were vivid and bizarre.
At one point he watched while Anna, sitting up in her coffin,
led the congregation in a chorus of 'Always look on the bright
side of life' as a rampant gunman (who rather bizarrely
assumed the physical appearance of a desk sergeant at Granville
Lane police station) approached her, grinning maniacally, a
twelve-bore shotgun poised.



NINE



Day Three



McGinley had spent a restless night on a bed swaddled
by cold and very possibly damp linen, with the all too
familiar nagging pain in his side. Even fully clothed
and with all the blankets he could find piled on top of him
he'd shivered throughout the night, and for the first time he
allowed himself the thought that the game might be up already
and that he would fail to complete. Ironic that after all the
effort he'd put into creating an elaborate decoy, his plans might
be thwarted, not by the police, but by his own physical shortcomings.
As he came round he found the place smelled weirdly
of his dad - old cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave - and
McGinley was disturbed by the strength of the recollections
that came on him with force; each stage of his life worse than
before, until events had finally spiralled out of control.
Taking his medication, the milk he washed it down with
was out of his dad's old Everton mug. If the old man had
lived longer perhaps eventually McGinley would have been
Blood and Stone 43

old enough to go to matches with him and get to know him.
As it was he had very few memories of his dad, and over the
years they had been distorted by time and interpretation.
William McGinley hadn't been much of a family man. Even
when they'd come here on holiday he'd spent most of his time
fishing alone on the beach or down at the pub, coming back
late at night and roaring drunk and sometimes abusive. He
hadn't deserved to die the way he had, but there was a certain
irony that his twin passions of football and booze had been
what combined to finish him off. He followed Everton everywhere,
although Ma always reckoned the football was only
an excuse for the drink. It was after a scuffle in a pub, following
an away match against Aston Villa and whilst resisting arrest,
that he'd had his 'accident'. The police officers involved were
subsequently cleared by an internal enquiry, but McGinley
knew enough about the police by now to understand how far
they would go to protect their own and he was far from
convinced. He hated the filth with a vengeance. Ma chose to
blame the drink instead, and when they made their fresh start
in Kirkby, that was when she had found God - and not any
old God, but one who was a firm believer in abstinence. Since
then she'd managed to keep the alcohol away from their family
but not the hatred, not the prejudice and not death.
Along with the milk McGinley wolfed down one of the
buns he'd bought and felt a little better. There was an ancient
FM radio in the caravan and after some minutes of frustration
attempting to tune it, he finally managed to get a local station.
He then had to wait some time until the hourly news bulletin,
but when it came it was strangely gratifying. Both sets of
bodies had been discovered the previous day, the first by a
carer and the second by the domestic help. Already the police
had identified McGinley as a chief suspect for the first, though
they weren't committing themselves yet to the second, despite
the similarities. They were looking for the vehicle in which
he was thought to have escaped.
'Oh, well done, lads.' McGinley smiled quietly to himself,
picturing some poor bugger hunched over hours and hours of
CCTV footage.
H=
Overnight, Tony Knox's cold had well and truly taken root.
Having run out of tissues he was resorting to wiping his nose
on toilet paper now. In other circumstances he might have taken the day off, 
but with Mariner away they were already
short, and it was Friday, so all he had to do was get through
the next few hours, though it didn't help that it was raining
again when he left the house. He was in his car, blowing his
nose yet again, when he heard a door slam and in the rearview
mirror he saw Michael emerge from his front door across
the road. Wearing only a blazer, the boy's head was bowed
against the weather and Knox watched him pause at the end
of his drive to light up a furtive cigarette, before hoisting his
school bag over his shoulder and slouching off down the road,
shoulders hunched in an effort to minimize his presence. Knox
gave him time to reach the corner, then he moved off and
caught up with Michael as he was about to cross the main
road. Knox signalled and drew up alongside him. 'Want a lift
to the Cartland?' he asked, identifying a landmark close to
the school. Checking first that there was no-one around to
observe, Michael shrugged in that nothing-to-lose way that
teenagers have, and mumbled, 'Yeah, all right.'
'You'll have to put that out.' Knox indicated the roll-up
gripped between his fingers. For a moment the lad weighed
the pleasure of his fag against the discomfort of the rain, before
tossing the former down into the gutter and climbing into the
car. Amid the smell of tobacco, Knox was instantly aware of
the more subtle herbal undertone that he'd noticed before. 'I
wanted to talk to you about Nelson,' he said casually, pulling
away from the kerb. 'You haven't been in for him much lately.'
From the corner of his eye Knox saw the indifferent lift of
the shoulders. 'Been busy.'
'No problem,' Knox said, easily. T can't pay you though.'
The shrug was becoming a tic. 'Let me know if you're up for
it again,' Knox said. 'Is everything else all right?'
Shrug.
'Got your birthday to look forward to,' Knox pointed out.
'I hear you're having a party tonight.'
A huge sigh and a screwed-up face this time. 'What did she
have to tell you for? God, she's blurting it to everyone.'
'Hey, stop giving your mum such a hard time and show her
some respect,' Knox said, starting to lose patience. 'It's called
being considerate to your neighbours. I'd do exactly the same
in her position. Be grateful she's letting you have a party at
all; plenty of parents don't.'
'Yeah, it'll be crap now though, with all the neighbours
watching out for us.'
Knox slowed as they reached the drop-off point. 'You don't
know how lucky you are,' he said, mildly. 'Have a good one.'
Finally the lad mustered the effort to make eye contact.
'Cheers for the lift,' he said in an attempt to redeem himself.
'Sure.'

Knox was sneezing so loudly and with such force that he
didn't hear DCI Sharp come up behind him on the stairs at
Granville Lane.
'That sounds like a potent dose of something nasty,' she
said, making a show of holding back slightly from him as they
fell into step. 'Keep it to yourself.' A little taller than Knox,
she looked as elegant as ever, dressed in one of her trademark
trouser suits that even Knox could appreciate made the most
of her slender frame and complemented her dark olive skin.
'How did it go yesterday?' she asked.
'Pretty grim,' Knox confessed. 'And, as you can see, I've
caught my death.'
'It was a funeral,' she said. 'Someone always does. How
was Tom holding up?'
'Not too bad, but he couldn't wait to get away. He kept that
bit quiet. You both did.' Knox shot her a look.
T know,' she said apologetically. 'But he thought that if
you got wind of it you'd insist on going with him, and the
whole point is that he wants some time on his own; really on
his own. Hopefully it'll do him good. He might even stop
beating himself up about what happened.'
'With all due respect, Boss, I don't think there's much
chance of that any time soon.'
'Yeah, maybe that's a bit much to expect,' she conceded.
'Meanwhile, if there's anything you need additional support
with, let me know.'
'Yes, Boss.'
Knox had barely sat down and switched on his PC when
he glanced up to see Millie come in. She came straight over
to him. 'Have you heard the latest on that news story?' she
said. 'The gunman on the rampage in Liverpool?'
'I don't think he's on the rampage exactly,' Knox answered,
momentarily distracted by the daily bulletin that had appeared
on the screen in front of him. 'It looks like he might have
killed a couple of people and then made himself scarce, for
obvious reasons. What about it?'
'They're saying this morning that he could have escaped
into Wales.'
Knox looked expectantly up at her, waiting for the punch
line.
'It's where the boss has gone,' Millie said, as if that proved
something.
'Wales is a whole country,' Knox reminded her. 'The boss
is heading to the middle, and this McGinley is most likely in
the north. There's no reason to think they'll be anywhere near
each other. And anyway, the Merseyside plods will pick
McGinley up soon enough, especially somewhere as remote
as north Wales. If that's where he's gone.'
She set her mouth. 'Right.'
She wasn't convinced, Knox could tell. 'Anything else?' he
asked, when she didn't move.
'No.'
'Okay,' he said, uncertainly. As Millie finally returned to
her desk, Charlie Glover caught his bemused expression and
shrugged lightly. 'Pregnant,' he mouthed, as an explanation,
drawing a hand around his imaginary swollen belly.

Knox didn't have time to dwell on Millie's preoccupations.
With Mariner away there was plenty to be going on with; a
couple of cases to prepare for the GPS and the follow-up on
some bad drugs reported to be circulating the city. First of all
though, he put a call through to Terry Dukes, the Police
Community Support Officer with responsibility for Kingsmead
High School. In the last few years it had become increasingly
commonplace to base PCSOs within certain secondary schools
to monitor behaviour and to support staff as part of 'Operation
Safe Schools'. It was an initiative that had initially horrified
Knox and his contemporaries, mainly because of what it said
about the changing schools culture. But since then the success
of the scheme couldn't be denied. The mere presence of a
uniformed officer had done much to improve communication
and even relationships between the police and communities,
and was effective in helping them to stay one step ahead of
certain troublemakers.
'How's it going?' Knox asked.
'All quiet today,' Dukes said. 'Though the weather doesn't
help. They'll be climbing the walls if they can't get outside
at break time.'
'Is a lad called Michael Purcell on your radar? He's fourteen,
coming up fifteen, so that would make him--'
'Year ten,' said Dukes. 'It's not a name I know, why?'
'He's a neighbour of mine. I think there's a possibility he might have started 
smoking a bit of weed. Looks harmless at
the moment, but can you let me know if he comes to your
attention for anything?'
'Sure. Not anything to do with Jean Purcell is he?' asked
Dukes.
'Yes, he's her lad.' Knox had forgotten that Jean had supply
taught at the high school for a short time, so would be known
to him. 'Why do you ask?'
'Just interested. She always seemed a bit. . . how can I put
this? Highly strung?'
It was a fair comment. 'This isn't coming from her,' Knox
said. 'I've smelt it on him. Just keep a look out for me, will you?'
'Of course. I'll let you know if there's anything to report.'

Mariner ate breakfast alone in a dim and cheerless dining
room, the barmaid in absentia, which at least saved both of
them further embarrassment. He'd woken early with a thumping
headache, the black dog lying heavily on his chest and his
face wet. As always, it had taken him a few seconds to fast
forward to the present, bringing everything flooding back to
him anew, and now he had a grim church service and the
humiliation of the night before to add to his misery.
Fruit, cereals, tea and coffee dispensers were set out buffet
style on the heavy dresser, along with insulated silver tureens
of scrambled eggs and bacon that looked surprisingly fresh
and appetizing. To make up for the lack of human presence
the regional radio station gabbled in the background what
seemed to be wall-to-wall adverts for local traders. If Mariner
could have seen where it was he'd have turned it off. After
breakfast he packed his few belongings and checked out, letting
the landlord know that he'd be leaving his car in the car park
for a few days.
Outside it was cool and fresh; the rain had stopped but
gunmetal clouds swept low across the sky, threatening its
resumption at any time. It could go either way, but hopefully
by the time he set off it might have cleared. At his car he
began sorting out what he needed to take with him as a
minimum. It was a long time since he'd travelled so light, and
he had to think hard before stuffing only the essentials into
his rucksack: a change of clothes, soap and toothbrush, warm
and waterproof clothing, a water bottle and a torch. His hand
lighted on the cardboard box Gareth had given him yesterday
and, unable to resist, he opened it and took out the scarf, soft
cashmere in a golden brown that had perfectly complemented
Anna's eyes. He did now what he'd wanted to yesterday:
holding it to his face he breathed in her perfume, and felt his
nerve endings burn with pain.
'You sentimental dick,' she said, suddenly appearing beside
him, a wry smile on her face. 'What's the hell's the matter
with you? Last night, and now this? So I'm gone, and yes,
it's sad, but I'm not coming back and nothing's going to make
me. You've got to get a grip; get over it and move on. For
God's sake leave the skanky scarf in the car, or better still,
take the whole lot straight to a charity shop.' Mariner couldn't
bring himself to do that, but he tucked the scarf back inside
the box and left it in the boot.
It was as he was retrieving his map-case from the glove
compartment that Mariner spied something shiny lying on
the floor in the passenger foot well. A coin, he thought
at first, but when he picked it up, he found it was a gold
locket, oval in shape and with a red stone set into the centre
of it. He hadn't seen anything like it for years, though he
remembered a trend for them amongst the girls, back when
he was in primary school, mostly containing pictures of their
pets as he recalled. It wasn't his, and he'd never seen it
before. He considered briefly if it could belong to Millie,
but he'd never seen her wear anything like it and anyway
she'd been in the driver's seat yesterday. The only other
explanation was that his passenger had dropped it last night.
Prying it open with a fingernail, Mariner expected to see
photographs, but instead found that this one had been used
for its original purpose, a lock of white hair curled around
the tiny, oval compartment behind wafer-thin glass. The gold
had an orangey hue and the pattern was worn, and just
beneath the eyelet that a chain would have threaded through
was a series of tiny hieroglyphics, hallmarking that signified
the possible value of the piece. Regardless of that, the fact
that he carried it with him seemed to signify that it was of
considerable sentimental worth to Bryce too. Mariner went
back into the hotel, where the manager looked up the number
for the Lamb and Flag at Plas Brynin, and invited him to
use the phone.
'Is Mr Bryce still there?' Mariner asked when he was
connected.
'Who?'
'Jeremy Bryce, a backpacker. He stayed with you last night.
Has he left yet?'
'We had no-one staying here last night,' the man said. 'We're
a pub. We don't have any accommodation.'
'Maybe he just had a drink then,' Mariner said, puzzled.
'He's a big guy, white hair and beard, fifties, educated.'
The landlord sounded genuinely confused. 'We only had
locals in here last night, and not many of them, it was such a
foul night. You sure you've got the right place?'
'I dropped him off there,' Mariner explained. 'Is there
anywhere else in the village he might have stayed?'Perhaps
that's what Bryce meant. They have rooms in the village.
'A couple of people do B&B. You want their numbers?'
'Okay.' It wasn't what Mariner had intended, but he felt
duty-bound to call them. However, no-one last night had put
up a hitch-hiker called Bryce, or anyone matching his description.
Mariner replaced the phone.
'Track him down?' asked the landlord, reappearing.
'No,' said Mariner. 'He must have moved on. Do you know
the Lamb and Flag?'
'Of course, nice place,' the hotelier said. 'Owen keeps a
good pint.'
'They don't do accommodation then,' Mariner checked.
'Nah. Owen usually sends people here, if he's in the mood to.'
It was odd, Mariner thought, returning to his car. Nothing
more than that; just odd. There would be a simple explanation.
But why had Bryce implied that he would be staying in the
pub, and where had he gone instead, on such a hostile night?
Zipping the locket into one of the many pockets on his rucksack,
he put it to the back of his mind.
Meanwhile, if he was going to get in the eight miles he'd
planned to walk today, he needed to make a start. His first
overnight was at a bothy that would, at most, give him a roof
over his head and a wooden bench to lie down on, so he
needed to buy food to keep him going for the next two days,
maybe more in case things didn't go to plan.
The nearest supermarket was a small Co-op and reminded
Mariner of the way shopping used to be years ago. The middle
aged woman behind the counter took her time with each
customer, enquiring about their health, commenting on the
weather, and by the time he'd filled his basket a small queue
had formed in front of the checkout counter: a mother with a
toddler, an elderly woman in a wool coat and headscarf, a
workman with a high-visibility tabard over his donkey jacket.
The older woman lingered after completing her purchase and
as Mariner stepped forward to be served he caught the tail
end of the conversation.
'. . . who shot all those people,' the woman was saying.
'They're after the son, aren't they?'
'Shockin' that. How can someone do that to their own flesh
and blood?'
'Well, not the first time, is it? They reckon he might have
come down here on the run.'
So, not only had Mariner got his shopping, he'd also learned
something. That had never yet happened in his local Tesco
Express.

After he'd eaten, the medication began to kick in and McGinley
started to feel a renewed vigour for what lay ahead of him. The
last part of his mission, this one would be the most physically
demanding and he had no way of knowing exactly what awaited
him or if he was really up to it. He couldn't be so sure of his
mark this time either, and was relying on second-hand intelligence
with no way of establishing how reliable it was. This last
target had been much harder to track down, but he'd got there
eventually by good luck and common sense. Sometimes it was
simply a question of looking in the most obvious place. And
now the bastard's chickens were coming home to roost.
Chemotherapy is tedious. It involves a lot of waiting around.
And when you've been clearly identified as undeserving scum
you can make it time and a half. Usually it was just McGinley
and a couple of screws who made the fortnightly trip to the
hospital; one to drive and one to escort. But one day he had
company; another prisoner and a different type of cancer, but
the same fortnightly trip to hospital, co-ordinated so as to
'maximize the use of resources'. This was when McGinley's
plan had been conceived. It had started off as nothing more
than bravado - each man listing the individuals who had
wronged him over the years, and what he would do to them
if he ever got out again. It was a way of passing the time.
The discussion was one borne out of frustration and fear, but
the more McGinley talked, the more his ideas began to shape
up into a plan, taking on a life of their own. And the old git
had egged him on. Clinically speaking it was obvious that
they were both hopeless cases, but when McGinley suddenly got parole on the 
strength of it, he didn't know how to break
it to the old man. Somehow it didn't seem fair. As it happened
the old boy was quite accepting of the situation, smiled and
congratulated him. But that was when he made McGinley
promise to back up his big mouth. 'Do it for me,' he'd said.
'I'm too old now, but you can make it right.' And now
McGinley was going to do just that if it killed him, as it
probably would.
He'd done what he could to dry out his damp clothing and
had stocked up on essentials, but this would be the real test
of his mettle. After a while he got up, put together his things
and set off, leaving the caravan park behind him and starting
out along the path winding out of the town and heading east
into the wilderness.



TEN



By the time Mariner emerged again into the blustery
breeze, it felt as if the day was half over, but finally he
was able to leave the small town behind going west,
winding up a rocky bridle path alongside ancient woodland.
Once belonging to the network of Drovers Roads that crisscrossed
Wales, the track would once have been heavy with the
traffic of livestock being herded across the borders for sale at
market; a practice that continued well into the twentieth century.
Today he was alone. The rain had held off so far today, but
he'd been careful to stow his waterproofs at the top of his pack,
as he felt sure it would only be a matter of time. The path
quickly steepened and as Mariner's boots clumped and scraped
over the rocks, his breath began to labour and, finding his
rhythm, he waited for that first buzz of elation that always
came with the prospect of a few hours' solitary walking. Whilst
many people in crisis seek the comfort of others, that had never
been Mariner's style and his instinct was for the exact opposite.
He needed to be alone, and there were few better places to
achieve that than the wilderness of mid-Wales.
So far he was warm and dry, the weight of his pack had
settled comfortably on his shoulders and stretching out before
him were miles of open country, green and rolling. The sheep
were back on the hills after wintering in the valleys near the
farms, the adult creatures awaiting shearing, their coats dirty
and matted alongside the pristine milky-white fleeces of their
offspring. But the pain in Mariner's chest remained and
however much he tried to divert his thoughts away from her,
he couldn't shift the vision of Anna's face, even though this
was about as alien to her as it could be. Hiking was not something
she'd ever considered to be fun. He remembered when
he'd first met her, the high-flying businesswoman with the
luxury pad and designer clothes. She was about as far from any of his previous 
girlfriends as it was possible to be, but
that quickly became irrelevant.
Becky's parting words were eating away at him, mostly
because they confirmed the impression he'd had at the time,
though he'd assumed then that it was just wishful thinking on
his part. Certainly Anna had seemed delighted enough to see
him when they'd met by chance that Saturday in town. He'd
rehearsed every detail of the encounter over and over, in an
attempt to cling to those last minutes he'd spent with her. After
they'd split up Mariner had developed the habit of seeing her
everywhere in the guise of other women: the mind playing
tricks on him. So when, on this occasion, the woman he'd
spotted actually turned out to be her, he felt such a lurch of joy he could 
hardly contain himself.

'How are you ?' she'd asked him, as if it wasn 't written all
over him.
'I'm fine,' he'd said, fighting the urge to throw his arms
round her. 'What are you doing here?'
Her response had come as a shock. 'Got a meeting with
the wedding planner,' she smiled, inclining her head towards
the nearby Brackley's department store.
'Wow. Congratulations,' he'd managed to say.
'Oh God, not for us!' Anna had shrieked. 'That would be a bit premature. It's 
for Charles and Lottie, you remember
them? Lottie wanted some support so I agreed to come, but
this is clearly the season to arrange weddings because so far all we've done is 
to wait in a massive queue, so I've popped
out to do a couple of things, while Charles is being measured
for his suit.'
And before he knew it they were sitting opposite one another in a cafe in the 
Bullring, overlooking the concourse that led
down to St Martin's church and drinking cappuccinos. Mariner was heady from the 
look of her and the smell of her, and had
to consciously restrain himself from touching her. 7 was gutted
for a minute there, you know, when I thought it was you and
Gareth,' he'd admitted.
She smiled. 7 could see that. You haven't got any better at
disguising your feelings.'
'So how is he?' he'd asked, of Gareth, almost choking on the
words. And instead of the enthusiastic response he'd anticipated,
she was measured and deliberate with her reply, not wanting
to give too much away.
'We're taking it slowly,' she'd said, struggling to meet his
eye.
At the time Mariner was euphoric, but had tried not to read too much into it. 
There was no need to press her. If the cracks
were beginning to show between her and Gareth it would just
be a matter of time.

Never had ignorance been so blissful or complacent. Less than
twelve hours later she would be dead. It had even crossed his
mind at the time that they should get a room, so powerful was
the attraction. If he'd done that maybe Anna would have stayed;
maybe she would have sent a text to Lottie telling them to go
ahead without her. But deep down he knew that it wasn't
Anna's style. She wouldn't have let down her friend, even for
him. So instead she had made that fateful journey; the one
that, because of her courage, had ended her life. Why couldn't
you have stayed in the car, Anna? Charles was done for. Why
couldn't you let it happen? He knew the answer to that one
too of course. It was one of the many reasons why he'd loved
her, because she could never in her whole life have stood by
and let anything 'happen'.
The path ahead of him blurred and a salty taste caught in
the corners of his mouth. 'Why the fuck, Anna?' he muttered
out loud, as he mentally replayed the scene for the thousandth
time.
Lost in these thoughts and weaving his way down a narrow
gorge, the ground was greasy and piles of soil and scree across
the path indicated a recent rock fall. A sudden loud clattering
close by startled him into looking up, and straight into the path
of a boulder the size of a football, bowling down the cliff towards
him, inches from his head. Mariner leapt back, and the rock
bounced past him and went tumbling down the hill, but as he
struggled to regain his balance, the loose stones on the edge of
the path gave way and for a moment he flailed on the edge of
the thirty-foot drop. Throwing his weight forward, somehow he
recovered his equilibrium, breathless and his heart thudding.
Jesus. That would have done him some damage if it had hit
him. A plaintive bleat came at him from the mist above, sounding
almost like an apology. Peering up through the mist Mariner
could see nothing. 'Just watch where you're walking, will you?'
he shouted up at the clumsy sheep.
The way-marking on the track was straightforward
enough, though at several junctions Mariner had to consult
the compass to make his decisions, and as he gained height,
up on the fells, the wind became stronger and the ground grew
increasingly soggy underfoot. For several miles his thoughts
remained preoccupied with direction and the physical task of
negotiating the terrain, the primeval thoughts eliminating all
else, and finally his mind began to clear. As Mariner climbed
higher the cloud pressed down to meet him, and in the middle
of the afternoon the rain started again, a heavy downpour that
slashed across the hillside. Dumping his pack down on the
springy heather, Mariner retrieved his waterproofs as soon as
he felt the first wet spots on his face. Pulling his new jacket
out he was surprised anew at how flimsy and lightweight the
modern fabric seemed compared with his trusty old Berghaus.
But he'd been assured by the salesman in the shop that he'd
get more warmth and protection from it than the traditional
jackets. There hadn't been much of a choice in colours either,
so he'd finished up with dark purple, like Bryce, which
wouldn't have been his first choice.
Mariner stopped, reminded of a conversation he'd had with
Anna soon after they met, when she'd been disparaging of his
customary grey shirts. You should try fuchsia, she'd told him.
Hm. In the time they were together she changed him in many
ways but she never got him into a fuchsia-coloured shirt.
There's a knack to the timing of putting on waterproofs.
Too soon and you sweat unnecessarily. Too late and you're
already wet and clammy. By the time Mariner had wriggled
into his over-trousers and jacket the rain had become a deluge,
but he'd made it just in time. Moving up into the cloud, the
visibility dropped too, and soon he was walking in a thick
mist across the open moorland that was criss-crossed with
dozens of sheep tracks and he had to rely entirely on his
compass for directions. The landscape that stretched out immediately
behind and before him was indistinguishable and it
was vital that he didn't go wrong, or he could end up floundering
about for hours in the way that Jeremy Bryce had the
previous day.
He was just beginning to wonder if perhaps he had made
the same mistake when suddenly the path dropped away into
a narrow gully, with a rocky path that led down to the bothy,
a simple stone hut with a slate roof that would shelter Mariner
for the night. It was, as he had expected at this time of year,
deserted. This place would only be regularly used in the
summer, but it was well maintained, probably by local volunteers.
Lifting the latch he pushed open the wooden door. Inside
was remarkably dry and peaceful, the solid walls firm against
the elements, and smelling comfortingly of wood smoke. It
was about the size of an average living room, with a stove to
one side and space to cook on the wooden floor, then, at the
back, a raised wooden sleeping platform. Many of the bothies
didn't have running water, but this one did at least have an
outside tap connected to a water butt. There was a small
skylight window that would let in some light, but Mariner had
brought his torch for after dark, which wasn't far away.
Dinner that evening was a simple one: bread and cheese,
fruit and chocolate biscuits, with a couple of mouthfuls from
his hip flask to warm him inside before settling down for the
night. Even with the padding of his camping mat the platform
was initially hard and uncomfortable and sleep was a long
time coming.

Tony Knox was feeling like death. During the course of the
day he'd rubbed several layers of skin off his continually
blocked-up nose, whilst coils of barbed wire seemed to have
taken up position in his throat and an invisible brace around
his head was squeezing his skull tighter as the day wore on.
He was sweating and shivering at intervals and in the middle
of the afternoon DCI Sharp appeared in her office doorway.
'Go home, Tony,' she ordered. 'You've looked up at that clock
ten times in as many minutes. You're not doing anyone any
favours by being here spreading your germs around. Get some
rest over the weekend and we'll see you on Monday.'
Knox wasn't in any condition to argue. A couple of whiskies
and an early night beckoned irresistibly. In the end he couldn't
even manage to eat anything and, dosing up on paracetamol,
instead went upstairs at just before six. The relief of sinking
into bed and closing his eyes was indescribable, but it didn't
last long. He was jolted awake a couple of hours later by the
slamming of car doors and yelling on the street just below his
window. As he came round he was aware of the insistent
boom-boom pounding of loud music: Michael's party. Knox
groaned. One of the beds was made up in the back bedroom,
on the off-chance that Gary or Siobhan should ever stop by,
and gathering up his duvet he sought refuge in there, where
it was blissfully quiet.
Eventually he fell asleep again only to be woken almost
straight away by a louder and more insistent hammering, this
time on his own front door. Someone was trying to get his
attention. He waited to see if it would stop, which it did, for
all of five seconds, before almost immediately starting up
again. Crawling out of bed, Knox pulled on jeans and a sweater
and descended the stairs, his anger growing with every step.
If this was some kid who thought banging on people's doors
was a joke ... He opened the door on a man of around thirty,
skinny and fair-haired with a thin strap of a beard that signalled
the battle against a disappearing jaw-line. He was wild-eyed,
a sheen of perspiration covering his face, and he was bouncing
on the balls of his feet, like he needed a pee. 'You're Tony
Knox? Jean asked me to come and get you. One of the kids
has collapsed. I've called an ambulance but we don't know
what else to do.'
Knox was instantly awake, the symptoms of his cold reduced
to a mere irritation as he tried to get his brain into gear. Outside
the blast of icy air revived him a little as he followed the man
across the road to where the front door of Jean's house was wide
open, kids spilling on to the driveway and out on to the street,
one of them, a young lad, throwing up noisily into the hedge.
Knox vaulted up the stairs, his senses bombarded by the
deafening thud of bass and heaving mass of shrieking teenagers,
and breathing in an atmosphere that was a sweet stuffy mixture
of alcohol, perfume and body odour. On the landing a couple
of young girls, no more than fourteen, were waiting anxiously,
one quietly weeping. 'Is she going to be all right, sir?' she asked
the messenger. Sir? Christ if this was Lennox he looked barely
out of school himself, thought Knox.
The bathroom was crowded with more young girls and Knox
had to force his way through to where a skinny pale youngster
with long red hair was slumped lifelessly against the side of
the bath, eyes closed and her head lolling to one side at an
impossible angle. 'Tony, thank God.' Jean was kneeling beside
the girl but moved back to let him through. Knox crouched
down beside them. Cradling the girl's head, he gently eased
her over so that she was lying on her side on the floor in the
recovery position. She was out cold, but breathing, and her
pulse was regular and felt strong. 'What's her name?' he asked.
'Kirsty,' said Jean.
'Kirsty!' Knox called, gently stroking the girl's cheek with
his fingertips. 'Can you hear me, love?' He lifted an eyelid and
saw the pupil widely dilated, indicating deep unconsciousness.
'How much has she had to drink?' Knox asked, but suddenly
none of the kids would look at him. One of the girls murmured
something inaudible.
'What?' Knox's patience was non-existent.
'Kirsty doesn't drink,' she said. 'It must be something else.'
'What kind of something else?' The possibilities raced
through Knox's mind as he turned to the girl nearest to him,
who was standing in the doorway gazing wide-eyed at her
friend and sniffling into a tissue. 'What was it? Was it pills?'
'I don't know,' she wailed. T think so.'
'Where did she get them?'
Terrified, the kid transferred her gaze from one teacher to
the other and back again, fearful of what they'd say. T don't
know,' she blurted out. 'A guy . . .'
'Which guy?' Knox demanded. 'Go and find him and get
him up here!' He nodded at one of the other girls, bleary-eyed
with drink. 'You go with her.'
Suddenly Knox realized what he should have done straight
away and he swore at himself for being so slow. 'Get the names and contact 
details of everyone here,' he commanded Lennox.
'It's important. And don't let anyone leave before they've given
you an address and phone number.'
'But some are already . . .'
'Do it now!' Knox yelled. He should have expedited it as
soon as he got to the house. Startled into action, Lennox disappeared
down the stairs.
In Lennox's place Knox was relieved to see the green
uniforms of two paramedics appear up the stairs. He sat back to let them 
through, updating them rapidly with what he knew.
The girl was still alive, thank God, but they worked quickly to get her on to 
the stretcher-chair and insert a drip in her arm. As Knox followed them down 
the stairs, he found that the music had stopped and lights had come on. Kids in 
varying
states of drunkenness were loitering in the hallway and sitting and lying in 
the garden outside. They were stunned and
frightened by degrees. As the paramedics made their way to the ambulance with 
their grim cargo, one by one they fell
silent and some of the girls started crying again. The boy
with the pills was nowhere to be found, nor did any of the
girls seem to know who he was or where he had come from.
Their descriptions were vague.
'Anyone here you didn't recognize?' Knox asked Jean.
She gave him a helpless smile. 'Ask me about those I did,' she said.
'You've contacted Kirsty's parents?'
Jean nodded wordlessly as Lennox came and stood beside her, slipping his arm 
around her.
Definitely more than just a colleague then, Knox thought
absently. 'Where's Michael?' he asked, suddenly.
Jean frowned. T don't know.'
A horrible thought crossed Tony Knox's mind. A search of
, all the rooms turned up nothing, but then coming back past the kitchen he 
spotted the telltale flare of a cigarette at the end of the garden. He went out 
into the darkness.
'Is she going to be all right?' The tremor in Michael's voice
made him sound much younger than his fifteen years, and
Knox even wondered if he'd been crying.
'Hard to say,' Knox said, truthfully. He heard something
that sounded like a sob. 'Not your fault, Michael,' he said.
'Not unless it was you who gave her the pill.' He had to ask.
'Was it?'
He expected an outraged, defensive response, but instead
could barely hear when Michael said, 'No.'
'Any idea who might have?'
'I was downstairs. I hardly saw Kirsty all night.'
'Then you have nothing to blame yourself for. All you did
was ask your friends to a party.'
'But if I hadn't . . .'
Aware that the boy was standing close to him, Knox put
out a comforting hand to squeeze his shoulder, and was astonished
when Michael collapsed into him, his breath coming in
wrenching sobs.



ELEVEN



Day Four



After a day on the move, McGinley was getting into his
stride, pack on his back. It had been a thrill getting
away from the centre of population and the memories
that came with it were bittersweet. He could remember the
first time he'd come out here from the cramped little terraced
house, and despite what had happened since, he looked back
on that time as the most amazing adventure. Most of the other
kids had been completely freaked by all the open space and
had whined to go home again, back to their TVs and record
players, but McGinley was enthralled by the drama of the
landscape; the huge skies and the towering peaks.
The stuff they did out here was exhilarating and it didn't
matter that you couldn't write your name, or stumbled over every
Other word in the reading book. He'd gone home and raved about it to Spencer: 
'You've got to come too!' So the next year he had. But Spencer was different. 
Even then McGinley knew it was true, even if he didn't know why. And what had 
been the making of McGiniey turned out to be the breaking of his kid brother. 
The price of that adventure had been paid in full years liter, when life kicked 
him in the balls yet again, even harder than before. That was when he'd learned 
once and for all that those you thought you could trust were the most 
untrustworthy, nd that those you thought were your friends could hurt you 
beyond measure. Right now though, McGinley felt as if he was back in his 
natural habitat. After years of confinement, crammed into overcrowded cells, 
the freedom was heady and invigorating Jld transcended any immediate physical 
discomfort.

; more than one point during the night, Mariner was disturbed
rain beating on the skylight of the bothy, but such is the kle British weather 
that the next morning when he woke,
shoulder and hip bruised from lying on the hard surface,
sun was shining and a fresh breeze blew white fluffy clouds ss the blue sky. 
?Mariner washed his face under the cold tap and packed up things, not sure if 
he would be coming back this way again,
next planned stop was officially no longer listed as a hostel
was possible that it may even lie derelict - but he was ing one way or another 
to be able to stay there. If not it Id be another bothy tonight. As he set off, 
a skylark trilled in the sky high above him, and the sun was warm on his
", and today it felt more like June than April. After a while
entered the dense shade of a pine forest, the trees set out
gimented rows in one of the forestry commission's efforts
forest after the deciduous trees had been torn up. Finding
iy spot, Mariner stopped for lunch. From his vantage
t he saw hawks circling high above him, riding the fher".
He dug out his binoculars; as he'd thought, a pair of red
searching for prey. He watched them for a while until
ttention was snagged by a movement down below, too id too dark to be a sheep; a 
deer perhaps, but it was gone
he could train the binoculars on it.
From here, the path began to rise higher and opened out on
to a rocky ridge that climbed and dipped like the spines on a
dinosaur's back. After several miles of undulating footpath
Mariner recognized the shape of the mountain that headed the
valley, crested the ridge and saw the land spread out below
him, strangely familiar and yet somehow different. Taking out
his binoculars again he scanned the vale. Immediately below
him was the patchwork of meadows of Abbey Farm, though
for a while he struggled to make sense of the newly configured
territory. Created from a monastery that was abandoned shortly
after the reformation (Mariner knew this because when he had
last stayed here he'd been reminded of its history every other
day), parts of the original building lay in ruins, marked out
by a series of crumbling walls and archways. The main farmhouse
was distinctive; a plain red-brick building with Jacobean
features, one of which had definitely not been the dozen or
so shiny solar panels that now covered the roof like the protective
shell of a tortoise.
The motley collection of rundown outhouses at the back of
the main house had also been joined by a sleek prefabricated
steel shed that had yet to tarnish in the elements. And alongside
this were a couple of small and modest wind turbines. The absence
of cows in the outlying fields was unsurprising; Mariner had seen
enough evidence of the extent to which the foot and mouth
epidemic of 2001 had decimated the dairy farming industry out
here. But instead it looked as if the land immediately surrounding
the farm was being cultivated; there were three or four fields
covered with white poly tunnels that gave the illusion of a covering
of snow. But the climate was so inhospitable here it was difficult
to know what could possibly be growing beneath them.
Beyond the farm, running along the valley north-east to southwest,
or as Mariner saw it, from left to right, the road and river
ran in parallel, their course marked out by a wide band of dense
deciduous woodland, broad at one end like the shape of a giant
comma, the high branches dotted with crows' nests. Beyond
that end of the woods the land opened out again onto Gwennol
Hall, the estate and country home of Lord Milford, the rolling
acres of parkland dotted with mature trees the clear indication
of the wealthy landowning classes, with the imposing grey
edifice of the Hall in the centre. Between those two properties,
strung out along the road and hidden by the trees from this
angle, was Mariner's destination: the village of Caranwy. He
could just see the two tiny dormer windows of a hostel attic
poking out between the high branches. From here it looked as if little had 
changed in terms of development. As he stood
watching, a shot rang out, echoing around the hills. Mariner
started for a moment until remembering where he was; it would
be either clay-pigeon shooting or automatic bird-scarers, both
completely harmless. Context is everything, he thought wryly.
Mariner swept the scene with the binoculars and they came
to rest on the farm. A movement attracted his attention and into
his line of vision, behind the outbuildings, came two men in
conversation. The powerful 10 x 42 lenses of the binoculars
brought the figures close enough to seem within reach and two
factors made the scene compelling. One was the contrast in
their attire. Although both men looked young, one was casually
dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, but the other was more
formal and strangely out of place in the environment, wearing
a dark suit, tight across the shoulders, complete with tie. Mariner
remembered the misapprehension of the barmaid in The Star
and immediately thought sales rep, though he could see no
telltale BMW parked nearby. The other interesting factor was
their body language. Both men were leaning in, shoulders back,
like two young stags squaring up, which meant either that one of them was hard 
of hearing, or that this was some kind of
confrontation. But in the few seconds that Mariner watched, the
dispute, if that's what it was, seemed to be amicably resolved,
as the man in the suit visibly relaxed, clapping the other companionably
on the shoulder. There followed an awkward handshake, of the kind Mariner had 
seen many times on the street corners of Birmingham. Then, in perfect 
synchronization, both men
looked skyward, as Mariner too became aware of the low
pulsating throb of rotor blades. Rising up from behind Gwennol
Hall came a small, private helicopter that flew out over the
estate and farm, roared over Mariner's head and disappeared
over the mountain behind him, into the darkening sky. When
he looked back at the farm, the two men had gone. At the same
, time he felt the first splattering of rain on his head.
Stowing his binoculars, Mariner set off down the mountain
towards the Caranwy valley, picking up a footpath he'd trodden
many times before, and he confidently followed its winding course down off the 
tops, over craggy outcrops and into the
pastureland below. Where the land began to flatten out the path
became a muddy bridleway that ran between hedges, the fields
of Abbey Farm on either side, sloping down towards the forest
covered ravine at the bottom of which ran the river. This was
an infrequently used trail and as it approached the woodland
became increasingly overgrown.
At the edge of the woods he came to a drystone wall with
an integral stile and crudely painted way mark pointing both
left and right, and he climbed over it and into the cover of the
trees just as the shower really took hold. The woodland covered
several square acres with a network of footpaths, and Mariner
had two options for getting to a river crossing. To the right
would take him a mile or so along the trail to a rudimentary
bridge that used to comprise just a couple of rotting old railway
sleepers, then through more woodland and up on to the road.
To the left would take him out into the parkland and on to the
drive of the Milford estate, to cross the river by a wide stone
bridge that supported Gwennol's grand entrance gates. He chose
that as the more reliable option, taking care to assess his bearings
regularly and avoid going round in circles. All went to plan
initially, but after about twenty metres the grass grew longer
and intermingled with brambles and ivy that got gradually
thicker until Mariner was waist high in them, the path indistinguishable
and the ground underneath lumpy and uneven. The
rain had penetrated the trees here, making the ground slippery
and several times, despite his boots, Mariner rolled over on to
his ankle. Cursing and swearing to himself, he persevered,
ploughing his way through while thorns clawed at his clothing,
until finally he came to a complete physical and metaphorical
brick wall.
Mariner consulted his map. Bought specially for this trip,
it was bang up to date and clearly indicated the public right
of way through the grounds of the estate. He could see the
main Hall, grey and imposing, hidden behind clumps of trees
way off to his left. This was definitely where the path went,
crossing into the country park for about a hundred metres to
meet the long driveway, which went over the bridge, with
pedestrian access through the impressive gates, and out on to the road. But 
with a blatant disregard for the right of way, the
dilapidated stile had been all but removed and the public
footpath sign broken off and thrown to one side. The wire
fence bordering the estate was topped with dense swathes of
lethal razor wire, with a particularly unfriendly sign stating
that trespassers would be prosecuted.
A further notice advertised the name of the security
company patrolling the grounds, along with a sketch of one
of the vicious-looking dogs they employed. Row upon row
of sapling conifers had also been planted, which in the nottoo-distant
future would provide a dense screen. Someone
was suddenly keen to protect their privacy. Lord Milford, Mariner remembered, 
had been well liked by the community
and there had never been any issue about access to his land.
Clearly his successor had different ideas. It confirmed what
Mariner had already guessed from the helicopter: that the old
and highly traditional Lord had been succeeded by a young
and modern heir.
For a few moments Mariner weighed up the risks of being
bloody-minded and following the official footpath. Legally he
was in the right and would be able to prove it in court. But
that was a long way from the immediate physical threat of
tearing his hands to shreds on razor wire, followed by a savage
attack from a Doberman or two. Such security signs were
often there for deterrent purposes only, and not necessarily
backed up by the real thing, but whilst he couldn't see any
animals anywhere, he had been conscious since dropping into
the valley of a persistent barking somewhere not far away, and
as further proof there was a fresh and disturbingly large turd
on the other side of the fence.
Irritating as it was, the most sensible course of action was
for Mariner to retrace his steps back along the path and take
the alternative route to the wooden bridge, in the hope that it
had been upgraded since he was last here. He was in for a
disappointment. The crossing remained as flimsy and insub¦ Itantial as he 
remembered it and if anything had deteriorated
in the intervening years. Mariner didn't fully trust it to take
his weight, on top of which, months of sustained rainfall had
created the added hazard of a deep and fast-flowing river
rushing along immediately beneath it. It was always a toss-up
in this situation of whether to tread slowly and carefully or
get it over with quickly: Mariner chose the latter. Running
across the planks, he made a lunge for the opposite bank,
where he backslid for several agonizing seconds before he
was able to grab on to a thorny branch that tore into the palm
of his hand. It enabled him to get his balance and he was able
to push on into the brambles and climb up to the dry-stone
wall bordering the road. A scramble over the stile and he was
on the road, breathless and his heart pounding. 'Christ, I'm
getting too old for this,' he gasped to himself, though on the
plus side, the rain had stopped.



