DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  The decision to transfer to another force area had been hard but necessary. A fresh start. A slower pace of life. A balm to her shattered psyche. Her fifty-year-old DS,

  with his endearing Welsh lilt, had welcomed her warmly and she felt oddly at home.

  There was a lot to get used to: dual language paperwork; dual language road signs; complicated budgets from the The Senedd and Whitehall. Overall, though, the experience had been a positive one and Yvonne was feeling more herself than she had in a while.

  “What's going on?” Yvonne strode into the main office, in response to the rapidly increasing noise level. “Fill me in," she ordered, putting her coffee to one side.

  “There's a body, ma'am, down at St. David's church.” The young DC Clayton glanced at his notes. “It's a bit of a mess by all accounts. DCI Llewelyn asked that you get down there, ASAP.”

  The DI stiffened. “Foul play?”

  “Look's like it.”

  “I'm on it. Dewi?”

  “Coming, ma'am.”

  The church was only a ten minute drive. Five minutes with lights and sirens. SOCO officers were already cordoning off the area and erecting a small marquee. They handed Yvonne a paper suit and plastic overshoes and she crouched to look at the body.

  The victim was fully clothed, but his jacket and shirt had been slashed open, baring his torso. His chest and abdomen had been roughly carved with what looked like words. These were indecipherable due to a mass of congealed blood. A cross could just be made out at the end of the script. His face was contorted, the eyes and mouth wide open.

  A WPC, standing behind the DI, shook her head. “Made a mess of him, didn't he, ma'am?”

  “I'm sorry, I don't know your name.” Yvonne stood to full height again, her gaze pensive, lips pursed.

  “Watkins, ma'am. Marie Watkins.”

  “Yes, he did, Marie,” she sighed. “Yes, he did.”

  “They found a priest's collar at the back door, ma'am, and this piece of paper clasped in the dead man's hand.” Dewi passed her a plastic evidence bag. “The only other thing found was a plank of wood. SOCO have that already.”

  Yvonne examined the bloodied piece of paper, through the evidence bag. It had been torn from a book and was yellowed with age. The wording was religious, as was the marking on the corpse. The DI took a photo with her mobile.

  3

  He fastened his white breeches, snapping the braces into place on his shoulders. They hugged his shape. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror, before pulling on his plastron: 800 newtons of top notch, underarm protection. He intended to press his

  opponent hard. The metal-covered jacket, and his leather glove, finished the ensemble. Time to go.

  He grabbed his mask and foil and strode out into the hall, where his adversary leaned against the wall, looking bored.

  They linked up to their respective boxes, pulling the metal wires and clipping them into their jackets. Extending arms, they touched their foil ends, to see the red and green bulbs flash. His light was red. He preferred red. Foil blades to noses in salute, masks on heads, and the bout was on.

  They streaked back and forth on their improvised piste, fast and furious, fighting for dominance. They were well-matched. Thrust, parry, riposte. Their footwear squeaked on the polished, wooden floor, as perspiration further increased the humidity.

  'Beep', the green light flashed. He whipped his weapon through the air, gritting his teeth as they returned to their start positions. Straight away, he threatened, arm extended, avoiding the parry by lunging underneath. He was deeply satisfied when he saw the red bulb flash.

  The bout took longer than usual, but the final point gave him the most satisfaction: his blade bent almost double into the padded chest of the other. Each stepped back, removing their masks, hair wet and curled with the sweat of the match. Eyes locked, they saluted again and bowed.

  Quick as a flash, his foil thrust towards his opponent's head, the rubber tip landing right between the eyes of his rival, who gasped at the unexpected gesture. The aggressor cocked his head to one side, examining the way the point of his foil depressed the other man's skin with concentric ripples. Then, stepping back thoroughly relaxed, he brought the foil back down to his side. “Just testing.”

  His opponent's shock was replaced with a smile which did not reach his eyes.

