DI Giles BoxSet

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  Yvonne was curious about him. He clearly wanted her to know the history of the place. She noted this in her pocket book before closing it. “Mr Harris, I'm sorry for your loss. If you think of anything else which might help, I want you to contact me.” She passed him her card.

  He placed it in his pocket, “I will Inspector.”

  Yvonne and Dewi watched the pathologist at work.

  “How did he die?” Yvonne eventually asked.

  “I haven't quite finished.” Hanson adjusted his gloves. “However, a bullet through the throat would be considered fatal. The exit wound is here in the side of the neck. Most of the neck muscle and part of the back of the skull are gone. The trajectory was easy to determine.” He pointed to the board at the side of the room, and a diagram which demonstrated the bullet track.

  “So the shooter was above the victim?”

  “I'd say he was. I believe the reverend was bending down at the time he was shot.”

  “The killer was most likely up on the road somewhere, or in the bushes just on the other side of the wall.” Dewi scratched his head, deep in thought.

  “Ballistics have a bullet, recovered from the church wall.” Yvonne read from her notes.

  “Yes, and if I were a betting man, judging by the entry and exit wounds, I'd say this was probably the work of a sighted rifle.” Hanson looked up from the body. “High powered.”

  Yvonne nodded. “What about the other mutilations?”

  “A crudely cut cross and the words, 'memento mori'.”

  “Just like David Evans.”

  “Exactly so. There's something else...”

  “Go on.”

  “His mouth was stuffed with seaweed.”

  “Seaweed?”

  “His mouth was probably open when he died. The killer stuffed it with seaweed and closed it again.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Also, the man's jacket pockets contained pasties. Three in each pocket.”

  “Put there by the killer, I'm assuming...”

  “Well, who walks around with six pies loose in their pocket?”

  Yvonne flushed. “Quite...”

  7

  The rusted Victorian gate squealed and stuttered, as the Reverend Peter Griffiths opened it for himself and Reverend Meirwen Ellis. Their way was hampered by weeds and saplings, growing their destructive way between the paving-stones leading to the Presbyterian church.

  The arched oak door led into a beautiful building, though water damage and years of neglect had taken their toll. The ceiling had collapsed in several places, and the rubble lay where it had fallen on aisles and pews, alike.

  “The building is pretty much unusable now.” Reverend Griffiths stepped gingerly over the flotsam. “It's owned by a local businessman. We are only here with his permission.”

  “It's a shame for such a building to crumble. Can it not be saved for some purpose?” Meirwen perused the damage.

  “No.” The reply was emphatic. “The front of the building is coming away from the main structure and the owner cannot afford to put it right. The intention is to bulldoze it.” He spat the last words and Meirwen's eyes shot to his face. He didn't notice, taking her by the arm and leading her back outside, steadying her as she negotiated the rubble. “I wanted you to see the reality of what is happening to the church in Wales.”

  “Meirwen grimaced. “There's no money...”

  “It's more than that, Meirwen! There's no respect! Look at this...” He swung his right arm in the direction of the grounds. Meirwen followed the sweep with her eyes.

  Next to the door, an amber-coloured plaque, dated 13th August 1875, held the name of the famous Welsh entrepreneur David Davies. To the side of the church, were piled blue plastic bags of rubbish. Vandals had smashed several of the stained, leaded windows, and cans and crisp packets were everywhere.

  Peter kicked one of the blue bags, sending it skidding across the courtyard. Meirwen jumped, unused to seeing such anger in a colleague of the cloth. She could see him muttering under his breath and felt for him. Here was a poignant reminder of the decline of their profession, and of spiritualism in general. Meirwen didn't feel anger, only the wistfulness which came with defeat, an acceptance of the way of things.

  She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and felt him stiffen, as though resisting an urge to shrug off the touch. He looked down at his feet, before turning to face her, attempting a smile. The muscles in his rugged face remained tense.

  “Over there.” He pointed across the road. “That was the main parish church of St. David's. Look at it...trees growing out of the tower. One of our own has been murdered and his life's work is owned by an entertainment company.”

  “Let's go,” she said, now way too uncomfortable to continue this tour with him.

  “I'm sorry,” he sighed. “I get carried away...David didn't deserve to die like that. It was probably thieves after the lead off the roof. That's what it's come to. Life is cheap.”

  All the energy and fire had left him. He stood staring at the ground, one hand on the back of his neck. Meirwen gently took his elbow and led him back to the gate. “I miss him, too,” she whispered.

  Desperate screams rent the air, scattering birds in every direction. Mrs Jones dropped the pile of newspapers onto her shop counter, in the village of Abbey Cwm Hir, and looked outside. A young girl ran as though for her life, her spaniel running with her, dragging its leash.

  “Get the police! Please, get the police!”

  “What's happened?” Mrs Jones grabbed Tina Pugh by the shoulders, her heart pummelling her rib cage.

  “There's a dead man by the stones. He's got no head.”

  Mrs Jones steadied herself before saying as calmly as she could. “Get inside the shop, bach. We'll ring the police from in there.”

  8

  When Yvonne and Dewi arrived at the village, local uniform were already questioning the girl. Yvonne grabbed a plastic suit from the van and approached the body.