TWELVE



Out on the lane Mariner followed the wall along and
into the village. There was a straggling main street
of grey stone buildings, in total no more than about
two dozen houses, among them a row of tied cottages, a chapel
and a pub but little else. The post office looked as if it had
long ago closed and been converted into residential accommodation,
though the sign for the White Hart looked freshly
painted. Then on past the end of the street, as he rounded a
corner, the hostel, a two-storey L-shaped stone farmhouse, set
back behind a yard and an open five-bar gate, came into view.
A murmur of nostalgia tickled Mariner's stomach. The absence
of a sign, a pale triangle on the moss-covered wall marking
out the place where it had once been, confirmed what he
already knew: that the hostel had long been closed to the
public. Scaffolding erected around one end of the barn-like
structure indicated that work was being done on it, or even that it could be in 
danger of collapse, but curtains at the
windows made what used to be the warden's wing appear
inhabited A row of saturated washing hung limply on the line
in the garden; child-sized T-shirts and a dress, the significance
of which was not wasted on him.
All along, once the idea for this trip had crystallized, Mariner
had never been naive enough to think that things wouldn't be
different here. His purpose, he'd told himself, was to revisit
the places that had been important to him as a young man.
But at the back of his mind had lain the possibility that he
might also encounter some old friends along the way. Now it
all seemed like a big mistake. Never in his life had he allowed
himself to wallow in nostalgia or return to the past, so why
was he breaking that rule now? He couldn't imagine for a
minute why he'd thought that it would help him to deal with
the pain of losing Anna.
In all probability the complex would have been bought up
many years ago by a couple of ex-London stockbrokers living
out their rural idyll, and he'd be about as welcome as Judas
at a disciples' reunion.
For the second time that afternoon Mariner was forced to
realistically consider his options, the most sensible of which
was to cut his losses and continue on through the village to
the next climber's hut. It was about five miles away, but he
would just about make it before dark, and would be passing
through a couple of villages along the way, where, if he felt
like it, he could succumb to a cosy B&B instead. He'd half
turned and was about to double back the way he'd come, when
she appeared from behind the house and Mariner's heart
bounced in his chest. Slender and willowy, dressed in a grey
Fair Isle sweater, jeans and boots, she exuded the air of casual
chic that he remembered so well. Hard to imagine that this
vision of femininity could competently handle a twelve-bore
and skin a rabbit without flinching. Her thick raven-black hair
was cut to her shoulders now and threaded through with grey.
But it was her all right. Sensing his presence she looked up
Suddenly, green eyes framed with dark lashes, and saw him
watching her.
'Hello?' She looked wary.
'Hello,' Mariner croaked, his voice catching. He cleared his
throat. 'I see that the hostel isn't open any more but wondered
if there would be any chance of staying the night. I'm prepared
to rough it.'
Straightening, she frowned with suspicion. 'Why on earth
would you want to do that?'
'Sentimental reasons,' he said, testing her out.
She was studying him curiously. 'Do I know you?'
'You did once. How good's your memory?'
For several moments she said nothing, and when she did
at last speak, it was with amused incredulity. 'Tom? Tom
Mariner?'
'Hey, I'm impressed.' Mariner tapped the side of his head.
'Not much wrong with your little grey cells.'
'My God,' she looked stunned. 'How long has it been?'
'Too long. Twenty-five years?'
'Nearer thirty,' she corrected him. 'You took your time
coming back.'
Mariner laughed. T can't quite believe you're still here.'
And finally she broke into a wide smile and came towards
him. After a brief, awkward hug, they stood for a moment,
uncertain of what to do. Too much like strangers after all this
time, the past intimacies a distant memory.
'You've hardly changed,' Mariner said, lamely.
She pushed her hair back off her face, suddenly self
conscious. The? You're kidding aren't you? I'm falling apart
at the seams - hair going white, reading glasses. But you look
exactly the same,' she said. 'And still carrying your home on
your back.'
'Yeah, although at my age I'm not sure that it's a positive
thing.'
T might have to agree with you about that. Well you'd better
come in.' She tilted her head towards the house. 'We've got
some catching up to do.'
Mariner hesitated. 'This isn't an intrusion?'
'Bit late for that, isn't it? What were you planning to do
- show up after all these years, say hello and then bugger off
again?'
'Not exactly, no.'
'Well then, get your backside in here.' She disappeared into
the house, so Mariner followed.
'It looks different,' was his first comment, walking into the
light, airy kitchen, with its sleek oak cupboards and stainless-steel
appliances, though the farmhouse table and Aga were still there.
Elena went to the sink and filled the kettle. 'What? You
think I wouldn't have altered anything in all this time? We
don't live in a time warp out here you know. We even have
central heating now, though admittedly that was put in by
the last owners.'
Mariner took off his rucksack, stowing it by the door, and
pulled out a chair, scraping it over the stone flags. 'So you
haven't always lived here?'
Elena leaned back on the counter, shaking her head. 'When
I got married I moved to the town, and then Dad got to the
point where he needed to go into a nursing home and this
place was too isolated for him.'
'God, your dad.' Mariner remembered the hefty farm worker
with his great bellow of a voice. 'He was scary.'
'Not at the end he wasn't. He got dementia; had to be cared
for like a toddler.'
'I'm sorry. Do you think he ever knew about us?'
'Of course he did,' she grinned. 'And he'd have never let
you get away with it if he hadn't liked you. As a matter of
fact he used to ask after you from time to time. I think he was
disappointed you didn't stick around.' She fixed him with a
pointed gaze.
Even after all this time Mariner felt bad about it and had
to look away, feigning an interest in the rest of the room. 'I
was too young,' he said eventually, aware of how inadequate
that sounded. 'I'd have been no good to you. Hadn't a clue
what I was going to do with myself.' It occurred to him that
not much had changed on that front either.
'Don't worry.' Her voice was devoid of rancour. 'I got over
it - you.'
Mariner took the proffered mug of tea from her and watched
her pull out the chair opposite him and sit down, resting her
elbows on the table, the mug balanced between her fingers.
'So you're married,' he said, observing that she wore an
engagement ring on her right hand.
'Was,' she said, emphatically.
'Anyone I know?'
She shook her head. 'He was a waste of space, except I
didn't realize it until after the kids were born.' A tabby had
wandered into the kitchen and came over to rub itself against
her chair; she reached down to stroke it. 'When he gave me
a divorce I wasn't sure what to do, but this place was back
on the market and going for a song. Dad was gone and had
left me some money, so I bought them out. I'm looking to run
it as a B&B eventually, though as you can see, there's a bit
of work to do yet.'
'I was sure the place would have been bought up by townies,' Mariner said.
'Oh, it was to begin with. When the YHA sold it, back in
the late Eighties, it was to a couple who decided after about
six months that they couldn't hack it in the country. But we
still get our fair share of ex-bankers and city types; plenty of
holiday properties round and about. The difference is that they
tend to be a bit quicker with their renovations. Rex and I are
doing this place up bit by bit and we're pretty strapped most
of the time, so we have to rely on local lads moonlighting and
doing it as a favour. It's going to take forever.'
'Rex?'
'My partner.'
So there was someone. Mariner had always assumed it
would be so, but nonetheless he felt an irrational pang of
disappointment. He hoped it didn't show. 'And your kids?' he
asked.
'My son Gethyn went away on a gap year and hasn't come
back yet; he's in Australia at the moment, so it's just me and
Cerys, my eleven-year-old.' She looked up at him. 'What about
you? Married? Kids?'
'No on both counts, though I've come close.' It hurt to say it.
She studied him. 'Hmm, that doesn't really surprise me. You
always were pretty contained. So what have you been doing
with yourself? You had some nutty idea about joining the police
when you were here, though I could never quite see it.'
For the second time that day Mariner half wished he'd
brought his warrant card. Instead he gave a mock salute. 'Detective Inspector 
Tom Mariner,' he said, 'at your service.'
'God, well that's put me in my place, hasn't it? Good thing
I never went in for astrology.'
'No future in it,' Mariner said, unable to resist. 'And you?'
'Oh I've never really settled to anything much. Aside from
doing up this place I work part time doing a bit of counselling
in the town; bereavement, that kind of thing. I got into it after
Dad . . . you know. But whatever else my ex might have been,
he's always had a good job and been pretty consistent with
the child support, so I've no room for complaint there.'
Tyres rumbled over gravel out in the yard, a car door
slammed shut and moments later a young girl came in, with
long black hair and wide green eyes. No mistaking her heritage.
'Hi Mum . . .' Seeing Mariner, she broke off.
'Cerys, this is Tom, an old friend of mine.'
'Hello Cerys.'
'Hello.' She barely gave him a glance before dropping her
school bag and heading straight for the fridge.
'Not too much now,' warned Elena, in what seemed to be
a comfortable routine. 'You'll be having your tea soon.' The
response was a mere grunt and the girl took her snacks and
left the kitchen, her departure swiftly followed by the unmistakable
burbling of a TV set.
'So how would you feel about me staying here tonight, in the hostel I mean, for 
old times' sake?' Mariner asked.
'Well on principle I've no objection, but you should know
that the place is as derelict as it looks. We haven't even got
round to fixing all the holes in the roof yet, so some of the
rooms are uninhabitable, but we can probably find you a bed
somewhere that's more or less dry.'
TT1 pay you,' Mariner said. 'And of course you'll get your
reward in heaven.'
'Yeah, if only I believed all that crap.'
'What, you don't go to chapel any more?' Mariner pretended
to be shocked. Sunday attendance had, as he remembered,
been imperative.
'Not since I found out the Reverend Aubrey had been making
improper advances to several youngsters in the village, no.'
'You're kidding.'
'Not the kind of thing I joke about,' she said. 'That said
I'm not sure how true it was; you know how rumours can
spread.'
'Was he charged?'
'Nah, it never got that far. I think he claimed that there had
been some misunderstandings and he was believed. I didn't
know that much about it at the time. It was back in the days
before the clergy had developed their reputation, so even if
there was something in it, it would have been much harder to
make a case.'
'Did he ever try anything with you?' Mariner asked.
She smiled. 'Luckily, I didn't have the right equipment. I
think his preference was for little boys.'
'So what happened to him?'
'Nothing much. By the time all this emerged he was pretty
close to retirement anyway and he still lives up the valley,
away from the village though and pretty isolated. You'll have
seen his cottage as you came down off the tops. He lives
quietly and doesn't bother anyone.'
Mariner drained his mug and replaced it on the table.
'What have you done to your hand?' she asked, seeing the
gash torn by the bramble.
'Argument with a thorny branch,' Mariner said. 'It's fine,
though I wish I'd had my ID with me,' Mariner said, obliging
her. 'I might have challenged that re-routing of the footpath
next to the estate.'
'Ah, so you've found the battle line. That thin strand of
razor wire is the only thing that's keeping the residents of
Abbey Farm and Gwennol Hall from tearing each other to
pieces.'
'And here was me thinking it was all peace and loveliness
out here. So what's the difference of opinion?'
'Not so much a difference of opinion, more an ideological
gulf,' said Elena.
'Ah, the humble farmer taking on the landed gentry.'
'Not quite; capitalist baron versus liberal leftie is more like
it.'
'Let me guess. The capitalist is the one with the guard dogs.
That doesn't seem like batty Lord Milford's style.'
'Oh, Lord Milford's long gone. The old man passed on
73


about ten years ago and since then the estate's fallen into
Russian hands.'
'Isn't it the tradition normally to hand over to the son and
heir?' Mariner queried.
'Unfortunately in this case the son and heir was a bit of a
waster. Long before he died the old man tried to get him to
take over the running of the estate, but it didn't really work
out.'
'That sounds like a deliberate understatement.'
'You could say that. The young Viscount was more concerned
with enjoying himself than running the estate. There was a
half-hearted attempt to do it up and open it to the public for
a while, and he even tried to promote it as a venue for
weddings.'
'It had a certain shabby charm to it, as I remember,' Mariner
said.
'Maybe, but out here there was never going to be enough
passing trade to make it work. The next moneymaking venture
was to sell off some of the tied cottages in the village to raise
some cash.'
'I bet that went down well,' Mariner said, sardonically.
'Oh yes. They were sold as holiday lets, so the families
living in them at the time had about six months' notice.'
'That smells of desperation.'
'I think while the old man was still alive he felt compelled
to try and make a go of it for his father's sake, but it was all
just for show. As soon as Lord Milford passed away it went
up for sale. So now we have our very own Russian oligarch,
known locally as the Czar, mainly because his name is pretty
much unpronounceable.'
Mariner laughed. 'That's a bit rich coming from a bunch
of people who don't believe in the use of vowels. So what
dodgy dealings has he been involved in to make his money?'
'To be honest, I don't know. Cerys could probably tell you
more than I can. Her best friend's mum works for him as a
cleaner.'
'Well at least he's supporting the local labour force,' Mariner
remarked.
'By employing a couple of domestics?' Elena was
determined to remain unimpressed. 'He's kept on the estate
manager, Phil Bevan too, but that's the extent of it. All his
other staff have come with him. Not that it's of any consequence.
He has nothing to do with us locals, except when he's
in residence to remind us of his presence with his wretched
helicopter several times a day.'
'A chopper flew over on my way here,' Mariner recalled.
'That's nothing. Last weekend he had one of his regular
house parties. He has some high-profile friends and guests at
his soirees and the air traffic was pretty constant.'
'That sounds pretty annoying.'
'Quite a few of us have petitioned the local councillor to
see if anything can be done. The farmers complain about it
upsetting the livestock, and the holiday cottage brigade who
come out here for a weekend of peace and quiet don't appreciate
the disturbance either.'
'Don't tell me you're on their side now? You used to resent
the weekenders like mad.'
Gathering Mariner's empty mug alongside hers, Elena got up
to put them in the sink. 'We don't go around burning their cottages
down any more, if that's what you think. We're quite civilized
these days; all part of our acceptance of the evolving economy.
Come on, let's go and look at the accommodation while you've
still got time to change your mind and book a room at the pub.'



THIRTEEN



Stepping back into the youth hostel, the unique smell of
cooked food, musty blankets - and in this case the
pervasive smell of damp - took thirty years off Mariner's
life in an instant, projecting him back to the successive summers
he'd spent hitching around the country staying in hostels just
like this, one or two nights at a time, sometimes more. It had
been a liberating existence, during the course of which Mariner
had met some fascinating characters. Most of the places he'd
stayed in back then no longer existed; few people these days
would put up with such basic accommodation, or the enforced
separation of the sexes. Not that there weren't ways around that
particular rule. Over those summers Mariner had enjoyed several
liaisons. There had been no shortage of young women, mostly
blonde and bronzed Australian girls, as he recalled, who for
some inexplicable reason seemed to find him attractive.
Caranwy had been one of Mariner's longer sojourns, taking
up five or six weeks, thanks to the dual attractions of some
paid labouring work on the nearby Abbey Farm and his relationship
with a certain local girl. Walking the creaking floorboards,
he could almost hear the voices of the other hostellers
he'd shared with during that time: the compulsory gaggle of
foreign students, several middle-aged couples - usually
teachers - with their belligerent kids and the occasional lone
male of indeterminate age. These days the latter would be
treated with some suspicion, and statistically he'd since realized
it made sense that some of them must have been there
for not entirely wholesome reasons.
He followed Elena along the short hallway past the boot
room on the right and the kitchen to the left, and climbed the
steep stairs to the first landing with its communal shower and
bathroom, two larger bunk rooms, for males and females
respectively, plus a couple of smaller rooms set aside for
couples and families - less of a priority back before the days
when the YHA had become family friendly. Both of the larger
dorms were in a state, a big damp patch and the ceiling wallpaper
peeling off in chunks in the one, a badly cracked window
letting in a draught in the other. Mariner was beginning to
wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Elena was
clearly thinking the same. 'I'd have you to stay at my place,'
she began. 'But with Cerys . . .'
'Of course,' said Mariner. 'That's fine.'
'It's just that she sees her dad a couple of times a week.
He's got used to Rex being around but if he hears about
someone else and gets the wrong idea ... He can be a bit of
a prick sometimes.'
'It's okay,' Mariner reassured her. 'I wasn't expecting
anything. In fact if this is going to make life difficult for
you . . .'
'No, you're all right. Let's see along here.' She led the way
along the landing to one of the smaller rooms, which looked
in much better condition. Facing south-west, a weak, late afternoon sun had 
broken tentatively through the cloud and
was taking the chill off the air, and the windows and ceiling
seemed to be intact. Mariner put his rucksack on one of the
two sets of bunks.
'This will do fine,' Mariner said, testing the mattress. 'It's
loads more comfortable than where I slept last night.'
'I can give you some aired blankets, and there's a portable
heater knocking around somewhere,' said Elena. 'It'll get even
colder during the night. The showers are on the electric, so
they should be okay. And you can come and eat with us if
you'd like to.'
'I really don't want to impose,' Mariner said, truthfully.
'That wasn't the idea.'
She smiled. 'So you said. It's fine. Rex is over tonight so
you'll be able to meet him. Do you still play chess?'
Mariner pulled a face. 'God, probably not since your dad
repeatedly annihilated me all those years ago, why?'
'Cerys is taking on the family tradition and she can already
outplay me most of the time. She'd love a new opponent.'
Mariner grimaced. 'Sounds as if she'll destroy me too.'
'Better brush up on your Sicilian defence then,' Elena
smiled. 'I'm sure there's an old set down in the games room
somewhere you can practice with. We'll see you at six.'
Mariner flashed a humourless smile. 'Thanks.'
'Oh,' she called back, as an afterthought. 'Don't try locking
the door behind you when you come over, it sticks solid
anyway and you'll never get it open again.'
After Elena had gone, Mariner sat down on the lower bunk
and for a few minutes simply savoured the environment. Much
as he had anticipated this moment, he hadn't really expected
it to become a reality, and so far he hadn't been disappointed
on any count; not with the accommodation anyway. This was
the room he remembered most vividly. Because he'd spent the
whole summer here, there were times when he'd had the hostel
to himself. It was on one such night that Elena had come to
him. He'd woken with a start in the small hours, alerted by a
movement in the room. Opening his eyes he saw a figure
beside the bed, still and staring down at him. 'Are you awake?'
'Shit,' said Mariner. 'I thought I was seeing a ghost.'
Elena giggled. 'How many ghosts do you know that wear
winceyette pyjamas?' she whispered. 'Not very sexy I know,
but it gets cold up here.'
'I'd noticed,' said Mariner. He didn't know quite what to
do. He'd never had a girl present herself to him like this. She
sat beside him on the edge of the bed and slid a hand under
the bedclothes. 'Well are you going to let me in before I freeze
my tits off?'
Mariner lifted up the edge of the sheets and blankets and,
pulling off the pyjamas, she slid into the narrow bed alongside
him, as simultaneously her lips fastened on to his. Her flesh
was soft, warm and giving, and in seconds he was hard,
burrowing into her and making her moan. It had been the start
of his first proper relationship that had lasted the whole summer
under the watchful eye of her overprotective father, which had
given their encounter a special frisson, even though it turned
out now that he'd known about it all along.
The room overlooked the yard and beyond, along the lane
towards the farm, but afforded enough privacy, so he walked
naked along to the bathroom. The showers were communal,
modesty protected only by flimsy nylon curtains. The sinks in
the shower room were too low to be practical, still at the height
they would have been when this place was some kind of
outward-bound centre for city kids back in the Sixties and
Seventies. Mariner turned on one of the showers. It spluttered
and for a few seconds the water ran brown, but the flow quickly
ran smooth and clean and, as Elena promised, was hot within
seconds.
After the shower he changed into a clean shirt, but decided
against shaving. His beard was starting to establish itself and
would soon be beyond the itchy stage, so easier to just let it
grow. With a few minutes to spare, he took time to explore
the hostel, reorienting himself, and wondering again how
sensible this whole enterprise really was. Rationalizing his
behaviour, after all the turmoil of the last few weeks, this was
probably some pathetic attempt to find a safe haven, coming
back to a place that represented one of the rare times in his
life when he had felt genuinely secure and happy. But now
he was here he couldn't clearly identify what it was he had expected to 
achieve. He'd been unbelievably lucky with the
gamble that Elena would recognize him and make him
welcome, but now what? All he was really doing was gate
crashing the life she had built for herself, and he had no right
to do that. He'd stay here one night and then move on.
Shortly before six Mariner left the hostel and walked back
over to Elena's cottage. A mud-spattered Volvo estate was now
parked in the yard, and Mariner had been in the kitchen just
a few seconds when a man appeared from upstairs, stocky and
with a ruddy outdoor complexion, his dark hair cut in an old
fashioned short back and sides that was greying at the temples.
'Hello, you must be Tom,' he said, crossing the kitchen in two
strides and squeezing Mariner's hand in a firm grasp. 'Rex
Monroe.' Mariner stood at six feet tall, but he felt dwarfed by
this man, who was perhaps no taller, but seemed equally wide,
muscular and strong, his physical presence dominating the
whole room. It was an effect compounded by the loud checked
shirt he wore tucked into jeans.
'Good to meet you,' said Mariner. 'I hope you don't mind
my just showing up like this.'
'Not at all.' The sentiment seemed authentic although the
eyes remained a little wary. 'I'd heard about you before, so
it's good to put a name to the face.'
'Really?' Mariner was taken aback.
'Don't get too excited,' Elena chipped in cheekily. T forgot
all about you years ago. It was dad who used to mention you
from time to time, especially when his mind started to go.'
She walked over to the kitchen door and called into the lounge.
'Cerys, your tea's ready.'
'Beer?' Rex offered, gesturing Mariner to one of the chairs.
'Great, thanks.'
They sat round the kitchen table to eat, with the TV on low
in the background. When the men had finished their beer they
moved on to wine.
'It's a decent bottle,' Rex said, pouring Mariner a generous
glass of something French and red.
'Can't compete with any of the stuff Bob Sewell used to
keep though,' Elena said, lifting her glass. 'Cheers.'
'Cheers.' Mariner smiled at the memory of the farmer. 'His
cellar was a revelation. He was the last person on earth you'd
have expected to be an expert on that sort of thing. Not that
I was old enough to appreciate any of it.'
'Oh, he knew his stuff all right,' Rex agreed. 'He's put it
to good use now, too. That's where he's gone, retired to the
Loire valley where he owns half a vineyard.'
'Wow.' Mariner was genuinely surprised. 'Who'd have
thought?'
'He was helped on his way by circumstances,' Elena said.
'The cellar at the farm is a natural cave that links up to a
whole network of limestone tunnels round here, so when we
had a particularly bad rainfall in 1998 his whole collection
got flooded out. It ruined thousands of pounds worth of vintage
stuff. Then a couple of years later, when foot and mouth struck,
he decided that it would be sensible to up sticks and go to
where the weather was warmer and where he could make his
own wine instead of just collecting other people's. He's doing
well at it by all accounts. We get a card from him every
Christmas, along with a couple of bottles.'
'You're from round here then, Rex,' Mariner said.
'Llangybi,' Rex said, naming one of the numerous outlying
villages, 'though I spent a few years in Aberystwyth. Came
back - ooh, must be going on twelve years now.'
'We ran into each other in Tregaron,' Elena said. 'Rex's
firm handled the power of attorney application for Dad.'
'You're a solicitor,' Mariner deduced. So much for the
rugged outdoors look.
Rex grinned. 'Yeah, don't quite look the part, do I?' He
knew he'd had Mariner fooled.
'So how do you know my mum?' Cerys piped up, suddenly,
fixing Mariner with a gaze.
T stayed here once, a long time ago,' Mariner said. 'We
were friends.'
She absorbed that. 'Were you her boyfriend?'
For some unaccountable reason, Mariner felt his colour
heightening, and he glanced across at Elena and Rex, who
both seemed to be enjoying this turn of conversation rather
too much. 'Yes, I suppose I was.'
'Why did you stop being her boyfriend?'
'Oh, I'm sure your mum could explain . . .'
'No, you're doing fine; carry on,' said Elena, far too entertained
for Mariner's liking.
'Well, I went back home to Birmingham, but your mum
stayed here, so that was that.'
'This was in the days before we had texting or Facebook,'
Elena reminded her daughter. 'We had to rely on real letters delivered by the 
postman.
'We didn't even have mobile phones,' Mariner added. 'If I
wanted to talk to your mum without my mum overhearing I
had to walk down the road to the phone box.'
Cerys was regarding them both with fascination, as if they
were weaving fairy stories. 'But didn't you go and stay?' she
asked Elena.
'I did once, but it wasn't really the same.'
Mariner remembered that weekend. It was pretty bloody
awkward as he recalled, his mother insisting that Elena sleep
in the guest bedroom.
'Mum said you're a policeman.' Cerys had moved on.
'That's right.'
'Like Ryan.' She looked enquiringly at her mum, who
shrugged.
'I suppose so.' Elena glanced at Mariner. 'A friend of ours,'
she said, dismissively. 'Anyway,' she said to Cerys, 'Tom was
asking about the Czar. And as you're the local expert . . .'
Cerys wrinkled her nose. 'What do you want to know?'
'Where he made his money,' said Mariner. T could do with
some tips.'
'It was oil and gas originally as I understand it,' said Rex.
'Though I think he owns a few media companies and that kind
of thing.'
'How do you know all that?' asked Elena.
'He's doing a bit of business with the firm,' Rex said.
'Is he?' She seemed a bit put out. 'What kind of business?'
'Well it might turn out to be something or nothing,' Rex
said. 'He's asked us to look at some of the land boundaries.
Apparently that historian who's working for him has uncovered
documents that suggest some kind of anomaly on the boundary
of the estate; there seems to be some question about the ownership
of several acres that border it.'
'Which several acres?' asked Elena.
'I can't tell you that, love. Until we've established that there's
a case to answer we haven't even told the current owners of
that land; there's no point. My feeling is that an explanation
will be found and it will just fizzle out. Meanwhile if Mr
Shapasnikov is happy to send some of his considerable fortune
our way, we're just as happy to take it.'
'Making hay while the sun shines,' Mariner said.
Rex grinned. 'Something like that.' He cast each of them
in turn a meaningful look. 'Needless to say, this must all stay
within these four walls.'
'Of course,' said Mariner.
'Well, there you go,' said Elena, gathering up their empty
plates. 'I've learned something tonight.'
'Can we play chess now?' Cerys asked Mariner eagerly.
Barely waiting for a response, she produced a traditional
rubberwood set and laid it out on the table.
Mariner felt ludicrously apprehensive facing the elevenyear-old.
'Sure you don't want to play dominoes?' he asked,
blatantly buying time. 'I'm much better at dominoes.'
Cerys rolled her eyes and held out closed fists containing
white and black pawns. Mariner indicated the one nearest him
and was rewarded with the black. She would go first. She
started confidently and, as Elena had said, had clearly inherited
the family gene.
After a couple of moves though, bits of strategy started to
come back and Mariner felt relaxed enough to continue the
conversation. 'The new owners have made a few improvements
up at Abbey Farm,' he observed, making his move.
'Yes, that's changed a bit since Bob went,' Elena said. 'Not
everyone thinks it's for the better, but we get on with them okay.'
Cerys made her move and Mariner studied the board. 'Who's
them?'
'It's owned by a guy called Willow.' Mariner looked up
at her and she rolled her eyes in response. 'I know. His real
name is Nigel Weller, but Willow is his "new age" name. The
place was pretty rundown when he bought it, let me see, must
have been about 2001. He's from out your way actually Birmingham
or Solihull?'
'Don't let anyone from Solihull hear you say that,' Mariner
warned. 'There's a big difference you know. Though neither
is particularly known for its agriculture.' He moved his rook
across to block an attack from Cerys.
T don't think his background is farming exactly, but it
started off as experimental,' Rex said. 'He runs it as a sort of
eco project; a farm that runs on self-sufficiency to produce
organic vegetables and other produce.' He raised his eyebrows
at Mariner. 'You want to watch your queen there,' he murmured.
'Rex!' Cerys protested. She moved her bishop decisively to
threaten Mariner's king and distract him.
'That's no easy task in this climate,' said Mariner, frowning.
He blocked with his knight.
'From what I understand, he was a chemist by profession
and has developed some kind of new soil treatment,' Rex went
on. 'A fertilizer, I suppose, that raises the temperature of the
soil and allows things to grow in less hospitable climates for
a greater part of the year and gives good crop yields.'
'That sounds ambitious. Does it work?'
'He's been there going on for ten years now. It's taken a
while to get it all up and running and to begin with he had to
rely on volunteers to help him out. The farm was operated
along communal lines with people who used to come out here
to work on it just for short periods, students and the like,
although inevitably some of them ended up staying. Now he
seems to manage with a small core who have been there a
while.'
'And it's enough to turn a profit?' Mariner asked.
'Hm, that bit's rather murky. I heard rumours when it first
started up that he was pretty wealthy and was able to invest
a lot in it, but nevertheless it seems to be thriving. They produce
enough to sell at the farmers' markets locally and I think they
have some kind of mail order arrangement too.'
'We get most of our veg from there,' Elena said. 'It's good
stuff.'
'Checkmate,' said Cerys, with a quietly smug smile.
'What?' Mariner looked down at the board. She'd beaten
him, in just a few short moves. How the hell did that happen?
'Your granddad's got a lot to answer for,' he told Cerys with
a wry smile as they shook hands over the board.
'Right now, bed,' said Elena. 'You can have your rematch
tomorrow.'
Cerys started to protest but it sounded pretty half-hearted
and she did as she was told nonetheless.
'Remind me, how old is she?' Mariner asked when she'd
gone.
'Eleven.'
He shook his head in disbelief.
'Don't worry, man.' Getting up to fetch another bottle of
wine, Rex put a sympathetic hand on Mariner's shoulder.
'We've all been through it.'
'So whose side would you be on?' Mariner asked, replacing
the chess pieces in their box. 'The capitalist or the liberal leftie?'
Elena shrugged. 'I like Willow,' she said. 'He's eccentric
all right and can be a bit up himself, but we've kind of got
used to him. There was some resistance when he first took
over the farm - he started with the disadvantage of being
English, after all. But as soon as it became clear he wasn't
going to ruin anything around here people changed their tune.
Soon after he turned up, Ron and Josie took over the Hart and
between them all they've put some life back into the village,
so we're not complaining.'
'We've all had to adapt,' Rex added. 'Foot and mouth was
a disaster. Hospitality and tourism are about the only things
we're good for round here now, so a bit of successful farming
is a bonus.'
The conversation continued, along with the drinking, until
nearly midnight. Mariner was exhausted, but the couple were
such good company, it was easy to stall and put off being left
alone with his thoughts again. But finally he could delay it no
longer. The sky was clear and a half moon shone in the sky,
making it a cold night as he lurched across the yard. He was
a little woozy and realized that he'd been drinking steadily all
evening, consuming far more than he would ordinarily. He
had to concentrate on finding his footing, which meant that
he almost didn't notice the glossy black bulk of a Range Rover
skulking on the opposite side of the road. Despite the lateness
of the hour, as his gaze swept across it Mariner thought he
could make out a figure sitting in the driver's seat, even though
the lights were turned off. Mariner had done his share of
surveillance, so, resisting the urge to look directly at it, he kept
on walking. As he opened the hostel door and stepped into the
shadows, he took the opportunity to turn back and observe the
vehicle more carefully from the cover of the doorway. It was
more difficult to tell from this angle, however, whether what
he could see was simply the outline of the headrests, or if there
was an occupant.
Going into the hostel Mariner felt uneasy about that vehicle,
but upstairs his view of the street was obscured by the branches
of the beech tree in the yard. He knew though where there
was a much better vantage point. He'd only once been up to
the attic room, accessible via a narrow flight of steps at the
end of the landing, when he and Elena had been seeking
privacy one afternoon. Taking his torch, he ventured up there
now. It was a little tower room no more than eight feet square,
with windows on all four sides. Despite this, what little heat
there was in the building had risen, and it felt marginally
warmer than the other rooms. It seemed in better condition
too, with more snug-fitting windows and for a minute Mariner
wondered if he might be better off sleeping up here, though
that would require the necessary energy to move all his things,
and to create some suitable space. There wasn't much room
to spread out, thanks to the clutter of old furniture and pictures,
and a couple of spare mattresses propped against one wall,
but Mariner managed to pick his way over to the window.
As he did so, he heard the low murmur of a high-performance
engine igniting into life and peering down he watched as the
Range Rover moved smoothly away, lights still extinguished.
Mariner thought back to the SUV that had tailed him out here
on Thursday afternoon, before realizing that connecting them
didn't really make any sense. Anyone passing through the
village could have just parked up for a few minutes here for
a break, or maybe to make a phone call. It was most likely to
be one of those ubiquitous sales reps returning home after a
long evening of schmoozing a customer. Mariner undressed
and got into his arctic sleeping bag. He fell asleep quickly, strangely 
reassured by the familiar smell of the hostel.



FOURTEEN



Day Five



When Mariner awoke on Saturday morning in a
creaking bunk it was to the sound of a woman's
voice echoing up the stairs. 'If you're quick you
can join us for breakfast,' Elena called. It was just after
seven-thirty.
'It's an ungodly hour, I know.' She was apologetic when he
arrived in the kitchen, having hastily pulled on his clothes.
'But you know us country folk. How did you sleep?'
'Fine thanks, though I might try the attic room at some
point. It seemed a bit warmer.' Mariner considered telling
Elena about the car hanging around outside last night, but
something stopped him. Instead he remarked on the absence
of the Volvo from the yard.
'Rex often puts in a half day at the office on Saturdays,'
Elena told him. 'He's always worked long hours.' She put
down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Mariner.
'I could get used to this,' he said.
Cerys, chewing lethargically on a piece of toast, pulled a
face. 'Ugh, how can you eat that at this time of day?'
'Oh, I'll manage.' He looked across at her. 'Want a game
before I go?'
He didn't need to ask twice and an hour later Mariner had
evened the score.
'Best of three?' Cerys said hopefully, quickly returning the
pieces to their rightful squares.
'No,' said Elena. 'Tom isn't just here to entertain you. He's
here on holiday. Leave him alone.'
'That's right,' Mariner agreed. 'Much as I'd love to while
away the day locked in conflict, I have other plans.'
'Like what?' Cerys wanted to know.
'I'm going up to Devil's Mouth. I thought I'd do the tourist
bit.'
'Only if it's not raining,' said Elena. 'And you haven't got
a dicky heart, have you? Health and Safety have gone to town
up there; you can only visit the falls if the sun's shining and
you're glowing with health.'
'Can I come with you?' Cerys asked.
'No again,' said Elena straight away. 'You don't even like
walking. You'll get bored after five minutes and the last thing
Tom needs is a whining eleven-year-old trailing after him.
Anyway I thought you had plans as well.'
'So what are you up to?' Mariner asked.
Cerys gave an indifferent shrug. The and Emily are going
down to the stables to muck out the horses and maybe get a
ride if we can.'
'Sounds like much more fun,' said Mariner.
'Here, you can take these; they're past their best.' Elena
passed her a couple of apples.
'They're all wrinkled,' Cerys grumbled.
'But still in their prime,' shot back Elena. 'Just like me.'
Cerys brightened. 'Can we do some baking later?' she asked.
'There's a cake sale at school next week.'
'If I can get some more eggs. I've just cooked the last ones
for Tom.'
'I'll pick some up for you while I'm out,' Mariner offered.
'It'll give me an excuse to go and have a nose round the farm.
I'm curious to see what it's like now at close quarters.'
'Okay. They don't usually sell direct, but if you tell them
they're for me I'm sure they will. And if you go first thing
you'll catch them before they go off to the markets. Look out
for Theo; he's a nice lad.'
Since they were initially heading in the same direction,
Mariner set off along the road with Cerys but before getting
to the centre of the village he wished her a good day and,
remembering his undertaking to pick up some eggs, branched
off along the gravel track up to Abbey Farm.
87


The three-storey farmhouse that dominated the yard had
always been impressive alongside the odd collection of
ramshackle barns, though everything was neater and in much
better condition than back when he'd worked here. In
Mariner's time it had largely been a dairy farm with a few
sheep that were put out to graze on the hillsides. One of
Mariner's main tasks that summer was to help make the hay
that would sustain the animals for the winter. Now the only
form of livestock seemed to be the chickens and ducks that
clucked and waddled about the yard. A brand new van parked
by one of the sheds announced the farm's current line of
business: 'Abbey Farm Organic Vegetables; all products
locally grown'. That in itself was an impressive declaration, and measures had 
been taken to make that happen. The new
shed was a prefabricated aluminium structure, with a generator
at one end that emitted a faint, slightly eerie humming noise.
Just behind that was a huge pile of what looked like manure,
but from the innocuous smell and in the absence of any
animals to produce it, Mariner guessed must be some kind
of compost.
'Can I help you?'
Mariner's snooping was cut short by a voice from behind
him, cultured and polite, yet with a definite edge. He turned to
face a man who looked to be in his mid-sixties, tall and rangy
with lank grey hair, too long for a man of his years, and the
lined, ravaged face of someone who'd seen the wrong end of
a few chemical substances. He was incongruously dressed in
country attire: jeans, waxed jacket and Wellingtons, and nestling
in the crook of his arm was a twelve-bore shotgun. This must
be Willow.
T came to buy some eggs,' Mariner said, pleasantly.
'We don't sell here.' It was a statement of fact, pure and
simple, the civil tone reflected back. 'We have a stall at the
market over in Llanerch. We'll be there later on in the day.'
'Yes, I know, but I'm staying with Elena Hughes,' Mariner
countered. 'She said you might let me have some. She told
me to look out for Theo.'
'I'm afraid Theo's not around. You'll have to make do with
me.' Willow broke into an unexpected smile, revealing stained,
uneven teeth, and offered Mariner his hand. 'I'm Willow. Elena
perhaps mentioned me too?'
'Tom Mariner.' Mariner shook the hand, firm in its grip.
'Yes, she did.'
'Ah, well, Elena will have been kind to us at least.' Willow
turned and began walking across the yard. 'The hen houses
are over here.'
'Yes, of course,' said Mariner, falling into step beside him.
'Actually I was glad of the excuse to come down here. I worked
here one summer, about thirty years ago.'
Willow turned to look at him. 'Thirty years? You can see a
difference then, I hope.' They went across to the small wooden
hen house, where Willow picked up a carton the size of a
shoebox, lined with straw. While Mariner watched from the
doorway he walked around the coop retrieving a dozen eggs,
placing each gently in the box.
'You could say that,' Mariner agreed. 'But it's good to see
that it's still a working farm.' Mariner nodded towards the
humming barn.
Willow shrugged. 'We do all right. We grow and sell organic
produce.'
'You must have to work hard to make that successful,'
Mariner said. 'I can't imagine the climate to be that conducive
out here.'
Willow smiled. 'It's not the Vale of Evesham, that's for sure.
But my background is chemistry. I had an idea a while back
for a kind of fertilizer that could help maximize, or even raise,
the temperature of the soil. I've been experimenting and we're
still in the early stages, but we are starting to see some success
with it.'
'That sounds rather modest. I heard it's been doing well.'
'In some respects, but we haven't perfected the formula
enough to get entirely consistent results yet. We're still trying
to work out what are the most successful products and the
optimum conditions. It doesn't work for everything.'
Closing the egg box, Willow walked Mariner out of the
hen house and across to one of the giant pig bins, where he
lifted the lid. Mariner reeled back as the stench of rotten
vegetation rose up to hit them. When he took a breath and
peered inside he saw a sweating tangle of stunted and twisted
brown roots.
'Parsnips,' Willow said. 'At least that's what they were
meant to have been; back to the drawing board with those.'
'All the same,' Mariner said, trying not to inhale. 'This
product you're developing must have huge potential. You're
surely attracting some big investors.'
Willow gave a wry smile. 'Potentially I guess there will be
people who'll be interested in it eventually, but at the moment
we're still making too many mistakes for them to make any
kind of firm commitment.' Willow smiled. 'Besides, I'm not
really a fan of big business.'
'Your motives are more altruistic,' Mariner guessed.
'If you want to put it that way.'
'Well, whatever your intentions, I wish you luck with it.'
Mariner took the box of eggs from him and carefully stowed
them at the bottom of his day sack. 'Thanks. How much do
I owe you?'
Willow shook his head. 'Tell Elena we'll settle up next time
I see her.'
But Mariner had already retrieved a handful of loose change
from his pocket. 'I need to pay my way,' he said.
'Call it one-fifty then.'
As Mariner passed the coins to the reluctant Willow, a couple
of them slipped from his grasp and went clattering to the
ground. As he bent to retrieve a twenty-pence piece something
else caught his eye, a few inches away, trampled into the
ground. He smiled to himself; why did that come as no
surprise? Straightening he passed Willow the money.
As he left the yard, turning to close the gate behind him,
Mariner saw looking back that Willow was standing watching
him go, and had been joined now by a young woman. Slight and
frail with a cascade of gold-blonde hair framing her solemn pale
face, she looked as if she'd just stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite
painting and reminded Mariner of a fragile china doll his grandmother
used to have sitting on the mantelpiece. She came to stand
beside Willow, who slipped a protective arm around her, reminding
Mariner of what Elena had said about his waifs and strays.

That was the convenient thing about hillsides, McGinley
thought to himself, lowering his binoculars. They provided
excellent vantage points. And wooded hillsides were even more
advantageous as they came with the benefits of cover that
protected the hunter from the worst of the elements and enabled
him to stalk his prey without being seen. He'd finally got here
after a gruelling two days of heavy climbing and descents.
Sometimes the pain in his abdomen was so bad he thought he
wouldn't make it and in the last stages he'd had to stop at
intervals to vomit, but it was remarkable what reserves the
human body could find. And just when he'd thought it was
going to be all too much, he'd stumbled across a completely
uninhabited cottage; a holiday home he guessed, locked up
for the winter but with some pretty crap security. It did however
have running water and a comfortable bed. There was even a
supply of tinned and packet food in the cupboard and after
heating up two cans of beans, he'd caught up on a few hours
sleep in the dry and relative warmth and had felt revitalized.
A collection of assorted waterproof clothing in the porch meant
that he was also able to upgrade his jacket to one that actually
kept out the rain. Poor old Goldilocks was going to get a shock
when she turned up for her summer holiday. Now he was back
to sleeping rough, but his target was in sight.
He'd brought with him the radio from the caravan and when
he could, he took the opportunity to catch up on where he
featured on the news cycle. They had made up their minds
now that it was him, and were linking him to Lindsey. They must also have found 
the car. The news reader, quoting a
'police source', described him as 'recently released from prison
where he had been serving a ten-year sentence for aggravated
assault, and thought to be heading for the Irish Republic.
Police have warned the public not to approach as he is believed
to be armed and dangerous'
McGinley couldn't decide which bit of that last sentence he
liked the best: 'armed and dangerous' or 'heading for the Irish
Republic'. They had fallen for his ruse. His delight was only
cut short by a sudden crippling wave of pain. Now he lifted the binoculars to 
observe once more. His target was in sight
and going about his business. The first couple of times he'd
been lucky; he'd remained cool and detached, which meant
that things went smoothly, but this time it was going to be
more of a challenge because he'd be confronting the man who
had wreaked the most damage on his life. This was the man
who made Glenn McGinley angry, and what fuelled his rage
most was the certain knowledge that this individual was oblivious
to, and had remained unaccountable for, the havoc and
suffering he had caused. Until now he'd managed just about
to keep his feelings in check, but now, feeling the powerful
surge of hatred, he realized that this time he would be at the
mercy of his emotions. He couldn't decide if it really mattered.
So what if it did turn out to be a disaster? He had nothing to
lose any more; it would be like walking into the hail of bullets.



FIFTEEN



What with the activity of the previous night and the
effects of his cold, Tony Knox didn't surface until
late on Saturday morning. Immediately he phoned
Jean. 'Any news?' he asked. From where he was standing in his
lounge he could see the marked police car parked outside her
house.
'I've been in touch with the hospital but there's no change.
Those poor parents, I can't imagine how they're feeling.' There
was a catch in her voice.
'I hope you're not blaming yourself,' Knox said, though he
knew that she would be.
'I was responsible,' Jean pointed out. 'Their daughter was
in my care.'
'Strictly speaking she wasn't. You didn't have to be there.
It's the kind of thing that could have happened anywhere.' He
was just trying to make her feel better, but knew it would be
unlikely to have any effect.
'If you say so.' He could hear from her voice that she wasn't
convinced.
'I do,' Knox insisted. 'You didn't offer Kirsty the pill, and
you didn't force her to swallow it. The only person at fault
here is the little bastard who gave it to her.'
'The police are going round interviewing all the kids,' Jean
said. 'They're here right now talking to Michael.'
T can see,' said Knox, watching from the window. 'Have
any of his mates identified anyone they didn't know at the
party, an older kid perhaps?'
T don't think so.'
'Okay. I'll come and see you later,' Knox said.
'Thanks, I'd like that.'
'Can you tell the officers with you to call in on me before
they leave?'
'Yes of course.'
Knox was in the middle of his breakfast when two uniforms
rang the doorbell; officers he knew by sight from Granville
Lane, though he'd never had direct dealings with them. He
took them through to the kitchen and got out his notebook.
As soon as he'd returned home in the early hours Knox had
made detailed notes about his involvement in the events of
that night and now, as a key witness, he talked the officers
through what he'd recorded. 'Who's SIO for this?' he asked.
'DS Glover.'
Knox was glad to hear it. Charlie Glover would do a thorough
job. When the uniforms had gone, he immediately put
through a call to him.
'Jesus,' said Glover. T knew that address rang a bell. Is
there anything else you can tell me?'
'Only what I've just given to the two plods who were jusl
here, and it's not much. How's it going?'
'Slowly,' said Glover. 'Can't get anything out of the kids
we've talked to so far. They either genuinely don't know
anything or there's some kind of conspiracy of silence goinji
on.'
'They may not know,' Knox said. 'Thanks to Twitter and
Facebook, dealers can just show up at gatherings they hear
about, blend in for a while and then disappear. I'll keep an
eye on how things are across the road,' Knox said. 'Let me
know if there's anything else I can do.'
Ending the call Knox went through and picked up hi
overcoat from the peg in the hall. 'Come on,' he said to Nelson
who was hovering expectantly. 'Let's go get some exercise
and clear our heads, and fulfil our other duties.'

