Detective Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan stared at PC Rhys Thomas until the big man began to feel rather uncomfortable, then glanced back down at the report. Rhys-Morgan had spent the night in the station and not enjoyed a particularly long or restful night’s sleep. He blinked a few times to get the words back into focus. They still said the same thing.
“Tommo?” he sighed.
“Yes, Guv?” answered Tommo, staring at a spot on the wall a foot or so above his superior’s head, hands clasped firmly behind his back.
“Why didn’t you enter the building through the large hole blown in the front?”
“The Element of Surprise, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded slowly. “I see. And The Element of Surprise necessitated knocking another hole through the wall, did it? You couldn’t have just broken a window or something?”
Tommo shrugged. “All the windows were already blown out by the blast, Guv.”
“Of course they were, Tommo.” He sighed again. “And you think this... squirrel... is the mastermind behind the whole operation?”
“Caught him red-handed, Guv,” Tommo smiled proudly. “Using The Element of Surprise!”
Showing posts with label police. Show all posts
Showing posts with label police. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Saturday, 24 November 2012
Chapter 14.5
“What’s going on?” Rhys-Morgan asked his sergeant as sirens continued to sound in the distance.
The two men had been standing in the street outside the pet shop for a few minutes, trying to ascertain the cause of the earlier catastrophic demise of Tommie’s ginger nut. Judging by the alarms and sirens, something big was going down. Not for the first time that evening, Rhys-Morgan rued his decision to stakeout the pet shop.
The larger man fiddled with his radio. “I can’t work it out, Guv. There’s a lot of chatter on the radio but it’s quite confusing. Some kind of explosion, I think.”
“Well, I guessed that much,” Ifan snapped. “But was it another bomb?”
D.S. Jenkins frowned at the rancour of his boss. It was not his ginger nut that had been so cruelly snatched from his grasp. He was midway through returning the radio to his ear when Rhys-Morgan put a restraining hand on his arm, signalling with his other hand to wait.
“Wha..?” Jenkins began.
Rhys-Morgan raised his hand further, lifting his index as he did so to call for quiet and cocking his head slightly.
Jenkins stopped and listened too. Across town, he could still hear the sound of distant car alarms and the occasional siren from an emergency vehicle. Another noise was building, however, and Tommie had been a policeman too long to ignore the feeling of unease that was building along with it.
It sounded like someone over-revving a van. Tommie opened his mouth to say as much when a squeal of tyres to his right made him spin back round. Sure enough, a small van had just come skidding round the corner, bathing the two policemen in the bright beam of its headlights. Instinctively, Tommie put up his hands to shield his eyes.
“Look out!” cried Rhys-Morgan, pushing Jenkins hard out of the path of the speeding vehicle and sending him sprawling into a pair of wheelie bins outside the Cancer Research charity shop.
Two wheels of the van mounted the pavement and Ifan had only a brief moment to regain his own balance before diving back into the road. As it was, he narrowly missed being run over. The van bumped back down on to the road, swerved a couple of times as the driver tried to regain control and sped off into the night as quickly as it had arrived.
The two policemen slowly rose to their feet.
“Are you OK, Guv?” asked Tommie.
Rhys-Morgan nodded, staring after the two retreating red lights as then rounded a bend out of sight. “Call it in, Tommie. I want that bastard brought it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Guv.” Tommie held out his radio for the Detective Inspector to inspect. It had taken the full force of Tommie’s fall and a bit too much of its insides were now its outsides. “Did you get the number?”
“No,” Rhys-Morgan replied, rubbing his cheek. “I was too busy using the road to grind my face off. You?”
Tommie shook his head. “It all happened to fast. Do you think he was coming here and then saw us?”
Rhys-Morgan looked at the dark and deserted pet shop and then up at the dark window above the charity shop. “I doubt it. At that speed, I don’t think this was the destination - there was no way it was going to stop. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t see us at all. I think we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But you think it’s got something to do with the explosion?” Tommie asked.
“Well, let’s just say that it would be one hell of a coincidence otherwise,” Ifan replied. “And I’m not a big fan of coincidence.” (He had once got Mrs Rhys-Morgan a bottle of Calvin Klein Coincidence for her birthday and found the scent quite cloying.)
The Detective Inspector was still staring up at the window of their stakeout room. He thought that you were supposed to feel euphoria or something after a brush with death. He just felt angry.
“Tommie?” he asked.
“Yes, Guv?”
“Did you turn the camera on?”
Tommie nodded. Stakeout tea was important but D.S. Jenkins was a man of experience and you always turned the camera on first lest you missed something important whilst dunking your biscuits. “Yes, Guv.”
He turned and followed the other man’s gaze. “Do you think it would have caught the van?” Rhys-Morgan shrugged. “Only one way to find out. Let’s check the footage and head back to the station. I think it’s fair to say that this stakeout is over.”
The two men had been standing in the street outside the pet shop for a few minutes, trying to ascertain the cause of the earlier catastrophic demise of Tommie’s ginger nut. Judging by the alarms and sirens, something big was going down. Not for the first time that evening, Rhys-Morgan rued his decision to stakeout the pet shop.
The larger man fiddled with his radio. “I can’t work it out, Guv. There’s a lot of chatter on the radio but it’s quite confusing. Some kind of explosion, I think.”
“Well, I guessed that much,” Ifan snapped. “But was it another bomb?”
D.S. Jenkins frowned at the rancour of his boss. It was not his ginger nut that had been so cruelly snatched from his grasp. He was midway through returning the radio to his ear when Rhys-Morgan put a restraining hand on his arm, signalling with his other hand to wait.
“Wha..?” Jenkins began.
Rhys-Morgan raised his hand further, lifting his index as he did so to call for quiet and cocking his head slightly.
Jenkins stopped and listened too. Across town, he could still hear the sound of distant car alarms and the occasional siren from an emergency vehicle. Another noise was building, however, and Tommie had been a policeman too long to ignore the feeling of unease that was building along with it.
It sounded like someone over-revving a van. Tommie opened his mouth to say as much when a squeal of tyres to his right made him spin back round. Sure enough, a small van had just come skidding round the corner, bathing the two policemen in the bright beam of its headlights. Instinctively, Tommie put up his hands to shield his eyes.
“Look out!” cried Rhys-Morgan, pushing Jenkins hard out of the path of the speeding vehicle and sending him sprawling into a pair of wheelie bins outside the Cancer Research charity shop.
Two wheels of the van mounted the pavement and Ifan had only a brief moment to regain his own balance before diving back into the road. As it was, he narrowly missed being run over. The van bumped back down on to the road, swerved a couple of times as the driver tried to regain control and sped off into the night as quickly as it had arrived.
The two policemen slowly rose to their feet.
“Are you OK, Guv?” asked Tommie.
Rhys-Morgan nodded, staring after the two retreating red lights as then rounded a bend out of sight. “Call it in, Tommie. I want that bastard brought it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Guv.” Tommie held out his radio for the Detective Inspector to inspect. It had taken the full force of Tommie’s fall and a bit too much of its insides were now its outsides. “Did you get the number?”
“No,” Rhys-Morgan replied, rubbing his cheek. “I was too busy using the road to grind my face off. You?”
Tommie shook his head. “It all happened to fast. Do you think he was coming here and then saw us?”
Rhys-Morgan looked at the dark and deserted pet shop and then up at the dark window above the charity shop. “I doubt it. At that speed, I don’t think this was the destination - there was no way it was going to stop. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t see us at all. I think we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But you think it’s got something to do with the explosion?” Tommie asked.
“Well, let’s just say that it would be one hell of a coincidence otherwise,” Ifan replied. “And I’m not a big fan of coincidence.” (He had once got Mrs Rhys-Morgan a bottle of Calvin Klein Coincidence for her birthday and found the scent quite cloying.)
The Detective Inspector was still staring up at the window of their stakeout room. He thought that you were supposed to feel euphoria or something after a brush with death. He just felt angry.
“Tommie?” he asked.
“Yes, Guv?”
“Did you turn the camera on?”
Tommie nodded. Stakeout tea was important but D.S. Jenkins was a man of experience and you always turned the camera on first lest you missed something important whilst dunking your biscuits. “Yes, Guv.”
He turned and followed the other man’s gaze. “Do you think it would have caught the van?” Rhys-Morgan shrugged. “Only one way to find out. Let’s check the footage and head back to the station. I think it’s fair to say that this stakeout is over.”
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
Chapter 14.3
Cyril groggily opened his eyes. The ceiling swam into focus. He was on his back, lying with his head up against a wall. His head was throbbing again with a steady thump, thump, thump that felt like it was shaking the whole world and seemed to resonate out of the wall above him.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “Shouldn’t the thumping be inside my head?”
Before he could answer himself, the wall above him exploded inwards into the room. Instinctively, Cyril covered his face with his paws and raised his tail up over himself, tucking in to a ball. Could this be a second bomb?
He opened one eye cautiously to see a massive figure leap through the new hole, knocking a few more pieces of masonry into the bank in the process, before executing a rather unnecessary commando roll and returning to his feet. The entrant looked quickly from side to side before noticing Cyril beneath his entry point.
In a flash, before Cyril had the chance to say “Eh, calm down!”, a nightstick was in the figure’s hand, shooting out to full extension in the blink of an eye. With an impressive (but still rather unnecessary) flourish, the nightstick was whipped round sharply, stopping with the end just a hair’s breadth from Cyril’s throat.
“Don’t move, punk!” the man shouted. "You're nicked!"
Cyril closed his eyes again and let his head slump back against the floor. In the distance, he heard the squeal of tyres as a van sped off into the night.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “Shouldn’t the thumping be inside my head?”
Before he could answer himself, the wall above him exploded inwards into the room. Instinctively, Cyril covered his face with his paws and raised his tail up over himself, tucking in to a ball. Could this be a second bomb?
He opened one eye cautiously to see a massive figure leap through the new hole, knocking a few more pieces of masonry into the bank in the process, before executing a rather unnecessary commando roll and returning to his feet. The entrant looked quickly from side to side before noticing Cyril beneath his entry point.
In a flash, before Cyril had the chance to say “Eh, calm down!”, a nightstick was in the figure’s hand, shooting out to full extension in the blink of an eye. With an impressive (but still rather unnecessary) flourish, the nightstick was whipped round sharply, stopping with the end just a hair’s breadth from Cyril’s throat.
“Don’t move, punk!” the man shouted. "You're nicked!"
Cyril closed his eyes again and let his head slump back against the floor. In the distance, he heard the squeal of tyres as a van sped off into the night.
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Chapter 13.7
Rhys-Morgan stared moodily out of the window, a cup of steaming Assam tea grasped tightly in both hands. He had thought that an old-fashioned stakeout would be nostalgic and fun. The problem with nostalgia was that you cannot necessarily control it, and Ifan was just left thinking of all the stakeouts he had volunteered for when it was clear that his marriage was falling apart. Ironically, it was only thanks to the extra overtime that he had been able to maintain their membership at the golf club where his wife had met Clive.
Thanks to Clive, he’d lost his wife, his house and he could not even show his face at the bloody golf club. He was rubbish at golf but that was hardly the point. The Detective Chief Superintendent liked golf and so Ifan needed to like golf if he was ever going to grease the wheels of promotion. He should be Detective Chief Inspector by now at least, if it was not for Clive.
Ifan sighed. The bloody men’s room attendant. He had not been attentive enough himself, he knew. It was easier to blame Clive, though.
“Everything OK, Guv?” asked Tommie, who was busy dunking a ginger nut into his own mug of English Breakfast tea.
“Hmm?” Ifan snapped out of his depressing deliberations and turned to see the big sergeant’s face wearing an expression of genuine concern. “Sorry, Tommie. I was miles away.”
“Trying to get inside the head of the enemy, Guv?” Tommie asked.
“Something like that, Tommie. Something like that.” Rhys-Morgan took a big slurp of tea and looked back out of the window. There were not any pubs or curry houses near the pet shop so the street was less active than his sex life. Were stakeouts always this boring?
He looked back at his sergeant, who now held a tea-soaked ginger nut gingerly above his mug and was slowly moving his face towards it, lest the slightest move should cause its structural integrity to fail. Rhys-Morgan could see it bending under the strain and found himself holding his breath as mankind’s struggle against nature was encapsulated for a moment by one man and his McVitie’s biscuit.
