“Quite a lot, really. It's normal for them to meet up, discuss ecclesiastical matters, form friendships, and go out together. That's truer of the ordinary clergy, than it is of someone like myself. I don't know, so well, the clergy from other diocese. Why do you ask that, anyway?” His eyes had narrowed.
“Reverend Peter Griffiths was good friends with Meirwen Ellis, from the diocese of Swansea and Brecon.”
“Yes, I understand she shared some of his feelings, regarding the decline of the church in Wales.”
“What's your feeling about all the changes?”
“You can't stop progress, Inspector, and besides, I'm retiring in a few years.”
“What will happen then?”
“Now that, is top secret.”
“Top secret?”
He pursed his lips. “We have a peculiar system for selecting a new bishop here in Wales. It makes me think of the Vatican and the choosing of the pope.” He smiled, as he waited for her reaction.
“Sorry, I don't know anything about the choosing of the pope, you'll have to elaborate.”
“Basically, it's a secret sort of process. Carried out behind closed doors, over three days, by something called an electoral college.”
“An electoral college?” Yvonne was still making copious notes.
“An electoral college is a collection of forty-seven members, which includes at least three clergy and and a few lay people. The members themselves have to be voted for, every three years. They use a secret process to decide on their choice of bishop. If they fail to reach a decision, the bench of bishops take over and make the decision for them.”
“And the bench of bishops are?”
“The collective bishops from all the diocese of Wales.”
“I see... So that will happen when you retire.”
“Yes, it will.”
“Who gets the opportunity to be put forward for the position of bishop?”
“Pretty much any of the clergy, with experience, can try. Since 2012, that includes women.”
“That was a difficult change for the church, wasn't it?”
“It was made possible by the extra votes of the Lay members of the church.”
“I'd heard it was a close-run thing.” Yvonne eyes didn't leave the bishop's face. “In England, they voted against in 2012, didn't they?”
His eyes narrowed. “The Church in Wales voted against it in 2008.”
“But changed their minds...”
“After the massive controversy the vote against created, they looked at it again, and the decision was reversed.” He stretched his back once more and looked bored with the interview. Yvonne felt she had all she needed for now, in any event.
“Right, well, Bishop Lewis, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else which you think relevant, please contact me,” she said, rising from her seat.
“I will, Inspector.”
45
Boy, that was tough.” Yvonne threw her bag down on a table in the CID tea-room.
Tasha was seated on top of a desk, having a break. “What's up?”
“I've just interviewed the bishop of St. Asaph again, and he's unwilling to even consider that a member of his clergy could be involved in the killing of other priests.”
“Well, put yourself in his shoes. If someone came in here, asking you if you thought one of your officers might be involved in a bunch of serial killings, what would you say? What would you want to believe? Imagine it...Dewi? Me? The DCI?”
Yvonne screwed her face up. “That's different.”
“Different how?”
Yvonne had got it already, but resisted for the hell of it. “We're police officers. We solve murders.”
“And they're clergy, they do good at all times.”
Yvonne pushed out her tongue. Tasha giggled.
46
The chilly, moonless, October night hung littered with stars. The Milky Way, clearly visible for the first time this year, gave a spectacular backdrop, as his breath made faint puffs of steam. He fastened his wax jacket and crossed the yard to the barn, taking long strides, his shotgun tucked under his armpit.
The barn door wobbled, one of the hinges barely attached. He'd been meaning to fix it but just hadn't gotten around to it. If he didn't do it soon, the door would fall off. He climbed the lopsided ladder to the old hay loft, each step softly complaining.
At the top, he moved a couple of hay bales, and wiped away the loose straw with his hand. The small hatch opened with a creak and he peered inside, using a torch he pulled from his pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief. The rolled up black cloth was still there, folded as he had left it. He put his hand in to check the firmness. Yes, definitely undisturbed.
He checked it most nights. He had to. There were times he couldn't sleep if he didn't. If they located Griff's gun, they located him. He should get rid of it, but he kept it - just in case.
He took out the roll of material, freed the gun parts, and started polishing them. They didn't need polishing, but this was part of his ritual. It gave him reassurance.
When he'd finished, he placed the parts neatly back in the cloth, in the correct order, and placed the whole thing back into the hatch. He stared at it, for several seconds, memorising how it looked, so he'd know if anyone touched it. Then, closing the hatch, he trod softly down the rickety wooden ladder and into the night.
47
My God, that's a lot of boxes.” Dewi sighed, loosening his tie and pushing one of the offending boxes with the tip of his pen, a look of dread on his well-lined face.
The DI was busy cross-checking names on her tick list and organising the boxes according to date. “It is, Dewi, but these boxes may contain our killer.”
“Bit small, isn't he?”
“Ha ha. What we have here are application forms, completed by most of the clergy in Wales, from when they were fresh out of university, or changing jobs.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Would you be pissed at me if I said I'll know when I find it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's a mixture of things, really: life experience, interests – a coming together of certain elements of the candidate's life journey.”
