[Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
INTENT – Thursday Afternoon
Intuitive interviews are rare, but I have an instinctive
partner. Wiley keeps the doctor and nurses entertained – distracted – while we
talk to Vic Vaughn.
Vic attempts confused and almost succeeds. Nonsense phrases
and swaying head suggest insanity or evasion.
“Where are you from in Sweden?” I ask. His feigned
English is inadequate to con us.
Vic shrinks. “I’m no illegal immigrant. I’ve valid
visas from your embassy. Expensive but I pay, legally.”
“And your present job?” Kama studies him intently.
“Where is it?”
“I can’t go back – yet. I’m Stefan Mikaelsson, a
landscaper from Ince-in-Makerfield. They know.”
His gaze flicks from side to side. Kama and I interchange
our probing inquiries.
“Near Wigan. Who knows?” she asks.
I taste his fear and feel the trauma.
“The guys that need us to dive. Their identity is
unknown. Rich and Swedish but that’s all I know.”
Blood races and tattoos tingle. Inbred? Resist hasty
conclusions. There must be more.
Breathe. Don’t rush him.
“Your friend ran. Do you know why? Ellis Evans – what’s
his real name?”
“Ivan Tjäder. He fears them too. But he’s a fighter and
challenges them once. All we wanted was to race the boat.”
What does a Swedish company want with an Aberdaron fishing
boat? And divers? Not treasure. Smuggling?
“What did the couple demand?” asks Kama.
“After you completed the course?”
Stefan’s eyes dart between us. “They pay for the
training. They expect us to dive at night – for sea jewels, they say. Ivan
accuse them of lies and refuse. Call them gangsters. We all fight.”
“Where? With fists?”
My finger taps G for Gaff as he replies.
“On their yacht before sailing, by a jetty near
Llandudno. We use fists, but they have hooks and staves.” His head droops
with my heart. “Then I wake here. Confused until memories come. I can’t
leave.”
I anticipate Kama’s reply.
“You will be safe with us in Porthmadog.”
I tap my bracer studs.
I for Identity, Ivan and Intent. J for Jewels and Jetty. G
for Gaff and Gangster. S for Stefan and Staves. A for Assault and Aberdaron. W
for Wigan and Waterlogged.
JIGSAW. The investigation coming together. Or sawn into pieces?
Ysbyty Gwynedd in Bangor, Wales (Image: Daily Post)
[Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
HALESTORM – Thursday Morning
Holyhead hides hindrances I need to fathom. Reasons for the
GEE package to go via Pembroke Dock. The harbourmaster confirmed ships from Scandinavia
do dock at Holyhead, although more often in Liverpool. Still, a better port for
North Wales.
I’m being hoodwinked. Taken in by a bloody herring. My
tattoos tingle and my finger taps my bracer.
N for North Wales. B for Boats. I for Indecision. NIB or
BIN.
My coffee is empty, so I leave the café. Walk along the harbour
seeking inspiration. Seagulls screech and lorries honk. Hail has driven
shoppers inside as missiles hammer wet streets.
Officially, I’m not here – not to the penny pinchers. Damn
their interference. They are my biggest hurdle. But it’s my day-off, when I get
to relax at home – or power though bends with Kama. But she is on-duty with
Wiley – in Holyhead hearing out suspects in the fraud investigation.
Cadging a lift was easy. A chance to be with Kama – for the
drive.
So near to the hospital in Bangor, yet miles away.
Interviewing Vic Vaughn is still hindered by money counters. Austerity sucks. Ffycin nhw.
The hail lets up. A brief reminder of the weekend’s storm.
Where was the Swedish freighter during the storm? Further north. Acting
normally, even though an online search reveals the freight line and GEE have
the same parent company. Harmless? Honest?
The hunch – the stab of tattoos screams guilty. Why?
Lateral moves.
Visualize the coastline. Places to avoid. Rocks. Wreckers in
another century. Treacherous areas in the storm. The Llyn has a few – most
notably Hell’s Mouth, or Porth Neigwl.
Valuable cargoes looted. Hijacked.
Smugglers. Defrauding customs.
The drab office block where I meet Kama and Wiley overlooks
the thrashing sea.
“We’re done here,
cariad.” Kama kisses me openly. “Wiley has a digression planned –
unofficial.”
He directs us to the squad car in the building’s carpark.
“A lead at the Bangor hospital – your lead.” He
grins at me. “Tenuously connected to ours But Bangor is on our way home.”
My tattoos tingle as warmth builds in waves.
R for Rocks and Reasons. E for Evidence and Evasion. D for
Decisive and Divers.