Mariner had planned his route to Devil's Mouth, over the
mountain and along the next gorge, but it was early, and there
was somewhere else he wanted to visit before he went to the
waterfall, so he struck out instead around the side of the
mountain. After about ten minutes he came to it; an unexpected
dip in the landscape that led into a small tree-lined dell, sprinkled
with boulders. It looked different now of course. The
gorse had grown denser, leaving barely any exposed grass, but it was 
unmistakably where he and Elena used to bring a rug,
usually on the long summer evenings, to get some privacy away from the hostel. 
A number of birch trees remained dotted
around, though the landscape had changed, and Mariner spent
some time scrambling from one to the other inspecting the bark. He was about to 
give up when finally he spotted what
he was looking for, almost obscured by the frills of pale green
lichen that coated the bark: TM and EH over a crudely carved
heart. Life didn't come more cliched than that. She'd disapproved
when he'd taken out his pen knife, afraid that the tree
Wight be mortally damaged. Mariner looked up into the
iches of the solid tree. 'Didn't do you any harm though,
d it?' he murmured to himself. He felt a ridiculous sense of lief at finding 
the initials still intact; a kind of portent he
uld have supposed if he believed in that kind of thing. He
dn't have to think too hard about what Tony Knox's
servations would be if he could see Mariner standing there
nning like an idiot. Confirmation that the boss was losing »after all. Kicking 
away the clods of sheep shit, Mariner
red a patch so that he could sit with his back against the for a few minutes. 
After a drink and a breather, Mariner resumed his ascent of
mountain. The path rose almost vertically ahead of him and
tackled it slowly, his breathing laboured and a sign of how
"t he really was. Cresting the hill and into the next valley,
ner picked up the footpath that ran along the sides of the
e towards the gushing spout known as the Devil's Mouth.
Elena was right about the changes. The route was peppered
with directional signs, stating the obvious, and any number of
warnings about the steep drops and treachery of wet rocks, just
in case anyone was too stupid to work either of those things
out for themselves. Mariner was soon caught up in a steady
stream of tourists who were walking from the main car park,
but even so, he hadn't expected to have to buy a ticket at the
booth that had been set up before the last half-mile or so. From
this point the path followed along a narrow shelf high above
the river and was quite tricky in places, where erosion by the
weather had taken its toll. What began as a background murmur
increased to a roar, as the path opened out beside the rushing
waterfall. After all the recent rain, it was in full spate, rushing
and tumbling over the rocks and plunging down into the deep
pool, forty feet below. Mariner stood for a while feeling the fine
mist on his face and watching as, now and again, the sun broke
through the clouds to create rainbow arcs from the spray. Beyond
the falls, many of the tourists were heading for the entrance to
the limestone caves. Much was being made of the fact that
potholers were very close to connecting a huge network of caves
to the east of Devil's Mouth with an equally extensive network
to the west of Caranwy, which would make it one of the largest
underground routes in Europe and add a whole new attraction
to the area. Mariner studied one of the new information boards
that had appeared to explain the development in more detail.
The diagram provided looked like a cross-section of the inner
ear. The last passageway joining the two systems was a two
mile long and impossibly narrow tunnel that had to be painstakingly
cleared, boulder by boulder. Apparently by lighting incense
sticks at each end, the cavers could tell that there were only at
most a few metres to go. Members of the public were being
invited to go into the cave at this end to view progress and
today there were a handful of people queuing up to don hard
hats and do just that. As the attraction was still new, there was
a young man, a student Mariner guessed, trying to encourage people to go in.
'Would you like to explore the caves?' he asked Mariner.
'Not today,' said Mariner, inwardly shuddering. He could
think of little worse than being enclosed by tons of solid rock;
the mere thought of it made him break out in a sweat.
Disconcerted too, at suddenly being among so many people
again while he was walking, Mariner didn't linger at the falls
for long, preferring to get back on to the quieter footpaths. He
made his way back around the mountain and as he began the
descent towards the pastureland of Caranwy, the cloud began
to thicken again, the breeze strengthened and he heard the first
rumble of thunder. By the time Mariner climbed the wall and
into the woods the rain was pelting down and the storm was
moving directly overhead, the thunder booming periodically.
Nearing the village and through the trees Mariner saw the wind
billowing the sides of Willow's poly tunnels, and wondered if
it had been a profitable day at market. It occurred to Mariner
that the farm must really be thriving if it generated enough
produce to sell locally and to distribute more widely. He was
pondering the logistics of this, and trying to calculate tonnage and turnover, 
when a howl, like a human cry of anguish, ripped
through the air and made his scalp crawl.
Mariner stopped walking and stood stock still, straining his
ears for the slightest sound. He could hear nothing now, except
the rain pattering on the leaves and the last clap of thunder
dying slowly away. Maybe he'd been mistaken, or had imagined
it. Somewhere up in the trees a crow cawed and Mariner
shook his head with relief. He ploughed on through the dense
undergrowth, the footpath eventually opening out again close
to the wall, and he had just started to make good progress
along it when out of nowhere Mariner caught a brief flash of
fluorescent green before something hurtled into him, sending
him flying sideways into the scrub, to land on a bed of brambles
and nettles. Scrambling to his feet Mariner lunged for
his assailant, before he or she could escape, and received a
heavy clout to the side of the head in return. Despite Mariner's
efforts to restrain him, the figure kicked and fought like an
animal, though Mariner had an impression of a man, small
and wiry, dressed in black lycra and a high-visibility waterproof
jacket.
'Get the fuck off me!' he was shouting. 'I didn't see
anything, I'll swear to it. Let me go!' But Mariner was bigger
and more experienced at this kind of tussle and after sustaining
several further blows, he had the man pinned to the ground,
face down, with his arms high behind his back, both of them
gasping for breath. 'Please,' the man said, pleading now. 'I
can forget what I saw. I swear I won't tell a soul. I didn't see
your face and I'll walk away without turning round . . .'
'Relax,' Mariner said, gulping in air. 'I'm not going to hurt
you. I don't know who you think I am but my name is Tom
Mariner. I'm a police officer. I'm staying in Caranwy and I'm
walking back there after a day out. That's all. What's your
name?'
He tried in vain to wriggle out from Mariner's grasp. 'Why
the fuck should I tell you that?'
He had a touch of the Irish brogue, Mariner noticed. 'All
right, that doesn't matter. Just tell me what it is you're running
from.'
At that the man seemed to suddenly accept defeat and his
resistance crumbled. 'My name is Hennessey,' he wheezed.
'Joe Hennessey.'
'Right, Joe, I'm going to let you get up,' Mariner said. 'Then I want you to 
tell me exactly what's going on. Understood?'
Hennessey nodded. 'Deal,' he said.
Bit by bit Mariner released his hold and Hennessey got to
his feet, stretching out an arm to lean on a nearby tree trunk
for support, but keeping a distance between them. In roughly
his early thirties, he was slim and pale with mouse-brown hair
that was either fashionably, or as a result of the rain and wrestling, untidily 
mussed. He was wearing what Mariner
could identify now as running gear, complete with trainers,
the twin earpieces of an mp3 player dangling around his neck.
It was now that Mariner also saw the mud and the blood on
Hennessey's high-vis jacket. 'So?' he asked.
Hennessey drew a breath. 'There's a man, back there. He's
been . . . he's dead ... oh, Christ. I was just out running and,
fuck it, I slipped and fell down the bank and landed on top
of him, on the ground. Someone's killed him. I thought you
must be . .'
'Show me,' said Mariner.
Hennessey's eyes cast wildly about. 'Ah fuck it; can't we
just go get someone?'
'We will, but first I want you to show me.' Mariner put a
hand on Hennessey's shoulder. 'Take some deep breaths. I told
you; I'm a police officer, although I can't exactly prove it right
now. All I'm asking is that you take me to where he is.'
Finally Hennessey seemed to pull himself together. 'Sure,
okay, okay. It's back this way.'
He led Mariner back along the footpath towards the rickety
bridge. After they'd been walking for about three minutes they
came to the edge of a small gully, the river running along at
the bottom, and Hennessey slowed his pace. Then he stopped
at a place where the side of the footpath had broken away,
and there were deep gouges in the mud that disappeared over
the edge of the steep embankment. 'Down there,' Hennessey
said in a hoarse whisper, looking anywhere but down.
'All right Joe,' Mariner said, firmly. 'I'm going to take a
quick look and then we're going to report it. But you must
wait. You're an important witness so I need you to stay with
me.' Hoping that Hennessey wasn't about to scarper, Mariner
scrambled down the embankment and a wave of nausea swept
over him. He'd witnessed unnatural death in many different
forms but could never get used to the initial shock. A man,
or more accurately the remains of one, was lying on the
ground face up, his chest a mass of blood and raw flesh where
he had been repeatedly hacked in what looked like a frenzied
knife attack. His face, what was left of it, and clothing were
covered in mud, intermingled with the blood, as if he'd been
rolled in it. A split-second image of Anna, lying covered in
blood on the roadside, careered into Mariner's head and he
rapidly deflected it.
Bracing himself, he knelt by the body and checked the pulse
points knowing that it was futile. The skin was cool to the
touch and he could feel the beginnings of the onset of rigor
mortis. He also went through the pockets checking for any
identification, but there was nothing. Remaining where he was,
to avoid the risk of disturbing forensic evidence, Mariner cast
a look around the immediate area but could, on the face of it,
see no sign of a murder weapon, though he could determine
what appeared to be blood smears on the foliage to his right
and there were some signs that a half-hearted attempt had
been made to conceal the body with leaves and brush. Careful
to retrace his exact steps, Mariner clambered back up the bank.
The top was greasy and steep and he was grateful when
Hennessey reached out a hand to help him up the last couple
of feet. He noticed again the blood on Hennessey's clothes.
'He really is . . .?' Hennessey said, reluctant to say the word
again.
Mariner just nodded his head. He'd already taken his phone
out, but it was useless. 'Christ, there's no signal,' he said to
Hennessey. 'Where's the nearest place you can get one around
here?'
T don't know,' Hennessey said defensively. 'I'm just staying
at the pub for a couple of days. I mean, I've tried, but it's
never consistent, one day to the next.'
'There must be somewhere.'
Mariner cast around him; in the confusion he'd completely
lost his bearings, and the trees here were so thick that they
blocked any sight of landmarks. His dilemma was to raise the
alarm and to preserve the scene, but he didn't want to lose
sight of Hennessey.
'We're nearer to the Hall,' Hennessey said, eventually seeing
his uncertainty. 'The edge of the estate is just a couple of
hundred yards up that way.' He pointed up to the left.
Mariner considered. Gwennol would at least have the advantage
of land lines, and would provide a useful reference point
for the police when they came. 'Shit,' he said, thinking aloud,
'it might be nearer, but there's all that bloody barbed wire to
negotiate.'
Hennessey swallowed. There is a way through that,' he
said. 'But if anyone finds out . . .'
Mariner glared. 'A man's been killed,' he reminded him.
'We're not pissing about here. Show me.'
'I don't know.' Hennessey was suddenly uncertain. 'It might
look as if . . .'
'Never mind that,' said Mariner impatiently. 'We're losing
valuable time. Now move.' Mariner gestured towards the path,
making sure that Hennessey went ahead of him. From the state
of the man he was pretty certain that he was telling the truth
about his discovery of the body, but one could never be sure.
Again they had to battle their way through the deep brambles,
emerging at the end of the path alongside the tantalizingly
close estate park, the tarmac road clearly visible a few yards
ahead of them, in parallel with the thick swathe of barbed-wire
fencing. 'Christ,' Mariner murmured under his breath. 'What
is it about people round here?'
'Come up this way,' Hennessey said, and leading Mariner
about ten metres along the fence, he crouched suddenly and
after manipulating it for a few seconds, he pulled open a panel
large enough to crawl through, where the wire had been cut.
Mariner gave him a sideways look. 'I can see why you'd
want to keep this a secret,' he said.
'I'm not doing any harm,' Hennessey grumbled. 'I take
photographs. There's some unbelievable wildlife here, especially
around dawn, and with the trees in the background you
can get some great shots across the parkland and through the
mist. Sometimes even the odd stray deer. It doesn't hurt
anyone.'
Mariner hesitated before crawling through. 'What about the
dogs?'
'They're only part time,' Hennessey said. 'They work
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.' He had done his
homework.
They scrambled under the wire, picking up the darkened
line of the footpath across the grass, then following it until it
emerged part way along the tarmacked drive of the manor,
from where they could see the solid grey Palladian building
towering up ahead. Mariner led the way up to the main
entrance.
'I'm not sure that they'll like me being here,' Hennessey
said, hanging back.
T can't imagine they'll be overjoyed to see either of us,
particularly the state we're in,' Mariner said brusquely. 'But
there are more important things to consider, so get over it.'
Broad, shallow steps ascended between twin statues and up
to the huge double doors. Mariner took them two at a time and
pressed on the bell. They waited and waited some more. Mariner
had little idea of how such grand houses were run, and had the
sudden thought that they might have made a serious mistake
in coming here first. There may not even be anyone at home.
The storm itself had passed, but all the time that the rain was
coming down the crime scene was being compromised, not to
mention any wildlife that might be interested.
'Have you seen the helicopter this afternoon?' he asked
Hennessey.
The Irishman shook his head. 'Can't say that I have,' he
said. He'd gone deathly white and his teeth were starting to
chatter, the enormity of the last hour starting to have its impact
on him. Delayed shock was setting in and he looked close to
passing out.
Cursing inwardly, Mariner was just trying to calculate how
far they were from the village itself, when the heavy oak door
swung open. The woman who stood behind it was dwarfed
by the oversized doorway. She was petite to the point of
childlike, with black hair tucked back behind her ears, and
olive-skinned oriental features. She wore a businesslike white
blouse and dark skirt, making Mariner think housekeeper. As
she took in the walking and running gear, the mud and the
blood, Mariner watched the half-formed smile falter. 'Can I
help you?' she asked.
Mariner had expected some kind of exotic Eastern European
accent, but if those were her origins she'd worked hard to
disguise the fact. 'I'm Detective Inspector Mariner,' he said,
feeing oddly ineffective without the armour of his warrant
card. T need to use your phone to call the local police. A
serious incident has occurred in the woodland bordering this
property to which we are both unfortunate witnesses. We need
to get the police here as soon as possible, and this man needs
to go somewhere warm and get a hot drink inside him.' He
became suddenly aware of Hennessey swaying on his feet and
put out an arm to steady him.
Whether due to the unexpectedness, the uncompromising tone
of Mariner's voice, or simply common sense, the woman set
aside any objections she might have been considering and
opened the door to let them inside. They walked into a cavernous
reception hall with wide staircases sweeping up from each side,
and handsome portraits looking down from the walls.
'Christ,' Mariner heard Hennessey breathe beside him.
'You can use the phone in here,' the woman said, taking
them into a room to the right which appeared to be some kind
of study, traditionally and somehow appropriately furnished in the style of 
Agatha Christie, complete with leather Chesterfields
and dark mahogany furniture, the walls lined with bookshelves.
A huge walnut desk was incongruously topped with a state-of
the-art computer, printer and phone.
'Thank you,' said Mariner. 'We could use some blankets,
and if you could organize some hot drinks please?' he ordered,
nodding towards Hennessey, who had slumped on to one of
the sofas. He picked up the receiver. Clearly reluctant to leave
them, the housekeeper nonetheless did as Mariner had asked
and, as he punched in three nines, he heard her speaking
urgently to someone just outside the door. In seconds the
dispatch centre cut in and Mariner described what they had
found and the location, keeping his voice low to minimize any
alarm. As he was doing so the housekeeper reappeared
moments later with an armful of fleecy rugs, which she took
over to Hennessey. Ending the call, Mariner nodded his thanks.
'The police will be in here in whatever time it takes them to
get from where they're coming.'
She hovered uncertainly, wringing her hands, clearly uncomfortable
with these developments. 'We ought to let Mr
Shapasnikov know what is happening,' she said. 'I'm not sure
how he'd feel about the police coming here . . . it's not really
my place to give permission . . .'
'It's not a question of permission.' Mariner was pragmatic.
'This has happened adjacent to his property.' He could see her
trying to work out exactly what was going on, but didn't want
to give away more until the police had the full story.
'Yes, but all the same, he should be contacted.' With an
apologetic nod, she left the room. As she did so, another
younger woman appeared carrying a tray of hot tea and biscuits
that she placed on a table in front of Hennessey. 'Thank you,'
said Mariner. Loading sugar into the mugs, he passed one to
Hennessey before taking the other himself. Then, unable to
sit still, he got up and paced the room, noting from the photographs
that covered any blank areas of wall, that Mr Shapasnikov
was a man with wide and influential contacts.
SIXTEEN



Hunched over the stream, Glenn McGinley was retching
his guts up in ugly rasps, and watching the water that
flowed away from him turn a pale reddish green. His
throat burned and his ribs and stomach ached, but it didn't
matter; the job was done. He had 'closure' as they say. Again
the surprise element had worked in his favour, but if he was
honest he would have to admit that on this occasion his temper
had got the better of him and rather spoiled the experience. It
vvas messy. All the years of misdirected anger and resentment
had come bubbling to the surface and this time he had lost
control. But he didn't care. The outcome was the same, and
every bit as satisfying as his previous efforts, giving him a
sense of achievement he'd rarely felt before. In different
circumstances he could imagine this kind of buzz developing
into an addiction of kinds.
And now he had fulfilled his obligation. 'I did it for you!'
he bellowed at the sky.

Tom Mariner's house was a former lock keeper's cottage on
the edge of the Grand Union Canal, between the back of a
small cul-de-sac and the wide, green expanse of the public
Kingsmead Park. Despite being in the city suburbs, its position
was relatively isolated behind the cover of trees, and although
secured as well as any policeman's house was likely to be, it
was always vulnerable on the rare occasions when Mariner
was away for extended periods. Knox drove to the far side of
the park and he and Nelson did almost a full circuit of the
playing fields, before branching off down the narrow footpath
to the canal. When Knox's marriage had broken up a few years
earlier, leaving him temporarily homeless, he had lodged with
Mariner for a while and had appreciated the seclusion as much
as he knew the boss did. But being so remote also had its
disadvantages. This morning everything about the property
outwardly looked fine. To make sure, Knox opened the gate
and went into the garden to look in at the window, and that
was when his day took a downturn.
Where Mariner's TV usually stood there was a conspicuous
space. Knox wasn't aware that Mariner had ditched his TV;
in fact only a few days ago they'd been discussing the European
Cup game they'd both watched the night before. Taking out
the key he'd retained since his stay there, Knox let himself
into the house and Nelson skittered in behind him. A first
glance around told him that the stereo was missing too, and
after a tour of the other rooms he'd added a computer, microwave
and a couple of radios to the list. He considered checking
the cellar to see if Mariner had just been security conscious
enough to lock all the valuable stuff away out of sight, but
when he got to the kitchen and found the mess of beer bottles,
spilled beer and opened food packets, he knew that the boss
hadn't left things like this. The curiosity was that, though he
checked thoroughly, Knox could find no indication anywhere
of a forced entry. The sturdy locks and window fastenings
were all intact, meaning that this was the work of someone
with a key. The only other obvious candidate, besides Knox
himself, was Katarina, and while it was not impossible to think
that she might have borrowed the appliances, it didn't explain
the mess in the kitchen. She would never have been as inconsiderate
as to leave it like that. Knox spent a fruitless few
minutes hunting around for her contact details, but found
nothing and had to conclude that they were stored on Mariner's
missing computer. Reluctantly he called Mariner's mobile. It
went straight to voicemail, so he left a message.

Mariner had just stood up to get himself another hot drink
when he saw, through the window, that the local police were
drawing up quietly outside. It was encouraging that they
weren't gung ho enough to feel the need to herald their arrival
amid the blare of sirens and squealing brakes. Hearing the
subsequent activity and voices beyond the door, he went out
into the vestibule to meet them. The plain-clothes officer
leading the pack was not tall but was solid, with a shaved
head and a thick neck that didn't sit comfortably in his
pristine-white shirt collar. His scrubbed complexion was high,
with a network of broken veins on his upper cheeks.
'Mister Mariner?' he asked briskly, taking a foil pack from
his pocket and popping a tablet Mariner recognized as nicotine
gum into his mouth. 'I'm DCI Bullman and these are my
colleagues DI Ryan Griffith and DC Debra Fielding.'
'Tom,' said Mariner and the two men shook hands.
Griffith was blond and good looking in a rough-hewn sort
of way. The woman standing a little behind him came up to
his shoulder and was slim, with dark hair pulled back in a
severe pony tail. 'Actually I'm a DI,' Mariner added, carefully.
'With West Midlands. I haven't got my warrant card, of course
but . . .'
Bullman regarded him levelly. 'Well, I'm sure we can verify
it, should we need to,' he said. The handshake was firm but
Mariner's confession had introduced an almost undetectable
wariness into his eyes. 'What have we got?' he asked.
Mariner briefly recounted the events of the last hour or so,
describing the location of the body and how he had come
across Hennessey. At the mention of Hennessey contempt
spread across Griffith's features. 'Do you think he's involved?'
'I can't say for sure of course, but I don't think so,' Mariner
said. 'He was panicked when he ran into me. I think he thought
I might be the killer. He claims he was out running, fell down
the ravine and on to the body.'
'You believe him?'
'The footpath where he fell is badly eroded, and the body
felt cool. Rigor was starting to set in. I'd say that it happened
at least several hours ago. Also Hennessey's got some blood
on him, but the attacker must have been covered in it. I checked
the body for ID but there didn't appear to be anything.'
'Right.' Bullman turned to Fielding. 'Take a statement from
Mr Hennessey, Deb.' He nodded towards where the man sat,
dazed, on the sofa. 'And bag up his clothes. Then as long as
we keep track of where he is, after that he can go.' He turned back to Mariner. 
'And if you could take us back to the scene.
SOCO are on their way but they have to come from all over,
so I'd like to go and take a preliminary look.'
Dusk was beginning to draw down as Mariner and his police
escort set out again towards the woods armed with torches
and the wire cutters Mariner had suggested. He couldn't be
confident of finding Hennessey's way through in the dark, and
he was also hoping that he'd be able to negotiate the path back
to the body. The temperature had dropped and rain was still
coming down steadily and the last thing they needed was a
whole team of people floundering about all over the woods
lost and destroying important evidence.
'Joe Hennessey seemed a bit reticent about coming up here
to the Hall,' Mariner observed to Griffith as they crossed the
grass.
Griffith turned to Mariner as if trying to ascertain if Mariner
was winding him up. 'I don't think Mr Hennessey has done
much to make himself popular around here. He spends a lot
of time hanging around these woods, poking around with his
long lens. A couple of times he's strayed on to the property
and our lads have had to escort him off again.'
'He told me he was photographing the wildlife,' Mariner
said.
'Did he now?' said Griffith, in a tone that implied disbelief.
The cutters made short work of the barbed wire and, with
powerful torch beams lighting the way, Mariner led the group
slowly down the path and into the woods, careful that he was
precisely retracing their steps. After about five minutes he
came to the deep skid marks and started down into the gully.
Under the glare of the torches the site looked more gruesome
than ever and Mariner even wondered if animals had been at
the body since he was last here.
Bullman and Griffith seemed to pretty much agree with
Mariner's assessment of the situation, and Mariner took them
through the sequence of events again in relation to the location.
'I did a quick recce for a murder weapon,' he said. 'But
if it's been discarded here, it won't be easy to find.'
'Too dark now to conduct a search,' Bullman agreed. 'We'll
get this covered up, cordon off the woods and start a search at first light.' 
He looked up at Mariner. 'You can leave us to
it now, thank you, Tom. If you wouldn't mind going back up
to the Hall to give DC Fielding your formal statement, you
can then go. You're staying somewhere nearby?'
'Yes,' said Mariner, hoping to leave it there, but Griffith's
questioning look wanted more. 'I'm staying at the old hostel,'
he added. 'Elena Hughes' place. In fact I should let her know
where I am.'
Griffith held his gaze for a moment, his eyes gleaming in
the artificial light, clearly intrigued, but aware that now wasn't
the time for that discussion.
'Well thank you for your help, Tom,' said Bullman, breaking
the tension. 'We'll keep in touch.' He turned back to the scene.
Within the short time that Mariner had been away, the
activity back at the Hall had stepped up apace. Close to the
perimeter fence, the mud was being churned up by the tyres
of a low loader that was delivering a mobile incident unit, and
drums of heavy-duty cable to service it had arrived. Although
there were plenty of uniformed police milling about, Mariner
went back into the Hall to find that Hennessey had already
gone. Mariner stood in the reception hall and took off the now
dripping wet forensic suit. Seeing him come in, DC Fielding
looked up from where she was sitting at the desk in the study,
scribbling notes, and she came out to meet him. She brought
with her a brown paper evidence bag, and a bundle of navy
blue clothing. 'Sorry, sir, I'll need you to leave your clothes with us.' From 
the deference in her tone Mariner guessed that
they had, by now, checked up on him and established his
identity. He was glad. She handed him a police-issue tracksuit
and trainers. 'There's a cloakroom through there.' She indicated
a door towards the back of the hall.
Stripping to his underwear Mariner put on the sweatshirt
and joggers which were, in turn, too big and too small for him,
though the trainers were not a bad fit. He couldn't imagine
what he looked like, but the clothes were at least dry and began
to warm him a little. He folded his own things and placed them
in the evidence bags, sealing them carefully. Any fibres found
at the crime scene would be matched with both Mariner's and
Hennessey's clothing, for elimination purposes. Taking the bags
he went back to the study.
'Are you ready to give your statement, sir?' Fielding asked.
'Could I just call the friend I'm staying with, to let her know where I am? 
She'll be expecting me back at any time.'
'Of course. And you'll be discreet?' Fielding said tactfully.
'Don't worry, I'll keep it brief,' Mariner reassured her.
'Thank you, sir.'
Mariner could feel Elena's curiosity burning down the phone
line as he explained to her that he'd been 'detained' at Gwennol
Hall, but she accepted his vagueness nonetheless. 'I'll be able
to tell you more when I get back,' he said.
Replacing the phone, he took the seat alongside Fielding.
She reached over and pulled a map to the centre of the desk.
'Can you show me exactly where you were walking today,
sir?'
Locating the hostel, Mariner traced a finger across the field
and through the woodland and up the hillside towards the
Devil's Mouth gorge, passing close to where Hennessey had
made his gruesome discovery.
'What time did you set off this morning?' Fielding asked.
T can't say exactly, but it would have been between nine
thirty and ten. I'm fairly sure the chapel clock was just coming
up to half past when I came through the village. I walked
along the lane, leaving it at the entrance to Abbey Farm, just
here,' he indicated on the map. 'I went and bought some eggs at the farm, then 
afterwards I picked up this footpath through
the fields.'
It was way too early to have had a time of death confirmed
yet, but Mariner felt sure the murder had occurred many hours
before the discovery of the body; possibly even before he'd
set off that morning. If Fielding had any thoughts about that
she didn't allude to them.
'Did anyone see you go?' she asked.
'No. But Elena was at the hostel when we left; she can
confirm the time. I started out with Cerys, her daughter.'
Fielding's nod said that she'd already noted that. 'Did you
notice anything unusual in the village - anyone around who
you wouldn't expect to see?'
'I'm not local, so I don't really know anyone. But if you're
asking did I see Joe Hennessey at that time, the answer is no,
I didn't.'
'How about when you were going along the footpath past
the woods?'
'There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a peaceful
day; the only sound I remember hearing was birdsong.'
'And you walked to Devil's Mouth.'
'Yes, up here.' Mariner pointed again on the map.
'And you got there at what time?'
Mariner handed her the ticket he'd retrieved from his trouser
pocket. The number stamped in the top right-hand corner
indicated the time that he'd been admitted to the site.
Fielding looked at the ticket, then back up at Mariner. 'So
you didn't get there until one thirty-four. It took you a long
time to get there, but you look pretty fit.'
Despite himself, Mariner coloured slightly. For some reason
he was pleased not to be talking to Griffith. 'I didn't go straight
there. I took a longer route to extend the walk.' No need to
tell her that he was revisiting a former shag-site.
'Is there anyone who can corroborate any of your route?'
'Not until I picked up the main footpath to the falls,'
Mariner said. T passed other people walking along there, but
whether they'd remember me is a different matter. And I
suppose the guy in the ticket office might have noticed which
direction I approached from and where I went. It wasn't that
busy.'
'And can you tell me what happened when you bumped
into Joe Hennessey?'
Mariner had already been over this, twice now, with Griffith,
but Fielding was only doing her job. She and her boss would
be checking for consistency, so he painstakingly repeated it
once more.
'And what are your plans for the next few days, sir?' Fielding
asked, when he got to the end.
T hadn't really got anything specific in mind, though I was
hoping to stay on here for a couple more days and walk locally
before heading off towards the coast,' Mariner told her.
'Well we would appreciate it if you could keep us informed
of your whereabouts, should you decide to move on.'
'Of course. The people I'm staying with, they're bound to
ask questions. Once the incident is made public we're - sorry, you 're - going 
to need the help of local people . . .'
Fielding was quick on the uptake. 'I'm sure it will be fine
for you to give them the bare facts, sir, without giving away
any of the important detail, of course.' She meant anything
that might help them identify the killer.
'You can rely on my discretion,' said Mariner.
Fielding had been scribbling down all that he said, but now
she looked up and into his eyes. Hers was an intelligent face,
with big grey eyes and a smooth, young complexion. 'Thank
you, sir,' she said politely. 'That's been very helpful. I'll arrange
for someone to drive you back into the village. And if you
should think of anything else . . .' And in line with routine
procedure she gave Mariner the card with her contact details
on it.



SEVENTEEN



Crossing the lobby on his way out of the building,
Mariner caught sight of the housekeeper through the
open door of the room opposite. She was leaning over
something on the table before her, her head and shoulders
illuminated by a halo of lamplight. Knocking lightly on the
door, Mariner hovered on the threshold of what appeared to
be a dining room, with a long, highly polished table and
enough dining chairs arranged round it to seat more than
twenty people. A sideboard at the far end was loaded with
silver tureens and serving dishes. The table was not, however,
set for dinner but was covered with papers, some stacked in
neat piles and others spread randomly across its glossy surface.
The housekeeper looked up with a smile of recognition, and
in this light Mariner noticed that she had the most extraordinarily
dark brown eyes.
'I'm sorry to disturb you,' he said. 'But before I go, I just
wanted to say thanks.'
She seemed genuinely puzzled. 'For what?'
'For not making a scene when we first arrived, and for not
asking too many difficult questions. It wasn't a particularly
conventional entrance.'
Waving away his gratitude, she straightened up from her
work and came round the table to him, eyeing up his rather
eccentric clothing. 'It was obvious that something very serious
had happened,' she said. 'I can't believe it really. It's a terrible
thing. That poor man.'
Mariner wasn't sure if she meant the victim or Joe Hennessey
but acquiesced anyway. 'Did you manage to get hold of Mr
Shapasnikov?' he asked.
'One of his staff has been in touch I think. His English is
pretty good, but I thought it better that he should hear it in
his native language,' she smiled.
'Oh.'
Another smile; this time broader and with a hint of mischief
that formed a dimple in each cheek. 'You thought I was on
his staff too,' she guessed, accurately. 'No, I'm not permanent.
I just happen to be here doing some work for Mr Shapasnikov.'
'What kind of work?' Mariner was intrigued.
She indicated the table. 'The library is full of historic documents
relating to the house. Mr Shapasnikov has employed
me to archive them, and at the same time I'm putting together
a sort of rudimentary history of the place.'
'Oh, you're the historian,' Mariner realized.
She gave him a questioning look. 'You make it sound as if
I have a reputation.'
'Not at all. Someone I spoke to happened to mention that
you were working here. For some reason I imagined a middle
aged man, all side whiskers and tweed jacket.'
'Hm, I think you might be confusing me with an old
fashioned stereotype.'
'That's very likely, I'm sorry.'
But she didn't appear to have been offended, and held out
a hand for Mariner to shake. It was cool to the touch, with
long, delicate fingers, plainly manicured. 'Suzy Yin,' she
said.
'Tom Mariner,' Mariner said, in case she had forgotten.
'Yes.' She hadn't.
'It looks like a challenge,' Mariner said, taking in the extent
of the paperwork.
She lifted her eyebrows. 'You can say that again.'
One item, an old ink-drawn map, caught Mariner's eye.
'That's Plackett's Wood, isn't it?'
'Yes.' Going back over to the table, she separated it out from
the other documents. 'It's the one the river runs through, on the
edge of the estate. Amongst other things, I've been going over
all the original land registry papers for the area. They make
fascinating reading; the land round here has been carved up
frequently by different land owners over the centuries, according
to who was in and out of favour with the monarch of the time.
The Tudors were a devil for it. And though the physical boundary
encloses Plackett's Wood as part of the Abbey Farm land, I've
found some documents that would seem to indicate that the
monks who were there in the mid sixteenth century did some
kind of deal with the incumbent Earl of Wroxburgh and handed
it over to him.'
So this must be the land dispute Rex had mentioned. 'Why
would they have done that?' Mariner asked.
She shrugged. 'Could be any reason really. This was around
the time when Henry VIII was giving the monasteries a hard
time, so perhaps they gave over a bit of profitable salmon
fishing in return for being left in peace, or even protection.'
As her enthusiasm for her subject shone through, she became
more animated and, not for the first time, Mariner wished
he'd paid more attention to this stuff when he was at school,
so that he could make sense of how these communities
existed.
'But as you said, land changed hands frequently,' he reminded
her. 'Couldn't it just have reverted back at some later point?'
'It's the obvious explanation, though the evidence so far
seems to suggest that when the abbey was finally closed down
as a religious order, the man who acquired the land just grabbed
the opportunity to seize it back. Or it may just have been that
the physical boundaries at that time weren't clear and an
assumption was made. That's what I'm continuing to research,
and I think Mr Shapasnikov has hired a local firm of solicitors
to look into it too.'
'It's where the body was found,' Mariner told her.
'Oh God.' She recoiled slightly. 'I didn't know. You don't
think . . .?'
Mariner shook his head. 'It's probably just an unfortunate
coincidence. Who knows about the dispute?'
'Possible dispute,' she corrected him. 'I don't know. I haven't
told anyone about it but I can't speak for Mr Shapasnikov. As
I said, he was talking about taking on a local law firm, though
I don't know if he's done anything about it yet. I can't imagine
it would be something he'd want people to know until we're
certain about it.' She clasped her arms around her. 'It makes
me wish I hadn't found it now. Mr Shapasnikov pounced on
it, but I mean it's not as if he hasn't already got lots of land.'
'Have you mentioned anything to the police?'
She understood his implication. 'Are you suggesting that
Mr Shapasnikov would . . .? I'm sure he wouldn't go that far.
In any case he hasn't even been here in the last few days.'
Mariner didn't like to point out that a man as powerful as
Shapasnikov wouldn't need to soil his own hands. 'It probably
isn't anything to do with anything,' Mariner admitted. 'But it
would be better to let the police make that decision. They need
to have as much information as possible. You should tell DCI
Bullman or one of his team about it as soon as you get the
chance, so that they have the full picture. It's the sort of information
I'd want to have.'
She looked at him strangely, before understanding dawned.
'Of course, you're a policeman too, aren't you? Well, if you
really think I should say something, then of course, I will. It's
a horrible thing to have happened, and in such a beautiful spot
too . . .' She tailed off.
'And the member of staff,' Mariner asked. 'Did she manage
to get hold of Mr Shapasnikov?'
'I think he's on his way back here now.'
Mariner cast his eye over the table again, then back over
the neat and rather attractive form of Suzy Yin. 'Well, I'll
leave you to your work.'
'Yes, thank you, I should get on, though I'm not sure I'll
be able to concentrate very well after this. It somehow makes
it all seem quite frivolous.'
'It might be more important than ever,' Mariner said.
EIGHTEEN



The area car driven by a police constable dropped Mariner
off just outside Caranwy hostel, by which time the rain
had finally stopped, but the wind was gusty and strong.
Passing by the White Hart, Mariner had caught the faint whiff
of cooking food and suddenly realized how ravenous he was.
The number of cars in the tiny car park indicated a brisk trade,
and Mariner thought he might add his contribution tonight
after he'd got cleaned up. Thanking the constable, he got out
of the car and walked up the slight incline, his footfall echoing
around the deserted yard, and knocked on the door of Elena's
cottage. He found Rex in the kitchen, coffee and something
clear and brown in a tumbler in front of him. 'I thought I
should just let you know that I'm back,' Mariner said.
'Come in, man.' Rex was instantly on his feet. 'Elena's
upstairs trying to persuade Cerys to go to bed. She'll be down
in a minute. Have you eaten? You must be starving.'
'Thanks,' said Mariner. He shook his head. 'I'm fine. I'll
get changed and go back to the pub. It looks pretty lively
down there tonight.'
'I'll bet it is. Word is out already that the police are up at
the hall. Everyone's speculating about what's going on. I'd
have thought the last place you'd want to be is down there;
particularly if they find out that you're involved. They won't
leave you alone.'
He was right and Mariner knew it.
'We've got a bit of chilli left over. Why don't you go and
clean up and I'll get it heated up for you.'
'You really don't have to . . .'
'Ah, come on, man, it's what friends do, isn't it? Besides,
I have to admit, we're pretty curious to know what's going on
too.' He was honest; Mariner had to give him that.
Mariner went across to the hostel, had a hot shower and changed
into his remaining clean clothes, realizing that he was going to
have to find a launderette before long, or talk very nicely to Elena.
By the time he returned, she too was in the kitchen and as he
pulled out a chair, she put a piping-hot plate of chilli and rice in
front of him. Both she and Rex had the courtesy to let him eat,
before bombarding him with questions.
Mariner kept his account of what had happened short.
Returning through the woods Joe Hennessey had run into him
(literally) having found the body of a man who had almost
certainly died of unnatural causes. No, Mariner didn't know
who it was, and in any case couldn't disclose it ahead of the
police making it public.
'Oh God,' was Elena's response.
'Unbelievable,' said Rex, looking bewildered.
'What about Hennessey?' Elena asked suddenly. 'Why was
he hanging about in the woods?'
'He's a photographer,' Rex said. 'He was probably photographing
the wildlife.'
'The sort of weather we've had today?'
'He was out running,' Mariner said. 'He was wearing all
the right gear and he'd got an mp3 player plugged into his
ears. You know him?' he asked Rex.
'He was propping up the bar of the Hart at the weekend,'
said Rex. 'We just got chatting, like you do. He's particularly
interested in the peregrine falcons that have been seen over
Gwyn Myndd. At least, that's what he said.'
'As long as he's not after the eggs,' said Elena. 'We've had
enough trouble with that in the past.'
'I don't think so,' Rex said. 'He seemed to have all the right
equipment. Looked as if that's what our Megan thought too.
She was mooning all over him.'
'Our Megan moons over anything in trousers,' said Elena.
'Ron and Josie's daughter,' she added, for Mariner's benefit.
'She serves behind the bar.'
'She's a mousey little thing though,' said Rex. 'I should
think Hennessey's a bit out of her league.'
Elena shuddered. 'I'm still trying to work out how something
so brutal can happen out here for no reason.'
'Oh, there'll be a reason,' Mariner said. 'There always is.
It's just that we can't yet see it.'
Rex reached out and put a comforting hand over Elena's.
'Sorry, love, but I'm going to have to get going,' he said, getting
to his feet. He glanced apologetically at Mariner. 'I help coach
the under-16s rugby squad. We've got an important match
tomorrow up at Harlech, so an early start.' He and Elena went
to the door. 'You'll be all right here tonight?' Mariner heard
him ask.
'We'll be fine,' Elena replied, 'especially with Tom just
across the yard.' By the time she returned to the table Mariner
had finished eating. 'That was delicious, thank you.'
Taking his plate, Elena flashed a wry smile.
'What?'
'You must have thought you'd come out here to get away
from this kind of excitement.'
It had crossed Mariner's mind too. 'DI Griffith wanted to
know where I'm staying, of course,' he said. 'I could have
made something up but it wouldn't have been very sensible,
so I'm afraid I told him. I hope that's not going to make things
awkward for you.'
Elena shrugged, as if it wasn't important.
'So what's the story with you and DI Griffith?' Mariner
asked, carefully.
'What makes you think there is one?'
'Oh, I don't know - copper's intuition?'
She gave a weary sigh. 'We went out for a few months;
about eight years ago, before I met Rex.'
'Who ended it?'
'I did. I couldn't take any more. He could be very intense.
In bed, he was ferocious, brutal even.'
Mariner balked. 'He abused you?'
'No, nothing like that. It was just . . . There was a lot of
anger inside him, and that seemed to be where it all poured
out. At first I found it exciting, exhilarating, but then I realized
it was the only way he could operate. He used to have nightmares
too, about the things he'd seen in Bosnia.'
'He was out there?'
'Yes, he's ex-SAS.'
Somehow Mariner wasn't that surprised. It helped explain
why Griffith had taken in the murder scene so serenely. 'If it
will help, I can move out,' Mariner said. 'I might attract a bit
of attention over the next few days.'
'No, it's fine,' Elena said straight away. 'Besides, until they
find out who did this it will be quite nice to have the security
of a man around all the time.'
'I don't think you need worry. The police will be all over
everything for a while.'
'Including the farm, I suppose, given how near it is. Willow
won't be very happy about all that,' said Elena. 'It'll be like
the last time.'
'This has happened before?'
'Oh, not a killing, of course, but the police interest. When
Willow first moved out here, before we really knew what he
was up to, he was enlisting volunteers to help him. It led to
ridiculous rumours that he was starting up some kind of
religious cult, and that young people were being recruited
via the Internet.'
'Not true?'
Elena laughed. 'No, not even a bit. I think it was much
more pragmatic; he couldn't afford the labour so he advertised
for young people to come and work there, like a kind of gap
year experience. The raid happened years ago and there was
no evidence of anyone being held there against their will, or
being indoctrinated in any way, so the furore soon died down
again. But at the time it was tough on Willow; there were even calls to close 
him down.'
'On what grounds?'
'On the grounds that he was different and people didn't
understand him. Then once the business side of it started to
become clear and people could make sense of what he was
trying to do, and especially when it began to look as if he
might make a go of it, people became more accepting.'
Mariner wondered how accepting they'd continue to be if
his own suspicions about Abbey Farm were confirmed.
Although it was close to midnight when Mariner retraced
his steps across the yard, his mind was still buzzing and he
felt fully awake; a phenomenon that often occurred when
he was involved in a case. Even though this one wasn't his,
he couldn't help mulling over what might have happened in
Plackett's Wood, and when. The identity of the victim would
be central, of course, and Mariner had no way of knowing who
it was. If he was local then already at least one credible motive
had surfaced, in the form of that potential land dispute between
Shapasnikov and Willow, but after his visit to the farm today,
there was also another possibility lurking at the back of
Mariner's mind.
The sky in the direction of the Hall was pale from the glow
of crime-scene floodlights. Knowing sleep would be a long
time coming, and interested to see exactly what was going on,
Mariner retrieved his binoculars from his rucksack and climbed
the stairs to the attic room. The area beyond the woods and
just inside the park's perimeter was as brightly illuminated as
an evening-fixture football pitch, and he could see the swollen
hulk of the incident unit to one side, though the lights were
out. He became aware of a movement in front of it and with
the naked eye he could just about make out tiny figures like
insects moving slowly around. His Dyfed colleagues going
about their business even in the dead of night, responding to
the pressure on them to get a result, even though realistically
Griffith and his team could hardly expect to pick up anything
meaningful at this hour.
As he lowered the glasses some further night-time activity
caught Mariner's attention. This wasn't around the murder
scene, but was much closer, at Abbey Farm itself. Through
the tops of the trees Mariner could just distinguish the main
farmhouse and surrounding buildings and scanning down from
that he saw a transit van parked in the yard, with its rear doors
open. Two figures were moving back and forth between the
back of the van and that shiny new barn, each staggering under
the weight of several crates stacked on top of one another,
delivering the contents of the barn to the van. One was making
heavy weather of the work, while the other moved with ease.
A third man seemed to be directing the proceedings, occasionally
lifting his arms and pointing, apparently supervising. There
wasn't enough light to make a precise identification, but from
the height and build of this person, Mariner surmised this to
be Willow. As he watched, the last of the crates were loaded
into the van and the doors were closed. A conversation ensued
between two of the men, one of whom then walked round to
the front of the van and climbed into the driver's seat.
Moments later the vehicle moved off, and through the foliage
Mariner saw the twin headlights bumping along the track and
towards the lane. It must have turned left out of the farm
entrance because, though Mariner waited and watched, it didn't
come past the hostel. Since the Internet had taken off Mariner
was well aware that many haulage and delivery companies
worked around the clock, and, behind the dense screen of
woodland, the goings-on were unlikely to disturb anyone in
the village. All the same it did seem like an unusual time to
be doing business. Given today's discovery and the proximity
of the farm to Plackett's Wood, it might have been reasonable
for Griffith to have sealed off the farm and have his officers
monitor any comings and goings. This didn't appear to have
happened, perhaps because of limited manpower, or maybe
even to avoid conflict with the locals.
The legitimate explanation for the night-time activity was
that Willow had orders to fulfil and didn't want to let down his
customers. But he must also have worked out that amongst the
tasks for Griffith and his team the next day would be a thorough
search of the area surrounding the murder scene, and that would
include the farm. Mariner couldn't help but wonder if there was
a reason why Willow particularly wanted his new shed emptied
tonight.
Mariner had been watching out for the van, but now, as he
looked back at the farm, he saw that the yard lights had gone
off, the work finished for the night. Right from the start his
curiosity had been piqued about the place. Try as he might,
he couldn't reconcile the area of land with the business it
apparently was doing, and now there was an added layer of
mystery. What Mariner was really interested in was exactly
what that new shed was being used for and whether what he
had seen on the ground yesterday provided a clue. If he was
right about that, it meant serious business, the kind of business
Willow wouldn't want Ryan Griffith to find out about, and the
kind of business that could easily get a man killed. Mariner
had been on the verge of sharing his thoughts with Griffith,
or even Fielding, this afternoon, but without anything tangible
to present them with, all he had was empty speculation, and
few coppers, himself included, would be interested in that.
The very least that he needed was, at this moment, lying on the ground in the 
farm's compound. Mariner was still fully
awake. He had a good torch. What better opportunity would
there be for sneaking down to the farm than now, while all
was quiet, to see if he could retrieve it?
Outside again, the half moon cast a blue light over everything
and Mariner's eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. Plackett's
Wood itself had been cordoned off as the crime scene, which
meant approaching the farm from across the fields, so he
walked down the lane and clambered over the gate. As he
neared the farm he could see the kind of standard security
lights illuminating the compound that most farmers had these
days. The van had long gone, but Mariner was surprised to
see two people, standing by the farmhouse door, one of them
smoking, and engaged in a murmured conversation. Mariner
found a spot and waited in the cold.
After a while the moon disappeared behind a cloud and a
light drizzle started to fall. Eventually he heard the men saying
goodnight, the door opened and slammed shut, and the yard
went quiet. Mariner waited another few minutes to be sure,
then climbed the fence and dropped into the compound.
Keeping close to the buildings he skirted round to the barn.
Using the buildings as reference points he tried to ascertain
the exact spot where he'd conducted the conversation with
Willow, positioned himself as carefully as he could, before
crouching down and sweeping his torch back and forth methodically
across the ground around him. After a while it seemed
hopeless; all he could see in the compressed earth were assorted
stones and the occasional glint of broken glass. Several times
he mistook bark chippings and other plant matter, and he was
beginning to think that the rain of the day might have washed
it away or even that he might have been mistaken, when
suddenly, on the periphery of the spotlight cast by the torch,
something registered fleetingly in his visual field. Slowly, he
tracked back the path of the beam, and there it was, flattened
into the ground, but unmistakable; a single leaf, quite distinctive
in shape. Curbing the impulse for a triumphant cry, Mariner
eased the leaf out of the compressed soil without tearing it,
and slipped it carefully into the back pocket of his jeans.
Straightening up, Mariner began to make his way slowly
back across the yard to the field, but now he was here and so
close it was impossible to resist taking a look in that new shed.
Even though he was pretty sure that its contents had just been
removed, the generator at the far end continued to hum and he
was certain he could see a faint glow from around an air vent.
Rounding the end of the building he noted the heavy padlock
on the doors. In mild frustration he gave it a tug anyway, and
was so surprised when it fell away in his hand, that he fumbled
and almost dropped it. Recovering, he placed the padlock carefully
on the ground before releasing the flap and easing open
the sliding door. Instantaneously a floodlight snapped on,
dazzling him, and seconds later he heard the bang of slamming
doors close by, followed by shouting and heavy running footfall.
Shit! He must have triggered some kind of alarm within the
farmhouse.
Behind the shed Mariner had the advantage of darkness and,
leaping back into the shadows, he crept back along the length
of the shed and round to the back where, out of sight, he could
hurl himself over the fence and, staggering back to his feet,
run down the edge of the field, trying to ignore the mud that
caked his boots and weighed him down. Arriving breathless
at the gate Mariner risked a look back, but even with the
backlight of the yard he couldn't see if anyone was following
him. Back at the hostel he stripped off his outdoor clothes, leaving them in 
the boot room, before creeping back into the
dorm and into bed. The temperature had dropped, inside as
well as outside, and it took Mariner a long time to get warmed
up, and when he woke in the early hours he had to put on his
thick walking socks to warm his feet.
NINETEEN



Day Six



Mariner was woken early the next morning by the sound
of a vehicle arriving at speed, and when he looked
out into the yard he saw a couple of uniforms going
into Elena's kitchen. He'd stay out of the way until they had
finished doing their job. Breakfast was in the hostel kitchen
and made up of his bothy leftovers, and he sat to eat it at the
old wooden table in the main dining room, a draught blowing
under the door and his breath misting in the cool air.
The kitchen was exactly as it had been back in the early
Eighties, when it was already old-fashioned, with a large stone
sink and wooden drainer, an antiquated fridge, a geyser on the
wall to heat the water, and a simple four-ring electric cooker
that everyone fought over to cook their evening meal, before
going to sit and eat at one of the two long refectory tables
with benches either side. It all smelled musty and unused, and
there were telltale mouse droppings on the floor in a corner.
The only attempts at decor were on the wall at one end: a
couple of framed black and white snapshots and a pale outline
where a crucifix had once hung.
Mariner had rarely known a Welsh Sunday when it didn't
rain, and today was holding to that tradition, with low cloud
and a light but persistent drizzle that looked set in for the day.
The hostel was too cold to stay in all day and he had no wish
to hang around getting under Elena's feet, so Mariner decided
to do a low-level walk along the valley to the next village
where he knew there used to be a decent pub. He could buy
a Sunday paper and catch up with what was happening in the
rest of the world. He also wanted to talk to Griffith, now that
he had some hard evidence to support his suspicions. Before
leaving the hostel he went across to Elena's to check that all
was well.
Elena was peeling potatoes and Mariner stood and watched
her for a second. He wondered if she and Rex had any idea
about what else might be being produced on Abbey Farm, and
if they would enjoy the relaxed relationship they seemed to have
with Willow if they found out. At that moment Elena looked up
and saw him and beckoned him into the kitchen. She looked pale
and distracted. 'Would you like some breakfast?'
'No, I'm fine, I've already eaten. I'm not going to disturb
you today.'
'Oh, we've already been disturbed,' she said. 'The police
were here.'
'Yes, I saw.'
'The man you found ... It was Theo Ashton.'
'The boy from the farm?' said Mariner.
'Well, hardly a boy any more, but much too young to die.
Apparently when one of Ryan's officers went to tell them at
the farm about what had happened in the woods, they realized
Theo hadn't been seen all day.' Elena looked up at Mariner,
her eyes gleaming. 'What's going on? Why would something
like that happen here of all places? I've just told Cerys. It's
freaked her out, of course.'
'How well did you know him?'
Elena shook her head. 'Not well at all really, but he's been
around for a while. He seemed such a nice lad, sort of shy. I
can't begin to imagine who might have done such a thing. Do
they have any idea?'
'It's hard to say. It's the very early stages and the police
will be trying to gather as much information together as they
can. If they had any thoughts about it last night, they weren't
sharing them with me. It wouldn't have been appropriate to.'
'Oh God, I keep thinking about poor Amber.' Elena saw
Mariner's quizzical look. 'She's Theo's girlfriend. And after
losing the baby too.'
'She had a baby?'
'When she and Theo first fetched up here Amber was pregnant,
about six months gone. They were both just kids, about
fifteen or so. The consensus was that they'd run away from
home because of her condition. Then just before the baby was
due Amber had a miscarriage and lost the child. I know it
was a few years ago now, but she's always been so fragile. And
now, losing Theo, this might just be enough to kill her too.'
'Just as I was leaving the farm the other day, a young woman
came over to Willow; a thin waif of a thing, with long blonde
hair.'
Elena nodded distractedly. 'She's got beautiful hair.' So that
was Amber.