Just at the moment that Tommie was about to make the final lunge for his prize, the whole building shook to a loud bang in the distance. With a faint plop, his ginger nut halved its size. As Tommie sat there aghast, mouth still open, staring at the empty space where biscuit heaven had hovered but a moment ago, two dozen car alarms sounded across the city.
He looked up. The two policemen looked at each other wordlessly for a moment, then scrambled as one man for the door.
Thanks to Clive, he’d lost his wife, his house and he could not even show his face at the bloody golf club. He was rubbish at golf but that was hardly the point. The Detective Chief Superintendent liked golf and so Ifan needed to like golf if he was ever going to grease the wheels of promotion. He should be Detective Chief Inspector by now at least, if it was not for Clive.
Ifan sighed. The bloody men’s room attendant. He had not been attentive enough himself, he knew. It was easier to blame Clive, though.
“Everything OK, Guv?” asked Tommie, who was busy dunking a ginger nut into his own mug of English Breakfast tea.
“Hmm?” Ifan snapped out of his depressing deliberations and turned to see the big sergeant’s face wearing an expression of genuine concern. “Sorry, Tommie. I was miles away.”
“Trying to get inside the head of the enemy, Guv?” Tommie asked.
“Something like that, Tommie. Something like that.” Rhys-Morgan took a big slurp of tea and looked back out of the window. There were not any pubs or curry houses near the pet shop so the street was less active than his sex life. Were stakeouts always this boring?
He looked back at his sergeant, who now held a tea-soaked ginger nut gingerly above his mug and was slowly moving his face towards it, lest the slightest move should cause its structural integrity to fail. Rhys-Morgan could see it bending under the strain and found himself holding his breath as mankind’s struggle against nature was encapsulated for a moment by one man and his McVitie’s biscuit.
Just at the moment that Tommie was about to make the final lunge for his prize, the whole building shook to a loud bang in the distance. With a faint plop, his ginger nut halved its size. As Tommie sat there aghast, mouth still open, staring at the empty space where biscuit heaven had hovered but a moment ago, two dozen car alarms sounded across the city.
He looked up. The two policemen looked at each other wordlessly for a moment, then scrambled as one man for the door.
Friday, 26 October 2012
Chapter 13.1
Rhys-Morgan looked thoughtfully out through the second-floor window of the flats above the Cancer Research UK charity shop over the road from Peter’s Pet Shop. There was one benefit to a global recession, at least - it was much easier to find an empty property within sight of the pet shop.
He looked across at D.S. Jenkins. “Just like the old days, eh, Tommie?”
Tommie nodded and stifled a yawn. “Yep. Just as boring as I remember it, Guv! Any movement yet?”
Rhys-Morgan shook his head. “Nothing yet. Did you bring the kit?”
Tommie nodded again. “It’s not been so long that I’d forget the kit, Guv. Do you want me to set up now?”
“I think so,” Ifan replied. “I suspect it will be a few hours before we get any action, so best to be prepared.”
“It’s in the boot,” Tommie told him. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Rhys-Morgan turned back out the window and listened to his sergeant clomp down the stairs to the small car park round the back before turning his attention to the pet shop across the street. It was very quiet. Bobby and Roger had returned earlier in the day and reported no signs of life at all. There was no notice of a holiday closure, just the usual CLOSED sign hanging in the window all day.
Of course, if Peter Lloyd had any sense then he would be long gone by now. Fortunately, however, it was D.I. Rhys-Morgan’s experience that the average criminal did not have an awful lot of sense, especially when it came to something like a multiple murder. Usually, part of them wanted to be caught.
On the other hand, what if Sir Henry had been right? If this was the action of the Animal Liberation Front, where would that leave Peter Lloyd? Unless...?
The sound of Tommie plodding back up the stairs interrupted his train of thought.
“Tommie?” he asked as the sergeant returned. “What do you think are the chances that Peter Lloyd is part of the Animal Liberation Front?”
Tommie paused in the doorway. “Not sure, Guv. Isn’t owning a pet like animal slavery or something to these guys? He’d be more likely to be a target than a groupie, I would have thought.”
“That’s a good point, Tommie,” agreed Rhys-Morgan, turing back to the window. “If this was the work of the ALF, they might make a move on the pet shop themselves. Liberate any animals left, that kind of thing. You remember the Dynamo Joe’s case.”
The sergeant grunted noncommittally and entered the room carrying a squat brushed metal briefcase, which he carried over and placed on the small table behind Rhys-Morgan.
“Are you having doubts that Peter’s our man, Guv?” he asked, flicking the two latches open with his thumbs.
“I don’t know what to think any more, Tommie,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “This case has got more twists and turns than a sackful of snakes. Either way, my gut tells me that Peter’s pet shop is the key somehow. Hopefully, tonight will tell us how. If not... I guess we should call the RSPCA in the morning and sort out a warrant for a raid.”
Tommie grunted and opened the lid of the case. Nestled into special cut-foam housing was his stakeout equipment. He traced a finger loving over the exterior of the largest piece. This was his favourite bit of hidden surveillance operations.
With a dextrous flourish that was slightly incongruent with a man of his build, he pulled out two large ceramic mugs, spun them round his middle fingers and set them out on the table. This was swiftly followed by an electric kettle. A hidden compartment in the lid of the case, quietly swung open to reveal an array of tea bags.
“So, what’ll it be, Guv?” Tommie asked. “English breakfast, Assam or Darjeeling?”
He looked across at D.S. Jenkins. “Just like the old days, eh, Tommie?”
Tommie nodded and stifled a yawn. “Yep. Just as boring as I remember it, Guv! Any movement yet?”
Rhys-Morgan shook his head. “Nothing yet. Did you bring the kit?”
Tommie nodded again. “It’s not been so long that I’d forget the kit, Guv. Do you want me to set up now?”
“I think so,” Ifan replied. “I suspect it will be a few hours before we get any action, so best to be prepared.”
“It’s in the boot,” Tommie told him. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Rhys-Morgan turned back out the window and listened to his sergeant clomp down the stairs to the small car park round the back before turning his attention to the pet shop across the street. It was very quiet. Bobby and Roger had returned earlier in the day and reported no signs of life at all. There was no notice of a holiday closure, just the usual CLOSED sign hanging in the window all day.
Of course, if Peter Lloyd had any sense then he would be long gone by now. Fortunately, however, it was D.I. Rhys-Morgan’s experience that the average criminal did not have an awful lot of sense, especially when it came to something like a multiple murder. Usually, part of them wanted to be caught.
On the other hand, what if Sir Henry had been right? If this was the action of the Animal Liberation Front, where would that leave Peter Lloyd? Unless...?
The sound of Tommie plodding back up the stairs interrupted his train of thought.
“Tommie?” he asked as the sergeant returned. “What do you think are the chances that Peter Lloyd is part of the Animal Liberation Front?”
Tommie paused in the doorway. “Not sure, Guv. Isn’t owning a pet like animal slavery or something to these guys? He’d be more likely to be a target than a groupie, I would have thought.”
“That’s a good point, Tommie,” agreed Rhys-Morgan, turing back to the window. “If this was the work of the ALF, they might make a move on the pet shop themselves. Liberate any animals left, that kind of thing. You remember the Dynamo Joe’s case.”
The sergeant grunted noncommittally and entered the room carrying a squat brushed metal briefcase, which he carried over and placed on the small table behind Rhys-Morgan.
“Are you having doubts that Peter’s our man, Guv?” he asked, flicking the two latches open with his thumbs.
“I don’t know what to think any more, Tommie,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “This case has got more twists and turns than a sackful of snakes. Either way, my gut tells me that Peter’s pet shop is the key somehow. Hopefully, tonight will tell us how. If not... I guess we should call the RSPCA in the morning and sort out a warrant for a raid.”
Tommie grunted and opened the lid of the case. Nestled into special cut-foam housing was his stakeout equipment. He traced a finger loving over the exterior of the largest piece. This was his favourite bit of hidden surveillance operations.
With a dextrous flourish that was slightly incongruent with a man of his build, he pulled out two large ceramic mugs, spun them round his middle fingers and set them out on the table. This was swiftly followed by an electric kettle. A hidden compartment in the lid of the case, quietly swung open to reveal an array of tea bags.
“So, what’ll it be, Guv?” Tommie asked. “English breakfast, Assam or Darjeeling?”
Saturday, 13 October 2012
Chapter 12.2
Rhys-Morgan was feeling happier than he had for a while as Tommie and he wandered to the canteen in search of a fresh brew and possibly a donut. Despite the tragic circumstances, Tommie’s (and Emma’s) revelations to the detriment of Sir Henry’s ALF theory had cheered him up no end.
“I still think Peter Lloyd’s our man,” he declared. “He owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop, and if the bomb really was delivered by tortoise... It just fits.”
“Yes, Guv,” agreed Tommie. “What about MI5? Or is it MI6?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he sighed. “It’s a domestic issue but then it’s an international research centre. I guess we’ll find out when we get visited by some guy driving a car worth more than my house and wearing a suit worth more than my car.”
Tommie laughed. “Aren’t most suits worth more than your car, Guv?”
“True. Anyway, I’ll assist them by staying well out of their way,” he told his number two. “If they want to chase up the ALF, that’s fine with me.”
The two coppers entered the station’s common room, which was devoid of people so soon after lunch but happily still had a pot of coffee on the go. Tommie poured them both a large mug and slumped into a plastic seat at the closest table. Rhys-Morgan deposited himself in the chair opposite and waved away the sugar. Although he knew full well that his friend did not take sugar, Tommie always felt that it would be rude not to offer.
“So,” Tommie asked, stirring two lumps into his own coffee. “What’s our next move?”
Rhys-Morgan held his mug in both hands and took a long, contemplative swig of coffee. It was not very hot and tasted quite old but was still better than the stuff he made in his office.
“Well, we’ve had nothing yet from the ferry or airports,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “although we can’t rule out the possibility that he took the ferry to Ireland under a false name. I’ve requested the CCTV footage from Pembroke and Holyhead.
“Bobby and Roger should be back soon from their little man hunt. I’m guessing that we would have heard something had Peter Lloyd turned up at the pet shop. Assuming they don’t have any good leads from the neighbours, I’m thinking it might be time for a good old fashioned stake-out. See if he turns up at night when he thinks no one’s watching."
He took another gulp and shrugged. “If nothing else, it will keep us away from the station in case Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown and/or his minions turn up looking for some assistance.”
He chinked his mug off his sergeant’s in a mock toast. “You and me, Tommie. Just like old times!”
“I still think Peter Lloyd’s our man,” he declared. “He owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop, and if the bomb really was delivered by tortoise... It just fits.”
“Yes, Guv,” agreed Tommie. “What about MI5? Or is it MI6?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he sighed. “It’s a domestic issue but then it’s an international research centre. I guess we’ll find out when we get visited by some guy driving a car worth more than my house and wearing a suit worth more than my car.”
Tommie laughed. “Aren’t most suits worth more than your car, Guv?”
“True. Anyway, I’ll assist them by staying well out of their way,” he told his number two. “If they want to chase up the ALF, that’s fine with me.”
The two coppers entered the station’s common room, which was devoid of people so soon after lunch but happily still had a pot of coffee on the go. Tommie poured them both a large mug and slumped into a plastic seat at the closest table. Rhys-Morgan deposited himself in the chair opposite and waved away the sugar. Although he knew full well that his friend did not take sugar, Tommie always felt that it would be rude not to offer.
“So,” Tommie asked, stirring two lumps into his own coffee. “What’s our next move?”
Rhys-Morgan held his mug in both hands and took a long, contemplative swig of coffee. It was not very hot and tasted quite old but was still better than the stuff he made in his office.
“Well, we’ve had nothing yet from the ferry or airports,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “although we can’t rule out the possibility that he took the ferry to Ireland under a false name. I’ve requested the CCTV footage from Pembroke and Holyhead.
“Bobby and Roger should be back soon from their little man hunt. I’m guessing that we would have heard something had Peter Lloyd turned up at the pet shop. Assuming they don’t have any good leads from the neighbours, I’m thinking it might be time for a good old fashioned stake-out. See if he turns up at night when he thinks no one’s watching."
