Detective-Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan was still fuming as D.S. Jenkins returned with another forensics report. Who did that English twat think he was? Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown. Ponse was right. What kind of person includes their middle name when answering the phone? The same kind of person who has Montague as a middle name, apparently.
Ifan found it funny how he always felt like joining Plaid Cymru whenever he dealt with bigwigs from government agencies based in London. He knew that Wales had its fair share of arseholes but somehow felt that they did not seem to rise to the top quite so often.
He had pondered keeping the files locked in the database so that MI5 would not get direct access but had a last minute change of heart. They would be able to hack his system anyway and if things went wrong, he did not want the finger of blame pointing at him. No. The best solution would be to solve the case before his assistance was even requested.
“Wanker,” he muttered still staring at the phone.
“Sorry, Guv,” answered Jenkins, who was hovering in the door. He started to withdraw into the corridor.
“Not you, Tommie!” Rhys-Morgan sighed. “What have you got for me?”
“Fresh forensics, Guv,” Tommie told him, handing over one of the beige folders in his hand. “Apparently, that tortoise shell wasn’t just caught in the centre of the blast - it was the source of the blast. That’s what the lab boys think, anyway.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if anyone would know, it would be the lab boys. Are they sure?”
Tommie shrugged. “When are the lab boys certain about anything?”
“Good point,” conceded Rhys-Morgan. Everything was probabilities and likelihoods to those guys. He skimmed through several pages of numbers to the take-home message at the end.
“Eighty-nine point five percent probability,” he read aloud. “I’ll take that.”
He waved Jenkins into a chair and recounted his phone conversation with Sir Henry a few minutes earlier.
“I don’t know, Tommie,” he said. “I just don’t buy that this was a ALF attack.”
“I agree, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan was slightly surprised by the conviction in his sergeant’s voice. “Explain.”
Tommie tossed a second folder across the desk to him. “WPC Roberts just finished her report after visiting the Fredricks house, Guv. It seems that Emma and Antonia Fredricks were animal rights nuts themselves. Called themselves RAVEN and protested against wearing fur, that kind of thing.” Tommie blushed slightly. “Actually, from what I can make out from to some of the photos, they protested against wearing most stuff.”
Rhys-Morgan sensed there was more. “Go on.”
“Er, well, Guv,” Tommie looked uncomfortable and stared at his feet. “Let’s just say that I think I have confirmed the identity of one of the dancers from the video of the explosion.”
Rhys-Morgan looked quizically at his friend, who responded by nodding wordlessly towards the folder that was now in the Detective Inspector’s hand. He opened the it and got an eye-full of the front cover of RAVEN’s “Skin not skins” charity Christmas calendar to raise funds for PETA, which had been banned from sale in the local WH Smiths but become quite an internet sensation. It had also meant that the girls had not had to buy a drink at the Ravenhill Rugby Football Club bar for two and half years.
“Oh,” he said closing the folder again. “I see. Given the cause, that was a little more fur than I was expecting.”