‘Yeah ... First grandchild on the way,’ she said as she smiled and patted her stomach.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Tony,’ Nick said. The awkwardness was getting to him and he felt compelled to say something.
‘Mand’s told me a lot about you, Nick,’ Tony said.
‘Oh dear. Well, none of it’s true, I promise,’ Nick joked, and they all laughed. At last the ice was starting to melt.
‘A copper, eh?’ Tony said.
‘Twelve years on the job now.’
Tony nodded thoughtfully. ‘Neither of you have chosen an easy career path, have you? Fair play to you both.’
‘A pair of do-gooders, eh?’ Amanda said with a smile.
Amanda still had a couple of months left working for the Llancastell Child Protection before she was off on maternity leave. If he was honest, Nick worried about her being around the horror and tragedy that went hand in hand with her job, especially as she was pregnant. However, she had assured him that she had coping mechanisms, particularly now she was sober.
After a moment, Amanda pushed her hair out of her face and behind her ear. Nick knew it as a tell. If Amanda felt nervous about what she was about to say, she pushed her hair behind her ear. He told her never to play poker because she would get cleaned out. She did it in AA meeting sometimes when she shared or had been asked to read something to the group.
‘I was surprised to get your text, Dad,’ Amanda said.
‘Yeah. It was about time that I saw you. Especially with all that’s going on for you.’ Tony looked at his nails for a moment. ‘I also wanted you know that I’ve got cancer. But before you say anything, it’s prostrate, they’ve got it early and I’m not going to die, which will disappoint some people on the planet.’
‘I’m really sorry, Dad,’ Amanda said as she reached across the table and touched his hand for a second. Nick could see how uncomfortable the gesture made Tony. Guilt had that effect on people. He could also see how gaunt Tony’s face was – he was skin and bone all over. Maybe it was Nick’s suspicious nature, but Tony didn’t look like a man who had had an early diagnosis of prostate cancer.
‘No need to be sorry. It just made me think, that’s all. I’ve had to live with what I’ve done, and that’s been fucking hard. And I know I’ve got amends to make to those that will allow me to. And you’re one of them, Mand,’ Tony said.
‘Thank you, Dad. That means a lot.’
‘I wish your mum was around, you know?’
‘I know. When do you get out?’ Amanda asked.
‘Three months.’
‘You gonna be all right?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. It’s just one day at a time, isn’t it? Two days that I can’t do anything about. Yesterday and tomorrow. It’s taken me this time being banged up to realise how lucky I was and still am. Learn a bit of gratitude, you know?’
Nick’s ears pricked up. He knew someone in the fellowship when he heard one. ‘How long have you been going to the meetings?’
At first, Tony looked angry, even indignant. Feeling that he had either overstepped the mark or got it wrong, Nick was going to apologise. He kicked himself for being some kind of born-again AA zealot.
However, Tony’s face changed and he said, ‘About a year, I suppose. There was a good meeting at the nick I was in in Warwick. You?’
Nick nodded. ‘Early days. You know, keep coming back, keep listening.’
Amanda caught Tony’s eye. ‘Me too, Dad.’
Tony took this in and scratched his chin. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It’s where we met. Well, sort of,’ Amanda explained.
Tony shook his head. ‘I didn’t think you’d be telling me that tonight, Mand. But if you’re looking out for each other, I guess that’s a good thing.’
Nick watched as Tony moved his hand and put it on top of his daughter’s for a moment. He could see how unsure Tony was, but Amanda gave her father a reassuring smile.
‘We’re gonna be fine, Dad. Don’t worry.’
CHAPTER 12
Three days, twelve hours
Built in 2010, HMP Rhoswen was a new super prison for mainly category-A prisoners on the North Wales coast. With over two thousand inmates, Rhoswen was the biggest prison in Wales and was heralded a decade ago as a modern and progressive flagship for the UK’s penal system. But it hadn’t quite worked out like that.
As Nick pulled the car into the visitor car park, Ruth was searching through the social-media response to the Wrights’ press conference.