He took another gulp and shrugged. “If nothing else, it will keep us away from the station in case Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown and/or his minions turn up looking for some assistance.”
He chinked his mug off his sergeant’s in a mock toast. “You and me, Tommie. Just like old times!”
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Chapter 11.6
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.”
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.”
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Chapter 11.3
“What do you know?” Sir Henry asked.
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Chapter 11.2
“OK,” Butch agreed reluctantly in response to Cassidy’s goading. “Let’s do this thing.”
The thing turned out to be both dull and tabby-cat-free. The main farmhouse was quiet and deserted. Without a warrant, they could not force their way in and, in contradiction of all the rules for crime dramas, no one had left any of the doors or windows unlocked. The dogs could not find any recent traces of Garth Jones, nor goats or tortoises for that matter. Tommo was getting visibly bored.
After an hour, Kippie decided to pull the plug on the operation. Cassidy had eventually found some signs of life in the form of vehicle and animal tracks near a wooden hut on the outskirts of the property but the recent rain had washed away the detail and it was not clear what kind of vehicle or what kind of animal.
They could have been goat tracks but they could equally have been deer tracks as far as Kippie knew. The manor house a couple of miles north of the Jones farm kept some deer and they regularly escaped.
(The escaping deer always caused mayhem on the local roads. This was not because they caused more accidents, as such. At least, not unless you can accidentally phone up Griff “The Reaver” Evans and his armoured pickup and cause him to accidentally drive around the area until a hapless beast was spotted and then accidentally mow it down at high speed allowing the original caller, who just so happened to be tailing Griff at the time, to claim the carcass in the well-established “if it’s road-kill, it’s not poaching as long as you don’t hit it” myth. Technically, the carcass actually belonged to the local council (or whoever’s land the poor creature was on at the time - Griff had been know go off-road sometimes in his quest for the perfect accident -) but these thing never made it to court. Entirely coincidentally, the local magistrate and Griff “The Reaver” Evans never seemed to be short of a venison sausage or the odd haunch.)
Likewise, the vehicle tracks were not of obvious of interest. Kippie considered taking a mould but decided that (1) the definition was too poor following the rain, (2) there was nothing unusual about keeping a vehicle in a shed on a farm, and (3) she really could not be bothered. Judging by the width and depth, the it was probably a van or four-wheel drive vehicle of some kind and it had been in and out of the hut several times. She made a note to look up Garth’s vehicle collection when they got back to the station.
“Come on,” she sighed. “Let’s make tracks.”
Butch’s ears perked up. “Wouldn’t that be fabricating evidence?”
Kippie looked at him. If she did not know better, she would have interpreted that look as eager willingness rather than shocked reproach. She did not know better: Butch did not just throw the rule-book out of the window when it came to bringing down a suspect, he strapped a brick to it and aimed at the suspect’s head.
“I don’t mean...” she tapered off and pointed at the police van. “Just get in.”
The thing turned out to be both dull and tabby-cat-free. The main farmhouse was quiet and deserted. Without a warrant, they could not force their way in and, in contradiction of all the rules for crime dramas, no one had left any of the doors or windows unlocked. The dogs could not find any recent traces of Garth Jones, nor goats or tortoises for that matter. Tommo was getting visibly bored.
After an hour, Kippie decided to pull the plug on the operation. Cassidy had eventually found some signs of life in the form of vehicle and animal tracks near a wooden hut on the outskirts of the property but the recent rain had washed away the detail and it was not clear what kind of vehicle or what kind of animal.
They could have been goat tracks but they could equally have been deer tracks as far as Kippie knew. The manor house a couple of miles north of the Jones farm kept some deer and they regularly escaped.
(The escaping deer always caused mayhem on the local roads. This was not because they caused more accidents, as such. At least, not unless you can accidentally phone up Griff “The Reaver” Evans and his armoured pickup and cause him to accidentally drive around the area until a hapless beast was spotted and then accidentally mow it down at high speed allowing the original caller, who just so happened to be tailing Griff at the time, to claim the carcass in the well-established “if it’s road-kill, it’s not poaching as long as you don’t hit it” myth. Technically, the carcass actually belonged to the local council (or whoever’s land the poor creature was on at the time - Griff had been know go off-road sometimes in his quest for the perfect accident -) but these thing never made it to court. Entirely coincidentally, the local magistrate and Griff “The Reaver” Evans never seemed to be short of a venison sausage or the odd haunch.)
Likewise, the vehicle tracks were not of obvious of interest. Kippie considered taking a mould but decided that (1) the definition was too poor following the rain, (2) there was nothing unusual about keeping a vehicle in a shed on a farm, and (3) she really could not be bothered. Judging by the width and depth, the it was probably a van or four-wheel drive vehicle of some kind and it had been in and out of the hut several times. She made a note to look up Garth’s vehicle collection when they got back to the station.
“Come on,” she sighed. “Let’s make tracks.”
Butch’s ears perked up. “Wouldn’t that be fabricating evidence?”
Kippie looked at him. If she did not know better, she would have interpreted that look as eager willingness rather than shocked reproach. She did not know better: Butch did not just throw the rule-book out of the window when it came to bringing down a suspect, he strapped a brick to it and aimed at the suspect’s head.
“I don’t mean...” she tapered off and pointed at the police van. “Just get in.”
Thursday, 13 September 2012
Chapter 10.6
D.I. Rhys-Morgan pulled a face as he looked over the paperwork on his desk.
“Ow!” cried D.S. Jenkins, for the face was his.
“This doesn’t make any sense, Tommie.”
“I know, Guv, but that’s what the lab boys say.”
Rhys-Morgan sat still for a moment. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“No, Guv.”
Another pause.
“Well, if that’s what they say… I guess I’d best make a phone call, then.”
“Yes, Guv.”
The paperwork in question was an updated forensics report with another male identification. It did not do Rhys-Morgan’s theorising any good, although it brought the total number of identifications up to seven, in line with the number of different Y-chromosomes in the morgue.
“Any news on the missing female DNA?” he asked.
Tommie coughed and produced another report. “It’s seems that they no longer think they’re missing one, Guv. It turns out that the sisters were actually identical twins. That’s also why they were so confused with the bodies before. Doc Maddock seemed very pleased, anyway. Identical twins means identical DNA, so four different DNA donors means five bodies because one of the four is actually two.”
Rhys-Morgan stared at his left hand in confusion as his fingers tried to follow Tommie’s stream of numbers and his tired brain tried even harder to keep up.
“If you says so, Tommie.”
“Doc Maddock and the lab boys say so, Guv.”
“OK, thanks Tommie. Anything else?”
“Just one thing, Guv.”
“Yes?”
“Can you let go of my face now?”
“Ow!” cried D.S. Jenkins, for the face was his.
“This doesn’t make any sense, Tommie.”
“I know, Guv, but that’s what the lab boys say.”
Rhys-Morgan sat still for a moment. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“No, Guv.”
Another pause.
“Well, if that’s what they say… I guess I’d best make a phone call, then.”
“Yes, Guv.”
The paperwork in question was an updated forensics report with another male identification. It did not do Rhys-Morgan’s theorising any good, although it brought the total number of identifications up to seven, in line with the number of different Y-chromosomes in the morgue.
“Any news on the missing female DNA?” he asked.
Tommie coughed and produced another report. “It’s seems that they no longer think they’re missing one, Guv. It turns out that the sisters were actually identical twins. That’s also why they were so confused with the bodies before. Doc Maddock seemed very pleased, anyway. Identical twins means identical DNA, so four different DNA donors means five bodies because one of the four is actually two.”
Rhys-Morgan stared at his left hand in confusion as his fingers tried to follow Tommie’s stream of numbers and his tired brain tried even harder to keep up.
“If you says so, Tommie.”
“Doc Maddock and the lab boys say so, Guv.”
“OK, thanks Tommie. Anything else?”
“Just one thing, Guv.”
“Yes?”
“Can you let go of my face now?”
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Chapter 10.5
Kippie turned off the engine of the police animal van and leant round the back of her chair.
“OK, you guys,” she said through the black metal grill that separated the front of the van from the rear. “Now, remember: Garth Jones is missing. There is a fair chance, therefore, that anyone you meet around here is not Garth Jones.”
“So?” asked Cassidy.
“So, basically, I don’t want you biting the face off of anyone you meet.” She glanced over at the passenger seat. “That includes you, Tommo.”
“Sure thing,” frowned Tommo.
“But,” countered Cassidy with a hint of optimism, “anyone we meet might be Garth Jones!”
“That’s true,” conceded Kippie, nodding. She thought for a moment. “The thing is, though – and believe me, I’m not happy about this either – he probably hasn’t actually done anything wrong. This time. We don’t even have a warrant.”
“What do we have?” asked Cassidy.
Kippie smiled at him and popped open the door. “A license to snoop.”
“I like Snoopy,” said Tommo bashfully, as he unfolded himself onto the gravel drive.
Kippie crunched round to the back of the van and opened the doors for the dogs. Cassidy jumped out, tail wagging enthusiastically. Butch, on the other hand, stayed in the van, looking as sheepish as a German Shepherd can. (He didn’t have the natural advantage of the goats but his observation skills were good.)
“You coming then?” asked Kippie.
“Er… I thought I might just stay here,” he answered. “You know, watch the van, sort of thing. I mean, you don’t really need both of us, do you?”
“Well, it would be quicker,” she replied with a bemused smile.
Behind her, Cassidy sniggered.
“C’mon now,” Kippie pressed. “What’s the problem?”
“Meow!” said Cassidy, and sniggered again as Butch flinched involuntarily. Kippie cocked her head on one side. “Come now. A big ol’ dog like you can’t be scared of a l’il ol’ pussy cat, can you?”
“That’s no cat,” muttered Butch grumpily, edging towards the open doors. “That thing’s a monster! A fell beast. An abomination from the depths of hell itself!”
Kippie smiled. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so melodramatic! Come on, you big wuss. If Jones is missing then maybe the cat’s gone too.”
“Yeah”, Cassidy agreed. “Or prowling around in confusion, hungry, angry and looking for fresh meat!”
Butch whined but jumped down, glancing about furtively.
“C’mon,” encouraged Cassidy. “Let’s snoop, dog!”
“OK, you guys,” she said through the black metal grill that separated the front of the van from the rear. “Now, remember: Garth Jones is missing. There is a fair chance, therefore, that anyone you meet around here is not Garth Jones.”
“So?” asked Cassidy.
“So, basically, I don’t want you biting the face off of anyone you meet.” She glanced over at the passenger seat. “That includes you, Tommo.”
“Sure thing,” frowned Tommo.
“But,” countered Cassidy with a hint of optimism, “anyone we meet might be Garth Jones!”
“That’s true,” conceded Kippie, nodding. She thought for a moment. “The thing is, though – and believe me, I’m not happy about this either – he probably hasn’t actually done anything wrong. This time. We don’t even have a warrant.”
“What do we have?” asked Cassidy.
Kippie smiled at him and popped open the door. “A license to snoop.”
“I like Snoopy,” said Tommo bashfully, as he unfolded himself onto the gravel drive.
Kippie crunched round to the back of the van and opened the doors for the dogs. Cassidy jumped out, tail wagging enthusiastically. Butch, on the other hand, stayed in the van, looking as sheepish as a German Shepherd can. (He didn’t have the natural advantage of the goats but his observation skills were good.)
“You coming then?” asked Kippie.
“Er… I thought I might just stay here,” he answered. “You know, watch the van, sort of thing. I mean, you don’t really need both of us, do you?”
“Well, it would be quicker,” she replied with a bemused smile.
Behind her, Cassidy sniggered.
“C’mon now,” Kippie pressed. “What’s the problem?”
“Meow!” said Cassidy, and sniggered again as Butch flinched involuntarily. Kippie cocked her head on one side. “Come now. A big ol’ dog like you can’t be scared of a l’il ol’ pussy cat, can you?”
“That’s no cat,” muttered Butch grumpily, edging towards the open doors. “That thing’s a monster! A fell beast. An abomination from the depths of hell itself!”
Kippie smiled. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so melodramatic! Come on, you big wuss. If Jones is missing then maybe the cat’s gone too.”
“Yeah”, Cassidy agreed. “Or prowling around in confusion, hungry, angry and looking for fresh meat!”
Butch whined but jumped down, glancing about furtively.
