by Ripley Hayes
“I think he’s living here,” he said, “work overalls and boots on the floor.”
Daniel tried the door handle. It opened.
“Mr Price? Are you there Mr Price?” There was no sign of anyone within the house, but Daniel thought that if Gavin Price had been hitting his mother’s wine stash again, he could be passed out anywhere. He carefully opened the living room door, and Kent stepped round him to check that it was empty. They did the same in the kitchen and then headed upstairs, calling Gavin’s name. It was as empty upstairs as down. The house that had been so tidy when he first visited was now a mess of clothes discarded on the floor, empty bottles and takeaway cartons. The bigger bedroom had several bin bags full of clothes and bedding waiting to be unpacked. Empty mugs and glasses queued up by the kitchen sink. A new iPhone sat on the worktop.
“Want to bet that’s Suzanne’s?” said Kent.
Back outside the house, they leaned against the car. “He’s living here,” said Daniel and Kent nodded in agreement. They looked up at the sound of a car turning into the street. It parked beside them and Sasha got out dressed in a tabard with a cleaning company logo on the breast.
“Mal Kent as I live and breathe, and the lovely Inspector Owen. You two been waiting for me? Sorry, but a girl’s gotta work.”
“We were looking for Gavin,” said Daniel.
Sasha’s face hardened. “He’s off his face all day and shouting about how we’re all spying on him. He did the same yesterday. Tosser. You going to take him away? Say yes.”
“We’ve got to find him first,” said Daniel.
“Don’t take too long, nice to see you Mal,” said Sasha, and winked over her shoulder as she went into her house.
Behind them a deep voice said, “Maldi,” and Daniel was sure that he heard the crackle of ice crystals forming in the air, as Kent froze beside him. A uniformed police officer, a sergeant, stepped into the light spilling out of number 10’s doorway. He had a neat black beard, black hair, and bulk that was more than the uniform.
“Huw?” said Kent, and then again, “Huw?”
“That’s Sergeant Kent to you boyo,” and Daniel felt the ice melt in a rush of emotion, as Kent hugged his brother.
He tapped Kent gently and jerked his head towards the door. “I’m going to get the phone.” Kent nodded, though Daniel could see that he had no idea what Daniel had said. All his attention was fixed on Huw. As Daniel stepped back into the house, he saw Kent and his brother start to walk slowly away, heads close together.
Daniel closed the front door behind him. The house was warm after the street and it seemed wrong to let the heat dissipate, though why Gavin was heating an empty house he didn’t know. He could see the phone on the kitchen work top amongst the detritus of Gavin’s occupation. As he reached for it, he heard a door opening and something moved in the corner of his eye. Then felt his legs knocked from underneath him.
He scrabbled at the table, trying to get back onto his feet in the small space, but another blow landed on his injured leg, sending pain shooting through his body. And then another, and another until he lost his grip on the table and hit the floor with a crash.
“Stay where you are,” said Gavin, “or I’ll hit you again.”
Gavin had come to resemble the mess he’d made of the house. He was unshaven and his clothes were stained with spilled food. His blond hair was greasy and matted, and he seemed to be sweating pure alcohol. From the smell, he hadn’t showered since Daniel had seen him last.
“Gavin,” said Daniel, trying to raise his body off the floor.
“I said stay where you are,” and Daniel saw that Gavin had been hitting him with a cricket bat. Gavin saw him look at the bat and laughed. “I fucking hate cricket,” he said, “so my shitty mother bought me a cricket bat,” and laughed again. Gavin’s eyes darted around the small room and he lifted the bat as if to hit Daniel. He flinched, but Gavin swung the bat at the picture of himself and Suzanne at the fairground. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he shouted, landing blow after blow, until the picture was in ruins and the plaster on the wall behind had started to turn to powder.
“That’s what I think of HER,” he said, but his eyes still darted from side to side. He moved towards the fridge, kicking Daniel as he passed, sending more sparks of pain shooting through Daniel’s injured leg, and on through the rest of his limbs. But when Gavin opened the fridge door, he had his back to Daniel, and he had put the bat down on the work top.
Daniel grabbed the kitchen chair next to him and pulled. His injured leg wouldn’t take any weight, but before Gavin could turn round, he was up, the chair in front of him like a shield.
Gavin howled. There was no other word for it, and then he started to laugh again. He unscrewed the lid from the bottle of wine he’d taken from the fridge and gulped it down. He waved the bottle at Daniel, “she got this for Roy, the fat bastard. I got a cricket bat and he got all the wine he could drink. But she won’t be getting him any more, because she’s fucking DEAD!” and drank more wine, his throat convulsing as he swallowed. He carried on ranting at Daniel, cursing Suzanne, and only stopping to take another mouthful of wine.
Daniel was helpless. Without the chair he would fall. With the chair he was in agony. He could feel the blood running down his injured leg and the other leg was shaking. His arms were weak from keeping him upright and balanced. There was a buzzing noise in his head and the pain was making him nauseous. Gavin was between him and the door, and Gavin had the bat within easy reach. He looked around as Gavin continued to rant, obscenities pouring from his mouth. The table was covered with stuff, but nothing that Daniel could use from this distance. He wondered how much more Gavin could drink before he collapsed. He wondered if he could stay upright until it happened.
