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“Um, no. I’m with the Times.” I pulled out my badge and showed him.
“Most of the reporters left weeks ago.” His pale, watery eyes narrowed. “The school won’t answer any questions.”
“I didn’t think they would, but I just wanted to get a feel for everything.”
“If you don’t mind, moving on. It makes parents nervous to have unfamiliar cars in the car park.”
“Of course not,” I said.
“I’m afraid the case has gone cold,” DC Havard said. “It’s best not to stir things up.”
“But they never found any bodies. The girls could still be alive.”
“Statistics would prove otherwise.”
“That seems like a poor excuse,” I said, taking an instant dislike to the man.
“Detectives are still working on it, but there’s no place for the press, ma’am. You’ll just upset the families. You should go back to London.”
“It’s my right as a journalist to be here.”
“Regardless, you’re not wanted.”
“Fine, I’ll move.” I closed the window and started my car.
Prick.
I headed away from the school toward Herbrandston. Anwen Bowen, the first girl to go missing, was from there. She had been gone for over three months. The statement from her parents to the police stated she left the house at seven-thirty in the morning to walk to the bus stop but never got on the bus. They didn’t know anything was wrong until they received an automated phone call reporting their daughter’s absence from school.
The town itself felt isolated. Surrounded by refineries and old forts, it had an out-of-date feel, like it had seen its best days and was barely hanging on. I drove by Anwen’s house, which was small and unremarkable. Set away from other homes, it would be easy to see how someone could have taken her.
I continued on and found a pub at the end of the village street, The Taberna Inn, and went inside to warm up. Taking a seat at the bar, I ordered a pint.
“I hear you’ve been busy asking questions,” a gentleman said, sitting down next to me.
I looked over at him. He was good-looking with an immaculate gray suit, dark hair perfectly combed, and stunning blue eyes.
“DCS Morgan Davies,” he said, ordering a tonic water with lime.
“I see you’ve spoken to your DC,” I said.
“He told me a pretty American girl was asking questions. You were easy enough to find.”
Pretty was not the usual adjective given to describe me. Dark, yes. Icy even better. But not pretty. “Navy Bardot,” I introduced myself. “I work for the Times in London.”
“DC Havard said as much.” He took a sip of his drink. “I worked in London for a while before coming back to Pembrokeshire. It’s a big city with lots of opportunity, but I missed the feel of a smaller community.”
“What part of London?”
“Newham.” He pulled a pocket knife out from inside his suit jacket and used it to pick a small speck of dirt from underneath his fingernail with the tip of the blade.
“That’s a dangerous area.”
“You’re telling me. It’s a relief to be out of there. Plus, moving back home came with a job promotion.”
“Don’t you miss all the hustle and bustle of a big city?”
“No,” he said, wiping the blade of his knife on a handkerchief before folding it up and returning it to his pocket. “I prefer the peace and quiet.”
