D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

The two sisters who ran the store were never far from one another. It could be quite threatening to have them both serving you at the same time, he thought. But they must have sensed his dark mood and even offered him vocal support, even if that were limited to pointing out where the two-for-one cupcakes they had on offer were to be found.

He half-heartedly wandered along the thinly populated shelves of food and gradually filled a basket with all the basics. He’d go to the supermarket in a few days, he thought; these prices would cripple him. He was acutely aware of them watching his progress up and down the two tight aisles, his final approach to the counter quietly disturbing, for they were staring at him pretty much as they had when he’d first landed in Pembrokeshire. He thought those days were behind him.

One of the sisters silently began to unload his basket; annoyingly slowly too. The other offered him the sort of smile a ferret might give before plunging down a rabbit hole.

‘We had someone come into the store yesterday asking about you,’ she said casually.

Gareth raised a brow. ‘Me? Are you certain? Who?’ He hoped it was Erica.

‘Well, it might have been you but we couldn’t be certain,’ broke in the other sister, glowering at his carton of milk as if it had been misbehaving before tossing it unceremoniously into a carrier bag.

‘Of course it was him!’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘He said he was a reporter from the Clarion.’

‘It wasn’t the Clarion!’ she corrected.

‘Then which paper was it?’

‘I can’t quite remember, but it most certainly wasn’t the Clarion, that much I do know.’ A bag of potatoes followed the milk. ‘He was American.’

‘An American?’ said Gareth.

‘Clarion or not, he was a reporter and he said he was looking for the man hereabouts who knocked over a young woman in the snow.’

‘You’re certain he was American?’ asked Gareth.

‘Jones the Post said that your Land Rover was involved in an accident.’

Gareth took the carrier bag and handed over his money. ‘How did he know about the accident?’

‘Jones the Post knows all sorts of things,’ she said, throwing his money into the till and slamming the drawer shut. ‘I’ve had to charge you 5p for the carrier bag,’ she added. ‘It’s policy.’

Gareth mumbled that it was fine. ‘What did this man look like?’ he asked.

They went on to describe, in detail, the man from the hospital.

‘But we didn’t tell him where you lived or anything like that,’ said the sister at the till.

‘Oh no,’ joined the other. ‘He wasn’t from around here. Anyway, we don’t trust reporters — all that phone-hacking stuff, it’s just deplorable! We only take reputable papers in the shop now.’

‘Was she badly injured?’ she said, coming from the till to lean on the counter. ‘You didn’t kill the woman, I hope?’ She said it jokingly but the optimistic light shining in her eyes begged otherwise.

‘No, I didn’t kill her,’ he assured. He thanked them for his things. ‘Look, if anyone else like that comes around asking for me, don’t point out where I live, huh?’ He was feeling a tad uneasy about this mysterious man who appeared to be following him around.

At that moment two uniformed police officers came into the shop, seemingly filling it with their presence. Gareth gave one of them a glance and made as if to squeeze by them to leave. One of the sisters quipped loudly that they’d found him at last, and laughed, rather too shrilly.

‘Mr Davies?’ one of the officers said. ‘Mr Gareth Davies of Deller’s End?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he returned. Then realisation hit him. ‘Have you found the kids who damaged my wall?’

The second officer stepped forward, a sheer rock-face of a man. His expression was equally stony. ‘Mr Davies, we’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

‘Sorry?’ he said, bemused.

‘We’d like you to come along with us, sir.’

‘What, now?’

‘If you would, sir,’ he said, meaning definitely and don’t argue.

The faces of the two sisters were a sight to behold, thought Gareth as he left the shop with the policemen. That was the last time he would ever get offered their two-for-one cupcakes, he mused.

Gareth was one of those people, he decided, that just being in the company of the law made him feel instantly guilty. Everything about him told them he was guilty — his voice, his sweaty palms, his increasingly furtive looks. He bet they could fasten a lie detector on him and he’d come out responsible for anything from shoplifting to terrorism. Whatever it was they were looking for when they sat him in that sterile interview room he was certain they believed they found it in him. The officer who sat opposite him told him to relax, it was only a question or two, that’s all; shouldn’t take too long. Routine. He liked how they used that word. Just being in here was anything but routine.

‘What’s all this about?’ Gareth asked, glancing apprehensively at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room.

All in good time, the officer told him. He needed to confirm his name, date of birth, address, which he dutifully did. As he was finishing another man came into the room, dressed in plain clothes, closely followed by another dressed similarly. There was an obvious handover and the uniformed officer rose and left, the other two taking his place, sitting side by side opposite Gareth.

The older of the two looked familiar. Large-framed, good head of hair but almost grey, eyes that had seen it all and needed to rest; his partner was far younger, slim, quite handsome, a jaw that sported hair somewhere between a fashionable five o’clock shadow and stubble. He guessed they represented both ends of the career spectrum; starting out, seeing it out.

The elder introduced himself in a quiet, unhurried drawl as Detective Chief Inspector Stafford of the Greater Manchester Police; his colleague was Detective Inspector Styles.

‘How long have you lived at Deller’s End, Mr Davies?’ he asked. He told him. ‘And where did you move from?’

‘London.’

His head nodded gently. ‘Bit of a change, London to rural Wales. Don’t you find it a bit isolated?’

‘It suits me fine,’ said Gareth. ‘What is all this about?’

‘You’re a photographer,’ he said, looking down at the table.

‘I get by.’

‘Live on your own?’

‘Yes. Is that unusual?’

He flashed him a pasted-on smile. ‘Not at all, Mr Davies.’ From a cardboard folder that sat on the table he pulled out a photograph and slid it over to Gareth. ‘Do you recognise that, Mr Davies?’

He did, instantly. It was the painted symbol from his living room wall and he told them so. ‘One of your guys told me it was probably a graffiti tag. Seems a lot of bother to drag someone down all the way from Manchester to investigate a bit of vandalism.’

Slowly the officer removed another photograph and pushed it across the table so that it sat alongside the first. ‘Actually this photograph is the one from your wall; the first came from elsewhere,’ he said.

Gareth held them up together. ‘They look the same. Do you suppose they were done by the same person then?’

He ignored the question. ‘Have you ever lived in Manchester, Mr Davies?’

That took no time at all to answer. ‘Never. All I know about Manchester is that it has two football teams and a canal.’

‘A visit recently?’

‘No.’

‘Not even briefly?’

‘Not even for a nanosecond. What has the graffiti on my wall got to do with Manchester?’

He slid yet another photograph over. A young woman smiling for the camera, caught in the bright glare of the flash. She looked like she’d been taken unawares.