“Nice and easy then...”
“Think, an avid interest in history, political affiliations, protest groups, university societies – that sort of thing.”
“Best get stuck in then.”
“I'll make a start, Dewi, if you get the coffee.”
“Right you are, ma'am.”
Supping steaming hot coffees, they commenced sorting out those clergy relevant to local parishes.
“We go through the victims' files, too.”
“Right you are.”
“If you come across Peter Griffiths before I do, give me a shout.”
“How long we going to spend on this, ma'am?”
“As long as it takes, Dewi. As long as it takes.”
They hadn't even completed the first two boxes, when they were disturbed by raised voices in the corridor. Yvonne rose from her seat and opened the door to see Tasha storming down the corridor and an irritated DCI Llewelyn glowering after her.
“What's up?” Yvonne asked Tasha, as she brushed past.
“Ask him!” Tasha didn't slow her pace and disappeared through the door at the end of the corridor.
“What was all that about?” Yvonne turned her attention to the DCI.
“Don't ask...”
Yvonne stood, open-mouthed, as the DCI strode back into his office, the door rebounding with a loud bang.
Yvonne walked back to Dewi, shrugging her shoulders, the look of surprise still on her face.
“Just another day at the office, ma'am,” Dewi laughed, unconcerned.
“I hope Tasha's all right, the DCI can be an ass, at times.” Yvonne blew her breath out between pursed lips, as she returned to her seat.
“They'll be right as rain, later.” Dewi looked around at the boxes. “Last thing we need
is distractions if we're gonna get through this little lot.”
“You're right. No more distractions.”
Yvonne had Meirwen Ellis' résumé in her hands. She paused before opening it, a wave of sadness engulfing her. It felt like prying, but that was her job, and Meirwen's family deserved closure. Feeling that she'd already let the reverend down once, she had no intention of doing so again.
Most of the contents came as no real surprise. Meirwen had begun studying Divinity in 1992, not that long after women were first allowed to join the clergy. She noted her hobbies as swimming, reading and socialising – all normal for a young woman.
As the DI flicked through more of the file, a loose leaf of A4 paper fell to the floor. It was a letter, seemingly written by Meirwen herself, expressing an interest in a female bishop position, should one become available. The letter was dated January 2008.
“She had ambitions to become bishop, Dewi.”
“Who did?”
“Meirwen Ellis. It looks like she expressed an interest prior to the vote in 2011.”
“Can I have a look?” Dewi took hold of the letter.
“It's addressed to Bishop Dafydd Lewis.”
“Anything else in the file?”
“No, nothing. Nothing that really stands out. How are you getting along?” Yvonne asked, eyeing Dewi's box.
“Just been through David Evans' file and nothing of note in there, either. No interests in history or nationalism. Looks like he supported females becoming bishops, from the notes.”
“Well, I've got Peter Griffiths' file now. Let's see what we've got in here. I hope I haven't got us going through all this for naught.”
“I doubt it'll be for naught, ma'am. If nothing else, we'll have a bit better understanding of our victims and potential perps.”
“Hang on a minute...”
“Ma'am?”
“I've seen this symbol somewhere before.”
“What symbol?”
“Looks like two sickles, crossed, with a spear in the centre.”
Dewi rose from his seat again, to peer over her shoulder. “That's the 'Eryr Wen'. The White Eagle. The symbol of the Free Wales Army.”
“It's been doodled on the bottom of a leave request form, in Peter Griffiths' file.”
“Bingo. When was it done?”
“1995.”
“A while back, then.”
“There's something else...looks like he began his university career studying Welsh history. He obtained a lower second class honours at Cardiff University, before going on to study theology, at St. Andrews.”
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“This is enough to arrest him on suspicion, and interview him under caution. Bingo!”
48
Tasha's car screeched and swerved, the psychologist swearing under her breath. She was furious with the DCI. Her heart racing, she still had a scowl on her usually placid face. The DCI had calmly informed her that, due to budget constraints, he was dropping her from the case. Her profile had been helpful, but she was no longer needed. The psychologist wondered if the DI had been party to the decision? She felt betrayed. She'd been so sure that Yvonne needed her, having more to offer than just a one-stop profile.
Having stopped at the petrol station on New Road to fill up, she grabbed a cold orange juice from the fridge and decided to carry on driving. She programmed her sat nav for LLyn Celyn. Still having a need to figure out the killer, she decided to go to the place where he'd taken the life of Meirwen Ellis.
An hour and a half later, she pulled up beside Llyn Celyn resevoir, stepping out onto it's stony bank. The water had receded greatly, exposing tree stumps like giant, gnarled spiders or disembodied hands. She imagined they might crawl, at any moment, along the mud.
She recalled the 'Cofiwch Dreweryn' she'd seen painted, on an old wall, on the road to Aberystwyth. She'd found it on Google. It meant 'remember Treweryn', and had been written by those angry at the flooding of the tiny village.
