We cordoned off the minibus with incident tape, and set up the command post there. With all that country to cover it was as good a place as any.
We had a mountain-rescue team on its way down from Snowdonia, volunteers from Forestry Services, and police teams with dogs already working their way into the forest. Inspector Morgan, Emrys’s boss, had turned up and was now running the uniform end of things. Apart from some filthy stares, he kept away from me, and left me in charge of the communications with the helicopter. Which was ominous. Had me wondering whether perhaps there wasn’t an emergency budgetary allocation after all.
My mobile rang. A number I knew only too well.
‘Capaldi …’ the voice boomed.
My stomach clenched. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’re on our way.’
The wind had dropped, the rain had thinned to a fine suspension. It wasn’t quite the Ice Queen blizzard that I had invoked. ‘I don’t think there’s any need, sir. There’s nothing to do but wait, you’ll just get cold and wet up here.’
Jack Galbraith chuckled darkly. ‘Don’t think you can call up a fucking circus, Capaldi, and not invite the chief paymasters. I’m bringing DCI Jones up with me. If my Sunday’s fucked I may as well spread the misery.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied snappily. Bryn Jones was one of the few cops in Carmarthen who hadn’t treated me like an AIDS carrier when I had limped in damaged from Cardiff.
‘Give me the background,’ Galbraith instructed.
I laid it out for him. Emrys Hughes couldn’t expect low profile now, so I nudged up the spin of the hijacking to six booze-fuelled guys and an unknown but vulnerable woman. Seven people missing in the hills. I played down the discovery of the neatly presented minibus. That didn’t fit in so well with the dark-tale storyboard.
He was silent for a moment, and then I could just make out indistinct conversation at the other end of the line.
‘You’re wrong.’ He came back on the line.
‘Sir?’
‘We think you’re wrong. This group isn’t the sort to be involved in anything truly sinister. You’ve been watching too much redneck massacre shit.’
‘It’s the woman that I’m concerned about, sir.’
‘The men don’t fit the gang-rape mould.’
‘What do you think I should have done, sir?’
‘Waited.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, you’re breaking-up …’ I cut the connection.
That was an unofficial rebuke. Was it going to end up turning official? Had I overreacted? I thought hard about it. No. Even Emrys Hughes had been spooked when he realized that none of those good people of his had made it home. But where had they made it to?
The helicopter’s call sign squawked over the radio. ‘DS Capaldi – we think we might have a sighting for you.’
‘Think?’
‘You’re looking for seven people?’
‘Check.’
‘We’ve only got five here.’
‘What about stragglers?’
‘I’ve circled. There’s only five.’
‘Is one of them a woman?’
‘Sexometers aren’t standard operating equipment.’ I could hear the laugh in his voice. ‘And from this high up I can’t distinguish tits.’
Two of the party apparently missing, and this funster thinks it’s a joke. I was tempted to tell him to check his mirror if he wanted to be able to distinguish a real tit.
2
I got to the location first. I needed to stay ahead before Morgan could pull rank and swamp me. I had to cheat to make sure of it. Knowing my luck with the weirdness of forestry tracks, I got the helicopter pilot to call the turns and guide me in.
I stopped the car as soon as I saw them.
Five men. Even from this distance I couldn’t mistake them. I felt the bad tickle in my kidneys again. Somewhere in the night we had lost the woman. One of the men, too, by the look of it.
I let them come to me. I wanted time to observe them. They were making their way down an incline on a forest track between new-growth fir trees. All were dishevelled. Some of the faces seemed vaguely familiar. The two at the front, similar in height, had the look of brothers. The older-looking of the two had his mouth set in stock chagrin, the other one was experimenting with damping down his smirk, trying to tamp some regret in.
They both met my stare. I had the impression that they had been practising.
The three following behind were having a harder time of it. The one in the middle, an enormous guy, had his shaved head drooped, and his arms draped around the shoulders of his two companions, who were bracing themselves to keep in step with his lurching pace.
The big shaven-headed guy was wasted. The other two were using the effort of supporting him as an excuse to look anywhere but my way.
I heard vehicles pulling up behind me, car doors opening. I didn’t turn round. My car was blocking the track so no one could get past. I concentrated, trying to read an explanation. The only consolation so far was that there was no spilled blood in evidence.
‘Where have you been, Ken?’
I was suddenly aware of Emrys Hughes standing beside me.
Ken – Mr Chagrin, the older of the two who looked like brothers – shook his head and pulled his mouth into a tight grimace of shamed apology. ‘We’re really sorry to have put everyone through this, Emrys.’
‘What happened to you?’ Hughes asked entreatingly.
‘We spent the night in Gordon’s shooting hut. Up by the old dam.’ He pulled a wry, regretful smile. ‘We were abandoned.’
‘Where are the rest of you?’ I pitched in.
‘Sergeant –’ Emrys and I both turned instinctively. Inspector Morgan glowered at us. ‘This is not an open inquisition. I want these men to have medical attention as a priority. And then they’ll be taken down to Dinas and given hot food and dry clothes before we even think about asking questions.’
‘We need to know about the others, sir,’ I protested. ‘There could still be lost or injured people up here.’
‘It’s just us, Inspector. There’s no one else, and no one’s hurt,’ Ken said penitently, then gestured back towards the big slumped guy, ‘Paul just over-indulged a bit.’
‘What about the woman who was with you?’ I demanded.
He smiled apologetically. ‘I expect she’s back in Cardiff by now.’
‘Where’s Boon?’ Emrys asked, before I could ask Ken for clarification.
‘Sergeant Hughes, Sergeant Capaldi, that will do!’ Morgan shouted angrily.
We stood back to let the five men shuffle past us like a file of train-wreck victims, paramedics coming up to meet them. The conscious ones gave Emrys Hughes a shamefaced smile as they passed. No one looked at me.
‘When do I get to talk to them, sir?’ I asked Morgan.
‘You don’t, Sergeant Capaldi.’
‘Sir?’
‘DCS Galbraith’ – I could tell that it hurt him to say the name without spitting – ‘is diverting directly to Dinas. He will interview them himself.