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Chapter 17
Monday 8th February
Cardiff Central Police Station
‘Three weeks today.Three weeks. Shit.’
DCI Bryn Lewis sinks his head into his hands, then rubs his eyes and sits up straight again, turning to look at the colleague who’s just been updating him on the latest research into possible victims of the promised March the 1st murder. Sergeant Hari Hughes is sharp and keen and is working towards joining CID, and he had begged to be involved in the investigation –‘somehow, anyhow!’–a plea which Bryn hadn’t had the heart to turn down. He remembers what it was like to be on the sidelines when a major case was going on, and Hari has already proved himself. The information he’s just handed Bryn may not, in the end, result in a life being saved, but it’s certainly a good start.
‘I know. Three weeks is pretty scary. But, well, we can only do what we can do with such limited information, can’t we?’ Hari’s saying now. He’s a short, stocky man with a neatly trimmed goatee and a gym-honed physique. They both have mugs of coffee on the table in front of them, but while Bryn has already nibbled his way through three ginger nut biscuits, Hari waved the plate away when it was offered to him, focussed instead on his notes.
‘I mean, there are probably three to four thousand adult men called David in Cardiff, and that’s likely a low estimate,’ he says. ‘It was a really popular name here between the 1930s and 1990s, then dipped a bit. But it started to grow in popularity again from 2007 onwards, I’m not sure why. Anyway, there’s alotof them. But if we’re going with this theory for now, that this could be something to do with a parent with a crime connection, well, it’s helped narrow them down a bit. We’ll have missed loads of people off this list, there’s no doubt about that. But if we can warn some of them at least … I mean, if itisone of them who’s being targeted, and we can somehow get them out of the city for the twenty-four hours in question, we’d foil this killer, wouldn’t we?’
Bryn smiles, trying to look a little more positive than he’s feeling, and wipes a biscuit crumb from his lower lip.
‘We would. It’s a massive long shot though. And I’m still not quite sure how we’re going to do even that without causing mass panic. Here, let me see that list again.’
Hari pushes a sheet of paper across the table, and Bryn slowly reads down the list of names. It’s an eclectic one: there’s David Evans, son of Alwyn Evans, crime reporter for BBC Cymru Wales for the past thirty years; David Morgan, son of Helen Morgan, a notorious brothel madam who made millions running a string of massage parlours in Cardiff and then famously went on the run after being accused of human trafficking; Dai James, whose father Gwyn runs James and James Solicitors with his brother Martyn, their criminal defence firm specialising in money laundering, drugs, and robbery cases. Further down the list are sons of crown court judges, a documentary film maker, a well-known criminal psychologist, an award-winning Welsh fashion designer who committed suicide in prison after being jailed for sexually assaulting young models … Bryn nods slowly as he reads the rest.
All good suggestions, good possibilities, he thinks.But only if this ‘well-known parent, alive or dead, with a crime connection’ theory is true … and even if it is, how do we even begin to find them all, all of these Davids, in the next three weeks? And then somehow protect them all? It’s madness …
‘It’s good, Hari,’ he says. ‘What aboutus, though? If the David in question is a police officer’s son, we’re stuffed. There’ll be loads of us who’ve called our kids that name, but we’ll need every last man and woman on duty that day; it’s not like we can give them all the day off to protect their offspring, which is what they’ll want to do if we tell them about this.’
‘I know,’ says Hari, and sighs. ‘We did think of that too, obviously. But, if the theory is correct, it’s well-known,prominentparents. We looked at all the highest-ranking officers in the force, from Chief Superintendent upwards, and there’s only a handful who’ve actually got adult sons called David, as it happens. A few with younger kids with that name, but we’re assuming this killer isn’t targeting children, aren’t we? The names of those officers are on a separate page. Here, look.’
‘We’re assuming a lot at the moment,’ says Bryn gloomily, taking the second list. ‘All we can do, I suppose.’
‘It is,’ says Hari. ‘And it’s how far you go, too. For example, what if one of our police officers is called Davidhimself, and he had a parent who was also a police officer and well-known back in the day? It could be a serving police officer who’s at risk from this killer, not just his offspring … It makes my head hurt.’
‘Christ. Mine too,’ says Bryn, again feeling beaten by the futility of what they were trying to achieve. ‘OK, well thanks for that anyway. Good work, Hari. In terms of the force, this threat is still being kept largely under wraps as you’re aware; it’s on a need-to-know basis right now. But I think we will have to warn those more high-profile officers with sons called David at least, to tell them to be on guard on the 1st of March … Leave it with me. We need to work out how best to do that without causing undue alarm, and even more so when it comes to alerting those civilians you’ve identified. But your thoroughness is much appreciated.’
Hari grins, looking gratified.
‘And who knows?’ he says, as he stands up to leave. ‘Thames Valley or West Midlands might even track him down before he gets here, eh? There’s still three weeks, as you say. A lot can happen in three weeks.’
Bryn holds up his right hand, and firmly crosses his index finger over his middle finger.
‘Fingers crossed,’ he says. ‘Fingers bloody crossed.’
***
Cheltenham Central Police Station
Family liaison officer Jess Gordon has just got up from her desk to make a cup of tea when her phone rings. She tuts and wonders whether she might ignore it –after all, she thinks,they’ll call back if it’s important, won’t they?– then sighs and reaches for the handset without looking at the caller ID.
‘Jess Gordon,’ she says.
‘Jess? Jess, I need help, I’m sorry …’
The voice on the other end of the line is shaky and tearful, and for a moment Jess doesn’t recognise it. Then it clicks.
‘Mary? Is that you? What’s happened?’
‘Yes, it’s me, sorry. It’s Mary, Mary Ellis. I need to talk to you, urgently …’
Mary gulps, as if trying to catch her breath, and Jess sinks slowly back down onto her chair.
‘OK, Mary, don’t panic. Are you safe? Do you need urgent assistance? What’s going on?’
‘No, it’s OK,’ says Mary, and Jess hears her gulp in more air. ‘I’m safe. It’s just … something’s happened. Somebody’s sent me something else, this morning, in the post. And I’m frightened, Jess. I’mreallyfrightened now.’