After what he had witnessed during the night, Mariner's intention
was to walk first of all up to the MIU, but he had no need
to; on his way out of the village he came across DI Griffith,
lurking by the entrance to Gwennol Hall, drawing on a cigarette.
His suit was creased and the curve of his shoulders made
him look shifty. Mariner raised a hand to acknowledge him,
and was encouraged when Griffith waved him over.
'How's it going?' Mariner asked, expecting no more than
a vague reply about 'ongoing enquiries'.
Griffith shrugged. 'We've no murder weapon yet, and thanks
to the weather, bugger all useful material evidence and a time
of death that's little more than guesswork,' he said, confounding
Mariner. 'Other than that, it's goin' great.'
'One of those,' Mariner sympathized. He'd been up against
enough dead-end investigations himself.
'One of those,' Griffith agreed, taking the final drag on his
cigarette before tossing it on to the road and grinding it flat
with his shoe. 'About the only thing we're sure of now is the
victim's identity.'
'Theo Ashton,' Mariner said. 'Elena told me.'
'Did you know him?' Griffith was understandably surprised.
'No. I'd heard the name though. Elena mentioned him,
and there can't be too many Theos around here. When I went
up to the farm to get some eggs yesterday, she told me to
watch out for him. That was before we knew . . .' Suddenly
Mariner remembered the two men he'd seen, and their heated discussion. If Theo 
had been one of those then there might
be a sniff of something, however vague. 'Actually, I might
have seen him.' He recounted what he had witnessed through
his binoculars two days before. 'The man who was casually
dressed was probably about six foot, slim, fair-haired. Does
that sound like him? It was hard to tell anything from what
I saw in the woods.'
'It sounds about right,' Griffith said. 'Do you have any idea
who he was talking to?'
'No. It was another man, a little older perhaps. Strange thing
though, he looked out of place. He had a sharp haircut and
was wearing a suit and tie, like a sales rep or something, though
I couldn't see a car anywhere.'
'I'll check with Willow if they've had anyone call. You
didn't catch the gist of this conversation?'
'No, they were way too far away, and it was more the tension
between them that was evident initially; the way they were
standing. But they seemed to part on good terms. I couldn't
swear to it, but I thought something might have been handed
over too, something small, in the guise of a handshake. Do
you have any sign of a motive yet?' Mariner asked, since it
seemed he was being invited to engage.
'Nothing that specifically points to the victim,' Griffith said.
Theo Ashton appears to have been a popular lad; polite, considerate.
Most people have described him as being quite shy.'
As did Elena, Mariner remembered. 'Was he from round
here?'
'No, he's one of those that Nigel Weller - Willow - has
picked up along the way. The family's from Bristol. Nice, normal
middle-class family. A bit shocked when their only son ran
away with his girl five years ago, but tolerant enough to have
let him stay on here.'
'And the others who live there?'
'There's just Willow and Amber now.'
T wonder how they'll manage the farm between them.'
'It's made the corroboration of alibis straightforward enough
though. The time of death is estimated as early in the morning.
Amber is fully out of the picture, having got the early bus
into Llanerch, and Willow was about on the farm before going
off to the market. Talked to you, didn't he?'
'Yes, I went to buy some eggs.'
'So nothing there to worry me. Seems to be all happy
families; no quarrels, no falling out, though we'll keep probing
of course.'
'If it's not personal then, the killing could have something
to do with the business of the farm,' Mariner said, that leaf in
his pocket beginning to take on a whole new significance.
'Possibly.' Griffith dipped his head. 'I understand from a
woman working up at the hall there's some kind of potential
land dispute, so we're looking into that.'
So Suzy Yin had told him. Mariner was glad that he wouldn't
be required to break Rex's confidence. 'But what about the
farm's production?' he pressed.
'What, you mean Willow's magic formula?' Misunderstanding,
Griffith didn't appear to take the suggestion very seriously. 'I
suppose we can't rule it out, though Willow insists that Theo
didn't know enough about that side of the business to get him
into trouble.'
'If that's what the main business really is,' Mariner said.
'What do you mean?'
Mariner took the leaf out of his pocket. It had dried a little
and was squashed, but still to his eyes there was no doubting
what it was, and from the expression on Griffith's face, he
instantly recognized it too.
The DI stared. 'Where did that come from?'
'I found it on the ground in the main compound of the farm,
not far from that shiny new barn,' Mariner said.
'Shame you didn't show me this yesterday.'
'I didn't have it yesterday. I thought I'd seen it on the ground,
when I was talking to Willow, but I couldn't be a hundred per
cent certain. There was no opportunity to pick it up then, not
without arousing suspicion, so last night I went back for it.
Abbey Farm is quite a busy place in the dead of night.'
'Weller told me that he needed to get his mail order deliveries
out last night. I agreed that he could.'
'If that's really what he was doing.'
'You think there's another sideline.' Griffith looked down,
considering the leaf he was holding between finger and thumb.
A hint of defensiveness had crept into his voice. It might have
been a resistance to being told how to do his job. Mariner
would probably have felt the same way. But it had also crossed
his mind in the course of their conversation that Griffith might
have already guessed what was in that shed, and was choosing,
for whatever reason, to turn a blind eye to it. Corruption was
too strong a word, but it was not unheard of in these remote
areas for the local police to put their loyalty to the local
community above professional considerations. There was even
a chance that Griffith may be profiting from the enterprise
himself. The difference now was that someone could have
been killed for it. Mariner would need to tread very carefully.
'Having your permission to load up a transit and send it on
its way would have been a great opportunity to dispose of any
incriminating evidence,' he said.
'Christ.' Griffith scratched the back of his head. 'He told
me he would lose money if he didn't get the order out, and I
believed him. We didn't know until this morning that the victim
was directly related to the farm, so I couldn't see what harm
it would do.'
'And maybe it hasn't,' said Mariner, generously. 'But there
are some things about Abbey Farm that don't quite add up,'
he went on.
'Like what?' Griffith frowned at him.
'It's obvious that the property has had enormous amounts
of money spent on it in the last few years,' said Mariner. 'And
even with Willow's "magic formula", which he admits is still
in the development phase, I can't see how growing organic
veg is that profitable.'
'It ought to be,' remarked Griffith drily. 'Bloody stuff's
expensive enough.'
'But if you look at the acreage of those fields, and consider
that they're regularly selling in markets, and apparently also
by mail order, I can't see how it's even sustainable, let alone
as profitable as it appears to be.'
'I've always been impressed with how they keep it all going
on such a small staff,' Griffith admitted. 'There's a lot of hard
work there and Amber looks as if she'd blow away at the first
puff of wind.'
'And that new barn's a conundrum,' Mariner continued. 'If
its function is to store vegetables, why does it need that level
of insulation and a generator powered by two wind turbines?
I think whatever is stored in there has to be kept very warm.
I tried to take a look last night while I was there and triggered
an alarm system. All hell broke loose, which begs a further
question: why does a barn used for storing vegetables need to
be alarmed?'
Griffith held up the cannabis leaf. 'This would certainly
help to square that particular equation.'
'And might offer an explanation for Theo Ashton's murder,'
Mariner said.
Griffith seemed to consider for a moment. 'We've had a
preliminary look at the farm house, but the team is up there
finishing off,' Griffith said. 'Now might be a good time to go
and assess progress. Want to join me?'
Mariner was surprised; he'd expected Griffith to be more
guarded. Perhaps he'd read the man wrong after all. As they
approached the farm it looked as if the search was coming to
an end and the boiler-suited forensic scene of crime team was
starting to pack up.
'If what you say is true, let's just hope they've been careless,'
Griffith murmured to Mariner. He called out to his team
leader, a stocky man with cropped hair. 'How's it going, Steve?'
Steve wandered over. 'Nothing we could find specifically
relating to the murder. We've taken some notebooks and bits
and pieces along with a couple of computers, which your man
Willow has been relaxed enough about. We've done a pretty
thorough search in and around the house for a murder weapon,
but even if it originated here, it would seem pretty foolish to
bring it back again. There is one thing we'll need to include
in the report though; you might want to come and take a look.'
Mariner and Griffith followed the officer through the farmhouse
to a conservatory where there were, in plain sight for
anyone to see, about a dozen cannabis plants lined up on a
window sill. 'I'm assured that they are for personal use only,
and given the number it would seem plausible.'
'And who can argue with that?' said Griffith, throwing
Mariner a meaningful look.
'It doesn't rule out . . .' Mariner began.
'I know,' said Griffith. They'd emerged from the house and
were crossing the farmyard when Griffith indicated the new
barn, seemingly as an afterthought. 'Have we looked in there?'
he asked one of his officers.
'No, sir.'
Griffith turned to Willow, who had followed them outside.
'Do you mind?'
Willow raised his arms in a be-my-guest gesture.
Mariner walked, with Griffith, over to the shed. It was
unlocked, Mariner noticed, with no sign of the padlock anywhere.
Griffith slid back the door and as they walked in, the temperature
dropped considerably. The barn wasn't, as Mariner had thought,
being heated, but was being refrigerated.
Willow seemed to guess what he was thinking. 'One of the
issues we wrestle with is that the vegetables we produce are,
for various reasons, not as hardy as one would hope,' he said,
from just behind them. 'Even with our own turbines it's an
expense, but it reduces the wastage for us.'
The interior of the shed was lined with heavy-duty steel
shelves. Most were empty, but a complete row of them on one
side held about a dozen insulated plastic crates, similar to
those Mariner had seen being loaded into the van last night.
He slid one out and peered at the contents, a jumble of soil
encrusted carrots. Pushing it back, he studied the slogan on
the end of the crate, which was in a foreign language. He
walked the length of the barn, casting his eye over the empty
shelves, though no longer sure what he was looking for. Unless
he really was a miracle worker, not even Willow could grow
cannabis in these subarctic conditions.
'Actually, I do have one confession,' said Willow, rather
sheepishly, as they were leaving the barn. Both men turned to
him expectantly. 'These crates.' He placed his hand on one of
the empty ones stacked just inside the door. 'We "acquired"
them from a Dutch producer, and not entirely legitimately.'
Griffith walked back down part of the farm track towards
the road with Mariner.
'Sorry,' said Mariner. 'A false trail you could have done
without.'
Griffith dismissed the apology. 'You weren't to know. It
might have been the breakthrough we needed.' There seemed
no hint of satisfaction in his voice and Mariner sensed that
his disappointment was genuinely shared.
'So, aside from that possible motive, it could be that Theo
Ashton was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?' he
speculated, following the same thought processes as he would
in Griffith's shoes.
'That's about all we're left with,' Griffith said. 'The possibility
that he heard or saw something he shouldn't have, either
at the time he was killed or prior to it. The lad was a keen
artist. He liked to draw the birds and had set up some nesting
boxes in the woods that he spent time observing. It was
common knowledge amongst anyone who knew him that he
was often in the woods in the early hours.'
'And you're happy about Hennessey?' Mariner asked.
'I'm not sure if happy's the right word, but we can't place
him at the scene when Theo Ashton was killed. Around that
time I understand he was being provided with comprehensive
room service by Megan, the bar maid at the White Hart.'
The two men parted company at the entrance to the hall,
and Griffith, hands shoved deep in his pockets, headed up
towards the MIU.
T hope you get your break soon,' Mariner called after him,
and got a nod in response. He didn't envy Griffith the task
ahead. The way the weather was yesterday it was unlikely that
there would be much evidence remaining in the immediate
vicinity, and the murder weapon, if discarded, could be
concealed anywhere around here. Griffith would be relying on
the accuracy of the time of death, piecing together Theo
Ashton's last known movements and hoping that somewhere
an eyewitness had seen something of significance. It wasn't
possible to consider suspects without knowing more about
Theo Ashton, but surely a kid of that age couldn't have had
many enemies.
As he was walking away Mariner remembered the vehicle
from Friday night. 'Oh, by the way,' he called out, 'do you
know anyone around here who drives a black Range Rover?'
Puzzled by the question, Griffith shook his head, 'No, why?'
'There was one hanging about in the village late the night
before last, trying not to be noticed.'
'Did you get a registration?'
Mariner shook his head. 'Too dark,' he said.
'I'll look into it.'
'Thanks.' Mariner walked on.
Mariner felt uneasy and slightly guilty. Elena had been right.
He had come out here to get away from criminal activity, but
in actual fact it was proving to be a welcome distraction. Last
night, he realized, was the first time since her death that he
hadn't dreamed about Anna in one way or another.



TWENTY



While Mariner was ambling through a neighbouring
village, his mobile suddenly bleeped into life. He'd
forgotten to switch it off again after the discovery
of Theo Ashton and must have walked into an active area.
He'd decided before this holiday that he would only use his
phone for emergencies and was tempted to switch it off again
without checking for messages. But in the end he couldn't
resist. There were a couple from his network that he deleted
straight away, but there was also a voicemail from Tony Knox,
typically short and to the point: Hi, it's Tony Knox. Give us
a call if you get the chance boss, some information I could
do with. The message had been left only the day before. It
didn't sound urgent, but amid his grief for Anna, Mariner knew
that his head had been all over the place in the last few weeks
and that there was every possibility he'd overlooked something
at work. Among other things he'd been putting together a
couple of cases that Knox might have to present to the GPS
while he was away, and could easily imagine that he could
have neglected to include some piece of vital paperwork. The
active area must have been a small one because when he tried
to call Knox back all he got was the 'no service' alert, but
when he got to the next village he was greeted by a rare sight
- a public phone box and, incredibly, one that apparently still
functioned, so he used his credit card to call through to Knox's
home number on the off-chance of catching him there.
'Boss! How are you?' Knox sounded his usual ebullient
self, and Mariner could picture the Sunday afternoon scene,
Knox slumped on the sofa in front of the TV amid a landscape
of scattered beer cans.
'I'm fine,' Mariner said. 'This is just what I needed - in some respects. I 
picked up your message.'
'Ah.' Knox's voice dropped. This was not good news. 'I
stopped by your place,' he said. 'I'm afraid you've had
visitors.'
Shit. 'Much damage?' Mariner asked, fearing the response.
'Not damage as such,' Knox said. 'Just a few missing items
and a puzzle.'
'What kinds of items?'
'Oh the usual: TV, stereo, microwave . . .'
'All the stuff that's easy to flog,' said Mariner. 'So what's
the puzzle?'
'The weird thing is that there's no sign of forced entry,'
Knox said.
'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely certain, I've been over the whole house
thoroughly.'
Mariner knew that would be true.
'Does Katarina still have a key?' Knox asked.
'Yes, but she wouldn't steal from me.'
'I'm not saying that, but . . .'
Mariner second-guessed him. 'She might know someone
who would,' he acknowledged.
'I at least want to go and talk to her, if only to rule it out.'
'Have you got a number for her?'
'Not yet but it'll be on record for any interpreting duties.'
'I'll give it to you anyway.' Mariner recited Kat's mobile
number and her address.
'And is she still with that Giles fella?' Knox asked.
'Yes, as far as I know.' Mariner added Kat's boyfriend's
details.
'Anyway,' Knox said. 'I thought you'd want to know, rather
than coming back to the surprise.'
'Sure, thanks.' Mariner felt depressed by it. 'Everything else
okay at that end?'
After a beat of hesitation Knox said, 'Yeah, just getting on
with it. How's the walking going?'
'Good,' Mariner said, 'though not completely uneventful. Have
you picked up the news about a murder out here, Caranwy?'
'That little place? You're near that?'
'It's the village I'm staying in.'
'Christ. You haven't got involved I hope?'
'No choice,' Mariner said. 'It's complicated, but I was there
when the body was found. And it's a pretty small place so
you can't help but be aware of the investigation going on.'
'It doesn't mean you have to join in,' Knox pointed out.
'You're meant to be on your holidays, remember?'
'Yeah, I know,' said Mariner, unwilling to admit how much
he welcomed the diversion.
'So what do you need?' Knox asked, reading him perfectly.
'Funny you should ask that,' Mariner said. 'I wouldn't mind
knowing a bit more about a guy called Nigel Weller. He's in
his sixties I'd say. He used to live in the West Midlands area,
so I'm told, possibly Solihull. Can you see if we've got
anything on him, might be drugs related? Also I'd be interested
in anything you can dig up about a Russian businessman,
Nikolai Shapasnikov.' Mariner spelt it out. 'He's bought a
country pile out here, Gwennol Hall.'
'That I can do,' Knox said. 'I'll give you a call back when
I know something. Anything else, Boss?'
'Yes, can you look up the number and address of the Towyn
Farm Community, where Jamie Barham's living now? It's a
long story, but I could do with having that too.'
'Sure.'
'Great. Leave a message if you can't get hold of me. Getting
a signal's hopeless around here. I'll pick it up when I can.'
At the village shop Mariner bought a Sunday paper and
took it along to the pub. However the experience fell some
way short of the relaxing lunchtime drink he'd envisaged. The
place was newly upgraded to a gastropub, so consequently
most of the seating had been given over to a formal restaurant
that would have looked at home in Brindley Place and lacked
any decent beer. Many of the clientele seemed to have driven
some distance to enjoy their outrageously priced Sunday lunch
and were dressed for the occasion. In his walking gear, Mariner
hardly fitted in and was treated by the staff with an air of mild
resentment for occupying a table for four to order only soup
and a freshly oven-baked (he was tempted to ask how else it
could have been baked) roll. He stubbornly stood his ground
until the arrival of a noisy sixteen-strong party, at which point
he decided it was time to leave. He'd just about had the opportunity
to catch up on the details of Theo Ashton's murder, and
the latest on the Merseyside killings, before he was forced to
abandon the pub. The 'Kirkby massacre', as it was now being
dubbed, had been fully attributed to the recently paroled Glenn
McGinley, who was now thought to have escaped in a stolen
car, via Holyhead across to Dublin. A link, mostly based on
the MO, was being sought with a triple murder in Cheshire
on the following morning.
It was late afternoon when Mariner got back to Caranwy,
and despite the increased number of cars in the pub car park,
he decided to drop in for a decent pint of proper beer, to make
up for his lunchtime disappointment, before returning to the
hostel. The Welsh had come a long way since 'dry' Sundays,
and it took him several minutes to push his way through the
crowded and rowdy bar, by which time the idea wasn't looking
nearly as appealing, but having made the commitment he
decided to stick it out.
Perched on a bar stool, Joe Hennessey was digging into a
bag of salted peanuts and pushing them into his mouth. Seeing
Mariner he nodded a brief acknowledgement, but any further
conversation was made impossible by the noise and the distance
between them. And in any case Hennessey was being monopolized
by the girl behind the counter. Megan, Mariner surmised.
He could see now what Elena and Rex had meant, and couldn't
help but remark on the contrast with the barmaid from the
Star in Tregaron. Megan hardly looked old enough to be
drinking, let alone serving behind a bar. Although attending
to a steady stream of customers her eyes rarely left Hennessey
and at one point he seemed to be making a joke of it, at her
expense, and Megan turned away, blushing fiercely.
Eventually Mariner caught the attention of the older barman
working the till nearest to him and while he waited for his
pint to be pulled, he surveyed the room looking for a free seat,
preferably one tucked away in a quiet corner. On the face of
it he was going to be unlucky, as all the tables seemed to be
taken, but amongst the mass of strangers he spotted one familiar
face. Suzy Yin, the archivist he'd met up at the hall, sitting
with a modest half pint in front of her on the table and her
head down studying some papers, even though she looked
off-duty today, dressed in jeans and a chunky sweater. A roar
of laughter from a group around the fireplace raised her head
momentarily and, as her eyes locked with Mariner's, that wide
smile lit up her face in greeting. He was just picking up his
pint, and recognizing the lack of seating, she gestured that he
should join her. Mariner battled his way through the crush to
where she was sitting. 'Are you sure you don't mind?' he said.
'I can easily stand, and you look as if you're in the middle of
something.'
She shook her head. 'Not really,' she said, gathering up the
papers. 'This is my single woman's defence against unwanted
company. I'll be happy to take a break from it. I'm at risk of
becoming one of those dreadful people who doesn't know
when to switch off from work.'
As he sat down, Mariner turned away so that she wouldn't
see the wry smile cross his face. He wasn't quick enough.
'Oh God,' she said. 'You're one of those people, aren't you?'
'I think I probably am,' Mariner admitted.
'Well, given what you do for a living, I suppose I find that
rather reassuring,' she said. 'How's that for blatant hypocrisy?'
'Shameful,' Mariner said. 'What are you working on?'
'Oh, this and that,' she said, tucking the paperwork into a folder. She lifted 
her glass. 'Anyway, cheers.'
'Cheers,' Mariner reciprocated. 'So why a historian?' he
asked, after a moment. 'Isn't that a bit . . .' he searched for
the right word.
'Dry? Dusty? Lonely? It's all right. You can say it.' She
laughed easily, soft and gentle like a wind-chime, and Mariner
had the feeling that she never took herself too seriously.
'Believe me, it wasn't what my parents wanted for me. They
would have rather preferred a doctor or lawyer. But history
is my passion so in the end they didn't have much choice.
And I think it was enough for them that I had been to
university.'
'It's more than I did,' said Mariner. 'Where are they from,
your parents?'
'Canton. They did what thousands of other Chinese did and
came here in the early Sixties to open a restaurant and have
their family. A couple of years later I showed up.'
So she was a little older than she looked, Mariner thought.
'And they named you Suzy,' he said. 'It doesn't sound very
Chinese.'
'Oh, it isn't. All part of their assimilation, I suppose. And
yes, mine can be a solitary profession, but that doesn't bother
me. I'm an only child so I'm happy with my own company
- up to a point.'
Mariner nodded. The too,' he said. 'I can understand the
appeal.'
'And you're a police officer,' she smiled. 'Like me, an
investigator of mysteries.' As she finished speaking she had
to raise her voice above the roar of laughter from a group
beside the fireplace.
'And what do you think of the man, your boss?' Mariner
asked.
'He's very charming and well-mannered, though there's
something underneath that I wouldn't quite trust; a bit of a
ladies' man from what I gather from the other staff, and I
suppose some would say he's good looking in a rough and
ready kind of way.'
'But not you?'
'He's not really my type, a little too macho. I'm more drawn
towards quiet intellectuals I suppose.'
'So that rules me out,' said Mariner lightly, regretting it
instantly. He was saved by a burst of raucous laughter from the
group around the bar that distracted them both momentarily.
'Journalists,' Mariner said. 'I'd bet big money on it.'
Either that or Mariner's remark prompted Suzy to start
gathering up her things. 'I think it's time to go,' she said
apologetically. 'This beer is going down a bit too well. I try
not to do too much drinking alone, but I did need to get out
for a while this afternoon. The four walls were driving me
mad.' By now it was getting dark beyond the windows.
'How are you getting back to the hall?' Mariner asked.
'I'll walk,' she said, sliding into her coat. 'Calling a carriage
is so nineteenth century. Besides, I'm not really used to
drinking at this time of day - the fresh air will do me good.'
'There must be a local taxi firm who could take you up
there.'
'What, to drive me all of three quarters of a mile? That
would make me incredibly popular.'
'Will you let me come with you then?' Mariner said, picking
up his jacket. 'You shouldn't walk up there after dark, not
with everything that's happened.'
'Why? Do you think I could be in danger?'
'I don't suppose you are, except perhaps from opportunistic
journalists,' Mariner admitted, 'but I'd feel happier if you'd
let me walk you.'
'That's very chivalrous of you,' she smiled. 'How could I
possibly refuse?'
T do have an ulterior motive, of course,' Mariner admitted.
'I'm interested to see what progress is being made.'
'Honest at least,' she laughed.
Outside though, as they crossed the road Mariner missed
his footing, tripped heavily on the kerb and stumbled.
'Are you sure I shouldn't be walking you home?' Suzy said.
When he was beside her again she slipped her arm into his.
'I'd better hold on to you. You clearly can't be trusted out on
your own.'
'You sound too much like my sergeant,' Mariner said,
drawing her in closer to him, noticing how easily they seemed
to fall into step. For a while they walked in comfortable silence,
their breath clouding the night air and Mariner wondering if
she was as acutely aware of his physical presence as he was
of her; the scent of her hair and the occasional pressure of her
hip as it rolled against his outer thigh.
As they walked up the drive they could see the light flooding
from the windows of the mobile incident unit, though the hall
itself appeared to be in almost total darkness. 'Mr Shapasnikov
lives mostly at the back of the house,' Suzy explained. Instead
of approaching the main entrance, she turned off before they
got there, leading Mariner round to the side of the building. 'As
do I. I have rooms above the stables,' she explained. T know
my place.' Mariner saw for the first time that the hall was built
in a square shape, and walking underneath a narrow archway
they emerged into a wide inner courtyard, three sides of which
were made up of the main house, and the furthest a block of
two-storey buildings and outhouses. It was well lit by floodlights
and to one side was a double garage. One of the up-and-over
doors was open and inside, like beasts peering out from their
lair, were two identical, sleek black SUVs. Two young men in
dark trousers and white shirts loitered in the doorway of the
garage, murmuring in low voices. One of them was smoking
and, seeing Suzy, raised his cigarette in acknowledgement.
'Who's that?' Mariner asked.
'Reggie and Ronnie,' Suzy said softly, waving back.
'You're kidding,' said Mariner.
'Sorry,' she chuckled. 'It's what I call them, though not to
their faces I'm ashamed to say. Mr Shapasnikov's got several
drivers-cum-gofers. I can never remember their names, though
I do know that most of them would sound perfectly at home
in a Tolstoy novel; Andrei, Vasili, Arkady, you get the idea.
And to say so is probably racist or sexist, or perhaps both,
but they all look the same to me with their cropped hair and
sharp suits. When Mr Shapasnikov has his weekend events
there are about a dozen of them scurrying about tending to
his guests, but I've no idea what they do the rest of the time.'
Short hair and smart suits? Mariner didn't recognize either
of the men by the garage, but that profile would nicely fit the
man he'd seen talking to Theo Ashton at the farm. It might
also explain the absence of a car. He made a mental note to
mention it to Ryan Griffith.
Stopping alongside a wooden staircase, which led to the
upper floor of one of the stone outbuildings, Suzy hunted in
her bag for keys, before producing them with a flourish. 'Well,
thank you again for walking me home. Now I shall have to
worry about you getting back safely.'
'Oh, despite appearances, I can more or less take care of
myself,' Mariner said. 'I might even manage to not fall over.'
She seemed doubtful. 'Well if you say so.'
After the slightest hesitation, Mariner leaned in to kiss her
on the cheek, but at that precise moment she must have had
the same idea, so that their mouths collided, taking them both
by surprise.
'Sorry, that didn't go well,' Mariner said.
'It was a start,' she said, and stood on tiptoe to peck him
lightly on the cheek.
'I'll just wait until you're safely inside,' Mariner said, the
cold suddenly feeling less penetrating. He watched her climb
the staircase and close the door as a light inside came on.



TWENTY-ONE



Making his way back through the village, past the lights
of the pub, Mariner became suddenly aware of a
recognizable figure up ahead, bowed under the weight
of a heavy pack, coming towards him into the village from
the opposite direction. He was about to call out a greeting
when abruptly the man turned off into the only lane that left
the main road just here. As he got to the junction Mariner was
convinced he'd recognized the man and called out to him. At
his call Jeremy Bryce turned.
'Hello again,' Mariner hailed. 'Tom Mariner. I gave you a
lift the other night.'
Bryce peered at him through the darkness as gradually
recognition dawned. 'Well, well, my good Samaritan,' he said,
walking back towards Mariner. 'You had quite a head start on
me. I didn't expect to catch you up.' His voice was hoarse
and nasal.
'I'm staying here for a few days,' Mariner said. 'Visiting . . .
someone I know. Where have you walked from today?'
'Oh, I came up and over the tops.' He waved a hand vaguely
in the direction of Devil's Mouth, though given the man's
record Mariner wasn't sure how meaningful that was. Bryce
grinned broadly. 'Well, this is a coincidence!'
Mariner wanted to point out that it wasn't really, given that
they were both walking the same footpath in the same direction,
but he didn't like to quash Bryce's enthusiasm. In truth
he was surprised that he hadn't appeared sooner, but then it
was likely that there would have been a couple of unscheduled
detours along the way. The man was quite literally a walking
liability. 'I tried to track you down after I gave you that lift,'
Mariner said. 'But you didn't stay at the Lamb and Flag then.'
'Ah, no.' Bryce managed a sheepish grin. 'I must have
misunderstood. I couldn't stay there after all. I pride myself
in speaking a bit of Welsh, name like mine and all that, but
clearly I'm not as competent as I'd like to think.' Averting his
face from Mariner, he let rip an explosive sneeze, before
blowing his nose loudly. 'It was pretty chilly in the climbing
hut last night. After getting so wet, I think I might have caught
a cold.'
'Really?' said Mariner, but the irony was lost on Bryce. A
steady drizzle was beginning to fall again; Mariner could see
it in the lamp light. 'Where are you planning to stay tonight?'
he asked Bryce, noting that the lane he was on would take
him out of the village.
'I had considered the pub here, but it's heaving.' Bryce
lifted his map case, running a finger over it. 'There's a climber's
hut up on the hillside here I think. It's just a couple of miles
away over in the next valley.'
Mariner knew that route; he'd covered part of it two days
before. It wasn't easy even in daylight, and it was rather more
than a couple of miles. 'It's a long way to go after dark and
that'll be freezing too,' Mariner said. 'Don't you think the
warmth of a B&B might be better tonight?' he suggested.
'Well, I fear I might have left it a little late,' Bryce said. 'I
don't seem to be very good at planning.'
Mariner made an impulsive and somewhat risky decision.
'Look, I'm staying at an old youth hostel just up there. I know
the owner. It's basic but there's a hot shower and some heating,
and you could at least get some food at the pub. Why don't
I see if you can come and stay there until you're feeling better?'
'Do you think that would be acceptable?' Bryce jumped at it.
'I'm sure it would,' said Mariner. 'You can get a good
night's sleep and tomorrow you can pick up the trail again.
No sense in being a martyr, is there?'
'Well it does sound rather attractive,' Bryce conceded, by
now visibly shaking with cold.
'Don't happen to play chess, do you?' Mariner asked as
they walked back along the main street.
'Well, yes, I do.'
Even better. 'This is a fortunate meeting anyway,' Mariner
said. 'I think I have something that belongs to you.'
'Oh?'
'A locket.'
'The locket. Heavens, I hadn't even noticed that it was
missing. If I lose that I will be in the dog house,' he said. 'My
wife despairs of me; head in the clouds most of the time.'
That Mariner could well believe. Back at the hostel he
knocked and somewhat cautiously put his head around the
kitchen door, where Elena was standing stirring something
savoury and delicious-smelling in a saucepan. T was wondering
where you'd got to,' she said. Mariner saw her gaze shift
slightly as she noticed Bryce out in the yard. 'Ah, that's sweet,
have you found a friend?'
'Sort of,' Mariner said. 'His name is Jeremy Bryce. I
picked him up as a hitch-hiker a few nights ago, on my way
out to Tregaron, and we've just run into each other again.
He's walking the Black Mountain Way, doing what I am
really, but he's caught a cold and is in quite a state. How
would you feel about him staying in the hostel too? It'll just
be for a night or so, until he moves on. He seems like a nice
guy, but I think he's some kind of academic and orienteering
is definitely not one of his strengths. I think it would be
irresponsible to send him out into the night again.' Mariner
left a dramatic pause before adding, artfully. 'He's a chess
player.'
'Is that meant to impress me?'
'Well, he's another opponent for Cerys, and if he's a college
professor, I bet he's good,' Mariner pressed his case home.
Elena rolled her eyes. 'And what will he eat?'
'That's no problem; we'll go down to the pub.'
She broke into a pained smile. 'It's all right. I've made
enough of this to feed a couple of battalions of the Welsh
Guards. I was going to freeze it but you may as well have it.'
'You could look upon it as training for when you've got
the B&B up and running,' Mariner said, helpfully.
Elena made a show of grimacing. 'Go and get yourselves
cleaned up. It'll be on the table in half an hour.'

After a brief introduction to Elena, Mariner took Bryce up
into the hostel. Knowing already that the room he was sleeping
in was the only one habitable, they tested the bunks and found
that the one directly over Mariner's would be the only one
strong enough to take the big man's weight.
'I'll go up there,' Mariner offered. 'You take mine.'
But Bryce wouldn't have it. 'No, you've found me a warm
bed for the night.' He tested the mattress. 'And a soft one. This
is more comfort than I've had in days. I can manage perfectly
well up there.'
Mariner let Bryce go first in the shower. He'd unpacked
some of his things and his wallet lay on the table in the dorm.
Mariner couldn't help it. Flicking it open he saw a faded and
creased snapshot of a very pretty woman with her arms draped
around two smiling little girls, one blonde and one dark. Lucky
Bryce.
While the two men ate Elena had the TV on low in the
kitchen and, after a bit, the local news bulletin came on. She
turned up the volume so that they could hear. News about
Glenn McGinley's progress, not surprisingly, had been
displaced by the murder of Theo Ashton.
'I don't understand,' said Bryce. 'Is that what all the police
activity is about? I saw several police cars when I came into
the village, but I thought that perhaps it was part of the manhunt
for this fugitive. I saw the headlines on a newsagent's board
a couple of days ago indicating that he might have headed
into Wales.'
'Nothing to do with him,' Mariner said. 'A local lad was
stabbed to death in the woodland down the road yesterday.'
Mariner decided not to reveal his part in it yet.
'Good God,' Bryce said, grimly. 'This is the last place you'd
expect it.'
Theo Ashton was described on the news as a young man
in his late twenties who had lived at the eco-project for
several years. His distraught parents were filmed arriving at
a hotel in nearby Llanerch. There followed some picturesque
footage of the village, and a piece to camera by a reporter
standing outside the pub saying that police were continuing
their enquiries.
Suddenly Elena leapt up and switched off the TV, on a
pretence of clearing away some of the dishes. 'All right, love?'
she said, as Cerys appeared in the kitchen doorway, and clearly
signalling a change in the conversation.
'Hi Cerys, this is Jeremy, a friend of mine,' Mariner said
immediately, hoping that Bryce would have understood the
signals and would respond appropriately. 'Jeremy, this is Cerys.'
'Pleased to meet you, Cerys,' said Bryce, apparently unfazed.
'You must be the chess player I've heard so much about. How
about a game?'
'Okay,' Cerys said. She looked tired, Mariner thought, dark
circles under her eyes, but perhaps this would take her mind
off things. She fetched the chess board and offered up the
pawns. Bryce drew white and opened the play, and it was
obvious straightaway that he would be more of a challenge to
her than Mariner had been. He was also far more patient,
talking Cerys through her options on several of the moves, to
help her think her strategy through and almost, in essence,
playing against himself. 'Are you a teacher?' Mariner had to
ask after a while, watching from the sideline.
'Of a sort,' Bryce said, concentrating on the move ahead.
'Except my students are university undergraduates.' Cerys made
her move. 'Are you sure about that?' Bryce asked her mildly.
'I can see quite a tasty prawn exposed there if you do.' Cerys
giggled and hastily withdrew the move, making another seconds
later. 'Much better,' Bryce encouraged, with a conspiratorial
twinkle. 'That's given me more to think about.'
Mariner watched as the game became ever longer and more
complex.
'Checkmate!' said Cerys suddenly and with almost as much
surprise as triumph.
'Ah, you have me!' exclaimed Bryce dramatically, sitting
back and slowly shaking his head, as if he hadn't just engineered
his own defeat.
'Bed now, young lady,' said Elena. 'I'll be up to tuck you in.'
Elena followed on soon after and now that they were alone,
Mariner felt able to tell Bryce more about his involvement in the
events of the previous day. Keeping his voice low, he described
to Bryce what had happened. 'Goodness, what a dreadful experience,'
Bryce said, as Mariner recounted the discovery. 'I'm sure
I wouldn't have a clue what to do in those circumstances.'
Mariner could believe it. Commonly when meeting anyone
new, he tended to be vague about his profession, citing something
like 'security consultant', but Bryce would find out the
truth soon enough so there was no sense in his being coy.
'Actually I've had a bit of practice,' he said. T m a police officer
with the West Midlands service.'
Individual reactions could often be interesting, but Bryce
took it in his stride. 'Oh, I see,' he said. 'What a stroke of
luck that you were there and knew exactly what to do.'
'In the practical sense, yes.' Mariner looked up as Elena
came back into the kitchen.
'What an extraordinary life you must lead,' Bryce said to
Mariner. 'It makes my existence seem very dull by
comparison.'
'I'm sure your job must come with its own pressures,' Mariner
said.
'Of a sort, but all this makes what I do for a living seem rather
pathetic. I couldn't even hack it as a teacher; those who can,
teach, those who can't. . . You know the rest. It was the discipline
I struggled with, that and the increasing numbers of children
who really didn't have any interest whatever in learning.'
'But you're in a unique position now to help young people
achieve their goals,' Elena said. 'There must be some satisfaction
in that.'
'Well yes, though I'm not sure that we're preparing them
for anything useful these days, nor am I convinced that many
of them appreciate the education for its own sake.'
'You sound rather disillusioned,' Mariner said.
'Really, do I? Oh well, perhaps I am a little, but that isn't
to say that I don't enjoy my job. It allows me a wonderful
opportunity to indulge my passion for reading, even if the
fruits of my research are wasted on many of my students.'
'Which institution are you at?'
'Oh, not a particularly academic one; it's one of those that
started out as a polytechnic' He seemed preoccupied. 'So
this killing; they're sure it couldn't possibly be him, this man
McGinley I mean?' he persisted, changing the subject
abruptly.
'There's no indication that it is,' Mariner said. 'What makes
you say that?'
'Nothing, I mean . . . goodness.' Something was bothering
him.
'What is it?' said Mariner.
'This morning I was coming down off the top of Troel Maen
when it started to pelt down with rain. There was a derelict
hut, a byre or something I suppose. Anyway, I ducked inside
out of the rain to get my waterproofs on, which I did, but then
my eyes adjusted to the dark and I noticed that there were
signs that someone was living there; some empty cans, a bit
of what looked like firewood and some firelighters, a couple
of recent newspapers. And I thought I heard something.'
'What kind of something?'
'Well, like a movement, a rustling sound, and I had a definite
feeling that I wasn't alone. I just finished getting my jacket
on and got out of there as quickly as I could. Afterwards I
just thought I could have been imagining it, or that perhaps
it was simply a scavenging rat or something. After all, I didn't
actually see anything; only what someone might have left
behind.'
For the first time Mariner felt a vague unease about Glenn
McGinley. There didn't seem to be any question that he'd headed
west, rather than south. But Mariner, more than anyone here,
knew that police deduction wasn't entirely infallible. Once again
he heard himself saying, 'Given what's happened I think it's
worth reporting,' Mariner said. 'It may be nothing, but equally it could be 
important. I'll give the local police a call. I'm sure
they'll want to come and talk to you.' Mariner took out Fielding's
card from his wallet. 'Do you mind?' he asked Elena.
'No, of course.'
If you just show me roughly the whereabouts of the hut,
I can give them co-ordinates,' he said to Bryce.
'Yes, I think I can do that.'
Locating the byre was no easy task, as Bryce's map-reading
skills were limited to say the least. When Mariner put through
the call a few minutes later, neither Griffith nor Fielding were
available, which didn't surprise him at this hour. Speaking to
the civilian operator, Mariner simply reported what Bryce had
seen, giving the map co-ordinates, leaving his Welsh colleagues
to draw their own conclusions.
Bryce's eyelids were starting to droop and soon after the
call he announced that he would like to turn in. Elena stopped
him as he was going out of the door. 'Don't know if this might
be useful,' she handed Bryce a bottle of Night Nurse. 'Might
help you sleep.'
'Thank you, that's very kind.' Bryce said. "I must say, I'm
ready for my bed now.'
'I'll catch you up,' Mariner said to Bryce. 'Let you get
settled.' And seeing Bryce across the yard, he followed Elena
back into her kitchen. 'Sorry to drop Bryce on you as well,'
he said. 'I felt sorry for him. You're sure you're okay with it?'
'Doesn't make much difference,' she said, lightly. 'In fact
it might be better. If my ex turns up now, I can just tell him
you're a gay couple.'
'Thanks,' said Mariner sardonically. 'Well, I'd best make
tracks too.' Getting up, he put his mug in the sink. 'Thanks for
the dinner, and for taking pity on a couple of waifs and strays.'
'We do seem to have a thing about waifs and strays round
here,' said Elena. She got up too and came to the door to lock
up behind him.
'Make sure you lock it securely.'
She made a mock salute. 'Yes, Officer. I don't know how
I'd manage without you here.'
'Sorry.' Mariner's smile acknowledged his mistake. 'Force
of habit.'
'I forgive you,' she said and stepped back, gently closing
the door.
Bryce was in the kitchen making a hot drink when Mariner
got to the hostel. 'I'm terribly grateful to you for arranging
this,' he said, waving his arms around vaguely. T don't know
what I'd have done.'
'No problem,' said Mariner. 'You look all in.'
'Yes, I think I'll sleep quite soundly tonight. Although I can't
stop thinking about what happened to that young man. I don't
know,' said Bryce. 'You do what you can to keep your children
safe, but sometimes you're powerless.' There was a catch in
his voice as he said it.
'You sound as if you're speaking from experience,' Mariner
said, carefully.
'The locket,' Bryce said. 'Did you open it?'
'Yes.'
'The lock of hair was my daughter's,' he said, his voice
trembling with emotion. 'It's all we have left of her.' He looked
up at Mariner, his eyes glistening. 'But that's a story for another
day,' he said before Mariner could ask.
'I'm sorry,' Mariner said.
Getting to his feet Bryce gripped Mariner's shoulder before
shuffling past him and up the stairs, suddenly looking like a
very old man.
As he ascended the stairs some time later Mariner became
aware of a growing rumbling sound. Bryce was asleep and
snoring so loudly through his blocked nose that the room itself
seemed to vibrate; something Mariner had failed to anticipate.
It was going to be like trying to sleep on the runway at Elmdon.
After a moment of indecision, he gathered up his sleeping bag
and retreated up to the attic room where he cleared a space,
threw a mattress on the floor and bedded down on that falling
instantly into a deep sleep.