The place felt sad. She imagined the church bell tower, exposed in summer drought, ringing out as in the legend.
The sound of wheels on gravel caught her attention, and she peered along the bank. Some distance away, the occupant got out and removed a bag from the boot, sitting at the water's edge to eat. Why hadn't she thought of that? She sat on a bench, and stared out over the reservoir. It was hard to feel angry in a place like this. Her thoughts returned to the murderer.
What had Meirwen been thinking when she was brought here? Did she know her killer? Why had her killer brought her to this spot? And what was the significance for him?
Her drowning surely alluded to the drowning of the village, but why? What was all that about? Why was this case proving so difficult to crack?
She leaned her arms on her knees, her chin on her hands, staring for several minutes and breathing deeply of the fresh, earthy air. More relaxed, she decided to return to Newtown later, to discuss the DCI's plan with Yvonne. She walked on, to the memorial for the drowned village of Capel Celyn. Not really sure what she expected, it definitely wasn't what she found.
A more understated memorial, she couldn't imagine. It had the appearance of being unfinished, and was more stark than she'd expected. Perhaps that had been the intention of its creator- a ruinous folly, a poor recompense for the picturesque village, drowned by the dam, for the benefit of industrial Liverpool.
It was little more than a series of walls, one of which was rounded to form a small room, with a glass-panelled front. A small cross adorned the top.
She tried the door. Locked. Peering through the glass, she could see a lectern with the names of the displaced, and could understand the strong feeling the drowning had created. But why murder? And why now?
At the time, activists had tried blowing up the dam, but never had they attempted murder. No, Tasha decided, this was not about the drowning of Capel Celyn. This had more to do with the killer losing control over his life, and equating it to these events.
Finally, she came to the small square graveyard. The headstones were arranged around the edges, as this was not the real graveyard of Capel Celyn, but rather the place where a few exhumed bodies had been reburied. The families just not able to bear their loved ones being under the soil, below that vast lake. Tasha had watched the eerie Youtube video footage of the ruins at the bottom.
She closed her eyes and sighed, it was time to leave. As she turned to go, something hard connected with the back of her head.
49
Yvonne and Dewi were taking a well-earned break from their box-trawling. Yvonne chased the DCI down the corridor, as he was about to leave the building.
“So, are you going to tell me why you were arguing with Tasha?” She tried to sound casual.
“I explained to her that we no longer require her services, now that we have the profile.”
“What?”
“Well...we don't.”
“You mean you don't think we can afford her.”
“That, too.”
“I need her help on this case.”
“You don't need her help anymore.”
“I do.”
“You're using her as a crutch.”
Yvonne glared at him, her colour heightening. “Money shouldn't come into this.”
He sighed heavily. “Well, I'm afraid it does.”
“I hope you told her I wasn't involved in your decision.”
“The subject didn't come up.”
“You should have consulted me, I'm the lead investigator.”
“And I'm your superior officer, Yvonne.” He stretched to his full height. “I'm paid to make these decisions. I have to go...”
He turned on his heal, leaving the angry Yvonne boring holes in the back of his head.
“Are you okay, ma'am?” Dewi joined her , treading cautiously.
Yvonne was still glaring, “I have to make sure she stays.”
50
Someone had played rubgy-football with
her head. Tasha winced as she came round, due to a sore patch on the side of her head. She squinted in the dim light, making out her surroundings using the sliver of light emitted from a small strip of LEDs.
She found herself in a damp, stone structure, about eight foot by six, with her hands tied behind her back. The cord was only just shy of cutting her skin. Listening for any sign of her jailer, she could hear nothing save for the occasional drip, drip, coming from somewhere in the corner.
She rocked to her feet, wincing again at the stiffness in her legs. Placing an ear to the cold, dank stone, she listened for any sign of the outside. Hearing only the pumping of her own blood in her ears, she called out several times but got no response. In the end, she gave up – sitting down again, to get her head straight.
She worked at her jumper with her knees and chin, until her knees were partially covered, and she could warm them against her belly. Then, placing her chin on them, she contemplated her situation.
The presence of a large stone casket, meant this had to be a tomb, or perhaps a mausoleum, but there was no indication of where it might be. She'd been unconscious, since being hit on the head, so had no idea of how long it had taken to get here.
A heavy door grated open and her jailer entered, shining a torch directly at her so she couldn't see his face. She blinked in the harsh light, lowering her eyes to ease the discomfort.
“This is not personal. I know why you're here. I know who you're working with. I do not hold that against you, but that won't stop me from killing you.” The disembodied, robotic voice penetrated the silence. He was using text-to-speech.
“Do I know you? Have we met?” The fact he'd disguised his voice gave Tasha hope that he didn't intend killing her.
“The less you know, the better. Here's some food.” The figure placed an open pack of sandwiches on the ground with an open bottle of water. From his outline, she suspected he was wearing a balaclava.
DI Giles BoxSet Page 38
