DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  A pale, young woman, of around seventeen, opened the door to the tiny cottage on Canal Road. Yvonne introduced herself and Dewi, and the young woman confirmed she was Hannah Jones, sister of Lloyd Jones, the victim they had observed being pulled from the river.

  “My dad’s out,” she added, “but my mum, Margaret, is inside.”

  The DI took in the tousled hair and red eyes, eyelashes still glistening with wiped-away tears. “Hannah, I’m so sorry for your loss. May we come in?”

  Hannah nodded and stepped back. “Mum,” she called, as she moved through the hall. “We’ve got some police officers here to see us about Lloyd.”

  “Oh.” Margaret Jones was wide-eyed, as she came to the hall. “You’d better come in.” She led the way through to a living room, so small that four seemed almost too many people for the room.

  Mrs Jones held her hand towards the sofa, for them to sit down. She perched on the arm of the sofa, seemingly lost and unsure what to do. Hannah stood beside the tiny, empty fireplace, hands on hips.

  The DI took out her pocketbook. “Is it alright if we ask you a few questions?”

  Mrs Jones nodded. “Was it an accident? They’re saying he fell in.” She put her hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to hold back a sob.

  “We could find no signs of foul-play. We’ve come to ask you how your son had been feeling in himself…prior to his night out?”

  “You don’t think he did this on purpose, do you?” Hannah interjected, her body stiff. Mrs Jones stifled another sob.

  “We don’t know. It’s one possibility we’re considering.”

  “He wouldn’t.” Hannah was emphatic. “Someone pushed him in.”

  “He was nineteen, wasn’t he?”

  Margaret Jones nodded.

  “Was he in a relationship?

  Hannah and Margaret looked at each other before turning their gaze back to the detectives.

  “He was seeing Wendy.”

  “Wendy?“

  “Wendy Griffiths.”

  “How was their relationship?” The DI’s voice was soft.

  Margaret’s voice was breaking, as she answered. “It was up and down.”

  “I understand he telephoned you, the night he disappeared?”

  “He was on his way home. He was missing Wendy, they’d had a row earlier that day.”

  “Could he have hurt himself because of that row?”

  “No!” Hannah stood up. “He said he was going to make it up to her. He was missing her. He said he’d see her the next day and talk it through.”

  “And he gave no indication that he would want to hurt himself?”

  “None.”

  “How did the conversation end?”

  “He was cut off.” Margaret reached out to grab the DI’s arm, as though to emphasise this fact.

  “Cut off?”

  “Mid sentence. Like he was interrupted.”

  “Could that interruption have been due to his slipping and falling into the river?”

  “No.” Again Hannah was emphatic.

  “Maybe.” Margaret scratched her furrowed forehead.

  “Did you hear a splash at all? Did you hear running water?”

  “No, I…No I didn’t. I really didn’t.”

  Yvonne noted this in her pocketbook. “Can you remember what his last words were?”

  “‘I’m on my way.’ He said, ‘I’m on my way. I’m not sure where…’”

  “He was on his way home and perhaps he felt lost?”

  “I’m not sure, he didn’t finish the sentence. It sounded like he was about to tell me where he was on his way to.”

  “But he didn’t get to finish?”

  “No.”

  “How did he sound? Did he sound drunk to you?”

  “He was slurring his words-“

  “Mum.” Hannah scowled at her mother. Then looked accusingly back at the detectives. “He wasn’t so drunk he was going to go fall in the river. Lloyd has been drunk lots of times and has never even come close to falling in the river. There’s a killer out there. Why don’t you go and find him?” Hannah sat back, breathless.

  Margaret broke down.

  Yvonne knew better than to argue. In any event, her thoughts were leaning towards Hannah’s. She was a long way from convinced that this was an accidental drowning.

  “One last thing, and I’m sorry to ask this, Mrs Jones,” Yvonne said in hushed tones, “did Lloyd ever use drugs?”

  “No. No, he wouldn’t.” Mrs Jones looked up at the detective, her eyes earnest.

