DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  At one end of the ruins, she found a long, slate stone, carved with a sword in a circle. It was dedicated to Llewelyn Ap Gruffudd - last Prince of Wales. She knelt to run her hands over the stone. Why here? Why kill in this place? This was not a church, like the two previous victim locations. Why was David Davies killed here and not at his church just down the road?

  “Peaceful, isn't it?”

  Yvonne swung round in the direction of the voice, heart thudding.

  “I'm sorry?” She could feel dampness in the palms of her hands and clasped them behind her back, taking a deep breath. She felt very much alone.

  “Rhys Thomas. I'm carrying out research in the area. I'm a historian, specialising in Welsh history.”

  “I see. And what brings you here?” Yvonne swallowed, now realising this was the person who'd telephoned the station, and had spoken to Dewi. A man who'd already attempted to inject himself into the investigation.

  “I'm trying to track down the final resting place of the last Prince of Wales.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes did not leave her face, and she was sure that she hadn't seen him blink. Though she felt alone and exposed, she decided to use this opportunity to know more about this man, even while knowing the DCI would be extremely displeased if he found out. She was here alone, on her day off.

  “Is he here, then?” She cast her eyes towards the slate commemorative stone.

  “Allegedly. His headless body was carried here after he was decapitated by English soldiers at Cilmery, near Builth Wells.”

  He had her full attention, her narrowed eyes studyng his face.

  He smiled. “No one really knows if his body is truly here. That slate stone is a modern addition. If his remains are in these grounds, they've so far not been found.”

  The DI's mind was whirling. The last Prince of Wales was reputedly decapitated and buried in these grounds. Reverend David Davies was decapitated. She thought about the victim at Llwyngwril, found with pies in his pocket. Was that also related to a historical event? She wanted to ask this lean, long-nosed historian but held back. He'd made himself a suspect and she didn't want him to know who she was, just yet. She needed to think about this - needed to talk to run her thoughts past her detective sergeant.

  “Surely, you need an archaeologist if you are looking for remains?” she asked instead.

  “Ahh, but I'm not looking for remains.” His smile was somewhat patronising. “I'm looking for pointers. Clues. You see, I believe that the men who buried him would have left some indication for those in the know – men of their kind, who followed in the future.”

  “Here?”

  “Perhaps, but more likely somewhere in the vicinity. Not too close, but not too far away. What they wouldn't have wanted was their enemies deciphering the clues.”

  “I see.”

  “And what brings you here? Sorry, I don't know your name.” He raised his right eyebrow.

  “I'm visiting the area.” It was only a partial lie. “And I was told this was a beautiful spot.” There was no way Yvonne was going to tell him who she was and get his guard up. And put herself at risk.

  “It is that. I wish I'd brought food with me. It's a great place to picnic. Well, I'll bid you good day.”

  As she said goodbye, she had an irrational fear he might already know who she was. She shrugged off the ridiculous thought and walked on.

  20

  Yvonne leaned back against the wall of the toilet cubicle. She felt as though her brain was bouncing around in her skull. The pain was intense. Her heart thudded as she pushed her palms against the cubicle sides, struggling to breathe.

  She'd been better in recent times. The panic attacks had reduced in frequency, but this one had a vice-like grip and threatened to shake her fragile confidence to the core. Last night's nightmare was full of mutilated bodies, begging her to help them.

  Footsteps approached. Firm footsteps. Confident footsteps. She closed her eyes and pushed her palms harder against the walls, to steady herself, drawing in and exhaling two deep breaths. Her eyes still tight shut, she left the cubicle.

  On opening them, two shiny brown ones looked back.

  “Tasha!”

  “The very same.” Tasha grinned. It was happiness and relief she detected in the DI's voice. The psychologist had noticed Yvonne shaking as she left the toilet, and she gave her a gentle hug. “Panic attack?”

  “Yes. I'm so glad you're here. But how? What?” Yvonne inquired, as she'd heard nothing from Llewelyn, regarding whether he'd contacted Thames Valley.

  “Your DCI phoned us. He told me what had been going on here and asked if I could help. Told me I'd be assisting you.” Tasha grinned again, but there was also a question in her eyes and Yvonne knew she was being scrutinised. “Don't psych me,” her eyes narrowed, but there was a half-smile. “I'm already being psyched enough.”

  “Coerced?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see...”

  “Has someone showed you around?”

  “Not yet, I only just got here and I need the toilet...long journey.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Yvonne stepped out of the cubicle. “I'll see you later.”

  “Indeed you will,” Tasha winked.

  In fact, Yvonne didn't see Tasha again for a few days. DCI Llewelyn had commandeered her, swiftly followed by the weekend.

  “So, how are you settling in?” A smiling Yvonne poked her head around the door of Tasha's small room, at the end of the corridor.

  “I'm getting there.” Tasha's smile matched the DI's. “Some of us were working yesterday while others were having a relaxing Sunday.”

  “Working here?”

  “Yes, here. Going over all the material the DCI gave me. Getting a feel for the victims and the perp. The faster I get a feel for them, the faster I give you the profile. The bodies are stacking up.”