TWENTY-TWO


Day Seven



First thing on Monday morning Tony Knox arrived in the
office to find Charlie Glover leaning against his desk,
arms folded and his naturally cheerful face grim. He
looked in need of a shave and a change of clothes and was

instantly recognizable as an officer in the middle of a tough
investigation. With Mariner out of the picture, this would be
Glover's first big one. 'Kirsty Fullerton died in the early hours
of this morning,' he told Knox, without drama.
'Jesus.' Knox slumped down into the chair behind his desk,
suddenly exhausted although the day had only just begun. 'Do
they know what it was?'
'Mephedrone probably.'
'Meow-meow,' said Knox, using its street name.
'It's consistent with what the PM says and one of the kids
got a look at it and said that it was a bright green pill.'
'Did she know where Kirsty got it?'
'No such luck.'
'You think she had a bad reaction?'
'It's what it looks like. If we can establish who gave it to
her, we could be looking at manslaughter.'
'Any progress with that?'
'We're continuing to gather witness statements from all the
kids. With the help of Kirsty's parents I've been monitoring
her Facebook page too, in case any of them lets anything slip.
But to be honest they're still all over the place, and most of
them don't know anything. You know what it was like there.'
'Yeah, dark, chaotic and noisy.'
Glover nodded. 'A lot of them don't even seem to
remember seeing Kirsty, let alone who she was hanging out
with. We're getting the picture that it all happened upstairs
in one of the bedrooms. I'm pretty sure a couple of the girls
who arrived with her know more than they're letting on, but
we can't get them to open up, even though we've made it
quite clear that they won't be in any trouble if they do. I
get the impression that it's not us they're worried about.'
'So who or what are they afraid of?' Knox speculated. 'Their
parents?'
'Gut feeling?' said Glover. 'The parents are as anxious for
answers as we are. There but for the grace of God, and all
that. If this was a different group of kids in a different part
of the city I'd say they were terrified of grassing up the wrong
people, but this is not that kind of neighbourhood. These are
nice kids from good homes.'
'Well, keep me in touch,' Knox said. 'And if I think of
anything . . .'
'Thanks, I appreciate it. Any news on the boss?' Glover
asked.
'Yeah, I spoke to him yesterday,' said Knox. 'He's fine;
enjoying himself.'
'He's not worried about this McGinley then.'
'The only one who's concerned about him is Millie, for no
other reason than her overactive imagination,' Knox said.
'We've all got enough on our plates without looking for more
trouble.'
'That's what I thought,' said Glover, satisfied. 'Anyway, I'd
best get on. I need to check in with the Fullertons again.'
'Sure,' said Knox. 'And Charlie?' he called as his colleague
reached the door. 'Don't forget to eat and sleep, or you'll be
no use to anyone.'
When Glover had gone, Knox sat for a few moments
reflecting again on the events of the previous Saturday, racking
his brains to think of anything he might have seen that would
give a clue to the supplier, but he could come up with nothing.

After a while he switched on his PC and spent the time he
had before his main business of the day - a court appearance
- surfing the web for information Mariner had asked him to
track down. In the short time he had, he managed to come up
with some interesting findings, and by ten o'clock he was
hanging around inside the city law courts, waiting to give
evidence against two thugs he'd charged months previously
with aggravated burglary.
It was one of the most frustrating aspects of the job that
hours could be spent waiting to be called as a witness, though
at least with the advent of mobile phones that time need not
be completely wasted. It was while the court was working its
way through the forensic evidence with the help of several
expert witnesses that Knox slipped out of the front entrance
and put through a call to Katarina's place of work. He'd tried
phoning her on the mobile number Mariner had given him,
but without success. Eventually he gave in and tried the work
number Mariner had given him at the Brasshouse language
centre, where she was an Albanian translator. But he didn't
get much joy there either. Despite the fact that Kat had not
shown up for work for several days, her boss Luke Mayer
seemed very relaxed. 'She works hard,' he told Knox. 'She's
called out at all hours, quite often for you guys, and has been
working solidly for months. I wouldn't be surprised if she's
taken a few days off.'
'She called in to let you know?'
'She doesn't have to,' said Mayer. 'Kat is one of our freelancers,
so it works the other way around. She calls us to see
if there's any work for the day; if there is she agrees to what
she can do, if not, we're not committed to paying her. It's an
arrangement that suits us both.'
'And does she often not call in for work?' Knox asked, as the door opened and 
an usher stuck his head out and caught his eye. Knox started back towards the 
building.
'I wouldn't say often,' Mayer said. 'But from time to time she has a break. 
Like I said, she works hard.'
'Okay, thanks,' said Knox, hurrying back into the court. 'I
might need to call you again, okay?'

Mariner woke at first light in the attic room of the hostel and,
gathering up his sleeping bag, crept back down to the dorm.
Bryce's snoring had declined into heavy, raspy breathing, but
Mariner didn't want him to feel awkward about it, so he left his
sleeping bag arranged as if he'd slept there all night and went and had a 
shower. When he finally surfaced, Bryce didn't feel
Well enough to walk, so Mariner went off alone, leaving him at
the hostel. He walked across the yard as Cerys and Elena emerged from the 
house, the girl looking pale and washed out.
'She didn't feel like going in on the bus today,' Elena said. 'So I'm giving 
her a lift in to school. Quite a treat isn't it, my love?' Cerys managed a 
smile as she opened the car door.
Mariner's walk that day took him over towards the coast but he felt drained and 
tired and couldn't shake off a feeling Of gloom that had descended on him 
again. He was back by the middle of the afternoon, deliberately passing by 
Gwennol Hall in the hope that he might see Suzy Yin, but there was no lign of 
her and he didn't feel he knew her well enough to
intrude on her day. The village, as he walked through it, seemed
unnaturally quiet, the focus of the police investigation having
shifted now from the streets to the incident room. When he
got back to the hostel, it too had the feel of the Marie Celeste. He knocked on 
Elena's door. There was no reply, but as his
knuckles made contact with the wood panelling of the door,
it swung open with a peculiar groan. Inside, the kitchen looked
as if someone had left in a hurry. A pan of onions, half fried
in oil, was on the stove, alongside garlic ready chopped on
the board, and a mug of tea stood gathering a scummy film
on top of the counter. Mariner put his fingers around the mug;
it was lukewarm.
'Hello?' he called, but the only sound he heard was the slow
dripping of a tap. Something filled him with foreboding and he
did a quick check around the ground floor of the house. It was
empty. He went across to the hostel and up to the dormitory.
Bryce's sleeping bag was empty too and some of his things
were gone. His mind racing with possibilities, Mariner ran back
down the stairs, and as he did so Elena's car pulled into the
yard, Cerys in the passenger seat.
Elena greeted him cheerfully. 'Hi, everything all right?'
'Fine,' Mariner gasped, his heart beating double time,
although why, he didn't quite know. 'Just wondered ... It
seemed quiet around here.'
Cerys climbed out of the passenger seat and, with a weak
passing smile, went into the house.
'She was invited to a friend's house after school,' Elena
explained. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time, something
to take her mind off things. But she called me to come and
fetch her.'
Elena eyed Mariner's muddy clothing. 'You look as if you've
had a walk.' As she spoke, she went round to the boot to
retrieve a couple of carrier bags containing produce.
Mariner automatically stepped forward to help. 'Yeah, I was
just going in to shower.'
'If I hadn't got so much to do I'd come and scrub your
back.'
'Don't let Rex hear you say that. God, what have you got
in here?' he asked, picking up the last and heaviest of the
bags. He carried them into the kitchen and was just emerging,
when Bryce appeared at the gate.
'I felt much better this afternoon,' he told Mariner. 'Thought
I could do with some fresh air, so I stopped in at the pub too
for a glass of ginger wine. It's not a bad little hostelry, in fact
I'd like to take you there for dinner tonight,' he went on. 'My
treat, for the kindness you've shown me. Do you think your
friend Elena would come along?'
'I'm sure she'd love to, but I'm not sure about Cerys, given
it's a school night.'
'Oh, of course,' Bryce said. 'Silly me. Do you think she
might like another game of chess though?'
'I wouldn't be at all surprised,' Mariner said. 'Why don't
you use the shower first, then you can go across.'

Knox was on the stand until the case adjourned at the end of
the day. No point in returning to Granville Lane, so instead,
on his way out of the city, he stopped by at Katarina's flat on
the off-chance that she might be there. The complex where
she lived was a newly built development opposite the county
cricket ground at Edgbaston, with limited parking for nonresidents,
except by expensive meter. Knox then had to wait
around for someone to leave the building until he could gain
access. The muffled sounds of music playing, children shouting
and raised voices could be heard from behind the flimsy walls
of the flats as Knox ascended three flights of stairs and walked
along Kat's landing. But on the whole it looked well kept and
still smelled clean and newly decorated. He rang the bell to
Kat's apartment three times, at intervals of several minutes,
noting the absence of any sound coming from the other side
of the solid wood door. Squatting down he lifted the letterbox
flap, but could see nothing beyond the floor of the hall and a
closed internal door.
'Hi, can I help you?'
The young Asian woman who came up behind him made
him jump slightly and automatically Knox drew out his warrant
card. 'I'm looking for Katarina,' he said. 'You know her?'
'Yes I do,' the girl said. 'We moved in here together and
we used to work together. I'm Saira Mahmood. What's
happened?' She looked suddenly worried and Knox realized
his mistake.
'Nothing,' he assured her. 'Well, nothing to be concerned
about. I just need to talk to her.'
'She might not be back for a while,' Saira said. 'She stays
a lot with her boyfriend.'
'Is that Giles Ridley-Coburn?'
'Yes. Are you a friend of Tom Mariner?' she asked.
'I work with him,' said Knox. 'He's gone away for a couple
of weeks so I said I'd keep an eye on things. If Katarina
contacts you, can you ask her to give me a call straight away?'
He gave Saira one of his business cards.
'Yes, of course,' she said, having difficulty meeting Knox's
gaze.

After he'd showered and changed, Mariner went back across
the yard to wait for Bryce. 'They're upstairs,' Elena told him.
'Is that wise?'
'Don't be such a copper. He's a nice man. Cerys wanted to
show him some chess game on her computer.' She crossed to
the foot of the stairs. 'Your dinner date's here, Jeremy!' she
called. 'And he's getting impatient!'
Moments later Bryce appeared shaking his head ruefully.
'She'll go far, that young woman,' he said. 'She had me on
the ropes again. I need a drink.'
Mariner and Bryce walked down to the pub in companionable
silence. It was early and a Monday night, so the bar was
a little less frenetic than it had been the night before. Mariner
could smell the press a mile off though, and they were still
well represented here. He and Bryce took a table in a secluded
corner and Mariner at least tried to avoid eye contact with any
other customers.
Bryce lifted his pint. 'Well, here's to you,' he said. 'And
your kindness. As you so rightly predicted, after a day's rest
I feel reinvigorated, and tomorrow I shall be on my way again.'
When they walked back again later that evening, Mariner
let Bryce go on ahead while he called in to check on Elena
and Cerys.
'There's no need,' Elena told him. 'We're fine.'
'I wanted to,' said Mariner. 'With any luck by the time I
go up Bryce will already be asleep, then I can sneak up to the
attic room again. I don't want to offend him by telling him
he's keeping me awake.'
'You want a night cap before you go?'
'Yes, go on then.'
Bryce, as Mariner had predicted, was rumbling away like
a motorcycle with an exhaust problem, by the time he followed
on across to the hostel. Christ, he wondered how Mrs Bryce
could stand it, although it might explain why she didn't holiday
with her husband. On the few occasions when Anna had
accused Mariner of snoring he'd also swiftly been relegated
to the spare bedroom. Gathering up his sleeping bag again,
he retreated up to the attic room. He checked his phone briefly
to see if Knox had been back in touch, even though he knew
it was probably too soon, then quite suddenly weariness overtook
him and he drifted into sleep.
Mariner woke with a jolt, some hours later. Something
had disturbed him, and as he came to he became aware of
voices, and the low thrumming of an engine somewhere down
in the street below. Unlike the previous night, the temperature
in the attic had dropped significantly and it was with reluctance
that he crawled out of his sleeping bag and went to
the window, half expecting to see the black Range Rover
back again. But this time the vehicle was just a regular car,
idling outside one of the tied cottages a little way back down
the street, its headlights on and unafraid of being seen. As
Mariner watched, someone emerged from the end cottage
and walked down to the car. The interior light briefly came
on as he or she climbed into the passenger seat, and seconds
later the car pulled away.
Mariner shivered. It was freezing up here now. Terrific. Now
he had the choice of Bryce's snoring or frostbite. But now
that the car had moved off he realized that the hostel was
quiet. Bryce had stopped snoring. Triumphant, he crept downstairs
to the dorm, where the air felt marginally warmer, got
carefully into the lower bunk to avoid triggering Bryce's
snoring again, and quickly fell into another deep sleep.
Day Eight

When Mariner next awoke, the first thing he noticed, aside
from a nagging headache, was that his face was wet, even
though he had no recollection of having dreamt about Anna.
In fact he'd slept so deeply he couldn't remember dreaming
about anything at all. They should have opened a window. The
room was stuffy and his head felt muzzy from a lack of fresh
air. Lifting his head from the pillow he saw, in the dim light
afforded by the curtains, a dark stain. Not tears then, but
another nose bleed; probably why his head felt stuffed with
cotton wool. He hoped he wasn't about to contract Bryce's
cold. His watch said only six-twenty. Careful not to disturb
Bryce, Mariner slipped out of bed and, taking the soiled pillow
with him, he padded along the corridor to the bathroom, the
stone flags freezing under his bare feet.
He looked a sight in the pocked mirror, blood smearing his
face, though it seemed now to have dried up. He rinsed his face
in cold water, the shock of its iciness catching his breath. He
couldn't do much with the pillow, so he left it on the bathroom
floor and, taking a spare from another dormitory, went back
to the bunk room, in the hope of grabbing another hour or so
of sleep. His blood, he noticed, getting back into bed, had
spread on to the flimsy mattress too. He'd need to try and get
that off.
Bryce didn't seem to have stirred. Maybe not that surprising
given the amount of booze he'd downed last night. Hoping that
his nose wouldn't start bleeding again, Mariner rolled on to his
back, and that was when he felt the tingle of a drip on his cheek
that trickled warmly down behind his ear. He felt it again. His
eyes snapped open. The underneath of the top bunk was in
shadow, but now that it was getting light, Mariner could make
out a dark patch immediately above his head, about the size of an orange. A 
fist grabbed his heart and squeezed as he turned
over and swung his legs out of bed again. Standing up brought
him level with Bryce's bunk and what he saw made him cry
out in horror. Bryce lay supine, his eyes closed and arms folded
neatly across his chest, exactly as if he were sleeping, though
Mariner knew with absolute certainty that he wasn't. His throat
155


had been slit from ear to ear and Jeremy Bryce lay in a dark
pool of crimson blood that matted his beard, the spray splattered
in a scarlet arc across the wall behind him. In one reflexive
movement, Mariner doubled over and vomited on the floor,
retching uncontrollably over and over until his stomach was
empty. Christ, what a mess.
Stepping round the noxious puddle he went over to the
window and wrenched back the curtain. The sudden flood of
light revealed the extent of the bloodbath and for some time
Mariner simply stood, staring at the obscenity, his mind racing.
How the fuck had this happened? And Elena. Oh God, Elena.
Christ Almighty. How the hell was he going to break this to
her? But he would have to, and he would have to do it soon.
Glancing down, Mariner noticed spots of blood on his T-shirt.
Bryce's blood. It was on his face again, too, and he felt an
overwhelming, desperate urge to cleanse himself of it. He
wanted to tear off his clothes and get under a scalding shower
to scrub at his skin until it was red and raw. But rationally he
knew that it was the last thing he could do. Even in these few
minutes while his brain struggled to make sense of this, it was
obvious that he would be a prime suspect. Any attempts to
clean himself or his clothing would reflect very badly on him. As he stood 
shivering, considering what to do next, he heard the distant sound of the door 
scraping across the stone floor,
followed by Elena's voice echoing up the stairs. 'I hope you're
decent, you two. I've brought you tea.'
Christ, why had she chosen today of all days? Snatching Up his fleece, Mariner 
bolted out of the door and pounded
down the stairs, meeting her at the bottom, relieving her of the tray and 
guiding her out through the door, in one smooth
ICtion.
, 'What is it? What's going on? You two got women up th . . .?' She tailed off, 
staring at his face, and then down at the bloodstains On his T-shirt.
'We have to call the police.' Mariner was breathless. 'Jeremy pryce is dead. 
He's been murdered in his bed.'
ft ' What? Is this some kind of wind-up?' Elena started towards the hostel 
again and Mariner had to hold her back.
' 'You can't go up there, Elena. It's carnage. And it's also a
crime scene. We have to call the police. Now.' Grabbing his
boots from the drying room and pulling them on over his bare
feet, Mariner steered her back across the yard towards the
kitchen. 'Where's Cerys?' he asked, his voice low.
'Brushing her teeth, I think. She'll be off to school in a bit.
She said she'd be all right to catch the bus today.'
'I've got to phone the police straight away. Can you keep
her upstairs for a few minutes and try to behave normally. It's
probably best that we don't tell her anything yet, just let her
get off to school.'
She was staring at him. 'But if he's dead . . .'
'I didn't do it, Elena.' Mariner held her gaze for a moment.
'Someone must have got in during the night.' He had no way
of knowing if she believed him or not, but that was too bad.
'But how come you didn't hear?'
'I don't know; I was out cold. The booze, I suppose.' Mariner
shot her an agonized look. 'Please, Elena, we can talk about
this later.'
Inside the house Elena disappeared upstairs, while Mariner
dialled 999 and reported what he had found. Then he swilled
his face under the kitchen tap to remove any traces of blood
and zipped up the fleece to cover what was on his T-shirt, before
sitting at the kitchen table, shaking and feeling sick. He pulled
himself together when Cerys appeared, coming down the stairs
with her school bag in hand. 'And so, another exciting day at
school, eh!' he said with excessive enthusiasm.
Cerys curled her lip. 'I'd rather stay here.' She brightened.
'Is Mr Bryce about? D'you think he'd like a game of chess?
Mum could always take me in later.'
'I don't think so. Anyway Mr Bryce is having a lie-in.'
Mariner cringed inwardly, a euphemism if ever there was one.
'Come on, love, off you go,' Elena breezed down the stairs,
her recovery from the initial shock impressive. 'I'll walk you
as far as the gate.'
'Have a good day,' Mariner called after them.
Elena returned no more than a couple of minutes later, the
facade of forced cheerfulness collapsed. 'Now what do we
do?' she said, dropping into the chair opposite Mariner.
'We wait,' said Mariner. 'Any chance of that cup of tea?'
They had drained their mugs and were sitting at the
kitchen table, listening to the washing machine finish
its cycle, when tyres crunched over the gravel in the
yard. An unmarked vehicle pulled in followed by a squad
car, its light flashing. Mariner and Elena went out to be
greeted by Ryan Griffith and a uniformed officer, a young
gangly lad with dark red hair and a bad complexion, whom he introduced as DC 
Blaine. The absence of DCI Bullman told Mariner that he was content to steer 
this investigation from behind a desk and trust Ryan Griffith to do a good job.
'Where is he?' Griffith asked.
Mariner gestured towards the hostel entrance. 'Top of the
stairs, second room on the right.'
The two policemen followed Mariner's instructions and
Mariner heard their footsteps echoing on the floorboards,
followed by a startled cry. Seconds later the younger man
reappeared, hand clamped to his mouth. He staggered out into the yard and, bent 
double, brought up whatever it was
he'd eaten for breakfast. Griffith took his time and it
was several minutes before he emerged again, calm and unruffled. 'Sorry,' he 
said coolly, regarding his colleague, Who had straightened now and was wiping 
his mouth on a
handkerchief. 'I don't think he's ever seen anything like this before.'
'But you have,' thought Mariner, remembering what Elena
had said about the SAS. Griffith tilted his head towards the Itairs. 'Who is 
he?'
'His name is Jeremy Bryce.'
'And he's a friend of yours?'
'Not exactly. I met him just a few days ago.' j Griffith walked over to the two 
uniforms now standing by
their car and spoke to them for a couple of minutes, before
coming back to Mariner and Elena. 'I'll need you both to go
with these officers to make statements.'

The journey to Llanerch was a seven-mile drive into what
turned out to be little more than a large village. Mariner and
Elena remained quiet in the car, confining themselves to the
occasional exchanged glance. Elena seemed nervous, but then
it was undoubtedly the first time she'd been through anything
like this, and she would be worried about Cerys too. Mariner
wanted to reach out and take her hand but he didn't want to
do anything that could be misinterpreted by their two escorts
and fed back to Griffith. In a local area like this the squad
would be tight. The police station was a wide square grey
stone block set back behind parking space. It must have been
there a while, and still had the old-fashioned blue lamp
hanging outside.
Mariner was taken first to the medical examiner. Except for
a brief sympathetic smile as he went in and the minimal necessary
instructions, the FME worked in complete silence; taking
a blood sample, swabbing and scraping and then removing
several hairs from different parts of his head. Mariner accepted
it all without complaint. Although his hair was cropped short
he had plenty to spare, and it was the evidence from those
samples that would help to put him in the clear. If he'd cut
Jeremy Bryce's throat, the blood spatter would have found its
way into his ears and the fine spray would have penetrated to
the roots of his hair. Its absence wouldn't in itself be enough
to rule him out as the killer, but it would form part of the
wider picture. Finally the FME handed Mariner a couple of
brown paper evidence bags. 'And I'll need you to do the
honours again, sir, please.' Another police-issue tracksuit was
folded on the chair and she left the room to allow Mariner to
change into it.
After processing Mariner was shown to an interview room,
where a uniformed officer came and took his written statement
and then he sat twiddling his thumbs for a further hour and a
half. By now he had a blinding headache and it was actually
a relief to be left in peace for a while. Elena would be doing
the same in a separate room. The waiting couldn't be helped;
Mariner knew that and he hoped Elena realized it too. Griffith
would be sealing off the scene and waiting for the SOCOs to
get there. In a rural area like this it could potentially take
hours. Aberystwyth was probably the nearest main base. And
he had no reason to grumble. The custody officer was attentive
and courteous, offering refreshment at intervals, including
some painkillers, and apologizing for keeping him waiting.
Even so, Mariner felt a certain apprehension, knowing that
having clearly been the last man to see Bryce alive he would
inevitably be the focus of the questioning. And the trouble
was he couldn't explain it, except that it must have happened
while he was sleeping up in the attic room. He'd racked his
brains to remember if at any time during the night he'd heard
or even sensed anything out of the ordinary, but could come
up with nothing. There was no way of proving to Griffith that
he hadn't been in the dorm all night, so inevitably he was
going to be the main suspect. What would he be thinking if he was in Griffith's 
shoes? Eventually he was offered the
opportunity to make a phone call.

Tony Knox was at his desk, going over some of the statements
Charlie Glover's team had collected from the kids at Michael's
party to see if he could find something that had been overlooked.
So far it had been a fruitless exercise, exactly as Glover had
said; it was like coming up against a brick wall, and pretty
incomprehensible that with so many people in such a confined
space, none of them had seen a thing. Knox was starting to
share Charlie Glover's feeling that some of the kids knew much
more than they were saying. He focused his efforts on Emily
and Georgia, Kirsty's two best friends, who surely would have
been the ones around her all night, but both claimed that they
had been dancing downstairs immediately before the incident.
Something was nagging at Knox, and he was trying in vain to
identify what, when his phone rang. That it was Mariner was
Unexpected. 'Hi, Boss, how's things?' He saw Millie glance up
from her desk.
i 'Not all that great, as it happens,' Mariner admitted. He
lounded muffled, far away, on edge.
'What's going on?' Knox was instantly alert. The information
Mariner had asked him to put together was under a pile of other
papers and he tried to retrieve it with his free hand.
'You know that killing here in Caranwy?' Mariner said.
'Yeah, it made the national news. Some kid wasn't it?'
'Yes. There's going to be a further news item today. There's
been another one; a tourist has been murdered in what used
to be the youth hostel, less than half a mile away.'
'Christ, so you're near all that too?'
'Pretty near,' said Mariner.
'Have they got anyone for it?' Knox asked.
'That would be me,' said Mariner. 'The guy was sleeping
in the bunk above mine when he was killed.'
There was the merest beat of a pause while Knox absorbed
that. 'Christ,' he said again. 'Are you under arrest?' Knox
immediately felt, rather than saw, half a dozen heads swivel in
his direction as the noise in CID faded to nothing. Instinctively
he turned his back to the room and covered the phone's
mouthpiece.
'Not quite,' Mariner said. 'But I could use a friendly face.
How soon can you get out here?'
'I'll talk to the gaffer.'
'With any luck she already knows. Round about now the
Dyfed police will be contacting her to inform her that I've
been taken in for questioning.'
'Who's running the show?'
'A DCI Bullman is in charge, though the man controlling
things on the ground is DI Ryan Griffith.'
'What's he like, this Griffith?'
'To be truthful, I can't make up my mind. Outwardly he
seems okay. We've had a couple of conversations about Theo
Ashton and he seemed to genuinely welcome my input.'
'But?'
T don't know how close he is to some of the locals.'
'Is that going to be a problem?'
'Not for me, but for the case? I guess we'll have to wait
and see. Listen, I might be here a while,' Mariner went on. "I
could do with a change of clothes. And did you manage to do
that research for me?'
'I'll bring it along.'
Knox didn't want the whole of CID to know yet, they'd get
the details soon enough, so he took Millie to one side to
explain, before going and talking to DCI Sharp.
'So two people have been killed out there and they haven't
got a suspect,' she said.
'That's about it,' said Knox.
'And Glenn McGinley?'
'What about him?' Knox asked wearily. This obsession was
becoming tiresome, especially as it was pretty well established
by now that McGinley had got away to Ireland.
'Don't you think it's just too easy that he left his car where
everyone would find it and let himself be seen buying a ticket
to Dublin?' Millie persevered.
'He hasn't been caught yet, has he?' Knox reminded her.
'So it wasn't that easy.'
'Exactly,' Millie retorted. 'Maybe that's because he's got
everyone looking in the wrong place. What if he didn't get on the ferry at all?'
'The man's committed two double murders. It would be in his interests to get as 
far away as possible.'
'Unless he isn't finished yet.'
Knox took a deep breath. 'Look, Millie, this isn't the time . . .'
'Why is nobody listening to me?' Millie was beside herself.
'Because all the evidence indicates that McGinley's well away,' said Knox, 
exasperated. 'His car was found in the ferry Car park. And all his victims were 
shot, not stabbed, so these killings in Wales are not at all consistent with 
his MO.'
> 'Unless he was provoked. He's a career criminal. His path could easily have 
> crossed with Tom's in the past.'
'Do me a favour, would you?' Knox said, rubbing a hand Over his face. 'Forget 
Glenn McGinley and look up a DI Ryan Griffith, Dyfed Police and see what you 
can get on him.'
As anticipated, the Welsh police had already been in touch With DCI Sharp and 
she was fully prepared for Knox to travel jwn to Wales. 'There will be an 
explanation for this, Tony,' ;arp said, unnecessarily. 'Don't let him do 
anything stupid.'
'He sounded calm and rational over the phone,' Knox
sured her. 'He'll be okay.'
High on adrenalin, Glenn McGinley had scrambled his way
back to the unoccupied bungalow and let himself in. This time
he found the electric immersion heater and celebrated with a
hot bath as well as something to eat, before subsiding on to
one of the beds feeling weakened and drained, the lack of
adequate nutrition over the last few days beginning to take its
toll. From the radio alarm he learned that his car had been
found in Holyhead and the search had shifted to the Republic
of Ireland. 'My work is done,' he congratulated himself, before
falling into a deep and heavy sleep.

Before leaving the city Knox called in at Mariner's house to
pick up some things for him, but this time he drove along the
service road to park right outside the house. He could see at
once that something was wrong; the front door was hanging
off its hinges and it was immediately obvious that the place
had been trashed. For the first time Knox thought about the
murders in Wales and what was happening here. What if Millie
was right and this was all part of something bigger? Squeezing
in by the battered door, he was instantly aware of a presence,
even before he heard the voices coming from the direction of
the kitchen. Stepping around the broken glass on the floor, he
crept along the hallway. No, not voices: one voice, male,
moaning and chuntering to himself. Knox cursed that he had
no baton with him, nor was there anything to hand that he
could use to protect himself. He inched his way forward and
as he did so, the open door behind him swung and creaked in
the breeze. The talking stopped abruptly and a face appeared
in the kitchen doorway, long enough for Knox to glimpse a
young man, with long untidy hair and growth on his chin.
Knox met his startled gaze momentarily, before the trespasser
turned and bolted, clattering out through the back door and
on to the canal towpath.
'Hey!' Knox yelled, taking off after him. Outside he saw the
figure in jeans and a hooded top running off in the direction of
the city. Knox gave chase, but his fitness levels weren't what
they once were and his breathing was congested by his cold,
and after about fifty yards it became clear that the fugitive was
younger and fitter, and that the gap between them was rapidly
widening. Heaving for breath Knox stopped and took out his
phone. First of all he called the ops centre and had a car
dispatched to the next main road junction with the canal, along
with a description of the man, though he knew it was a long
shot. Then he called Millie. 'See if you can swing it to get a
couple of SOCOs down to the boss's place,' he gasped. 'I've
just disturbed an intruder. I think he's been here before so it
would be good to find out who he is. The place has been given
a good going over.' He then gave Millie as detailed a description
as he could, to add to any trace evidence that might turn up.
'While you're on,' she said. 'I made some enquiries about the
Welsh copper, Griffith. He's ex-SAS so started out in Hereford.
Has had a couple of commendations, but nothing else is flagged.'
'Okay, thanks, Millie. You know this idea you've got about
Glenn McGinley?'
'Yes.' She sounded suspicious, as if he was going to tear her off a strip again.
'Keep on it, will you?'
'Okay.'
Returning to the cottage, Knox found that in addition to the
highly visible damage, the kitchen worktop was now also
littered with the essential paraphernalia of the habitual heroin
user. The guy he'd disturbed could simply be an opportunist,
who had found the door off its hinges and decided to use the
place as his personal drugs den, but Knox didn't think so.
Either way he was going to miss his equipment, and with luck he would have left 
behind a few decent latent prints that could be matched with a set already on 
the national database. Leaving
all that for the SOCOs to find when they arrived, Knox went
upstairs and grabbed a few of Mariner's clothes, before rigging the front door 
as securely as he could, and setting off for
mid-Wales.
It was early afternoon when Griffith finally appeared along
with Superintendent Bullman, the latter's jaw already working
the nicotine gum. Bullman presented a freshly laundered
contrast to his subordinate and was as immaculately turned out
as the first time they'd met. The strain on Griffith was beginning
to tell in ways that Mariner recognized only too well. His tie
had slipped down another few notches and his shirt collar was
slightly grimy. Mariner couldn't be certain if the slight unwashed
smell in the interview room was coming from Griffith or him.
Understandably, and perhaps for the benefit of Bullman,
Griffith wasn't quite as friendly towards Mariner as on their
last encounter, and Mariner wondered if he now regretted
sharing as much as he had on the Ashton case. It felt very
odd for Mariner to be on this side of the questioning, even
though this wasn't the first time. A couple of years back
he had found himself, with the help of a third party, deliberately
implicated in a serious crime. On that occasion he'd
been rapidly exonerated. He hoped that the pattern would
hold.
Mariner had declined the option of a solicitor or a Federation
Rep. Although it was obvious how the events of the previous
night might be construed, he had nothing to hide and, rightly
or wrongly, he was depending on Griffith's intelligence to
understand that. But having set the scene for the benefit of the
recording equipment, it was Bullman who took the lead in
questioning. 'Perhaps you could start by telling us what
happened last night, sir,' he began. He wasn't being overly
polite; the 'sir' was a necessary means of putting some distance
between them.
'I don't exactly know,' Mariner said, truthfully. 'I met Jeremy
Bryce the evening before last on my way back to the hostel.
It was after dark and he was in a bad way, but because the
pub was crowded he was planning to walk on several more
miles before sheltering for the night. I didn't think it was a
good idea, so I took him back with me to the hostel. Fortunately
Elena Hughes agreed that he could stay there. Last night was
the second night he stayed. He and I went down to the Hart
for something to eat, then Bryce returned to the hostel and I
followed him across a little later.'
'Why the delay?'
'I went to check on El-- Mrs Hughes, to make sure that
she was all right.'Mariner sensed Griffith's eyes on him.
'Did you have reason to think things might not be
OK?'Bullman asked.
'Not specifically, no, but after what had happened to Theo
Ashton . . . Anyway, when I went over to the hostel Jeremy
Bryce was already asleep in his bunk and was snoring loudly.
He had a nasty cold. Believe me, as I'd learned the night before,
he could snore. So I picked up my bedding and went up to the
attic room to sleep up there. I'd done this on the previous night
too. I slept for a while, but in the early hours I woke up again
because it had got very cold, so I came back to the dormitory.
Bryce had quietened down by then.'
'He'd stopped snoring.'
'So I thought.'
'And what time was this?
'I can't say for sure, but it was still completely dark, so
could have been anything between about one and four a.m.'
'That's a pretty big window,' Bullman observed. 'You can't
be more specific?'
'There was a car,' said Mariner, remembering all at once.
'A car?'
'Outside one of the tied cottages, picking someone up. That's
what woke me; either the door slamming, or the voices, or it
might have sounded its horn. I looked out and saw someone
from the cottage get in, and then it drove off.'
'Can you describe this car?'
'It was a saloon, quite big, maybe the size of a Passat or
something and light coloured; silver or grey. It's not much but
it would pinpoint what time I was in the attic. I could have
only seen it from the attic window. The view from the dormitory
is blocked by a tree.'
'And then you went down to the dormitory,' said Bullman.
'Did you notice anything out of the ordinary at that point?'
'Only that Bryce was no longer snoring. I fell asleep again.
I was woken some time later - just as it was getting light - by
his blood dripping on me, although I didn't realize straight
away what it was.'
Bullman turned to Griffith, who placed one of the brown
evidence bags on the table, the cellophane window displaying
a brown and white garment: Mariner's bloodstained T-shirt.
'Do you recognize this?' he asked.
'Yes, it's my T-shirt,' Mariner said. 'And it has Jeremy
Bryce's blood on it. As I said, it had dripped on me during the
night and I was wearing it when I found him.'
'What did you do, when you saw what had happened?'
asked Bullman.
'I threw up,' said Mariner. 'Then I went to tell Elena Mrs
Hughes.'
'You went to her house?'
T didn't have to. She'd come over to the hostel to bring us
tea. She called up the stairs. I didn't want her to see what had
happened, so I ran down to stop her.'
'And if Elena hadn't come across, what would you have
done then?'
T would have gone to her house.'
'Are you sure about that, sir?'
'Yes, of course I am. What else would I have done?'
Realization dawned. 'You think I was going to run away, in
my boxer shorts and boots?
'The crime scene officers reported that most of your things
were packed away. Are you usually so tidy?'
'As a matter of fact I am,' Mariner said, calmly. 'You can
ask my sergeant. What could possibly be my motive for killing
Jeremy Bryce?'
'Until we've established exactly who he is and where he's
come from, that's impossible to say.'
Mariner was surprised. 'There were no personal details in
his wallet?'
'There was no wallet,' Griffith interjected with a frown.
'Then it's been taken,' Mariner said. 'He definitely had a wallet.
I saw it on Sunday night when he unpacked some of his stuff
and when he paid for our food at the pub. It's black leather,
and it has some photographs in it.'
Griffith made a note on his pad. Bullman turned to Mariner.
'If you didn't kill Jeremy Bryce, then how can you explain it?'
'Not very well,' Mariner admitted. 'Someone must have got
into the hostel during the night.' He was stating what was
obvious but it was important that it was all recorded.
'There's no indication of a forced entry,' Bullman pointed
out.
'There wouldn't need to be,' said Mariner. 'The hostel door
sticks so I was advised not to lock it. Anyone could have got
in, killed Jeremy Bryce and then left again.'
'Without disturbing you?'
'I told you, I slept half the night upstairs in the attic room.
And cutting a man's throat doesn't have to be noisy.'
T think we'll let the pathologist decide that,' said Bullman.
'When you went up to the attic room, would there have been
any indication to anyone outside that you were there?'
'I didn't switch on a light, if that's what you mean. I'm not
even sure that there is one. I did check my phone for messages
when I first went up there though. There may have been a
residual glow from my phone when I did that, but I don't
know if that would be visible from outside the hostel.'
'We might have to try it out.' Bullman glanced at Griffith.
'And you were up in the attic until the early hours, when this
car picked someone up from along the street.'
'That's right,' said Mariner. 'It would make sense that Bryce
was killed while I was out of the dorm.'
'What makes you say that?'
'He was going like a chainsaw when I left the room; he wasn't
snoring when I came back. I remember feeling relieved. I didn't
do it,' said Mariner, regarding Bullman levelly. 'Though I understand
that for the moment I have to be your prime suspect.'
'That's very good of you,' Bullman replied evenly, but there
was an edge of sarcasm to his voice. 'And Jeremy Bryce just
"turned up" in Caranwy on Sunday evening.'
'Yes, I spotted him up ahead of me as I was walking back
to the hostel. I called out to him.'
'Why?'
'We'd met before. While I was driving out here I gave him
a lift along the road to Tregaron.'
Bullman raised his bushy eyebrows. 'So you'd arranged to
meet in Caranwy?'
'No, it was a coincidence, though perhaps not so strange.
We were both walking the Black Mountain Way. I stayed in
Caranwy longer than anticipated, so I suppose it was inevitable
that Bryce would catch me up.'
'Do you know where he'd been, immediately prior to you
meeting him again?'
'It's hard to say really. He wasn't the most skilled at map
reading, so where he'd been before that is anyone's guess. The
first time I picked him up was after he'd got lost, and that
seemed to be a pattern. But he'd come over from the direction
of Devil's Mouth yesterday. That would have been when he
came across the byre. Did that turn up anything?'
'What?'
'The derelict byre that Bryce mentioned.' Mariner looked
from one man to the other. 'He said there were indications
that someone had been sleeping rough there. I phoned it in
on Sunday night.'
'This is news to me,' Bullman said, turning to Griffith.
Taking his cue, the DI stood up. 'Would you excuse me for
a moment?'
Bullman notified the tape of Griffith's departure, and he was
gone for about five minutes during which time Mariner guessed
that someone was getting a bollocking.
Eventually Griffith returned and he and Bullman spent a
few moments conferring in private.
'This puts a slightly different complexion on things,' Bullman
said, finally turning back to Mariner. 'That byre is only in the
next valley and within easy walking distance. Anyone hiding
out there could possibly be our killer. We need to consider that
whoever it is didn't like being disturbed and thought that Bryce
might have seen something.'
'Bryce could easily have been followed and killed to prevent
him from giving anything away,' added Griffith.
'But it was too late,' Mariner pointed out. 'Bryce had already
talked.' He took it as an encouraging sign that Bullman was
prepared to explore ideas with him. The Superintendent would
hardly be so open if he was still considering Mariner as a suspect.
'Could Bryce have seen something on the day Theo Ashton
was murdered?'
'I don't see how,' Mariner said. 'According to him, he'd
only walked into the area on Sunday.'
Griffith paused a moment. 'There is another explanation of
course.'
'Which is?'
'You were very much in the area on the day that Theo
Ashton was killed. Perhaps whoever killed him thinks that you saw something. It 
would also have been known that you were
staying at the hostel.'
'So he killed Bryce thinking he was me?' Mariner let that
sink in.
'Who else knows that you've been staying at the hostel?'
Bullman asked.
'Quite a few people,' said Mariner. 'I've met Elena's partner,
Rex, and I told Nigel Weller at the farm when I met him.
Some of the staff up at Gwennol Hall will know too, of course.
I've spoken to Suzy Yin, the historian who's working up there.'
'Would any of these people know about Bryce?'
'Probably not, given that he only showed up a couple of
nights ago. Elena and Cerys know about him, of course, and
we might have been seen together walking through the village
or in the pub last night, but more people will be aware of me
being around.' That someone may have mistaken Bryce for
him would make some sense.
'Were you aware of anyone taking an interest?' asked Griffith.
'Not especially, but the police and the media presence mean
there's a lot more activity in the village right now. There were
certainly people about, and as we all know the press are curious
about everything and anything.'
'Tell me a bit more about Jeremy Bryce,' Bullman said.
T don't know very much,' Mariner said, truthfully. 'He was
one of those people who listened more than he talked. He was a
tourist, in Wales on a walking holiday, like me.'
'That's all?'
'He was a university lecturer of some kind. He didn't say
at which institution; only that it was formerly a polytechnic,
but he seemed interested in historical sites.'
'Oh well, that narrows it down then,' said Bullman with
irony. He sat back in his chair. 'Okay, let's take a break. You
realize that we'll need to keep you here for the moment.'
Mariner nodded. 'Yes, I understand that.'
Terminating the interview, Bullman switched off the machine
and left the room. Griffith made to follow him but stopped in the
doorway. 'Humour me,' he said to Mariner. 'Why have you really
been staying in the hostel? I mean, it's not even a going concern
any more.'
'I know Elena,' said Mariner. 'We go back a long way.'
Griffith stared at him, wanting to know more about that,
but knowing equally that it was of limited relevance right now.
'So you've been to Caranwy before?' he said.
'Only for a short time in the summer of '82.'
'Does that mean you also know other people in the village?'
'I don't think so. Most other people have moved on.'
'It's a mess, isn't it?' Griffith concluded. 'We'll try not to
keep you waiting too long.'
'How's Elena?' Mariner dared to ask.
'She's fine,' came the expected reply.



TWENTY-FIVE



Knox arrived at the police station in the middle of the
afternoon. He was impatient to see Mariner, but protocol
demanded that he report to the senior investigating officer.
Superintendent Bullman was unavailable, so he met first of all
with Ryan Griffith, for which Knox was glad. It wouldn't hurt
to get some feel for the man. First impressions were of a consummate
professional. 'We're holding DI Mariner because he was
the last person to see Jeremy Bryce alive, and he was sharing a
room with him the night Mr Bryce died,' Griffith said.
'And what is he saying?'

'That he didn't do it, of course. He claims that he was out of
the room until the early hours of the morning. It's not enough to
get him off the hook, of course. We haven't got a time of death
yet, and when we do it's unlikely that it will be that specific'
'But he didn't do it,' Knox said, with absolute conviction.
'No, I don't think he did,' Griffith confessed. 'But until
we've got anything more substantial . . .'
'Yeah, he gets that and so do I.'
'We're working on it,' Griffith said.
'Who was this Bryce?' Knox asked.
'A tourist. Your gaffer picked him up a few days ago, and
then they met again on Sunday in Caranwy.'
'That's all you know?'
'He's apparently some kind of college professor, history
possibly, but we've no address and no-one has apparently
reported him missing. His wallet seems to have disappeared.
My chief is doing the press stuff now, including putting out
a media appeal for anyone who might know him to come
forward. We're having to tidy up one of the post-mortem
photographs to use, which isn't ideal, but it's all we've got.'
'Are you linking it to this other murder?'
'It makes sense to,' Griffith said. 'This is a remote country
village. Murder doesn't happen here, so when you get two
this close together, chances are they're related. But although
they're both knife attacks the MOs are pretty different. Theo
Ashton's attack was frenzied, with multiple stab wounds. This
one was clean and controlled.'
'And a murder weapon?'
'We haven't found anything for either yet, though we've
had to send Mr Mariner's pocket knife for analysis. He's been
carrying it around in his backpack the last few days.' Griffith
cast his eyes down to something suddenly important on his
desk. 'What would you say Tom's mental state is?'
'He's been through some personal difficulties recently,'
Knox said, cautiously. 'An ex-partner died suddenly. He was
still close to her. But we've been more concerned about him
being a danger to himself than to anyone else. I'd like to see
DI Mariner now.'