“C’mon,” encouraged Cassidy. “Let’s snoop, dog!”
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Chapter 10.4
Detective-Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan squinted at the forensics and coroners reports scattered across his desk. Whilst his team was out investigating, he was determined to get his head around the current state of affairs.
There had been a bit of initial lab confusion introduced by the presence of two sisters of similar build and height and shared markers in the DNA analysis. The latest report had confirmed it, though: the eleventh named victim was Antonia Fredricks, sister of Emma Fredricks. In a moment’s cowardice, he felt thankful that he would not be the one visiting the Fredricks house to break the news.
He picked up the coroner’s report and looked at the summary for the third time that morning. The coroner had apparently been watching too much Bones and seemed a little bit too gleeful about what she had described to him on the phone as a “human jigsaw puzzle”. He skipped over the gory details and traced his finger over the bottom line: twelve victims in total, with seven male bodies and five female. Based on dental records, fingerprints and direct facial recognition, eight of these now had names attached to them.
He turned over to where the names were listed and let his eyes linger as his brain processed them again: David and Wendy Lloyd, Frank and Sarah Jackson, Anthony Smeg, Emma and Antonia Fredricks, and Duncan Bridges. That left only three men and one woman still needing identification.
Rhys-Morgan flicked through to the relevant pages. They were getting closer to physical descriptions that they could cross-reference to the missing persons reports. With just over two days since the blast, there was no guarantee that the remaining victims had been reported yet. He would no be too surprised if that did not yield further fruit until tomorrow. Unless the DNA beat them to it, of course.
He dropped it back on the desk and then picked up the latest forensics report. Things were not quite so clear-cut from the lab boys. So far, they had at least eleven confirmed DNA sources: seven male and four female. Of these, only four had confirmed IDs from the records: David Lloyd, Frank Jackson, Patrick Edwards and, unbelievably, Garth Jones. Of these, only David and Frank had also been identified from physical remains.
They were therefore busy trying to match up the remaining seven identified bodies with the DNA they had already, as well as getting the missing female sample. The original collection and analysis had understandably been a little haphazard at first but now that the “human jigsaw” was complete, they could be a bit more systematic.
Two of the female samples had familial matches and presumably belonged to the Fredricks sisters, so they were scheduled to be tested first. The other priority was to match the other two bodiless names from DNA identifications - Patrick Edwards and Garth Jones - to nameless bodies.
Rhys-Morgan placed the report back on his desk and shuffled the stack into some semblance of order before reaching subconsciously for his coffee mug. He drew it to his lips before noticing its emptiness for the third time since the morning’s briefing.
He stared at the stained bottom of the mug as he cogitated. Three men yet to identify and one woman. He had no idea who the latter was. If missing persons didn’t come through, they’d have to start circulating pictures to the media tomorrow. The media. He suppressed a shudder. That was not a part of his job he enjoyed - or was any good at, for that matter.
He turned his mind to the men. Assuming that Patrick and Garth matched bodies, that would leave one Joe Bloggs. The missing Peter Lloyd would complete the set. If that was him. If it wasn’t him... well, then Peter Lloyd would definitely be at the top of the suspects list. He put the mug down. They should stake-out his pet shop in case. Until the motive was sorted out for this, Rhys-Morgan wanted to leave nothing to chance.
There had been a bit of initial lab confusion introduced by the presence of two sisters of similar build and height and shared markers in the DNA analysis. The latest report had confirmed it, though: the eleventh named victim was Antonia Fredricks, sister of Emma Fredricks. In a moment’s cowardice, he felt thankful that he would not be the one visiting the Fredricks house to break the news.
He picked up the coroner’s report and looked at the summary for the third time that morning. The coroner had apparently been watching too much Bones and seemed a little bit too gleeful about what she had described to him on the phone as a “human jigsaw puzzle”. He skipped over the gory details and traced his finger over the bottom line: twelve victims in total, with seven male bodies and five female. Based on dental records, fingerprints and direct facial recognition, eight of these now had names attached to them.
He turned over to where the names were listed and let his eyes linger as his brain processed them again: David and Wendy Lloyd, Frank and Sarah Jackson, Anthony Smeg, Emma and Antonia Fredricks, and Duncan Bridges. That left only three men and one woman still needing identification.
Rhys-Morgan flicked through to the relevant pages. They were getting closer to physical descriptions that they could cross-reference to the missing persons reports. With just over two days since the blast, there was no guarantee that the remaining victims had been reported yet. He would no be too surprised if that did not yield further fruit until tomorrow. Unless the DNA beat them to it, of course.
He dropped it back on the desk and then picked up the latest forensics report. Things were not quite so clear-cut from the lab boys. So far, they had at least eleven confirmed DNA sources: seven male and four female. Of these, only four had confirmed IDs from the records: David Lloyd, Frank Jackson, Patrick Edwards and, unbelievably, Garth Jones. Of these, only David and Frank had also been identified from physical remains.
They were therefore busy trying to match up the remaining seven identified bodies with the DNA they had already, as well as getting the missing female sample. The original collection and analysis had understandably been a little haphazard at first but now that the “human jigsaw” was complete, they could be a bit more systematic.
Two of the female samples had familial matches and presumably belonged to the Fredricks sisters, so they were scheduled to be tested first. The other priority was to match the other two bodiless names from DNA identifications - Patrick Edwards and Garth Jones - to nameless bodies.
Rhys-Morgan placed the report back on his desk and shuffled the stack into some semblance of order before reaching subconsciously for his coffee mug. He drew it to his lips before noticing its emptiness for the third time since the morning’s briefing.
He stared at the stained bottom of the mug as he cogitated. Three men yet to identify and one woman. He had no idea who the latter was. If missing persons didn’t come through, they’d have to start circulating pictures to the media tomorrow. The media. He suppressed a shudder. That was not a part of his job he enjoyed - or was any good at, for that matter.
He turned his mind to the men. Assuming that Patrick and Garth matched bodies, that would leave one Joe Bloggs. The missing Peter Lloyd would complete the set. If that was him. If it wasn’t him... well, then Peter Lloyd would definitely be at the top of the suspects list. He put the mug down. They should stake-out his pet shop in case. Until the motive was sorted out for this, Rhys-Morgan wanted to leave nothing to chance.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Chapter 10.2
Detective Inspector Rhys-Morgan was dozing in his chair when a knock on the door roused him from his slumber.
“Come in!” It was an awful dream anyway. (The one where he was wandering in the fruit and vegetable section of Tesco wearing nothing but his pyjamas. And a large aubergine.)
He sat forward and picked instinctively reached for the mug on his desk and took a mouthful of the contents. It was cold. How long had he been asleep?
“You alright, Guv?” Sergeant Jenkins asked as he entered the office and spied his superior’s face.
“I’ll live, Tommie.” He looked up. “You don’t look too hot yourself. What’ve you got for me?”
“Just got the official confirmation about Frank’s wife, Sarah. She was one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded. “I feared as much when I saw the medical report, yesterday. I think something funny is going on. This one’s tricky - take a seat.”
“Er, Chief?” Tommie nodded at the clock on Rhys-Morgan’s wall. “Everyone’s waiting in the briefing room. I came to find out where you were!”
“Damn!” Rhys-Morgan leapt to his feet. He had obviously been asleep for longer than he thought. “Sorry Tommie. Let’s go!”
Tommie led the way to the briefing room while Rhys-Morgan tried to collect his thoughts. Hopefully one of his men will have uncovered the crucial piece of evidence that will make this case start to make sense. Or, failing that, will have brought him a double expresso from the Starbucks round the corner.
“All right gang, listen up!” he told the assembled troops. “We’ve got some more information since yesterday. I want to get to the bottom of this one, quickly. The press are already beginning to sniff around and I don’t want rumours getting out of hand.” He turned to the blackboard at the front of the room.
“OK, first up,” he said. “Bobby and Tommo have come up trumps with the vehicles. The red landrover was indeed Frank Jackson’s.” He connected the word Landrover and Frank’s name with a wavy chalk line. “The moped and volvo belonged to,” he checked the paper in his hand, ”Emma Fredricks and Duncan Bridges. Both local. Both young. Both probably victims.”
“Er, Guv?” It was PC Robert Williams.
“Yes, Bobby?”
“Forensics came through about twenty minutes ago. Emma and Duncan are both positive matches.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded and replaced the question marks linked to each vehicle on the blackboard with the appropriate owner’s name.
“That brings the identified victims to five.”
“Add Frank’s wife Sarah and we have six, Guv.” Tommie told him.
“But what we still lack is a motive,” said Rhys-Morgan. “I went down to Frank and Dave’s lawyers yesterday hoping to get a lead on that. It seems that they had not received any threats of any kind. However, Anthony Smeg – the young lawyer that represented them – was missing.” Rhys-Morgan somehow managed to make the word ‘lawyer’ sound like ‘parasite’. “So too was the law firm’s secretary, Wendy Lloyd. Both Anthony and Wendy have been confirmed among the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan paused to write both names on the blackboard, linking them to each other and to Frank and David.
“Now,” he continued, “their roles in the Jackson and Lloyd case may just be coincidental. Wendy was David Lloyd ‘s sister-in-law, married to his brother Peter. There’s no sign of him yet but neither do we have a positive ID from forensics. Whatever happened there may simply have affected them too.
“However,” he paused again as he chalked up Peter? and linked the name to David and Wendy.
“However,” he repeated, “we cannot rule out the possibility that something more sinister is going on.”
“By who, Guv?” asked Tommie. “Who could possibly want to hurt Frank and Sarah?”
“Well, although they received no actual threats that we are aware of, Mr Butterworth informed me that they were working on a legal case against Garth Jones. It seems that Jackson and Lloyd wanted some recompense for the ruination of their reputations.”
“Excuse me, Guv,” said PC Roger Davies from the assembly, his voice quavering slightly with the excitement of a potentially big find. “Garth Jones is missing. No one’s seen him since last day.”
“Ha!” cried Rhys-Morgan. “I knew it!”
“That’s because he’s probably another one of the victims, Guv,” said another voice.
“What?”
It was PC Williams again. “One of the victims, Guv.”
“I don’t understand. What would Garth Jones be doing in a field with Dave Lloyd and the Jacksons?”
“I don’t know, Guv.” Williams answered, shaking his head. “But it’s on this morning’s forensic report. Working from information on file, some of the blood on the robes has been given a 99.7% probability of being Garth Jones’.”
Rhys-Morgan took the print-out from PC Williams and read it for himself. It was true. His bubble burst momentarily, he turned and wrote Garth Jones on the board, followed by several question marks and a couple of exclamation marks for good measure. He stood back then lent forward and added another exclamation mark, just to be sure.
“I don’t like to say it,” said Tommie, “but I’d have to agree that it wasn’t him. I just don’t think this is Garth’s style. I mean, the man’s heart’s as evil as a goblin’s testicles but he wouldn’t go this far. He’d have too much to lose and too little to gain. I certainly don’t think he’s be intimidated by a court case. He gets his kicks from that kind of thing.”
“Then what?” He sighed and scanned the faces in front of him. “Cerys. Any news on Patrick Edwards?”
“By all accounts he was a top bloke,” she said. “He was definitely a pagan. Invited one of the nuns to do some naked frolicking once. No mention of ritual suicide, though.”
“Anything else strange apart from the paganism?”
“Yes. But not to do with Patrick Edwards.”
Closing his eyes in an effort to concentrate, Rhys-Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Explain.”
“It was just something that Mary said – she was the nun that was tied up in the robbery there a couple of weeks ago. Apparently a couple of tortoises were taken. Now, that’s a bit odd in itself but we found that tortoise-shell…”
“…at the bomb-site.” Rhys-Morgan finished.
“Yes, though actually it wasn’t found at the site itself.”
“But your report said…”
“Yes, well, it turns out that Cassidy was not entirely honest. I bumped into the Spandex and they told me it had been blown into a wood some distance away. It must have been right in the centre of the blast. I think it could be important. I mean, what was a tortoise doing there in the first place? They’re not exactly endemic.”
“They’re not endemic?” Rhys-Morgan had forgotten about the tortoise and his tired brain was not coping well. He spotted Cerys shaking her head at him with slightly wide eyes and did his best to recover quickly. “I mean, ahem, of course they’re not endemic.”
