Dead People

by Ewart Hutton

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I can’t answer that yet. But, people, if he has rediscovered the taste, we had better get to him before he starts indulging again.’

  An audible emotional whir ran through the room.

  ‘Should we be warning the locals, sir?’ I asked.

  He smiled at me indulgently. ‘We should be warning the tarts and the homeless and the junkies in the city this bastard is operating out of. Although we do not yet know where that is, do we, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I recognized my shut-up cue.

  Kevin Fletcher presented the forensic evidence. It was sparse, nothing I hadn’t already heard, except that we had managed to identify the polyethylene sheeting as a grade used to wrap and protect rolls of carpet.

  One of the DCs put up his hand. Fletcher nodded. ‘What about the young woman, sir? Is it possible to tell if there was a sexual element to this?’

  Fletcher smiled grimly. ‘We can’t say yet. The lab people are doing their best, but unfortunately the well-intentioned excavators managed to turn her gynaecology into a ragout.’ A collective groan went through the room, and all eyes turned on me. So that one was obviously doing the rounds in Carmarthen. Had the question been a plant? Or was I just being paranoid?

  Fletcher uncovered the display board. There were mortuary and site photographs of both the bodies, and a plan showing the locations where they had been found. He jabbed his finger over them. ‘This is an out of the way spot. It’s a long way off the road, and it can’t be seen from the valley. So we’re working on the assumption that whoever dug these graves knew the territory.’ His eyes caught mine for a moment, as if challenging me to reclaim my theory.

  ‘We have had one big break, though. We have found a pair of bootprints that were missed at first because they had been covered by running water. We think these were made when he was running away from the site security guard. We’ve managed to get a cast, and the boffins have been hard at work trying to build up a composite of the man.’

  He turned to the table, produced another photograph, and pinned it to the board. ‘Our putative killer’s bootprints. And now . . .’ He picked up another, larger piece of paper, holding its blank side towards us, and shaking it tantalizingly. ‘Our composite,’ he announced triumphantly, turning it over.

  Even Jack Galbraith laughed at our reaction to the anticlimax. I had to give Fletcher credit, he was working his audience well.

  The composite was little more than a caricature. A pure extrapolation of the weight and proportions of the body based on the size and depth of the bootprint. All science, no art.

  Fletcher started nodding in anticipatory sympathy. ‘I know it’s not great. But I’m afraid it’s all we have for now. So you officers at the coalface will have to work with it.’

  A low, collective groan rose up from the uniform corner, orchestrated by Emrys Hughes. You couldn’t blame them. They were going to be knocking on doors trying to jog people’s memories with a cartoon.

  Jack Galbraith stepped forward. ‘Let me step out of character for once and play the wicked old stepfather.’ A dutiful laugh rippled through the room. He raised the composite and held it out to face the room. ‘Another spoiler. Because this, of course, may not be our man. He may be wearing an entirely different label.’ He clicked his fingers at Alison Weir.

  ‘And what label is that, sir?’ she came back crisply.

  ‘I am a wind-farm saboteur. I am an annoying, malicious and destructive bastard, but I am not a killer. I want you to keep that in the back of your minds. This may be a false trail.’ He scrutinized us all for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Okay, Kevin, back to you.’

  A copy of the composite was passed along the line to me. I stopped listening to Fletcher’s pep talk and studied it. There was only one fact, which was the size of his boots. His weight, his size and his posture were all conjecture. How many of these variables would fit Gerald Evans?

  I checked myself. I had never met Evans, so why was I getting so obsessed with him? Why did I want him to turn out to be a monster? I knew the answer. I wanted a local villain to give my life here some meaning. I didn’t want Jack Galbraith to be right. I didn’t want this place to be merely a dumping ground. I wanted us to have consequence. I didn’t want to be left as merely the caretaker of a charnel house.

  I put my hand up tentatively.

  ‘Glyn?’ Fletcher gave me the stage.