  “I know...well I was kind of working, too, but don't tell the DCI.” Yvonne winked. “I was pouring over forensic reports and doing the same as you, I guess, trying to get into the minds of the victims and their killer.”

  “And?”

  “I'll tell you later, I need your advice.”

  “Intriguing...”

  “We have so much to catch up on, how about I buy you a coffee?”

  “Deal.”

  'The Bank' tea room was situated just off Newtown town centre. Yvonne had chosen it because the alcoves in the Tudor building offered more privacy for brainstorming and it was peaceful, away from the station.

  “So, how are you now? I mean, how are you really?” Tasha eyed the scar on Yvonne's chin.

  “I'm fine, Tasha. A few bad dreams and the occasional flashback, but honestly? I'm okay.”

  “It can't be easy investigating another serial murder case so soon. It's only been a few months...”

  “Four-and-a-bit months.”

  “Right, four-and-a-bit months.”

  “Tasha, I'm being treated with kid gloves. He - the DCI - is on my tail, constantly. He decided he would be the public face of this investigation, whilst I do all the work.”

  “Well, you can surely understand why?”

  “It's frustrating. And I know that's churlish of me, but he just swans in, takes over, and gets in the way.”

  “Gets in the way?”

  “Well...oh, never mind. I'm the one with the issues. It's not really his fault. More important, right now, is your take on this case.”

  “Well, you clearly have a killer who is varying both his MO and part of his signature. I think that's significant, and my feeling is that he wants someone to work out why that's significant.”

  “I think I know what he's trying to do, but please continue.”

  “Well, I suspect we're dealing with an individual who, on the face of it, has a grudge against the church. But the changeable parts of the signature are pointing to something else...a wider agenda. Religion is probably only a part of this.”

  “Could it be a terrorist group?�
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  “I'm not ruling it out, but I consider it unlikely. Freedom fighters tend to make demands, and rarely do they commit such personal murders, on relative unknowns.”

  “Right.”

  “I see him as a loner with a lot of time on his hands - time to fantasize and plan these murders with a fair amount of precision. Each murder telling a story.”

  “I found out something the other day. I revisited one of the murder sites.” Yvonne sipped one of the lattés, freshly delivered to their table.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought DCI Llewelyn said...”

  “Oh, I see...told you already, did he?” Yvonne sighed. “Well, I was on a day off and fancied a day out.”

  Tasha giggled. “You're so naughty. Seriously though, you really could be playing with fire.”

  “I went to Abbey Cwm hir.”

  “Mmmmm... The site of victim number three? What did you find?”

  “A historian doing some research there. He said the remains of Llewelyn Ap Gruffudd, the last Prince of Wales, are buried there, somewhere.”

  “And?”

  “Prince Llewelyn was decapitated.”

  Tasha's face betrayed the penny dropping. “Just like our third victim. So we have a copycat murderer, mimicking historical murders.”

  “That's my suspicion. I think the signature variations may be dictated by which murders he's depicting. I have a lot of digging to do...obviously.”

  “Who was this historian?”

  “Well, that's something I wanted to run past you. His name is Rhys Thomas. He's an academic, but I'm suspicious of him.”

  “Why?”

  “Dewi told me Rhys had telephoned the station, a few days before, offering his help with the investigation.”

  “Did you tell him you were a police officer, when you saw him at the Abbey?” Tasha leaned towards the DI.

  “No.”

  “Thank God.” Tasha sat back again.

  “But he'll find out soon enough, if we take him up on his offer of help.”

  “Well, I would say that he must be pretty high on your list of suspects...”

  “He is, but pretending he's on board could be a good way to check him out, or, if he isn't involved, get some potentially useful information. If he's our killer, he could trap himself.”

  “Slow down, Yvonne. We need to think this through and talk to your DCI. You'll have to admit your little jaunt to the Abbey and be prepared for a telling off. Letting in this historian could be dangerous, and we've been in this situation before.”

  “What about you, anyway?” Yvonne asked, a little too quickly.

  “Me?”

  “You. What's happening in your life?”

  “Where do I start? I took a few weeks leave after the sadist case, then I was right back into the fray with a serial rapist profile for the Met.”

  “Catch him?”

  “Yes, eventually. Ten days ago he was picked up at his local supermarket, doing his shopping. Total fluke.”

  Yvonne laughed. “I guess rapists need to shop, too.”

  “And I've started dating...”

  “Really?”

  “Early days, but she's nice. Her name is Kelly and we met in a bar in Soho. She's a high-flying business woman. A CEO of a diagnostics company.”

  “Well, congratulations,” Yvonne said, and meant it.

  “Thank you.” Tasha smiled, but Yvonne felt those brown eyes searching her face.

  When they arrived back at the station, people were huddled round Dewi's desk.

  “What is it?” Yvonne asked Dewi. “What's going on?”

  “Ma'am.” Dewi leaned back in his chair, as the others drew back for Yvonne and Tasha to join them. “A small shard of metal was found in the chest of the third victim and we've just had the forensic results back.”

  “That's fantastic! Does that mean we know the sort of knife used?”

  “Yes, but it's not a knife. It's been positively identified as part of a fencing blade.”

