Good People

by Ewart Hutton

  ‘No?’

  ‘When I was younger, a friend and I got busted in Spain on our way home from Morocco. We were charged with possession of marijuana.’

  She smiled conspiratorially. ‘Guilty?’

  I returned the smile and shrugged. ‘Whatever. It was potentially quite serious though. There had been an increase in the rumblings over Gibraltar, so there was political stuff mixed in. I had to call my father to see if he could bail us out. He had a friend in Cardiff, a retired senior cop with connections. My father made me a deal: if he got us out of Spain, I would join the police force.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘To turn me into a serious citizen.’

  ‘Would he have left you there?’

  ‘Let’s just say that this was not my first misdemeanour. Hence the pressure.’

  ‘So, not exactly a crusading ambition since early childhood?’

  ‘Not quite. I enjoy the work though. And I think my father saw that I would.’

  ‘Dinas?’

  ‘Pardon?’ But I was stalling, I knew what she meant.

  ‘You told me that you used to be in Cardiff.’

  She had remembered well. She met my eyes. Her expression was the equivalent of squeezing my hand.

  I bowed my head into it. ‘I met a farmer. I shouldn’t have, the case was nothing to do with me. He was down in Cardiff trying to persuade his daughter to come home. Vice had found her working for a pimp called Nick Bessant. Underage but with a grown-up crack habit. What none of us knew at the time was that Bessant already had the farmer’s son working for him. Gay extortion tricks and porn films in return for feeding his junk habit. This little shit had gone home and told his baby sister about the Life. Turned her head. The farmer loses his other kid.’

  ‘I think that I may have read about this. What’s coming?’

  I nodded. ‘We had something to charge Bessant with. Something unrelated. By this time I’d been running around Cardiff with the farmer, on my own time, trying to track down the daughter, who had run away from him again. Mind you, he hadn’t said a word to me about the grief he was holding for his son. Anyway, someone comes up with an address for Bessant and I get the call. I agree to take the farmer along with me, thinking he’ll get some small consolation from Bessant’s arrest.’

  I had missed it at first, in the back of his beat-up Land Rover, my eyes on the two dark dogs with white chest flashes, cowering from too much urban-weird information. The shotgun was empty then. When he broke it open, I had sighted through the barrels, seen a street light’s cataract penumbra through the two oiled, empty holes.

  ‘I let the farmer keep the gun.’

  ‘You thought it was empty.’

  I shook my head. Had I honestly believed that my fucking goodness was touching everything with safety? That an empty gun would stay empty because I refused to believe that there could be any other possibility?

  ‘I missed it. We were standing there in that squalid room, the farmer and Bessant staring each other down. They both knew, though. It was only when the farmer told me he’d swear that he forced me to bring him here at gunpoint that I realized, too late, this was too sophisticated for the man. And then Bessant sang.’

  ‘Sang?’

  ‘“Farmer John”, a Neil Young song. He only got as far as the first line.’ I shrugged, trying not to recall the pink miasma of blood and brain matter. ‘They put a spin on it. I was the briefly celebrated survivor of a hostage situation.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s what I remember. Just the event. I didn’t remember your name to put to it.’

  ‘You probably also missed the little item that came later, announcing my breakdown. Then they quietly shipped me off to the Gulag.’

  She leaned across and covered my hand with hers. ‘Welcome, Comrade.’

  We both laughed.

  We were lighter and happier with each other after that. It was a shame it couldn’t last.

  It was Friday night, the pubs hadn’t turned out, so it was too early for it to be busy. But it went even quieter when they walked in. Sally picked up on it first. I followed her look towards the entrance. Three of them. Obviously rugby players. The prop-and-block variety. No-neck monsters, to quote Tennessee Williams, although in his case he had been describing children. These guys were far removed from childhood.

  The biggest one was Paul Evans.

  The head waiter approached them, smiling deferentially. Evans nodded curtly without looking at him, and made a beeline for us. The other two stayed at the entrance with the head waiter, who was now looking distinctly apprehensive.

  Evans nodded slowly, and gave us a big, sloppy smile. ‘I’d watch out if I were you, Mrs Paterson, or he’ll try and drill you from behind.’

  ‘Go away, Paul,’ Sally said wearily. She knew that our night was now broken.

  ‘Out under false pretences are you, Sergeant? Pretending that you really like women?’

  I felt Sally’s hand clutch my knee under the table. After the first shock, I realized that it was restraining. It was also unnecessary. Paul Evans was a slob and a bully, but also huge, which meant that in this unfair world he could get away with it.

  But I could still play bravado. ‘Don’t get jealous, Paul. Wait for me in the car park, I’ve got enough left in me to shag the three of you.’

  ‘Glyn,’ Sally warned.

  ‘Fucking queer,’ he snarled under his breath, balling his fists.

  ‘People, Paul …’ I circled my hands, checking him ‘. . . witnesses. You’ll be up for assault.’

  ‘We’ll see you in the car park.’ He wheeled away, back to his friends.

  ‘Good,’ I called after him.

  ‘You shouldn’t have aggravated him,’ Sally said, leaning forward.