Knox was shown down to the holding cells, which replicated
those in any police station across the country, distinguishable
mainly by the smell of disinfectant that barely masked the
odour of human sweat and excrement. It was, Knox thought,
the genuine smell of fear. The boss looked in reasonable
shape, all things considered. He was pale and bearded and
the shapeless track suit looked incongruous, but Knox was
relieved to note that there was no outward indication that the
boss was losing his mind.
'Am I glad to see you,' said Mariner. The men shook hands.
'How are you?'
'I'm okay. How's it looking out there?'
'They're doing their job.'
Tra glad to hear it.' Mariner's eyes locked on to his
sergeant's. 'You know I didn't do this.'
'Yeah, and I'm pretty sure Griffith knows that too. I'll be
honest with you. When you first told me, I did wonder if . . .
you know ... the grief and everything. But I can see that we
were wrong. Want to give me your side of it?'
Mariner recounted his story, from the point at which he
picked up Bryce for the second time. T feel terrible. He was
a nice guy and now I'm wondering if I could somehow have
been responsible for his death. If it is a case of mistaken
identity, if he hadn't come with me and stayed at the hostel--'
'Not your fault, Boss.'
'We don't know that. Are they getting anywhere with finding
out who he was?'
'Bullman's about to put out a media appeal.'
'So now we just wait,' said Mariner. 'Did you find out
anything useful about our other local residents?' Mariner asked.
'How about Nigel Weller?'
'There was more about him on Wikipedia than on the PNC.
He was something of a celebrity; one of the founding members
of some rock band called Easy Money?'
'The Easy Money?'
'You've heard of them?' Knox looked up in surprise.
'If it's who I'm thinking of, they had a couple of hits back
in the Sixties or Seventies. They were pretty big in the
Midlands. You remember "Lookin' for Love"?'
'That a question or a song title? Yeah, as it happens I do
now, but I needed reminding. I don't think they were quite so
popular on Merseyside. Anyway, that sort of makes sense then,
because his other claim to fame was his part-ownership of the
Mellow nightclub in Solihull through the 1980s. He sold up
his share of it just before he moved out here.'
'So no criminal record for our friend Weller?'
'I didn't say that. He had a couple of possession of cannabis
charges and one assault charge, but all years ago, probably
about the time he was pretending to be a rock star. Since then
it's been all peace and love, man.' Knox mockingly raised the
two-finger palm salute.
'Hm. Just because any criminal activity hasn't been logged,
doesn't mean he hasn't retained his interest.'
'In what? The drugs?'
'It's what I think.' Mariner told Knox about his experiences
at the farm and the conclusions he'd reached.
'But a few plants for personal use aren't going to land him
in too much trouble, are they?'
'I'm still convinced that there's more to it than that,' said
Mariner.
'But based on what?'
Knox was right. It was nothing more than a gut feeling, and
it wasn't enough. 'What does Griffith think?' he asked.
T don't know. He played along with me, but I think he was
satisfied with the explanation given.'
'You think he knows more than he's owning up to?'
'It's possible. This area was hard hit by foot and mouth.
Elena said it herself; everything around here was getting pretty
rundown, but in the last few years the investments that Willow
and now Shapasnikov are making in the local area are helping
to turn things around. Griffith is from round here and would
be aware of that transformation. I'm just saying that he'd have
an interest in seeing that it continues.'
'Do you want me to go and poke around a bit more?' Knox
asked.
'No, leave it for now,' Mariner said. 'There's enough activity
going on now with the murder investigations. They're going
to be on their guard. What about Shapasnikov?'
'Even less on him,' said Knox. 'Just a couple of paragraphs
in the popular press, mainly relating to him buying the Hall,
and one magazine mention as part of a feature about wealthy
Eastern Europeans taking over the country. Unlike most of
your Russian oligarchs, the man would appear to be, if not
completely squeaky clean, at least largely legit. He was born
in St Petersburg and made his fortune through timber. He has
a worldwide export firm, though his business interests are
many and varied. One of which is a chain of nightclubs across
different cities in the UK, called RedZone.'
'Isn't there one of those on Broad Street?' queried Mariner.
'There is. Shapasnikov enjoys life too. The articles mainly
feature him escorting glamorous young models to various
high-profile social events, and he owns a couple of
racehorses.'
'Well he wouldn't be a proper oligarch if there weren't a
few of those. I understand the weekend parties he holds out
here are pretty big affairs.'
'Maybe we should find out who's on his guest lists,' said
Knox.
'Not a bad idea,' Mariner agreed. 'Birmingham must seem
a bit dead - forgive the expression - compared with all this.'
'Not exactly,' Knox said, grimly. 'We've had our own brand
of excitement while you've been away.' He filled Mariner in
on the dramatic events of Michael's party.
'Christ. So Charlie's got a potential murder investigation
on his hands. How's he managing?'
'He's doing all right. There have been further developments
at your place too, and not good ones.' Knox told him about
the ransacking. 'Sorry. I've ID'd a suspect though; caught him
in the act.' Knox described the man at the cottage. 'Does he
sound like anyone you know?'
'Apart from all the dozens of scrotes I've dealt with over
the years? Not especially,' said Mariner. 'Have you talked to Kat?'
'Not yet,' Knox said. 'I've been round to her flat but
according to her neighbour she doesn't go back there much.'
'I think she spends most of her time with the "dog's bollocks",'
Mariner said gloomily.
'You mean the fragrant Giles? Not jealous are we?'
'Of what; the youth, the looks or the money?' Mariner
snorted. 'Why on earth would I be?'
'She hasn't been doing much work for Brasshouse lately
either; they hadn't seen her for a while.'
Mariner felt the first murmur of unease. 'That I don't understand.
Kat loves her job.'
'But maybe she doesn't need it if Giles is keeping her,'
Knox suggested. 'Doesn't he earn big bucks?'
'That's not the point.' Mariner frowned. 'Kat wouldn't want
to be kept. You know what she's like. After what she went
through her independence and freedom are sacrosanct to her.
When's the last time anyone saw her?'
'A few days ago is what everyone's saying.'
'I don't like it,' said Mariner. 'Goran Zjalic may have gone
away for fifteen years, but he has some powerful friends.' With
Kat's help, Mariner and his colleagues had successfully had
the man responsible for trafficking convicted and sentenced,
but as they both knew, that was never the end of the story.
'You think . . .?'
'I had an odd experience driving out here after the funeral,'
said Mariner. 'I thought I was being followed. Someone was
close on my tail, headlights on full beam, some kind of dark
coloured SUV. The other night there was another one, hulking
great black thing, hanging around in the lane opposite where
I'm staying. It looked out of place. I mean, there are plenty
of off-road vehicles, but not many that shiny. What if Zjalic's
mates are after both me and Kat?'
Mariner's question didn't provoke the response he'd hoped
for. He wanted Knox to dismiss the idea as far-fetched, but
instead his sergeant was thoughtful. 'There's something else
you should know about Nikolai Shapasnikov,' he said,
frowning. 'He has business interests in Albania. I mean, they're
distant, but they are there all the same.'
'Any names come up?'
'None that I recognized.'
'But if we're saying he's connected with what's happening
out here, I've never even met the man. How would he know
about me?' Mariner was struggling to piece it all together.
'If this is about Zjalic, he could have been monitoring you
for months,' Knox pointed out. 'You've been to Shapasnikov's
place, met his staff?'
'Not his staff as such,' Mariner said distractedly, thinking
of Suzy. Had she told Shapasnikov about him and where he
was staying? 'Or all this could be about someone trying to
frame me for murder; they failed with Ashton so tried again
with Bryce.'
As they were considering this, a knock on the door preceded
DI Griffith. 'The good news is that we're going to let you go,'
he said. 'Even if I thought you did kill Jeremy Bryce - which,
for the record, I don't - there isn't enough to charge you, and
what we have so far is only circumstantial. I would prefer it
if you didn't leave the area just yet though, and if you'd check
in from time to time I'd appreciate it. You need to be careful
too. If someone did kill Bryce instead of you by mistake, they
might be tempted to have another go.'
'There's a comforting thought,' said Mariner.
T wouldn't go wandering off on your own just now,' Griffith
advised, unnecessarily.
'This makes finding Kat a bit more urgent,' Mariner said
to Knox. 'I'd feel happier if I knew where she was. I can't
quite see how, but if this should happen to be anything to do
with Goran Zjalic, someone could be after her too.'



TWENTY-SIX



When Mariner was released Tony Knox drove him
back to Caranwy on his way back to Birmingham.
In the car Knox said, T don't know if you've
been keeping up with the outside world, Boss, but do you
know about this McGinley story?'
'The murders in Liverpool?' said Mariner. 'That's more
your territory than mine.'
'So the name McGinley doesn't mean anything to you?'
'Not that I can think of. Why?'
Knox emitted a derisive laugh. 'Millie's convinced that
Glenn McGinley has come down here. She even started cooking
up some tenuous link you might have had with him.'
'What kind of link?'
'An imaginary one probably,' said Knox, playing it down.
'A "six degrees of Kevin Bacon" probably, you know, someone
shared a cell with someone who shared a cell with someone
who was on remand with ... I wouldn't get too worked up about it. Millie's 
being a bit weird, but that's about what you'd
expect at the moment.'
'What do you mean?'
'What with her being pregnant and everything,' said Knox
cheerfully. 'Theresa was off the planet half the time, when
she was expecting our two.'
'Millie's pregnant?' said Mariner.
Knox shot him a glance. 'Oh shit, she hasn't told you?'
'Clearly not.' Mariner thought back to that drive out to Upper
Burwell. 'I think she might have been on the verge though.
But why has she kept it from me? It's good news, isn't it?'
'For her, yes, but she wasn't sure how you'd take it, after
what happened to you and Anna, then Anna - you know.'
'So she didn't tell me? Oh, come on, I haven't been that
bad, have I?'
Knox's face said it all. 'It's called being sensitive,' he said.
'I think it's a girl thing.'
'So what will it mean?' Mariner said.
Knox gave him a sideways look. 'Oh you know, nine months
of her belly getting gradually bigger, and then, at the end, a
baby,' he said. 'Did no-one ever tell you . . .?'
Mariner managed a weak smile. 'And what will it mean for
her career, do you think?'
'I don't know. Maternity leave maybe, then pick up where
she left off?' While they'd been driving they'd taken up position
behind a slow-moving tractor pulling a trailer of mud-caked
turnips. 'Come on!' muttered Knox, slapping the steering wheel
in frustration.
'And what does Suli think about that?' Mariner asked,
remembering that Millie's husband was rather more of a
traditionalist.
'I'm not sure that they've discussed it yet. Anyway, talking
of Anna,' Knox said, cautiously.
'Which we weren't,' Mariner reminded him.
'Well, whatever, you asked for this.' Reaching into the glove
compartment, one hand on the wheel, Knox passed Mariner
a computer printout of the Towyn community address. 'Are
you planning on going to see Jamie Barham?'
'I feel somewhat obliged. Apparently now that Anna's . . .
no longer around, I'm his legal guardian.'
'Christ Almighty.'
'Frankly? I wish he'd got the gig.'
'Finally!' Knox slapped the steering wheel, as the tractor
turned into a side road. 'Is there anything you want me to
do?'
'Nothing to be done I hope,' said Mariner. 'I'll go and see
him and we'll take it from there.'

The hostel yard, when they got there, was cordoned off with
police tape and there were vans and personnel milling about,
so Knox dropped Mariner off at a discreet distance, a little
way down the lane. Following that tractor had given Mariner
an idea. 'Wait for me here a couple of minutes, will you?'
he said to Knox. 'There's something else I need you to do
for me.'
Walking up the lane and crossing into the hostel yard,
Mariner knocked on the kitchen door. Elena opened it. She
looked pale and harassed, and there were a couple of packed
bags sitting on the floor by the door.
'Hi, they've let me out,' Mariner said.
'So I see.' She gave him a wan smile. She seemed to be in
the middle of emptying the fridge and stopped for a moment,
letting the door sway open. 'Nice outfit. Very "care in the
community". You okay?'
'I think they more or less believe me. How are you holding
up?'
'I'm fine,' she said, looking far from it. 'They dropped me
back here a couple of hours ago.'
T hope they didn't give you too hard a time.'
'They did what they had to do.'
'I'm sorry to have put you though all this.'
'Not your fault.' She was philosophical. 'You don't even
know if it's anything to do with you.'
'But if it hadn't been for me, Bryce wouldn't have been
staying here.'
She shrugged. 'Well, it's happened. Not much we can do
about it now.'
'Listen, I know this is a weird question, but have you got
any vegetables from Abbey Farm knocking around?'
She stared at him. 'I've got a few potatoes and parsnips,
why?'
'Could you spare me a couple? I can't really explain now,
but . . .'
Closing the fridge door, Elena disappeared into the pantry
and came out with a couple of soil-encrusted parsnips. 'Do
you want me to wash them for you?'
'No, thanks, they'll do fine as they are,' Mariner said. 'But
have you got a couple of sandwich bags, and a spoon?'
'This gets weirder by the second.' She got them for him.
'What are you up to?'
'Probably nothing,' said Mariner. 'I'll be back in a minute.'
Out in the yard Mariner put the parsnips in one of the bags
and sealed it up before going over to Elena's vegetable patch,
where he scooped a couple of spoonfuls of soil into the second
bag, then walked back up the lane, to where Knox was patiently
waiting in the car.
'See if you can persuade the forensic lab to analyse these,'
Mariner said, handing him the two bags. 'Talk to Rick Fraser.
He owes me one. I want to know if Willow's formula is kosher.
The soil around the parsnips should contain his "magic potion"
but the soil in this bag won't. I'd like to know what the difference
is; if he really is on to something or if it's just the emperor's
new clothes.'
'I'll give it a go, Boss. Keep in touch, eh?' his sergeant
added. 'And try not to get yourself caught up in anything else?'
'I'll do my best,' said Mariner.


When Knox had driven off Mariner went back to Elena's
kitchen.

'They let you have your stuff back,' she said, seeing his
bag.
'No, my sergeant has been across. He brought it for me. I
knew they wouldn't let me back into the hostel any time soon.'
'It's screwed up our business before it's even started,' she
said, wryly. 'Who's going to want to stay there now?'
'Oh, you never know. You might get the morbidly
interested.'
'I've spoken to Ron and Josie Symonds at the pub,' Elena
told him. 'They can put you up there for a few nights. On the
down side you'll have to put up with Joe Hennessey for
company, but I'm sure you can manage to keep out of his
way.'
'Thank you. And you?'
'We'll be fine.' She nodded towards the bags. 'Cerys and I
are going to stay at Rex's place in town for a few days. He's
been asking us to move in with him for ages, so he'll be
delighted.'
Cerys appeared down the stairs. She looked in a bad way,
her eyes red-rimmed.
'She knows what's happened,' Elena said.
'It's not fair,' said Cerys. T really liked him.' T know,' said Mariner 
inadequately.



TWENTY-SEVEN



Walking down to the pub, fatigue hit Mariner like a
tidal wave and it was hard work simply to put one
foot in front of the other, so that when someone
called 'Hey', it barely even registered.
'Hey!' This time it was more insistent and Mariner looked
round to see Suzy Yin, pushing a thin package into the village
post box. Giving him a wave, she jogged to catch up with
him, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her parka.
'Sorry, I was miles away,' Mariner said.
'How are you?' she asked. 'Apart from completely shattered.
I heard about what happened at the hostel.' Of course. It would
be all over the news by now, not to mention the local
grapevine.
'I've been helping the local police with their enquiries all
day,' Mariner said. 'It's been strange to be on the other side
for once, but I think they're satisfied that, despite my proximity,
I had nothing to do with it.'
'Do you make a habit of finding dead bodies wherever you
go?' She grimaced. 'Sorry, that was an incredibly crass thing
to say. I can't imagine how awful it must have been.'
'It wasn't the most welcome start to the day,' Mariner
confessed.
'And now you're leaving?' She noted the holdall.
Mariner shook his head. 'For obvious reasons I can't stay
at the hostel for the moment, so Elena's found me a room at
the inn.' Mariner nodded towards the pub where there was a
jam of vehicles in the car park.
'Well that looks like it'll be fun.'
'Yes, I probably should get it over with. I haven't eaten
much today, so I'm hoping they'll be able to feed me too.'
'Well, if you get stuck there's always a stir-fry on offer at
my place,' she said, suddenly. 'It's what I'll be cooking tonight.
Sorry to play to type, but you'd be very welcome to join me,
if you'd like to, that is.'
'Wait, I wasn't hinting . . .' Mariner began.
'I know,' she said pragmatically. 'It will be nice to have
someone sensible to talk to. I'm beginning to get rather bored
with my own company. And I can guarantee it'll be a bit
quieter than in there.' She nodded towards the pub.
'Well thanks, that would be great,' Mariner said truthfully.
'You'll need some time to check in and all that. How about
seven o'clock?'
'It sounds perfect,' Mariner said.
Feeling revived, Mariner walked into the lounge of the White
Hart and as he did so Megan the barmaid looked up hopefully.
Despite how busy the pub was Mariner noticed that the stools
adjacent to the bar were empty and he realized she must be
waiting for Hennessey. 'I'm Tom Mariner,' he told her. 'I
understand there's a room booked for me here tonight.'
'Hang on, I'll get my dad,' she said. She disappeared, returning
seconds later with Ron Symonds, flushed and perspiring, a tea
towel slung over his shoulder. From a board behind the bar he
handed Mariner a key on a large wooden fob. 'Room Six, first
floor,' he said.
'I can find my own way if you like,' Mariner said as he
signed the booking card.
'Thanks,' said Symonds, gratefully. 'We are a bit rushed
just now. It's up the stairs and to the left.'
'I suppose all this has been good for trade,' Mariner
remarked.
'Not the kind of trade I'd welcome ideally, but I'd be stupid
to resent it. Will you be eating with us?'
'Not this evening,' Mariner said.
'Probably just as well.' There was a shout from the kitchen
and, with an apologetic nod, Symonds disappeared again.
Before going up to his room, Mariner bought a bottle of
wine from Megan. It was a South African vintage, costing all
of £5.99 and Mariner didn't know how good it would be, but
at least he wouldn't be going up to the Hall empty handed.
He picked up his bag and climbed the narrow staircase to
his room. Overlooking the main street, it was low-ceilinged
and very feminine, all floral chintzes and frills, and the first
thing Mariner did was to consign half a dozen lacy cushions
to the top of the wardrobe. It had been a long day, and really
what he wanted to do was flop down on the bed and close his
eyes, but standing under the hot shower enlivened him a bit.
Mariner couldn't help wondering if food and conversation
would be the only things on the menu with Suzy Yin tonight.
He reminded himself to not get carried away. Suzy Yin was
simply being'fnendly. From what he had seen of her, it was
just how she was with everyone. He changed into the one set
of clothes Knox had brought him, found he had enough of a
signal to send his sergeant a brief text to let him know where
he was staying, and an hour later he made the short walk up
to the Hall.
When she came to the door Suzy looked effortlessly
gorgeous in tight jeans and a soft grey sweater that left one
shoulder bare. Aware that he might be gawping, Mariner
presented her with the wine. 'It's probably terrible but there
wasn't much choice,' he apologized.
'Good thing I'm not much of a connoisseur then,' she smiled,
taking it from him. 'Thank you. Come through into the kitchen,
and I'll start on dinner. You must be starving, and it won't
take long.'
Inside the flat was ultra-modern and Mariner sat at the
breakfast bar and watched, captivated, as she moved around
the kitchen expertly chopping, dicing and throwing vegetables,
apparently at random, into a large skillet. Fifteen minutes later
she delivered their plates, piled high, to the table and after a
brief toast with the South African plonk, they tucked in.
Perhaps because he was so hungry, for several minutes Mariner
couldn't speak, so exquisite were the flavours. 'God, this is
fantastic,' he managed to say eventually.
She smiled. 'Courgettes and onions courtesy of Abbey Farm.'
'You're wasted on those bloody documents.'
'Hey, that's my career you're belittling!' she protested
mildly. 'Anyway, it's dead easy. Anyone could do it; even you.'
'Seriously, with those knives?' Mariner said. 'I'd be a danger
to myself and everyone else.'
There was a beat of a pause as they both absorbed what
he'd said.
'The man who died,' Suzy said carefully. 'He was just here
on holiday?'
'Yes, the same as me, trying to get away from it all.'
'So I don't understand. Why . . .?'
'At the moment the strongest possibility seems to be that either
he saw something connected to Theo Ashton's death, or . . .'
'What?'
'Someone thinks I did and they mistook Bryce for me.'
She shuddered. 'There's an unpleasant thought.'
'Bryce was a historian too,' Mariner said. 'At least he had
an interest in history. He was a university lecturer. Maybe your
paths have crossed?'
'It's unlikely. Teaching is quite a separate branch of academia;
different worlds really. Which institution was he at?'
'He didn't say. They're trying to locate his family, his wife,
anyway.'
'How awful,' Suzy said. 'That poor woman will be going
about her business, not yet knowing that her husband is
dead.'
'Yes, I can't imagine . . .' Mariner broke off, suddenly realizing
that this was one thing he could imagine, and was one
of those trivial factors that had caused him almost as much
distress as the loss itself. On dozens of occasions over the
years he had broken the news of sudden death to a victim's
relatives, and so many - mothers of daughters, husbands of
wives - had reported some kind of premonition or portent.
But on the day Anna had died Mariner had felt nothing unusual.
It was a perfectly ordinary day. There had been no ghost
walking over his grave, no sudden, unexplained vision of her.
If anything, he'd been in a buoyant mood and looking forward
to seeing her again. Then DCI Sharp had walked into his office
and his world had imploded.
'Hey,' said Suzy, placing a hand over his. 'Where did you go?'
Mariner dismissed her concern with a brief shake of the
head. 'Some other time,' he said, and then, to break the tension:
'So tell me about your boss.'
'Mr Shapasnikov?' She shrugged lightly. 'There isn't much
to tell. That is, I don't know very much about him. I've only
met him twice; once when he interviewed me for the position
and once when I met briefly with him to report on what I had
learned about the hall so far. That was about a fortnight ago.'
She smiled. T tend not to get invited to any of the social
gatherings; nowhere near as important or glamorous enough.'
'Well that's not true,' said Mariner, rather touchingly making
her blush. T understand they're big events.'
'They certainly generate a lot of fuss; helicopters coming
and going, outside caterers and all that. And he has some big
names - politicians, actors - but to be honest, once they're
under way I'm not even aware of them, tucked away up here.'
They sat for a moment in companionable silence, Mariner
struggling to think of anything more to say. Suzy chuckled.
'Look at you, you're worn out. You need some sleep.'
Mariner pushed back his chair. 'Yes, I should get going.'
They both looked up as the wind splattered a squall of rain
at the window.
'Not in this you shouldn't. Why don't you stay here? There's
plenty of space.' It was so casually said that Mariner didn't
quite know what was on offer. Worse still was the fear that he
may not be able to live up to whatever that might be. She saw
his bewildered look and laughed. 'Come and see.' Taking his
arm she led him through to the bedroom, almost entirely taken
up by a low, king-sized bed covered by a voluminous duvet.
'All yours,' she said to Mariner. TT1 tidy up in the kitchen and
you can just crash here.'
'But what about you?'
She looked at him in surprise. 'It's a big bed,' she pointed
out. 'And we're both sensible, mature adults so I'm sure we
could manage to share it without any . . . um . . . complications,
couldn't we?'
Could they? 'Yes, right,' Mariner mumbled.
So exhausted was he that Mariner would have happily
collapsed onto the bed there and then, but he managed to clean
his teeth with a spare brush she found for him, and strip off some of his 
clothes first. After the last few nights of roughing
it, the soft mattress and fresh, clean sheets felt like the height
of luxury. He was certain that the knowledge that Suzy would
be joining him would keep him awake, but then someone,
somewhere, must have flicked off a switch.
When he came to, it was in a thick, claustrophobic darkness
and Mariner was unable to immediately orientate himself. This
didn't feel like his bed at home, and it wasn't the musty,
creaky-springed hostel bunk. Added to which, he couldn't see
a thing and it was so quiet he could hear the blood roaring in
his ears. As he flailed his arms to get some sense of space,
something fluttered against his face and he yelled out in fear.
'Tom,' said a soothing, female voice nearby. 'It's all right.
I think you were dreaming.'
Suzy. Exhaling with relief, Mariner sank back on to the
pillow. 'Sorry. I forgot where I was. Did I wake you?'
'No, it's fine.' Her hand had fallen on to his bare chest.
'Shall I come a bit closer?'
Oh crap. 'Won't that complicate things?' Mariner asked,
with some apprehension.
Somehow he could hear that she was smiling. 'Oh, I'm not
averse to complication. But you were so obviously worn out
that it didn't seem the right time to be suggesting anything
. . .' She wriggled across the bed and as she pressed her body
alongside his Mariner realized with a start how little she was
wearing. He was of course instantly aroused, but all he could
think about was that abortive encounter at the Star Hotel. He
couldn't face a humiliation like that with Suzy. 'Actually,'
he heard himself say, 'I'm still pretty shattered. And what
with the alcohol ... I wouldn't want to disappoint you.'
She was trailing her fingertips through the hairs on his chest.
'You wouldn't,' she said brightly, showing remarkable faith.
'But you've got a lot of catching up to do, so that's fine. I can
wait. That's the thing with us historians. We can be very
patient.'
'Thank Christ for that,' thought Mariner.



TWENTY-EIGHT



Tony Knox drove back to Birmingham feeling a weight
of responsibility on his shoulders. He hadn't wanted to
leave the boss, but had recognized that there was nothing
more he could usefully do in Caranwy. And meanwhile there
was the small matter of Katarina.
Although it was mid-evening by the time he got back to
the city, he took a detour in person via the forensic service
labs, where he knew they would be working late, to persuade
Rick Fraser to take the soil samples for analysis. Laying it on
a bit thick that this might help get the boss out of a tricky
situation elicited a promise to expedite the testing to take 'no
more thaniTcouple of days'.
Then Knox returned to Granville Lane to report to DCI Sharp
what was going on. Knox passed through a busy front office
and climbed the stairs to CID, which, at this time of night, was
largely dark and deserted, except for the light coming from
Sharp's office. She rarely left the building before seven in the
evening, a fact that served as a deterrent for quite a few fellow
officers considering a climb further up the slippery pole. He
heard laughter as he approached and found her, typically, in
lively conversation with the office cleaner. It was one of Sharp's
strong points that she treated everyone who worked with her
(never 'for' her) with equal respect. Perhaps being a mixed
heritage gay woman shaped her outlook, but maybe not.
'Tony!' she greeted him and brought her chat with the other
woman to a close. 'How did it go?'
Knox went into the office and, taking the chair opposite
her, summarized the events of the day.
'And you think DI Griffith is happy that it wasn't Tom?'
Sharp asked.
'The man's not an idiot,' said Knox. 'They've let him go
but they want him to stick around for the moment.'
'That would make sense. And he's not due back here for
another week at least, so no reason why he shouldn't. If
Griffith has anything about him he might even see Tom as
an asset.'
'Actually I think he does, Boss.' Knox told her about Mariner's
suspicion that he was being followed. 'Though it beats me why
Zjalic, or anyone, would wait until the DFs in the middle of
nowhere to take a pop at him. I'd have thought there would be
a better case for picking him off while he's in the city. Could
be dressed up as anything then, and be more anonymous.'
'More chance of getting the right man out there though?'
Sharp hazarded. 'Less possibility of confusion?'
'Well that didn't exactly work, did it?' said Knox.
'Have they had any response to the appeal to identify Jeremy
Bryce?'
'They hadn't when I left.'
'Well whether or not it turns out to be Mr Zjalic behind all
this, your priority for the moment has to be to track down
Katarina,' Sharp said. 'If she's also in danger we'll need to
think about some kind of protection.'
'That's always assuming he hasn't already got to her,' said
Knox. 'I've got her boyfriend's address now, so I'll go and see him first.'
Sharp frowned. 'Not forgetting to make time to go home
to eat and rest,' she reminded him.
Knox gave her a pointed look. 'Isn't that the pot calling--'
He stopped abruptly and Sharp laughed.
'The kettle black? It's all right, Tony, you can say it. It's
an idiom, not a racist slur. And yes, I suppose you have a
point.' She started gathering up the papers on her desk. 'About
time I showed my face at home too.'
They walked out of the building together. 'Has Charlie Glover
got any further today with Kirsty Fullerton?' Knox asked.
'Not that he's said,' Sharp replied. 'The kids have all just
clammed up; a conspiracy of silence Charlie calls it, and I
think he's right. You know one of them, don't you?'
'Yes, my neighbour. It was his party.'
'A gentle word from someone he knows might help,' Sharp
suggested mildly.
'Yes, Boss. I'll look out for him.'

Giles Ridley-Coburn lived in exactly the kind of up-market
place Knox would have expected; a luxury pad in one of the
burgeoning developments around St Paul's Square in the
Jewellery Quarter. Knox found a parking meter bay in the
vicinity and walked past the trendy pubs and bars to the former
Victorian factory that had been refurbished as loft apartments.
Knox had never met face-to-face the man Mariner referred
to as 'the upper-class tosser', but he recalled the boss's chagrin
when Giles had come into Katarina's life. Having personally
freed her from forced prostitution, Mariner had seen it as his
singular mission to protect the girl against anyone and everything,
so was not impressed when Giles had appeared on the
scene. But unusually on this occasion the boss's instinct had
let him down, and he had eventually been forced to concede
that Giles was 'an all right upper-class tosser'.
This evening, however, although the manners were still in
evidence, Giles was distinctly cagey, hanging back at first
behind the barely opened door.
'I'm looking for Katarina,' Knox said, after introducing
himself. 'Can I come in?' Giles deliberated for a few seconds
before reluctantly stepping back to allow Knox across the
threshold. Once inside the flat, the reason for his reticence
became obvious. Even by bachelor pad standards the place was
a mess and while Knox stood taking it all in, Giles went hurriedly
round picking up stuff at random and stowing it away. He wasn't
quite quick enough to kick a stray syringe under the sofa and
out of sight. Knox let it go for now; he didn't think Giles was
diabetic, but neither was he sure, and he remembered that
Mariner had been caught out by false assumptions before.
Having offered a drink, which Knox declined, Giles managed
to create enough space for them to sit down awkwardly opposite
one another on the sofa and arm chair respectively. Tall and
healthy-looking with a mop of dark hair and perfect teeth, Giles
was the kind of man for whom life had gone well. But tonight
the composure was unravelling and he struggled to meet Knox's
eye for more than a passing second. 'I haven't seen Kat for a
couple of days,' he admitted. 'We had a bit of a . . . row the
other night and she left my flat late at night and in a strop.'
He scanned the room as if hoping she might suddenly appear.
'I haven't seen her since.'
'What was the row about?' Knox asked. 'It wasn't about
the state of this place, by any chance?'
'Broadly speaking,' Giles admitted, picking at a nail. 'Kat's
been spending quite a bit of time here. We had more or less
moved in together and it was going really well. Then a friend
of mine, Hugo, turned up a couple of weeks ago. He was in
a hole and needed help, so he's been crashing on my sofa. He
and Kat haven't exactly hit it off.'
'Who is this Hugo, apart from being a complete slob?'
'Just a guy I hooked up with. We went to the same school,
though he's older than me. I thought he was a laugh, turns
out he's a bit of a nightmare.' He tried a nervous smile.
'So ask him to leave,' Knox suggested.
T can't,' Giles said awkwardly. 'It's . . . complicated. Our
parents know each other and, well, you know . . .'
Knox didn't really. The Liverpool comprehensive he'd gone
to wasn't big on brotherhood or loyalty and your mum and dad's
friends weren't in any way relevant. And that wasn't his concern.
'Has Kat been in touch with you at all since she left?' he asked.
'No. We don't live in each other's pockets,' Giles said. 'I'd
quite like to, as it happens, but Kat isn't like that. She's more
independent.'
Mariner would be delighted to hear it, thought Knox.
'There's a possibility that the man Kat helped to put in prison
might have accomplices looking out for her,' he said.
'Oh shit.'
'Yes, oh shit. Though I notice you don't sound that surprised,'
Knox observed.
Giles licked his lips. 'Things haven't been easy with Hugo
around, but even before he showed up I had a feeling that
something was bothering Kat. She was always security
conscious, but it was starting to border on the obsessive.'
'In what way?'
'Locking and re-locking the doors and windows, double and
treble checking them, even during the day sometimes. I've
even started wondering if she might have some OCD thing
going on. And you can see the street from up here. She started
spending ages just staring out.'
'As if she was watching for someone?' Knox asked, going
cold inside.
'It could have been, yes,' Giles admitted. 'When I first met
Kat she used to have this fear that the men who snatched her
in Tirana would come back for her, and punish her for what
she did, for escaping. On one level she knew that it was irrational
- the likelihood of it happening again. I just thought
she was succumbing to those fears again; being paranoid.'
'Wouldn't you be scared if you'd been through what she
had?' Knox asked, perhaps a little harshly. Kat had effectively
been snatched from her home city, trafficked from her native
Albania and sold into prostitution, until Granville Lane officers,
he and Mariner among them, had rescued her along with others
in a dawn raid on the property where she was being held.
Prats like Giles couldn't begin to imagine what that might be
like, or what deeply rooted effects it could have.
'Sorry, poor choice of word.' Giles was contrite. 'But logically
Kat knew the chances of them picking her up again were
slim. Apart from anything else she's wise to them now.'
'You make it sound like she'd have a choice,' Knox pointed
out.
'Butsurely those men are either dead or in prison,' said
Giles.
'They don't operate in isolation,' Knox said. All the speculation
wasn't really helping. 'The point is, I need to find her,' said Knox.
'If she's not at her flat or here, where else might she go?'
Giles shook his head. T don't know. I think she has friends,
or even just contacts in London, but I don't know where
exactly.'
'Do you have a key to her flat? I need to have a look round,
see if she's left any indication of where she might have gone.'
'Yes, sure.' Giles got up and went over to a pot that stood
on a wooden chest. Lifting the lid, he took out a handful of
keys, separating out one from the others.
'Do you keep all your keys in there?' Knox asked, taking
the proffered one from Giles.
'Normally, yes.'
'Does Kat put hers in there too, when she stays here?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'Does your friend Hugo know that?' asked Knox.
The look told him enough.
'What does he look like, your friend Hugo? Long hair,
growing himself a beard?' Knox persisted.
'Why?' Giles was suspicious now.
'A couple of days ago I disturbed an intruder at DI Mariner's
place. He ran off and was too fast for me, but someone's been
in there before and has given it a going over. The first time I
went in stuff was missing and the kitchen was a tip, but there
was no indication of a forced entry. Does Hugo know that Kat
has a key to that house?'
'I suppose he might have worked it out.'
'Jesus Christ.' Knox glared at Giles. 'Well then, I'll want
a word with him too.' Knox gave Giles a business card bearing
all his contact details. 'If you don't want to end up in a bigger
mess than you are, you'll let me know immediately either of
them turns up. Do you understand?'
'Yes, of course.' Fumbling to remove Katarina's key from
his own bunch, and handing it over in exchange, Giles looked
as if he was about to cry.

On his way home Knox stopped off for a pint and to pick up a
takeaway, so that by the time he drove into his cul-de-sac it was
late. It wasn't bin collection day, so he was surprised to see Jean
walking around her garden, gathering up what looked like
rubbish. Getting out of his car, he went across to her. 'What's
going on?'
'Can you believe this?' she said, clearly in some distress.
She was clutching an assortment of cellophane-wrapped
flowers and teddy bears. 'People keep leaving them, as if
this is some kind of memorial! I feel as if I'm being accused
of something.'
'Here, I'll get rid of them.' Knox took them from her,
noticing how tired and drawn she looked. 'How's Michael
coping with it?' he asked.
She managed a brief smile. 'It's opened his eyes to the
reality of drugs,' she said, 'at least for the moment. He's talking
to me a bit too. I suppose that's one good thing that's come
out of it. Did you know he was smoking weed?'
'I had an idea,' Knox said.
'I don't know if people have been having a go at him too.
He's stopped going out so much and now I'm worried that he
might be getting isolated. How ironic is that?'
'Are his mates okay with him?'
'I don't think anyone's blaming him, if that's what you
mean.'
'Who are they blaming?'
'I don't know.' She glanced away down the street, and Knox
wondered if she might know more than she was telling him.
Kirsty had issues anyway. I think they're putting it partly down
to that. The inquest is next week I understand.'
'Well, tell Michael that Nelson could still use some exercise,
any time he feels like it.'
'Thanks, I will.'
Jean disappeared into her house, and as Knox crossed back
over the road an unfamiliar car drew up outside, driven by a
middle-aged woman. He waited until she got out, along with a
girl of about ten, andNdeposited a bunch of flowers and a candle
on the grass verge. Taking his warrant card out of his jacket
pocket, Knox stalked back over the road just as they were
returning to their car, gathered up the flowers and thrust them
back at the woman, making sure she got a good look at his ID.
'This is not a memorial site,' he said. 'If you want to pay tribute
to Kirsty Fullerton, go to her funeral or post a message on
Facebook.' He was about to walk away, but stopped to ask,
'How did you know Kirsty?'
The woman looked mildly uncomfortable. 'Oh, we didn't
know her personally. But we saw it in the paper and on the
news.'
Knox walked away, shaking his head in disbelief.



TWENTY-NINE


Day Nine



Despite the electrifying proximity of the near-naked
Suzy Yin, Mariner must have dozed off again, because
when he next awoke it was light and he could hear
rooks cawing outside the window. The bed was empty beside
him, and getting up to go to the bathroom he found a note on
the kitchen table telling him to help himself to breakfast and
stay as long as he wanted to. But without her presence the
place was much less inviting and by the middle of the morning
he was back at the pub.
Climbing the stairs to the landing Mariner came face to face
with Megan. For a moment he wondered why she was lurking
there, until he realized she was waiting for him.
'You're a policeman, aren't you?' she said timidly. 'I'm
worried about Joe - Mr Hennessey. He hasn't been to breakfast
for the last two days.'
'No law against having a lie-in,' Mariner pointed out, then
seeing her distressed expression immediately regretted his
flippancy. 'You mean you haven't seen him at all?'
'No, and he's not answering his phone. What do you think
I should do? I mean, I know he's a guest here and doesn't
have to answer to anyone . . .'
'He is a witness though.' Mariner frowned. 'The police
won't want him going AWOL.' She stared at him blankly.
'They won't want him to leave without letting them know.
When did you last see him?'
'Monday lunchtime. He had a drink and a sandwich in the
bar. We were going to spend the afternoon together, but then
he suddenly said he had to go out.'
'Did he say why?'
'No, but it's happened before. Sometimes the weather conditions
are just right for taking photographs, or mean there's
more chance of seeing the falcons.'
'You haven't seen him at all for two days? What about his
car?'
'It's gone from the car park.'
'Are you sure he hasn't just moved on?' From what little
Mariner had seen of Hennessey he could imagine that to be
his style and Megan's was a heart just waiting to be broken.
'If he has, Dad will be annoyed. He hasn't paid his bill.'
Her eyes glistened. 'He said he liked me. I'm sure he wouldn't
have gone without saying goodbye.'
'No, I'm sure you're right,' Mariner said. In truth he was
anything but sure. Hennessey was an attractive young red
blooded male. The most likely explanation Mariner could think
of was that he had met another woman, someone who was a
bit less needy than Megan, and had shared her bed for the last
couple of nights (he would have bet a week's wages that
Hennessey wasn't plagued with any difficulties in that department).
But that wasn't at all what Megan wanted to hear.
'Have you got a spare key to his room, and a pair of rubber
gloves I could borrow?' he asked her. She nodded to both.
'Let's have a quick look to see if he's left anything behind,
and if there's any clue to where he might have gone.' All of
which, strictly speaking, was ethically questionable, given that
Mariner was off-duty, but he was being pragmatic. Megan
appeared to be quite a highly strung young woman and Griffith
had enough on his plate already without worrying about a
misper that might not be. This could save him a wasted journey
and time he didn't have.
Turning the key in the lock of Hennessey's room, Mariner
had a'sudden gruesome flashback to his discovery of Jeremy
Bryce, but on pushing open the door he exhaled. Hennessey
wasn't there in any shape or form, but he had left a lot of stuff
behind, and it looked to Mariner at first glance as if the room
had been turned over.
'He's not a very tidy man,' Megan said from over his
shoulder, anticipating his thoughts. It was quite an understatement:
stepping into the room Mariner had to pick his
way over clothing, magazines and an impressive collection
of empty beer bottles. It didn't appear to be work that was
keeping Hennessey out; if he had gone off on a photography
expedition, he had neglected to take the crucial equipment
- his camera bag with the camera body and half a dozen
different lenses was still sitting on the floor. Mariner thought
about cameras and how easy it was for them to get someone
into trouble, should they be pointing in the wrong direction.
A notebook-style laptop on the desk was switched off and
closed, but Mariner knew better than to tamper with that at
this stage. At first glance there seemed no sign of Hennessey's
wallet or phone, so using only his gloved fingertips Mariner
eased open the camera bag, but there was nothing in there
either.
'I still don't think there's anything to worry about,' Mariner
said to Megan. 'But I'm going to just let DI Griffith know.
Can I leave you to lock up?'
Her eyes widened. 'You think this is bad too, don't you?'
'I'm sure there will be a simple and innocent explanation,' said Mariner, not 
entirely truthfully. 'But Mr Hennessey is an
important witness and DI Griffith does need to know where
he can get hold of him.' She'd have to make of that what she
liked. Mariner hadn't overlooked Joe Hennessey as a possible
suspect. If not at the pub, then where was he on Monday night
when Bryce was killed? And why had he disappeared? At the
back of his mind Mariner had always acknowledged to himself
that he could have misread the reason for Hennessey's panic
in Plackett's Wood, when Theo Ashton's body was found. Fear
and guilt could present in exactly the same way, regardless of
the reasons behind them, and it didn't take too much imagination
to see Megan lying, or perhaps stretching the truth to
provide Hennessey with an alibi. In the privacy of his room, Mariner got on the 
phone to Griffith.
'Did Joe Hennessey let you know that he was moving on?'
Mariner asked.
'Not that I'm aware of,' said Griffith.
'Well, this might be nothing, but he hasn't been seen for a
couple of days,' Mariner went on.
'Oh, Christ.' Mariner could hear the weariness in Griffith's
voice.
'There may be no need for concern,' Mariner said. 'His car
has gone from the car park. I took the liberty of having a
quick look around his room - don't worry, I didn't interfere
with anything. He's left some of his stuff behind and I couldn't
at first glance see a phone or wallet, so it could just be that
he's gone away for a day or two and plans to come back.' He
lowered his voice. 'Megan here is pretty intense. He may have
just needed some time to himself.'
'Might he have gone on a longer expedition?' Griffith asked.
'Not to take photographs,' Mariner said. 'He's left the
camera equipment behind.'
'And now he's disappeared,' said Griffith. 'This I could do
without.' There was a momentary pause while Griffith gathered
his thoughts. 'Ordinarily it wouldn't matter of course, Hennessey's
life is his own, but I did specifically ask him to notify us of
any movements. He didn't seem to have a problem with that.'
'He might have just forgotten,' Mariner pointed out. 'He
seemed a relaxed sort of guy.'
'I'll send over a couple of lads, just to give his room the
once over. They can talk to Megan as well. She might have
some idea of what he's really up to.'
'You can try but she was the one who alerted me. Wherever
he might be, it doesn't seem as if he's let her in on it.'
'Have you got the details on his car? I'll get my boys to
keep a look out for it.'
Mariner passed on the make, colour and registration as
Mean had given it to him. It was unremarkable; the kind of
car that would blend in. 'If he's taken his phone with him it
might help you to locate him, as long as he's not in a dead
area.'
'The way my luck's going? What are the chances of that?'
Griffith said wryly.
'Like I said,' Mariner reassured Griffith, 'it's probably
nothing at all; he may well show up again at any time. I just
thought that given what else is going on around here and his
proximity to it, you wouldn't want him going completely off
the radar.'
'Thanks,' said Griffith. 'I appreciate it. And you'll let me
know if he shows up again?'
Mariner assured Griffith that he would.

In the event Ryan Griffith himself came down to supervise
the search of Hennessey's room. Mariner had returned to his
own room along the landing by now, but he heard voices and
the heavy footfall on the stairs. Shortly afterwards there came
a knock on Mariner's door. It was Griffith.
'Anything?' Mariner asked.
'Not much more than you already told me. But you might
want to come and have a look at this.'
Mariner followed Griffith down the landing to Hennessey's
room, where he nudged the wireless mouse that sat beside the
laptop on the little wooden desk. 'It seems Mr Hennessey is
interested in a little more than the wildlife.'
The screen revealed dozens of folders of photographs, many
of which seemed to relate to the locality; they were simply
labelled with dates, all of them in the last couple of weeks.
Griffith double-clicked on one of the folders. It contained a few
close-range shots, but none of them were of wildlife, nor even
any particular subject that Mariner could see. If anything they
just seemed to be random shots of the village and its inhabitants.
'From what I can determine so far, the early stuff seems
to concern the village itself and then moves on to the farm.
Later ones seem to centre on Gwennol Hall. I'd love to get into
the hard drive to see what else is on here, but if we start poking
around that and Hennessey shows up again, he'll probably sue.'
'Good old data protection,' said Mariner grimly.
'If he's trying to disguise his real intentions he's been pretty
smart about it,' said Griffith. 'There's such a wide range of
pictures on here that it would take an age to figure out what his
actual target is.' Mariner could see long-range shots of a helicopter
and some passengers getting off. Further scenes had been
captured of the farm, including, Mariner noticed, his conversation
with Willow. Mariner suddenly wondered if Hennessey held the
same suspicions about Abbey Farm that he did.
'So what the hell is he doing out here?' Griffith was thinking
aloud.
'Based on this folder, I'd start with Shapasnikov,' said
Mariner.
'Any particular reason?' asked Griffith.
Mariner indicated a couple of the pictures that had caught
his eye. They were a sequence of shots recording the arrival
of Shapasnikov's helicopter, with Shapasnikov walking out to
greet his guests. 'That might be one good reason,' he said,
pointing to a man alighting from the chopper.
'I understand Shapasnikov made much of his fortune out
of gas and oil. Is there a reason he's cosying up to the energy
secretary, do you think?'
'Well, when Hennessey shows up again he'll be able to
enlighten us himself,' said Griffith, optimistically. 'Anyway,
aside from being desperate to get out of that MIU, one of the
reasons I wanted to come down here is to run a couple of
things by you.' He looked at Mariner. 'Have you eaten? I'm
starving. Want to grab a sandwich?'
They went down to the bar where Ron Symonds found them
a private corner and brought them some food including bowls
of chips hand cut from Abbey Farm organic potatoes. Griffith
waited until Symonds moved away before saying: 'We've been
up to the byre Jeremy Bryce told you about. He was right,
there's plenty of evidence that someone has been living there,
probably for some days, and fairly recently judging from the
dates on some of the food packaging. And we could have had
a breakthrough. Screwed up and stuffed into a crevice we found
a set of waterproofs covered in what looks like blood. They've
gone to the lab. We're also looking at a burglary at a holiday
home about twelve miles west of here. We're not sure yet if
that's at all related, but if whoever was hiding out at the byre
escaped on foot, they may have stopped off there too.'
'But going west? If it's someone who followed me out here
from the Midlands, wouldn't we expect them to go back the
way they came?'
199


'Like I said, the break-in is probably no more than coincidence.
But we also found this at the byre.' Putting down his
knife and fork, Griffith fished in his inside jacket pocket and
produced an evidence bag, which he passed to Mariner. Mariner
stared at it blankly for several seconds, trying to make sense
of what it contained. It was a white pamphlet with a photograph
on the front of a smiling young woman. Anna. 'That's the
funeral I was at last week. She was my . . .'
'I know,' said Griffith. 'Tony Knox filled me in.'
'But I don't get it,' said Mariner, baffled. 'How the hell
could that be there?'
'Who else knew that you were coming out to Wales after
the funeral?' asked Griffith.
'No-one,' said Mariner. 'I mean, my gaffer, DCI Sharp, but
literally no-one else. I didn't even tell Tony Knox or DC
Khatoon until I was leaving.' Mariner thought back to the
journey over to Tregaron. T might have been followed though.'
He told Griffith about the SUV. 'At the time I thought I must
be imagining things, but maybe I wasn't.'
'You said there was a Range Rover hanging around the
village the other night too.'
'That may have belonged to Shapasnikov. He's got a couple
of those in his garages.'
'Okay, so that might account for that one,' Griffith said.
'But was there anyone at the funeral you didn't recognize?'
Mariner grunted. 'Loads of people. Anna had only recently
moved out there from Birmingham, but she'd already picked
up a whole new set of friends. In fact it was a perfect funeral
for anyone who wanted to blend in; new friends would
assume that any strangers were from her old life and vice
versa.'
Griffith was studying the order of service. 'Anna Barham,'
he said, as if testing out the name. 'She was in the job?' he
asked. It was a reasonable assumption.
'No.' Mariner shook his head as if trying to shake off the
memory. 'She was my ex-girlfriend. We'd lived together for a while. I was still 
. . . very fond of her.'
Then it came to Griffith. 'My God. She was the girl involved in that incident 
off the M5, wasn't she?'
'Yes,' said Mariner, and the old familiar pain in his chest
that had lain dormant for a couple of days chose that moment
to cut through him with renewed intensity.
'Jesus, I'm sorry,' Griffith said. 'It was a well-publicized
case, wasn't it? It would have been easy for anyone to get
information about her funeral. Would it have been reasonably
expected that you would be there?'
'Anyone who knows anything about me would put it
together. This isn't the first time I've wondered about Goran
Zjalic's reach either. At the time I thought that he might have
had something to do with Anna's murder; that perhaps it was
more than just a random attack. I'd met Anna in the city that
day and if I was being watched . . .'
'Didn't they have a couple of blokes in the frame for her
killing?' asked Griffith.
'Yes, but there hasn't been enough evidence to arrest,'
Mariner said.
'It was Hereford, wasn't it?'
'Very near there.'
'My old stamping ground.'
'Elena told me you were SAS.'
'I still have a few mates out that way. If you think there's
anything I can do . . .' He let the sentence hang.
'Thanks,' said Mariner, briefly wondering what he had in
mind. 'Anyway,' he said, pulling himself together. 'This isn't
helping you.'
'This man Zjalic, he's into organized crime?'
'Everything you can imagine,' Mariner said. 'Has anyone
come forward to claim Jeremy Bryce?' he asked suddenly.
'Not yet. The mocked up photo isn't ideal, but even so . . .'