Plus, I for Intent and Investigation. B for Boats and
Buildings. N for North Wales.
INBRED. But in which way? Inherent or from inbreeding?
Wiley tunes the squad car radio to a local station playing
my music.
[Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
GREED – Wednesday Mid-afternoon
Göteborg is well outside my remit, but that won’t stop me. Kama might have Interpol contacts, but gentle persuasion gestures. Garden products will be on the manifest of the correct Scandinavian ship dock at Pembroke Dock. And customs will have the details.
The message request to SWP permits me to go direct.
“Detective Anwyl from North Wales Police. I’m checking
on some garden products from Göteborg and wondered if you can tell me anymore
about them, the ship and the day they arrived. The goods were dispatched to Caernarfon
yesterday.”
“I can see what we have, detective. Stay on the line
while we check.”
While the music plays, my mind delves into options. Göteborg
is one, but gaff as a weapon is another. The forensic report doesn’t mention a
weapon, but something caused the injuries and the knock-out blows.
Or does gaff mean, in slang terms, someone divulged a
secret. A motive for attempted murder? Is Ellis Evans on the run from his
attacker?
“I found your shipment, Detective Anwyl. The products
referred to garden gnomes.” My
mind spins as he continues. “The freighter from Göteborg docked on Monday,
just after the storm.”
“Was the freighter carrying anything of concern to
HMRC? Was this the only consignment for Göteborg Electric Engineers?”
A click of a keyboard. “No. It was a routine import,
and the garden gnomes were the only consignment for Göteborg Electric
Engineers. Anything else I can do for you, detective?”
Regular shipment or one-time?
“Have there been other goods for GEE in the last few months?”
More keystrokes. “Not for that company. The freighter from Göteborg
has docked here once before – last month. Do you need those details? That might
take a few minutes. Anything else, detective?”
“You can email them to me at North Wales Police. If I
have further questions, I’ll call back. Otherwise, many thanks for your
help.”
Close eyes and tweak threads. Heartbeat growing.
First reaction, drugs. The only thing that might justify
assault. Unless I am being led astray. Minimal clues, minimal evidence. One man
is missing, and one man is confused – or he is pretending to be that way. No leads
on my screen, and my tattoos are silent.
Reverse gear.
I need an excuse to leave the office to interview our
remaining victim. But he needs to say something that the penny-pushers class as
‘germane’.
His wounds. Forensics must know something relevant.
“We know there were extensive claw-like wounds on the
victims. Do you know what caused them, Liam?”
“An item made of steel, but they are uneven so not a
claw-like weapon. We found no sign of anything else that might assist our
inquiries into that. Do you have a lead?”
“A theory. A gaff – a steel hook with a handle for
landing large fish. Could that have been used?”
The suggestion stumps Liam for a moment.
“Have you found one? Send it over if you have. We need
to analyse all possible assault weapons. And a gaff has a stout handle that can
be used to hit someone, causing a concussive blow to the head.”
“As I said, it’s a theory. Now a lead that I’ll pursue.
Thanks Liam.”
But where? A vague hope that might be a red herring.
Or herring as in the fishes caught by the Aberdaron boats.
Kama walks over to my desk and places a bag beside me, winks,
then heads back to where Wiley’s team are gathered. The bag is my lunch that I forgot
to buy.
Dates, ham sandwich, and haloumi cheese.
D for Dates and Docks. H for Ham, Haloumi and Holyhead.
Why didn’t a freighter from Göteborg dock further north? Pembroke makes no sense.
Ellis Evans knows perhaps.
I for Injuries and Interview. E for Evasion and Evidence.
HIDE. Is he hiding out of greed or fear? Greed if he doesn’t
want to share with Vic Vaughn. Fear if there are people after him – hired
hands.
[Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
FRAUD – Wednesday Midday
Faking a way inside GEE’s building is as fruitless as forced entry. Nothing illegal has occurred. I have no search warrant and no reason to act on a feeling – even if the tingling tempts me.
Even before I got my first tattoo as a teenage Goth – angel wings
across my shoulders – the sensation was a guide to follow or flout with fallout.
Teeth grinding, my report is curt, and I head the bike towards
Porthmadog. The speed limit on the A487 is an urge to be challenged. Wind
buffeting as I lean into the bends. Blood pumping as the bike roars. Foresight
urges I watch out for patrol cars.
I reached CID undetected.
Kama gestures to our Detective Inspector’s office door and
signs, ‘Trouble’. I nod and point to
the kitchen. Mint tea will help.