  ‘He was already primed,’ I told her, taking out my mobile phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘First the taxi.’ I smiled at her reassuringly. ‘And then the guard of honour.’

  Emrys Hughes didn’t like it. His professional duty was compromising his impulse, which was to join the three sulking rugby players into beating me into a mousse. Instead, he had to escort Sally and me across the Golden Mogul’s car park to the waiting taxi.

  ‘I had none of these problems before you arrived here, Capaldi,’ he moaned.

  ‘No, you just had your good people,’ I said, nodding across at the three glowering men. ‘Keep them away from me, Sergeant Hughes. They’re big, but they’re stupid, and I will make sure that they get real time in a bad jail if they pursue this.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Paterson,’ he said, ignoring me, slamming the taxi door shut on us.

  ‘What’s going to happen, Glyn?’ Sally asked anxiously.

  ‘They’ll tire of it.’ I glanced back through the rear window at the receding light of the Golden Mogul. ‘No one really believes it, anyway. They just have to find an outsider to blame for an event that doesn’t fit their experience.’

  She reached her hand into mine, lacing our fingers. She let her head drop on to my shoulder. ‘I’m not going to sleep with you tonight,’ she whispered. She saw my face fall flat. ‘Sorry,’ she added with amused commiseration.

  ‘Couldn’t you give a guy a little hope?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m probably not going to sleep with you tonight.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  We squeezed our hands together. This was fine. The big bad boys behind us. Driving through the night with her head on my shoulder. Night clouds and the tops of trees scudding past my eyeline. ‘Did Boon ever know the young black girl from Manchester who worked for Sara Harris two summers ago?’ I asked casually.

  She stiffened. She unlocked her hand from mine, whipped her head off my shoulder before I had finished the question.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘You don’t know?’ she challenged.

  ‘It was just a casual question … not business,’ I lied.

  ‘You have no idea
how that grates. The crap I have had to put up with around here. I had hoped that you were above it.’

  ‘How what grates?’

  ‘Racial stereotyping. Assuming that because the girl was black, Boon would be drawn to her.’

  Oh shit … I winced internally. ‘I wasn’t stereotyping,’ I protested, back-pedalling. ‘Or if I was, it’s because they were both young, not because they were black.’ Which, of course, had been my first thought. I had forgotten how sensitive women can be. How quickly romance could turn precarious.

  ‘Boon wasn’t here when she was around,’ she explained, slightly mollified. ‘You should have asked me.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Yes, she used to wash my hair at Sara’s. A nice kid.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘Flower.’

  ‘Fleur?’

  ‘No, Flower, the proper English spelling. Flower Robinson. Why did you want to know?’

  ‘She came up in conversation. Any idea what happened to her?’

  She shook her head. I didn’t press it.

  I got out of the taxi at Sally’s. I glanced at her. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I told the driver to wait. She didn’t protest. I walked her to her door.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil things,’ I said.

  She smiled at me wanly. ‘I overreacted. I think I was nervous. I haven’t done this for a while.’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘Good.’

  We laughed silently, breaking the clot, and we both realized then that we could have stood there for a long time, slowly moving in closer to each other, not necessarily taking it anywhere.

  But sadly we were adults now. The night was cold. And I had a taxi waiting.

  12

  Bryn Jones called me the following morning. When I had finished the call I remembered that it was Saturday. He shouldn’t have been at work.

  ‘We hear that you’ve run into a little local difficulty.’

  ‘Who told you that, sir?’

  ‘Concerned colleagues.’

  That meant Morgan and Hughes. Concerned only because I was complicating their lives.

  ‘We can pull you out of there.’

  I groaned inwardly. Not so long ago that would have been music to my ears. ‘No thanks, sir.’

  ‘O-U-T,’ he spelled it, ‘you’ve been begging us for this.’

  ‘It’s what they want, sir.’

  ‘What who wants?’

  ‘A certain section of the community is holding me responsible for the death of Trevor Vaughan.’

  ‘You don’t think that was kosher?’ he asked, a note of cautious tension rising into his voice.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that he did it to himself. It’s why he did it that intrigues me.’

  ‘We could order you out,’ he warned.

  ‘I’d rather stay. I’d like to try and find out what’s behind this reaction.’

  ‘Just don’t leave it too late to jump.’

  ‘I won’t. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Use my mobile number if you need anything.’

  ‘There is one thing that would be useful …’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked warily.

  I gave him the details of the children’s home in Manchester, and asked if he could set it up so that they would receive a call from me as one of the good guys. I sensed the pause on the line. He would be debating with himself whether to ask me what I wanted this for. Knowing that my answer would probably make him refuse the request.

  He didn’t ask, just said that he would see what he could do. ‘Take care of yourself and behave responsibly,’ he finished gruffly.

  I pondered the nature of the call. Morgan had obviously advised Carmarthen about the situation here. Jack Galbraith had had to offer to pull me out to cover his arse. By refusing, I was being the obstinate one.

  But why hadn’t they just ordered me out? Since when had Jack Galbraith ever offered me a choice that he hadn’t loaded? So either he felt some deep instinctual rumbling that I might be on to something, or he just wanted to irritate the shit out of Inspector Morgan.

