Blood and Stone (20 page)

‘Sorry,' said Mariner. ‘A false trail you could have done without.'

Griffith dismissed the apology. ‘You weren't to know. It might have been the breakthrough we needed.' There seemed no hint of satisfaction in his voice and Mariner sensed that his disappointment was genuinely shared.

‘So, aside from that possible motive, it could be that Theo Ashton was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?' he speculated, following the same thought processes as he would in Griffith's shoes.

‘That's about all we're left with,' Griffith said. ‘The possibility that he heard or saw something he shouldn't have, either at the time he was killed or prior to it. The lad was a keen artist. He liked to draw the birds and had set up some nesting boxes in the woods that he spent time observing. It was common knowledge amongst anyone who knew him that he was often in the woods in the early hours.'

‘And you're happy about Hennessey?' Mariner asked.

‘I'm not sure if happy's the right word, but we can't place him at the scene when Theo Ashton was killed. Around that time I understand he was being provided with comprehensive room service by Megan, the bar maid at the White Hart.'

The two men parted company at the entrance to the hall, and Griffith, hands shoved deep in his pockets, headed up towards the MIU.

‘I hope you get your break soon,' Mariner called after him, and got a nod in response. He didn't envy Griffith the task ahead. The way the weather was yesterday it was unlikely that there would be much evidence remaining in the immediate vicinity, and the murder weapon, if discarded, could be concealed anywhere around here. Griffith would be relying on the accuracy of the time of death, piecing together Theo Ashton's last known movements and hoping that somewhere an eyewitness had seen something of significance. It wasn't possible to consider suspects without knowing more about Theo Ashton, but surely a kid of that age couldn't have had many enemies.

As he was walking away Mariner remembered the vehicle from Friday night. ‘Oh, by the way,' he called out, ‘do you know anyone around here who drives a black Range Rover?'

Puzzled by the question, Griffith shook his head, ‘No, why?'

‘There was one hanging about in the village late the night before last, trying not to be noticed.'

‘Did you get a registration?'

Mariner shook his head. ‘Too dark,' he said.

‘I'll look into it.'

‘Thanks.' Mariner walked on.

Mariner felt uneasy and slightly guilty. Elena had been right. He had come out here to get away from criminal activity, but in actual fact it was proving to be a welcome distraction. Last night, he realized, was the first time since her death that he hadn't dreamed about Anna in one way or another.

W
hile Mariner was ambling through a neighbouring village, his mobile suddenly bleeped into life. He'd forgotten to switch it off again after the discovery of Theo Ashton and must have walked into an active area. He'd decided before this holiday that he would only use his phone for emergencies and was tempted to switch it off again without checking for messages. But in the end he couldn't resist. There were a couple from his network that he deleted straight away, but there was also a voicemail from Tony Knox, typically short and to the point:
Hi, it's Tony Knox. Give us a call if you get the chance boss, some information I could do with.
The message had been left only the day before. It didn't sound urgent, but amid his grief for Anna, Mariner knew that his head had been all over the place in the last few weeks and that there was every possibility he'd overlooked something at work. Among other things he'd been putting together a couple of cases that Knox might have to present to the CPS while he was away, and could easily imagine that he could have neglected to include some piece of vital paperwork. The active area must have been a small one because when he tried to call Knox back all he got was the ‘no service' alert, but when he got to the next village he was greeted by a rare sight – a public phone box and, incredibly, one that apparently still functioned, so he used his credit card to call through to Knox's home number on the off-chance of catching him there.

‘Boss! How are you?' Knox sounded his usual ebullient self, and Mariner could picture the Sunday afternoon scene, Knox slumped on the sofa in front of the TV amid a landscape of scattered beer cans.

‘I'm fine,' Mariner said. ‘This is just what I needed – in some respects. I picked up your message.'

‘Ah.' Knox's voice dropped. This was not good news. ‘I stopped by your place,' he said. ‘I'm afraid you've had visitors.'

Shit. ‘Much damage?' Mariner asked, fearing the response.

‘Not damage as such,' Knox said. ‘Just a few missing items and a puzzle.'

‘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.'