‘What kinds of items?’
‘Oh the usual: TV, stereo, microwave …’
‘All the stuff that’s easy to flog,’ said Mariner. ‘So what’s the puzzle?’
‘The weird thing is that there’s no sign of forced entry,’ Knox said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely certain, I’ve been over the whole house thoroughly.’
Mariner knew that would be true.
‘Does Katarina still have a key?’ Knox asked.
‘Yes, but she wouldn’t steal from me.’
‘I’m not saying that, but …’
Mariner second-guessed him. ‘She might know someone who would,’ he acknowledged.
‘I at least want to go and talk to her, if only to rule it out.’
‘Have you got a number for her?’
‘Not yet but it’ll be on record for any interpreting duties.’
‘I’ll give it to you anyway.’ Mariner recited Kat’s mobile number and her address.
‘And is she still with that Giles fella?’ Knox asked.
‘Yes, as far as I know.’ Mariner added Kat’s boyfriend’s details.
‘Anyway,’ Knox said. ‘I thought you’d want to know, rather than coming back to the surprise.’
‘Sure, thanks.’ Mariner felt depressed by it. ‘Everything else okay at that end?’
After a beat of hesitation Knox said, ‘Yeah, just getting on with it. How’s the walking going?’
‘Good,’ Mariner said, ‘though not completely uneventful. Have you picked up the news about a murder out here, Caranwy?’
‘That little place? You’re near that?’
‘It’s the village I’m staying in.’
‘Christ. You haven’t got involved I hope?’
‘No choice,’ Mariner said. ‘It’s complicated, but I was there when the body was found. And it’s a pretty small place so you can’t help but be aware of the investigation going on.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to join in,’ Knox pointed out. ‘You’re meant to be on your holidays, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Mariner, unwilling to admit how much he welcomed the diversion.
‘So what do you need?’ Knox asked, reading him perfectly.
‘Funny you should ask that,’ Mariner said. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more about a guy called Nigel Weller. He’s in his sixties I’d say. He used to live in the West Midlands area, so I’m told, possibly Solihull. Can you see if we’ve got anything on him, might be drugs related? Also I’d be interested in anything you can dig up about a Russian businessman, Nikolai Shapasnikov.’ Mariner spelt it out. ‘He’s bought a country pile out here, Gwennol Hall.’
‘That I can do,’ Knox said. ‘I’ll give you a call back when I know something. Anything else, Boss?’
‘Yes, can you look up the number and address of the Towyn Farm Community, where Jamie Barham’s living now? It’s a long story, but I could do with having that too.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great. Leave a message if you can’t get hold of me. Getting a signal’s hopeless around here. I’ll pick it up when I can.’
At the village shop Mariner bought a Sunday paper and took it along to the pub. However the experience fell some way short of the relaxing lunchtime drink he’d envisaged. The place was newly upgraded to a gastropub, so consequently most of the seating had been given over to a formal restaurant that would have looked at home in Brindley Place and lacked any decent beer. Many of the clientele seemed to have driven some distance to enjoy their outrageously priced Sunday lunch and were dressed for the occasion. In his walking gear, Mariner hardly fitted in and was treated by the staff with an air of mild resentment for occupying a table for four to order only soup and a freshly oven-baked (he was tempted to ask how else it could have been baked) roll. He stubbornly stood his ground until the arrival of a noisy sixteen-strong party, at which point he decided it was time to leave. He’d just about had the opportunity to catch up on the details of Theo Ashton’s murder, and the latest on the Merseyside killings, before he was forced to abandon the pub. The ‘Kirkby massacre’, as it was now being dubbed, had been fully attributed to the recently paroled Glenn McGinley, who was now thought to have escaped in a stolen car, via Holyhead across to Dublin. A link, mostly based on the MO, was being sought with a triple murder in Cheshire on the following morning.