“Yes but why steal them from a school?” asked Tommie. “Why not just get one from a pet shop?”
The briefing room echoed with the sound of Rhys-Morgan slapping his forehead with his right palm.
“Maybe it did come from a pet shop,” he said. “Peter’s Pet Shop to be precise. Wendy lives - lived - above it. Presumably, her husband Peter runs it. That theft is probably just a coincidence, after all.”
“I guess the tortoise must have been part of the ritual,” said PC Davies. “A sacrifice, or something.”
“Assuming this was a ritual suicide,” said Rhys-Morgan. “But I’m not so sure. Why? Why would the likes of Anthony Smeg commit suicide when they so much to live for?”
“What’s a plausible alternative?” asked Tommie.
“Murder.” Rhys-Morgan replied with a slight curl of his top lip. “Rumour had it that Anthony and Wendy were having an affair. Maybe Peter found out and took the matter into his own hands. We all know the stats.”
A couple of the officers nodded in agreement but Tommie was not convinced. “But why kill the others, Guv? Why kill his brother?”
“I don’t know,” conceded Rhys-Morgan. “I’m just brainstorming. Maybe Dave found out but didn’t tell him. Maybe Peter just didn’t care anymore and killed everyone there including himself. Last act of a desperate man. A multiple murder-suicide.”
“Maybe it wasn’t murder or suicide?” suggested PC Davies. “Maybe it was just an accident. A sacrifice that went horribly wrong? Instead of chucking the tortoise on the fire, they chucked on a bundle of dynamite or something?”
“Maybe someone disguised some dynamite as a tortoise to fool them,” added Tommo nodding knowingly. “A conspiracy!”
Rhys-Morgan sank slowly into the plastic chair next to the blackboard and rubbed his eyes with his non-chalky hand as, before him, his officers bounced around ideas of steadily increasing imagination and decreasing likelihood. He waited patiently for a lull in the general hubbub before rising to his feet once more. At this the final murmurs – some theory involving a group remorse following the sacrifice of an innocent tortoise – ground to a halt.
“Maybe a lot of things,” Rhys-Morgan told them, the frustration spilling out of him in an uncharacteristic shout of rage. “Maybe the tortoise had explosive dia-bloody-rrhoea! But we still have unidentified bodies in the morgue and, whatever happened, we can’t assume that anyone was killed in the blast until we have full forensic reports. I want looking for Peter Lloyd and Garth Jones to be top priority. They’re not to be arrested – yet – but if they’re alive then I’d definitely like to talk to them.
“Cerys. I want you to take dogs and sniff around Garth Jones place. Look for clues that may confirm him as one of the victims. Take Tommo with you. Roger, you and Bobby pay another visit to Peter’s Pet Shop. If he’s not there, then check with the neighbours as to when they last saw him. Davie and Rhys, search for any evidence of sightings of either of them. Liaise with other forces and spread their descriptions around. Check airports and ferry terminals around the country. If they’re on the run, they’ve had over 48 hours to get away.
“The rest of you, keep working on that missing persons list. I want those bodies identified before the end of the day.”
“Come in!” It was an awful dream anyway. (The one where he was wandering in the fruit and vegetable section of Tesco wearing nothing but his pyjamas. And a large aubergine.)
He sat forward and picked instinctively reached for the mug on his desk and took a mouthful of the contents. It was cold. How long had he been asleep?
“You alright, Guv?” Sergeant Jenkins asked as he entered the office and spied his superior’s face.
“I’ll live, Tommie.” He looked up. “You don’t look too hot yourself. What’ve you got for me?”
“Just got the official confirmation about Frank’s wife, Sarah. She was one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded. “I feared as much when I saw the medical report, yesterday. I think something funny is going on. This one’s tricky - take a seat.”
“Er, Chief?” Tommie nodded at the clock on Rhys-Morgan’s wall. “Everyone’s waiting in the briefing room. I came to find out where you were!”
“Damn!” Rhys-Morgan leapt to his feet. He had obviously been asleep for longer than he thought. “Sorry Tommie. Let’s go!”
Tommie led the way to the briefing room while Rhys-Morgan tried to collect his thoughts. Hopefully one of his men will have uncovered the crucial piece of evidence that will make this case start to make sense. Or, failing that, will have brought him a double expresso from the Starbucks round the corner.
“All right gang, listen up!” he told the assembled troops. “We’ve got some more information since yesterday. I want to get to the bottom of this one, quickly. The press are already beginning to sniff around and I don’t want rumours getting out of hand.” He turned to the blackboard at the front of the room.
“OK, first up,” he said. “Bobby and Tommo have come up trumps with the vehicles. The red landrover was indeed Frank Jackson’s.” He connected the word Landrover and Frank’s name with a wavy chalk line. “The moped and volvo belonged to,” he checked the paper in his hand, ”Emma Fredricks and Duncan Bridges. Both local. Both young. Both probably victims.”
“Er, Guv?” It was PC Robert Williams.
“Yes, Bobby?”
“Forensics came through about twenty minutes ago. Emma and Duncan are both positive matches.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded and replaced the question marks linked to each vehicle on the blackboard with the appropriate owner’s name.
“That brings the identified victims to five.”
“Add Frank’s wife Sarah and we have six, Guv.” Tommie told him.
“But what we still lack is a motive,” said Rhys-Morgan. “I went down to Frank and Dave’s lawyers yesterday hoping to get a lead on that. It seems that they had not received any threats of any kind. However, Anthony Smeg – the young lawyer that represented them – was missing.” Rhys-Morgan somehow managed to make the word ‘lawyer’ sound like ‘parasite’. “So too was the law firm’s secretary, Wendy Lloyd. Both Anthony and Wendy have been confirmed among the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan paused to write both names on the blackboard, linking them to each other and to Frank and David.
“Now,” he continued, “their roles in the Jackson and Lloyd case may just be coincidental. Wendy was David Lloyd ‘s sister-in-law, married to his brother Peter. There’s no sign of him yet but neither do we have a positive ID from forensics. Whatever happened there may simply have affected them too.
“However,” he paused again as he chalked up Peter? and linked the name to David and Wendy.
“However,” he repeated, “we cannot rule out the possibility that something more sinister is going on.”
“By who, Guv?” asked Tommie. “Who could possibly want to hurt Frank and Sarah?”
“Well, although they received no actual threats that we are aware of, Mr Butterworth informed me that they were working on a legal case against Garth Jones. It seems that Jackson and Lloyd wanted some recompense for the ruination of their reputations.”
“Excuse me, Guv,” said PC Roger Davies from the assembly, his voice quavering slightly with the excitement of a potentially big find. “Garth Jones is missing. No one’s seen him since last day.”
“Ha!” cried Rhys-Morgan. “I knew it!”
“That’s because he’s probably another one of the victims, Guv,” said another voice.
“What?”
It was PC Williams again. “One of the victims, Guv.”
“I don’t understand. What would Garth Jones be doing in a field with Dave Lloyd and the Jacksons?”
“I don’t know, Guv.” Williams answered, shaking his head. “But it’s on this morning’s forensic report. Working from information on file, some of the blood on the robes has been given a 99.7% probability of being Garth Jones’.”
Rhys-Morgan took the print-out from PC Williams and read it for himself. It was true. His bubble burst momentarily, he turned and wrote Garth Jones on the board, followed by several question marks and a couple of exclamation marks for good measure. He stood back then lent forward and added another exclamation mark, just to be sure.
“I don’t like to say it,” said Tommie, “but I’d have to agree that it wasn’t him. I just don’t think this is Garth’s style. I mean, the man’s heart’s as evil as a goblin’s testicles but he wouldn’t go this far. He’d have too much to lose and too little to gain. I certainly don’t think he’s be intimidated by a court case. He gets his kicks from that kind of thing.”
“Then what?” He sighed and scanned the faces in front of him. “Cerys. Any news on Patrick Edwards?”
“By all accounts he was a top bloke,” she said. “He was definitely a pagan. Invited one of the nuns to do some naked frolicking once. No mention of ritual suicide, though.”
“Anything else strange apart from the paganism?”
“Yes. But not to do with Patrick Edwards.”
Closing his eyes in an effort to concentrate, Rhys-Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Explain.”
“It was just something that Mary said – she was the nun that was tied up in the robbery there a couple of weeks ago. Apparently a couple of tortoises were taken. Now, that’s a bit odd in itself but we found that tortoise-shell…”
“…at the bomb-site.” Rhys-Morgan finished.
“Yes, though actually it wasn’t found at the site itself.”
“But your report said…”
“Yes, well, it turns out that Cassidy was not entirely honest. I bumped into the Spandex and they told me it had been blown into a wood some distance away. It must have been right in the centre of the blast. I think it could be important. I mean, what was a tortoise doing there in the first place? They’re not exactly endemic.”
“They’re not endemic?” Rhys-Morgan had forgotten about the tortoise and his tired brain was not coping well. He spotted Cerys shaking her head at him with slightly wide eyes and did his best to recover quickly. “I mean, ahem, of course they’re not endemic.”
“Yes but why steal them from a school?” asked Tommie. “Why not just get one from a pet shop?”
The briefing room echoed with the sound of Rhys-Morgan slapping his forehead with his right palm.
“Maybe it did come from a pet shop,” he said. “Peter’s Pet Shop to be precise. Wendy lives - lived - above it. Presumably, her husband Peter runs it. That theft is probably just a coincidence, after all.”
“I guess the tortoise must have been part of the ritual,” said PC Davies. “A sacrifice, or something.”
“Assuming this was a ritual suicide,” said Rhys-Morgan. “But I’m not so sure. Why? Why would the likes of Anthony Smeg commit suicide when they so much to live for?”
“What’s a plausible alternative?” asked Tommie.
“Murder.” Rhys-Morgan replied with a slight curl of his top lip. “Rumour had it that Anthony and Wendy were having an affair. Maybe Peter found out and took the matter into his own hands. We all know the stats.”
A couple of the officers nodded in agreement but Tommie was not convinced. “But why kill the others, Guv? Why kill his brother?”
“I don’t know,” conceded Rhys-Morgan. “I’m just brainstorming. Maybe Dave found out but didn’t tell him. Maybe Peter just didn’t care anymore and killed everyone there including himself. Last act of a desperate man. A multiple murder-suicide.”
“Maybe it wasn’t murder or suicide?” suggested PC Davies. “Maybe it was just an accident. A sacrifice that went horribly wrong? Instead of chucking the tortoise on the fire, they chucked on a bundle of dynamite or something?”
“Maybe someone disguised some dynamite as a tortoise to fool them,” added Tommo nodding knowingly. “A conspiracy!”
Rhys-Morgan sank slowly into the plastic chair next to the blackboard and rubbed his eyes with his non-chalky hand as, before him, his officers bounced around ideas of steadily increasing imagination and decreasing likelihood. He waited patiently for a lull in the general hubbub before rising to his feet once more. At this the final murmurs – some theory involving a group remorse following the sacrifice of an innocent tortoise – ground to a halt.
“Maybe a lot of things,” Rhys-Morgan told them, the frustration spilling out of him in an uncharacteristic shout of rage. “Maybe the tortoise had explosive dia-bloody-rrhoea! But we still have unidentified bodies in the morgue and, whatever happened, we can’t assume that anyone was killed in the blast until we have full forensic reports. I want looking for Peter Lloyd and Garth Jones to be top priority. They’re not to be arrested – yet – but if they’re alive then I’d definitely like to talk to them.
“Cerys. I want you to take dogs and sniff around Garth Jones place. Look for clues that may confirm him as one of the victims. Take Tommo with you. Roger, you and Bobby pay another visit to Peter’s Pet Shop. If he’s not there, then check with the neighbours as to when they last saw him. Davie and Rhys, search for any evidence of sightings of either of them. Liaise with other forces and spread their descriptions around. Check airports and ferry terminals around the country. If they’re on the run, they’ve had over 48 hours to get away.
“The rest of you, keep working on that missing persons list. I want those bodies identified before the end of the day.”
Monday, 3 September 2012
Chapter 9.6
Rhys-Morgan put the phone down, poured himself another cup of coffee and took a big swig. His face contorted. It was not a pretty sight, and not only because of the day’s stubble on his chin, the coffee-stained teeth and the big bags under his eyes.