'Yeah.' Griffith tucked the funeral brochure back into his
pocket. 'Although strange that no-one should come forward.'
'Well if you get stuck there's always the locket.'
'Locket?'
'I found it in the footwell of my car the morning after I
gave Bryce a lift. It's a gold locket, like a woman or child
might wear around their neck. I didn't get round to giving it
back to him, so it's still in my rucksack. You must have it. It
contains a lock of his daughter's hair. Something happened to
her, but again, he didn't get the chance to tell me.'
'You mean he was hiding it?'
'No, it was just late at night when we had the conversation.
The timing was wrong. It's a long shot, but if hers was some
kind of unnatural death there might be something on record,
and it would be a start.'
'It would. I'll get someone on to it.' Griffith looked momentarily
sheepish. 'We should be able to let you have all your
stuff back soon.'
'Whenever you're ready,' said Mariner. 'And let's hope that
in the meantime Joe Hennessey decides to show his face again.'



THIRTY



Tony Knox had learned that wherever Kat might be she
was still accessing her bank account. At least he hoped
it was her. When he finished work on Wednesday he
went back to her apartment building. As he was inserting the
key in the door he noticed that the lock had been patched up,
as if it had broken, or been smashed. He tried not to worry
too much about that, but opening the door he walked into
something odd, as if a burglar with a conscience had been at
work. Drawers and their contents had been pulled out, but
haphazardly replaced again. There was no sign of a handbag
or phone or any of the personal items that women were in the
habit of carrying round with them, nor was there much evidence
from the kitchen that anyone had cooked or even eaten there
for some time. The place had a strange feel to it and it wasn't
good. Learning nothing from it, Knox let himself out again
and as he stepped into the hall he heard a door nearby click
shut, very carefully. He walked along the passage to Saira's
apartment and rang the doorbell. There was no response.
'Saira,' he called impatiently. 'It's DS Knox. I know you're
there, I heard you close the door.' He was rewarded by the
door opening just a crack.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I knew it was someone in Katarina's flat,
but I didn't know who.'
'Can I come in?'Knox asked.
'All right,' she said, though she didn't sound too keen.
They sat across from each other on Ikea reclining chairs.
'How long ago was Kat's flat broken into?' Knox asked.
It hit the spot and she blushed. 'About a couple of months
ago.'
'And in the circumstances you didn't think that was worth
telling me?'
'Kat made me swear not to tell anyone . . .'
'Even someone who's trying to help her?'
'I . . .'
'It's all right,' said a voice from behind where Knox sat.
'I'll take it from here.' Knox spun round to see Katarina
standing in the doorway. 'Is my problem, so I must explain.'
Katarina looked a very different young woman from the
one Knox had first met. Today her hair was healthy and strong,
growing down to her shoulders, her face had filled out a little
and she had a hint of a tan. But the haunted look that Knox
remembered so well had returned to her eyes.
'That would be a good start,' he said, unsure whether to
feel relieved that she was here in front of him, clearly safe
and well, or annoyed that he had been led a dance. 'So, what's
going on, where have you been?'
Katarina came to sit beside Saira, who immediately took
her hand in a gesture of support.
'I went to see my friends in London, just for a short time,'
Katarina said. Maybe it was having been among fellow
Albanians but Knox noticed that her accent was more
pronounced today. T had to go, to get away from Giles and
mostly from his friend Hugo.'
Knox shook his head in disgust. 'I've met him, although
we weren't exacjtly introduced. He seems like bad news all
round. You were worried about the drug-taking?'
She nodded. 'When Giles first brought him to his place I
thought he was an okay guy. Right after he came Giles said
he has to tell me something, and Hugo confessed that he has
been addicted to heroin but he is trying real hard to get clean.
Giles says he needs somewhere to stay away from that shit,
so he is going to live with us. From the start I didn't trust
him. He was living with Giles and eating his food, watching
his TV, but he didn't offer any money and soon I realize he's
taking drugs again. Giles is out at work all day, but sometimes I came back in 
the afternoon and I would see what Hugo has
been doing. Money and things start to disappear from the flat
and sometimes he stays out all night. I tried to talk to Giles
but he says he has to help his friend. One day I came home
and Hugo is rushing round the flat in a panic. He says I have
to help him. There are some men after him but he doesn't
know why. He thinks it might be his dealer made a bad deal.
I try to find out what men, but he says I won't understand.
They are from Tirana. Is a big shock. Now I think maybe they
are not after him, but they are after me. The next day I came
home to get some things and my door is broken down and
my flat is wrecked. I was afraid. I had to go away.'
'Why didn't you call Tom?' Knox asked. 'He could have
helped you; we both could.'
She stared down at her hand, twisting a ring around her
middle finger. 'Tom has already been too good to me. I didn't
want to get you involved again. I don't want him to think I
can't take care of myself.'
'I think Hugo took your key to Tom's house and has been
hiding out there,' Knox said. T went back a couple of days
ago and it was trashed too.'
'Oh God, is my fault.' She looked up at him, distraught.
'It might not be,' said Knox. 'Tom has been caught up in
some stuff out in Wales. There's a possibility that someone is
after him and they may be after you too.'
T don't want to go back to my flat. Hugo has been there
and he might have made a new key.' She shuddered. 'He knows
some bad people.'
Knox was thinking on his feet. Partly he was imagining
what Mariner would do. 'You can come and stay at my place
for a couple of days, at least until you can get the locks changed
on your flat,' he said. 'It's right away from here and I can
keep an eye on you.'
'Thank you.' Both girls looked relieved and Knox realized
at that point the risk that Saira had been taking in helping her
friend. Knox waited while Kat collected together her things
then, as quickly as possible, they left.

Mariner had just seen Griffith on his way and was considering
where he might go for the afternoon, when the door of the
bar swung open and Suzy came in. For a moment he thought
she was going to avoid him, but then she came directly across
to where he was sitting. 'Can I get you a drink?' Mariner
asked.
'No, you're fine.' She sat down beside him on the edge of
the bench, but made no effort to take off her coat. 'I'm not
staying, I just came to apologize.'
'For what?'
'Last night.'
'No apology needed,' Mariner protested mildly, wondering
with some apprehension where this might be going. 'It was a
great stir-fry.'
'That's not what I meant.' She was finding it hard to look
at him. 'I shouldn't have come on to you like that. I realized
afterwards that I made some big assumptions about you, and
I shouldn't have.'
'What kind of assumptions?' Mariner was intrigued.
'Oh God, you're not going to make this easy for me, are
you?'
'I just don't understand,' Mariner said, genuinely baffled.
'What assumptions?'
She took a deep breath. 'Well, firstly that you're straight,
and secondly that you would have any interest in me. I'm
really quite embarrassed now. I made a fool of myself.'
'No, you really didn't,' said Mariner gently, but with a
growing awareness that he was going to have to somehow
explain his way out of this. 'You were right on both counts.
I am very straight and I am also attracted to you. But . . .
there's a complication.'
'You're married,' she smiled, suddenly understanding, 'or
at least in a relationship. See, I've thought through all the
possibilities.'
'No, it's not that either. It's an even worse cliche than that.'
She read his hesitation. 'Oh look, I'm sorry. If this is something
you don't want to talk about . . .'
'No, I owe you some kind of explanation at least,' said
Mariner.
'Is it to do with that "some other time"?'
'Sort of,' said Mariner, relieved that she was helping him
towards the obvious escape route. 'I was in a serious relationship.
But it ended suddenly, and not because I wanted it to,'
he said. So far so true. 'I'm still coming to terms with it. It
just doesn't seem like a good idea to get involved . . .'
'No, of course,' she said. 'I get it.' She got to her feet. 'I'll
let you finish your lunch in peace. I hope we can still be
friends?' she said hopefully.
'Of course,' Mariner said. 'When's your next day off?'
She shrugged. 'I could probably sneak some time off on
Friday.'
'Well, how about a walk then?'
'Okay, I'll see you Friday at ten. You can call for me.'
'Great.'
She headed towards the door. 'For the record,' she said,
hesitating in the doorway. 'It was only sex. I wasn't expecting
any long-term commitment.' A relieved Mariner stared after
her as she walked out of the bar, leaving him with a smile
and the sudden sense that an opportunity had been missed.

Knox must have picked up Mariner's message, because when
he got upstairs that afternoon he found a text to say that Kat
had been found, safe and well. Mariner rang him from his
room.
'Kat is fine, but her flat's been turned over too. She's come
to stay with me for a couple of days.'
'Good,' said Mariner. 'So where has she been?'
Knox told him about Giles' unwanted guest. 'I think she just
heard "Tirana" and panicked. It may have nothing to do with
Zjalic at all. Her flat has been turned over in the same way as
your house, but it sounds as if this Hugo has caused all that.'
'Any progress on the drugs thing with Charlie?'
'I haven't spoken to him or heard about any more developments,'
said Knox. 'But I have had a message from Rick Fraser
about your soil samples. It sounds complicated, so you may
want to give him a call yourself, get it from the horse's mouth.'
It was a good idea, and when he'd finished speaking to
Knox, Mariner rang the lab. Rick Fraser was typically laid
back, something that belied his thoroughness and the speed
of his thinking. 'How's it going?' he asked, as if this was a
social call.
Mariner wondered if Fraser knew anything about the situation
he was in. 'Fine,' he said. 'What have you got?'
'Two bags of soil, right? On the parsnips; on its own,' Fraser
checked.
'That's it,' said Mariner.
'Right. The soil on its own is just about chemical free,'
Fraser said. 'A bit of home-made compost but that's about it.'
The soil was from Elena's garden, so no surprises there. 'The
soil on the parsnips is a different story,' Fraser continued.
'Oh yes?' said Mariner in anticipation.
'There are compounds present there that are consistent with
most of the commercially available pesticides, and are used
all over the place.'
'Pesticides?' Mariner echoed. 'That doesn't sound very
organic'
'Depends on your definition of organic I suppose,' said
Fraser. 'But no, I wouldn't class them as particularly natural
or wholesome.'
'So what about this supposed magic formula that this guy
is meant to be developing?'
T didn't find anything magic or even unusual. There was
one weird thing though,' said Fraser, saving the best till last.
'The two soil types are completely different.'
'How do you mean?' asked Mariner.
'The sol on its own is a heavy, clay-based soil, of the type
you would expect in that part of Wales,' Fraser told him. 'But
the soil stuck to the parsnips is a much lighter, sandy soil. I'm
not an expert so I wasn't sure what that meant so I talked to
someone who is. She said that the parsnip soil is characteristic
of what you'd find in the east of the country, Norfolk or Kent;
those kinds of areas.'
'So what are you saying?'
'I'm saying that those parsnips were not grown where you
found them, nor anywhere near.'

Letting Katarina into his house, Tony Knox was suddenly
ashamed of the way he'd let things slide. Housework had never
been his forte. But Kat was so delighted to meet Nelson that
she seemed not to notice. He showed her where everything was and told her to 
make herself at home.
'I hope it won't be for long that I get in the way,' Kat said,
her English suffering under the stress of it all.
'You're not in the way,' Knox reassured her. The and Nelson
are glad of the company.'
'And Tom, he's coming back soon?' She seemed anxious
about it and Knox wondered if she realized herself how much
she missed his presence.
'I hope so,' he said. There was no option but to explain to
her what had been happening in Wales.
'But he is innocent!' she insisted touchingly, without
knowing any of the details.
'He is,' said Knox, mirroring her confidence. 'But he needs
to stay around there for now, in case they have to speak to
him again.'
'But he is safe?' She seemed almost afraid to say it.
'Yes, I'm sure he is,' Knox said, with more certainty than
he felt.
There was no reason to believe that anyone other than Knox,
Saira and Kat herself, was aware of where she had moved to,
but when the doorbell went it startled them both. 'Wait here,'
Knox said. Opening the door, he found Michael on the
doorstep.
'Wondered if Nelson wanted a walk,' the boy said awkwardly.
'That'd be great,' said Knox, keen to re-establish communication.
'Come through, he's in here.' Michael followed him
into the kitchen where Knox introduced him to Katarina.
'Can I come with you?' she asked, seeing what Michael's
plans were, 'then I will know where I can take him too.'
Predictably, Michael shrugged. Kat took it as encouragement
and they both set off with Nelson trotting along beside them.
Before they left Knox gave Katarina a spare key. T need to
go into work for a couple of hours to catch up with a few
things. Don't answer the door to anyone you don't know, and
if you're worried about anything, you call me straight away.'
Unnecessary precautions, he felt sure, but it made him feel
marginally better about leaving her.

When Mariner went downstairs, he found the pub uncharacteristically
deserted. Ron Symonds was on his own behind the bar
replacing clean glasses, replenishing the chiller cabinets and
preparing for the evening's business. 'Police have put people
off probably,' he speculated, casting around the empty room.
'Any sign of Hennessey?' Mariner asked, knowing the answer.
'Not yet, but I hope for his sake he turns up soon,' said
Symonds. 'He's not a bad young man to have around. What'll
you have?'
Mariner indicated one of the pumps and Symonds drew him a pint. Perhaps because 
it was quiet, for once the landlord had
his own drink on the go, and passing Mariner his pint, he
lifted it in a toast. 'Joe Hennessey,' he said.
'Joe Hennessy,' said Mariner, reciprocating. 'How's Megan
coping?' he asked.
'Not well, if I'm honest,' said Symonds. 'I don't know why
but Joe seemed to have taken a real shine to her and she'd got
very fond of him too. If he's done a runner she'll be gutted.'
'You get your veg from Abbey Farm, don't you?' Mariner
said conversationally, handing over the payment for his drink.
'We do,' said Symonds. 'We like to do our bit to support
the local economy.'
'So Willow sells direct to you, or is it part of the mail order
service?'
'Mail order? JQiat must be something new. I didn't know
he was into that too.'
The door swung open to admit a group of customers, and
Mariner hoped that the sudden rush might include the returning
Joe Hennessey, but when he retired to his room and the rather
hard bed, the Irishman still hadn't put in an appearance.
Day Ten



After breakfast on Thursday morning Mariner went up
to his room and had a look at his maps to try and
decide on a walk for the day. He peered out of the
window wondering how likely it was that the rain would hold
off, and noticed the Abbey Farm van parked outside. Ron
Symonds must have been taking delivery of his vegetables.
He studied the side of the van: 'Abbey Farm Organic Vegetables;
all products locally grown'. Not quite accurate after all, if
what Rick Fraser had learned was true. Something else Mariner
noticed: there was no email or website address given.
Today Mariner took the local bus a few miles up the valley,
with a view to walking back along the footpaths. He returned
to the Hart in the middle of the afternoon to find a police squad
car parked outside and officers loading evidence bags into the
boot. This wasn't going to be good. Eventually Ryan Griffith
appeared. He took Mariner to one side. 'We've found Hennessey,'
he said. 'Something about his disappearance was bothering me,
so I took your advice and had a trace put on his mobile phone
signal. His car had been parked at a picnic site off the road a
couple of miles up the valley. There was blood on the ground
immediately behind the car, so we opened up the boot. He'd
been stabbed, cleanly and fatally, in the chest.'
'Jesus,' said Mariner. 'Any idea when?'
'Not until the PM, but rigor's been and gone so I'd say he's
been there at least twenty-four hours. I've come to talk to
Megan again so that we can try to establish more precisely
his last known movements. As far as we know she was the
one to see him leave here on Monday afternoon but we're
hoping there might have been further sightings after that.'
Griffith walked over to the boot of the car and retrieved something
from inside. 'We're doing a more thorough search of his
room now, but we've already come across this.' The evidence
bag he held up for Mariner's inspection contained a small
business card: Joseph Hennessey, Private Investigator.
'We've also found a small stash of dope. It's not enough to
worry us too much, but one of my officers thinks it might be
the strong stuff, skunk. Not that I know the difference.'
'Skunk is more powerful,' Mariner said. 'Usually the plants
have been genetically modified. So Joe Hennessey definitely
wasn't here just for the wildlife,' he concluded.
'We still don't know what his main interest was though,'
Griffith said. 'We found his wallet at the scene but no mobile.
My guess would be that the killer took it, possibly because
there were incriminating calls or texts on it.'
'Like an arrangement to meet. Megan told me he went out
quite suddenly.'
'The big question is, who was Hennessey working for?'
said Griffith. Taking the packet out of his pocket and offering
one to Mariner, who declined, he lit up a cigarette.
Mariner agreed. 'If we can get to the bottom of that we can
understand why he was killed.'
'Either way this is shaping up like a professional job,' said
Griffith. 'And puts you in danger.'
'How do you work that out?'
'Someone has been tracking you from the point of Anna
Barham's funeral, employing Hennessey to report back on
your movements,' said Griffith. 'The two men killed first Theo
Ashton and Jeremy Bryce - were killed in error.'
'So why kill Hennessey?'
'Because you're still alive. Hennessey's intel wasn't accurate
enough. The killer, or more likely the man the killer is working
for, has blamed Hennessey and punished him for that, or has
decided that he knew too much to be allowed to live.'
'There is another possibility that would more easily explain
Theo Ashton's death,' said Mariner. 'I've been puzzling over
Abbey Farm since I first got here. Given the size of the plot
and the fact that Willow's magic formula is still, according to
him, in its experimental phase,' I've never understood how it
could possibly produce enough to sustain weekly market sales
and a mail order business and make the profit it does.'
'Go on,' Griffith encouraged.
'I had Tony Knox take some of the veg back to a lab for
analysis.' Mariner told Griffith about the test results. 'That got
me wondering then about what it was I'd really seen on the
farm the night after Theo Ashton was killed. I assumed I'd
seen crates of produce being loaded into a transit. It made sense
because the following day you told me about Willow's request
to get out a delivery.'
Tt adds up,' said Griffith, puzzled.
'Except I'm pretty sure there is no mail order operation,'
said Mariner. T checked with Ron Symonds first of all, and
he knew nothing about one.'
'He might not know everything.'
'But mail order these days is all done online,' Mariner
persisted. 'If you look at the contact details on the side of the
van, there's no email or website address.'
'So what are you getting at?' asked Griffith.
'That the whole organic veg thing is a scam,' said Mariner.
'Those crates that I saw being loaded into the transit were in
fact being unloaded. They were the crates of vegetables we
saw the next day in the new aluminium shed. Parsnips, like
the ones Tony Knox got analysed. Remember the logo on those
crates? It was Dutch. Willow made some crack about having
'acquired' the crates illegally, but that was to cover the fact
that the veg themselves are imported. You should contact that
company and find out what relationship they have with Nigel
Weller, because I think they're selling him cheap non-organic
vegetables in bulk, which he's then passing off as these home
grown organic veg and making a tidy profit from them. There is no magic 
formula, or even fertilizer.'
'The sly bastard,' said Griffith. 'I've never trusted that stuff.'
'That in itself is fraudulent, but what if Theo Ashton was
about to expose what was going on?'
'It would bring Willow's business and credibility crashing down around him and 
may well be enough to provide a motive for murder.'
'And if Willow thinks that both Hennessey and I saw something,
then Hennessy's murder is self-evident,' said Mariner.
'And Jeremy Bryce's?
'That could, as we first thought, be a case of mistaken
identity; him instead of me,' Mariner pointed out. 'I have been
sniffing around the farm quite a lot. Mainly innocently, as it
turns out, but Willow isn't to know that.'
'Joe Hennessey could have been directly involved,' said
Griffith. 'Seems he was pretty versatile. He was a photographer
of a kind; he syndicated photos to the national press. If he
had media connections then he might have been helping Theo
Ashton to put together a story.'
'It would explain the pictures of the farm on his laptop,'
Mariner agreed. 'Where was he based?'
'Looks like north London somewhere, so doesn't really help
us yet.' Griffith had smoked his cigarette down and stubbed
it out on the wall beside him before flicking the dog end into
the gutter. 'Either way, it's about time we went and had another
chat with Mr Weller.'
Much as he'd have liked to be, Mariner realized that he
wasn't included in that 'we'. 'Well, if there's anything I can
do . . .' he said instead.
'Sure. Just talking to people, keeping your eyes peeled,
would be good. If there's anything you find out before we do,
I'd be grateful.' In the circumstances it was the most that
Griffith could realistically offer.
As he was walking away, Griffith's phone rang and he pulled
it out to answer it. The call stopped him in his tracks. 'What?
Are you sure about that?' Mariner heard him say. Turning back,
he caught Mariner's eye, though he continued talking into his
phone. 'Well, I'll need confirmation, and if it is true, then there
needs to be a search of all places west of here. The CCTV will
need to be looked at again too.' Griffith paused, frowning, as
he listened to the speaker at the other end. 'Well, if that's the
case we've got somewhere to start. See if you can get hold of
the footage there too.' Ending the call, he pocketed his phone
and walked back towards Mariner. 'The search of this holiday
cottage has turned up an empty prescription medication bottle.
It belonged to Glenn McGinley.'
'Christ, are they sure?' But as he said it Mariner knew it
wasn't the kind of thing that anyone could mistake. 'So they've
been wrong all along in thinking he escaped to Ireland.'
213


'He must have set up a decoy,' Griffith said. 'I've just been
told too that a member of the public phoned in a sighting of
him at Aberystwyth station last Friday. They saw a man fitting
McGinley's description who looked in a bad way, but because
Caernarfon police were certain that he'd already boarded
the ferry by then, it wasn't taken seriously. Even with what
you've told me about Abbey Farm I don't think we can entirely
rule out McGinley any longer.'
Mariner didn't contradict him. He was having exactly the
same thought. Suddenly it turned everything on its head again.
'One of my constables, Millie Khatoon, has been convinced
all along that McGinley was headed down here,' he told
Griffith. 'I don't know what it might be, and I certainly don't
have any recollection of Glenn McGinley, but Tony Knox told
me that Millie has been working on trying to identify some
connection between McGinley and me.'
'It would be good to find out if there is one,' said Griffith.
He seemed to be considering something. 'I'll get one of my
men to drive you in to the town. We'll see if we can set up a
conference call.'

Tony Knox arrived in CID that morning to find a uniformed
PC waiting for him. 'I understand you've been looking for a
Hugo Westerby?' she said.
'That's right.'
She handed Knox a slip of paper with a number written on
it. 'That's the ward he's on at present, but you'll need to be
quick.'
'They're getting ready to ship him out?'
She gave the briefest shake of the head. 'Only on a mortuary
trolley. A bunch of girls on a night out fell over him in an
alleyway off Broad Street a couple of nights ago. He's had the
living crap beaten out of him by someone; he's got a fractured
skull and cerebral haemorrhaging among other things. If you're
planning to talk to him I wouldn't get your hopes up.'
Knox went straight to the ward at City Hospital where Hugo
was being intensively cared for. One of his CID colleagues from
Handsworth, Sue Jericho, was also there for the same purpose
- to talk to Westerby as soon as he regained consciousness,
through that prospect seemed unlikely. 'Bit of a mystery really
why he was attacked,' she said. 'It could have been robbery,
though the state he was in it's hard to imagine he was carrying
anything of much value, or that muggers would have been in
any way attracted to him.'
'You might be looking at something drugs-related,' said
Knox. 'He was a user and it's possible he'd got himself into
trouble with someone further up the food chain.'
'That would explain why they weren't interested in the
phone in his pocket,' she said. 'We managed to use that to
trace the next of kin.'
'Who's that?' Knox asked. He nodded towards the room
where Hugo lay, bandaged and wired up to several complex
looking machines, watched over by a young woman.
'His sister, Annabel,' said Jericho. 'The mother is around
somewhere too. Gone off to make a phone call I think. They've
travelled up from Gloucestershire. The mother admits that he's
dabbled in drugs in the past, but insists that he'd cleaned up
his act, had got a respectable job working in a bar, and was
back on the straight and narrow. Some of it might be true - he
had a security ID in his pocket - but the physical state of him
tells a different story.'
'Have you been in touch with his flatmate?'
'Didn't know there was one,' said Jericho.
'Giles Ridley-Coburn,' Knox said. He recited the details while
she wrote them down. 'I think he'll give you a more realistic
picture. He may even know something about what happened
here, and if he doesn't, at the very least he'll be wondering
where Hugo's got to. Either way I think you'll find out that our
friend Hugo was well and truly back on the hard stuff. I'm
pretty sure I caught him at it.' Describing the encounter at
Mariner's house, Knox peered in through the window again.
'Hard to tell under all that machinery, but I'm pretty sure that
it was him.'
'I won't break it to his mum or sister just yet,' she said.
Knox was inclined to agree. 'No point in making it any
worse for them.' He turned to his colleague. 'If he does come
round though, can you let me know? I'd like to talk to him.'
In the meantime, Knox did step in to take a closer look at
Hugo Westerby. The young woman looked up as he entered
the room and he raised his warrant card to identify himself.
For a couple of minutes Knox stood silently watching, before
Annabel said: 'This is my fault.' Her voice came out as little
more than a whisper. 'He called me and told me he was in
trouble. He wanted money; a lot of it.'
'Did he say what he wanted it for?' Knox asked, carefully.
'He owed it to someone. I know Mum thinks Hugo's clean,
but that's because he was. He had treatment and had kicked
loose from it. Then he came to Birmingham and got a job
working in a bar.' Across the hospital bed, she caught Knox's
expression. T know, not the ideal place for a recovering junkie
to work, but the job offers weren't exactly flooding in. To
begin with it was fine; Huey was doing well, making a lot of
money on tips and things. But it didn't take him long to find
out that the staff had a sideline in distributing what they called
"optional extras". He was invited to join in, except he decided
to set up his own informal distribution network.'
'Selling what?' asked Knox.
'Weed mainly, I think, but the strong stuff.'
'Skunk?'
'Yes. It was all done very discreetly and only for certain
customers. Then they started trusting Huey with the stash. I
don't know where it was kept, but he had access to it. And
Huey, being Huey, saw an opportunity.'
'To start his own business,' Knox guessed.
'That's about it, yes. It was so stupid. He took a large chunk
to sell himself and planned to use the profit to buy cheaper
stuff and replace what he'd taken.'
'That sounds like a dangerous game.'
'He got found out almost straight away, stupid idiot. They
came after him, ransacked his place. He managed to avoid
them at first but clearly they caught up with him.'
'Have you any idea who these people were?'
'I'm not sure that Huey even knew exactly.'
'And the name of the club?'
'Sorry, I only know it's some place in the middle of
Birmingham. Huey didn't tell me.'
Leaving Annabel at her brother's bedside, Knox went
out to Sue Jericho. 'What happened to Hugo Westerby's
possessions?'
'There wasn't much. Just the phone, security pass and some
other worthless crap.'
'That security pass. Do you remember which bar it was?'
'Yes, it was RedZone, the one on Broad Street. Good club,
we go there sometimes . . .'
'Thanks,' said Knox.
Outside the hospital Knox checked his mobile and found a
message from DCI Sharp asking him to return to Granville Lane
as soon as possible, but no later than two p.m. He managed to
make it with eight minutes to spare.



THIRTY-TWO



Knox went up to CID to tell Sharp about what he'd
learned. 'I think we can discount Goran Zjalic,' he
said. 'This is just some dispute between Hugo Westerby
and whoever these guys are. I think we'll find that the prints
found at Tom's house will match those at Katarina's flat. Any
Albanian connection is purely coincidental.'
T think you're right,' said Sharp, surprisingly. 'And from
what I've heard about these killings in Wales, we're looking
at an assailant who feels comfortable in the outdoors. There's
every reason to think that McGinley is at home in that kind
of environment.'
'McGinley?' Knox thought he must have misheard.
'Yes, you didn't know, did you? McGinley didn't make his
escape to Ireland after all. He's in mid-Wales, and there's strong
evidence to suggest that he's been in the vicinity of Caranwy
in the last few days. I needed you back here because we've
scheduled a conference call with DI Griffith and Tom for two
p.m. We need to share our information.' Getting up, Sharp went
to the door. 'Have you talked to Millie since you got back?'
'Not yet, no.'
'Well, I know you think she's been going off on one, but
she has turned up something interesting. I'll get her in here
now.'
Millie seemed reluctant to come in and Knox regretted having
been so dismissive before. She asked after Mariner and he
updated her. It was the appointed time for the conference call
so they went into the meeting room where the big screen showed
Ryan Griffith and Mariner. They all exchanged greetings.
'And congratulations, Millie,' Mariner added.
She blushed in response. 'Sorry, Boss, there never seemed
a good time . . .'
'I know,' said Mariner. 'Just make sure you take care of
yourself. You on light duties?'
'I will be soon, sir.'
'DCI Sharp said you've come up with something,' said
Griffith.
'I looked up Glenn McGinley's history,' said Millie. 'I
started on the premise that Tom - DI Mariner - and he had
crossed paths, but there was no obvious overlap from the DFs
arrest record and McGinley's convictions. So then I spoke to
DI Glenda Scott on Merseyside. Turns out that McGinley spent
quite a lot of time sounding off to an old guy undergoing
medical treatment at the same time he was. The old guy didn't
take much notice at the time, but of course then sees in the
news that McGinley was more than just talk. He says McGinley
was hell bent on what he perceived as revenge. Some of it
was for himself, but some of it was also what he called 'a
favour', so I started looking at who he might have spent time
with when he was inside. Again, nothing really stood out until
I remembered the riots we had two years ago at Winson Green
Prison. Because of them, some prisoners had to be temporarily
moved and McGinley ended up at Long Lartin for a month.
And guess who was also residing there at the time?'
'Goran Zjalic?' offered Knox.
'No, Frank Crosby.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Mariner.
'No, really, Frank Crosby,' Millie insisted.
'Crosby.' Knox had only met the man once and at that time
he hadn't been their suspect, but he knew that he and Mariner
had considerable history.
'But if this is true, how would McGinley, or for that matter,
this Crosby, know where DI Mariner is?' asked Griffith.
'Crosby's got plenty of contacts,' Mariner said. 'And he
knew Anna Barham's brother, Eddie. He could easily have
put McGinley up to all this and provided the backup. But
what I don't get is why? I didn't realize things had got that
personal.'
'Maybe they hadn't. This could all be in McGinley's head.'
'But even if it is, why the hell would McGinley agree to
do it for someone he barely knows?'
'I found out some other stuff about him,' Millie said.
'McGinley's father died after a scuffle years ago at a football
match. The other people involved were police officers. McGinley
has a pathological hatred of the police.' She paused. 'Oh, and
he's dying from liver cancer,' said Millie. 'He's got nothing to
lose.'
Everything went quiet as those facts were digested.
'It certainly explains a few things,' said Griffith eventually,
blowing out air. 'If McGinley's doing this as a favour, it means
he doesn't know you and is working on a description, or at
best some kind of photograph. It would explain why we might
have some cases of mistaken identity.'
'That's entirely possible,' Mariner agreed. 'If McGinley was
looking for a man walking, say, in Plackett's Wood, he could
feasibly have mistaken Theo Ashton for me, especially from
the back. There's a big age difference, I know, but we're of a
similar height, same sort of hair colour.'
'Could that investigator, what was his name, Hennessey,
have been working for McGinley?' asked Sharp. 'How long
had he been in Caranwy?'
'He was already established by the time I got here.'
'He'd been here since the Saturday,' said Griffith. 'And then
a day after you arrived, Theo Ashton was killed, right in the
area where you were walking.'
'When I came across him, Hennessey looked pretty shocked.
I assumed it was because of the discovery of the body, but
maybe it was seeing me alive and well.'
'He would have found out that afternoon that you were
staying at the hostel--'
'--and a couple of days later Bryce is murdered there.'
'We found a shortwave radio at the byre,' said Griffith. 'If
it belonged to McGinley he'll have realized pretty quickly that
he'd fucked up.'
'Or Hennessey communicated that to him,' said Sharp.
'So then he will have found out where I'm staying and tried
to do the job properly.'
'How does this fit with the SUV though?' Griffith queried.
'Crosby's contacts are many and varied,' said Mariner. 'It
would be like him to not just rely on one person.'
'There's a big difference in the MOs of all these attacks,'
Griffith pointed out.
'They're all knife attacks though,' Mariner countered.
'McGinley's first victims, the ones personal to him, were shot,
which would indicate he's more comfortable with firearms.
Maybe when he kills Theo Ashton it's the first time he's used
a knife. The attack smacks of desperation because he was
unsure of his weapon and working out in the open so needed
to get it done quickly and thoroughly. He does it over and
over to make it certain. With Bryce he thinks he's alone in
the hostel and has got all night to allow Bryce to slowly bleed
to death.'
'It's more of an assassination,' Griffith seemed to agree,
although the frown on his face seemed to belie it.
Even though he barely knew the man, the expression was a
familiar one to Mariner. Something wasn't adding up. 'What?'
he asked.
'It's just that from what little is known about McGinley it
sounds too organized, too resourceful. McGinley is small time;
an inadequate petty criminal. Would he go to these lengths
simply to earn the respect of someone like Frank Crosby?'
'Going out in a blaze of glory?' suggested Sharp. 'If he
wanted the notoriety, he's certainly achieved that, if only in the
short term.'
The discussion had come to its natural conclusion and DCI
Sharp ended the conference call, with an undertaking from
both localities that information would continue to be shared
at intervals, or as fresh intelligence came to light.
In Wales, Mariner was considering spending some time
exploring Llanerch, prior to returning to Caranwy, when
Griffith unexpectedly said: 'We're just about to interview
Willow about his organic produce business. Since you're here,
you might want to stop by an observation room?' Mariner
didn't need to be asked twice.
In the interview suite, Nigel Weller was looking decidedly
uncomfortable. Griffith didn't pull any punches. He disclosed
what had been learned through the soil analysis, keeping
Mariner's role out of it, then he asked a simple question:
'If you are a vegetable grower, why do you import in bulk
from the continent?'
Nigel Weller was a sensible man and knew when he had
been rumbled. He sighed heavily. 'I didn't set out to con
anyone,' he said. 'When I first moved out to Caranwy it was
with every intention of growing and selling organically
produced vegetables. On paper the fertilizer looked promising,
but it just didn't work. Oh, it altered the soil temperature a
little but not enough, so then I invested in the poly tunnels,
and finally the turbines to try heating them, but it was impossible
to ensure that they were adequately insulated. And the
plants needed warmth but they also needed more hours of
sunlight than were ever going to be realistic out here. I thought
infra red lamps might do the trick but they didn't. After a
couple of years it started to become clear that I was never
going to be able to create the right conditions, least of all
naturally. There had been some commercial interest in the
product and I'd even attracted a couple of sponsors, but they
started to become impatient, and what savings I had were
dwindling. But somehow I couldn't quite let go. I still had
some ideas about the fertilizer, so I just needed to make some
money to be able to continue a little longer. By this time I'd
become used to the life out here. It suited me and I didn't
want to lose it and that was quite apart from all the investment
I'd made in the farm.
'Then one day, by chance, I got chatting to a guy running
a successful stall at one of the markets and he let me into a
secret - that he supplemented his organic produce with non
organic. He said that if you were careful about how you did
it, nobody could tell the difference. I hadn't ever intended it
to be long term; it was just to generate some extra income to
keep us going until the fertilizer was perfected. He gave me
his contact in Holland, and that was when I set up the scam.'
'And was Theo Ashton planning to shop you?'
Theo?' Weller seemed genuinely taken aback by the suggestion.
'Of course not. He was like a son to me. He and Amber
have been happy at the farm. Why would he have wanted to
destroy what we've got?'
'Perhaps he'd been offered something more enticing by Joe
Hennessey,' Griffith suggested.
'The wildlife photographer? What's he got to do with
anything?'
'Hennessey was a jack of all trades; part photographer, but
he was also a private investigator and a journalist,' said Griffith.
'Maybe this was a story he was going to sell to the papers.'
Weller leaned back in his chair. 'I don't believe it,' he said.
'Theo would not have sold us out under any circumstances.
He and Amber had - have - too much to lose. I hold my hands
up to deception, but if you think I had anything to do with
the death of Theo Ashton, you are insane.'
Afterwards Griffith joined Mariner in the observation room.
'So what now?' asked Mariner.
'We'll turn him over to Trading Standards. It's all we've
got.'
'And Theo Ashton?'
'I don't think he would have killed the lad. And the bottom
line is that we have no evidence for it anyway.'
For Mariner the whole afternoon's experience had been very
like being at work again, so it felt strange when a squad car
deposited him at the White Hart and back into the middle of
his so-called holiday. He felt drained by the experience, but
tomorrow had the walk with Suzy to look forward to. He went
to bed and slept soundly.
Day Eleven



On Friday morning Mariner got his stuff together and
walked up to Gwennol at the appointed time. It was
bitterly cold again, with squalls of rain blowing in
from angry clouds. The door to the MIU was open but there
was much less activity going on up here now. It was always
the same when the heat began to go out of an investigation,
and Mariner didn't envy Griffith the task that lay ahead.
They'd gone from having no suspects to several, but none of
them was straightforward and they all lacked any sound
evidence. Climbing the wooden steps to Suzy's flat he
found her waiting for him, all ready in boots and walking
gear.
They set off this time across the Gwennol estate, round
the back of the hall and away from the village, crossing a
stone bridge on the far side of the valley that took them up
on to the hillside, branching off along a narrow track that
began to climb steeply. They kept up a steady pace and soon,
aside from the wind rustling the trees, the only sound was
that of their own breathing and the occasional rook cawing
overhead. After walking for more than an hour, they crested
the rocky outcrop of the hill and stopped to catch their breath
for a moment.
'Did your "some other time" girl like walking?' Suzy asked
suddenly.
Despite a sudden stitch of pain, the mere thought made
Mariner smile. 'Absolutely not,' he said. 'She could never
get her head round the attraction of it. Her idea of a walk
involved her credit cards - or, even better, my credit cards
- and armfuls of designer shopping bags. I took her up
Clent once, one of the little hills just outside Birmingham,
on a beautiful warm sunny day, and she asked me what
was the point, if all we were going to do was climb down
again.'
'So you didn't do any of this - walking holidays?'
'No. We were only together a couple of years and holidays
were one of the few things we ever argued about. To be honest
it would probably always have been like that. Anna liked to go somewhere and do 
things, which as far as I'm concerned,
means visiting places that other people consider worth going
to, and therefore by definition are the places I'd do anything
to avoid.' They'd done it once, he remembered; a long weekend
in Florence in July, when among other things, Mariner was
subjected to the torture of queuing for three hours in the
baking sun, along with hundreds of other tourists, for the
privilege of shuffling past Michelangelo's David. When they
finally got there, it didn't look to him any more impressive
in the flesh than the photographs he'd already seen in books.
He made the mistake of saying so. It hadn't been the most
successful of weekends - apart from the sex, he thought
ruefully.
Setting off again they began a descent into the valley
running in parallel to the Vale of Caranwy, joining the course
of a stream that cut a groove through the hillside. As the
path flattened out, the sound of trickling water increased and
they came into a small hollow, alongside a twenty-foot limestone
cliff rising up, with a deep tarn at its base. 'What do
you think? Perfect, isn't it?' Suzy cried, scrambling over to
the water's edge.
'Perfect for what?' Mariner asked naively, noticing that she
had already dumped her rucksack on the rocks and was fiddling
with her watch.
'A swim.'
'What?' Mariner thought he must have misheard her, even
though as he watched, she was starting to remove her outer
clothes.
'A swim,' she repeated. 'Haven't you ever done wild
swimming?'
'Not in bloody April,' said Mariner. Walking over to the water's
edge, he squatted down and dipped his fingers into the green
water. 'It's arctic' His voice came out as a squeak.
She'd sat down on a rock to take off her boots and gazed
up at him, rolling her eyes. 'Don't be so pathetic. It'll just be
a quick dip. I thought you liked the outdoors.'
'I do,' said Mariner defensively. 'But I also have an aversion
to bronchial pneumonia. I haven't brought a towel or anything.'
This time she openly laughed. 'My God, you're a wuss after
all. Who'd have thought?'
Ordinarily Mariner never felt a need to prove himself to
anyone, but for some reason that remark stung, so he put down
his pack and started removing his clothes with the same enthusiasm
he'd have had for a particularly invasive medical exam.
'This is complete madness,' he muttered, half to himself. 'We'll
die of exposure.'
'That's rubbish,' she shot back, stepping out of her very
skimpy underwear. 'It's great for your circulation and your
heart. The Scandinavians do it all the time.'
'But they have the sense to follow it up with a hot tub,' he
grumbled. Her olive skin contrasted ridiculously with his that
was pasty white; not that she'd have noticed. She was already
wading into the icy water, shrieking with the cold, and as Mariner
dropped his boxer shorts on to the pile he'd created he saw her
plunge into the water and swim strongly across the pond.
Stepping gingerly into the water, his feet sliding on the slimy
rocks, Mariner suppressed an anguished cry and the desperate
urge to run back out again. No chance of that. She was paddling
about underneath the cliff, where the rock shelved away. 'Look,
there's a cave under here!' she called, and disappeared
momentarily.
Mariner watched, his limbs starting to throb with the cold,
but she didn't reappear. 'Suzy?' he called uncertainly. 'Suzy!'
He started to thrash out across the pond, then suddenly she
reappeared, grinning broadly. 'It's a tunnel,' she said. 'It goes
right into the mountain.'
'There's a whole network of them underneath these hills,'
Mariner said, his teeth chattering. 'Can we get out now?'
They were in the water for no more than five minutes, which
was about four minutes fifty-nine seconds more than was
comfortable for Mariner, and as soon as he could he was out
again and pulling on his clothes.
'There, wasn't that exhilarating?' Suzy said, her head
popping through her thick sweater.
Now that it was over, Mariner had to admit that it was.
'Probably caught my death though,' he complained.
'Come here then, I'll warm you up.' Stepping over to him,
she put her arms around him, rubbing them up and down his
body. Mariner couldn't resist. He leaned forward and kissed
her, briefly on the lips, or at least that's what he intended, but
it was so good that he carried on, and then his arm was around
her, drawing her in to him.
'Well,' Suzy said, when finally he broke the kiss. 'That was
unexpected.' She looked at him. 'How far is it back to Gwennol?'
'Not far, if we take the shortest route,' said Mariner.
'All right then.'
Scrambling back down the path, they were making their way
across to the estate, when they came across a small stone cottage
set back behind a neat garden. 'It must be the Reverend
Aubrey's,' Mariner said, lowering his voice. 'He used to be the
local pastor, but left the ministry in disgrace some years ago.'
'What kind of disgrace?'
'The kind of disgrace the clergy is getting quite good at.'
'Looks like he's still unpopular,' Suzy observed. 'Someone's
thrown wood stain all over his windows.'
She was right; although Elena had given Mariner the impression
that things had died down, there was a transparent brown
liquid splattered over the window panes, standing out against
what were rather grimy net curtains, 'Could have been there
years,' said Mariner. 'An old guy living on his own, maybe
he doesn't clean his windows very often.' He didn't want to
pry, but he walked the few feet into the garden and ran a finger
down the glass to try and ascertain what the substance was.
And that was when he realized it wasn't on the outer window
but on the inside, and that it was the staining of the curtains
themselves that made it that odd translucent brown colour.
'Wait here,' he told Suzy firmly. Walking round to the back
of the cottage he found the back door of the property an inch
or so ajar. He pushed it gently and called out a cautious 'Hello?'
but as the door swung open, wafting out a cloying, sweet,
metallic smell, Mariner knew that there would be no response.
'What is it?' Suzy had followed him around the side of the
cottage.
'It's ugly,' said Mariner. 'Have you got your phone with
you?'
'Yes.'
'Carry on down to the estate and keep going until you can
get a signal and call the police,' he said. 'Ask for Ryan Griffith
if possible. That unfortunate habit of mine? It hasn't gone
away.'
Mariner didn't enter the cottage but sat and waited on
the grassy bank to one side. It was a long, cold wait and
he was relieved to finally see a mud-spattered blue Land
Rover bumping along the grassy track towards him. He let
Griffith and Blaine put on their forensic suits and go into
the cottage.
Griffith emerged a few minutes later and immediately lit up
a cigarette, before coming over to join Mariner. 'It is the
Reverend Aubrey,' he said. 'He's been shot multiple times,
including in the head. What you can see all over the windows,
well, you can guess. Either he was sitting in his arm chair
when the killer got in, or he was made to sit there.'
'How long ago?' asked Mariner.
'Hard to say exactly, of course, but it's a matter of days.
It's pretty gruesome. Scenes of crime are on their way.'
The two men sat in silence while Griffith smoked his cigarette.
'We've had news about Joe Hennessey too,' he said, at
last. 'The post-mortem has given us a ToD somewhere on
Monday afternoon.'
'Monday? So that's before Bryce was killed,' Mariner
remarked.
'May or may not be significant,' said Griffith. 'But it does
start to undermine our idea about Hennessy being killed for
incompetence. The other result we've had is from the waterproofs
found at the byre. The blood all over them is definitely
Theo Ashton's, so it's likely they were worn by his killer, but
we're pretty certain it wasn't Glenn McGinley who's been
sleeping rough there.'
'How can you be so sure?' asked Mariner.
Griffith raised his cigarette. 'McGinley's a chain smoker,
and there were no dog ends. I'm not sure that he'd have bothered
going round clearing them up after him.'
'Probably not,' conceded Mariner. 'But someone has been
hiding out there?'
'Oh yes,' said Griffith. 'Just a question of working out who.'

