DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  “What made you go back to him each time, if you felt it wasn’t working?”

  “I do care for him. Did. I did care for him. He would beg me to see him again and I always gave in.”

  “What were the main difficulties between you?”

  “We wanted different things. He would want to go out, I would want to stay in. He was a good-time guy, I was the studious one. It’s always been like that. We’ve known each other since primary school.”

  “I see.”

  “He wouldn’t kill himself. He cared about me, but us breaking up would not have resulted in him tossing himself into the river. He just wasn’t like that. Oh, he might be sad for a few weeks. Might have phoned me regularly to ask me back.” Wendy bit her lip. “But he wouldn’t have thrown himself in the river.”

  “Had he ever threatened to do anything like that?”

  “No. Never.”

  “What do you think might have happened to him?”

  “Me?” Wendy rubbed her forehead. “I think he either fell in or got into a fight and was pushed.”

  “Did he get into fights when he was out?”

  “Not usually. I’ve only ever known him get into one, a few years back. He waded in when a friend was being threatened outside a nightclub.”

  “I see. Did he phone you that night?

  “He did.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know, exactly, but it would have been around eight-thirty. I’d been expecting him to call.”

  “You’d already arranged it?”

  “No. He just always called me when he was drinking, especially if we’d had a row or split up.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me that he loved me and that he was sorry I felt let down by him.”

  “Had he let you down?”

  “Not specifically, it just wasn’t working. I wish…” Wendy gazed at the floor, eyes glazed. “I wish I’d spent longer talking to him. I wish I’d told him to come round. I really miss him.”

  “So, you didn’t arrange to meet him anywhere?”

  Wendy looked up, her eyes meeting those of the detective. “Meet him somewhere? No. I didn’t arrange to meet him.”

  “And you’re sure of that.”

  “Yes. You…you don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?” Wendy’s eyes were large and round.

  “No.” Yvonne shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “Believe me, I’ve gone over and over whether I could have said or done something different.”

  Yvonne set down her notebook and gratefully took the offered mug of tea. “Look, you couldn’t have known this would happen. No-one could.”

  “His family think he was murdered, don’t they?”

  “I think it’s too early to speculate.” Yvonne took a mouthful of tea. “Did he have any enemies?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Did he take illicit drugs?”

  “No.’ Wendy slapped her hand down on the counter-top. “He would never do drugs.”

  “Okay.” The DI changed tack. “They said he’d had an argument with Clive Jones, a farmer, the night he disappeared. Were you aware of difficulties between them?”

  Wendy shook her head.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  Again, Wendy shook her head.

  “All right.” Yvonne closed her pocketbook. “Look, thank you for your time. I am really sorry for your loss.”

  Wendy nodded and gave a weak smile. “I hope you find out how this happened to him.”

  Yvonne rubbed her chin. “Me too.’

  Back at the station, Yvonne plopped a file down on her desk and downed the dregs of her tea. She leafed the file open. At the top of the pile, basic info and a photograph of James Owen.

  The twenty-one-year-old had been pulled from the River Severn nearly eight weeks ago. Like Lloyd, he’d been out drinking with friends and had left them, in the small hours, to walk home alone. Strong and athletic, his family had found it hard to believe he could just have fallen in the river and drowned. After his blood alcohol levels were disclosed, however, they had accepted it without further question, even though he had been only two-and-a-half times over the legal limit for driving.

  “What you got?” Dewi perched on the corner of her desk.

  The DI ran her hand through her hair and sighed. “James Owen’s file. It says he’d been missing for three weeks, when he was found.”

  “I remember.” Dewi rubbed the back of his neck. “He was found somewhere they’d already thoroughly searched…or so they thought.”

  Yvonne pursed her lips. “Maybe he was swept there from upstream. The river has been high and fast-flowing for weeks.”

  Dewi shook his head. “If I remember rightly, he was still submerged. So, he was likely found where he went in.”

  Yvonne flicked through a few pages. “You’re right, Dewi. He was still fully submerged. Hmm. How long does it take for putrefaction gases to raise the body? A few days? A couple of weeks? This time of year the water’s warmer. The body wouldn’t stay submerged for that long, surely?”

  Dewi shrugged. “Maybe we should ask Hanson for a guide. Are you thinking he didn’t go into the water the same night he went missing?”

  “I don’t know, but you did say that the stretch of river he was found in had previously been thoroughly searched. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “What does it say in the file?”

  Yvonne leafed through more pages. “There was no sign of foul play. There’s no detail in here about the search. Only about his being found. What about your frogman friend?”

  “Carwyn?”

  “Yeah. Would he be able to tell us why they didn’t find him during the first search?”

  “I can ask him what he thinks, I guess.”

  “Was he present during the search?”

  “I would have thought he would have been. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Please.”