  4

  Yvonne stood on the threshold of a modest cottage, taking in the neat flower beds, tidy lawn, and the views over Newtown. Nestled in the valley of the River Severn, this was where the Reverend David Evans had chosen to spend his last years. She paused, before rapping the knocker twice.

  The door was opened by a silver-haired lady in her mid-to-late fifties. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hand held an empty mug.

  “Hello...Mrs Evans? DI Yvonne Giles, Dyfed-Powys police.” Yvonne's eyes

  were genuinely earnest. They lingered on the wooden masks adorning the walls, as she was led through the hallway into the lounge.

  “I'm not Mrs Evans,” the other finally said. “The reverend was widowed ten years ago. I'm Sandra, the cleaner. I come here twice a week, most weeks. I'm waiting for his daughter to arrive. She's coming here from Devon.”

  “I see, I'm sorry, I mistook...”

  “It's okay.”

  “And I'm sorry for your loss.”

  Sandra nodded.

  “A team will be here shortly to go through the house. I apologise for the disruption this will cause, but we need to move quickly if we are going to find his killer.”

  Sandra let out a sob.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Two days ago. That would have been Tuesday morning.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Same as always. He was his usual cheery self.”

  “Do you know why he was up at the church? I understand the church hasn't been in use for some years.”

  Sandra shook her head. “I don't know, officer. I know he missed his old life - missed the congregation.”

  “How did he spend his time?”

  “He travelled a lot. In fact, he's...I mean he'd...only recently returned from Africa.”

  “Africa?”

  “Yes, he said he'd visited missionary outposts there. Now I think about it, he seemed distracted, when I saw him on Tuesday.”

  “Any idea what might have been distracting him?”

  “No. He had Alzheimer's. He'd had it a while before it was diagnosed last year. He had lucid times, and times when he thought he was still preaching. His daughter will probably tell you more.”

  Yvonne made a note to discover more about the African trip and the extent of his Alzheimer's. “One of my officers will be over later to talk to his daughter," she said softly. “I expect she'll be devastated.”

  Sandra sighed, and Yvonne sensed it was time to leave. “Please don't move his belongings, Sandra. And I think it best you don't clean for the time being.”

  Sandra murmured in agreement as saw the detective out.

  She straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and gave the door two firm raps.

  “Come in." Forty-two-year old DCI Christopher Llewelyn was standing with his back to the door, gazing out of his office window. Hands behind his back, he turned towards her, his movement unhurried. “Yvonne.” He nodded the clipped greeting.

  “I just got back, sir.”

  He ran a hand through his coal-black hair, soft grey developing at the temples. The cleft in his chin appeared more prominent than usual as it was highlighted by the sun. Curious green eyes searched her face. “Was it bad?”

  “Quite bad, sir. The locals are in shock.”

  “Robbery?”

  “I don't believe so. The reverend's wallet was still in his jacket pocket.”

  “Motive?”

  “None yet...we're still awaiting postmortem results." Yvonne cleared her throat, feeling the blood surface in her cheeks, as the DCI stared silently at her for several seconds.

  “How are you settl
ing in?” he asked.

  Surprised at the change of subject, she shifted from one foot to the other. “So far, so good. I've been made very welcome and everything seems to be falling into place.”

  “Good. I'll make sure you have the assistance you need on this investigation. Come and talk if you need to and, obviously, I want you to keep me informed every step of the way.” He smiled warmly. “It's good to have you on board.”

  5

  The smell of cleaning and sterilisation fluids was familiar, even if this particular mortuary room was not. The pathologist, Roger Hanson, was already at work as she

  arrived. The body had been cleaned.

  “DI Giles?” He peered over the top of his glasses.

  “That's me, I'm sorry, I aimed to get here earlier.” She hurried to his side.

  “No matter, I haven't long been here myself.”

  Her attention turned to the dead man on the table. She drew in her breath. The reverend's face was a contorted testament to the horror he had felt at the moment of death, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth wide open. The mutilations on his chest and abdomen, now free of blood, gave a clear message from the killer.