When Tony Knox arrived home from work on Friday afternoon
it was to find his house transformed. Kat was in the kitchen,
in rubber gloves, attacking his grimy stove. 'I hope you don't
mind,' she said, removing iPod ear phones. 'Is good for me
to do some cleaning and be busy. Is therapeutic'
There was a further surprise when the doorbell rang and
Knox opened the door on Michael, scrubbed, smart and bright
eyed and looking, as kids do, like an extra from the Magic
Roundabout, all pipe cleaner legs in skinny jeans and oversized
converse trainers. 'Is Kat here?' he asked hopefully, peering
past Knox and into the hall. T thought we could take Nelson
for a walk?'
Knox smiled to himself. He recognized a crush when he
saw one. Perhaps Kat did too, because she happily went off
with Michael, returning more than an hour later at the point
when Knox was starting to wonder if something had happened
to them. And perhaps it had, because, when they came into
the kitchen to give Nelson his post-walk treat, the air between
the two of them seemed heavy with expectation. It was Kat
who finally broke the tension. 'You should tell him now,
Michael,' she said. 'It's okay.'
'Tell me what?' Knox asked.
Michael was staring at the floor.
'He knows,' said Kat. 'Someone told him who gave Kirsty
the pill.
Michael looked up at her accusingly. T told you that in
confidence,' he said, his eyes shining.
'Kirsty died,' Kat reminded him. 'And she was your friend.
These are bad people and believe me, I know about bad. He
might do it again to another girl.'
'But they'll know it was me who grassed him up,' Michael
whined miserably. 'I'll get into so much trouble. My mum . . .'
'Your mum?' said Knox. 'What's she got to do with this?'
'Nothing. You don't understand.' Finally Michael dragged
his eyes up so that they met with Knox's. 'It was his mate,'
he spat with disgust. 'The man who gave the pill to Kirsty is
a mate of Mr Lennox.'
'Your teacher?' Knox checked that he'd understood correctly.
'Lennox brought him to the party,' said Michael. 'He was
meant to be there helping out, but all he did all night was hit
on the girls, especially Kirsty. Georgia told me, he kept trying
to get Kirsty to have a drink and when she wouldn't he offered
her a pill. He told her it wasn't like alcohol; it wouldn't do
her any harm. It would make her feel relaxed. When he saw
what it did to her, he legged it. He'd gone way before you got
there.'
'Does Mr Lennox know about this?' demanded Knox.
Michael shrugged. 'What if he did? Where does that leave
Mum?'
'Your mum can make her own choices,' said Kat. Stepping
over, she put an arm around Michael's shoulders. 'Well done,'
she said. 'It was the right thing to do.'
Leaving Kat and Michael watching TV, Knox went across
to Jean's house.
'Was there another teacher at Michael's party?' he asked.
Jean looked momentarily puzzled. 'Not a teacher, but Pete
brought a friend of his; a gym-buddy. He was extra help in
case anything got out of hand.'
There's an irony, thought Knox. 'Which gym?' he asked.
T don't know the name. One of those fancy ones on Broad
Street.'
From his own house, Knox rang Charlie Glover. 'You need
to go and talk to Peter Lennox again and ask him about his
mate.'

When Griffith had finished with him, Mariner chose to walk
back to Caranwy and stopped off at Gwennol to check that
Suzy was all right. She seemed now to have grasped
the enormity of what it was they'd found, and was visibly
upset.
'Would you like me to stay with you for a while?' Mariner
asked.
She smiled weakly. 'That would be nice. I know it's
completely irrational, but I keep thinking about what happened
to the pastor - that something or someone may still be out
there. Do you mind?'
'Of course not.'
'I'll make us something to eat.' But as it turned out, neither
of them had much of an appetite. So instead they just curled
up together on the sofa, watching the fire. After a while Mariner
couldn't resist putting out an arm to her and she leaned in to
him. 'I don't understand what's going on here,' she said. 'You
need to give me more of a clue.'
Mariner shifted uncomfortably. 'I haven't been entirely
honest with you.' He broke off. He'd never in his life discussed
anything like this openly with anyone and now didn't seem
like a particularly good place to do so for the first time.
He took a deep breath. 'My feelings about Anna only make
up half of the story.'
'So what's the other half?'
'When I said the other night that I might disappoint you,
that's exactly what I meant. I've had a couple of . . . unfortunate
experiences in the past, when I haven't been able to
. . . deliver, as it were. I never know if ... I really am afraid
I'll let you down.'
Suzy was mortified. 'Oh God, and now here I am, making
you talk about it. That's even worse, isn't it? But isn't there
something I can do to help?' Instinctively she put her hand
on his thigh, but immediately snatched it away again. 'Oh
God, I'm sorry. That's probably not a good idea.'
That made Mariner laugh. 'It's all right, it won't fall off.'
'And this Anna. Are you certain it's over?'
'It's definitely over,' said Mariner. And though he hadn't
planned to, he found himself telling Suzy about Anna's last
hours. T wasn't there of course but there are certain advantages
to being in the job and the Hereford police have been incredibly
cooperative in terms of allowing me access to witness
statements. I think the other woman involved was relieved to
be able to offload to me too, in the mistaken belief that doing
so might help to ease some of her own pain. She gave me
enough detail to be able to reconstruct the chain of events
reasonably accurately. Sometimes it just plays inside my head
like a silent movie on a loop.'
'Poor you,' she said. 'I can't imagine what it must be like
to lose someone so suddenly.'
Mariner finished up staying the night at Gwennol. This time
when Suzy moved over to his side of the bed he didn't make
any excuses, and Anna stayed away.



THIRTY-FOUR


Day Twelve



Still warmed from the pleasure of the night before, Mariner
strode out across the fields and back towards the pub.
He was feeling rather pleased with himself and with the
day, and decided to extend his route back via the footpath that
took him close to Abbey Farm. As he did so, he heard the
sound of a vehicle starting up, and craning his neck, he saw
over the hedge as Willow's van drove out along the track and
up to the farm gate. It stopped for Amber to get out and open
the gate, before moving off again. They were still apparently
going to market, to sell their fake organic produce. Mariner
watched the truck bounce along to the end of the drive and
make a left towards Llanerch. He thought about how calm
Willow had been, in the interview room at the police station,
despite having learned that his business was about to become
discredited and go down the pan. The only reason he could
have been that relaxed was because it didn't matter. He must
be seriously wealthy to get by. Even with the mark-up on
vegetable prices, the profit margins couldn't be that great.
Turning away, Mariner's gaze swept over the rows of poly
tunnels. He wondered if they would be retained to keep up
the illusion that the farm was still a working one, and that
Willow's product was a going concern.
For an instant, he thought he saw what looked like a faint
plume of smoke rising from one of the structures. That couldn't
be right. It couldn't be smoke, it must be steam. On a warm
day that might be explained by the sun heating off the moisture
of dew, but not on a chill, cloudy day like today. In a sudden
rush, Mariner recognized a possibility that both he and Griffith
had overlooked.
The new barn may be there for refrigerating produce but
what about those poly tunnels? Willow had said that they
couldn't be insulated, but what if he'd been lying about that?
Climbing the flimsy fence Mariner went first to investigate the
source of that vapour. Unfastening the flaps on the tunnel, he
hoped and expected to see the rows of green plants that had
eluded them in the barn, but he was to be disappointed for a
second time. What confronted him instead was a vast expanse
of brown and rotten vegetables with little sign of growth, very
like the parsnips Willow had shown him on that first day he
came here. The air inside the tunnel was warm and humid,
which explained the steam he had seen, but it didn't account
for why there seemed to be nothing of value growing in such
a carefully manufactured atmosphere. Kneeling down Mariner
examined the growth more closely. Was this simply some kind
of plant matter he'd never come across before? As he stooped
he felt a blast of warm air on his face, as if he was leaning
over a kettle spout, and lifting the vegetation he saw underneath
the steel grille of some kind of ventilation pipe coming up
from under the ground. Standing upright, he emerged from
the tunnel and looked over at the farm buildings, about two
hundred yards away. He thought back to the time he had
worked on the farm, and suddenly he knew exactly where that
steam was being vented from, and why. This was the moment
he should contact Griffith to report his suspicion, but the
principle of evidence-based claims was deeply ingrained in
his psyche, and having come unstuck before, this time he
wanted to be absolutely sure of what he thought he knew. It
wouldn't do any harm to just take a quick look first. Given
the circumstances he would be in and out of the farm without
anyone knowing.
Walking back up the track Mariner found, as expected,
that all was quiet. He went round to the back door of the
farm house which, with extraordinary vigilance for this
neighbourhood, he found locked on both Mortise and Yale.
Mariner rattled it, but could see that it wasn't going to budge.
He stepped back to survey the rest of the building. A small
frosted-glass window on the ground floor to his left was
slightly ajar. A pantry, if Mariner remembered rightly.
Reaching up he was able to unhook the inside bar and open
the window to its full extent, which gave him a rectangular
opening of about two square feet; perfectly manageable if it
hadn't been more than six feet off the ground. This was where
he wished he had Tony Knox's agility. Pulling up on the
crossbar, he managed to scramble up and get a toehold on
the window ledge, then, hoping that the frame would take his
weight, he thrust the upper half of his body in through the
window. Not a pantry but a WC, the cistern and lidless bowl
immediately below him.
Leaning in as far as he could, Mariner reached down,
taking his weight on his arms, so that in effect he was doing
a handstand on the cistern. Then he tried pulling the lower
half of his body in through the window. But he was six feet
tall and, unsurprisingly, ran out of space. The only way to
get his legs through would be to 'step' down with his arms
on to the rim of the toilet bowl, but that was at least a two
foot drop, and if he missed, he ran the risk of crashing face
first into the toilet or on to the stone flags of the floor.
Meanwhile the balance of his weight had shifted, and trying
to heave himself back out through the window again would
place a huge strain on the wooden frame. He eased forward
a little, yelping in pain as the spike of the window fastening
drove into his groin. In an effort to alleviate the agony,
Mariner did the only thing open to him, which was to shift
even more of his weight forward. His arms were beginning
to shake with the effort of supporting himself and suddenly
the decision was taken out of his hands. Lurching forward
with his right hand, Mariner managed to grab on to the toilet
seat, but as the full weight of his body followed, his elbow
buckled under the force and he fell, collapsing in a heap on
the stone floor to the side of the toilet, his shoulder hitting
the ground with an excruciating crunch. There was a noise
outside the door. He listened, the only sound the rasp of his
laboured breathing. A clock somewhere in the house finished
chiming eleven, and Mariner relaxed. He lay there for a
couple of seconds assessing the damage and found that,
despite the indignity of it, he seemed to have remained intact.
His shoulder and bollocks would be sore for a couple of
days, but he was otherwise unscathed.

Inside the house Mariner made his way to the kitchen, trying
to get his bearings and recall where the entrance to the cellar
had been. After prowling all the ground-floor rooms, he finally
identified the door leading off a small utility room at the back
of the house. It was bolted on the outside and swung open
easily on a dark, cavernous void. It was here that Mariner
realized what the biggest obstacle in all this was going to be:
his own fear. As a young man, Mariner had been down to
these cellars a couple of times with Bob Sewell. He'd never
enjoyed the experience and had always been glad to get out
again, and that was before his ordeal of a couple of years ago,
when he'd spent days incarcerated in his own cellar, waiting
to die. He took a deep breath to try and still his heart and ran
his tongue around his mouth in an effort to moisten it, before
taking the first faltering steps down the steep wooden stair
case.
Almost immediately he was hit by an overpowering wall of
hot, moist air, like stepping into a sauna, and he instantly felt
the damp prickling of sweat gathering on his face and neck.
The wooden stairs were greasy and he had to concentrate hard
on keeping his footing, all the time fighting the urge to turn
back and slam the door shut. All he needed to do was go down
there, take a few photographs on his phone and get out again.
Ryan Griffith would do the rest. He passed a light switch on
the wall, but as Mariner neared the bottom of the stairs, it
became apparent that he wouldn't need it, for his way was lit
instead by an eerie bluish glow emanating from the depths of
the cellar. From the bottom step he finally looked up and gasped
at the spectacle. The glow cast a light over thousands and
thousands of spidery plants whose leaves, trembling in the
moving air, gave the illusion that they were alive, and about
to crawl all over him like a thousand scuttling creatures. The
main cellar was as Mariner remembered it, a natural limestone
cavern that extended backward into a further series of smaller
caves. What he could see here were hundreds of plants at
varying stages of growth, some as high as 4.5 feet tall, and the
air was thick with a strong herbal smell. If the other caves were
similarly full this was a massive operation.
Mariner made his way gingerly along past a couple of workbenches
holding trays, plant pots and fertilizer and what was
evidently the processing and packaging section. He saw what
he recognized as a trimming machine - a rotating blade with
a mesh above it and a bowl below, over which the trimmer
would rotate. The largest leaves would be harvested by hand
and fed through this machine, whilst smaller leaves would be
harvested using hand-held garden shears, cutting them carefully
from around the flowering buds. Somewhere in the operation,
perhaps in one of the cellars at the back, or up in the main
farm house, there would be an air-cooled room where the leaves
would be placed on silk screens to dry. The plants themselves
were lined up on long trestle tables that raised them up close
to the high-powered lights that heated the air, and the cellar
roof was lined with reflective foil for further insulation and to
maximize the heat. Here Mariner took more photographs; he'd
just get some shots to illustrate the scale of production, and
then he could be gone. But at the far end of one of the benches
something caught his eye that looked out of place. It was a
black leather wallet, sitting alongside a mobile phone. He
opened the wallet and a photograph of two little girls looked
out at him.
Then a voice said, quietly, from a few feet away. 'I don't
think that concerns you, does it?'
Mariner looked up towards the steps and into the twin
barrels of a twelve-bore shotgun, behind which stood
Amber, the light illuminating her hair in a golden haze,
making her look like some ethereal, ancient goddess.
Mariner's head was beginning to pound, from both the heat
and from fear. He could feel the sweat running off his
forehead and down his face.
Amber's voice, when she started to speak, was stronger and
much more resolute than he expected. 'I'm really sorry, but I
won't be able to let you leave here alive. You know that,
don't you?'
'You can't keep me here,' Mariner said unconvincingly.
'Sooner or later DI Griffith will start looking for me. Suzy
Yin will tell him where I disappeared and it won't take them
long to track me down.'
'Oh, I'll probably let them find you,' Amber said. 'But sadly
by then you won't be in a condition to tell them very much.
They'll see that you met with an unfortunate accident.'
Mariner eyed the gun. 'The kind of accident that involves
a twelve bore?'
'I'm of a very nervous disposition, Mr Mariner, or can I
call you Tom? After what happened to Theo, and the possibility
of Glenn McGinley being at large, it would be only natural
that I should be afraid for my safety. It gives me every reason
to defend myself, and I'm not terribly experienced with guns.
Who'd be to say the whole thing wasn't just a dreadful accident?
After all, you are trespassing on private property. And
we've never really met before, have we? As far as I'm
concerned, you could be anyone.'
Mariner was still holding the wallet, trying to grasp its
significance. 'But I don't understand. Why have you got. . .?'
'Haven't you worked it out yet?' She was smiling. 'I'm
surprised. Elena says you're very smart. Look at the
photograph.'
Mariner did as she said and looked back at the two smiling
little girls. Then he looked back at Amber. 'Jeremy Bryce was
your father,' he said, understanding at last.
'Not fully accurate on either count,' she said. 'His name
wasn't Jeremy Bryce; it was Jonathan Bruce - Jonny to his
friends. Not that he actually had many of those. It's one of
the reasons the police haven't been able to identify him yet.
I expect he planned it that way. The beard and the hair helped
too; not really his style at all. He was always clean shaven;
hair cut with military precision.'
'The other count?' Mariner said.
T suppose technically he fathered me, but I stopped thinking
of him in that way long ago,' Amber said bitterly. T reviled
him. The man was a monster. Even if anyone has recognized
him, it doesn't surprise me that no-one has come forward to
claim him. I can't think of anyone who'd want to. He destroyed
my whole family.'
'He abused you?' Mariner guessed.
She blinked, and for a moment the shotgun slipped in her
grasp, but she quickly recovered. 'He started on me when I was
about five,' she said. 'Funny, isn't it, how child abuse is so rife,
so commonplace these days that we are almost inured to it. The
idea of it ceases to be shocking. I remember the occasion of
course in vivid detail, though not exactly how old I was at the
time. Mum was a nurse and did shift work, so it was easy for
him. He took such special care of me when she was on nights.
And he was such a pleasant, likeable man that no-one would
have suspected a thing. Even I didn't at first. For such a long
time I thought that all little girls shared those special secrets
with their daddies. By the time I was old enough to have figured
out how wrong it was, I was too ashamed to do anything about
it. And as he reminded me on frequent occasions, by then I was
making a choice. I'd been colluding with him for years.'
'Did your mother know what was going on?' Mariner asked.
'I honestly don't know. I prefer to think that she didn't; it's
easier that way, although I still feel angry at her.'
'You didn't tell her?'
'The first person I ever told was a total stranger. Theo.'
'A stranger?'
'I was going to kill myself, but Theo found me and stopped
me. It was a complete fluke. He was delivering leaflets to the
houses in our street. Our letterbox used to stick sometimes
and he had to push it open. He saw me trying to tie one of
Dad's climbing ropes to the banister. He broke down the door
and I ended up telling him everything. Somehow the fact that
he was a stranger made it easier.'
'So the baby wasn't his?'
She laughed, a bitter, staccato laugh. 'How could it have
been? We never had sex. Ours was a chaste relationship. He hadn't fathered my 
baby.' It didn't take much for Mariner to
work out who had. 'Theo rescued me. He brought me here,
to Caranwy. He'd planned to run away here anyway, so he
brought me with him. Theo was a romantic; he was certain
237


that fate had intervened, that we would live here happily for
ever after.'
'But Theo is dead,' Mariner pointed out.
'The shame of what happened to me is unbearable sometimes
and I've always been terrified that one day my father
would find me and it would start all over again. Theo said he
was going to end it once and for all. I didn't know what he
meant. He wrote to my father anonymously, hinting that I
wanted reconciliation. When Joe Hennessey turned up in the
village we knew Jonny had taken the bait. Theo told me he
was going to talk to my father, to tell him what he knew and
threaten him with exposure if he didn't stay away for good.
Then I realized he was planning something more final.' Tears
began to stream down her cheeks.
'He was going to kill your father.'
'When Theo didn't come back that morning I knew something
terrible must have happened.'
Mariner couldn't believe how naive their plan had been.
'But when you found out Theo was dead, why didn't you tell
the police?'
'Because we didn't know for sure what had happened.
Willow and Elena said it would be better to wait. They didn't
want me to have to tell my story if it was all for nothing.'
'Elena?'
'She's been a good friend since I came here; a better mother
than mine ever was.'
A clatter at the top of the steps made them both look up,
to see one of Shapasnikov's sharp-suited henchmen descending
the stair case and holding a handgun out in front of him.
Sighing, Amber lowered the shotgun. 'Dmitri, thank God. My
arms were dropping off.'
'You know each other?' Mariner wasn't sure why that should
be such a surprise.
'Of course. You don't think Willow, Theo and I could have
run this place on our own, do you?'
'So Shapasnikov's behind it?'
'No,' said Amber, affronted. 'It's our project. After the
vegetables failed, Willow was dismantling the infra red lamps
and it occurred to him that they could have another use. It
started small, genuinely our own personal supply, and grew
from there. Once it began to take over we had the problem of
distribution. Cannabis isn't the kind of thing we could openly
sell at the markets. But then Nikolai moved into the Hall.
Willow knew about his nightclubs and how nightclubs operated,
so there it was, our distribution network.'
'So Shapasnikov contributes his manual labour and takes a
cut,' said Mariner, seeing how it all worked.
'Exactly,' said Amber. 'We couldn't manage without him,
especially in situations like this one.'
'And the land dispute?'
'Oh, Mr Shapasnikov's historian really did turn up some
contestable paperwork. But in truth no-one could care less
about who owns Plackett's Wood.'
'Behaving like arch rivals with an outward display of
animosity was a good cover for the operation,' said Mariner.
'We've got quite good at subterfuge,' Amber admitted. 'And
now Dmitri will be able to make you disappear.'
'Oh, he's a magician too, is he?' said Mariner.
'Not exactly, but we still have the lime pit, left over from
when this farm was decimated by foot and mouth. Perhaps
your friends won't find you after all.' She turned to Dmitri.
'We should get this over with, before Willow gets back.'
Dmitri started down the stairs past Amber. If Mariner was
going to get out of this he needed to do it now. Backing away
slowly to begin with he chose his moment, then suddenly
ducked down behind one of the long trestle tables of trailing
plants. Dmitri fired a deafening shot, but it was a split-second
too late, allowing Mariner to scramble along the ground, putting
as much distance between him and the gunman as he could.
'You're wasting your time,' Amber called out, her voice
echoing around the chamber. 'You won't be able to get out of
here.'
Rationally Mariner knew she was right. As long as Amber
stood guard at the only escape route, it was just a matter of
time before Dmitri would catch up with him. But his survival
instinct wouldn't let him give up just yet. In the unbearable
heat, Mariner could feel his shirt sticking to him like a second
skin. Crouching uncomfortably, he strained to maintain his
concentration, though he was beginning to feel faint and lightheaded,
the blood roaring in his ears. He stuck in his fingers
to try and clear them and the roaring temporarily stopped. The
roaring wasn't in his head, it was in the cellar and it was
getting louder. The floor trembled and from somewhere deep
at the back of the cellar came a gust of blissfully cool air
followed by a foaming, solid wall of water that blasted through
the main tunnel. Mariner caught a last glimpse of Amber part
way up the staircase, before there was a bang, the electricity
shorted out and everything went black, and Mariner was hit
by a slab of icy water that slammed him against the wall,
before dragging him into the swirling maelstrom. Submerged
in choking blackness, Mariner thrashed his arms in a blind
panic, pounded on all sides by rocks and debris. For what
seemed like an eternity he was churned around in a muddy,
freezing washing machine. Some years ago his life had almost
ended in an underground tomb, and now it seemed that it was
about to happen for real.



THIRTY-FIVE



Kicking against the powerful current, Mariner realized
abruptly that the rush of water was slowing down and
he was able to force himself upwards. Surfacing, he
choked out a mouthful of gritty water and simultaneously
cracked his head on the solid rock of the cellar roof. He'd
found an air lock, the surface of the water only inches from
the roof. In the pitch darkness Mariner could feel the water
swirling and settling, lapping over his chin. Flotsam and jetsam
bobbed by and he cried out as what felt like felt human hair
fluttered over his face, before he realized it was only plant
matter. With the immediate danger over, cold was setting in,
numbing his limbs, and he had to work his arms hard to prevent
the weight of water in his clothes from dragging him under.
Somehow, working in short bursts, he managed to discard his
heavy fleece and shirt, and at once his buoyancy increased.

By turning his head to one side and banging it along the roof
of the cellar, he could manage to gulp in air, but for how long?
His first thought was to try to swim back to the cellar
entrance, but he had no idea which direction that might be.
Inch by inch he began to propel himself blindly in what he
thought to be the right direction, but suddenly the ceiling that
he was pressing against disappeared, and he felt cool air moving
around his head. The cave had opened out. Working his arms
and legs to stay afloat, he strained his ears to listen; running
water was trickling in from somewhere to his right. Turning
his head towards it, Mariner struck out in that direction, encouraged
by the faintest movement of air, before he came up against
a solid wall. Reaching out his hands, he felt an opening in the
rock directly above his face that sloped away from him upwards
at an angle. Wedging his numbed fingers into a crack in the
surface, he heaved himself upward and his head struck solid
stone. For a few seconds, dazed, he managed to cling, shivering,
to the ledge he had found, conscious that at any time another
deluge could wash him back to the cellar or worse.
Groping his way around the opening he identified it as some
kind of narrow tunnel, through which a strong draught blew.
Inch by inch he dragged himself up the slippery rocks, his
progress agonizingly slow, his numbed fingertips bruised and
starting to bleed. The icy water combined now with the chill
breeze, causing him to shake uncontrollably and, overwhelmed
with exhaustion, it suddenly all felt like too much effort. Laying
his head down on the cold stone, he closed his eyes for a
moment. So much easier to just stay here . . .
A splash of water in his ear made him open his eyes, and he
noticed a subtle change in the light. He could see now the faint
definition of the rocks around him, a clear contrast of black and
grey. Lifting his head he saw high above him the tiniest chink
of daylight. It looked impossibly small. Energized nonetheless,
Mariner stiffly resumed his crawl, breathing deeply to try and
control the violent shivering. Bit by bit the tunnel began to open
out until he found himself at the bottom of a sloping scree
covered cave. He scrambled up towards the chink of light, sliding
on the loose boulders and knowing, after all this, that if the gap
at the end was too narrow, he was finished. But as he got nearer,
the area of light expanded, turning into an opening that was
wide enough for him, bent double, to step through. The water
continued to lap over the rim into the passageway but with
profound relief Mariner scrambled out into the dazzling daylight,
emerging at the foot of a rocky crag that rose up from the river.
It was the pool where he and Suzy had swum.
In any decent movie Mariner would have been greeted by
a welcoming committee of armed bandits, guns trained on
him, but in this case his only welcome was from a noisy
mallard, indignant at being disturbed. He waded across to the
far side of the pool to climb out of the icy water and onto the
rocks, where he sat for a moment to try and summon some
energy. Bruised and battered, his body ached and he was frozen
to the marrow. He wondered if Dmitri and Amber had survived.
Although there was no real way of knowing how long he had
been in the cellar, or how long it had taken him to find his
way out, he estimated that at most it could have only been a
matter of an hour or so, meaning that if they had escaped they
couldn't yet have got far. He was frozen and exhausted and
needed to do what he could to avoid setting off in the wrong
direction. The valley closest to him was the one adjacent to
Caranwy. Mariner followed the course of the river in that
direction, through the gorge, until it began to level out. The
river emerged sooner than he could have hoped and he rounded
a bend and into meadows, flooded by the high water, and there
ahead of him were farm buildings.
His clothes were sodden and filthy and he could see the
cuts and bruises on his bare arms, so knowing how bad he
must look Mariner approached the buildings with caution. As
he got nearer, dogs started barking, then he became aware of
human voices and next saw a small group of men standing in
the farmyard, chatting. As Mariner limped towards them they
turned as one and stared. 'There's been an accident,' was all
he could manage before collapsing on to the ground. He felt
himself being helped into the farmhouse. T need to use a
phone and then get back to the White Hart at Caranwy as soon
as I can,' he said, as he started to come round again. Revived
with brandy and swathed in blankets, Mariner dialled 999 and
insisted he be put through to Ryan Griffith. He summed up
what had happened as best he could. 'You need to get over
there. It's a mess, but all the evidence you need is there. I
don't know what happened to Amber or Dmitri.'
Mariner would have been content to wait for a taxi, but one
of the farmers was heading home in the direction of Caranwy,
so took him in his battered Land Rover. The twenty-minute
journey did little to soothe Mariner's sore and aching limbs and
he felt obliged to offer the farmer, Jim, at least some explanation.
He kept it simple; he'd been down in the cellar with two
others when it had flooded.
'You had a lucky escape,' observed Jim, with some
understatement.
DC Debra Fielding was waiting for Mariner at the Hart.
'My God,' she said, gaping at him. 'You took a beating. Are
you sure you don't need a doctor?'
Mariner shook his head, regretting it instantly. 'It's just
superficial,' he said. 'Mostly I just need to lie down.'
'You need some food inside you too,' fussed Josie Symonds.
Fielding waited while Mariner showered and changed into
dry clothes, then while he ate she took notes on what had
happened at Abbey Farm. 'DI Griffith is there?' Mariner asked.
'Yes, like you said, the cellar is still awash. There's no sign
of Dmitri or Amber, but we don't know yet if that's because
they've drowned or escaped. They're waiting for Willow to
get back from the market so they can rearrest him.'
'What about Shapasnikov?'
'Not there. We'll bring him in for questioning, of course, but
without Dmitri there's nothing to link him directly with Abbey
Farm so my guess is that he'll deny any involvement.'



THIRTY-SIX



That evening Ryan Griffith came down to the White Hart.
Mariner stood him a pint and the two men settled into
one of the snugs. Mariner talked him through what had
happened in the cellar.

'And it didn't occur to you to call for some support before
you went in there?' said Griffith mildly.
'What would you have done?' asked Mariner. Griffith's
slight dip of the head was answer enough. 'So we know now
who killed Theo Ashton,' Mariner went on. 'But we can't say
the same for Jeremy Bryce.'
'Not yet, no,' Griffith agreed. 'But we have a powerful
motive, along with a limited group of likely suspects.'
'Is there any news on Amber or Dmitri?'
'The water in the cellar subsided pretty quickly to a couple
of feet deep. We're dredging the rest, but a man's body was
recovered an hour or so ago.'
'Suit and tie?'
Griffith nodded. 'We're assuming that's Dmitri. But there's
no sign of Amber.'
'She was halfway up the steps when it flooded. She could
easily have got out.'
'There's a car missing from the farm,' said Griffith. 'We've
put out an alert for it.'
'Do you think she could have killed her father?' Mariner
asked.
'I don't know. You spoke to her.'
'There's a lot of hatred there, just underneath the surface,'
Mariner said. 'But to cut a man's throat? I honestly don't know.'
'I think there are people who would help her,' said Griffith,
carefully.
'Willow treats her like his daughter,' Mariner agreed.
'And she's close to Elena Hughes.'
Mariner stared at him. 'You think Elena would . . .?'
'Approaching it from a purely pragmatic perspective, aside
from you, Elena was the one with the perfect opportunity. The
post-mortem on Bryce found traces of a sedative in his
bloodstream.'
'He had a cold,' Mariner said. 'Elena gave him some Night
Nurse to help him sleep.'
Griffith shook his head slowly. 'Doc says it's more than
that.'
'Maybe he was taking some other medication,' Mariner
frowned, 'though I didn't notice anything.'
'It was in your bloodstream too,' Griffith added.
'What?'
'When we took the sample of your blood for elimination
purposes, the same sedative was found. Were you taking anything?'
'No.'
'But you drank something at the hostel that evening.'
'Elena offered me a night cap.' They both paused to let that
sink in and Mariner thought back to the sluggishness and
blinding headache he'd had the next day. Another random
thought swam into his head. 'The washing machine was
running,' he said. 'When I went over to Elena's kitchen after
finding Bryce, she was doing a load of washing. Why would
she have been doing it at that time in the morning?'
'At the very least it's likely that Elena aided and abetted a
criminal offence, and I wouldn't confidently rule her out from
committing it. She's pretty skilled with a butcher's knife, and
she doesn't have a very high opinion of some men. Did she
tell you much about her ex?'
'Only that he was a git,' said Mariner.
'That's an interesting way of putting it,' Griffith said, with
a humourless smile. T got to know Elena when I first joined
the service; we were called out to her place on a regular basis.
Her old man was a psychopathic, manipulative control freak
with anger management issues. Quite a respectable one, mind
- good job, nice manners and all that - but underneath the
veneer was an aggressive bully, who routinely took out his
frustrations on his wife.'
'Is that how she got into counselling?'
'Yes, and that, in turn, was where she built her relationship
with Amber. Incidentally, Amber isn't her real name either.
The lab ran DNA tests on blood samples from Bryce and that
hair from the locket. We didn't get anything on Bryce, or
Bruce, but the hair sample hit on a fifteen-year-old girl on the
missing persons database, who disappeared from Bristol ten
years ago; Ruby Bruce, reported missing by her family.'
'The ruby on the locket,' said Mariner. 'She just changed
her name from one precious stone to another. Do you know
what Bryce said to me? He said: "you do what you can to
keep your children safe". He had a pretty warped idea of what
that was. He got his own daughter pregnant.' Mariner took a
sip of his pint. 'Nearly thirty years in the job and you think
you have a reasonable grasp of humankind. You think it would
get easier to spot the deviants.'
Griffith snorted. 'But they're the cleverest; the ones who
work hard to disguise it. He wasn't quite the incompetent
orienteer that he led you to believe either. Turns out he was
twenty years in the Territorials.'
'Played me like a violin, as they say,' said Mariner. 'I can't
get over how easily I fell for it. He seemed such an ordinary
man.'
'Which, in many ways, he was,' agreed Griffith. 'But the
family has history. Shortly after Ruby eloped with Theo
Ashton, Bryce's wife left him and moved away along with the
older daughter, who herself suffers from mental health
problems.'
'Chances are she was abused too,' said Mariner.
'Bryce hasn't worked at a university for years, and even
then he didn't teach. He was a glorified lab assistant. He quit
his job after Amber ran away and has spent all his time since
looking for her.'
'So how do you think it played out?' Mariner asked.
'Well,' said Griffith. 'I think that when Bryce got Theo's
letter he hired Hennessey to check it out, perhaps with a view
to reconciliation, but I think it's more likely that he had a
more specific outcome in mind. Having confirmed Amber's
presence at Abbey Farm he set off on his across-Wales walk,
choosing the Black Mountain Way quite deliberately. If then
it later emerges that he's been in the area, he has a valid
explanation and has put down a series of alibis nearby including,
conveniently, you. Bryce arranged, through
Hennessey, to meet Theo in Plackett's Wood. We still have no
murder weapon, nor can we guess its origins, so we don't
know if Theo's intention was to kill Bryce, or if Bryce had
the same aim. In any event, for one of them, something went
wrong. Perhaps Theo wasn't strong enough to overpower
Bryce, who then turned on him and killed him before escaping
back to the abandoned byre.' Griffith looked at Mariner. T
think it's safe to assume that it was in fact Bryce who was
hiding out there, and had been since shortly after you got to
Caranwy. Telling you about it at the time when McGinley was
back on the radar just confused the issue. What we've got
from here on in is pure speculation, but it seems to me that
Hennessey, when he found Theo Ashton, guessed what had
happened, and arranged to meet Bryce. Having killed Ashton,
Bryce had no choice but to kill Hennessey too, leaving him
in his abandoned car. We have a witness who recalls having
seen Bryce setting off in the direction of where the vehicle
was found on Monday afternoon.
'Knowing he'd got to get away, Bryce had probably hoped
to pass back through the village unnoticed, when you spotted
him on Sunday night and persuaded him to stay at the hostel.
He probably felt relatively safe; he could be fairly sure that
no-one except Theo and Hennessey had known he was there,
and to refuse your invitation would have been to blow his cover
as a bumbling incompetent. But Amber must have found out,
perhaps from Elena, what was going on, and when Bryce turned
up as an extra guest at the hostel, the chance to end it all was
presented to her. What we have no way of knowing, of course,
is whether Amber carried out the execution herself or had
someone do it for her, which brings us back to those suspects.
Incidentally, given the relationship with Gwennol Hall, we can
perhaps also add Dmitri or one of his buddies to that list.
Forensically, we've turned up nothing that places anyone other
than Elena, Bryce and you in the hostel, but that doesn't mean
that Willow, Amber or Dmitri couldn't have been very careful.
We haven't enough evidence yet to make any fresh arrests.'
'So we may never know,' said Mariner.
'If we keep questioning them, sooner or later someone might
say something indiscreet.' Glancing up, Griffith emptied his
glass. 'Looks like you've got another visitor,' he said, as if
Mariner was in hospital. 'I'll leave you to it.'
Mariner looked across to see Suzy Yin hovering in the
doorway. When Griffith had left she came over. 'My God,'
she said, staring in horror. 'What happened to you?'
Mariner gave her the abridged version.
'And Glenn McGinley?' Suzy asked. 'He wasn't after you?'
'Not me, no. But a patch of blood and mucous was found
by the side of Rev Aubrey's cottage, which is quite likely to
be McGinley's. Elena told me that the Reverend had interfered
with some of the kids round here. He could have been doing
it long before he came out to Caranwy.'
'So you're going back to Birmingham tomorrow?' she asked.
'First thing in the morning.' Mariner looked at her. 'It's
worth a visit,' he said. 'Contrary to popular belief we do have
some historic and cultural features.'
'I know,' she smiled. 'I looked it up.'
'And it's not a million miles from here.'
'Even closer to Cambridge,' she said. 'I'll be heading back
there in a couple of weeks. Ever been to Cambridge?'
'Only for work.'
'Well, we must change that.'
'Yes,' said Mariner. 'Very soon.'



THIRTY-SEVEN


Day Thirteen



On his way back to Birmingham, Mariner drove the
eight or so miles north-west to the Towyn Farm
community. The sudden deaths of the Barham parents
had left Jamie well provided for financially, so his care had
never been in question. Mariner could remember how Anna
had enthused about Towyn when Jamie first came here, though
Mariner had rather cynically believed her eagerness to be
driven mainly by her attraction to a certain GP and her desire
to move out to this area anyway. Now he would see for himself.
He drove along the track to what looked to have originally
been an old, fairly modest manor house. Both house and
gardens looked reasonably well tended. Mariner tried to work
out how long it was since he'd last seen Jamie. It must be a
couple of years, which made him wonder if Jamie would even
remember him, especially beyond the context of Anna's house
in Birmingham.

The set up seemed very informal. Mariner parked up and
walked unimpeded into what looked like the main entrance to
the house, but there was no-one around to talk to and there
seemed to be no means of attracting attention. A table with a
visitor's book stood to one side and Mariner was about to sign
himself in when a door opened and a young man hurried out
carrying a pile of folded clothing. 'You all right?' he asked,
though it didn't appear that he cared one way or the other. A
badge identified him simply as 'Dave'.
'I've come to see Jamie Barham,' Mariner said.
'Oh, okay. Do you want to wait in there?' He indicated a
door off to the left. There seemed no question of challenging
Mariner's identity or purpose. 'I'll go and get him.'
Mariner went into the room, which like the rest of the ground
floor was painted in a nondescript beige and had no decoration,
nor curtains at the small window that overlooked a large
garden. There were a dozen or so easy chairs, some stained
and torn and a solid wooden cupboard to one side was closed.
The only other accoutrement was a small flat-screen TV on a
bracket high on the wall. The place had a dusty unused smell
and there were marks on the walls, one of them looking
disconcertingly like a smear of blood. Mariner heard yelling
somewhere far away in the house that stopped abruptly. Several
minutes later the door opened and Jamie was ushered into the
room, shoulders hunched and shuffling along in a pair of
shapeless corduroy slippers. He looked older, with a few streaks
of grey starting to appear at his temples, but then he'd be what,
36 or 37 by now? He was clutching the waistband of
his tracksuit trousers in his fist, as if he was holding them up,
and Mariner noticed the sharp rectangular creases on his sweatshirt,
perhaps freshly laundered, or perhaps recently removed
from its packaging. Mariner didn't expect eye contact or any
acknowledgement, but Jamie's eyes flickered briefly towards
him, registering his presence.
'Jamie, sit there,' the man said loudly, as if addressing a
deaf person, gesturing to one of the chairs and Jamie meekly
complied. There was a faded bruise on the side of his
forehead.
'He bangs his head sometimes,' Dave said, seeing Mariner
take that in. An explanation was unnecessary. Mariner had
witnessed that the first time he met Jamie, trying to interview
him for a crime he could never have committed.
'Give us a shout when you've finished,' Dave said. 'He
should be all right.' And he left the room.
'Hi Jamie,' said Mariner, keeping his distance. 'How are
you doing?'
Jamie stared at the floor.
Mariner was stumped already. 'Thought I'd come to see
you, see where you live. It's just you and me now, mate.'
Jamie had started to rock gently back and forth. It was
always something Anna hated and instinctively Mariner walked
across to him. 'No rocking,' he said and went to put a hand
on his shoulder, but Jamie flinched away, as if he was about
to be struck.
'Hey,' said Mariner, backing off again. 'It's all right.' At
close quarters he caught a whiff of body odour and could see
the unevenness of the stubble on Jamie's chin. He couldn't
help wondering what Anna would think of her brother's appearance.
She'd always insisted that Jamie be well groomed and
dressed like the adult he was, and usually in smart designer
clothes. But perhaps they'd look out of place here. For the
first time Jamie looked directly at him. 'Spectre man,' he said.
Mariner was disproportionately pleased to hear that inaccurate
reproduction of his title 'Inspector Mariner'. When
they'd first met it was the best Jamie could do and before long
Anna had started using it and the name had stuck. It was an
indication of some recognition at least. He'd stopped off at a
village shop on his way here and bought a couple of packs of
the Hula Hoops that Jamie used to like. Now seemed a good
time to offer them, and pleasingly they were obviously still a
favourite. Mariner sat down on one of the chairs and the two
men remained in a sort of companionable silence, save for
Jamie munching his way through the packet. When he'd
finished he carefully passed Mariner the empty packet, before
standing up and moving to the door. It seemed to Mariner like
a signal for him to leave. Before going, though, he wanted to
introduce himself to whoever was in charge, though that proved
less straightforward than it should have been. Eventually he
managed to find his way to a main office and a man called
John this time, whose badge also declared him the manager.
'Jamie used to have a friend here; Julie I think her name
is,' Mariner said. 'Is she still about?'
'We haven't got a Julie,' John said. 'Let me just check.'
He came back a few minutes later. 'Julie Apney left about
three months ago.'
'Oh, do you know why?'
John shrugged, neither knowing nor, it seemed, caring. 'Sorry.'
'Would it be possible to get contact details for parents? I
wouldn't ask but my partner lent them a number of books,'
said Mariner, improvising. 'I'd like to get them back.'
Even though Mariner was sure that it might contravene data
protection regulations, there was no hesitation in delivering
these and Mariner left with the name and address in his pocket.
Leaving Towyn, he stopped for a beer and a sandwich at
a pub a couple of miles down the road, where he sat and
assessed what he had seen. Staff who seemed largely indifferent,
Jamie dressed in old and ill-fitting clothes that were
possibly not even his, and that distant yelling and possible
blood stain on the wall. Something about the whole set up
made Mariner uneasy. Finishing his pint, he made a snap
decision and outside, he climbed into his car and headed back
towards Towyn. This time he asked to go up to Jamie's room.
Jamie shared the small cell-like space with someone who,
from the prevailing smell, seemed to have incontinence issues.
Mariner had taken in with him his small day sack and collected
up the few personal possessions from Jamie's locker, including
a photograph of Anna. Then, with promises of McDonalds,
he persuaded Jamie down to the entrance hall and went to
find Dave who was back on his own in the office, and adopting
his casual approach said: 'I'd like to take Jamie out for a bit;
that okay?'Apparently it was.
Mariner had half expected at any point that Jamie would
vocally and physically resist, which was his normal reaction to
most disturbances to his routine. But as Mariner strapped him
into the passenger seat of his car Jamie co-operated fully - in
fact Mariner was pretty certain he saw a faint smile pass across
his face. They drove out of the Towyn grounds unchallenged.
Though utterly convinced that this was the right course of action,
it wasn't until they were well on their way up the motorway
heading back to Birmingham that Mariner started to think about
the enormity of what he was taking on. He was trying with
limited success to avert the sudden onset of panic, when a news
item on the radio caught his attention and he turned up the
volume. 'There has been a breakthrough in the M5 road-rage
stabbing earlier this year. A key witness has come forward with
new evidence which has led to the arrest today of two men.'

After a cold start to the year, the months of May and
June were unseasonably warm. On a caravan park near
Aberystwyth, residents began to complain about an
unpleasant smell in one area of the park. The manager was
baffled; he'd had all the sewerage pipes in the vicinity thoroughly
checked. Eventually at the suggestion of a couple of
holiday makers, he forced entry to unit 71 and found the
decaying body of Glenn McGinley, thought to have been there
for some weeks. Among the possessions spread out on the
dining-room table was a photograph of McGinley as a boy
along with his handsome younger brother, Spencer, amid a
group of other children, taken at the youth hostel in Caranwy
in 1974. Standing smiling in the centre of the picture, with a
fatherly hand on Spencer's shoulder, was the Reverend Aubrey.



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