Then the front door opened. Daniel shouted “Mal! Gavin’s here. Get help.” Only it wasn’t Mal, it was Sasha. Daniel yelled “No!” but it was too late.
Gavin smashed the wine bottle with one hand and grabbed Sasha with the other. Wine splashed onto the floor and filled the air with a sickening aroma. Gavin jabbed the vicious points at Sasha, and she screamed as the glass went through her clothes and into her skin.
“Leave her alone,” Daniel shouted, and pushed the chair in front of him like a wooden Zimmer frame. Two steps and he had the cricket bat in his hand. Sasha screamed again. Daniel looked and there was blood running down her face. He abandoned the chair to swing the bat at Gavin, not caring where it connected.
Gavin kept the bottle and let go of Sasha. “Go!” yelled Daniel. He saw her hesitate. “Go! Get Mal,” he shouted again and she went. He swung the bat once more, and felt it strike flesh, but the effort unbalanced him and he started to fall. He grabbed the wall, anything, but Gavin was coming at him with the bottle, bloodied from Sasha, stinking of booze and sweat.
“Oh no you fucking don’t,” he gasped, and held the bat out in front of him, but he was falling, sliding down the wall, and Gavin was laughing and waving the bottle, “gonna get you, cut you up, make you bleed, make you cry,” he chanted, “just like I did to HER!”
“No you didn’t,” said a voice from behind Gavin, and Daniel saw Mal standing much too close, “you didn’t dare, you had to drug her.” Gavin whipped round and lunged for Mal’s face with the bottle and Daniel threw himself at Gavin, falling on top of him and hoped it would be enough.
There was blood pooling on the carpet and Daniel realised that Gavin had fallen on the bottle. He also realised that he didn’t care.
“You got too close,” he said to Mal, over Gavin’s body, “rookie mistake. Good job I was here.”
Suddenly the hallway seemed full of people. Mal’s brother handcuffed a subdued and bleeding Gavin, then the paramedics arrived, along with two more uniforms, and in the middle of it all, the sisters; Rhiannon insisting loudly that Sasha needed medical attention and Sasha protesting just as loudly that she didn’t.
Daniel had rolled off Gavin, but that was the extent of what he could do. Kent picked
his way over the bits of broken glass and sat on the floor, pulling Daniel close and kissing his hair. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, “I owe Sasha a drink. Lots of drinks. If she hadn’t found me...”
Daniel leaned on Kent, drawing strength from the contact. “It’s not every day you meet your long lost brother,” he said, “I’ll let you off this once.”
By the time Sasha’s cuts had been cleaned and Daniel’s leg had been re-bandaged, it was daylight. Cold air poured through the open front door of Suzanne’s house, so when Sasha offered coffee and warmth, Kent helped Daniel limp round to next door.
“So you’re a poof too, then Maldi?” giggled Rhiannon, making Daniel choke on his coffee.
“Oh, Jesus Rhi, don’t call me that,” Kent said, and for once it was Kent blushing while Daniel laughed.
“There’ll be a house for sale next door, you can always come back, and everyone will call you Maldi,” Sasha said, pouring slugs of whisky into all their drinks.
Kent shuddered and hid his face in his hands.
Outside, the sun was lighting the tops of the hills with a pink glow.
It’s beautiful, and I loved seeing Huw,” said Kent, “but I can’t stay here.”
“Nor me,” said Daniel, “the criminals of Clwyd are calling, and I can’t miss the Melin Tywydd 10k for two years in a row.”
Kent pulled Daniel closer and ran his finger down Daniel’s cheek and jawline.
“It’s a shame we’re both leaving. We make a good team.”
In reply, Daniel kissed him. And blushed.
Kent drove them back down to the city so they could start on the aftermath bureaucracy. Kent disappeared to organise a thorough search of the Bute Street house, and to arrange for a psychiatrist to see Gavin. Daniel rang Vanessa with the news that Gavin would be charged with the murders if he recovered from his breakdown. Bethan rang him to say that their DCI had gone off sick again and Daniel was needed back in Melin Tywyll ASAP. He was about to send a text to Kent saying that he had to leave, when the man himself dropped a train ticket on the desk. “Give me your keys and I’ll get someone to bring the Land Rover tomorrow.”
“I guess this is it,” said Daniel, “I would say I’ll see you at the trial, only Gavin isn’t going to be fit to plead for ages, if ever. Maybe we’ll meet up next time you need help with a case.”
“I was hoping for next week,” said Kent, “I realised that I left my watch at your house, so perhaps I could come and pick it up? You could show me your trees.”
Daniel thought for a moment.
“You don’t wear a watch.”
Kent smiled.
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Acknowledgements
For generally encouraging my efforts and saying nice things, whether deserved or not, thanks are due to: David Bevan, Fia Harrington, Oliver Harris, Denise Hayes, David Llewellyn, Bill Millward, Sarah Moss, Jo Rabbani, Lisa Rowlands, Julia Scott, Lou Sugg, Lara Williams and every single ex student, Facebook and RL friend who said go for it.
