about Jessie. A deep rich baritone voice with an educated South Wales accent. He talked with an easy familiarity. It was evident that he had known her well. I saw Cassie’s hand tighten on his coat sleeve. He wasn’t a funeral director, as I had first supposed. He had obviously been chosen to give her eulogy.
I sidled up to a uniform cop I vaguely recognized. He nodded at me warily. It was the effect I had on local cops.
‘Who’s he?’ I whispered, gesturing towards the speaker.
‘That’s Rhodri ap Hywel.’
Ursula’s husband. The owner of Plas Coch. Foundation benefactor. I slotted him into place. ‘What about the couple who were walking beside his wife?’
‘The Stevensons. They look after the place.’
‘How come there are so many big names here?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t really know. Probably friends of the ap Hywels’. They spend most of their time at their place in London. And from what I’ve heard, they get a lot of famous people staying at the Foundation.’
I nodded reflectively. I looked across at a woman who had been nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar in her last film. Her name escaped me. Was she one of the Foundation residents? Her dark Prada outfit was a far cry from a fucking jug of water on a picnic table.
I was aware that another cop had appeared beside the one I had been talking to. They started conversing with each other in funeral undertones. I scanned Jessie’s friends, looking for something in their faces that might trigger a signal, until I realized that I had just overheard a familiar name.
I nudged the guy beside me. ‘What was that you just said about Ryan Shaw?’
He looked at me, surprised. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Ryan Shaw’s dead.’
I felt myself freeze. I had been staring at Jessie’s wicker coffin when he said this. Talk about fucking transference!
I sneaked off into the gloomy middle of a rhododendron bush to call Huw Davies. From here I could just make out the teary and desolate voice of one of Jessie’s friends adding her contribution to the occasion from the direction of the chapel.
‘Why didn’t anyone fucking tell me, Huw?’ I had to keep my frustration quiet.
‘You’re on sick leave, Sarge. And Ryan Shaw was outside of your jurisdiction.’
‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know exactly, but it looks like one of his dope buying expeditions went tits up.’
‘Where was this?’
‘They found his car in Cheshire. They’re working on the assumption that he was on his way back from Manchester.’
‘Had he had an accident?’
‘The car was found on a track leading to a worked-out sandpit. It had been burnt out, with him inside.’
I did a quick mental exercise. Having met Ryan twice I could dismiss suicide. And guys in his business didn’t drive down deserted tracks in the hope of spotting a rare orchid or an elusive bittern. ‘Did the fire kill him?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Emrys Hughes. He’s been appointed the liaison officer to help out the Cheshire force with what we know this end.’
‘Let me know if you hear any more on that front.’
‘One thing …’ His voice went sombre.
‘What’s that?’
‘There’s talk that he’d been tortured.’
It’s hard to emerge from a rhododendron bush nonchalantly, but I did the best I could while still stunned and fogged with the revelation of Ryan Shaw’s messy end. Our unfinished business hung there like an abandoned bridge project. Now we were never going to reach the other side. Not without hiring a fucking medium.
It could just be coincidence.
He was in a risky profession. He was a cocky bastard. He may have tried to stiff the wrong guys. Shit, knowing the reputation of some of those bastards, he may even just have sneezed at the wrong time.
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