Ewart Hutton - Good People

David popped his head round from the serving area of the front bar. He came over, picking up his drink as he passed it. The two separate bars were a godsend to him. He could keep a drink active in each one, and work on the mistaken belief that his customers were only seeing the half of what he was actually consuming.

‘Scandal?’ he asked with a great big eager grin.

‘What have you heard?’ I closed the beer tap.

He pretended to look crestfallen. ‘You mean you’re not going to tell me?’

‘I want to hear your version.’

He checked to see who might be listening, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The story is that they picked up a couple of hitchhikers on their way back from the match, supposedly without realizing that they were working girls.’ He raised his eyebrows, waiting to see if I would respond.

‘One hitchhiker.’

‘Just one?’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Go on,’ I prompted.

‘Whoever it was turned out to have a boyfriend with her. They tried on some sort of a shakedown, and then they took the transport and abandoned our boys up in the forest.’ He leered salaciously. ‘What we’re all wondering is, what went on up there that the boys wouldn’t want their loved ones to know about?’

He stood back and waited for my reaction.

I just nodded, noncommittal. It was a raggedy version, maybe deliberately so, but it was interesting that the group had managed to get their spin working for them so quickly.

‘You’re not going to tell me?’ he asked, disappointed.

‘I couldn’t improve on that, David.’

David and Sandra Williams were Dinas’s version of the Golden Couple. That status was still current only because any contenders to their throne had opted for a Bronze future in a bigger place.

David was also the nearest thing I had to a friend in Dinas.

‘I’ve seen some of those guys around,’ I said. ‘Tell me about them. Two of them looked like brothers.’

He didn’t have to think about it. ‘That’s Ken and Gordon McGuire. Ken’s the oldest. He got the family farm, Rhos-goch. A big holding out on the Penygarreg road, some hill country, but a lot of good river land.’

‘Good farmer?’

‘Yes, but you wouldn’t have to be on that land. A walking stick would sprout if you left it in the dirt long enough.’

‘The brother?’

‘Gordon’s an auctioneer with Payne, Dyke and Thomas.’

‘A lush?’ I asked, knowing the occupational hazard.

David shrugged. ‘Not as bad as some. Good at his job, though. He got a nice Victorian farmhouse when Ken got the farm.’

‘Who’s the big guy? Shaven head.’

‘Paul Evans. Works for his father, a builder up at Treffnant. He’s a really good rugby player. Awesome tackler.’

‘He looks like a dumbfuck.’

‘Paul’s okay until he gets a drink in him, then you want to keep away.’

‘Boon Paterson?’

‘Boon hasn’t been around for a while. He joined the Army.’ He looked at me, interested, picking up on a new twist. ‘I’d heard he wasn’t there. Was he?’

I shook my head. ‘Who are the other two?’ I had no real picture of them, just props swaying under Paul Evans’s weight.

‘Trevor Vaughan and Les Tucker. Trevor farms up in the hills, and Les has a pretty successful timber-felling business.’

‘Which ones are married?’

‘Ken and Gordon – the McGuires. Les has a long-term girlfriend though. Sara Harris, she’s a hairdresser in Dinas. You’d probably know her if you saw her.’

So Trevor Vaughan was the other bachelor. ‘Paul and Trevor, have they got girlfriends?’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. All I do know is that they both still live at home.’

‘What keeps them together as a group?’

‘Ken and Gordon, probably. Trevor was Ken’s best mate, Les was Gordon’s. They’ve just kept together from school. Paul and Boon got to tag along.’

I hadn’t seen Boon Paterson, so I had to exclude him from the mental line-up. Four of them fitted there, worked as a loose match. I could imagine them pictured in a local newspaper, a group shot of young rotarians handing over a large-format cheque to a good cause. But Paul Evans stayed out of the shot. Why were they associating with a lunk like that? What would a bunch of young countryfolk require muscle for?

I moved my hands in front of him as if I was drawing open a concertina. ‘In a range that spans monsters to saints, where would you place them?’

He smiled, not needing to think about it. ‘Customers.’

I returned the smile dutifully. But I couldn’t shake Paul Evans from my mind. Performing a function. Pinning down the shoulders of a woman whose face I couldn’t see. Her legs thrashing wildly. For the enjoyment of the others.

‘Capaldi, we still need to talk.’

Back at the caravan, and another message from Mackay. I reset the answering machine. I was almost tempted to call him. Get this thing over with.

I picked up the receiver. Then gently put it back down again when it occurred to me that my wife might answer it.

I picked it up again, dialling the Dispatch number, just remembering what Emrys Hughes had said about the embargo he had put on the news of the minibus discovery. The news that I was supposed not to hear.

‘This is DS Capaldi.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Did Sergeant Hughes instruct you not to call me with an update on the hijacked minibus?’

‘No, Sarge – that was Inspector Morgan.’

I heard the laughter in the background. I smiled as I put the receiver down. It was good to know that I had support in lowly places.

Torches …

The thought of torches brought me out of a fitful sleep. They had to have had light.

I called headquarters in Carmarthen after breakfast. Bryn wasn’t around, but I got someone to check the transcripts of the group’s statements. Torches were mentioned. The story was that the pimp and the girl had made off with them when they did their runner.

But, according to Bryn, there had been no confrontation with the pimp. They had paid over the agreed fee up front when they arrived at the hut, and waited for the good times to roll. The girl had said that she was just going outside to use the minibus to prepare herself. Next thing they knew, both girl and pimp had managed to sneak off in the minibus.

Sneak off? I couldn’t see it. The guy could hardly have gathered up the torches without declaring some sort of intention. No matter how smashed you were, you would know the party was finishing when the lights went out.

It was like the parked minibus, the neatly stacked rubbish in the hut, the tart’s missing telephone number … Disturbances in the details. Their story was frayed at the edges. But the smell coming off it wasn’t bad enough for Jack Galbraith to keep it open. I recalled his parting admonition, warning me off any direct approach to the members of the group.

The upside of having to investigate crap cases in the boondocks that no one else wants to touch is that it gives you the autonomy to invent leads that will take you to wherever you want to be.

Which, on this Monday morning, was the service station outside Newtown where the minibus had filled up with diesel. And where they had managed to add Miss Danielle to the roster.

I showed the manager my warrant card and told him that I wanted to see the security CCTV coverage for Saturday night.

He looked at me warily, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell me that it had already been erased, or that the cameras were only there for show. ‘You people have already been to look at it.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Two big guys? One wide, one Scottish and grumpy?’