by Ripley Hayes
“Drugs?”
“Maybe a bit of weed. We don’t really have much of a drugs problem here.”
“Oh yes, is that over towards the coast too? In my experience everywhere has a drugs problem, even dinky little towns like this.”
“I’m sure you’re right. What I meant was that the kids who come and hang out here are just local youngsters with nowhere else to go and no money. The pubs are pretty strict and there isn’t much going on for teenagers.”
A gust of wind shook wet leaves and showered them with drops of water. The same wind blew Kent’s perfume towards Daniel. Something spicy, peppery, and familiar. It went with the suit, and the haircut. A man who made an effort. Daniel aimed for clean and not too untidy. He felt like a scarecrow in comparison.
“All that may be true, but a young male victim says drugs, knives, gangs, organised crime, not kids with nothing to do. Hiding the body in the bin? That says local knowledge and something very nasty.”
“Sir. And I’ve never seen the victim before, not that you could see much of his face anyway. But if you’re right, it’s new. You can call it a dinky little town, but it is quiet...”
“Sheep stealing?”
Daniel decided to bat that one right back.
“Farm machinery mainly sir. Criminals from out of the area. England. South Wales.”
Daniel wasn’t sure, but he thought that maybe, just maybe, there had been the tiniest hint of a smile on the new boss’s face. But if there was, it was gone instantly.
“What about this person that found the body?”
“Rayner Coslett. Sixth form student in the local school. Identifies as non-binary. They were in shock, couldn’t really speak, so I arranged for them to be taken home and said we’d go round as soon as we could.”
“Do we know anything about them?”
“No sir, I thought to go up to the school after I’ve spoken to Rayner.”
“Good. Let’s go. And stop calling me fucking sir.”
Kent took one look at Daniel’s muddy Land Rover and led the way to his own car. A new high spec black Audi, as clean as if it had just rolled off the production line.
“Car prydferth, Maldwyn” Daniel said without thinking, because however useful the old Defender was, it was neither luxurious nor beautiful. Though it was black. Underneath the mud.
“Daniel. Please speak English.”
“I said it’s a beautiful car, sir. I forget. It’s my first language.”
“It’s not mine.”
“It’s the default setting around here.”
“I am aware of the demographics of the area. Now, perhaps you could direct me to our witness’s house? In English? Soon?”
Why can’t I just keep quiet? Why do you affect me so much?
Rayner Coslett lived in a well maintained modern bungalow on the outskirts of Melin Tywyll. The door was opened by a worried looking woman, as well maintained as the house, except for the signs of recent tears.
“Mrs Coslett?”
The woman nodded, twisting her hands together.
Daniel introduced them, and asked if they could talk to Rayner.
She opened the door wider and beckoned them inside.
“The poor lamb is very upset. You will be gentle won’t you? And you do know that Rayner...is...”
“Non-binary, yes. We respect that.” Kent sounded like he meant it.
Rayner’s mother showed them into a living room entirely in keeping with the house. Pale carpet, showing the hoover tracks from the morning clean, comfortable rust coloured sofas arranged with mix n’ match cushions, large television next to a brick feature fireplace. Remote controls dusted and set side by side on the mantelpiece. Pot plants with polished leaves, instantly forgettable pictures on the walls, and curled up under a blanket in a generously sized armchair, a young person with short blonde hair and red rimmed blue eyes. Daniel thought that if Rayner wasn’t chewing their fingers in obvious misery, they would have been beautiful. There was no need to assign a gender to a face that was that of a classical angel. Daniel repeated the introductions, and accepted Mrs Coslett’s offer of a cup of coffee. Kent did the same. Nothing to do with wanting a drink, everything to do with having a few minutes without the woman’s anxious hovering.
Daniel was about to open his mouth when Kent spoke, in a quiet voice.
“Can you tell us about this morning Rayner? Do you mind if I call you Rayner?”
Rayner nodded, but didn’t speak.”
“Do you know what time you got to the old station? Roughly?”
They had a pretty good idea of the answer to this one, because they knew what time the call had come in. But Rayner answered in a sweet, slightly high pitched voice.
“About 8.30. I was going to school.”
“Is the old station on your way?”
Daniel knew it wasn’t, not walking from here. Not a huge detour, but perhaps a route chosen by someone not keen to arrive at their destination.
“I just felt like a walk. I was picking blackberries in the lane, and I thought I’d have a look in the station.”
“What made you open the bin?”
“I hadn’t seen it there before.”
If it was possible, Rayner’s face paled even further. Daniel thought he could see the blue of veins pulsing under translucent skin.
“So do you go to the old station often?”
Now he could definitely see the pulse.
“Oh no. I haven’t been there for ages.”
Kent asked a few more questions about what Rayner had seen before arriving at the station. Daniel watched both of them. Kent’s body language radiated care and concern, mirroring Rayner’s posture, not getting too close, speaking softly and listening to the answers and rephrasing them to check that he had understood before asking another question. And Rayner was lapping it up. In fact, Daniel thought, Rayner had relaxed to the point of almost flirting with Kent. There was a slight flush to their neck and cheeks, eyes widened, pupils growing large and dark. Kent was using his looks to charm the socks off Rayner, but Daniel was sure that Rayner was lying to him, despite looking as sweet and innocent as a kitten showing a fluffy belly. Something was off with Rayner’s responses. He wasn’t sure what, but there was something.
It’s like Aesop, though which of them is the snake and which the mongoose...?
When Kent asked Rayner about the body in the bin there was no answer, just a shaken head. Rayner wouldn’t look at Kent, then repeatedly denied any knowledge of who the body might be, or even of doing more than seeing that it was a body.