  “I think you should leave now.” Hannah’s eyes flashed fire. “I thought you were supposed to help us, not make things worse.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to help you, I promise.” Yvonne’s eyes were gentle, as she closed her notebook. “I know these questions can come across as cold. They’re not meant to…it’s sometimes an unfortunate consequence of trying to gather all the facts. But, if someone did murder your son and brother, I will find him, and I will bring him to justice.”

  Hannah’s face softened and, as she led Dewi and Yvonne back to the door, she placed a hand on the DI’s arm. “Please,” it was almost a whisper, “don’t give up on my brother.”

  “I won’t,” the DI reassured with firm eye contact. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Hannah looked back to where they had come, as though checking her mother was or wasn’t there. “I think there was a row that night, at the Sportsman. One of my friends’ partners witnessed it. It wasn’t a fight or anything, but it got a bit heated.”

  “Who was the row between?”

  “Lloyd and a local farmer.”

  “And the farmer’s name, Hannah?”

  “Clive. Clive Jones. He owns the farm out by Dingle Hall.” Hannah proceeded to give the detectives directions, which they thanked her for, before making their way back to the car.

  Yvonne drove more slowly to the second house. She parked the car in Robin Square, part of the Maesyrhandir housing estate, to the south of Newtown centre. The houses were small, built for those workers brought in to fill the factories during the seventies and eighties. She turned off the engine and sat there for a minute or so.

  “This is going to be even tougher than the last one.” Dewi sighed, looking at his watch. “We could be some time.”

  Yvonne nodded, her silent gaze taken up by the young children of varying ages, playing football on the tarmac car park, using their shirts as goalposts. Happy. Carefree. Only a few short weeks ago, Callum would have been one of them.

  A few of the neighbours were outside chatting over cups of tea, tinkering with cars or hanging out washing. She breathed deeply, readying for yet another heart-rending conversation with a grieving family. This time, that of Callum Jenkins. And, no matter what anyone said, this was definitely the hardest part of the job.

  “You can stay here, if you like.” She turned back to her DS.

  “You deliver it better than I can.” He sighed. “I feel like a coward.”

  She shook her head and gave her DS a sad smile. “Never.”

  Taking a large lungful of air, she stepped out into the hot, August afternoon.

  Her heart beat faster, as she waited for the door to open. She wiped clammy palms on her skirt, licking her lips to mitigate their sudden dryness. She felt as though she might struggle to speak.

  When the door finally opened, Callum’s stepfather filled it. He welcomed her inside, still wearing his work overalls. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He drew her gaze to his open hands, smeared with black oil. Smeared with hard work. To her left, she could see engine parts on the kitchen table. He’d clearly brought that work home with him.

  “It’s okay.” She smiled, and felt a relief that he seemed more relaxed today. Sad, but calm.

  “My wife is through there. I’m going to go get washed up.” He nodded toward the living room door. She knew it was the living room, this being the second time she had visited.

&nb
sp; The DI poked her head tentatively around the door.

  Mrs Jenkins was sat holding a photograph album. It was clear she’d been crying, but had wiped the tears away with the hanky clutched in her right hand. She looked up expectantly as Yvonne entered. “Any news?”

  Yvonne shook her head, the edges of her mouth curling downwards. “Not yet.”

  “This is my favourite photo of him.” Sarah Jenkins turned the album around for the DI to take a look.

  Yvonne leaned in close. Stunning. The blonde-haired boy, looking back at her, had an ethereal quality. Piercing blue eyes that, even from a photograph, appeared as though they might see everything inside of her. See through to her soul. His smile was haunting. The phrase ‘not for this world’ came unbidden to her mind. “Such a beautiful child, Mrs Jenkins.”

  “I hear him, sometimes.” Mrs Jenkins closed the album. “I heard him last night. I heard his feet on the stairs.”

  Yvonne nodded.

  “He doesn’t want to leave, you see. It wasn’t his time.”

