by Cathy Ace
Evan
As he sat down at his desk, DI Evan Glover caught his knee on the corner of a cardboard box he’d shoved into the space where his feet usually fitted. He swore quietly, then pulled out the offending item and pushed it along the floor into the corner of his small office, next to the potted plant he couldn’t make a decision about.
‘We’ve been asked to attend a weird one, in “Ross Thraick”, sir,’ said DS Liz Stanley as she popped her head around the door. ‘If that’s how you say it.’
‘I expect you mean Rhosddraig, in the Gower,’ replied Glover, not raising his head from logging onto his computer. ‘It’s a harder “th” in the middle, like in the word “the”, with a hard “g” at the end. But a good first attempt by an Englishwoman.’ He looked up. ‘Good grief, where’s all your hair gone?’ He sounded as surprised as he was.
‘New style, sir. Pixie cuts are all the rage, they say.’
Evan beckoned her in. ‘Am I allowed to say that it suits you?’ he half-whispered.
‘I think so, sir. Thanks. It’s an odd-sounding one this, sir. Will you drive and I’ll bring you up to speed on the way?’
Evan stood and patted himself all over, checking for packets of strong mints and communication devices. ‘Alright then, but give me a hint before we go.’
‘Local community constable in Rhosddraig has what he believes might be human remains on his hands. Well, you know, not literally.’
‘New ones, or old ones?’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s an ancient village, just a few miles from the Paviland Cave.’
‘The Paviland Cave, sir?’
‘Where they discovered the earliest human remains ever found in Britain. 34,000 years old they are. So, has someone come across something from a few hundred, or thousand, years back? You said “remains”, not “a body”.’
Glover followed Stanley as she walked sideways along the narrow corridor, talking over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know, sorry, sir. But I can get back on the phone when we’re on our way, and the constable is sending some photos. Key point – it’s outdoors, so we’ll be getting wet, given the weather.’
Glover stopped in his tracks. ‘Right. Got it. Wet. Lovely. You go on ahead, I’ll get my wellies. And try to get us a decent car from the pool, alright? Not that dreadful thing we went to Cardiff Crown Court in last week.’
‘Sir.’
Ten minutes later, Detective Inspector Evan Glover of the West Glamorgan Police Service was making adjustments to the driver’s seat in the little courtyard parking area of police HQ in Swansea, as he scrolled through some pretty useless photos on DS Stanley’s tablet. He saw what appeared to be a pile of rocks; the blurry images didn’t give him any useful insight into what they were about to face.
There was only one thing he was sure of – the case was likely to be a pretty straightforward one, because his boss knew he was retiring in two days’ time, so he’d hardly have assigned him to something complicated; he’d have given anything like that to someone who was going to be around to work on it.
The rain beat a tattoo on the windshield, and Glover cranked the wipers to full pelt as they set off. He saw the familiar streets of Swansea, then the hedged-in lanes of Gower, pass him by. Would he miss this – driving toward the unknown, wondering how he’d be able to help those caught up in, or caught out by, some criminal undertaking? On balance, he didn’t think so. About six months earlier he’d been convinced he would never be able to give it up, but he and his wife Betty had talked about his retirement for so many hours since then, in so many ways and from so many angles, he knew his decision to leave was the right one.
Change had always been a feature of the world of criminal investigations, but now – more than ever before, it seemed to him – the shift away from the human interaction it involved was increasingly rapid, spiraling toward the use of more and more technology. Not something he cared for, or – if he was honest – completely understood. Stanley on the other hand? It was all normal for her. A graduate in her early thirties, she lapped it up. Yes, it was time to go.
Unfortunately, that wretched potted plant was preying on his mind; the victim of a particularly nasty mugging had given it to him as a thank-you gift, and he’d nursed the pathetic thing along for about six years. But, whenever he looked at it, all he could see was the poor pensioner’s bloodied face, not the beauty of the plant itself. It belonged at HQ, not with him. There – he’d decided. It would stay where it was. Someone else could water it, and try to keep it alive in the pod he called an office.
‘Much further, sir?’ asked Stanley.
