THE DEVIL’S CLIFF KILLINGS
By Simon McCleave
A DI Ruth Hunter Crime Thriller
Book 4
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
First published by Stamford Publishing Ltd in 2020
Copyright © Simon McCleave, 2020
All rights reserved
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PROLOGUE
Summer 2019
Even though it was starting to get dark, the evening was warm and the air close. Rosie Wright was enjoying her sixteenth birthday party. Her next-door neighbour, Steven Haddon, had let her use the old barn and disused farm buildings on the far field of his farm. Haddon Farm. Steve was cool. If she was honest, Rosie had a bit of a ‘dad crush’ on him. His daughter, and her best mate, Emma, teased her about it.
Eww. Stop flirting with my dad, you freak!
Rosie never thought her parents would agree to a party and a sleepover – but they did. Literally amazing! Especially given how messed up and dysfunctional they were. There was all sorts of crap going on at home.
Seven of Rosie’s closest girlfriends were sleeping over and they had managed to smuggle cider, wine and weed along in their bags. They were going to get wasted. Emma said it was going to be better than those stupid American ‘sweet sixteen’ parties she had seen on MTV with ball gowns, tuxedos and limousines. They were just fake, shallow losers.
Rosie had lived in Capelulo, a small village in Conwy County at the northern tip of Snowdonia Park, all her life. Her taid had told her the name Capelulo was Welsh for ‘the meeting of two semicircles’. She couldn’t remember why. In fact, now that she thought of it, wasn’t that actually Dwygyfylchi?
Looking up at the fiery evening sky, Rosie squinted as the edges of the cumulonimbus clouds started to deepen into a shade of tangerine. It was beautiful. Suddenly, two black crows squawked and flew up from the nearby field, headed for the trees. It made her jump. They looked like they were conspiring. She hated crows.
A scream of laughter brought her attention back to her friends, who were dancing to music that blared from a speaker. Billie Eilish. They knew every word and sang at the tops of their voices. Eilish was an uber-cool, sexually ambiguous, anti-glamour goddess who talked about mental health, anxiety and the reality of the chaotic world of Generation Z. But Rosie and her friends were annoyed. They had discovered Billie long before the rest of the world. They didn’t care that the grown-ups thought it was self-indulgent misery music. She was theirs and the fake, airbrushed, arena-filling pop princesses could go and fuck themselves.
Rosie got to her feet, feeling the dust and stones under her pink Converse trainers, and took a long toke on a spliff. The thick smoke was hot in her throat. She coughed, choked and stumbled overdramatically to get her friends’ attention. It was her party and she wanted to make them laugh. It had the desired effect as her friends howled in hysterics at her antics.
‘Fake baked!’ Emma yelled.
Rosie’s eyes watered – she couldn’t see anything for a second. Then she laughed and did the peace sign at her friends. ‘Drugs, man,’ she said in a Californian accent. They all shrieked and giggled.
‘Ems, have you got a corkscrew?’ Kara choked with laughter. ‘Beth bought a bottle of wine with a fucking cork in it! What a cock!’
Kara was Emma’s younger sister – but only by fifteen months – and often hung out with her and her friends.
‘What a cock!’ Beth yelled. She was already hammered.
Rosie picked up another log and chucked it onto the fire. Embers flew up momentarily like fireflies darting in the air. She got out her phone and wandered away.
Rosie had something important to do that night, and it was making her anxious.
‘Where are you going?’ Emma asked.
Rosie shrugged, holding up her mobile. ‘Over to the yard to get signal.’
‘Don’t spend all night on your phone, slag!’ Emma teased her.
Rosie gave her the finger as she walked away. She and Emma had known each other since they were five, and Emma was like a sister to her. They told each other everything. Even Rosie’s dark secret that no one else knew about.
The air inside the barn was thick, muggy and hot with a characteristic summer smell of hay and dry wood. The girls’ rucksacks, sleeping bags and pillows were stacked together just inside. Rosie’s distinctive green rucksack lay beside her fashionable Vans bag.
The barn was still and unnervingly quiet. A fly buzzed past her ear and she instinctively flicked it away. Putting her hand on the warm wood of the central columns, she glanced around. She felt another twinge of anxiety. Even though she was slightly drunk and high, her senses began to feel heightened.
Pacing the entire length of the barn, splinters of pink skylight speckled in the dust and particles of hay that hung in the air. She scanned left and right. The ground floor of the barn was empty. Gazing up at the hayloft, she could see the steps were retracted.
Walking out of the far end of the barn, Rosie could see the fading sunlight. The cool air felt lovely on her face as she took a deep breath.
In front of her were a few old farm sheds that had been boarded up because they were now unsafe, some rusty machinery and an uneven yard of concrete and stones. A long steel farm gate was wide open. She couldn’t remember if it had been open when they got there. Now she thought about it, it had definitely been closed.
That’s weird.