The expression he wore was one of gross disapproval. This was partly because his coffee tasted like mud – mud that had been stewed in a wrestler’s jock strap for a week or two. But the coffee was not the main reason for his displeasure – Rhys-Morgan’s coffee was not so much a hot beverage as it was a caffeine-delivery system, and he had long become accustomed to its dreadful flavour.
Although not entirely unexpected, it was the identification of the two victims that had just been phoned through to him that had annoyed him so much. If there was one thing that got on Rhys-Morgan’s nerves, it was mime artists. And small yappy dogs wearing little coats. And Westlife. But more than all these things, it was loose ends. And rather than tying things up, the scribbled notes on the jotter next to his phone might open the door to a veritable jamboree of loose ends, frayed knots and general poor quality rope-work all round.
This may not be suicide after all. It was going to be a long night.
The expression he wore was one of gross disapproval. This was partly because his coffee tasted like mud – mud that had been stewed in a wrestler’s jock strap for a week or two. But the coffee was not the main reason for his displeasure – Rhys-Morgan’s coffee was not so much a hot beverage as it was a caffeine-delivery system, and he had long become accustomed to its dreadful flavour.
Although not entirely unexpected, it was the identification of the two victims that had just been phoned through to him that had annoyed him so much. If there was one thing that got on Rhys-Morgan’s nerves, it was mime artists. And small yappy dogs wearing little coats. And Westlife. But more than all these things, it was loose ends. And rather than tying things up, the scribbled notes on the jotter next to his phone might open the door to a veritable jamboree of loose ends, frayed knots and general poor quality rope-work all round.
This may not be suicide after all. It was going to be a long night.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Chapter 9.4
Rhys-Morgan liked his coffee like he did not like his women – strong and bitter. Hot and wet was okay but they should not come in a mug. (Rhys-Morgan had visited that particular club in Amsterdam and had not been impressed.) Coffee may stain your teeth but it would never run off with the men’s room attendant from your golf club.
He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. The visit to Smeg & Butterworth had stirred up dregs of bad memories from a past that Ifan wanted to remain buried. The only thing he could do in response was to bury himself in his work.
A quick gulp of his coffee snapped him out of his contemplation and he picked up the first sheet of paper from his in-tray. It was a copy of Sarah Jackson’s medical records. He knew what was coming next but was still hesitant as he turned the leaf and read the page stapled to it. It was a forensic report. Sarah’s profile was an exact match for one of the victims.
With an involuntarily curl of his top lip he cast the papers back on his desk. It was bad enough when a couple of scumbags had a lethal falling out (often the lethality was due to one of them falling out a tenth story window, or a moving car) but he really hated the part of his job that dealt with the death of innocents.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rhys-Morgan could see the familiar silhouette of Tommie through the frosted glass.
“Come in, Tommie.”
Tommie opened the door and lent around it. He gaze quickly flicked between the report on Rhys-Morgan’s desk and the expression on his face.
“You’ve seen my report, then.”
It was not a question but Rhys-Morgan felt it deserved a response. “Yes, Tommie.” He did not really know what else to say.
Tommie’s body followed his head into the office and he placed a Krispy Kreme donut box on the Inspector’s desk in which the sole survivor of an original glazed dozen sat. There was a brief pause as a Tommie tried to discern the mood of his boss. “Bobby and Tommo are back. Shall I send them in?”
Rhys-Morgan nodded with a resigned shrug. “Please. And I phoned in a request earlier for information on an Anthony Smeg and a Wendy Lloyd. I think Rog was doing the digging.” Tommie nodded, pleased to have an excuse to leave again. “I’ll get on it.”
Thirty seconds or so after Tommie closed the door there was another knock. This time it sounded like someone trying to be gentle but, having giant hams for fists, failing miserably.
Ifan did not even look up. “Come in Tommo.”
The door opened and the shut heavily. A shadow slowly loomed over Rhys-Morgan and produced a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the DVLA’s summary, Guv. Bobby’s finishing off the full report for you now.”
“Thanks Tommo,” Rhys-Morgan answered, taking the proffered paper. “What have we got?”
“The owners of the vehicles, Guv.”
“Yes, Tommo,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “I realise that. But what does it say?”
“Well, Guv, Bobby was right. That Landrover did belong to the Jacksons.”
Rhys-Morgan scanned the report. “Let’s see. ’82 Suzuki moped. Red.”
“Belongs to a young girl, Emma Fredricks. We haven’t managed to track her down, yet. Forensics are double-checking but it looks like one of the victims may be a match.” Rhys-Morgan drained the rest of his mug. “And what about the owner of the Volvo?” He checked the page. “Duncan Bridges.”
“Yeah. Twenty-three.” Tommo smirked. “Lives with his mum.”
“Found him?”
“Not yet. She didn’t know where he was. Went out very early yesterday morning. Hasn’t been since. Again, there’s a likely match with one of the bomb blast casualties. We should know for sure later.”
“Good. The sooner we get these I.D.s, the better.” He turned the page and frowned. “What’s this blue Fiesta? That wasn’t in the original list.”
“It got towed from a different lay-by to the other three,” Tommo explained. “Somehow got overlooked. Just as well, really - it didn’t belong to one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan read on. “Ah, yes. A Stephen Bailey reported it missing just before lunch.” He raised his eyebrows. “My, that is some colourful language. Send a car to his house and get a statement. He might have seen or heard something. Failing that, it might stop him lodging an official complaint; that’s one hassle, I could really do without.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan dropped Tommo’s report on top of the medical reports from Tommie. It was not much but it was a step on the right direction, at least.
“Right. Thanks, Tommo. Let me know when we have something more.”
“Sure thing, Guv.”
The shadow retreated, closing the door heavily behind it. Rhys-Morgan reached for the coffee pot. If forensics did get a positive match with Emma and Duncan then that would bring the identified victims to five. But who were the rest? And what was the link? And why could he not shake the feeling that he was not going to like the answers?
He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. The visit to Smeg & Butterworth had stirred up dregs of bad memories from a past that Ifan wanted to remain buried. The only thing he could do in response was to bury himself in his work.
A quick gulp of his coffee snapped him out of his contemplation and he picked up the first sheet of paper from his in-tray. It was a copy of Sarah Jackson’s medical records. He knew what was coming next but was still hesitant as he turned the leaf and read the page stapled to it. It was a forensic report. Sarah’s profile was an exact match for one of the victims.
With an involuntarily curl of his top lip he cast the papers back on his desk. It was bad enough when a couple of scumbags had a lethal falling out (often the lethality was due to one of them falling out a tenth story window, or a moving car) but he really hated the part of his job that dealt with the death of innocents.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rhys-Morgan could see the familiar silhouette of Tommie through the frosted glass.
“Come in, Tommie.”
Tommie opened the door and lent around it. He gaze quickly flicked between the report on Rhys-Morgan’s desk and the expression on his face.
“You’ve seen my report, then.”
It was not a question but Rhys-Morgan felt it deserved a response. “Yes, Tommie.” He did not really know what else to say.
Tommie’s body followed his head into the office and he placed a Krispy Kreme donut box on the Inspector’s desk in which the sole survivor of an original glazed dozen sat. There was a brief pause as a Tommie tried to discern the mood of his boss. “Bobby and Tommo are back. Shall I send them in?”
Rhys-Morgan nodded with a resigned shrug. “Please. And I phoned in a request earlier for information on an Anthony Smeg and a Wendy Lloyd. I think Rog was doing the digging.” Tommie nodded, pleased to have an excuse to leave again. “I’ll get on it.”
Thirty seconds or so after Tommie closed the door there was another knock. This time it sounded like someone trying to be gentle but, having giant hams for fists, failing miserably.
Ifan did not even look up. “Come in Tommo.”
The door opened and the shut heavily. A shadow slowly loomed over Rhys-Morgan and produced a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the DVLA’s summary, Guv. Bobby’s finishing off the full report for you now.”
“Thanks Tommo,” Rhys-Morgan answered, taking the proffered paper. “What have we got?”
“The owners of the vehicles, Guv.”
“Yes, Tommo,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “I realise that. But what does it say?”
“Well, Guv, Bobby was right. That Landrover did belong to the Jacksons.”
Rhys-Morgan scanned the report. “Let’s see. ’82 Suzuki moped. Red.”
“Belongs to a young girl, Emma Fredricks. We haven’t managed to track her down, yet. Forensics are double-checking but it looks like one of the victims may be a match.” Rhys-Morgan drained the rest of his mug. “And what about the owner of the Volvo?” He checked the page. “Duncan Bridges.”
“Yeah. Twenty-three.” Tommo smirked. “Lives with his mum.”
“Found him?”
“Not yet. She didn’t know where he was. Went out very early yesterday morning. Hasn’t been since. Again, there’s a likely match with one of the bomb blast casualties. We should know for sure later.”
“Good. The sooner we get these I.D.s, the better.” He turned the page and frowned. “What’s this blue Fiesta? That wasn’t in the original list.”
“It got towed from a different lay-by to the other three,” Tommo explained. “Somehow got overlooked. Just as well, really - it didn’t belong to one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan read on. “Ah, yes. A Stephen Bailey reported it missing just before lunch.” He raised his eyebrows. “My, that is some colourful language. Send a car to his house and get a statement. He might have seen or heard something. Failing that, it might stop him lodging an official complaint; that’s one hassle, I could really do without.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan dropped Tommo’s report on top of the medical reports from Tommie. It was not much but it was a step on the right direction, at least.
“Right. Thanks, Tommo. Let me know when we have something more.”
“Sure thing, Guv.”
The shadow retreated, closing the door heavily behind it. Rhys-Morgan reached for the coffee pot. If forensics did get a positive match with Emma and Duncan then that would bring the identified victims to five. But who were the rest? And what was the link? And why could he not shake the feeling that he was not going to like the answers?
Thursday, 30 August 2012
Chapter 9.2
The police van skipped easily down the windy back roads with WPC Evans at the wheel. Apart from setting the dogs on drunken troublemakers, this was the part of her job that Kippie normally enjoyed the most. Today, however, her heart was not really in it. Seeing her friend so shaken up had rattled her. She made a mental note to dig up the notes on the St Mildred’s robbery as soon as she got back to the station.
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Chapter 9.1
The clouds were looking menacing as D.I. Rhys-Morgan’s Mondeo rolled into the police car park. Despite the threat of rain, however, Rhys-Morgan sat in his car for a few moments after turning the engine off. He wanted some time to collect his thoughts before facing the news that his troops would bring him.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Chapter 8.4
When Mary opened the door and Kippie first laid eyes on Sister Enid, she thought that the old nun was dead. Her eyes were closed and her face wore a look of wrinkled tranquillity. Her hair was as white as freshly driven snow* and her flesh was not much darker. [*Before an eskimo has peed on it. Sorry, that’s not very politically correct. Before an Inuit has peed on it.] Her face had so many lines that it looked as if someone had peeled the skin off, screwed it up, and then stuck in back on. It was a face that had lived.
Although, deep down, Kippie knew that the nun could not really be dead, her police training kicked in and she started looking for signs that the old woman was still in the land of the living. A voice in the back of her mind intoned: “Whatever you do, don’t move the body!”
In front of the nun sat a china mug, a large pink rose emblazoned on the near face. A slight purple discolouration on the inside indicated that it had been used recently: a blackcurrant drink by the appearance of things. This was supported by the slightly shrivelled tea bag in the bin and the purple stain slowly spreading into the wastepaper below. The bag looked a little damp, revealing that it had been immersed until quite recently.
Kippie’s gaze now drifted from the desk to Sister Enid herself, looking for vital signs such as the gentle rise and fall off her chest. As she checked for any indication of a slight pulse on the side of Enid’s neck, Kippie noticed the thin black cables. They emerged from under Enid’s hair, running over her collarbones before joining together just above the silver and cobalt blue pendant that hung from her neck. The wire then snaked down her grey cardigan, across the left arm at the crease of the elbow, and then up to a small stereo sat on the window ledge.
Mary cleared her throat. “Ahem. Sister Enid?”
The old nun did not answer, but continued smiling peacefully. Kippie could now see her foot tapping under the desk at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, plus or minus a few. Mary frowned and waved her hand in front of Enid’s closed eyes, hoping to elicit some kind of response but got none. Seeing this, Kippie tapped her friend on the arm and pointed to the stereo.