The tension broke when Mrs Coslett (“Call me Diana, please”) came back with coffee. Daniel stood up to take the tray while little tables for each seat, and coasters matching the cushions were produced and distributed. Daniel refused a biscuit on the basis that he couldn’t risk the crumbs, not in this pristine room, but he was glad of the coffee which was better than he’d expected, and thankfully came in a decent sized mug. Kent demonstrated that it was possible to eat a biscuit without dropping a single crumb, and Rayner ate delicately, seductively, looking up at Kent under long eyelashes.
As they drank the coffee, Kent asked the same questions in different words and got very similar answers. Rayner visited the old station often enough to know that the bin hadn’t been there long, but didn’t want them to know how often that was, or when the last visit had been. And Rayner was desperate for Kent’s approval. The delicate face took on more colour, and the blue eyes started to shine. Daniel didn’t know whether to applaud or disapprove of the way that Kent had handled the interview, but he had to admit it was effective.
“Well?” Kent asked when they were back in the car.
“Rayner was lying about visiting the old station. I think they went there a lot. The stuff about not recognising the victim rang true, and so did the bit about lifting the lid because the bin was new, but the rest, not so much.”
Kent nodded. “We can ask again when we take the formal statement. Maybe S
ergeant Davies will do better.”
Daniel choked back a snort of laughter. Bethan was in fact a very good interviewer, but on this morning’s performance, Kent was in a different league.
“Yes Daniel? You have something to say?”
“Sorry. Rayner was, well, flirting with you. I don’t think Bethan would have the same effect.”
“Finding someone attractive doesn’t necessarily equate with telling them the truth.”
They drove for the next few minutes in silence, Daniel feeling there would never be any possibility of a relaxed conversation between them. Not now Maldwyn Kent was his boss, the person he reported to. Clearly the warm empathy and charm was reserved for witnesses, and not for him. Not any more.
Why did you come here Mal? After months of silence you come here and take the job I’ve been promised?
“Shall I see what I can find out about Rayner from their teachers? And whether they know anything about kids hanging out at the old station? Maybe Rayner was part of that group.”
“Do you seriously think Rayner is part of any group? That they wouldn’t be subject to ostracism at best? I’d say going to school at all for someone like Rayner is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.” Daniel saw Kent’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. The bitterness in his voice said this was personal. Kent parked behind Daniel’s Land Rover.
“Go to the school. Let me know anything interesting.”
Daniel looked at Kent as he got out of the car, and suddenly the pattern on his tie came into focus. Tiny rainbows.
Daniel took a deep breath.
“You’re coming out at work?”
“Does it matter?” The bitterness was palpable.
“For what it’s worth, I find it makes life easier.” And he closed the door.
And fuck you too.
Rain
Raymond Chandler wrote about a desert wind, hot and dry. I dream of hot and dry. I dream of the desert. It is blue, and orange, sand and cactus, terracotta and swimming pools, hard, hard, sunlight and the only danger is too much heat. In my dream I have a hammock by the pool, and I lie and sway in the hot desert wind, a paperback open on my chest and my eyes closed against the light. It makes me laugh that David Hockney’s picture of the California sun is called “A Bigger Splash”. There is no way I would have left California where the water is properly confined and chlorinated.
Here there is nothing but rain, musty, green, soft rain. Leaves falling endlessly, yellowing, drifting down, settling, rotting, food for worms and fungus. Nothing happens here, it just rains. When the wind blows, the rain just changes direction. It rains sideways. It rains upwards. It just fucking rains.
It’s dark by eight o’clock, everything is closed, there’s nowhere to go. Everything is wet and slimy. Trainers leak and the pavement is slippery. How to look good falling on your arse? How to stay dry in a hoody?
In the autumn I go to the old station. It’s shit, but it’s dry. Sort of.
When Jimmy comes we sit in his car, with the engine running and the music on, and smoke his weed. From the outside it looks like a car full of fog. Inside it’s warm, and dry, and I’m out of my head, mellow, talking shit about deserts and blue swimming pools, and going somewhere that isn’t raining and having a fucking life.
Last year it only flooded the playing fields by the river. The year before it was almost up to the top of the bridge. This year, if I lived in Mill Street I’d be filling sandbags. Except I wouldn’t be living in Mill Street because it’s bad enough having the water outside falling from the sky, having it in your garden and then coming through the door until all the furniture is floating? No thanks.
Apparently people are killed in floods in the desert all the time. You should never camp in a wadi in case it floods. I told the geography teacher that I would bear it in mind in case I ever found myself looking for a camping spot in the Sahara. Which I would dearly love to do. In the Sonoran desert, north of Phoenix, there is an experimental settlement called Arcosanti. They cast wind chimes in the hot sand. You can go and volunteer there, or maybe even get paid. I think it rains every few years at the most. My kind of place.
People at school talk about having a gap year before uni. They show videos on their phones of rafting down rivers in South America, or floating on inner tubes in Bali. Why would they go half way round the world to see a river? There’s a river right here. It runs through a bloody gorge right in the middle of town.
In the meantime, I walk down to the bridge every day to see how this year’s flood potential is shaping up. So far it’s looking promising. The water is dark brown, and it’s moving fast. The council has concreted all the benches and litter bins back into the ground - the triumph of hope over experience. But the ground on the rugby pitch is already waterlogged, and anywhere that there is a bit of a dip is squelchy. I notice that no one has cut the grass for a while, I assume because it’s too wet.
I discuss all this with Jimmy. I’m sure that he’s not really called Jimmy, but I suppose in his business you don’t want people knowing too much personal stuff about you.