‘We don’t have time for this to be a wild goose chase,’ Ruth said.
‘It’s Blake. It’s his MO. And that means Rosie is being held until Kathy Wright does what she’s told,’ Nick said with confidence.
‘You always think it’s Blake, Nick. But if it’s not, we’re running out of time,’ Ruth said, aware that she sounded annoyed. She couldn’t help it. Rosie was still missing and progress was agonisingly slow.
Ruth wondered how their meeting with Rhoswen’s governor, Gordon Holmes, would go. She knew that Holmes’s liberal views on prison life had made him a target for the right-wing press. He was open in his belief that prisoners should be referred to as men and not offenders. They were housed in rooms and not cells. Holmes wanted Rhoswen to be truly rehabilitative. He was fond of quoting Nelson Mandela’s ideas about freedom and justice: ‘As I walked out the door towards the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.’
With a full-sized Astroturf football pitch, gyms, education area, workshops, sports hall, Rhoswen even had a wellbeing and multi-faith centre.
However, Rhoswen had had more than its fair share of teething problems since its opening. There had been delays in the completion of certain sections of the prison. And the relaxed regime seemed to have had the opposite effect on the prison population. Violence within the prison was above average, as was the number of prisoners who tested positive for drugs.
Getting out of the car, Ruth remembered the last time she had visited HMP Rhoswen. It had been an ill-fated day with the serial killer Andrew Gates last December. The very thought of Gates made her shudder. Back then, the ground had been scattered with snow and the car park was icy. Now, the summer sun was blazing down on them and the air was warm and still.
Glancing around at the series of new box-shaped buildings that had been highlighted with stripes of red, blue, green and yellow, she thought that HMP Rhoswen could be mistaken for one of the modern academies she had seen in her time in South London. In fact, the only giveaway to the buildings’ true purpose were the bars on the windows. Sardonically, she thought some South London academies could have done with bars too.
Ruth’s train of thought was broken by the sound of a car door shutting nearby. DI Lyon and DS Buckley had parked close and now strolled over to meet her and Nick.
Right, let’s get on with this.
‘Welcome to HMP Premier Inn,’ Nick said acerbically.
‘I wonder where they went wrong?’ Lyon asked, gesturing to the modern prison blocks.
Nick shrugged. ‘I think it’s too late by the time they get here. You can change a child or a teenager’s views on what’s right and wrong. But some forty-year-old villain who’s spent half his life inside isn’t going to change because he’s got a nice library, a yoga class and some positive slogans on the wall.’
‘Unfortunately, I think you’re right. Some of the men in here were going to prison from the day they were conceived. We just pick up the pieces,’ Buckley said with a world-weariness.
Ruth wasn’t listening. In fact, she was getting frustrated that the others were having a casual debate over modern justice and the penal system.
There’s a teenage girl missing, tied up somewhere or worse – get a move on!
Ruth could tell she was becoming too emotionally involved. But that’s how she worked, and she wasn’t going to change now.
Looking around, the four of them headed over to
the security entrance and then inside. The reception area had brightly coloured seats and a large slogan painted on the wall: Big journeys begin with the small steps.
Within ten minutes, they were sitting with the governor, Gordon Holmes, in the prison’s main conference room. It was all glass and clean angles and wouldn’t have looked out of place in the advertising agencies of London’s West End. Even though he was in his early fifties, Holmes had a boyish face, a mop of greying hair and intense blue eyes.
Holmes was disappointed but not surprised that some of his prison officers were under investigation by the RPIT. However, he was annoyed that it had taken them this long to bring their suspicions to him. Lyon and Buckley assured him that they were planning to make their suspicions known to him as soon as they had enough concrete evidence to make arrests.
Ruth brought their attention back to Rosie’s disappearance – they were still working against the clock. ‘Look, we’re investigating the disappearance of Rosie Wright,’ Ruth explained. ‘That’s what’s important here. And she’s been missing for nearly four days.’
