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‘Distraught, sir.’
‘You’re a sly bastard, Capaldi.’ I heard the contained laugh under his voice.
‘Is that a yes, sir?’
‘You know it’s not a yes. But I’m not in control of your actions until I get a chance to confer with DCS Galbraith on how we should instruct you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I disconnected quickly before he could remember his beef with the Army and rein me back in.
Trevor Vaughan was my obvious choice. But going to his farm would be pointless; it would just end up as a stand-off between me, him, and whoever had been appointed as minder for that day.
Even in the sad dead grip of winter an amateur like me, who was still trying out for his country-boy badge, could tell that Rhos-goch was a prosperous farm. The hedges were tidy and the drive was smooth, lined with beech trees that someone had had the unselfish foresight to plant a few generations ago.
Ken McGuire’s grey Discovery was parked in front of the house along with a red Audi A3 and a low-slung, black, two-door BMW 3 Series. All swanky machinery for these latitudes.
The house was a big architectural hybrid; a Victorian copy of a Georgian façade in stone, with a two-storey yellow-brick side extension. It was all in good shape and, I was glad to see, the dogs were kept locked up.
The woman who answered the door disappointed me though. She didn’t go with the house or the cars on the drive. A myopic woman in an apron, who peered at me as if she had forgotten that opening front doors sometimes revealed people standing there.
‘Is Mr McGuire in?’
‘No, he’s out in the cattle shed, checking the bedding.’
‘Can I wait for him?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Birdie … ?’
The woman at the door cocked her head at the sound of the voice down the corridor.
‘Who is it?’ the voice asked, coming into view. She was in her mid-twenties, loosely styled brown hair, outdoor cheeks, a slight build, and the natural confidence of a woman who had learned to master horses and brothers at an early age.
‘Detective Sergeant Capaldi.’ I held up my warrant card. ‘Mrs McGuire?’
She nodded, an all-purpose smile masking her scrutiny and curiosity. Taking just a little bit longer over it than she needed, to fit me into place. ‘It’s all right, Birdie, I’ll take care of the sergeant. I’m Sheila McGuire. Please, come in.’ She used the act of opening the door wider as an excuse not to shake my hand. ‘Ken isn’t around at the moment. Assuming that it’s him you’re here to see?’
‘Would you mind me waiting?’
‘Not at all. We’re in the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle back on.’
I followed her. She was wearing a baggy sweater, and swung a good bum in a pair of tight-fitting, navy blue riding breeches that were stained at the contact points with something that I assumed was equestrian.
When I walked into the big kitchen, the other woman sitting at the long refectory table, with a cigarette and a mug of coffee, made no pretence of welcoming me into the tent. She looked at me as if I was something that had turned up on her plate that she hadn’t ordered.
‘This is Zoë McGuire, my sister-in-law.’ Sheila introduced us. Zoë raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, and then deigned to incline her head at me, still watching, as if she had been tipped off that I was about to do something really stupid.
So, this was Gordon’s wife. The younger brother, the auctioneer. I marked her down for the black BMW. I was in the presence of both the McGuire ladies and had not prepared myself for the eventuality.
Zoë was wearing make-up and showing cleavage. Both were artfully presented. Her hair was blonde and cut short, gamine style, setting off the sculptural forms of the long neck, chin and cheekbones. She had played it wild with the make-up around her eyes, making them hard to read.
‘I hope that you’re here to arrest the bastards,’ Zoë declaimed. I thought that the accent might be Shropshire or Cheshire.
Sheila laughed.
‘What reason would I have to arrest them?’
‘They’ve reneged on the deal, the cheapskates.’
‘Zoë …’ Sheila protested amiably.
‘What deal would that be?’ I asked, playing it slightly dumb and nervous in the presence of glory.
‘You tell him,’ Zoë instructed Sheila. ‘You’re pissed off about it too.’
Sheila smiled, apologizing for her sister-in-law. ‘Our husbands have cried off taking us to the rugby in Dublin.’
‘It’s a bloody institution, the Dublin trip,’ Zoë wailed.
‘They’re not going?’
‘Oh, they’re going all right, they just don’t want the WAGs with them this time. Selfish buggers,’ Zoë snarled.
‘Ah.’ I grinned, pretending that I had only just seen the light. ‘I thought you meant arrest them for what happened on Saturday night.’ I segued into a big, dopey cop smile, and waited for the reactions.
Sheila had the grace to look uncomfortable. Zoë just shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Bloody schoolboys,’ she hissed.
‘It was a silly stunt that went wrong, Sergeant, and now the episode is closed,’ Sheila said firmly.
‘And they learnt a lesson,’ Zoë added.
‘What lesson was that, Mrs McGuire?’
‘Getting ripped off by that dirty bitch, and spending a freezing night out in the forest. And then having to pay for the repairs to that minibus.’
‘Zoë, Sergeant Capaldi isn’t here to talk about Saturday night,’ Sheila said, and from the look she gave me, I realized that I was meant to recognize that as an instruction.
‘What are you here for?’ Zoë asked.
‘Do you know Boon Paterson?’
‘Of course,’ Zoë answered.
Sheila just nodded, but I thought that I picked up a small surge in the current of her concentration.
‘He didn’t turn up for his flight back to his unit in Cyprus.’
‘Has there been an accident?’ Sheila asked, and this time it was Zoë’s attention that seemed to be nailed.
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
The back door opened and Ken McGuire walked through in socks and a pair of faded blue overalls, a light dusting of chopped straw in his hair and on his shoulders. The air of slightly preoccupied contentment that he had carried from the cattle shed was wiped into a big, puzzled, angry frown as soon as he saw me. This time he wasn’t faking the surprise.