Mary smiled and nodded. Placing her left index finger over her lips in a signal to stay quiet, Mary reached across Enid with the other hand and gripped the headphone lead as it left the stereo. She winked mischievously at Kippie and then gave the lead a quick tug.
The stereo speakers sprung to life with guitars, drums and a scream of: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”
Noticing the change in sound, Sister Enid opened her eyes. Spotting her visitors, she calmly and serenely reached over and hit the button to stop the CD, which obligingly span to a halt with a gentle whir.
“Rage Against the Machine,” she said nodding towards the stereo with a gentle smile. “Aren’t they wonderful?!”
Far from her original fear that the old nun had snuffed it, Kippie could see that Enid’s eyes sparkled with vitality. She may be over eighty years old but here was a woman who was in no hurry to shuffle off her mortal coil.
“Now girls,” she smiled warmly, “what can I do for you?”
Mary returned the smile. “This is WPC Evans, Sister Enid. She’d like some information from you.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed quickly. “I won that stereo in a raffle. That’s why I don’t have a receipt!”
“WPC Evans is a former pupil,” explained Mary. “She needs some information about Patrick Edwards.”
Enid cogitated for a moment. “That name rings a bell,” she nodded thoughtfully.
“He was a caretaker here,” Mary told her.
Kippie stepped in. Mary had laid the foundation but this was her investigation. “He retired about three years ago?”
The wrinkles across Enid’s brow changed configuration briefly and the sparkle in her eyes seemed to dim momentarily before flaring back to life with a vengeance. Her smile was like opening the blinds on a really sunny day.
“Oh, I remember Patrick!” she beamed. “Lovely man. Liked to be called Tricky or Ricky or something. Possible Dickie, like Sir Richard Attenborough.” She leant forward and winked. “Now, there’s a man I’d jump on if not for my vows of chastity. He’s yummy. Did you see him in…”
Kippie cleared her throat gently.
“…oh yes. Patrick. Where was I?” She sat back. “That’s right. I wouldn’t let him shorten his name. St Patrick was always my favourite, you see. Reminds me of when I was a girl in Galway.” She made a brisk movement with her hand. “I loved the way he drove those snakes into the sea.”
There was a faraway look in her eye for a moment, before she visibly drew her concentration back to her office. “That was St Patrick, of course!” she laughed. “Not our Patrick. No, we don’t have any snakes here.”
The words had barely left her mouth before she clamped it shut with her hand, turning wide-eyed to Mary. “I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mary trembled slightly but managed a reassuring smile as Enid patted her hand. “That’s okay.”
Kippie’s heart-rate increased slightly. At last, she seemed to be getting somewhere. “Our last known address for him is the cottage here. Do you have any address on record for where he went after he left here?”
“Oh, I doubt it dear.” Enid told her, quite cheerful once more. “I’m afraid they’re not much interest to us once they’re gone. Especially the men. Sister Millicent makes sure of that.”
Kippie retrieved her notebook and pencil from its usual spot in her left breast pocket. “Any relatives that you’re aware of? Did he ever bring anyone to formal occasions, anything like that?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Sister Enid reached past her and pushed the door shut.
She leant forward and continued in tones bordering on conspiratorial. “To be honest, Patrick wasn’t all that popular round here.”
“Yeah,” Kippie nodded and glanced sideways at Mary. “So I gather.”
“I liked him, and I know Mary did too, as did Jo and a couple of the others. But the powers that be were never too happy with some of his, how can I put it, more secular pastimes. The marijuana thing was just the last straw. I think that Sister Millicent had been looking for an excuse and was glad to see the back on him.”
Sister Enid straightened and touched her forehead, belly, and each breast to make the sign of the cross. If Kippie wasn’t mistaken, Sister Enid’s expression had hardened slightly.
“Well, um, would any of the others have stayed in tough with him?” she pressed. “In your opinion?”
Enid considered this for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so, dear.” She stiffened. “At St Mildred’s, we don’t tend to associate with the likes of him, you see,” she added loudly.
Kippie could take a hint, even if she did not understand it. She put the pad and pencil back and took out a small business card, which she handed to Enid. “Thank you, Sister. If you think of anything that could help us find Patrick’s address, please be in touch.”
Sister Enid took the card and dropped it in her in-tray. “Of course. Always happy to help the police is St Mildred’s. Now, unless there’s anything else, my dears, I must ask you to go. Got exams to mark, you see.”
“Of course,” echoed Kippie. “Thank you for your time.”
She turned and opened the door, revealing Sister Millicent in all her icy glory.
“Got what we came for did we, Evil Evans?” the headmistress asked with poorly concealed venom.
“I think so,” Kippie told her. “Your staff have been very helpful to my enquiries.”
Sister Millicent glared from Sister Mary to Sister Enid, the latter of whom was now typing away industriously at her computer whilst humming the school hymn quietly. “Good. Then you’ll be happy to leave. Police uniforms do get the girls overexcited so. I do not like the girls getting excited.”
This was not news to Cerys Evans.
Although, deep down, Kippie knew that the nun could not really be dead, her police training kicked in and she started looking for signs that the old woman was still in the land of the living. A voice in the back of her mind intoned: “Whatever you do, don’t move the body!”
In front of the nun sat a china mug, a large pink rose emblazoned on the near face. A slight purple discolouration on the inside indicated that it had been used recently: a blackcurrant drink by the appearance of things. This was supported by the slightly shrivelled tea bag in the bin and the purple stain slowly spreading into the wastepaper below. The bag looked a little damp, revealing that it had been immersed until quite recently.
Kippie’s gaze now drifted from the desk to Sister Enid herself, looking for vital signs such as the gentle rise and fall off her chest. As she checked for any indication of a slight pulse on the side of Enid’s neck, Kippie noticed the thin black cables. They emerged from under Enid’s hair, running over her collarbones before joining together just above the silver and cobalt blue pendant that hung from her neck. The wire then snaked down her grey cardigan, across the left arm at the crease of the elbow, and then up to a small stereo sat on the window ledge.
Mary cleared her throat. “Ahem. Sister Enid?”
The old nun did not answer, but continued smiling peacefully. Kippie could now see her foot tapping under the desk at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, plus or minus a few. Mary frowned and waved her hand in front of Enid’s closed eyes, hoping to elicit some kind of response but got none. Seeing this, Kippie tapped her friend on the arm and pointed to the stereo.
Mary smiled and nodded. Placing her left index finger over her lips in a signal to stay quiet, Mary reached across Enid with the other hand and gripped the headphone lead as it left the stereo. She winked mischievously at Kippie and then gave the lead a quick tug.
The stereo speakers sprung to life with guitars, drums and a scream of: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”
Noticing the change in sound, Sister Enid opened her eyes. Spotting her visitors, she calmly and serenely reached over and hit the button to stop the CD, which obligingly span to a halt with a gentle whir.
“Rage Against the Machine,” she said nodding towards the stereo with a gentle smile. “Aren’t they wonderful?!”
Far from her original fear that the old nun had snuffed it, Kippie could see that Enid’s eyes sparkled with vitality. She may be over eighty years old but here was a woman who was in no hurry to shuffle off her mortal coil.
“Now girls,” she smiled warmly, “what can I do for you?”
Mary returned the smile. “This is WPC Evans, Sister Enid. She’d like some information from you.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed quickly. “I won that stereo in a raffle. That’s why I don’t have a receipt!”
“WPC Evans is a former pupil,” explained Mary. “She needs some information about Patrick Edwards.”
Enid cogitated for a moment. “That name rings a bell,” she nodded thoughtfully.
“He was a caretaker here,” Mary told her.
Kippie stepped in. Mary had laid the foundation but this was her investigation. “He retired about three years ago?”
The wrinkles across Enid’s brow changed configuration briefly and the sparkle in her eyes seemed to dim momentarily before flaring back to life with a vengeance. Her smile was like opening the blinds on a really sunny day.
“Oh, I remember Patrick!” she beamed. “Lovely man. Liked to be called Tricky or Ricky or something. Possible Dickie, like Sir Richard Attenborough.” She leant forward and winked. “Now, there’s a man I’d jump on if not for my vows of chastity. He’s yummy. Did you see him in…”
Kippie cleared her throat gently.
“…oh yes. Patrick. Where was I?” She sat back. “That’s right. I wouldn’t let him shorten his name. St Patrick was always my favourite, you see. Reminds me of when I was a girl in Galway.” She made a brisk movement with her hand. “I loved the way he drove those snakes into the sea.”
There was a faraway look in her eye for a moment, before she visibly drew her concentration back to her office. “That was St Patrick, of course!” she laughed. “Not our Patrick. No, we don’t have any snakes here.”
The words had barely left her mouth before she clamped it shut with her hand, turning wide-eyed to Mary. “I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mary trembled slightly but managed a reassuring smile as Enid patted her hand. “That’s okay.”
Kippie’s heart-rate increased slightly. At last, she seemed to be getting somewhere. “Our last known address for him is the cottage here. Do you have any address on record for where he went after he left here?”
“Oh, I doubt it dear.” Enid told her, quite cheerful once more. “I’m afraid they’re not much interest to us once they’re gone. Especially the men. Sister Millicent makes sure of that.”
Kippie retrieved her notebook and pencil from its usual spot in her left breast pocket. “Any relatives that you’re aware of? Did he ever bring anyone to formal occasions, anything like that?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Sister Enid reached past her and pushed the door shut.
She leant forward and continued in tones bordering on conspiratorial. “To be honest, Patrick wasn’t all that popular round here.”
“Yeah,” Kippie nodded and glanced sideways at Mary. “So I gather.”
“I liked him, and I know Mary did too, as did Jo and a couple of the others. But the powers that be were never too happy with some of his, how can I put it, more secular pastimes. The marijuana thing was just the last straw. I think that Sister Millicent had been looking for an excuse and was glad to see the back on him.”
Sister Enid straightened and touched her forehead, belly, and each breast to make the sign of the cross. If Kippie wasn’t mistaken, Sister Enid’s expression had hardened slightly.
“Well, um, would any of the others have stayed in tough with him?” she pressed. “In your opinion?”
Enid considered this for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so, dear.” She stiffened. “At St Mildred’s, we don’t tend to associate with the likes of him, you see,” she added loudly.
Kippie could take a hint, even if she did not understand it. She put the pad and pencil back and took out a small business card, which she handed to Enid. “Thank you, Sister. If you think of anything that could help us find Patrick’s address, please be in touch.”
Sister Enid took the card and dropped it in her in-tray. “Of course. Always happy to help the police is St Mildred’s. Now, unless there’s anything else, my dears, I must ask you to go. Got exams to mark, you see.”
“Of course,” echoed Kippie. “Thank you for your time.”
She turned and opened the door, revealing Sister Millicent in all her icy glory.
“Got what we came for did we, Evil Evans?” the headmistress asked with poorly concealed venom.
“I think so,” Kippie told her. “Your staff have been very helpful to my enquiries.”
Sister Millicent glared from Sister Mary to Sister Enid, the latter of whom was now typing away industriously at her computer whilst humming the school hymn quietly. “Good. Then you’ll be happy to leave. Police uniforms do get the girls overexcited so. I do not like the girls getting excited.”
This was not news to Cerys Evans.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
Chapter 8.2
His anger shocked out of him, Rhys-Morgan accepted the chair he was offered. Jonathon moved Butterworth to a small velvet cushion on the desk and then sat down himself, neatening up his clothes at the same time.
“I would offer you lunch,” Butterworth told Rhys-Morgan, “but I’m afraid I’ve just eaten. I could get Joanne to bring you in some tea and cake if would like, though.”
“Er, no, thank you. I’m hoping this won’t take too long.” Rhys-Morgan thought for a moment. “Some coffee would be good, though.”
“Certainly.”
At an unseen signal from his Haemophagic boss, Jonathon buzzed the secretary.
“Now, how can I help you?” asked the tiny lawyer.
Despite himself, Rhys-Morgan found Butterworth to be quite charming. Furthermore, he was rather helpful. He remembered the Jackson and Lloyd case, for a start, which was more than Mr Smeg was even bothered to try to do. It turned out that Wendy, the missing-presumed-fraternising secretary, was David Lloyd’s sister-in-law, which is how Smeg & Butterworth got the case in the first place. Furthermore, young Anthony Smeg assisted on this case – his first official work at his father’s company – and it was through it that he first got close to Wendy.