‘It’s horrible. I feel so sorry for Kathy. I’ve told her to take as much time off as she needs,’ Holmes explained.
‘Unfortunately, we believe that Kathy Wright is at the centre of the prison officers who are smuggling in drugs and phones,’ Lyon said.
Holmes shifted uncomfortably in his seat and frowned. ‘Kathy? Really? I’m shocked.’
Ruth looked at him. Was he shocked or had he had his suspicions? She couldn’t tell.
‘One theory is that Curtis Blake is somehow involved in her daughter’s disappearance,’ Nick clarified.
‘Although we don’t have solid evidence of that,’ Lyon explained.
Nick shot Lyon a withering look, ‘Which is why I described it as a theory.’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past Curtis Blake. He’s been here five minutes and thinks he runs this place. I know some of my officers feel intimidated by him being here,’ Holmes explained.
‘The suspicion is that Kathy Wright was supplying drugs and phones to Frank Cole. As you know, Cole was severely injured in your prison’s gym. Blake would want Kathy to continue to organise the smuggling. He has a history of intimidating people by getting to their families,’ Ruth said.
‘And this information has to stay within these four walls. We don’t want any of your officers to know about the investigation. Not until we can confirm who is corrupt and who is not,’ Buckley said.
Holmes nodded sternly. This was all happening on his watch, and Ruth could see how uncomfortable it had made him. ‘Of course. Anything to get Rosie back.’
‘We need a surveillance team to put a hidden microphone in his cell. We also need a table in the visiting area to be fitted with a hidden bug and for Blake to be assigned that table for any visitors. I want to monitor every conversation Blake has with anyone. We need continuous access to your CCTV.’ Ruth gestured to the folder she was carrying. ‘I have a RIPA authorisation with me from Superintendent Jones at Llancastell.’ RIPA was the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, which regulated the use of surveillance within the UK.
Holmes looked at everyone in the room. ‘Yeah, that’s fine. No problem.’
‘Looks like we’re all in agreement then?’ Ruth said as she got her paperwork together. It was progress, but it felt like wading through mud.
IT WAS MID-MORNING when Sian and French took the turning to Penmaenmawr from the North Wales Expressway. Ruth had sent them to get an explanation from Gareth Wright about the altercation with Rosie outside the sixth form college, as well as nail down his vague alibi for the time of his sister’s disappearance.
It was burning hot, and even though she was wearing sunglasses, Sian squinted at the sun’s rays that glinted on the windscreen and the car’s bonnet. Penmaenmawr was a small town a few miles from Capelulo, up on the North Wales coast. It had been a quarrying town in the past. Now it was known for its stunning Snowdonian scenery. The Penmaenmawr Mountain stood above the sea immediately to the west of the town. It had once stood at a magnificent 1,600 feet above sea level and been the site of a fortified pre-historic settlement. However, as the result of devastating quarrying in the nineteenth century, the mountain now had a distinctive flat peak – the rock face was made from the hardest granite in the British Empire. Within a few decades, quarrymen reduced Penmaenmawr from a majestic mountain to a stumpy bump, just under 1,000ft high. The granite was taken by boat to Scandinavia and mainland Europe to build roads and buildings, and over to England to build the roads and factories of Victorian Manchester.
The journey to Capelulo was only the second occurrence that Sian had spent any length of time with DC Dan French, the first being their interview with Martin Hancock. He had all the zip and energy of a rookie. However, he kept himself to himself and seemed intuitive when discussing the case.
‘So, why the police force, Dan?’ Sian asked, taking the lead.
‘I come from three generations of coppers. I wasn’t going to be anything else,’ Dan said with a cheery shrug. Sian could see that he didn’t seem to resent the fact that he was now in the ‘family business’.
‘Yeah, my taid was a policeman too. But then it must have skipped a generation because my dad was a thieving toerag,’ Sian said with a chuckle.
French looked over at her and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Oh, nothing heavy like. We just couldn’t return Christmas presents because there were no receipts, you know. That kind of thing,’ Sian explained.
