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‘Still in shock, I think,’ he replies.
He’s already ordered a mixed platter of crackers, meats, and cheeses, and a pot of tea for two, and he pours me a cup and offers me milk and sugar, before helping himself to some food. He’s a good-looking man, probably in his late thirties, and sporting, like David did in the photos I’ve seen of him, a neatly trimmed beard, although Darren’s is dark. He’s wearing a denim shirt, a leather jacket slung over the spare seat next to him, and he has a heart-shaped signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. His eyes look sad.
‘I still can’t get my head round it,’ he says, once we’ve both had a few sips of tea. ‘It seems so senseless. Why kill him, and not take anything, or break in, or … well, there just seems no reason for it. It’s just … sick.’
His accent isn’t Welsh – I think it’s West Country, maybe Devon, and has a soft burr.
‘I know. I’m so sorry. The police seem baffled too, which is why I’ve taken an interest,’ I say.
I pause, not wanting to elaborate too much on why I’m writing the article, but he’s nodding.
‘And I appreciate that, as do his parents. I did run this past them, after I spoke to you, just to make sure they were OK with me talking to you, but they were fine with it. They’re like me – they think that any publicity we can get can only help.Somebodyout there knows who did this, and why, don’t they?’
‘They do. So, can you tell me a bit about David? About his background, hobbies, that sort of thing, just to get us started?’
I pull my notebook and pen out of my bag, deciding the café is a little too noisy for the voice recorder, and open the pad at a fresh page. Darren sighs.
‘Sure. I mean, he was just an ordinary guy really. Nice working-class family, did OK at school but sport was always his thing. He was on the school football team, and he was good at athletics too; he still has a drawerful of medals he won for the hundred metres, the high jump, all sorts.’
He grimaces.
‘Sorry, hehada drawerful of medals. I can’t believe I have to talk about him in the past tense now, it’s just … ridiculous. Anyway, he did his A levels and then went on to do some sort of personal trainer diploma and worked in various gyms around Cardiff for years. He came out as gay in his mid-twenties, I think, and there was a bit of the usual hassle around that, you know. Twenty years ago things were a bit different to nowadays. I’m not sure his dad took it very well at first, but David said he soon came round; he’s a decent bloke, Paul – he was always very good to me. We’re still pally now. So, you know, David’s life was fairly standard, I suppose. He worked hard, had a few relationships, enjoyed a night out now and again and the odd holiday – Spain, Portugal, nothing too exotic. And then of course his parents won the lottery, so that made everything a bit easier. They helped him set up The Fit Joint, and that was a new lease of life for him. He still worked really hard – he was usually in his office at 5am. But being his own boss, seeing his business grow … he just loved it.’
Darren’s voice cracks, and he stops talking for a few moments, obviously struggling to compose himself. I don’t say anything, cutting a piece of Camembert and putting it on a cracker, giving him time, until finally he takes a deep breath and says:
‘Sorry. This is hard. We met a little while after he set up The Fit Joint. It was at a dinner party with mutual friends who thought we’d hit it off, and they were right. I don’t really believe in love at first sight, but it was definitely lust, and things progressed pretty quickly. But eighteen months or so down the line, I don’t know … something changed. I started to yearn for a family, to have kids, you know? And for David, that just wasn’t on the agenda. He liked life as it was, and children were never in his plans. And so we gradually drifted apart, and finally it just ended. We stayed friends though – and I meanrealfriends. I’m with a guy called Eric now, and we’re hoping to get married and maybe try to start a family soon …’
His cheeks flush a little as he says this, and I smile.
‘That’s great. I’m happy for you,’ I say.
‘David was too,’ he says. ‘He really was. He liked Eric a lot, and he was genuinely pleased that things had worked out for me. I was planning to ask him to be godfather, if we’d been lucky enough to have a baby, but now …’
His voice breaks again, and this time his eyes fill with tears.
‘Shit.Shit. Why the hell did this happen to him?’ he hisses, then hastily looks around the café, as if checking that his language hasn’t offended anyone, but nobody seems to be looking at us.
‘I really don’t know. I wish I did,’ I say.
We pause to eat a little of the food, and then start chatting again, but just like in my interviews with Lisa Turner’s brother and Jane Holland’s cousin, there’s nothing in anything I learn about David Howells that rings any bells, no connection that I can see between any of us. A barrister, a casino boss, the owner of a fitness business, and a crime writer. No common ground, no common friends or interests, no shared history. Nothing.
When we say goodbye, and Darren walks off down the High Street, shoulders hunched against a rain-spattered wind that’s sprung up while we’ve been talking, I sit in my car for several minutes, staring into space, my mind whirring, thinking about Darren’s anguished question.
Why the hell did this happen to him?
If I do get to confront this killer, will he tell me?I wonder.
Will he finally answer the question that we’ve all been asking, since the very beginning? Will he tell uswhy? If it’s somehow connected to our parents, after all? Or if it’s us, specifically, he’s after? Lisa Turner, Jane Holland, David Howells.
And Mary Ellis.
Who he can’t kill, because she’s not here.
I start the engine and pull away slowly, trying to breathe deeply. I feel more confused than ever, I realise. I want to do somethinggood, something that might make a real difference. But am I completely insane to even think of confronting this madman? My hand shaking, I press the handsfree button on my steering wheel and call Pete.