To the left, a dirt track cut through the fields. As it trailed off into the distance, Rosie knew it was over a mile up to the main road. She could see the magnificent green sweep of fields heading down into the deep basin of Sychnant Pass. The Afon Gyrach river snaked its way past about a third of a mile away. West of that were the dark wooded areas of Bryn Dedwydd. Welsh mythology claimed there was a two-thousand-year-old yew tree in the woods that was haunted by the ghost of a Celtic prince who had been betrayed by his brother. Rosie and Emma used to play up there when they were younger until one day they saw a man watching them. But that was years ago.
Rosie could feel her nerves starting to jangle as she tried in vain to get a phone signal.
Come on, come on!
Further up the road, Rosie could hear the sound of an approaching vehicle. A cloud of dust seemed to surround the car as it neared. She squinted – she couldn’t see the driver from that distance.
Walking over to the gate with a frown, Rosie shielded her eyes from the low glare of the setting sun.
I can’t see a bloody thing.
The car came thundering around the corner as the noise of the tyres crunching on the hard dirt track increased.
Christ! Someone’s in a hurry!
Rosie took a couple of steps backwards as the car drew up dramatically beside her.
It was only as the dust settled and Rosie leant down and peered inside that she could finally see who was inside the car.
CHAPTER 1
It was eight o’clock in the morn
ing. Detective Inspector Ruth Hunter and Detective Sergeant Nick Evans of the North Wales Police were speeding their way through Snowdonia Park, heading for Capelulo. A teenage girl had been reported missing in the early hours. There was still no sign of her.
Ruth looked at the intel on her phone. ‘Rosie Wright, aged sixteen. A group of friends went out to camp in the neighbours’ barn and she just disappeared.’
Even though some of these cases turned out to be runaways, they had to treat it seriously. And that meant the clock was now ticking.
‘A teenager goes missing. Nine times out of ten it’s a boyfriend, girlfriend, parents, they’ve run away or something else irrational.’
Ruth frowned at Nick’s casual attitude.
‘Yeah, let’s not forget that the other ten per cent find their way onto tabloid front pages or TV programmes like Britain’s Most Shocking Crimes,’ Ruth said darkly.
Nick nodded.
He’s been preoccupied all week, Ruth thought.
Ruth looked out at the stunning scenery. They dropped down into the Sychnant Pass, Bwlch Sychnant, which linked Conwy to Penmaenmawr via Capelulo, with a range of mountains looming over them. Past that would be the town of Conwy itself and then the cold, dark expanse of the Irish Sea.
Now that’s a proper view, she thought.
When she was feeling particularly disgruntled, all Ruth had to do was look out at the scenery of Snowdonia and she’d feel at least a little better. She reminded herself that a few years ago she would have spent the day mopping up the bloody damage of gang and drug violence in Peckham, South East London.
Those days are gone. Thank God.
The transfer to North Wales Police Force hadn’t been quite as straightforward and stress-free as she’d expected. Her colleagues in the Met had taunted her that she would be chasing stolen tractors and arresting sheep rustlers. Far from it. Instead, she had dealt with several high-profile murder cases since her arrival. However, on a day-to-day basis, her quality of life was significantly better.
Slowing down as they entered Capelulo, Ruth could see a beach in the far distance and then a thin strip of dark blue sea on the horizon. It was a spectacular view in any well-seasoned traveller’s book. The grey stone houses and narrow roads showed her that this was another small, tight-knit Snowdonia community. Everyone knew everyone’s business. Sometimes that was incredibly helpful in an investigation. However, it also meant that in times of crisis, the community could close ranks defensively and no one would tell the police anything.
If Rosie Wright was a genuine missing teenager, Ruth hoped that this type of community would help them find her. And quickly!
As the track became increasingly bumpy, they spotted a sign – Haddon Farm – and a cottage next door.
‘I think we bust a cannabis farm out here a few years ago,’ Nick said, half to himself as he got out of the car.
‘You think?’ Ruth frowned.
‘When I was drinking, I couldn’t remember one day to the next,’ Nick admitted. ‘I was in a blackout when I nicked some people. We’d go to trial and the brief would have to remind me who they were.’
‘The CPS must have loved you,’ Ruth said sarcastically, but she was glad to see Nick’s ongoing sobriety. She had seen too many good coppers drink themselves to death when she was in the Met. The combination of alcohol and macho bravado was a treatment for PTSD and trauma, with lethal results.
A patrol car, with its distinctive yellow and blue marking and HEDDLU – POLICE lettering, was parked outside the small cottage where Jason and Kathy Wright, Rosie’s parents, lived.
Knowing that there was no time to lose, Ruth marched up the neat stone path. The front garden was immaculate, with a small wooden sign that read Hazel Cottage. You could learn a lot about people from the way their houses and gardens were presented. Ruth desperately needed a ciggie, but she would have to wait. She had promised her girlfriend Sian that she would cut down, and Nick had been designated as Sian’s spy in the quest for her to quit.
A young, male uniformed officer, gawky and ginger-haired, stood outside the front door and nodded at her. ‘Ma’am.’