  ‘We keep talking about “him”, but I think there could be a possibility that there’s more that one person involved.’ I saw Jack Galbraith glare at me, but I wanted this out in the open. Just in case there was anyone else in the audience who was having the same doubts. No hand shot up.

  ‘What evidence have you got to back that up, Glyn?’ Kevin asked in the pleasant voice of a patronizing bastard of an uncle.

  I touched the dressing on the side of my head involuntarily, beginning to wonder if I was about to wedge myself into a big mistake. ‘It’s a hunch, Kevin.’

  ‘Serial killers don’t work in pairs, it screws up their agenda,’ Jack Galbraith announced gruffly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I didn’t think it was politic to point out that, with only two bodies, it was a bit presumptuous to be talking about a serial killer.

  I saw Emrys Hughes’s hand go up in the uniform sector. It surprised me. Could it be possible that he was about to support me?

  Fletcher nodded at him. ‘Yes, Emrys?’ He had done his team-recognition homework.

  ‘Hearth and home, sir,’ he bellowed, misjudging the room’s acoustic.

  Fletcher and Jack Galbraith shared a quick glance. Reassuring each other in the company of hayseeds. ‘I don’t quite get you, Emrys,’ Fletcher said, smiling patiently.

  ‘I know the people around here, sir. They know me, they trust me.’

  ‘I’m sure they do, Sergeant.’

  ‘No disrespect to Sergeant Capaldi, but they’re not going to want an outsider coming into their houses to ask them delicate questions.’

  The realization flashed. The bastard . . . Emrys was trying to hijack the case.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Emrys?’ Fletcher asked, Jack Galbraith glowering impatiently beside him.

  ‘That we work with the locals. Sergeant Capaldi can do the incomers. There’s plenty enough of them around, and he probably speaks their language better.’ He flashed a grin at his men.

  Fletcher nodded sagely, digesting this. ‘Glyn?’ he asked.

  What could I do? The bastard had sideswiped me. I could smell Inspector Morgan behind this. But the awkward thing was that he had a point. I had come across people here who wouldn’t give you the time of day unless you could prove that your forebears had served as retainers with Llewelyn the Last Prince of Wales. And he wasn’t down on record as having hired any Italians.

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ I said, stalling, thinking hard for some way to block him. Emrys was looking over at me, a triumphant gloat lurking underneath the open and honest smile. I wanted to ram something flat and heavy into his face. I didn’t give a shit for all the tosspot farmers whose company I was going to be deprived of, but I did not want to miss my chance at Gerald Evans. ‘But I’m not sure whether his men have got the requisite interviewing skills.’

  ‘You’re going to be using us anyway,’ Emrys whined. ‘Whichever way we work it, we’re still going to be knocking on doors for you. You set the questions if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  Jack Galbraith’s mobile phone rang. The digitalized strains of ‘Scotland the Brave’ surprised us all. He answered it, turning his back to us. Kevin Fletcher looked suddenly abandoned. He shot us a discomfited smile, like an actor who had just lost touch with his prompter.

  Jack Galbraith turned back round and held up his hand. He needn’t have bothered, he already had total silence. ‘That’s SOCO. They’ve just found another one. Skeletonized. Early stage investigations showing broad similarities with the first corpse. Although the forensic anthropologist reckons that this one is female.’ He passed h
is phone to Fletcher. ‘Take the details, Kevin.’

  We were all stunned by the news. How many more were we going to find? It looked like Jack Galbraith was going to earn his serial-killer tagline.

  He turned his attention back to Emrys Hughes. ‘Are there really that many people who have moved up here?’ he asked, sounding surprised and appalled.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Emrys replied.

  He looked over at me. ‘You talk to them, Capaldi. There has to be some real weirdness among that bunch.’ He shook his head. I knew what he was thinking. The same thoughts still visited me from time to time. The fact that people would voluntarily leave a city to take up residence in the boondocks placed them in a seriously disturbed category.

  ‘Hold on . . .’ Fletcher’s muffled voice responded to the knock I had just given on his door in The Fleece. He opened it and looked surprised to see me. Behind him, on a faded green bedspread, I saw his suitcase and the small piles of clothes waiting to be allocated drawer space.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Kevin. I know you’re trying to settle in, but . . .’