  Below the rough cross gouged in his chest were two words, their carving rough, but readable.

  “Memento Mori...” Yvonne said, leaning in close.

  “My Latin is rusty, these days, but this one's easy - remember death, or remember you will die. The wounds are not deep, and they are clearly only there for the benefit of anyone viewing the body.”

  “And I hoped I'd seen the last of murderous attention seekers,” she sighed. “How did he die?”

  “Severe blunt trauma to the head.” Hanson pointed to the obvious injury. “It's no mystery as regards the weapon: a bloodstained, oak plank was found next to the body, in the churchyard. He was hit with the side of it. There's an indentation which fits exactly. One blow, which cracked the skull and, I suspect, caused massive brain hemorrhage. I'll confirm once I open it up.”

  “How long did the killer spend with the body, in your estimation?”

  “Ooooh, probably not that long. It would have taken no more than a few minutes to create these mutilations. They're pretty rough.”

  “Thank you, Roger.” Yvonne shuddered. Gazing down at the victim, she wondered if his disease might have protected him from the worst of it. His frozen death mask suggested not.

  Later that evening, Yvonne sat with a glass of white and a headache. She rubbed her eyes, read through her notes from the day, and examined the crime scene photographs. It wasn't long until her shattered body gave in to sleep.

  6

  He barely had time to notice the powdered stone dislodged from the oldchurch wall before the second bullet entered the left side of his chin, fracturing his jaw and exiting to the back-right-hand-side of his neck.

  Knees buckling beneath him, he looked in the direction of the shooter before collapsing - like a building in a controlled explosion - to the ground.

  He could hear someone running towards him, and felt the kicked-up dust in his mouth. He tried calling out, but managed only a desperate gurgling.

  The sun was high, searing, blinding. With each spasm the pain diminished. He could only just make out the dark shape moving in close, slashing at his clothing and chest. Finally, the all-enveloping light came. It welcomed him home to his God and to peace.

  The killer breathed hard and deep, wiping his weapon on the reverend's torn clothing, before ripping the blood-stained collar from his victim's lifeless neck. He placed it in a plastic zip-lock bag. He paused, observing the blood becoming invisible on the black cloth, then set about arranging the body.

  Taking two plastic bags from his pocket, he extracted from one a previously bloodied collar which he placed at the foot of the church door. He took more props from yet another bag and left them in various places on the dead man.

  A quick check around, and he left the walled churchyard, striding to his waiting truck. He placed the rifle in his leather holdall along with the blade.

  Yvonne chewed her fingers, while Dewi sighed every few minutes.

  “Damn, I really thought I might get a chance then.” Dewi leaned to his right, peering ahead, waiting for a gap.

  “Try flashing your lights at him.” Yvonne couldn't see anything save the back of the horse box. In an unmarked police car, they had no advantage over any other Joe. It felt like a lifetime until they took an opportunity to overtake. Dewi pressed his foot so hard on the accelerator, they shot past the horsebox, quickly leaving the farmer behind.

  “Thank goodness for that.” Yvonne breathed again.

  On any other day, she would have enjoyed the journey to Llwyngwril. The hills and crags - some wooded, some bare - stood as the magnificent backdrop for the dry stone walls, lively streams, and the creatures in the fields. But news of another murder had ripped at the gut of the DI and her sergeant, and they just needed to be there.

  They were greeted by a scene of stark contrasts. The old church stood in its own grounds, at the edge of the land. A stunning view lay ahead, over the bay and ocean. In front of this, at the foot of the iron-gated entrance, lay the crumpled body. SOCO personnel had just arrived and plastic suits were everywhere, processing the scene.

  “Who was he?” Yvonne's hand trembled as she lifted the blue and white cordon to step under it, her eyes not leaving the body.

  “Reverend George Jones.” A local constable guided Yvonne through the SOCO markers. “He'd just delivered a sermon at another church. Err...” He checked his notes. “The newer church in Llangelynin. He'd come down here to prepare for his monthly sermon at the old church. It was due to take place this evening.”