Turning off Bangor Road, they headed for the centre of town and soon found the small house on St David’s Terrace that Gareth Wright shared with a friend.
On the road outside, a black Volkswagen Golf 1.6 was parked. French pulled over and parked behind.
‘Is that Gareth Wright’s car?’ French asked knowingly.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Golf 1.6. Fifteen plate. That’s ten grand’s worth of car,’ French explained.
‘Know your cars, Dan?’
‘I was a boy racer in a previous life,’ he quipped.
‘And how does a twenty-one-year-old apprentice afford that?’ Sian asked rhetorically. Unless he’s up to no good, she wanted to say.
As they got out, Sian could see that the exterior of the house was covered in nasty brown pebbledash and patches of damp. The paving stones were cracked and strewn with weeds, which had flowered yellow. A plastic bag of empty beer cans and a stack of pizza boxes were next to the overflowing bin.
‘Home sweet home,’ French said wryly.
Sian knocked and eventually Gareth answered the door. Dressed in a T-shirt and trackies, he looked like he had just rolled out of bed.
‘Gareth Wright?’ French asked.
‘Yeah ...’ he mumbled.
‘DC Hockney and DC French, Llancastell CID,’ Sian said, showing her warrant card.
‘Is it Rosie? Have you found her?’ he asked, rubbing his face and blinking.
‘No, I’m sorry. Can we come in? We need to clarify a few things with you in our search for Rosie?’ Sian explained.
As they went in, the house smelt of burnt toast and weed. Sian knew they weren’t there to nick Gareth for possession. Not today anyway.
The living room was a tip. Cans of beer, stale food, remnants of spliffs. Student stereotype noted, Sian thought.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Gareth said as he slumped down on the sofa.
‘Can you tell us where you were at about three o’clock last Monday afternoon?’ French asked as they sat cautiously on two worn armchairs.
Gareth frowned, scratched his stubble and then shook his head. ‘No, sorry. I can’t remember. I might have been here.’
Sian removed a still from the college CCTVD and showed Gareth. ‘We have this CCTV footage of you outside Llancastell Sixth Form College at three o’clock?’
‘Oh right. Yeah, I went there to catch up with Rosie when she left,’ Gareth said.
‘And why was that?’
French asked.
Sian had clocked two rolled twenty-pound notes on the table. Gareth had been doing more than just smoking weed.
‘I was going to give her a lift home,’ Gareth said.
Stop lying to us, you twat!
‘And did you give her a lift home, Gareth?’ French asked.
‘You’ve got the CCTV, mate,’ Gareth sneered back.
‘We watched the CCTV and it’s clear that you and Rosie had a row,’ Sian said.
Gareth shrugged. ‘So what? Not the first brother and sister to row.’
‘A row that ended up with you grabbing her by the throat and pushing her to the ground,’ Sian said.
‘Why you bothering me with all this shit? There’s some fucking psycho out there who’s got my sister,’ Gareth said, giving them a withering look.
‘What were you arguing about, Gareth?’ French asked.
‘I can’t remember.’
French looked directly at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, if you could remember, that would be useful as Rosie went missing five hours later,’ he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
‘You know, brother-and-sister shit. I dunno ...’
‘No, I don’t know,’ Sian snapped. She was losing her patience. Gareth was hiding something and he needed persuading to tell them what. ‘Let’s see if I can jog your memory. If I get forensic officers in here to sweep that table for class-A drugs, are they going to find anything incriminating? You’ve already got previous for intent to supply, Gareth.’
Gareth let out a sigh and then said, ‘Okay. Rosie wanted me to get her and her mates some pills. I said I wasn’t going to deal drugs to my little sister. So she kicked the shit out of my car.’
‘Why did you grab her round the throat?’ French asked.
Gareth didn’t want to answer, and he tapped his foot on the carpet in frustration.
‘DC French, what’s it like when forensic officers search a house for drugs?’ Sian asked knowingly.
The Devil's Cliff Killings Page 12