“Of course, I don’t really believe the rumours about those two having an affair,” Butterworth told him. “Wendy’s more like a mother to him, in my opinion.” He sighed. “But then again, I am just a haemophilic annelid. What do I know about humans and your strange ways?”
“Enough to fleece lots of money out of us!” thought Rhys-Morgan. But, back to the matter at hand. “Have your clients received any threats about this case, that you know about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, detective. Jonathon, have a look in the file to see if we have anything recent on the Jackson and Lloyd case.”
Jonathon rose and opened one of the filing cabinets. After a moment or two he withdrew a beige document wallet a flicked through the contents.
“Of course,” he said, “Anthony has all the details of that case. We just have the summaries here. All the recent stuff, though, seems to be about collecting evidence for the civil action against Garth Jones.”
“Oh yes,” said Butterworth. “I had forgotten about that. Not much chance of winning that one, I’m afraid. Don’t think it will even get to court, to be honest. Mr Jones certainly doesn’t seem worried – he’s been surprising cooperative for a man being sued.”
Rhys-Morgan jotted all that down. “There haven’t been any actual threats to do with the case, then?”
Butterworth shrugged, which was quite impressive given his lack of shoulders. “There was a bit of trouble at the time, as I recall. The case featured some, you know, unpleasantness to animals. I believe there were a couple of threats from some kind of animal rights group - the ALF, I think it was - but they rescinded once they learnt of my, er, non-human status. Then of course, we won the case.”
“There’s nothing on record of any threats since.” Jonathon reported, replacing a folder and closing the filing cabinet.
“You could ask them,” suggested Butterworth. “Mr Jackson and Mt Lloyd were also most cooperative with the police before.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his notebook shut. Butterworth could probably be trusted but he did not want to risk it.
“No, sadly that’s not possible. Mr Jackson and Mr Lloyd are unavailable.”
“It’s a shame Wendy’s off today or you could have asked her,” said Butterworth. “She would probably know if Frank Jackson had received threats. I can give you her address, if that would be helpful?”
Rhys-Morgan stood up. “Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
“I would offer you lunch,” Butterworth told Rhys-Morgan, “but I’m afraid I’ve just eaten. I could get Joanne to bring you in some tea and cake if would like, though.”
“Er, no, thank you. I’m hoping this won’t take too long.” Rhys-Morgan thought for a moment. “Some coffee would be good, though.”
“Certainly.”
At an unseen signal from his Haemophagic boss, Jonathon buzzed the secretary.
“Now, how can I help you?” asked the tiny lawyer.
Despite himself, Rhys-Morgan found Butterworth to be quite charming. Furthermore, he was rather helpful. He remembered the Jackson and Lloyd case, for a start, which was more than Mr Smeg was even bothered to try to do. It turned out that Wendy, the missing-presumed-fraternising secretary, was David Lloyd’s sister-in-law, which is how Smeg & Butterworth got the case in the first place. Furthermore, young Anthony Smeg assisted on this case – his first official work at his father’s company – and it was through it that he first got close to Wendy.
“Of course, I don’t really believe the rumours about those two having an affair,” Butterworth told him. “Wendy’s more like a mother to him, in my opinion.” He sighed. “But then again, I am just a haemophilic annelid. What do I know about humans and your strange ways?”
“Enough to fleece lots of money out of us!” thought Rhys-Morgan. But, back to the matter at hand. “Have your clients received any threats about this case, that you know about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, detective. Jonathon, have a look in the file to see if we have anything recent on the Jackson and Lloyd case.”
Jonathon rose and opened one of the filing cabinets. After a moment or two he withdrew a beige document wallet a flicked through the contents.
“Of course,” he said, “Anthony has all the details of that case. We just have the summaries here. All the recent stuff, though, seems to be about collecting evidence for the civil action against Garth Jones.”
“Oh yes,” said Butterworth. “I had forgotten about that. Not much chance of winning that one, I’m afraid. Don’t think it will even get to court, to be honest. Mr Jones certainly doesn’t seem worried – he’s been surprising cooperative for a man being sued.”
Rhys-Morgan jotted all that down. “There haven’t been any actual threats to do with the case, then?”
Butterworth shrugged, which was quite impressive given his lack of shoulders. “There was a bit of trouble at the time, as I recall. The case featured some, you know, unpleasantness to animals. I believe there were a couple of threats from some kind of animal rights group - the ALF, I think it was - but they rescinded once they learnt of my, er, non-human status. Then of course, we won the case.”
“There’s nothing on record of any threats since.” Jonathon reported, replacing a folder and closing the filing cabinet.
“You could ask them,” suggested Butterworth. “Mr Jackson and Mt Lloyd were also most cooperative with the police before.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his notebook shut. Butterworth could probably be trusted but he did not want to risk it.
“No, sadly that’s not possible. Mr Jackson and Mr Lloyd are unavailable.”
“It’s a shame Wendy’s off today or you could have asked her,” said Butterworth. “She would probably know if Frank Jackson had received threats. I can give you her address, if that would be helpful?”
Rhys-Morgan stood up. “Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Chapter 7.5
If Rhys-Morgan was angry before – and he was – then he was really angry now. He had got nowhere with Mr Smeg, and now he had been fobbed off to his partner, Mr Butterworth, the haemophilic annelid. To cap it all off, the vacantly smiling secretary at the front desk was insisting that he waited. The policeman was feeling the desire to arrest someone stronger than he had felt since the great Donut Truck Hijacks of 1994.
He sat down on one of the comfy-looking brown leather armchairs opposite the secretary’s desk. It turned out not be as comfortable as it looked. He scanned the hardwood coffee table next to him for something to browse. All that was on offer was a two-year-old copy of ‘Hello’ magazine and the sports section from the Telegraph. Rhys-Morgan did not believe in sports and he had no time for celebrities. After a couple of minutes, he could not bear it any longer.
“Look,” he said, sharply. “Does Mr Butterworth have an important client in there, or something?”
“No,” replied the secretary. She now wore the expression of someone who had come to terms with the fact that she had to deal with an undesirable and was determined to bear the burden with dignity.
“Then why can he not see me now?” Rhys-Morgan demanded.
The secretary coughed quietly. “He’s, er, having his, erm, lunch.”
By now he was out of his seat. “He’s what?!”
That was the final straw for the tired detective and before the secretary realised what was happening, he was marching purposefully towards the oak-panelled door bearing the gold plaque with the engraved letters ‘B. B. Butterworth. Senior Partner.’ This act was enough for her to lose her composure.
“No, sir!” she cried. “You really don’t want to…”
But it was too late. Rhys-Morgan was already bursting through Butterworth’s door in a fury. Inside, he found himself in a well-decorated office with high bookshelves and filing cabinets on each sidewall, either side of a central desk of fine mahogany. Beyond, a tall window looked out through net curtains into the car park.
Behind the desk, a surprisingly young man sat up sharply and quickly pulled his suit jacket closed. He was well groomed, but Rhys-Morgan noticed that he wore no tie and the top three buttons of his pale pink shirt were undone.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his face displaying a mixture of shock and, to Rhys-Morgan’s surprise and intrigue, embarrassment.
Rhys-Morgan ignored the question. His policing instincts were screaming at him that something funny was going on here. “Mr Butterworth?”
“And who is asking?” came the uptight response.
Rhys-Morgan flipped out his badge. “Detective Inspector Rhys-Morgan. Homicide.” He liked saying that. It generally got people worried, even if they were perfectly innocent.
“Oh.” This was obviously not the response that the young man had expected. “No, I’m Mr Butterworth’s personal assistant.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his wallet shut without a loud slap. He was not prepared to be passed around any more. “I want to see Mr Butterworth.”
To Rhys-Morgan’s well-trained eye, the P.A. panicked a little. “Er, I’m afraid that Mr Butterworth is…”
Rhys-Morgan leant forward, placing both hands firmly on the desk and looking the man squarely in the eye. “Now.”
“It’s alright, Jonathon,” said a third voice. “I can see the policeman. Let him see me.”
Rys-Morgan stood up and took a step backwards. There were only the two of them in the room. Jonathon continued to look worried and began to unbutton his suit jacket. As it fell open, Rhys-Morgan noticed that Jonathon had his tie draped around his neck. It was what was known as a “power tie”. To Rhys-Morgan’s mind, that was just a synonym for “tasteless”.
The detective’s gaze did not linger on the tie, however. Once the jacket was open, Jonathon pulled open the top of his shirt to reveal his left breast almost down to the nipple. On it, in line with the armpit, was a leech. Twin puncture marks oozed blood next to it.
Rhys-Morgan’s face contorted as if he had just tasted some more McDonald’s coffee. “That’s disgusting!”
Jonathon fingered at his tie, his discomfort plain to see. “I know, and I’m sorry. But it was present from my late aunt, and my mum makes me wear it.”
He sat down on one of the comfy-looking brown leather armchairs opposite the secretary’s desk. It turned out not be as comfortable as it looked. He scanned the hardwood coffee table next to him for something to browse. All that was on offer was a two-year-old copy of ‘Hello’ magazine and the sports section from the Telegraph. Rhys-Morgan did not believe in sports and he had no time for celebrities. After a couple of minutes, he could not bear it any longer.
“Look,” he said, sharply. “Does Mr Butterworth have an important client in there, or something?”
“No,” replied the secretary. She now wore the expression of someone who had come to terms with the fact that she had to deal with an undesirable and was determined to bear the burden with dignity.
“Then why can he not see me now?” Rhys-Morgan demanded.
The secretary coughed quietly. “He’s, er, having his, erm, lunch.”
By now he was out of his seat. “He’s what?!”
That was the final straw for the tired detective and before the secretary realised what was happening, he was marching purposefully towards the oak-panelled door bearing the gold plaque with the engraved letters ‘B. B. Butterworth. Senior Partner.’ This act was enough for her to lose her composure.
“No, sir!” she cried. “You really don’t want to…”
But it was too late. Rhys-Morgan was already bursting through Butterworth’s door in a fury. Inside, he found himself in a well-decorated office with high bookshelves and filing cabinets on each sidewall, either side of a central desk of fine mahogany. Beyond, a tall window looked out through net curtains into the car park.
Behind the desk, a surprisingly young man sat up sharply and quickly pulled his suit jacket closed. He was well groomed, but Rhys-Morgan noticed that he wore no tie and the top three buttons of his pale pink shirt were undone.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his face displaying a mixture of shock and, to Rhys-Morgan’s surprise and intrigue, embarrassment.
Rhys-Morgan ignored the question. His policing instincts were screaming at him that something funny was going on here. “Mr Butterworth?”
“And who is asking?” came the uptight response.
Rhys-Morgan flipped out his badge. “Detective Inspector Rhys-Morgan. Homicide.” He liked saying that. It generally got people worried, even if they were perfectly innocent.
“Oh.” This was obviously not the response that the young man had expected. “No, I’m Mr Butterworth’s personal assistant.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his wallet shut without a loud slap. He was not prepared to be passed around any more. “I want to see Mr Butterworth.”
To Rhys-Morgan’s well-trained eye, the P.A. panicked a little. “Er, I’m afraid that Mr Butterworth is…”
Rhys-Morgan leant forward, placing both hands firmly on the desk and looking the man squarely in the eye. “Now.”
“It’s alright, Jonathon,” said a third voice. “I can see the policeman. Let him see me.”
Rys-Morgan stood up and took a step backwards. There were only the two of them in the room. Jonathon continued to look worried and began to unbutton his suit jacket. As it fell open, Rhys-Morgan noticed that Jonathon had his tie draped around his neck. It was what was known as a “power tie”. To Rhys-Morgan’s mind, that was just a synonym for “tasteless”.
The detective’s gaze did not linger on the tie, however. Once the jacket was open, Jonathon pulled open the top of his shirt to reveal his left breast almost down to the nipple. On it, in line with the armpit, was a leech. Twin puncture marks oozed blood next to it.
Rhys-Morgan’s face contorted as if he had just tasted some more McDonald’s coffee. “That’s disgusting!”
Jonathon fingered at his tie, his discomfort plain to see. “I know, and I’m sorry. But it was present from my late aunt, and my mum makes me wear it.”
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