“Again, I don't see why that would happen.”
“What direction is the church in Wales going to take in the future, Bishop Lewis?”
“There are changes afoot, if that's what you mean. There was a meeting in July of this year about the future. I'll be retiring in a few years, I dare say the church'll look a little different by then.”
“Do you regret that?”
“No, not as such. I'm tired. I'm also a little set in my ways. Change is inevitable so, when the time is right, I'll hand the baton over to someone else. Someone fit to run the diocese after all the changes.”
Numerous people were awaiting the attention of the bishop, and it was with reluctance that Yvonne accepted she was out of time. She backed off, as the DCI thanked the bishop for his help. She decided she'd speak to Daffydd Lewis again, soon.
Griff Roberts lay stiff and cold on the mortuary table, his lifeless body a testament to the ruthlessness of this killer. If, as Yvonne suspected, he was a personal friend of the killer, then this murderer was prepared to kill and mutilate his friends in order to save himself from exposure. She pondered this as she entered. Roger Hanson continued his examination of the victim.
He looked up as she approached. “Good afternoon, Yvonne. This one follows the pattern we've seen previously. In all likelihood, he was killed on his front doorstep with a sighted, high-powered rifle, fitted with a silencer. The bullet struck him right between the eyes and blew away most of the back of his head. He would have known nothing about it.”
“We found him in the hallway.” Yvonne felt queasy and closed her eyes for a moment.
“Yes, he was dragged from where he was killed, further back into the house. He could be mutilated without fear of discovery there.”
“Hmmm, dragging him back into the house would certainly have given the killer privacy and, of course, would delay the finding of the body.”
“The same primary inscription was carved into his upper torso, 'Memento Mori', but here,” Hanson pointed to the abdomen, “he carved the word 'Touche'.”
“That's obviously a reference to fencing.”
“Yep.”
“I think he was killed because we released a profile, suggesting the killer is a fencer. I think the victim fenced with our perp. I think there must've been something else, though, some other fact or facts which Griff knew – something which, together with the fencing, gave the game away.”
“Interesting.”
“Did the killer do anything else to the body?”
“There were no other mutilations, if that's what you mean, and I can detect no other interference with the body.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hanson.” With a heavy heart, Yvonne took her leave of the mortuary.
The next morning, Dewi handed her a thin file when she arrived in CID.
“Ma'am, you'd better see this. Apparently, Griff Roberts was a member of a gun club. He had a full gun licence.”
“Really?” She pursed her lips, digesting this new fact.
“I took the liberty of contacting the gun club and they listed the weapons he held.”
“And?”
“A 9 mm handgun; a 12 bore shotgun; a 9 mm semi-automatic, and a high-powered hunting rifle.”
“Where are the guns?”
“Well, all but the high-powered rifle were in a locked gun cabinet in Roberts' house.”
“Where's the rifle?”
“Missing.”
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“That the killer has the missing rifle?”
“Yes. Was it stolen during the murder?”
“Unlikely, the key to the cabinet was in a locked drawer, in Roberts' home office. The drawer was undisturbed.”
“What if he'd lent the rifle to his killer? It might be why the businessman was killed, before he put two and two together, following the release of our profile.”
“It's certainly a possibility.”
“Talk to Roberts' friends. Someone will know something.”
30
The air was hot and dry, and the sunlight dazzled them, as it bounced off the sea. Tasha pushed open the gate leading to the graveyard, at the old church of Llangelynnin. They were greeted by the sweet, earthy smell of freshly strimmed grass. The grass-cutter's tools were strewn on the side of the path.
Yvonne took Tasha to an area still cordoned by blue and white police tape, and pointed towards the parking bay, up on the road, about two hundred metres above them.
“The shooter was up there, somewhere this side of the wall. He had cover from the trees and bushes on the slope. He was able to take his time and wait for the right shot.”
Yvonne walked to the arched church door. “George Jones was approximately here, bending over, we think.” Yvonne bent over, demonstrating his position. “And that is when he was shot. Thing is, he only gave a sermon here once a month. It was due that evening. He was only here that morning to prepare a few things.”
“So, the killer either knew George and his movements very well, or he didn't know him, but had been watching him for some weeks prior to the murder.”
“I agree. I suspect our killer knows the workings of the local churches, or stalks his victims for some time, before the kill. I'm worried that he is now stalking someone else.”
“Have you still got protection on Reverend Ellis?”
“I have. I'm still convinced she's a target. She has asked if she can have her protection removed though, and that concerns me.”
“What does the DCI think?”
“He thinks that if the murderer had wanted to kill her, he would have done so the day he left the collar in her churchyard.”
“Perhaps that had been his plan.”
“Well, if it was, why wait? Why not follow through?”
“Maybe he has a soft spot for her? Or maybe the opportunity just didn't present itself. There were a lot of people at her sermon that day.”
“Yes, but he could have killed her before the sermon.”
“Perhaps he wanted her to suffer mentally. To fear him. Savour the control over her.”
