This Thing of Darkness (81 page)

Chief, corpses.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blanch.

Questions fly.

I’ve excluded Davison from the list of principals. Why?

‘I think he’s part of their operational staff. Perhaps something like the chief operating officer type. Or a core part of the way they communicate. But I can’t be sure. This is all still speculative.’

Do I think the five businessmen I’ve identified constitute the entire group?

‘I’m not sure. But no, we’ve no reason to think that.’

I have another booklet with me and hand it out.

Known Associates of the Hypothetical Principals
. A list that includes the names of my long-standing targets: Ivor Harris. Trevor Yergin. Huw Allsop. Ben Rossiter. Joe Johnson. A dozen others. Many of those names – probably most – will prove to be completely innocent. But it’s a list of the people with the densest links, social and professional, with our five principals. The booklet contains data on each one. Forty-five close-typed pages of research.

Further questions.

Further answers.

These are intelligent officers whose training inclines them to distrust wild speculation.

After ten minutes, the chief looks at his watch for the fourth time.

‘I’m sorry.’ Standing up. ‘I’ve got a thing I’m already late for.’

Jackson holds up a restraining finger. ‘Adrian, you’re the organised crime expert. What do you make of this?’

Brattenbury hefts my booklets in his hands. Looks at Cesca’s photos again.

‘Needs work, of course. But gut instinct? At this stage? I’d have to say yes. Yes definitely.’

‘Rhiannon?’

‘I can only really speak for Abacus and Zorro. But yes. Do the cases have the same feel? The same organisational flavour? Yes, I think they do.’

‘Chief?’

The chief doesn’t answer. Not directly. To me, he says, ‘Good work.’ Tries to remember my name. Can’t. Says, ‘Good work,’ again to make up.

Then turns to Jackson’s enquiring face.

Breathes out. A long exhalation.

Then, ‘Tell me what you need, Dennis. Just tell me what you need.’

71

Boughrood. A small village on the turn of the Wye. A row of white cottages on one side. Some modern things, whitewashed and angular, on the other.

A village shop. A bridge. Green hills rising all around.

It’s very quiet. It’s Christmas Day.

I’m in an unmarked van with DCI Jackson. It’s not really his job to be here. This is Watkins’s case. But Watkins wanted the day at home with Cal – her fiancée, as she is now – while Jackson’s wife is away on a three week visit to Oz, seeing her sister, and Jackson didn’t want to sit around getting pissed with his daughter and her ‘terrible’ boyfriend.

Jackson has his seat shoved back as far as it’ll go.

‘Imagine it. Growing up here. A place like this. You swim in the river. Go messing about on the hills. Do whatever kids do. How do you get from all that to this?’

This: he means the last twist of Operation Zorro.

Plas-y-Brenin is the biggest climbing centre in Wales. Loads of kids have passed through its doors, been introduced to rock for the first time.

And, because kids like souvenirs, the centre produced T-shirts with the corporate logo. Each year, a slightly different design.

We traced the design of the Stonemonkey’s T-shirt to a specific year, 1997. Then obtained lists of all those who had used the centre’s services that year – literally thousands of names. But also got records of staff members. The climbing instructors, an itinerant bunch.

We tracked them down. Asked them about any kids who made a big impression on them in the course of that year.

Not everyone had an answer. Those that did, didn’t always give the kind of answer that was helpful: mentioning, for example, a partially sighted girl, whose grace and courage had impressed everyone at the centre.

But one name cropped up more than once. Dylan MacLeod. Scottish father, Welsh mother. Eleven years old, something like that. And extraordinary. Clearly, even at that age, extraordinary.

‘I mean, he was just about competition level for his age group by the time he left the centre. Balance like you’ve never seen. Totally without fear. Really calm. This kind of laserlike focus. And strong, you know. Climbing strength normally takes time to build. We used to see older teenagers who came out of some city gym, all bulging with muscles, only to discover that they couldn’t actually climb squat. This kid had never been on a crag before, and he was pulling moves that no one else in his group could even think about.’

The guy who told us that – a genial outdoorsman, Roy Fawcett, now employed as a PE teacher in a village school outside Sheffield – said that it had been impossible to integrate MacLeod into the group of novices he’d arrived with. The two of them – Fawcett and MacLeod – ended up climbing together all that week.

‘We started on the normal kid stuff. By the end of the week, we were climbing E1, E2. I mean, except that MacLeod didn’t yet have a long reach, and his fitness wasn’t there yet, he wasn’t so far off climbing at my level, and I thought I was pretty much OK. At the end of the week, he said to me, “This is what I’m going to do with my life. I’m going to get rich and be the world’s best rock climber.” I mean’ – and here Fawcett’s tone acquired a gritty, schoolmaster’s edge – ‘I didn’t
like
those ambitions. Neither of them. Good climbers climb for the sake of it, not for anything else. But he did have talent, no question.’