  Yvonne returned to the file. A note had been placed in it to say that James had had an argument earlier that night with a barman. The altercation had happened in the Sportsman pub, before James left to go to the Castle Vaults - the last time he talked to anyone. He had then been seen on CCTV, staggering over the bridge at the top of town, before vanishing.

  The barman’s name was Geoff Griffiths. The DI decided she would speak to Geoff, as he would have been sober and someone who would be able to describe to her the demeanour of James and tell her whether James appeared drunk enough to simply fall in the river.

  7

  The room at the top of the house

  The lad began to stumble, a look of confusion on his handsome features. His hunter couldn’t make a move, yet. There was still a chance he’d be caught on CCTV. He took a dark, side alley down to where his van was parked and leaned on it to centre himself. As silently as he could, he opened the side door and waited.

  As the boy rounded the corner, he could hear him talking on his mobile phone. He waited, his back to the back of the van. Controlling his breathing, so as not to be heard, he looked up at the black and white houses. No-one in the windows. He checked left and right, down the street.

  The lad was unsteady on his feet, as he came within range. He took his chance, leaping out to place one hand over the mouth of his quarry, whilst the other hand grabbed the mobile phone. His thumb pressed the off button. The young man’s defence was weak and uncoordinated. He was easily pulled into the side of the van. He was beginning to lose the ability to move.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  He was coming round, trying to open his eyes, which were glazed as though struggling to focus.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Steve.”

  “Steve what?”

  “Steve Bryant.”

  “Do you know where you are, Steve?” He gave a snort.

  His captive began struggling against the bindings. He was naked from the waist
up. The killer could see the lad’s abdominal muscles straining, as he fought to free himself. The killer had anticipated this and put several layers of gauze beneath the ropes. He couldn’t afford to leave marks.

  “How old are you, Steve?”

  “Nineteen. Who are you? I’ve seen you somewhere before. Why am I here?” Anger and fear cracked his voice.

  The abductor blinked and cocked his head, signalling a cold curiosity. “I’m your killer.”

  The latter made the boy struggle all the more. He gave a sob, as he realised he was making no progress.

  His would-be killer left the room.

  Steve gazed around. The sloping roof told him this was an attic room, meaning he was at the top of a house. He tried to move the chair he was bound to, to look through the window, but found that the chair was bolted to the floor. His mouth was scratchy and his lips cracked. His muscles ached from being in the same position. He did his best to straighten up in an attempt to relieve the discomfort.

  His vision having cleared, Steve was able to take in the room. Opposite, an open lap-top sat on a desk. He could see words on the screen that appeared to be moving upwards. On the right-hand-side, he was sure he could see himself on a chair in the room. The bastard was filming him.

  The rest of the room appeared old and rarely-used, there being various items, from boxes to clothes to books that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere. The only window was dirty and home to several spiders. He hung his head.

  The Sportsman was quiet. Just a couple of middle-aged men propping up the bar, deep in conversation. Through the archway, she could see three youngsters playing pool. Other than that, the low-lying tables were as empty as the fireplace. If there had been other imbibers here, they’d now gone elsewhere - no doubt, to find lunch.

  Yvonne sat on a stool at the end of the bar and waited, taking the time to mull over the recent deaths. She didn’t have to wait long. Geoff Griffiths, the barman, returned with a small box filled with packets of salted peanuts. He began refilling the behind-the-bar stash. He looked almost too big to work behind that tiny bar, she mused. He had to be at least six-foot-four and, although not exactly overweight, he looked well-built and muscular. She decided he must work out.

  He saw the DI waiting for him and called out, “Sarah? Can you come and take over for a minute?”

  A young woman, around eighteen, red-hair in a ponytail, came through from a back room. She gave Yvonne a flushed, shy smile. “What can I get you?”

  Yvonne held her hand up. “Nothing, thank you. I’m not here for a drink. I came to speak to Mr Griffiths.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” The girl coloured and shrank away.

  The DI smiled. “It’s okay.”

  “So, officer, how can I help you?” Geoff stared at her, unblinking. She found it unnerving and cleared her throat. “I wanted to discuss an altercation you might have witnessed the other night. Saturday the nineteenth of June, to be exact.”

  “What altercation? Can you be more specific?”

  “We’re conducting inquiries around the death of a young man you may have heard of. James Owen. His body was found in the river a couple of months back. Does that ring any bells?” She took out her pocketbook. “Did you know James Owen?”

  “The first lad who was found in the river?”

  “Yes.”

  He began polishing a glass. “I’d seen him around, yeah.”

  “In here?”

  “Sometimes here, sometimes in the Castle. I often go for a drink myself, after I finish a shift.”

  “I see. Do you remember the argument here on the nineteenth of June? The one you helped split up?”

  “Not sure-“

  “I think you may have had words with James before he left. Some friends of his had stated that he wasn’t happy with how he was dealt with.”

  “And this was the night he disappeared?”

  “Yes. Saturday the nineteenth of June.” She repeated the date slowly, emphasising each word, suspecting that he knew full-well what she was talking about. Death did that to people. It brought their memories into sharp focus. So, why not his?” She shifted on her seat. “Can you remember, now?”