“I saw her the other evening. She was at a meeting in Newtown High School. Reverend Peter Griffiths was the lead speaker. He was very vocal and, I would say, almost militant in his frustration at the decline of the church in Wales.”
Tasha jerked her head in Yvonne's direction. “That's a potential motive right there...”
“Exactly what I've been thinking. I think we need to pay him a visit.”
“I agree, but first, let's eat our sandwiches down there.” Tasha pointed to the bottom of the graveyard, with its gorgeous view out to sea.
The vista was spectacular. They set down their flask and sandwiches atop a large, oblong monument and sat, swinging their legs in the sunshine. Yvonne felt more relaxed than she had in some time.
31
The skin on Peter Griffiths' face appeared fluid, in the flickering orange light, as he lit candles on one side of the altar. The church of St. Cynon was eerily quiet.
He appeared entirely focused on what he was doing, his brown grey-flecked hair looked like it hadn't been combed for a while, and this gave his thin face a wild air.
Yvonne was surprised her footfall hadn't caught his attention, as she approached along the flagstones. She stilled, silent and patient, in the middle of the church, watching and waiting for him to finish. It didn't seem right to intrude on his quiet contemplation.
“Can I help you?”
She almost jumped out of her skin. He'd said the words without turning round. He'd known she was there all along.
“I hope so,” she replied with all the calm authority she could muster. “And perhaps I can help you.”
She had his attention. He finished lighting the final candle, and turned to face her.
“I'm DI Giles, and I'd like to talk to you. I'm sure you're aware of what's been happening to some of your colleagues, and I've come find out if you have any concerns, or if you have any idea wh
o might have committed the murders.”
“You mean you've come to find out if I was involved.”
That threw her. “Why do you say that?” She tilted her head.
“Well, isn't that why you're here, detective?” The words were ejected coolly, without emotion. It wasn't the reaction she'd expected.
“Questioning those who knew the victims is part of my job.” She felt as though she were knocking a ball across a court, like the warm-up for a tennis match. Something about his demeanour unsettled her. She sensed a tension, barely held in check.
“I did know them – the victims. Aren't you worried I could be next?”
Yvonne pursed her lips in thought. “I'm concerned for every vicar in this part of Wales, yourself included.”
“I feel safer already.”
“How well did you know the victims?”
“They were colleagues. We talked to each other occasionally, shared the odd social event etc. Discussed current issues...”
“Were you close to any of them?”
“I wouldn't say close, no, but definitely on friendly terms.”
“When did you last see them?”
“I last saw David Evans about five years ago, a year after he retired from the church. I didn't know George Jones as well at the other two. I last saw him at a Christmas gathering about eighteen months ago.”
“And David Davies?”
He paused. “Four weeks ago.”
“So quite recently...”
“I went to see him to ask for his support for a petition to the Assembly government.”
“May I ask what the petition was about?”
“The Welsh church is in decline. Its position has been weakened and undermined by government legislature, over the last several decades.”
“Go on...”
“Well, shops open on Sunday and pubs open on Sunday. God's day. People are forced to work, especially in retail, on Sunday. There's been a drying up of funding for work to save the buildings. I could go on.”
“How did Reverend Davies respond to your request?”
“He thought change inevitable. That we couldn't stop progress and that, effectively, I would be wasting my time.”
“How did you respond?”
“I asked him to think about it... We've seen our living standards decline dramatically. We barely have enough to live on. Not only are our church buildings crumbling, but many of the vicarages have been sold off. It's rare these days to find a vicarage actually inhabited by a vicar. We simply can't afford to run, repair, or live in them.”
“Where were you on Tuesday, fourth of August?”
“You mean where was I when Reverend Davies was killed?”
“Yes.”
“I was home, writing a speech for a gathering I was organising at Newtown High School.”
“Can anyone verify that, Reverend Griffiths?”
“No, 'fraid not. My wife left three years ago. I live alone in my cottage next door and I didn't see anyone. I have a daughter, but she has very young children. I don't see them very often. ”
“I see.” Yvonne scribbled her notes.
“I heard of his death on the Wednesday morning, as I didn't watch any TV on Tuesday evening. I think you should know, detective, that I contacted his wife. I telephoned her when I heard.”
“Do you know her well?”
“I don't know her at all, really. I knew of her, and I met her once some years ago, but I had David's home number and I called. I just wanted to offer my condolences and my support.”
“I see. I'll be talking to her in due course. Thank you, Reverend Griffiths, for your time. I shall let you get back to your candles.” She turned to leave but, after taking a couple of steps, swung back around. “If you think of anything else, please contact us.”
“I will, detective.” He didn't smile.
When Yvonne returned to the station, it was seven o'clock. The lights were still on in the DCI's office and she was surprised he was working so late.
She gave his door a tentative knock.
“Come in.” He sounded tired.
“I saw your light on, sir.” She paused in the doorway. “I came to see if you are all right.”