‘You …’ he spluttered angrily. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘He’s here about Boon, Ken,’ Sheila explained, cutting in over the erupting tirade.
‘Boon?’ It took a moment for it to register; he was still so affronted at the sight of me in his kitchen. ‘What’s Boon got to do with anything?’
I explained, taking it as far as I had got with Sheila and Zoë. He looked thoughtful as he listened.
‘Did he mention anything on Saturday night that might have made you think that he didn’t want to go back to his unit in Cyprus?’ I asked. ‘Did any conversation or discussion like that come up while he was home on leave?’
Ken shook his head. ‘Not in front of me. None of the others mentioned it either. If he had said anything, it’s something we would have talked about, believe me.’
‘He was drunk, wasn’t he?’
Ken frowned and looked at me sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’
I smiled pleasantly. ‘I would have thought that it might have loosened him up. If it was on his mind, that’s when he would talk about it.’
He relaxed. ‘I take your point. And I suppose we all had a pretty good skinful that night.’ He smiled mock-ruefully at the ladies, and then shook his head. ‘But the subject didn’t come up. Only the inevitable fact that his leave was over.’
I nodded understandingly. ‘How did he get home?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You dropped him off in Dinas. It was late, it was cold, and, you said it yourself, he was very drunk. So how did he get home?’
‘You didn’t abandon poor old Boon, did you,’ Zoë protested, ‘in your rush to get that dirty bitch up into the hills?’
‘Zoë!’ Sheila hushed.
Ken smiled to include me in the conspiracy that we shouldn’t take his sister-in-law too seriously. ‘We dropped him at his house. He asked us to. He was supposed to be travelling in the morning.’
I stared him out for a moment, giving him the opportunity to retract. ‘DCI Jones told me that you said in your statement that Boon Paterson asked to be dropped off in Dinas.’
He shook his head. ‘No, sorry, he’s got it wrong. He must have misheard us. Boon asked to be dropped off at home. Your Inspector Jones must have heard us saying that we drove through Dinas on the way out to Boon’s.’
‘He was okay with that?’
‘Who was okay with what?’ Ken asked, puzzled by the question.
‘The pimp who was doing the driving. He didn’t mind running a taxi service?’ I asked, deadpan.
His eyes drilled into me, trying to find what level of belief I was working on. ‘He didn’t have a choice. We were the paymasters.’ He flicked a glance of apology at the ladies.
‘Why did Boon want to be dropped off?’
‘I told you. His leave was over. He was travelling the next day.’
‘But not flying out until the evening. This was his last night, I would have thought that he’d have wanted to stay on with his friends for as long as possible. Continue the party.’
‘We tried to persuade him.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him why he wanted to be dropped off early, Sergeant.’
‘It wasn’t a case of imposing apartheid?’
Ken’s lower jaw dropped as if he had been sucker-punched. I heard the women’s gasps of indignation, but I didn’t turn, I was locked on him. Letting him see that in my belief system he was full of bullshit.
‘I want you to explain exactly what you mean by that,’ he said slowly and coldly.
‘You told Boon to get off the minibus because you didn’t want him playing with a white girl.’
‘Sergeant, that is totally unfair!’ Sheila protested behind me.
Ken went rigid, his fists balled, and his eyes screwed tightly shut, and I realized that I had made a bad misjudgement. This man was seriously outraged. I had seen it before, fury on the way to manifestation, and I prepared myself for an onslaught. But the moment passed. He opened his mouth; there was a slight gurgle before he spoke. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. I want you out of my house now. And I am going to report you for making that disgraceful accusation.’
I smiled at him, and shrugged just flippantly enough so that he couldn’t take it for an apology. Okay, I may have been wrong with the racist slant, but, in my book, the guy was still a liar. ‘Mrs McGuire?’ I turned to Zoë, pulling out my mobile phone. ‘What’s your husband’s work number?’
She gave me a puzzled scowl, but called out the number. I watched Ken as I tapped the digits in. He tensed when he realized my intention. I nodded slightly, the gesture just for him, thanking him for sharing his discomfort with me.
Sheila had seen it. ‘What do you want to talk to Gordon about?’ she asked, questioning Ken with her eyes.
‘I assume that he wants him to verify something,’ Ken told her.
I smiled happily at them both as my call was answered. ‘Good morning, Payne, Dyke and Thomas.’ The receptionist’s voice was chirpy.
‘Gordon McGuire, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Detective Sergeant Capaldi.’
‘Please hold, I’ll see if he’s available.’
Ken smiled at me. It was the wrong sort of smile. Suddenly he wasn’t nervous any more. I wheeled round. Zoë was holding her mobile phone.
Texting is silent.
‘Sergeant Capaldi?’ the receptionist came back on the line. ‘I’m afraid that Mr McGuire is in a meeting, but if you would like to leave a number he’ll call you back.’
‘Thank you very much, I’ll try again later.’ I cut the connection.
‘If there is some misunderstanding with our statement, Sergeant, I’ll get the others together and we can get in touch with Inspector Jones to rectify it,’ Ken offered helpfully, not a trace of malice or recrimination in the bastard’s understanding expression.
Zoë hunched her shoulder at me in lazy apology. For being part of a conspiracy? Or for just providing unconditional protection?
The bastards were playing a game with me. Ken McGuire had changed their story on the spur of the moment. Because he could. He had that power. He just had to call round the group with the amended version. The revised consensus became the new truth.