It was late afternoon when Mariner got back to Caranwy, and despite the increased number of cars in the pub car park, he decided to drop in for a decent pint of proper beer, to make up for his lunchtime disappointment, before returning to the hostel. The Welsh had come a long way since ‘dry’ Sundays, and it took him several minutes to push his way through the crowded and rowdy bar, by which time the idea wasn’t looking nearly as appealing, but having made the commitment he decided to stick it out.
Perched on a bar stool, Joe Hennessey was digging into a bag of salted peanuts and pushing them into his mouth. Seeing Mariner he nodded a brief acknowledgement, but any further conversation was made impossible by the noise and the distance between them. And in any case Hennessey was being monopol-ized by the girl behind the counter. Megan, Mariner surmised. He could see now what Elena and Rex had meant, and couldn’t help but remark on the contrast with the barmaid from the Star in Tregaron. Megan hardly looked old enough to be drinking, let alone serving behind a bar. Although attending to a steady stream of customers her eyes rarely left Hennessey and at one point he seemed to be making a joke of it, at her expense, and Megan turned away, blushing fiercely.
Eventually Mariner caught the attention of the older barman working the till nearest to him and while he waited for his pint to be pulled, he surveyed the room looking for a free seat, preferably one tucked away in a quiet corner. On the face of it he was going to be unlucky, as all the tables seemed to be taken, but amongst the mass of strangers he spotted one familiar face. Suzy Yin, the archivist he’d met up at the hall, sitting with a modest half pint in front of her on the table and her head down studying some papers, even though she looked off-duty today, dressed in jeans and a chunky sweater. A roar of laughter from a group around the fireplace raised her head momentarily and, as her eyes locked with Mariner’s, that wide smile lit up her face in greeting. He was just picking up his pint, and recognizing the lack of seating, she gestured that he should join her. Mariner battled his way through the crush to where she was sitting. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ he said. ‘I can easily stand, and you look as if you’re in the middle of something.’
She shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said, gathering up the papers. ‘This is my single woman’s defence against unwanted company. I’ll be happy to take a break from it. I’m at risk of becoming one of those dreadful people who doesn’t know when to switch off from work.’
As he sat down, Mariner turned away so that she wouldn’t see the wry smile cross his face. He wasn’t quick enough.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘You’re one of those people, aren’t you?’
‘I think I probably am,’ Mariner admitted.
‘Well, given what you do for a living, I suppose I find that rather reassuring,’ she said. ‘How’s that for blatant hypocrisy?’
‘Shameful,’ Mariner said. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ she said, tucking the paperwork into a folder. She lifted her glass. ‘Anyway, cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Mariner reciprocated. ‘So why a historian?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘Isn’t that a bit …’ he searched for the right word.
‘Dry? Dusty? Lonely? It’s all right. You can say it.’ She laughed easily, soft and gentle like a wind-chime, and Mariner had the feeling that she never took herself too seriously. ‘Believe me, it wasn’t what my parents wanted for me. They would have rather preferred a doctor or lawyer. But history is my passion so in the end they didn’t have much choice. And I think it was enough for them that I had been to university.’
‘It’s more than I did,’
said Mariner. ‘Where are they from, your parents?’
‘Canton. They did what thousands of other Chinese did and came here in the early Sixties to open a restaurant and have their family. A couple of years later I showed up.’
So she was a little older than she looked, Mariner thought. ‘And they named you Suzy,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t sound very Chinese.’
‘Oh, it isn’t. All part of their assimilation, I suppose. And yes, mine can be a solitary profession, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m an only child so I’m happy with my own company – up to a point.’
Mariner nodded. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I can understand the appeal.’
‘And you’re a police officer,’ she smiled. ‘Like me, an investigator of mysteries.’ As she finished speaking she had to raise her voice above the roar of laughter from a group beside the fireplace.
‘And what do you think of the man, your boss?’ Mariner asked.
‘He’s very charming and well-mannered, though there’s something underneath that I wouldn’t quite trust; a bit of a ladies’ man from what I gather from the other staff, and I suppose some would say he’s good looking in a rough and ready kind of way.’
‘But not you?’