Ruth and Nick showed their warrant cards. ‘DI Hunter and DS Evans, Llancastell CID. What have we got, Constable?’
‘The daughter, Rosie Wright, went missing from a field about a mile up that way. She’s sixteen. Friends and family have been searching for her all night. We’ve had a look around and there’s no sign of her anywhere, Ma’am,’ the constable explained at speed. Everyone was acutely aware of the time pressure.
Ruth would make sure they checked again. There had been several times in the Met when missing children and teens had been found hiding under beds, in wardrobes or even in attics. Those cases never surprised her. Living in the squalid, dysfunctional and sometimes violent flats of Peckham’s estates with addict or alcoholic parents was horrific. She didn’t know how some of the children survived the experience. Some of them didn’t.
‘What about a FLO?’ Nick asked. A police officer would be appointed as the family liaison officer to provide an ongoing line of communication between the family and the police.
‘My sarge said to wait for you guys to get here, sir,’ the constable explained.
Nick nodded. It sounded sensible to wait until they could establish if it was likely that a crime had been committed. ‘Okay, thank you.’
The officer pushed open the door, and Ruth and Nick walked in purposefully. The house was tidy and smelt of air freshener and coffee. Coats hung neatly from hooks in the hallway. Boots, shoes and trainers lined up tidily. A small patterned rug covered the wine-red tiled floor. Instinct told Ruth that there was some order and normality to the Wright family as far as first impressions went.
It was the first ten minutes that normally gave Ruth a clue as to whether there was something to worry about. And there was always a slight apprehension before meeting the family. How were they going to react to her as a detective? Some were hostile and overemotional. Some were stunned and quiet. And some simply pretended that it wasn’t happening.
As Ruth and Nick came into the long kitchen, they saw a woman sitting at the table, her fingers pawing at a mug a tea. Kathy Wright.
A female uniformed police officer, tall with dyed-black hair in a ponytail, rested against the kitchen counter. She looked over as the detectives came in.
‘Ma’am,’ the officer said as she instinctively straightened. Probably young, ambitious and keen to impress CID officers whenever she could. Ruth knew the type.
Ruth showed her warrant card. ‘Thank you, Constable. We’ll take it from here.’
The officer nodded and made herself scarce.
Kathy Wright was in her early forties but looked older. Her hair had been dyed so blonde that it was just this side of white. It was cut into a fringe that made her face look more severe than it actually was. Even though Kathy was overweight, she squeezed into skinny jeans that were finished off with immaculate pink trainers. Ruth knew she was being judgemental but as she looked at Kathy, she remembered Hannibal Lecter’s analysis of Agent Starling in The Silence of the Lambs: she was only a generation away from poor, white trailer trash.
Kathy had made an effort with her appearance, but Ruth didn’t know if this was a sign of anything darker. It did pose the question that if she was frantic in the search for her daughter, why had she gone so much trouble? But in Ruth’s experience, some people were just like that. They tried to create a sense of normality and routine as if nothing had happened.
Kathy looked up from the table, smiled and blinked. She doesn’t know what bloody day it is, poor woman, Ruth thought. Kathy had that horrible vacant look Ruth had seen so many times before. Shock, disbelief, terror, denial. It was all there.
‘Mrs Wright? I’m Detective Inspector Ruth Hunter and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Nick Evans. Can we sit down?’
Kathy nodded. ‘Of course, sorry. Yeah. It’s Kathy.’ She lifted her mug to take a sip of tea, and Ruth could se
e that her hands were trembling slightly.
‘Is your husband here?’ Nick asked.
‘He’s gone out with some others to look ...’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She couldn’t because that would make what was happening real.
‘Kathy, I know that this is a very difficult time for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through,’ Ruth said in the gentle voice that was her trademark. Ruth had been through something similar with her own daughter Ella last Christmas, but it wasn’t the time to explain that to anyone. She needed to keep it nice and simple. ‘We just need as much information as we can get. The more you can tell us, the more likely it is we can get Rosie home safely.’
Kathy nodded, but Ruth could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ Nick suggested quietly.
Ruth gave him a knowing smile. ‘Yes, thanks. That’s a good idea.’
Taking the kettle to the sink, Nick filled it up as Ruth got out her notebook. She glanced up at the fridge, which was covered in magnets, photos and drawings. Even in those few seconds, she deduced that the Wrights had two children. Rosie and a brother who was a couple of years older.
On the surface, this is a nice, normal family, Ruth thought. And that meant alarm bells were starting to ring.
However, all families had their secrets, despite what some of them would have you believe on social media. Maybe there was more to this.
‘I know you’ve already told my colleagues, but could you run through what happened last night for us?’ Ruth asked, keeping her voice soft.
Kathy shifted awkwardly in her chair. ‘Rosie went with Emma from next door up to one of Steven’s fields. It was her birthday.’
‘Steven?’ Ruth asked.
‘Steven is Emma’s dad. Steven Haddon. He owns the farm next door,’ Kathy explained. ‘There were about seven of them going to sleep up at the barn.’
‘How far is that from here?’ Nick asked.
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