“Yvonne...” He put down the notes he had been reading and turned his tired eyes towards her. He was a handsome man, though his hair was ragged from hand-combing. The knot of his tie was falling loose and the top couple of buttons on his shirt were undone.
“Sir...”
“Chris.”
“Chris...I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, about my angry outburst. I was peeved, and the things I said were hasty and unfair. I was horrified when I saw how my words had affected you. I hadn't meant for you to overhear.”
“Did you mean what you said? Do you really think I'm alone because I'm a control freak?”
“Firstly, I don't really think you're a control freak, and secondly, I don't pretend to know why you're alone.”
“What made you so angry?”
Yvonne swallowed hard. “I feel like I'm still grappling with the legacy of the Sadist. I feel that people...you, especially...are treating me as though I'm fragile.” Yvonne thought honesty the best policy. “I was angry that you wanted to be the public face of the inquiry, I thought you wanted the kudos. I wasn't prepared to think more deeply about it because I wasn't prepared to admit I might be wrong.”
“I see.”
“I truly am sorry, Chris.”
“Would you like to know the real reason I'm on my own?”
“Only if you want to tell me, sir.”
“I was married for fourteen happy years. We had our ups and downs, but there were many more ups than downs.” His head was bent and his eyes, roving around the papers on his desk, were glazed. Yvonne knew he was seeing a different time and place. He continued. “She died two years ago.”
“Oh God, I'm sorry...”
“Cancer of the throat. It was too quick. One moment, I was taking her to the doctors because she felt unwell, and the next...she was gone.”
“And the house was silent and empty, and minutes felt like hours and hours like days.”
“That's exactly right.” He raised his head now, his eyes meeting hers, his brows raised in silent inquiry. “You, too?”
“Yes. Me, too.” She smiled a sad and knowing smile. “My husband, David, passed away two years ago. He died in intensive care, following a gliding accident.”
“Then I, too, am sorry,” he said softly, and in that moment, they were united in something: a shared understanding of that dark part of their histories.
Yvonne stood to leave, but turned just before reaching the door. “Would you object to my talking to your brother-in-law, Chris?”
“Rhys? Don't you mean question him?”
Yvonne looked down at her shoes and shifted her feet. “Yes.”
“You did tell me he's one of your suspects...”
“Well, he is...”
The DCI gave a small laugh. “Be my guest. I've never been all that fond of the fellow, anyway, but he is my sister's husband. Please keep me informed, as that is the one interview I will not be able to accompany you on.”
“I'll keep you informed, sir.”
The DI shut the door gently behind her.
32
Yvonne and Tasha were at the seaside and, once again, on business not pleasure. They climbed the wide, stone steps to Aberystwyth Art Centre, at the University campus, on Penglais Hill.
The campus afforded sweeping views over the town and on to the sea. The noise of gulls filled the crisp sea air. Yvonne took a long and lingering lungful.
As they reached the plateau, on the approach to the big, glass-fronted Art Centre, Yvonne's eyes travelled the full length of a tower to their right, which she decided must be modern art.
“They call it the Stanley Knife because of it's shape.”
She whirled around. Dr Rhys Thomas was standing below them, at the bottom the steps. “I only just got here,” he
continued. “I thought I was going to be late.” He appeared calm and not at all flustered. Yvonne suspected he'd been there a while.
“The journey from Newtown took us longer than expected. There were a lot of road works.” Yvonne took in his neat suit and tie and slicked-back hair. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”
“I'm a bit pushed for time, actually, I was wondering what this might be about.” His steel caps click-clacked with every footstep as they headed into the centre. “I'm glad you could meet me here.” The words were said lightly enough, but the muscles in his face were stiff. “I'm giving a lecture and time will be tight. We could get coffee in the cafe.”
Yvonne ordered the coffees: lattes for herself and Tasha, and a cappuccino, as requested by Dr. Thomas. When she took her seat, she had the view over the bay. The sun sparkled off the water in a myriad of dancing lights – fairies going for a swim, her mother had once said.
“You'll remember, Dr. Thomas, when we bumped into each other, at Abbey Cwm hir?”
“I remember.” He leaned back in his chair and eyed her warily. “I was looking for clues, more ancient than the ones you seek.”
“Clues to the whereabouts of the last Prince of Wales.”
“You remembered.”
“Do you recall telling me how the prince met his end?”
“He was run through by an English Lancer, and was identified as he was dying. He asked for a priest and was instead decapitated.”
“You'd know the details as well as anyone.”
“I'd hope so.”
“The mutilation of the murder victim found at the abbey involved decapitation.”
“I read about it in the paper, gruesome stuff.”
“And you felt there might be a connection?”
“That's right. I contacted your team and asked to speak to the lead detective.”
“The lead detective is DCI Llewelyn.” She smiled. “So I hope I'll do. My colleague here is Tasha. She's helping us with the case.”
Tasha smiled at the historian and sipped her latte, continuing to quietly observe.
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