‘He’s not really my type, a little too macho. I’m more drawn towards quiet intellectuals I suppose.’
‘So that rules me out,’ said Mariner lightly, regretting it instantly. He was saved by a burst of raucous laughter from the group around the bar that distracted them both momentarily.
‘Journalists,’ Mariner said. ‘I’d bet big money on it.’
Either that or Mariner’s remark prompted Suzy to start gathering up her things. ‘I think it’s time to go,’ she said apologetically. ‘This beer is going down a bit too well. I try not to do too much drinking alone, but I did need to get out for a while this afternoon. The four walls were driving me mad.’ By now it was getting dark beyond the windows.
‘How are you getting back to the hall?’ Mariner asked.
‘I’ll walk,’ she said, sliding into her coat. ‘Calling a carriage is so nineteenth century. Besides, I’m not really used to drinking at this time of day – the fresh air will do me good.’
‘There must be a local taxi firm who could take you up there.’
‘What, to drive me all of three quarters of a mile? That would make me incredibly popular.’
‘Will you let me come with you then?’ Mariner said, picking up his jacket. ‘You shouldn’t walk up there after dark, not with everything that’s happened.’
‘Why? Do you think I could be in danger?’
‘I don’t suppose you are, except perhaps from opportunistic journalists,’ Mariner admitted, ‘but I’d feel happier if you’d let me walk you.’
‘That’s very chivalrous of you,’ she smiled. ‘How could I possibly refuse?’
‘I do have an ulterior motive, of course,’ Mariner admitted. ‘I’m interested to see what progress is being made.’
‘Honest at least,’ she laughed.
Outside though, as they crossed the road Mariner missed his footing, tripped heavily on the kerb and stumbled.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be walking you home?’ Suzy said. When he was beside her again she slipped her arm into his. ‘I’d better hold on to you. You clearly can’t be trusted out on your own.’
‘You sound too much like my sergeant,’ Mariner said, drawing her in closer to him, noticing how easily they seemed to fall into step. For a while they walked in comfortable silence, their breath clouding the night air and Mariner wondering if she was as acutely aware of his physical presence as he was of her; the scent of her hair and the occasional pressure of her hip as it rolled against his outer thigh.
As they walked up the drive they could see the light flooding from the windows of the mobile incident unit, though the hall itself appeared to be in almost total darkness. ‘Mr Shapasnikov lives mostly at the back of the house,’ Suzy explained. Instead of approaching the main entrance, she turned off before they got there, leading Mariner round to the side of the building. ‘As do I. I have rooms above the stables,’ she explained. ‘I know my place.’ Mariner saw for the first time that the hall was built in a square shape, and walking underneath a narrow archway they emerged into a wide inner courtyard, three sides of which were made up of the main house, and the furthest a block of two-storey buildings and outhouses. It was well lit by floodlights and to one side was a double garage. One of the up-and-over doors was open and inside, like beasts peering out from their lair, were two identical, sleek black SUVs. Two young men in dark trousers and white shirts loitered in the doorway of the garage, murmuring in low voices. One of them was smoking and, seeing Suzy, raised his cigarette in acknowledgement.
‘Who’s that?’ Mariner asked.
‘Reggie and Ronnie,’ Suzy said softly, waving back.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Mariner.
‘Sorry,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s what I call them, though not to their faces I’m ashamed to say. Mr Shapasnikov’s got several drivers-cum-gofers. I can never remember their names, though I do know that most of them would sound perfectly at home in a Tolstoy novel; Andrei, Vasili, Arkady, you get the idea. And to say so is probably racist or sexist, or perhaps both, but they all look the same to me with their cropped hair and sharp suits. When Mr Shapasnikov has his weekend events there are about a dozen of them scurrying about tending to his guests, but I’ve no idea what they do the rest of the time.’
Short hair and smart suits? Mariner didn’t recognize either of the men by the garage, but that profile would nicely fit the man he’d seen talking to Theo Ashton at the farm. It might also explain the absence of a car. He made a mental note to mention it to Ryan Griffith.