‘Not far now. Believe it or not, the sea’s just beyond the fields to our left. However, you’ll have to take my word for it because we won’t see it until we’re in the village itself on a day like today, and maybe not even then. Do you know Rhosddraig, by the way, Stanley? Or the Dragon’s Back and Head, at all? Having transferred in from Bristol, it might not be somewhere you’ve visited yet.’
‘I’ve heard the area is picturesque, but, no, I’ve never been there under my own steam. Do you know it, sir?’
‘I do, Stanley, and I love it; I’ve been visiting since I was a boy. My grandmother lived in a village hereabouts called Lower Middleford; we’ll pass through it on the way. Rhosddraig’s the sort of place we’d come for a day out in my dad’s old Ford Anglia. There’s a stunning arc of sandy beach; it’s about three miles long – so loads of room for a good run about with a rugby ball, or even for a game of cricket, without bothering anyone. Like so many of the beaches on the Gower peninsular you can only get to it if you’re extremely determined, or a sheep. It’s an almost vertical path down the hillside, and I can recall how steep it felt when I would clamber back up at the end of a day playing in the sand and the surf, carrying buckets and spades, balls and towels, all of which felt as heavy as lead weights. Only my mother’s promise of a sweet treat when we got back to the car would keep me going.’
Glover dragged his attention back to the winding road and lashing rain; it was an area where you could never guess when you’d encounter a farm vehicle or even a stray pony or sheep.
‘And the name – what does it mean? I’m assuming it translates into something. Though these names don’t always, do they?’
‘You’re right. And this one does. The village of Rhosddraig is on the headland – or the Dragon’s Back, as it’s known. Rhos means moor, and ddraig means dragon. Lovely place. Stone cottages lining the narrow road, some whitewashed, some left to weather naturally. There’s a church that goes back to Norman times, which was substantially rebuilt in the fourteenth century – so the locals call it “the new church”, of course. The original church, dating back to the seventh century, is now no more than a ruin in the dunes on the beach; its inevitable sandy demise was why they began the Norman replacement, and they took the chance at the time to change its name to St David’s.’
‘Why did they do that?’
‘No idea. Though, of course, it’s a popular name for churches in Wales. There’s a memorial to Edgar Evans in this one – one of the blokes who went to the Antarctic with Scott, and never came back. Born there. As I say, the village isn’t much more than a collection of cottages, with some 1930s cubes on the outskirts, between Lower Middleford and Rhosddraig. Farmhouses dotted about, too. There’s an old pub with a beer garden I swear has the best view in the world, a tea room – ditto – and a newish shop. There’s a pretty big car park; National Trust. The path that leads right along the back of the dragon is an offshoot of the Gower Coastal Path, so it’s popular with hikers and strollers alike.’
‘The back of the dragon, sir?’
‘Ah yes, the dragon. It’s a finger-like spit of land that’ll be on your map. Google “Dragon’s Head, Rhosddraig”, and you’ll see hundreds of photos of it. It’s so ridiculously beautiful, everyone who goes there can’t help but take a picture. Nowadays they also can’t help but post their photos online. There’s a significant rock formatio
n that runs from the headland into the sea; it looks like the back of a dragon that’s writhing up out of the waves, then there’s another large, pointed bit that eerily resembles the head of the dragon.’
‘Like the dragon on the Welsh flag?’ asked Stanley, in what Evan suspected was a gently mocking tone.
He didn’t bite. ‘Sort of, I suppose. Anyway, you can walk out to the head along the back, but the head part becomes an island when the tide comes in. It’s a dangerous and remote bit of coastline. There was an RAF listening post there during the last war, because it’s a good place to be high up and checking for signals across the Bristol Channel, the Irish Sea, and even the Atlantic. It’s the Atlantic swell that makes it a popular spot for surfers these days. Love it, they do; them, and those idiots who run off the top of the cliffs strapped into those hang-gliding contraptions. They seem to delight in the way the wind comes across the ocean and up the escarpments. Idiots.’