  There was so much blood, Yvonne put her hand to her mouth to suppress her gag reflex. Beside the body, a Labrador lay crying, its head on the dead man's chest. It was necessary to remove the animal, but Yvonne felt bad about doing so.

  “I'll take that for you, ma'am.” The constable had with him a lead, and proceeded to leash the dog.

  Yvonne shuddered. “Thank you. Did they find the head?”

  “No, ma'am, not yet.”

  She glanced up at the overcast sky, as it began to drizzle. In front of her was what remained of the once proud abbey – now little more than twenty or thirty foundation stones with tiny portions of wall. Yet another picturesque location had been chosen as a backdrop for the horror unleashed by the killer. The ruins, in a deep valley, were not easily accessed. The only approach was through fields, via a mud and stone track from the village.

  “Whoever did this knew his way around these parts.” Dewi's expression was grave as he approached. “The victim was the vicar of the local church of St. Mary. Reverend David Davies. The dog is his.” Dewi checked his notebook. “Name's Bounder.”

  Yvonne closed her eyes. “We have ourselves a serial killer.”

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “Don't say anything to the press. Not until the briefing. The DCI will have a fit.”

  “Right you are.”

  9

  He filled his lungs with the damp morning air, sweet and earthy after the night's rain. He held his breath for a few moments before easing it out through pursed lips. The grass was soft and mossy.

  He adjusted his glove and faced the brick wall, closing his eyes and lunging forward. When he opened them again, he noted the position of the point of his foil. This continued for some time, with each lunge choosing a different brick; coming at it from a different angle; aiming at blemishes on the bricks. He smiled with satisfaction. Not bad for self-taught.

  10

  The room was unusually quiet, considering
it was full of CID officers. Yvonne left her seat as they waited for DCI Llewelyn to join them. Dewi glanced through his notepad, while she examined the death scene photos on the board.

  The DCI walked brusquely through the door, plopping a pile of papers down on the desk next to Yvonne.

  “We've got one hell of a mess on our hands.” He ran his fingers through hair already well-ruffled. “I've had the bishops of both the St. Asaph and the Swansea and Brecon diocese on the phone, asking me what protection I can put in place for the clergy. We have limited manpower, but we've got to sort some level of protection for these people. As for the killer, what reason might someone have for murdering vicars?”

  Yvonne cleared her throat. “Failure to become one him or herself?”

  “Maybe...any other ideas?”

  Dewi spoke, as though reading from his notebook. “A psychotic atheist?”

  A voice from the back of the room offered. “Someone cheesed off they can't shop after 4pm on a Sunday!” What followed was a nervous laughter, which died when the DCI failed to join in.

  “Seriously.” He placed three pins into the map on the wall. “Three murders inside of three weeks. I want to know who wanted these men dead and why? DI Giles, what do we know so far?”

  Yvonne ran her hands along her trouser legs before taking the floor. “The victims, all in their fifties, were well known rectors in their local areas. David Evans appeared to have been a well-liked, placid widower with no known enemies. He retired a few years ago due to ill health. He was later diagnosed with Alzheimer's. George Jones and David Davies, similarly, well liked by their congregations and villagers in general. On the face of it, the motive would appear to be religious, but it's important to keep an open mind.”

  Yvonne chalked on the blackboard. “MEMENTO MORI - that's what he etched into the skin of his victims. It means remember you will die. This is his message. What's his point? Why the use of Latin?” She paused, glancing at each and every face in front of her. “The first victim was killed with a plank of wood and then mutilated. The second victim was shot, then mutilated, he was found with seaweed stuffed in his mouth and pies in his pockets. The third victim was decapitated and then mutilated. If this is the same killer, he is varying both his MO and parts of his signature.”

  As Yvonne returned to her seat, she could see once again the distressed dog, curled up on his owner's body at Abbey Cwm hir.

  The DCI rose to his feet. “Ask around: locals, bar tenders, church staff. Any theories, no matter how strange they may sound, write them down. Explore every avenue. No stone unturned. I want to know what weapons he used. Get everything you can from the pathologist.” He turned then to the DI. “Yvonne, I'll see you in my office directly after this briefing. Everyone else, talk to whoever you need to in the local police areas to get the information we need, and I want boots on the ground and knocking on doors.”

  She could delay no longer. Meetings with the DCI still made her nervous, even after three months with the new force. Taking a deep breath, she gave his door a sharp rap.

  “Come in.” The voice was firm, definitely that of a man in command. He looked up from his papers immediately she entered the room. “Yvonne, take a seat.”

  She approached his large desk and sat down. To her surprise, he rose from his position and pulled his seat up next to her, notes in hand.

  “I want you to take the lead in this investigation.” His voice was quiet and soft, not what she was expecting.

  “Yes...yes of course.”

  “In the station.”

  “Sir?”

  “Out there...” He gestured towards the open window. “I'm in charge. I will be the public face of the inquiry.”

  She felt her colour rising. She cleared her throat, as though to protest, but said only. “Yes, sir.” Her clipped tone was the only signal that she was irritated, frustration welling inside her. So, he wanted her to do all the work while he received the kudos.