  He held up a hand to quiet me. ‘Boss or skip?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I wondered if I had missed a connection.

  ‘Boss or skip? What’s it to be?’

  I smiled tentatively. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Fixing the demarcation lines, Glyn. It’ll be good coming from you. Set an example for the others.’

  He was serious. And just when I’d begun to think that perhaps I’d been a bit too hard on him, here he was, turning into an even bigger arsehole than he’d been before. He watched me expectantly.

  I held out the folder I had been carrying. ‘I thought you might want to see this.’ He waited. I forced it out. ‘Boss.’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some pre-investigation notes I’ve made.’

  ‘Give them to Alison in the morning.’

  ‘I thought you might want to be up to speed with them first.’

  He thought about it, and gave me a clipped nod. ‘Okay, summarize them.’

  I glanced up and down the corridor meaningfully. He took the hint and stood aside to let me into the room. The furnishings were heavy and mismatched pieces of French-polished walnut and mahogany, and the air was thick with a synthesized distillation of lavender or gardenia. The net curtains in the bay window had random specks of bluebottle and crane-fly legs caught in the weave. Sandra had given him the best room in the house. ‘Nice room,’ I observed, nodding appreciatively, trying to make him feel special.

  ‘No, it’s fucking not,’ he replied, closing the door behind me, ‘it’s a place where furniture comes to die, and it smells like an overworked hooker’s crotch.’

  ‘Is DCS Galbraith not staying?’

  ‘No, rank has its benefits.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘Come on, Glyn, I’m tired, I’ve got to attempt to get the suicide vibes out of this room, so just give me what you’ve got.’

  ‘It’s a very brief profile of the people who live in the valley. All the nearest neighbours to the crime scene.’

  He looked unimpressed. ‘And surprise me. Not one Son of Satan among them.’

  ‘Not in the valley.’

  He opened the door for me. ‘I know we go back, Glyn, but no special favours here, I’m afraid. In future let’s just process everything through the official channel.’

  I didn’t move.

  He stared me out for a moment, and then closed the door again. ‘I thought there had to be more.’ He groaned. ‘Spit it out,’ he commanded, sitting heavily on the bed.

  ‘Emrys Hughes.’

  He winced, demonstrating the weary burden of leadership. ‘The man’s got a point. This is a close-knit community. They know him. But don’t worry about it, it’s not as if we’re going to get anywhere talking to the rednecks.’

  ‘What about a redneck with a penchant for pornography and criminal behaviour, and who’s a known associate of Evie Salmon?’

  He frowned. ‘Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?’

  ‘Because I haven’t talked to him yet. I want him, boss. I want first chance at him.’

  ‘You think Hughes will fuck up?’

  ‘I know he will. He has obsequious genes. The guy’s a serial forelock-tugger.’

  He looked away for a moment, collecting his thoughts. ‘Feed me more,’ he instructed.

  ‘Gerald Evans is a farmer. He steals other people’s sheep, he shoots dogs,’ I pressed down on the exaggeration pedal, ‘and he imports heavy-duty porno from Holland. He also has direct cross-country access to the burial site from his land. He lives here, he knows the place. He’s the only one in the locality that fits under the umbrella.’

  ‘Motive?’ Fletcher snapped the question at me.

  I shrugged. ‘I can’t say without talking to him.’

  ‘How does Evie Salmon fit into it?’

  ‘She helped his wife out. He had to know her. Maybe they got as far as blow jobs in the hayloft. Then she moves. But they keep in touch. Who knows, maybe he even set her up in a fuck-pad somewhere. Evie was living away, no one could connect them any more, and that’s when she became safe to be a victim.’

  ‘DCS Galbraith is convinced it’s an outside agency.’

  ‘This makes more sense, boss.’

  He pondered. ‘If he’s such a bad bastard, why haven’t we had him already?’

  ‘Because he’s careful. He does what he does on his own land.’