  “Have you seen his father?”

  Sarah shook her head. “He still can’t bring himself to meet us. He’s still angry at us…even now. He did speak to me by phone. He wasn’t very nice. He still hasn’t forgiven me for his not getting joint custody. Judge decided he drinks too much.”

  “I see.”

  “He wants to see you. Ask you about the investigation.” Sarah sighed. “He wants to know what leads you have.”

  “I’ll call him.” Yvonne pursed her lips. “We’ve been making inquiries at the school. Trying to find all parents with light-coloured four-by-fours. Officers are going through the lists.”

  “You think it was another parent?”

  The DI ran a hand through her hair. “It’s a possibility we’re considering. Plantation Lane is a twenty-mile-an-hour zone, with humps. The only people likely to be using it are residents, parents of the schoolchildren, and users of the sports centre. It’s time-consuming work but we we’ll get there. We’ll have to interview everyone from those three groups who owns or drives a similar vehicle. Then, of course, there’s rental and courtesy cars. We can’t rule out a hire car, though we haven’t found a garage, yet, that’s repaired any damage. And, by now, a hire firm would likely have come forward if they had received a damaged car back from a client.”

  The sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs heralded the return of Callum’s step-dad, Peter. Barefoot, and still drying his hair with a towel, he entered the room and took a seat opposite Yvonne.

  The detective could see how tired he was. How tired they both were. She smoothed her skirt and moved forward, to perch on the edge of the sofa. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now, but, if you need anything, please call me. I’ll call you if we discover anything.” She pulled a wry smile. “Well, for anything I can safely disclose.”

  The darkness was thick enough to cut, there being no moon. He parked his car in a passing point, and waited. Engine off. Lights out. The wind broke the eerie silence, whistling in and around, rattling the car every now and then. He chewed his thumbnail, biting small pieces off it and chewing them in impatience.

  At last he saw lights but did not turn his on - not until he was sure it was the man he was here to meet. It wouldn’t do to have anyone else see him up here.

  The other car parked up close behind, its lights shining right into his car. He grabbed a torch, got out and slammed his door shut, striding to the other car. He shone his own light into the driver’s eyes, knowing that he wouldn’t be seen behind it.

  “Bloody hell, turn that thing off, will ya?” The other man put his hand in front of his face, to protect himself from the blinding light.

  “You got what I want?” He took a quick scan around the deserted moors, near Dolfor, and satisfied himself there were no observers.

  “I got your GBH.”

  “GHB.” He found himself correcting, even though he knew GBH to be the street slang.

  “Well, d’you want it or not?” The dealer was as impatient as he was. Little did he know he was on the hit-list. Not yet, though. He needed him. Needed what he could supply.

  “Keep your hair on, Kenny,” he barked. “Just give me the bag.” He continued to hold the torch in the other man’s face.

  A scrabbling sound came from inside the car and a plastic bag was shoved through the window. He snatched at it with a gloved hand.

  “What about my fucking money?” Kenny made to open his car door.

  “Just be grateful I haven’t told the cops what I know about you.”

  “You wouldn’t. Where would you get your stuff?” Kenny scowled.

  He bit his lip, tossing an envelope into Kenny’s car, before turning his back and heading towards his own.

  “Hey, I haven’t counted it, yet.”

  “It’s all there.” He got quickly into his driver’s seat and flicked on the engine. There was a thin screech as he pulled away. He headed back down towards Dolfor.

  6

  Breadcrumbs

  So this is where he went in.” Dewi leaned over to get a better look at the flattened grass and skid marks in the mud.

  “His phone was found just there.” Yvonne pointed to a place just beyond the top of the skid marks.

  “Poor bugger.” Dewi narrowed his eyes.

  “Except, I don’t believe he really went in here. His injuries don’t fit.” Yvonne moved over, to let Dewi get a better look at the bottom. “A fall down there would have resulted in severe bruising and probably broken bones.”