Ffion Baines stands up to the Chief Inspector, but that must
be a point at which her position is untenable.
We knock then enter, and I bring over Ffion’s mint tea.
“Thanks, Sparkle. A pity the Chief Inspector doesn’t
drink a fitting tea. Or even black coffee like you two. I fear your current
case is using too many police hours – well, according to our penny counters at
HQ. Fatuous when I have my best team unravelling it.”
“So, we’re off the case?”
“No, Kama. They say just one should remain – and
working from the office. I have my thoughts, but what do you suggest is the
best approach?”
My eyes hold my partner’s. Tears are hiding there. And the
answer.
“I will move off the case. Only one person can resolve
this – Sparkle. Her mind can fathom this maze.”
Ffion beams at us. “My thoughts exactly. Officially, you
will be assigned to another existing case, Kama. DS Wiley Yates needs someone
with your contacts assisting him on a fraud investigation. However, I cannot
stop you two continuing to discuss this case after hours. That’s impossible when
you live together, but I urge caution around this office.”
My stomach groans. Our worst fear – excepting the other’s
death.
Who knows? We’ve suspected Ffion ever since she and Marc Anwyl,
my tad, persuaded me to join CID. But suspicions would’ve remained in this
office.
“Cautious around whom? Kama and I always discuss things
quietly.”
“That may be where the snide insinuations began. You’ve
both figured I know you’re a couple as your tad did. But we said nothing. You
have every right to be lesbians in the NWP, and nobody in this office or
station has any right to abuse you for your convictions. I’m just warning you
for the sake of your relationship.”
“And Wiley? How will his team react? Not that their frame
of mind will stop me.”
“Wiley is firm. You can trust him, but I can’t be sure
of everyone he interacts with. Just be careful, please. Thank you.”
Back at our desks, Kama messages me the latest forensic
report, then walks over to Wiley’s desk.
My eyes are unable to focus. Fuzzy. Working on the same case
was a blessing. The sting in my eyes must be hidden. Even if the pain remains –
unless our hours remain similar. Bed, beach and breakfast.
At least she won’t be distracted by Wiley, the office catch – dark, tall and single. The new DC, Vivian Utkin, is welcome to dote on him.
Focus.
Forensics confirm that the two victims may have been in the
seawater – but not for long. The black substance is pitch and there are traces
of timber as in boatbuilding. There are no new leads. Another road block.
I ring the hospital. Vic Vaughn is still behaving confused
and now fearful.
“He’s afraid that I want to sedate him,” says the
doctor. “But he won’t say why I might do that. A curious case of amnesia
might cause such behavioural frustrations, but there are so many variables. The
flux following his friend fleeing. Unknown factors.”
Fearful of another lecture, I say, “please let me know
as soon as someone can interview him, please.”
“Have you found Ellis Evans?”
“Not yet, Doctor. All our units have been alerted,
never fear. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Göteborg Electric Engineers is the only remaining lead. The Skoda Octavia is one of theirs – a fleet vehicle. No
traceable driver.
Ffyc.
Stretch that frayed mind. How was the package sent? We have
the delivery company’s details.
I ring them.
“Detective Anwyl, North Wales police here. I need to
know about a package delivered to GEE today. We know it originated in Göteborg,
Sweden, but please can you tell me where it arrived in Wales? And the contents
– were they divulged?”
“I’ll check that, but I will have to call you back. CID
where?”
“Porthmadog.”
Always suspicious when we ring, but we could be anybody –
even the Fraud Squad. That would be an irony if our case was fraud like
Wiley’s. I message my suggestion to Kama. I can visualize the grin.
The phone rings.”Dashiel Gofer here. That package originated for our company at Pembroke Dock in South Wales. I believe that it came off a freighter from Göteborg. The contents were recorded as garden products. Vague, I’m afraid. I do very much hope that I have been of assistance, Detective.”
F for Fraud and Freight. G for Göteborg and Garden. A for Amnesia.
“Very much so, and we always appreciate the help.”
GAFF. From a trick to even nautical meanings. Were the marks
made by a metal hook? Whatever the game, there were victims.
[ [Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
ESCALATION – Wednesday Early Morning
Entwined in each other’s embrace
starts a hectic day, equipping us with the energy to cope with the traumas dug
up at CID. Our Aberdaron assault case is bogged down with confused victims,
inflicting identities, and other cases taking precedence. Most are evaluated –
by money powers – as more ‘exigent’.
Results that use less resources. Austerity 101. Ffyc restraints. My case means my rules.
