had she disappeared to?
‘Sure you don’t want to have a look?’
I turned round. He was holding the phone up tauntingly, a big grin on his face. I had counted on him not being able to resist it.
I snatched the phone out of his hand.
A split second of jaw-dropped surprise, and then he wailed, ‘You bastard –’ Making a lunge for it.
I held him back with my forearm, the other hand holding the phone up out of his reach.
‘Give that back to me, you fucker!’ He was snarling now, pushing hard, trying to snatch at the phone in my hand. He was straining, twisted out of balance. I dipped the forearm I was using to restrain him, and used my elbow to chop him hard in the groin.
A huge gasp of air fused into a groan and he went slack. For a moment all he could do was stare at me reproachfully, mouth wide open like a betrayed carp.
He shook his head. ‘I should have known better than to trust a fucking cop.’
‘You didn’t trust me,’ I corrected him. ‘You tried using extortion. I gave you my word, and that’s all you need.’ I opened the door and backed out of the cab holding up the phone. ‘I’m impounding this on suspicion that it’s been used to take pornographic images.’
4
I christened her Magda. I was getting closer. Most likely East European. A student or a migrant worker, probably running in the wrong direction from an expired work permit.
Not a prostitute from Cardiff.
I had been vindicated. I had my own proof that the group had been lying. Now I had to face the scary edge of that triumph. What had really happened in the hut on Saturday night? Where was the girl now?
I spent the next two and a half hours back at the service station watching the CCTV footage in real time. I saw Tony Griffiths walk across the forecourt to buy the chocolate and water. He had been careful, he’d kept his truck out of surveillance range. But I didn’t see Magda. Not until the minibus.
I called Bryn Jones in Carmarthen.
‘Sir, I have uncorroborated evidence that the woman might have been an East European student.’
‘How uncorroborated?’
‘No one is going to speak up.’
‘Can you be any more specific than East European?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, sorry.’
‘Okay, we’ll spread the word informally. See if we have any reports of missing persons that match out there in migrant-worker land.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I sat in my car and put in enough calls about the other cases I was working on to log that I was still on the planet. Just. I even called the guy in Caernarfon about the Kawasaki quad bike. Now that Tony Griffiths had told me that Magda had been making for the ferry in Holyhead, I wanted to keep an excuse to visit North Wales active.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to recall the image of the group coming down the hill on that cold Sunday morning. The two brothers in front, the other three staggering behind them.
Who to brace?
I could probably forget the three with partners. The McGuire brothers and Les Tucker. They would now have backtracked with enough explanations and excuses to make them as virtuous as Mother Teresa. Paul Evans, the big one, would either be dumb or belligerent. I didn’t relish tackling either persona.
I called David Williams at The Fleece.
‘Trevor Vaughan, the hill farmer. How do I find him?’ I asked.
I wrote down the directions. As usual I marvelled at how complicated it was trying to find anywhere in the countryside.
‘Anything else you can give me on him?’
‘Quiet. Nice man. Inoffensive.’ He went silent.
‘Am I hearing hesitation?’
‘I don’t like spreading unsubstantiated rumours.’
‘Yes, you do – so give.’
‘There’s talk that he’s done this before. Visited prostitutes.’
‘Am I missing something in Dinas? Is there a local knocking shop?’
He laughed. ‘No, Sandra wouldn’t let me set it up. I’m not talking about Dinas; it’s trips away, to London or Cardiff, rugby games, agricultural shows, stuff like that.’
I thanked him and hung up. So the talk was that Trevor Vaughan wasn’t a virgin. So why did the rest of the group use him and Paul as an excuse for the presence of the girl? Probably to wrap themselves in sanctity, and preserve them from the wrath of their partners. Or was it their intention to test the truth of the rumours?
Some friends.
The road to Trevor Vaughan’s farm followed a small river, which had receded to an alder-lined brook by the time it arrived. The hills were steeper here, the land poorer; sessile oaks, birch, and hazel clumps in the tight dingles, monoculture green pasture on the slopes where the bracken had been defeated, and glimpses of the wilder heather topknot on the open hill above.
A rough, potholed drive led off the road past an empty bungalow and a large new lambing shed to the farmhouse. No dogs barked. An old timber-framed barn formed a courtyard with an unloved, two-storey, whitewashed stone house, raised above the yard. Its slate roof was covered with lichen, and the old-fashioned metal windows were in need of painting.
I’d been around these parts long enough to know not to let the air of neglect fool me. These people could probably have bought a small suburban street in Cardiff outright. They just didn’t waste it on front, or what they regarded as frippery. They saved it for the important things in life: livestock and land.
I parked in the courtyard and got out of the car. Still no dogs. Just the sound of cattle lowing in one of the outbuildings. A woman appeared from around the side of the house wiping her hands on an apron. Small-framed, short grey hair, spectacles, and an expression that didn’t qualify as welcoming.
‘We don’t see representatives without an appointment,’ she announced in a surprisingly firm voice.
‘I’m not a rep,’ I said, opening my warrant card. ‘I’m a policeman – Detective Sergeant Glyn Capaldi. Are you Mrs Vaughan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Trevor around?’
She scowled. ‘I thought we were finished with that business. Emrys Hughes told Trevor that it was over.’
I smiled. ‘I just need to ask a couple more questions.’
‘You’ll have to come back another time.’ She inclined her head at the