  Dewi pursed his lips and, taking hold of a tree branch as an anchor, made his way a little further down the bank, to one side of the marks.

  “Careful, Dewi. We don’t want you falling in there.”

  “You’ve got a point,” he called back, shouting to be heard above the rushing water. “And SOCO didn’t find blood anywhere on those rocks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So where’d he go in? And why did his mobile phone end up here?” Dewi made his way back up, accepting the hand Yvonne held out to him. “Thanks.” He brushed himself down.

  “He was in the middle of a conversation with his mum when the phone went dead. Perhaps he fell, managed to get himself up, but dropped his phone, couldn’t find it and wandered on.”

  “It’s really steep down there. I don’t think he would have been able to get back up from where those skid marks end. I went down as far as I could, any further and I would have been stuck, or fallen in, and I was not even at the bottom of those marks.”

  “Hmmm…” Yvonne scanned to her left and right, along both ways of the river path. “So, what was he doing here? He was supposed to be on his way home. Why does he take a route diametrically opposite to the way he’s meant to go?”

  “Maybe he wanted to go to the car park. There’s a toilet there.”

  “But why not cut straight across Broad Street from the pub and walk down the cut-through? Why come so far along?”

  “Perhaps he changed his mind and decided to pee in the river. That’s when he lost his footing.”

  “Dewi, there are perfectly good toilets in the pub.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “I think he may have been meeting someone. Something bad happened and the scene was staged to mislead us.”

  “But, meeting who?”

  “I don’t know, Dewi, but I do know he was desperate to get back with his girlfriend, Wendy. Perhaps we should start by speaking to her. Even if she didn’t speak to him that night, she may know more about his associates.”

  “Righty-oh.”

  “Also, get the guys onto the pub staff. There was an altercation between Lloyd and a farmer. There’s an outside chance that Lloyd was going out of his way due to wanting to avoid someone. Perhaps that someone was the farmer? Ask them if he had any enemies.”

  “Will do.”

  “Also, can you find out how far they’ve got with checking vehicles that may have killed the little boy. Tell them
that case is still priority.”

  Dewi headed off down the path, leaving the DI pondering. It was a good ten minutes before she headed off to her car.

  Wendy rented a two-bedroom home in Barnfields, only a quarter of a mile from Lloyd’s parents’ home - as the crow flies. Yvonne parked her car on the lane outside and smoothed down her skirt.

  There was no need to knock on the door. Wendy was outside cleaning her silver Shogun. Wearing faded old jeans and a sweatshirt, her blonde hair tied up in a pony tail, she didn’t hear the DI approach. She was lost in whatever music was pouring through her headphones. Yvonne approached with caution, worried she would make the girl jump.

  She needn’t have been concerned. Wendy pushed back her headphones and stood, to survey her handiwork on the car, lifting a watering can to wash off the suds.

  “Wendy Stevens?” Yvonne took her opportunity.

  Wendy swung round. “Yes?”

  “Hello. I’m DI Giles, Dyfed-Powys police.”

  A dark cloud settled on Wendy’s face, as though her insides were sinking. “You’ve come about Lloyd.” She put down the watering can.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to come inside?” Wendy pushed stray hair from her face with a wet hand.

  “If that would be alright.” Yvonne gave her a smile.

  “Of course. I’ll put these things away.” Wendy led the way into her kitchen. Clean and well cared for, Wendy’s home felt welcoming. A fresh vase of bright orange crocosmia set the room off beautifully. Putting down her tools, she washed and dried her hands, before putting the kettle on. “What happened to him?” She turned to face the detective, her back leaning against the countertop.

  “He drowned. I’m so sorry.’ Yvonne sat on a chair next to the kitchen table.

  “Yes, but how? How could Lloyd fall in the river?”

  “You weren’t together, were you?” Yvonne asked, her voice low.

  Wendy cast her eyes down. She kicked her heel into the cupboard behind her. “We’ve had our difficulties. I’d finished it a few times, only to go back. I often felt we’d be better as friends.”