  ‘Okay,’ he came to the decision, ‘tomorrow morning, you go and talk to him.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘And I go with you.’

  My grateful face didn’t flutter.

  I walked back down the corridor, trying to see the similarities between this pompous bastard and the Kevin Fletcher I had originally known. I had been a raw DC in Cardiff myself at the time, working the deadbeat stuff that the older guys tipped out of their ashtrays for me to pick up: the council-estate break-ins, the foreign-sailor muggings and the over-the-hill hookers who were reduced to knee-tremblers against lock-up garage walls.

  He came in through the graduate-recruitment route and I was assigned to him as a minder. We got on well then. He was intelligent and we discovered that we both read books, and liked films and music that bypassed the mainstream. The sort of thing that could have fucked him if he’d ended up with the wrong partner. I hadn’t been quite so lucky, I had been landed with the derogatory nickname ‘Pablo’ after making the mistake of trying to turn one of my colleagues onto an album track called ‘Pablo Picasso’ by an American indie band called the Modern Lovers.

  I showed him the ropes as best I could. I drove him round the streets, pointing out the hot and the cold spots, introduced him to my small but developing team of snitches, and I put myself out there to watch his back. He learned the shortcuts and the cynicism quickly, how to spot and drop the no-hope cases, but, more importantly, how to nail the bad bastards who had either fallen out of grace with their protection, or had never had any to begin with.

  I had thought we had the makings of a duo, a proper crime-fighting team. Until the day I walked into the pub that was our unofficial squad room and saw him nested there with the big boys. I knew it was over when he grinned at me and called out across the crowded bar, ‘What are you drinking, Pablo?’

  Kevin Fletcher had started his ascendancy.

  And me? I’d like to think that I retained most of my integrity. Which was probably why he was now able to treat me as his fucking slave.

  7

  There was an air of charged suspense in the incident room when I arrived the next morning. It had the quiet concentrated intensity of the control deck of a submarine during a depth-charge attack.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked Alison, a whisper seeming appropriate.

  She inclined her head towards the room that Fletcher had commandeered. ‘Nothing’s been announced, but he’s been on the phone a lot. And DCS Galbraith is on hi
s way back.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He was meant to be staying in Carmarthen for a couple of days dealing with politics and getting the proper resources allocated. He’s just been on the phone and he’s not in a good mood.’

  So, Galbraith descending in grumpy mode. That explained the studied sense of doom in here. I smiled cockily. ‘Shame I won’t be around to share the greetings.’ I nodded at Fletcher’s closed door. ‘The Young Pretender and I have got a prior appointment.’

  She flipped me a finger. I knocked on Fletcher’s door, opened it and stuck my head round. ‘Ready, boss?’

  He looked up at me from behind his desk, surprised and distracted. He had a shaving rash and shadows around his eyes. He looked like the victim of a sleep-deprivation curse that he had begun to believe in.

  ‘We’re supposed to be going out to interview Gerald Evans,’ I reminded him.

  The memory came back. He frowned. Hesitated for a moment. And decided that misery preferred company. He waved me in. ‘Shut the door behind you,’ he instructed.

  I sat down in front of him and waited him out.

  ‘We’ve found another one,’ he said eventually. ‘Under arc lights. I was summoned up that hill at three o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Number four?’

  He nodded morosely. ‘DCS Galbraith wants to see it in situ before we make any kind of announcement.’

  I took that as a warning that any leaks would be traced. ‘Fresh or skeleton?’

  ‘Skeleton. Similar condition to the previous two. No head, no hands. Looks like its been in the ground for at least as long as the others. And Evie Salmon’s been verified by DNA.’

  We both went quiet. So Evie was official. And the toll of the anonymous ones was now three. And rising?

  ‘Have you ever come across one like this before?’ It was an unguarded moment. He was actually looking for solace.

  ‘We had that guy a few years back, who was killing schoolgirls up the Valleys,’ I reminded him. It had been a case that we had both worked on. Still equally ranked then, I remembered ruefully.

  He shook his head. ‘That was different. We could identify the kids.’