  His gaze searched her face before his eyes met hers. She could see he was reading her thoughts. Her eyes shifted beyond him, to his office window and the fields outside.

  “Yvonne...”

  She turned her eyes back to his face, suddenly self-conscious as he studied the scar on her chin.

  “Not so very long ago, you were kidnapped by a violent psychopath who, I have no doubt, had been following you in the media. I will not allow that to happen again...” Now it was her turn to search his face, guilty that perhaps she had misread his motives. “...on my patch.”

  So that was it. It would reflect badly on him, should she mess up. “Well, we wouldn't want that, sir, would we?”

  His sigh made it clear that her sarcasm was not lost on him, and she couldn't help feeling a little satisfaction at the disappointment she saw in his face.

  He looked down at the notes in front of him. “I'm coming with you when you visit the murder sites in future, Yvonne.” He looked up and his eyes pierced her. His voice was one of command once more. “There will be reporters everywhere and I will do the talking. Understood?”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. I'll be giving the press conference, later.”

  “Can I go now, sir?”

  “Call me Chris...yes, you can go.”

  Her chair clunked backwards. He rose with her, to hold the door open. She did her best to glide gracefully through it without looking at him.

  Afterwards, she felt foolish. It didn't matter to her who talked to the press. What rankled was her being viewed as vulnerable, something she had striven so hard to leave behind.

  11

  Dewi downed the dregs of his tea just as his telephone rang. “Dewi Hughes.” He glanced at his watch, his tummy rumbling.

  “Hi, it's Stacey at front desk, I'm putting through a call from a Dr. Thomas.”

  Dewi ran his hand through tousled hair. “Sure, thanks... Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was male, with a North-Wales accent. “Hello, my name is Dr. Rhys Thomas. I'm a historian with the University of Wales.”

  “Hello, Dr. Thomas. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering whether you might like my help with your investigation into the vicar muders.” The voice was hesitant, as though the caller were wrestling self-doubt.

  Dewi grabbed his notebook. “Go on...”

  “I specialise in medieval history, and I read in my local paper that the killer left inscriptions on his victims which included the Latin, 'memento mori'. That means remember you will die, you know.”

  “Yes, Dr. Thomas, we know what it means.”

  The caller cleared his throat. “I think these murders are parodies of historical ones because of the sites the killer chose and the inscriptions.”

  “You may be right, Dr. Thomas, but while the investigation is at a very early stage, we're keeping an open mind. I tell you what, I'll take down your details and speak to the DI and she can decide whether you may be able to help us.”

  Dewi sensed the caller puffing his chest out as he gave his full name and number.

  “Thank you for calling us, Dr. Thomas. We'll be in touch.”

  Dewi shrugged as he replaced his handset. Every murder investigation had its hangers on. Armchair detectives. He found it annoying, especially when it delayed him having lunch. He took a large bite from his ham and mustard sandwich.

  12

  Reverend Meirwen Ellis adjusted her white, chasuble vestment. The material was thick and warm and she was appreciative of that. The air held a distinct chill, signalling the approach of Autumn. She was tired, and the preparation of today's sermon had been difficult. She lacked sleep and felt on edge. Almost every colleague she'd spoken to was scared, but one of the murders had been virtually on her doorstep.

  She lifted her long white preaching scarf with its gold crosses on each end, placing it around her neck. Studying herself in the vestry's full-length mirror, she could see the bags under her eyes and the strain etched in her face. She closed those eyes, squeezing them
tightly for a couple of seconds, breathing deep to calm herself. She was as ready as she was going to be, to face the village congregation in Nantmel, only a few short miles from Abbey-Cwm-Hir. They needed her more than ever, and she mustn't let them down.

  “Are you okay?” Her verger stood in the doorway, concern in his kindly face.

  “Yes, Jim. I'm okay, Well...as I'll ever be.”

  Jim placed a friendly hand on her arm. “It's going to be all right, Meirwen,” he said softly, giving her a reassuring smile. “It's going to be all right.”

  13

  Newtown CID had gathered in the main, open-plan office. A cheer went up as DC Halliwell entered, unaware of the piece of paper stuck to his back, reading “Just Escaped!” He was grinning from ear to ear, but Yvonne sensed in him a sadness at the prospect of early retirement, age fifty-four. The impromptu office party had been organised by Dewi, and Yvonne had picked up several bottles of white and red from the local supermarket. There would be a toast for all those officers no longer on duty.

  She began pouring into plastic cups stolen from the office water dispenser, just as DCI Llewelyn arrived. She spilled some of the wine and cursed under her breath.

  “Yvonne.” The DCI nodded, as he strode over to her. After mopping up the spills, she handed him a cup of white.

  “Thank you,” he said, studying her face.

  “You're welcome. It's sad to see the DC leaving.”

  “Yes, he's given a lot to the service. I'm sure he'll keep in touch.”

  Yvonne took a gulp of her wine as her colleagues approached to take their share. She barely knew Halliwell, in all honesty, but he was hard-working and one of several officers being pensioned-off due to the latest round of government cuts. It didn't sit well. Cuts in resources were the last thing needed when hunting a serial killer.