We have found no addresses in the
Nefyn area for the two men, and their occupations remain vague. Evidence is
elusive.
While Kama rides her Ducati motorbike into Porthmadog, I ride my Ninja to Caernarfon, heading for the address of Göteborg Electric Engineers.
The unit is on an industrial estate that exposes the decline
in UK industry. Rust and decay. Boarded up windows, chained gateways, abandoned
cars, and a few thriving businesses. GEE is not one of them.
The weeds cracking the concrete steps are the healthiest evidence
of life. Yet, the iron mesh gateway is wide open despite the other signs the
business is dead.
Heart sinking, tattoos jangling, I park the bike then try
the front entrance. Nothing – as expected.
I check the windows and side doors. Nothing. My heart ebbs.
I grit my teeth. Another dead end.
I walk back to my bike, intending to report in.
A delivery van pulls up by the unit, and the driver carries
a large box to the front door, then leaves. Does he know the unit is abandoned?
What were his instructions – if any?
I check the package, but there are no indications of what it
is. A 2x 4x 5 shipping box. The only clue are two labels. One shows the
sender’s address – GEE in Sweden, who must know their UK subsidiary’s correct
address. The second is a FRAGILE – FREIGHT label.
My tattoos warn me to leave so I drive to a position from where
I observe the building. Report in as I watch.
“This address for GEE is for an abandoned unit. But a
van has just made a delivery as if it will be collected. Number plate and
details memorized. I’ll wait and see. Smiles.”
Time drags with background traffic noise and seagulls. Beach
noises win. Visions of sand and beautiful shells.
My mobile rings. The PCSO on-duty at the hospital.
“We endeavoured to stop him, but Ellis Evans checked
himself out without giving us a clear idea of where to reach him. Vic Vaughn is
still here and making no sense. If he attempts to leave in similar
circumstances, I will attempt to dissuade him more effectively. I’m sorry I let
you down.”
“You didn’t. Nobody knew that he would do that. I’ll
make sure we locate him.”
“Diolch. I
believe that with your reputation.”
Ellis Evans – the man whose clothes I failed to check. My
stomach tenses – twists. Too late now. Forensics should have done their job
anyway.
I close my eyes. Another fail DI Ffion Baines will struggle
to explain to the Chief Constable.
The sound of a vehicle turning into the unit’s yard pulls me back to my stakeout. It’s a Skoda Octavia Estate 4 x 4 with GEE signage. The driver gets out and retrieves the package. She’s tall, elegant and athletic, 5’11” – fitting the exotic description the diving trainer gave our SWP colleague.
“Package retrieved. Following vehicle and suspect matching SWP description. Will send photo of licence plate. Track me please, cariad.”
The 4 x 4 is unaware of the tail and leads me to an
industrial park on the outskirts. Smarter, newer, flourishing businesses,
including the North Wales offices of GEE. Security is evident everywhere, from
CCTV to guards.
What is being protected? GEE hardly registered in our
checks. No alerts. No criminal records. No evidence of felonious intent. Who
are they?
F for Freight, Felony and Fragile. G for Göteborg. E for
Electronics and Ellis Evans. Plus, Escalation and Evasion. I for Identity and
Instructor. N for Nefyn and Nowhere.
FEIGN. Who is attempting to deceive us? Someone is playing
games and my tattoos say we are not the Home team nor is this Eirias Stadium.
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
COMA – Tuesday Late Afternoon
“Coma complications?” Not what I want to hear.
“Still unconscious?”
The doctor is quick to clarify. “No, they’re awake but
confused. It may not be worth you coming back in – at least not again today. I’ll
tell your uniformed colleague to call you.”
“Can they talk? What have they said?” My tattoos
stab me. I dread his reply.
“Nothing significant. They are rambling and can’t even
remember their names and I would prefer that they are not pressured into
remembering. My preliminary diagnosis is retrograde amnesia. They have both
lost a substantial proportion of their declarative memory, especially their
autobiographical recollections.”
He launches into a detailed description of how the brain
functions. Enough for me to know they have post-traumatic brain injuries from a
blow to the head. Concussion.
Unravelling their identities is my task. Heart beats
quicken. My case, my challenge.
“Keep me informed of their condition, doctor. I’ll ring
if I discover anything. We have created composite images from the photos that
forensics took. Somebody will know who they are.”
Mobile off, I consider the best course. Calm the clamour of
scenarios. Alone is best – or with Kama. She must wait.
Aberdaron is a small village although tourists swell the
numbers, but someone might recognise our two men.