Stopping alongside a wooden staircase, which led to the upper floor of one of the stone outbuildings, Suzy hunted in her bag for keys, before producing them with a flourish. ‘Well, thank you again for walking me home. Now I shall have to worry about you getting back safely.’
‘Oh, despite appearances, I can more or less take care of myself,’ Mariner said. ‘I might even manage to not fall over.’
She seemed doubtful. ‘Well if you say so.’
After the slightest hesitation, Mariner leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, but at that precise moment she must have had the same idea, so that their mouths collided, taking them both by surprise.
‘Sorry, that didn’t go well,’ Mariner said.
‘It was a start,’ she said, and stood on tiptoe to peck him lightly on the cheek.
‘I’ll just wait until you’re safely inside,’ Mariner said, the cold suddenly feeling less penetrating. He watched her climb the staircase and close the door as a light inside came on.
TWENTY-ONE
Making his way back through the village, past the lights of the pub, Mariner became suddenly aware of a recognizable figure up ahead, bowed under the weight of a heavy pack, coming towards him into the village from the opposite direction. He was about to call out a greeting when abruptly the man turned off into the only lane that left the main road just here. As he got to the junction Mariner was convinced he’d recognized the man and called out to him. At his call Jeremy Bryce turned.
‘Hello again,’ Mariner hailed. ‘Tom Mariner. I gave you a lift the other night.’
Bryce peered at him through the darkness as gradually recognition dawned. ‘Well, well, my good Samaritan,’ he said, walking back towards Mariner. ‘You had quite a head start on me. I didn’t expect to catch you up.’ His voice was hoarse and nasal.
‘I’m staying here for a few days,’ Mariner said. ‘Visiting … someone I know. Where have you walked from today?’
‘Oh, I came up and over the tops.’ He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Devil’s Mouth, though given the man’s record Mariner wasn’t sure how meaningful that was. Bryce grinned broadly. ‘Well, this is a coincidence!’
Mariner wanted to point out that it wasn’t really, given that they were both walking the
same footpath in the same direction, but he didn’t like to quash Bryce’s enthusiasm. In truth he was surprised that he hadn’t appeared sooner, but then it was likely that there would have been a couple of unscheduled detours along the way. The man was quite literally a walking liability. ‘I tried to track you down after I gave you that lift,’ Mariner said. ‘But you didn’t stay at the Lamb and Flag then.’
‘Ah, no.’ Bryce managed a sheepish grin. ‘I must have misunderstood. I couldn’t stay there after all. I pride myself in speaking a bit of Welsh, name like mine and all that, but clearly I’m not as competent as I’d like to think.’ Averting his face from Mariner, he let rip an explosive sneeze, before blowing his nose loudly. ‘It was pretty chilly in the climbing hut last night. After getting so wet, I think I might have caught a cold.’
‘Really?’ said Mariner, but the irony was lost on Bryce. A steady drizzle was beginning to fall again; Mariner could see it in the lamp light. ‘Where are you planning to stay tonight?’ he asked Bryce, noting that the lane he was on would take him out of the village.
‘I had considered the pub here, but it’s heaving.’ Bryce lifted his map case, running a finger over it. ‘There’s a climber’s hut up on the hillside here I think. It’s just a couple of miles away over in the next valley.’
Mariner knew that route; he’d covered part of it two days before. It wasn’t easy even in daylight, and it was rather more than a couple of miles. ‘It’s a long way to go after dark and that’ll be freezing too,’ Mariner said. ‘Don’t you think the warmth of a B&B might be better tonight?’ he suggested.
‘Well, I fear I might have left it a little late,’ Bryce said. ‘I don’t seem to be very good at planning.’
Mariner made an impulsive and somewhat risky decision. ‘Look, I’m staying at an old youth hostel just up there. I know the owner. It’s basic but there’s a hot shower and some heating, and you could at least get some food at the pub. Why don’t I see if you can come and stay there until you’re feeling better?’
‘Do you think that would be acceptable?’ Bryce jumped at it.
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