  The bulging eyes of the shattered corpse appeared as though begging for help, even now. The warm day felt suddenly cold. Dewi approached them from the road.

  “His clerical collar, Dewi, where is it?” She knelt close to the body. “Apparently, he had just finished a sermon. Check the church door.”

  Her hunch proved correct, a bloodied collar was found and taken by SOCO. One of their number addressed her. “The victim had pies in his pockets...pasties, I think, and several of them.”

  “Meaning what?” Yvonne stood up, raising her eyebrows. “Did he have a thing for pasties?”

  “Don't know until you guys have talked to the relatives. Local uniform are out talking to parishioners.”

  “Hmmmm.” Yvonne turned her attention to the old church, its outline rugged against the backdrop of the sea, tranquil and ancient. Well-worn. She passed through the arched gateway, onto the narrow pathway leading to the church door.

  “The church warden is inside, ma'am.” A WPC stepped back to allow the DI to pass. “He found the body. He's pretty shaken up, but we've asked him to stay in case you wished to speak with him.”

  “Thank you, I do.”

  A few degrees cooler than outside, the church stank of aged wood and damp. She walked sombrely down the centre aisle, taking in the simplicity with which it had been built. She resisted the temptation to run her hands along the wood of the old pews.

  A frail-looking, grey-haired man turned to face her, his eyes red and puffed. She could see an untouched cup of tea on the pew next to him.

  “Hello, I'm Yvonne. Yvonne Giles,” she said softly. “This must have been a shock...” This had to be the understatement of the year. Words seemed so inadequate at times like this.

  “Yes, I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.” A sharp intake of breath shook his slight frame. “Twenty years I've been warden here. Twenty years. This is a quiet village. This kind of thing doesn't happen here.”

  Yvonne took out her note pad. “I'm sorry, and I know this is a difficult time, but would you mind telling me your name?” She wanted to reach out to him, comfort him somehow, but remained where she was.

  “I'm sorry.” He rubbed his eyes. “Richard Harris, church warden. You know, he had no enemies...”

  “Did you see anything unusual, over the last few w
eeks? Strangers around? Strange vehicles coming and going, perhaps?”

  “We often have strangers here. The church is a tourist attraction.”

  “It is in an incredible position here, on the cliff top.” Yvonne nodded. “Tell me about the church.”

  “In its current form, it's been here since the eleventh century. These days, we only have one or two sermons a month here. Most services are held at the new church, in the village.”

  “Is that the village of Llwyngwril?” Yvonne hoped she'd pronounced it correctly.

  “Yes. Both churches are dedicated to St. Celynnin. There's more to the attraction here than just the position on the cliff top.” His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his face tightening. She raised her eyebrows, tapping her pen repeatedly against her lips.

  He continued, “Abram Wood, former King of the Welsh gypsies, is buried here. The church itself almost fell into the sea a few years ago – the west wall was splitting away from the nave. During the restoration, we uncovered some important medieval murals.”

  “How was the restoration funded?”

  “Lottery money. Thank the lord for the Heritage Lottery Fund...see this?” The warden led her to the gable end closest to the church entrance, to a mural, the sight of which made her shiver.

  It depicted a skeleton, holding a scythe in one hand and a spade in the other. Most of the skull had been lost to time. At the feet of the figure, lay a pile of bones and, to his left, the words, 'Memento Mori'.

  “We uncovered this Tudor inscription when we removed some of the lime plaster. It dates from the time of the 'Black Death'.

  “Memento Mori,” Yvonne read.

  “It means, 'remember you will die' ”.

  Yvonne knew very well what it meant, and felt a cold ripple peel down her back. “How big is the congregation, Mr Harris?”

  “Around thirty or so regulars...there was an earlier structure here – dating from the seventh century, believed to be made of stone and wood. This truly is an ancient site.”