The church sits just above the beach and opposite are the
pubs. One seems more frequented by the locals and I approach the bar.
“Myrica Gale,” I say in Welsh, hoping they stock
the seasonal stout. I’m on-duty but who is going to report me.
The barman smiles and pours me a pint. “Perfect Welsh
but not local. Nor a tourist. Journalist?”
I laugh. “Heddlu.”
His brows lift. “Not your average copper, more like a
biker chick. Investigating the assaults?”
“I’m impressed, but publicans are a sharp lot. First, I
need to identify them.” I call up the photos on my smart phone and show
him. “Do you know them? Either of them?”
He shakes his head. “Never seen them before, and nobody
seemed to know them when the bodies were found. I don’t think they were even
tourists.”
Not what I want to hear, but there are no easy cases. That’s
the challenge – the charge to my life.
“I also need to find a local boat builder – clinker
boats.”
“Our Aberdaron beach boats, not many of those left.
Even fewer builders. You’re best asking at the Porth y Swnt Visitor Centre –
they have one of the boats there. And they might have a list of builders.”
With his directions, I find the centre and the clinker-built
exhibit.
A guide approaches me.
“Beautiful boat,” she says in English.
I detect her lilt and reply in our mutual tongue.
“Clinker built. She must be old. Are there many builders left?” I
show her my warrant card.
Relief floods her face. “I expected you to be a
tourist. Sorry. I’ve never met a police woman like you.” Her blushing face
appeals, but it’s not attraction. “Over 100 years old and there are very
few builders. Most of the boats are restored in Porth Meudwy, but this exhibit was
restored at Felin Uchaf Educational Centre in Rhoshirwaun near Pwllheli.”
Stay focused. “And are the restoration techniques unchanged?
I’m following a lead into boat building.” Attractions are dangerous. But one
risk was worthwhile.
“Pretty much traditional. Best to ask the builders
themselves, starting with Guto Thomas at Meudwy.”
The National Trust track to the cove is closed to the public
vehicles but not to me or my motorbike. Clinker built lobster boats on trailers
line one side near a single stone cottage. Beyond beside the sea are a couple
of old Land Rovers and the tractors for launching the boats including the ferry
to Bardsey Island.
I find a man working on a boat – he’s about forty, five foot
six, black hair and wiry. Clean Celtic blue coveralls.
“Guto Thomas? I’m DC Anwyl,” My Welsh relaxes him. “The
Visitors Centre said you might be able to help. I’m investigating the Aberdaron assaults and I
need to learn about the Aberdaron boats. One of the men may have been building
one.”
A long shot but my instinct – my tattoos – have never lied.
Maybe they’re misleading if I misread them. Caution is for colleagues. But my
head says careless kills.
His dark eyes read me. “Well. our traditional Aberdaron beach
boat was clinker built, transom sterned and single masted, and under 15 feet in
length so they could be handled by two men.” He pauses but I don’t curb his
enthusiasm. “Each one was slightly different as they were built specifically
for the individual fisherman who would be using them. We only restore them now…although
there a few replicas. Not the real boat.”
Memorise the details. My tattoos cry ‘continue’.
“Do you all use traditional materials in the restoration?
Pitch or tar for instance.”
“Most do, but some take short cuts – not that a layman would
notice. I still use pitch over the caulking. Others use the modern
alternatives. You suspect a builder was involved?”
“One of the victims might have been in contact with pitch.” I
hand him my smartphone with the photos.
Guto studies the two guys. “These guys asked my advice as they
wanted to rebuild an old lobster boat, one of them had bought.”
“Did they give their names or where they were from.”
“Not local but from the Llŷn – Nefyn area. They said they
were… Ellis Evans and Vic Vaughn.”
Fairly common names but a valuable step forward.
“Did they come here more than once? When did you last see
them?”
He glances at a chandler’s calendar. “Last week, on Monday.
I showed them how to seal the hull with caulking and pitch.”
A sigh. Relief my tattoo hunch works.
P for Pitch. But no motive for the A for Assault – or A for
Accident. Minimal evidence and confused victims. E for Evidence. C for
Confusion.
PACE. Never waver. Dig deeper.
“Were they far enough advanced with the boat to try to launch
at the weekend – before the storm?”
Guto shakes his head. “Impossible. They were slow workers.
Enthusiastic but amateurs who might have ignored the storm warnings. But they
said they had to go to Cardiff for a midweek deep-water diving course.”
Cardiff is almost 200 miles from Aberdaron. Did they go on
the course?
As a wild swimmer, I know about the dangers of diving. Decompression?
Writing Wings 