Stanley ran her hand over the back of her newly-shorn head. ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir, I should think you’d get quite a rush of adrenaline jumping off a clifftop. But, you’re right . . . it looks lovely in these photos. It seems a lot of people like to take pictures of the sunsets there.’
‘They refer to it as the dragon’s fire. You’ll notice a lot of that type of talk in the area – the fog is the dragon’s breath, the wind is the dragon stirring, the storms tell you the dragon’s writhing. You get the idea. The dragon’s pretty much the reason for every natural phenomenon – and some that aren’t so natural, too.’
‘Hmm. We didn’t have a lot of that sort of thing in Filton, sir. Very interesting. This says there are only about a hundred people living in the village, but it is Wikipedia, so I’ll take that with more than a grain of salt. Does that sound about right to you?’
‘Probably. Like I said, it’s tiny, and there’s no way it can ever grow; it’s hemmed in by hilly moorland, and the Vile. That’s agricultural land they’ve used in a strip formation since Norman times, so they can’t build anything on that, of course. And it was Britain’s first ever designated Area of Outstanding Beauty back in the fifties, so I can only imagine planning permission is a no-no in the area. I was there just a couple of months ago; Betty and I came down for a bit of a walk and lunch at what used to be a tea room, though it’s called a cwtch nowadays.’
‘A what?’ asked Stanley, sounding truly puzzled.
Evan grinned. ‘Ah yes, it’s one of those words even we English-speaking Welsh use for several purposes . . . it means both a cuddle, and a safe, secure, welcoming place. My mum used to refer to the space under her stairs as her “cwtch”; she hid there during thunderstorms, which terrified her. She even used to cower there during the Swansea Blitz too, if she couldn’t get to the air-raid shelter in the back garden before the bombs started to fall. Not that it would have been at all safe, if there’d been a direct hit, of course.’
‘So the word is in use for restaurants as well?’
‘Not widely, to my knowledge. But I suppose in their case they mean it’s a welcoming spot to eat. It’s certainly a wonderful place to do so; the view is still the same as when I was taken there as a lad. Thank God they still do fried egg and chips, that’s all I can say, even if they do insist upon bringing you a photo of the blessed hens who laid the eggs when they serve you. A lot of this “farm to table” stuff, you know?’
‘Just as long as they don’t try to tell me the name of the cow in my burger, sir, I’ll be alright,’ Stanley chuckled.
‘No beef on the menu the last time I was there; all lamb burgers. They say locally that once you’ve tasted lamb raised on the Dragon’s Back you’ll never be able to enjoy other lamb at all, it’s that good. It’s the sea salt in the grass there that makes the meat sweeter, I believe – or maybe it’s because the sheep have the dragon’s breath in them. Indeed, if you’re searching out a lamb chop or two at Swansea Market you’ll notice the signs telling you which cuts are from this area; some will pay extra for it, some won’t touch the stuff.’
‘And you said there’s also a pub in the village, sir?’
Glover chuckled. ‘A bit early for a drink, isn’t it, Stanley?’
‘Tea rooms, even those rebranded as cwtchs, sound small. Pubs are usually bigger. We might need a place to talk to the locals. You didn’t mention a church hall, or community center.’
‘You’re right, I didn’t, because there isn’t one. But let’s see what we’re dealing with first. We might not need to herd the locals into one place to point shiny lights at them; it might just be some poor animal, and not human remains at all.’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose we can but hope.’ Stanley put away her tablet and phone.
Evan parked as close as possible to the deserted car park’s entrance. To his dismay, the rain had soaked through his jacket before he could get his wet weather gear on, so he resigned himself to an uncomfortable day.
He reminded himself he’d only have two more to serve after this one, and mentally crossed his fingers for the sort of ‘remains’ he could either immediately determine were animal, or else hand off to the brainy folks who looked after ancient finds.
He even dared hope he’d be able to nip home for a change of clothes before going back to the office; he was supposed to be having a pint later on with a few old colleagues who weren’t going to be able to make it to his leaving do on Friday night . . . he’d like to freshen up for that, at least.
Nan
St David’s church was illuminated by scant daylight filtering through the stained glass of its small windows. The two members of the altar guild knew every inch of the place as well as they knew their own homes, so didn’t need the extravagance of electric light to complete their duties.