We investigated MacLeod’s subsequent career, as far as we could trace it.

It showed the kind of trajectory we’d been seeking. A kid obsessed. Talented. A child who started skipping school so he could hitchhike up to North Wales or the Peak District to climb. Sometimes with friends. Just as often, it seems, on unroped solos.

He wasn’t close to his father, who left home in 1999 and never returned. He was, kind of, close to his mother, except that his trips away climbing became ever longer, his stays at home ever shorter. From 2008 onwards, he was hardly ever seen in the village of his birth. The last time he came, he drove a yellow Lotus Elan, only rented, but still.

These discoveries enabled us to intercept all communications into that little Boughrood cottage. The authorities don’t normally like handing out warrants letting us bug Person A in the hope of getting at Person B, but the circumstances here were compelling.

And – a strange, unhappy piece of luck – Mrs MacLeod, Bethan, a long-term lupus sufferer, may be dying. Poor diet, a lack of exercise and a mild smoking habit have combined to give her a nasty case of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. She’s on bottled oxygen ten hours a day. Her doctors are not optimistic.

Two days ago, the twenty-third, we intercepted a call.

Under the rules attached to our interception warrant, we have just fifteen seconds to determine if the caller is our target. On this call, however, we needed only about three of those fifteen seconds. The caller began, ‘Hi, Mum . . .’

Our guy, Dylan MacLeod, the Stonemonkey, was coming home. A last, sad farewell.

We have twelve officers in the village now, including six firearms officers. Further resources available on call from Brecon. Audio and video feeds in Bethan MacLeod’s cottage. The back of our van now has three monitors, speakers, radio equipment.

As Jackson talks, a six-year-old on a new bike wobbles precariously down the road towards the bridge, chased by a laughing father.

A bike with a wobbly six-year-old going one way. A silver Lotus coming from the other.

Jackson and I look at each other.

‘Merry Christmas, Dylan MacLeod,’ he says.

We do nothing. The plan is to let Macleod enter the cottage, because we don’t know if he’s armed and static arrests are more easily controlled than ones where the suspect has any chance to run or drive.

MacLeod parks. Enters the cottage.

Jackson and I, moving through to the back of the van, watch as MacLeod greets his mother. Affection and love and sadness and goodbyes.

We watch for a bit, then Jackson reaches for the radio.

I say, ‘Boss?’

He stares at me. ‘Really?’ But he shakes his head, and when he clicks his Talk button, he says, ‘All officers, Fiona Griffiths here wants to let our guy have Christmas lunch with his mum. Now I don’t care, because I don’t have any place I particularly want to be right now. But you lot do. It’s your call. Let them have their last lunch together or go in and pick him up now?’

There are three other units. One round the corner in Beeches Park. Another on the hill out of the village. A third at the back of the little row of cottages, guarding the exit to the river.

One by one the three units discuss the matter, then report back.

‘OK with us, boss.’

‘Yeah, let’s give ’em their lunch.’

‘Fair enough. It’s Christmas.’

‘OK. He’s got till three o’clock. Don’t switch off.’

Jackson clicks the radio off. Looks at me. Laughs.

‘Did you bring sandwiches?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

We stay in the van’s dark back looking at the monitor.

A bottle of wine. Something in the oven. Bethan MacLeod’s laboured breathing. Her son, a killer, tender and sad.

‘Wonder what they’re having,’ says Jackson. ‘Can’t be turkey. Not for two of them.’

It’s uncomfortable in the back and Jackson finds a way to rip the monitor from its fixing and trails the wires forward, so we can sit in the front and watch the quiet street, while the monitor burbles.

Dylan MacLeod opens wine, peels carrots.

The six-year-old cyclist comes back.

Bethan MacLeod checks the oven. Says, ‘Five minutes.’

The carrots go on to boil.

‘Chicken, could be,’ says Jackson. ‘Roast chicken. My wife does it with lemon and some kind of herbs. Really moist. Tangy.’

The back of our van starts to be gently agitated.

I look out. A big black Staffordshire terrier is gnawing our tyre.

‘Sir, what’s the correct operating procedure if a big black dog is trying to eat our van?’

‘You explain that he’s committing an offence and you require him to cease and desist.’

I get out. The dog’s name tag says he’s called Tuggy and a much-chewed green toy lies at his feet.

I say, ‘DCI Jackson says you’re committing an offence and you’re to cease and desist.’

