‘She didn’t try that story on us, did she, Trevor?’
Trevor shook his head.
‘And as for her being foreign – who knows? We’re hicks up here, Sergeant. Ladies of the night from Cardiff are as exotic as the label gets. We’re not good with accents.’
‘Where is she now, Mr McGuire?’ It was a long shot, but I was up close to him, and I wanted to see if anything flecked his composure.
‘In Cardiff, I imagine,’ he replied without hesitating, without a flicker. He grinned at me wickedly. ‘I’m just sorry I can’t pass on her telephone number, Sergeant – you seem so interested.’
The patronizing bastard actually winked at me.
Emrys Hughes and a uniformed sidekick flagged me down before I got back to Dinas.
I was impressed. It had happened quicker than I had expected. Someone was carrying more clout than I had realized.
‘Afternoon, Sergeant Hughes,’ I said pleasantly, lowering the window.
He gave me a measured dose of silence before he slowly leaned down towards me. ‘Your own boss warned you, Sergeant.’
‘And what would that warning have been about?’
‘Harassing my people.’
I played perplexed. ‘Harassing … ?’
‘Don’t get cute,’ he growled. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You were specifically told to lay off the men from the minibus.’
‘Questions, Sergeant. That wasn’t harassment. I was only following up on some discrepancies in their testimony.’
‘There is no case. This has nothing to do with you. You were told not to contact them.’
I bluffed. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Galbraith is not entirely happy with all the answers we’ve had.’
He called it. Leaning in closer and lowering his voice to keep his sidekick out of earshot. ‘Yes, he fucking is, or this thing would still be live.’
I acted hurt. ‘Why do you think I’m asking these questions?’
‘Because you’re playing the lone fucking vigilante. You’ve got no authorization and you know it.’ He glared, challenging me to refute him.
I just nodded, suppressing my frustration. If I made it worse I would have his boss, Inspector Morgan, on my back too.
He grinned, savouring his moment of triumph. ‘Back to work, eh, Sergeant?’ he suggested smugly, straightening up.
I ignored him and drove off. We both knew that I had to take the warning seriously. Morgan and his men could make my life in these parts even more difficult than it already was. But another message was coming in over the horizon. Ken McGuire really did not want me talking to Trevor Vaughan. I sighed inwardly. Revelations like that can corrupt the best intentions.
It had been a bad day, which, I soon discovered, had the potential to get worse.
‘You’ve had a visitor,’ David Williams called out when he saw me walk into The Fleece.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked absently. I was distracted by the prospect of a proper bath and a hot meal. I had temporarily forgotten that people did not come to visit me in Dinas.
‘He was Scottish.’
I stopped rummaging in the drawer of the reception desk where I kept the shampoo and flannel I used at The Fleece. ‘Did he leave a name?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
He glanced down at a notepad. ‘Graham Mackay.’
Why did he want me? One possible answer to that question disturbed me. Really disturbed me. Knowing what he was capable of, both on and off the field of battle.
How deeply had Gina got into him? Could he now be the besotted instrument of my wife’s intense rage?
She blamed me for everything that had gone sour in her life. She blamed me for her weight gain. For the first crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, the advent of grey hairs, and the back pains that she never used to suffer from. The increase in traffic on the streets of Cardiff was down to me, as was the dogshit on the pavements.
But most of all she blamed me for the Merulius lacrymans. As if I could really be held responsible for the dry rot that had been discovered in the house after she had bought me out of my share. I had laughed when she first accused me. That had been a mistake.
‘Was he on his own?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He said he was on his way to Aberystwyth and that he’d call in again on his way back through.’
‘No,’ I said to David as he started to pull my pint.
He looked surprised. ‘Sun’s over the yardarm.’
‘I haven’t finished work yet.’
‘Someone you don’t want to meet?’ His question followed me as I left the bar.
I got away fast. It was precautionary. It would have been messy enough tangling with one of Gina’s run-of-the-mill lovers, but mixing it with the one who had been trained in the precise arts of close-range warfare would have made the mess too one-sided.
Trevor Vaughan was still a temptation. But, after my visit this afternoon, he would now be well and truly buffered. So I decided to shift my interest to the one member of the group that I could currently tackle with impunity. Mostly because he was no longer around.
And I still couldn’t get a handle on the name. Boon Paterson?
It was virtually dark now, with a vague wash of blue-grey light high in the west, the sky clear, promising a cold night. I crawled slowly along the frontage of the few houses that comprised the hamlet. Low cottages with a terrace of ugly brick houses, and a corrugated-iron chapel surrounded by metal railings.
Boon Paterson’s house was the one I would have chosen. A freshly painted stone cottage with its first-floor windows hunkered down under low eaves. The soft light through the curtained windows promised the warmth of a proper fire, and an imagined smell of baking. All safe and well inside, with the cold and cheerless night shut out.
The woman who answered the door was wearing a faded yellow dressing gown and a frown.
‘Mrs Paterson?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied guardedly, pulling the dressing gown tighter around her.
I held out my warrant card. She leant forward to read it before I could introduce myself. ‘What is this about, Sergeant?’ She wasn’t local. English. Slow, flat vowels, a south or southwest accent.
‘Have I come to the right address for Boon Paterson?’
She blanched. ‘Yes. Is anything the matter?’ Her voice rose anxiously.
I smiled reassuringly. ‘No. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just trying to get in contact with him.’
She shook her head, watching me carefully, as if she was trying to work out whether I was about to spring something awful on her. ‘I’m his mother, Sally Paterson. He’s not here.’
‘I was aware of that.’
‘Well, why turn up here in that case?’ she snapped, visibly annoyed.
‘Does he have a mobile phone number?’ I asked quickly, before she could close the door in my face.
‘I’m letting all the heat out here.’
‘I could come inside?’ I suggested.
‘Is Boon in any kind of trouble?’
‘No, I just need his help on something I’m working on.’
She