‘These can all stay for Sunday,’ said Mair Bevan as she moved arthritically between the vases of lurid flowers set each side of the tiny altar. ‘They shouldn’t go to waste, however hideous they might be.’
Nan looked up at her co-villager and replied, ‘Yes, they’ll be fine. The Watkins boy got them for his parents’ service. I don’t know where they came from, but apparently Dilys likes orange and red, so that’s what he ordered. Must have cost a fortune at this time of year. Luckily this place is like a fridge so they’ll keep nice. If Dilys doesn’t make it, they might even last until her funeral.’
Mair paused, hunched over. ‘Not likely though, is it? I mean, they take forever these days to get you sorted when you’ve gone, don’t they? Queues forever at the crem this time of year, too. All the old ones dropping like flies.’
It amused Nan that a woman in her nineties should always refer to ‘old people’ with disdain. ‘I’d have thought they’d at least have a proper service here, even if they go to the crematorium afterwards. By the way, I’ll do the numbers on the hymn board, Mair. Don’t you go reaching up for it. If we get all this done today, I won’t have much to do on Sunday.’
‘But it’s my turn to set up this week,’ replied Mair. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. You did it last week. Remember?’
Nan worried about Mair; she seemed to be forgetting things more and more these days. She’d have a word with the vicar about it. Maybe someone else could take on a few of her duties.
‘Alright then,’ accepted Mair, sitting in the front pew, straightening the navy leather kneelers.
‘I hope it’s not raining like this at the weekend,’ said Nan. ‘It’s Remembrance Sunday and we’re supposed to be having a procession out to the war memorial for eleven o’clock. Damn and blast.’
‘Language, Nan,’ chided Mair, vinegar faced. ‘We’re in the Lord’s House.’
‘Hmm,’ grunted Nan, mentally swearing like a sailor about how much work a wet Remembrance Day service might cause her. Well, if there were extra cleaning duties to be undertaken at the church after the service, they’d have to wait until the Sunday lunchtime rush had passed at the pub. It was true that nowadays Helen coped with most of it – with Aled’s help behind the bar, and Sadie’s in
the kitchen – but Nan pulled her weight as much as she was able, and she was still the one who made sure the roasts were doing well before she headed to church every week. It was a routine she’d followed for donkey’s years, and with so many special services taking place on Sunday, she reckoned fewer people than usual would be out and about.
She stood as upright as she could at the thought. Special services? What if more people than normal decided they wouldn’t cook their own Sunday lunch, and would therefore eat out this week? Had Helen thought of that? Should they be planning for an extra roast? More veg?
‘I don’t think we need to do anything else today, Mair,’ she snapped. ‘I know we agreed to clean in here, but with no anniversary blessing yesterday, there’s not much else for us to do, really.’
Nan opened the ancient, heavy wooden door to the church’s outer porch. ‘I wonder who they are,’ she said aloud, spotting the figures of what seemed to be a man and a woman crossing from the car park to the path that led up the hillside.
‘Who who are?’ asked Mair, joining Nan in the stone porch, safe from the worst of the weather. ‘Oh they’re probably more police.’
‘What do you mean “more police”?’ Nan was puzzled.
‘Hywel Evans and Nip found something up at the old RAF place this morning. Didn’t you hear?’
Nan was even more puzzled. If something – anything – happened in the village she was usually one of the first to know about it. ‘Found what? When? Where exactly?’ she needed all the facts, and fast; the people who came to her pub relied upon her newsgathering abilities.
Mair pulled on her ancient waterproof. ‘I don’t know the details. Alis phoned me. Hywel went into the shop for some of Nip’s treats when he and the poor little thing came back from what turned out to be a very long time standing about in the rain this morning. He said he’d found something odd up at the old RAF place, and had phoned the police. That boy who comes round here in his funny little car turned up – you know, the one’s who’s like a policeman but isn’t really. Well, he came, and he sent Hywel away, telling him to not say too much. Which Alis said he didn’t. Very tightlipped she said he was. For Hywel.’