He ceases, but it’s a bit early to tell whether he’s planning to desist. I try throwing the toy, but he has no interest in it. He licks my hand.

A man – grey-hair, old flannel shirt – approaches. Says, ‘Not the most sociable day for a stake-out.’

Before I can tell him that this definitely isn’t a stake-out, he opens his wallet and shows me his Police Federation card. ‘Traffic officer for twenty years. Then ran the Brecon custody suite.’

I let Jackson deal with the guy. Jackson admits that there’s a police presence in the village, but says we’re keeping it quiet.

‘Not like the lad in the Lotus, eh?’

Jackson laughs and says nothing.

The man leaves.

I don’t know what’s happened to the dog, but he’s no longer eating our van.

I get back inside.

‘Chicken, but from a packet,’ says Jackson, disappointed. ‘That’s not right, is it?’

Since the mother is dying of obstructive lung disease and the son is on the run from multiple police forces, I think that packet chicken is the least of their worries.

We sit in the van and watch the road and I listen to Jackson talking about food.

It’s a peaceful place. Nicer than Cardiff, I think. And Jackson is right: what makes a kid from here want to do what MacLeod did? I don’t know.

The Police Federation guy approaches with a woman, his wife I assume, following on behind. Jackson winds down the window. The woman has two plates of food – turkey, roast potatoes, gravy, veg, stuffing, cranberry sauce. Knives and forks. Paper napkins.

‘I hope this is OK,’ she says. ‘We just thought you couldn’t sit there and go without. You can have a drink if you want it . . .’

‘Oh, Lord, this looks all right. No, no drinks for us. Stuffing as well! What’s your name? Sian? Sian, this looks amazing. A Queen’s Police Medal for you, I reckon.’

They go. We eat. I don’t eat much. Pick at my food until Jackson says, ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ and takes the plate from my hands. Finishes everything on it.

I say, ‘I was saving that.’

Time creeps forward.

Bethan asks her son about his year. He ducks the bigger issues – murder, torture, fleeing from justice – and talks about climbing.

Those Alpine sunsets.

Jackson jabs a knife at the screen. ‘He sounds OK, really. I mean, you listen to him here, you wouldn’t think he’s done what he’s done.’

Christmas angels remove our plates. Bring pudding and cream and mince pies.

We keep pace, more or less, with the MacLeods. On the radio, the boys in the other vans are grumbling at their foodlessness. Jackson and I say nothing.

I don’t eat any Christmas pudding but keep Jackson away from my mince pie with the point of my fork.

‘No wonder you’re tiny. You don’t eat anything,’ he complains.

‘You sound like my mam.’

Three o’clock approaches. The MacLeods are on coffee now.

Jackson reaches for the radio. Speaks to the officers behind the cottage. Tells them to ‘Get close, get tight. Safeties on, please, gents. We are
not
expecting resistance.’

A video feed from the unit shows us what they’re seeing. A steep embankment. Some closeboard fencing. Then the French windows at the back of the cottage. The MacLeods within.

Jackson calls the other units into position. The street, so empty for so long, is suddenly thickened by our presence. Black jackets. Fluorescent strips. Weapons pointed at the ground, but still visible.

Jackson is about to order the final approach, when something alerts Dylan MacLeod to our presence. Perhaps a flash from the garden. Perhaps a reflection from the street outside.

In any case, he goes to the French windows. Stares out.

‘OK, boys. Show yourselves,’ says Jackson. ‘You can show your weapons, but don’t point them.’

MacLeod stands at the window long enough to see all he needs. Moves to the other side of the small cottage, sees our presence.

Dense. Inescapable. Final.

A climb without exit.

He looks at the living room wall, suddenly wondering, too late, about surveillance. Speaking to the wall, he whispers, ‘Give me a moment.’ He chooses the wrong wall as it happens, but we catch the echo.

He goes to his mum.

Hugs her long and wordlessly.

‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’

‘Already? I thought . . .’

‘Yeah, so did I. But something’s come up. I love you, Mum. Thanks for absolutely everything.’

Pulls away.

The radio in the house is playing something slow and sad. Like one of the slower, sadder bits of
Rhapsody in Blue
. Prison blue.

A pale, golden sunshine gilds the street.

MacLeod gets his coat. Reaches for his car keys, but then – rueful smile – realises he doesn’t need them. Takes them anyway.

Leaves the living room. Steps into the front hall, heading for the door.

Jackson turns to me. ‘Well?’

‘Sir?’

‘Well, Sergeant, I believe I asked you to arrest Peter Pan.’

So I get out of the van, and do just that.