She cocked her head to look at me. ‘Capaldi? I think I’ve heard your name mentioned, but I haven’t seen you before, have I?’
‘Probably not. I haven’t been here long. I used to be in Cardiff. I’m here on a secondment.’
‘You must have done something very bad to deserve that,’ she said, deadpan.
I smiled wanly. She hadn’t realized how close to the mark she was.
‘And young ladies don’t go missing in these parts, Sergeant.’
‘I’ve already had something along those lines explained to me.’
She laughed, it softened her features. ‘Well, a word of advice: don’t believe everything that the sanctimonious buggers tell you.’
‘Can you elaborate on that?’ I asked, trying to keep a lid on the flash of interest that she had just sparked.
She shook her head, shrugging it off, moving on to look at me quizzically. She had an intelligent set to her face, but there was a carelessness about the way she projected herself. Without too much effort she could have shifted to attractive. This evening’s projection, however, was tiredness. ‘Do the McGuires know that you’re asking me these questions?’
‘Your son’s friends?’
She nodded.
I decided on honesty. ‘I think they thought Boon’s absence kept him safe from me.’
She laughed. I sensed that it was private amusement.
‘Did Boon mention anything to you about Saturday night?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’
It was my turn to show surprise.
‘I’m a care assistant at the Sychnant Nursing Home. I’m working nights at the moment.’ She touched the collar of her dressing gown, explaining it. ‘Boon must have left in the small hours on Sunday morning. He had packed up and gone by the time I got home.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know why he left so early, he wasn’t due to catch his flight until very late last night.’
‘He’s posted abroad?’
‘Cyprus. He’s with the Signals Regiment.’
‘Where was he flying from?’
‘Brize Norton, Oxfordshire. It’s not really that far.’
‘Perhaps he had other people to say goodbye to?’
She pulled a face. It made her look older and even more tired. ‘More like he couldn’t stand spending any more time with his mother.’ She tried it out as a joke, but a tiny crease of pain blistered the surface.
Her emotion was palpable. I smiled sympathetically. She started to respond, and then remembered that I was a cop, that I was trained to entice people into the confessional. She shook her head, pulling herself out of it. ‘Testosterone. It turns young men into monsters.’
She moved forward and reached out to the mantelpiece behind me. For an irrational instant I felt myself thrill at the possibility of physical contact. ‘Here,’ she said, stepping back, handing me a framed photograph, ‘that’s Boon.’ I hid my disappointment as she retracted.
But I couldn’t conceal my surprise.
‘You didn’t know?’ she asked, amusement showing in her eyes.
I shook my head. Boon Paterson was a handsome, sturdy, not too tall, young black man. He was standing in khaki fatigues besides a camouflaged Land Rover, a wide smile on his face, and a radio with a long whip antenna strapped to his back.
‘His father?’ I asked, hoping that it didn’t sound too crass.
‘His father’s a shit,’ she said vehemently. But she had understood the question. ‘Boon’s adopted,’ she explained in a softer voice. ‘His birth mother was sixteen years old, and no one was volunteering as the father. She gave him his name. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? You call your child Boon, and then decide that you can’t cope with the reality of it.’ She was pensive for a moment. ‘My husband left me,’ she said, explaining the outburst.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘So was I.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Now I have to spend my nights at the Sychnant Nursing Home.’
I looked down at the photograph again. Trying to understand what it must have been like. To be black and grow up in a place like this.
She read my mind and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, that’s it, time’s up. I’m running behind now. I’ve still got to shower, and I’ve got stuff to prepare to sustain me through another long night.’
She shook hands under the front porch. Her parting smile was warmer. I walked to the car thinking about her. We shared the same polarity. We were both outsiders, both damaged goods. By the laws of magnetism I should have been repelled. I wasn’t.
As soon as I was clear of the house, I tried calling Boon on the mobile phone number that Sally Paterson had given me.
I got an unable-to-connect message. No answering service. I tried again, with the same result. He could still have been in transit. On a plane with his phone switched off. Or, if he had returned, he could be catching up on sleep, or already on duty.
To try to go through official channels would require clearances that no one was going to give me.
On the drive home I rotated through the other information that she had supplied. Wondering what she had meant when she told me not to believe what I had heard about young women not going missing in these parts? Was Boon being black just a surprising fact? Did it have any relevance to Magda?
Why had they dropped him off in Dinas? His mother had been surprised that he had left so early. She had been hurt that he hadn’t seen fit to say goodbye to her. Even if he had been part of that group that had lurched down off the hill on Sunday morning, he would still have had plenty of time to report in at Brize Norton.
I started to develop a scenario. I put Boon back on the minibus. They have now picked up Magda, and have dumped the driver. Sod the pimp story, one of the group is driving. But that’s immaterial. They are heading towards the hills to continue the party.
With an attractive white girl on board.
And one black guy.
What if Magda was turned on by Boon? She wouldn’t know the social pecking order here. Her first impressions are of a busload of rednecks and an attractive young black kid. Where’s the choice? So is this what gets Boon booted off the bus in Dinas? And, more importantly, what does it do to the group’s perception of Magda? Does it change the dynamic? Angel to slut?
The telephone woke me in the early morning.
‘It’s Sally Paterson …’ A woman’s voice trying to contain urgency.
‘Sorry … ?’ I said groggily.
‘Boon’s