For practical help, as well as encouragement, thanks to: 20BooksTo50k,Tammy Basile of Aspen Tree Editing, John Chilton, Natalie Foster, Denise Hayes (again), Bill Millward (again), Lou Sugg (again), Pixelstudio (Cover Design).
Dark water
Prologue
The earth is getting hotter. A man discovered that he could harness the power of coal to turn a turbine and the fires started to burn, slowly, slowly, at first, building to a head of steam that will melt us all. Or in some cases, drown us.
California burns, but on the hills above Black River Valley it rains. The water soaks the ground, until the ground can’t hold any more, and then it starts to fall, taking tiny particles of the ground along for the ride. The bare hills are soon as polished as tortoiseshell.
The water runs into the forestry above the town. Sticks and stones run with it, picking up speed, rushing downhill, waterfalling over steepness, slowing for meadows, rippling across concrete, dark water heading for the Black River. The river turned a wheel once, but the wheel is smashed, another victim of steam.
The river narrows in the town below the bridge. The gorge is where the kayakers play, paddling fast to keep control of their boats as the rapids try to carry them away and whirl them helplessly in the stopper at the bottom. The rapids are levelling out as the water rises, and the kayakers are starting to look worried.
In Mill Street, the residents are getting out their flood defences. Heavy slabs of steel designed to fit the iron slots in the riverside garden gates, like dropping a picture into a photo frame. Last time, the river just pushed the walls over.
The water is creeping out over the playing fields a millimetre at a time. Away from the river, the water is flat and turgid, spreading not rushing, carrying no debris, while in the middle of the slowly forming lake the river still has form, speed, waves. If it keeps raining in the hills, the river itself will disappear into the mass of dark water.
People are standing on the bridge as the gorge fills up. On the upstream side, council workmen poke and prod the tree trunks, trampolines and shopping trolleys, hooking them out or pushing them through, because the river wants to block the bridge and fill up the valley behind it. The big kids version of damming the stream.
The rain keeps falling.
Chapter One – Daniel
It was an oversized orange wheelie bin, scuffed and muddy, standing alone on the station platform. The bin was the only sign anyone had been there since the last train pulled out half a century ago.
A dangerous looking cast iron bridge arched over where the tracks should have been, rusting barbed wire and mildewed signs preventing anyone climbing the steps. Doors hung off a boarded up building with buddleia growing from the chimney pot. Moss, bramble and nettles colonised the platforms and filled the space between them. Everything dripped with moisture from the overhanging trees.
Daniel looked into the bin. He saw a man’s head, covered in short hair, the same light brown as his own. The head was bent over to the side, showing the side of a nose and an ear, a shoulder clad in a red T shirt and the soft blonde hairs on the man’s neck. Everything else was in shadow. Closing the bin lid might have reduced the smell of rotting rubbish and decomposing flesh, but Daniel couldn’t bear the idea of shutting the dead man back into that horrible space.
Daniel gave instructions for a tent to protect the scene, for lights, for the pathologist, for uniforms to start asking for witnesses, for scenes of crimes investigators, and around him people started to move in response.
Almost as if they think I know what I’m doing. Almost as if I’d been doing this job for nearly a year and told that it was mine as soon as they got the paperwork.
He started to sweat inside his paper suit and knew that he had to move before his blood pressure dropped and the dizziness began, the curse of a tall thin man standing still for too long. The smell of rubbish and decomposing flesh hung like a cloud over the open bin and that would do as an excuse. He turned away, still running through his list of things to do on the discovery of a dead body in suspicious circumstances, looked up and saw that
he was being watched.
Daniel thought that the watcher looked like a film star from the days of the matinee idol, Tyrone Power perhaps, with a touch of the young Richard Burton. Hair shaved at the sides, thick and wavy on top. Eyes such a dark brown they were almost black. Very well cut black suit, white shirt, tight enough to show lots of muscle, and a black tie with tiny coloured motifs. He didn’t look happy though. He looked like someone on his first day at a new job, a job he was now having serious doubts about.
“Good morning sir,” said Daniel, “we have the body of a young man, discovered about half an hour ago,” and he ran through his list of actions.
“Daniel...” the dark eyed man looked almost pleading, “this isn’t what I wanted.”
“It’s not what I wanted either, sir, but here we are.”
“Then perhaps I’d better come and look at the body.”
Daniel stripped off the paper suit, watching out of the corner of his eye as his new boss did the same.
“We don’t get one of those every day,” he said. DCI Kent looked straight through him, as if the two of them hadn’t been lovers until Kent had walked away six months before.
“What is this place? What do you know about the victim?”
OK, that’s how we’re playing it. Fair enough.
“Sir. It’s the old railway station. Closed in 1970 something.”
“I can see what it was. I meant what is it now? Why would there be a body hidden in a wheelie bin here? Why hasn’t the place been turned into a heritage trail or a steam railway?”
“As far as I know sir, it’s mainly used by kids. The steam trains and so on are mostly over towards the coast.”