  “He was drunk. He was very drunk and slurring his words.”

  “I see.” Yvonne rubbed her chin. “I’m a bit confused over that. You see, at least two of his friends described him as being only a bit tipsy, whilst he was here. They stated that he only became drunk later on at The Castle. But, that’s not how you remember it?”

  He looked at her as though she had two heads, his lip curling up at one side. “Well, they might have found it hard to judge, their being drunk, themselves. I was stone-cold sober.” He sneered the last sentence.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What was the argument about?”

  “Oh, I think one of the other lads had made a comment about his girlfriend being too good for him.”

  “Can you remember who that other lad was?”

  “Rob? I think his name was Rob Davies.”

  “How did James respond?”

  “He was angry. Looked like he wanted to hit Rob. I stepped out from behind the bar. There was a little bit of shoving going on and I didn’t want a full-on fight breaking out in here.”

  “So you intervened?”

  “I came out and I told them to cool it. Told them if they wanted to have a go at each other, to take it outside.”

  “And did they?”

  “No. They just glowered at each other and brushed themselves down. Friends moved in between them, then.”

  “So, how did you become involved in an exchange with James?”

  “A third of his drink had spilled in the argument. He thought it was when I got involved and pushed them away from each other.”

  “Did he shout at you?”

  “He demanded that I replace the drink.”

  “Demanded or asked?” Yvonne wanted to be sure.

  “Demanded. I told him, at first, that he’d have to pay for it and he refused.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I told him I’d get him another drink, but then I wanted him to leave the bar and go cool off.”

  “And did he?”

  “Not straight away. I gave him a fresh pint and he took his time drinking it. Still upset, I guess. He went outside to make a phone call shortly afterward and then I think he went to the Castle. I saw him, just briefly, when I went there for a pint.”

  “Would you say he was falling over drunk, when you saw him?”

  “Yeah. I would. I know it’s sad and all, but I wasn’t surprised to hear he’d fallen in the river. He was a disaster waiting to happen. I think he was always getting jealous over his girlfriend’s friendships with other men.”

  Yvonne’s eyes shot up from her notebook to his face. “How would you know that?”

  “I’m a barman, I hear a lot of things. Anyway, it was mentioned, more than once, during the argument he had with Rob. I should think everyone who was here became aware.”

  The DI fell silent. She thought of James. Had he felt that everyone was either laughing at him or judging him? Is that what had made him lash out? The things she had been learning about him didn’t really tally with someone who went looking for fights.

  “Do you know how I can get hold of Rob Davies?” She tapped her pen on her book.

  “Sure. He’s studying at Newtown College.”

  “Coleg Powys?“

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Yvonne eased herself off the barstool, pulling her skirt over her knees when Geoff Griffith’s eyes strayed to them. She thought she heard him snigger.

  8

  New recruits

  Morning briefing was quieter than normal. Several officers had gone down with Norovirus and would be off for the week. Yvonne counted herself lucky that she and her sergeant had so far managed to avoid the sickness which was also ravaging the schools in the area.

  Two very young-looking
officers stood next to DCI Llewellyn, who waited for the rest of them to quiet down and pay attention. Both were dark-haired. The small-framed female nervously chewed on a fingernail and the tall male shifted his weight every few seconds. Yvonne felt sorry for them having to stand up at the front. She gave them both a smile and a nod.

  The DCI emphasised clearing his throat. “Okay, I know we’re thin on the ground this week, but we have a job to do, and the sooner I get started, the sooner you can get on. I’d like to introduce you to two probationers, both on a fast-track scheme: PCs Chris Halliwell and Jenny Hadley.”

  Greetings from the floor ensued before the DCI continued.

  “They’re going to be with us on secondment for a couple of months, to get a feel for what it is we do here in CID. Make them welcome and be prepared to answer lots of questions. They won’t learn without asking. Obviously, I’m not expecting you to share anything that’s especially sensitive in an ongoing investigation but, otherwise, treat them as a part of the team. Any questions?”

  A few were fired at the DCI. They made Yvonne feel uncomfortable. She was always surprised by some officers’ reluctance to mentor new recruits. She understood that it took time out of busy schedules to explain processes and procedures, but everyone had to start somewhere and, in her experience, fresh eyes and keen minds were always a bonus. She looked forward to working with trainees.

  As it turned out, one of them was assigned to her.

  “DI Yvonne Giles.” She smiled and extended her hand.

  “Chris Halliwell.” He smiled back, his handshake a little damp.

  “Where’ve you come from, Chris? Come on, Dewi’s making us a brew. I’ll introduce you to the rest of my team.”

  “I’m from Shrewsbury, ma’am.”

  “Aha, just over the border.”

  “Born and bred.”

  “So, what brings you to Wales?”

  “Honestly?”

  She grinned. “Obviously.”