  “Wow.”

  “They know the grade and blend of metals used and they're running a trace so they can identify the manufacturer and, hopefully, even the dealer.”

  “A fencing blade...” Yvonne frowned, as she pondered this new avenue. “Dewi, I don't know a huge amount about fencing, but I know that fencing blades are not usually sharp.”

  “No, ma'am. The shard was examined under a microscope and multiple striations were visible. It appears that someone sharpened the metal.”

  “So, we have a fencer, or someone who has access to fencing weapons. Find out everything you can about fencing: the type of weapons and other gear; clubs or societies in the Dyfed-Powys area; memberships of those clubs; and any fencers who are also members of, or associates of, the clergy.”

  “Right on it, ma'am.”

  21

  Reverend Peter Griffiths straightened his back, filling his lungs before launching into his seminar. The venue he had chosen was Newtown High. A large, Victorian school which had once been the local grammar school. It was now the regional comprehensive. Yvonne sat quietly in the back row of the assembly hall. It was 7.30 pm.

  Her attention had been grabbed by the seminar's title, 'The Decline Of The Church In Wales'. She'd spat coffee everywhere in excitement when she saw it advertised in the County Times, wondering if the killer might attend. Her lack of credible suspects was galling, and this would at least give her an insight into the workings of the church.

  Eighty to one hundred people sat at ground level. The speaker was seated on the stage at the front, flanked by two other vicars, including Meirwen Ellis. The DI sat near the back and felt safe from recognition. All lights were on the stage.

  Meirwen sat to the left of Reverend Griffiths. Yvonne sensed that she wasn't entirely comfortable there.

  Reverend Griffiths was striding the stage. “The Church in Wales has been abandoned, our churches left to rot and fall derelict. This impacts our jobs, families and homes. The government and councils have left the buildings to their fate. Historical buildings vandalised, their grounds used as rubbish dumps.”

  He gesticulated wildly, occasionally spraying his audience with spittle as he railed about the selling off of church property, especially for what he saw as 'peanuts'. He fixed others with his stare, daring them to disagree. She was even more interested in him.

  The occasional dissenter was shouted down by the majority in the room. This was clearly an emotive subject. The killer might be here. Could be any one of these people. Might even be a member of the cloth. Her eyes travelled back to Peter Griffiths. Was he a fencer? His verbal cut and thrusts reminded her of one. She determined to set her team a-digging.

  Yvonne head throbbed and a sore throat threatened. She hadn't slept well, the evening's seminar had whirled round and round her mind all night. She grabbed coffee from the machine, before going in search of Dewi, to ask him about the forensic results.

  The DCI was in early, she could see him through his office door window. She wasn't prepared to see the person he had with him. Her jaw nearly hit the floor. She ducked back, but was too late.

  The DCI opened his door. “Ahh, Yvonne. Just the person I wanted to see. Come in, will you?”

  Oh hell... “Yes, sir.”

  “DI Yvonne Giles, meet Dr. Rhys Thomas. Dr. Thomas is a historian with the University of Wales.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We've met.” Dr. Thomas gave her an accusing look.

  Yvonne felt the colour rising in her cheeks She looked up through her lashes at the DCI. “We met the other day, quite by chance...when I was out walking.”

  Dr. Thomas interjected. “I was doing some research at Abbey Cwm hir and thinking about the recent murder committed there. You didn't tell me you were a police officer.” He smiled coolly. “I would have given you my thoughts.”

  Yvonne groaned. This was awkward.

  DCI Llewelyn was quiet, but she could see muscles flicking in his cheek
.

  “So, you were walking at the Abbey, Yvonne...” he said, eventually, his voice deceptively soft.

  Yvonne flushed. And you've been hobnobbing with one of my suspects, was what she wanted to say, but, instead: “Yes, sir. I was organising my thoughts. Getting a feel for the place and putting myself in the shoes of the victim.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps you can run your thoughts past me after you've seen Dr. Thomas out.”

  She smiled weakly, and with difficulty. Turning her attention to the historian, she held out a hand, signalling him to follow. What had he discussed with the DCI? She needed to set Christopher Llewelyn straight on a few things.

  Rhys Thomas' shoes click-clacked down the corridor. The sound reminded her of the military.

  “Are you all right to find your way out from here?” she asked, leaving him at reception.

  “Perfectly,” he nodded. “You should have told me you were a police officer.”

  The DCI was waiting in his doorway as she walked back into CID.

  “Come in a minute, will you?”

  Yvonne did as she was told, pulling the door closed behind her. She pressed her lips tightly together, waiting for the onslaught.

  “What were you doing at the Abbey?”

  “Why did you have that man in here?” Offence as defence.

  “That man is my brother-in-law. Now, I ask you again, what were you doing at the Abbey?”

  “Does he fence?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Yvonne sighed. She didn't want to fight. “I was trying to get inside the mind of the victim and his murderer. I was trying to get my thoughts straight. It was my day off.”

  “You disobeyed a direct instruction.”

  “I didn't go there publicly. I didn't go there to interview anyone. I saw Rhys Thomas and didn't tell him who I was, but now he knows, anyway.”