  The phone rang again. It was too soon for Bryn to have organized the call to the children’s home.

  ‘Glyn?’

  ‘Sally. How are you?’ I let her hear my surprise morph into pleasure.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m calling to apologize for last night.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologize for.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I went all stiff and snotty on you. I want to make up for it.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Yes, there is. I want to show you that I can be fun to be with. So, it’s Saturday, let’s do something together today.’

  I winced. There was nothing I would have liked better, but I had already allocated this as too opportune a day to miss. ‘I’d really love to, Sally, but I can’t, I’ve got to work,’ I explained, hoping that she was catching my genuine disappointment.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We could go out again tonight,’ I offered.

  ‘I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ I replied, trapping my regret manfully.

  ‘I think we should stay in,’ she announced brightly, amused at having caught me out. ‘I’ll cook you a meal. Tell me, what would you like?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ I said gaily, lifted again.

  I hung up, regretting the fact that I had already scheduled the day. But I had to try to talk to Zoë McGuire alone. And as it was a Saturday in winter it would be a safe bet that a red-blooded country boy like Gordon was either going to be watching or playing rugby, or else shooting the shit out of pheasants. Hopefully leaving the lady of the house free to receive interrogators.

  Shooting would go on all day, but, to be on the safe side, in case rugby was involved, I would have to leave my visiting until the afternoon.

  As it was, I had a piece of business that I’d been putting off while I’d been chasing my tail over Magda. The body of a Montagu’s harrier had been found on moorland about twenty miles away. A Schedule 1 protected species. It had been poisoned. The RSPB had been clamouring for a report. The uniforms up there had been doing what they could, now it was time to show my face in the wilds. At least it would stop me from being spat on in the street.

  On the way over, a call came in from Bryn. The children’s home had, with some persuading, agreed to take a call from me. I pulled over before I got deeper into the hills and lost reception. The day manager was a woman this time, and not the dour bastard I had spoken to before. I gave her my name and the cipher phrase that had been agreed on to convince her that I wasn’t Captain Hook trawling for Lost Boys.

  ‘We’re taping this conversation our end,’ she warned me.

  ‘I’m okay with that.’

  ‘Just remember it,’ she warned, giving me an insight into their relations with the local cops. A war footing.

  ‘Colette Fletcher and Donna Gallagher – do you have any information you can give me on current or last-known addresses.’

  ‘I can’t give out that information.’

  ‘I don’t want it. Not the details. I just want to be reassured that someone knows where they are. That they are safe.’

  That seemed to mollify her. ‘The names aren’t familiar. Probably before my time. I’m going to have to go into the computer.’

  I watched a buzzard circling on a thermal while I waited. What would be outside her window in Manchester? Different worlds. Why had Donna and Colette opted to come back into this one?

  ‘You did know that these girls left here two years apart?’ she asked, coming back to me.

  ‘Yes. Have you got contact details?’

  ‘No. Both of them dropped off our radar when they left.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. They’re legally adults when they finish here, and, even though we’ve been the nearest thing they’ve had to a family, a lot of them don’t give us another thought.’

  ‘
What about Flower Robinson?’

  ‘What about her?’ Her voice went wary.

  ‘Has she dropped off your radar?’

  ‘What do you want with Flower?’ There was a protective edge to the question.

  ‘The same as Donna and Colette. I want to know that she’s safe.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that there could be a reason why she might not be?’ she asked guardedly.

  ‘Do you know where she is? Yes or no?’ I demanded abruptly, throwing command into my tone.

  It startled her. ‘Yes. But –’

  ‘Good,’ I cut in over her, gliding back down to gentle. ‘And now I need to speak to her.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t give that information out.’

  ‘Okay, I appreciate that, but what if I give you my number? That way she can call me. I’d like you to tell her that it’s very important. Tell her I need to talk to her about the summer she spent in Dinas.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just say Mid Wales. She’ll remember.’

  She expanded on Flower after I gave her my number. She was one of their success stories. They were proud of her. Reading Sociology at the University of Manchester. Living independently in a hall of residence, but still helping out as a volunteer at the home. Turning into a rounded and socially aware human being.

  But would she call me?

  I couldn’t hang around to find out. I had to drive further up into the hills, out of telephone range, where I had a cop to meet.

  Constable Huw Davies was waiting for me in his marked Land Rover. We had spoken over the telephone a few times, but we hadn’t met before. He was a tall, rangy man with thin fair hair and a pointed chin. He was wearing a nonissue yellow anorak over his uniform.

  ‘I’ll take you up there,’ he said in a local accent, breaking the handshake quicker than was necessary.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, raising my voice as he walked round to the driver’s side of the vehicle. I was supposed to be in charge here, I wanted to implant a bit of control.

  ‘Up there,’ he said, opening his door, pointing to a rutted track that led to an amorphous rise of moorland.

  He stayed as taciturn on the drive up. Responding to my attempts at conversation with a quizzical frown, which he usually accompanied with a clever flick on the steering wheel that precipitated a slew of violent lurches. I took the hint and kept quiet.