chair, determinedly looking Salter in the eye. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
Salter smiled back at her, his expression unrevealing. ‘That’s all I can ask of you, sis. All I can ask.’
‘Just about there,’ the DI said, pointing to an apparently unremarkable point on the hard shoulder. He gestured off towards the steady stream of traffic heading along the dual carriageway. ‘Cool bastard. It was well out in full view. Wouldn’t have been much traffic at that time of night, but even so…’ His tone sounded almost admiring.
‘You reckon a professional job?’ Brennan asked. It was a miserable day for early autumn. Not raining yet, but leaden skies low over the horizon. Pity any poor bugger who’d just arrived here on holiday. They were standing in a gateway to a field beyond the road. A bleak landscape. Flat grassland, windblown hedges. The tang of the grey sea in the air.
Sheep were munching unheedingly behind them, and Brennan was growing conscious of the layer of mud caking his expensive shoes. Should have changed into an old pair before setting off, but he hadn’t reckoned on getting brought on a field trip quite so quickly. Clearly, they were keen for him to see what he wanted and get out of their hair as speedily as possible.
‘Not much doubt,’ the DI said. ‘All very efficient. Clean as a whistle. Nothing much for forensics.’ Not a Welshman, Brennan thought. Maybe a hint of Scouser there. Come over the border to do missionary work.
‘What about the victims?’ Brennan had read the files and, in his usual way, had memorised most of the salient points. But it was always useful to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Sometimes you heard stuff that they didn’t want to write down. ‘Known?’
‘One of them. Mo Tallent. Small time freelance: runs errands for anyone with a bob or two. The pride of Rhyl. No Talent, we called him.’
‘Very droll.’ Brennan moved to stand next to the DI, who was staring at the grass before him as if the two bodies were still lying there. ‘What about the other?’
‘No record. But one of the immigration officers at the port remembered him driving a car with Tallent in the passenger seat. False passports, so the names don’t tally. False plates on the car, but a match with Tallent’s passport and with the car type and colour if anyone did a cursory check.’
Brennan nodded. ‘So they were on business.’
‘Seems like it. Someone else’s business. Tallent wasn’t connected enough to set up those kind of arrangements on his own.’
‘But we’ve an idea what the business was?’ Brannan straightened up and looked at the DI. Like getting blood from a sodding pebble, he thought, even though we both know I’ve read the bloody file.
The DI nodded. ‘Four of them in the car, according to the border records. Tallent. Mr X. And two women. Working girls, we’re assuming. Probably illegals, being taken to a nice new home in the big city – Liverpool or Manchester. That’s where Tallent did most of his bigger business.’
Brennan turned and surveyed the flat, unenticing landscape. There was some fine country in North Wales. This wasn’t it. ‘What about Tallent’s associates?’
The DI shrugged. ‘We’re pursuing that, of course. But everyone’s clammed up, as you’d expect.’
‘And the women?’ Brennan had already begun to walk back towards the road and their parked car. He couldn’t imagine that he was likely to learn much more from being out here. Other than never to wear his best shoes to work.
‘Nothing. We presume they were taken.’
‘Jesus.’ Brennan paused, his eyes fixed on the passing traffic. ‘Pieces of meat.’
‘Pretty much.’ The DI caught up with him, sounding slightly out of breath. ‘I imagine they’ve probably ended up in your neck of the woods.’ He made the words sound slightly accusatory, as if Brennan had been casting aspersions on local morality.
‘I dare say,’ Brennan agreed. ‘So what do we think this was, then? Turf war?’
‘Something like that. But if so, it’s a bloody serious one. This isn’t just some local hoodlums giving the opposition a warning. This is two very bloody corpses. Expertly dispatched.’ The DI paused, fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. ‘But then I imagine that’s why you’re here.’
Brennan nodded, strolling back along the hard shoulder to where the DI’s car was parked. Just a few yards from the spot where the victims’ car had been parked. ‘Well, I assume that’s why I’m here,’ he said, smiling now. ‘But frankly, at the moment, your guess is almost as good as mine.’
‘Shit. Shit!’
She could hear the voice from the rear of the house, and for a moment she was tempted to turn around, step silently back outside, and head for the pub. There was nothing wrong here that a good evening’s drinking couldn’t cure. Except, of course, that there was. She’d tried drinking it away once or twice. It brought a temporary respite, but everything was still there the next morning. And you had to face it with a hangover.
She closed the front door noisily, making sure she’d unmistakably announced her entrance. ‘Liam?’
‘In the back.’ The fury of his previous utterance had drained away. There was another tone in his voice now. Something not too far removed from despair. Christ, she thought. Another fun-filled night in the Donovan household. Almost immediately she regretted the thought. This wasn’t about her. Whatever this was like for her, it was a thousand times worse for Liam. Of course, she knew that. And of course it didn’t help in the slightest.
She trudged her way slowly through the house and stood in the doorway of the former dining room that Liam had adopted as a studio. He was sitting slumped in his wheelchair in front of his easel. There was paint smeared across the canvas in a way that looked anything but artistic, unless Liam was attempting a radical shift in his painting style.
‘I can’t do it,’ he said.
She didn’t know how to respond. She could offer platitudes, try to tell him it wasn’t true. But they both knew that it was true, at least up to a point. She was no judge of art, though she liked Liam’s paintings. But even she could see that he’d lost something – a sureness of touch that characterised his best work. It wasn’t that his recent work was bad. At least, Marie didn’t think so. She could tell that the same vision was there, the same sense of imagery and perspective. But she recognised that he could no longer render his ideas with his old precision.
She’d tried to reassure him that it didn’t matter. It would just mark a change in style. After all, weren’t there theories that some of the old masters had developed their unique techniques as a result of various medical conditions – poor eyesight, colour-blindness, that sort of thing? Perhaps Liam could work within the confines of his condition to create something new.
It was bullshit, of course, and Liam’s response had been so scathing that she’d never tried the same argument again. But that left her with not much else to say. Even so, Liam stared back over his shoulder at her, challenging her to disagree.
‘What
