[Music treat 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,]
SABOTAGE – Monday Midnight
Stars shining on the sea should settle our nerves.
Impossible now we are sure the scheming stinks.
“How will we find these containers you say was swept
overboard during the storm?”
Peder hands Rashmi an electronic tracker.
“Switch this on and our cargo will be transmitting a
signal. Simply follow that. When you find the cargo attach the items to the rapid
deployment lift bags. Once inflated they will bring the cargo to the surface
for retrieval. Straightforward.”
Mind racing. Hesitate from asking what the salvage is. My
senses say don’t.
“How many containers? You’ve given us eight small bags.”
“Four to search for. Two lift bags per canister.”
Pia strides over, tapping her watch. “You better leave
now.”
At the stern, we climb back down to our boat, already loaded
with the scuba tanks and lifting devices.
We cast off and raise the sails. Our craft slices apart the
sheen on the water from the moon and stars. Perfect weather.
Sudden dread as spasms seize me.
P for Panic but also Precautions. Slow breathes.
The mini-sonar directs us over the area where the cargo
should be. We lower the sea anchor and release the rapid deployment lift bags –
weighted to sink steadily on a long hawser.
A last scrupulous check of each other’s equipment, then we
drop backwards over opposite sides into the serene darkness. The beams of our
head-lamps stab into the depths.
The strengthening beeps guide our cautious descent.
When we reach the bags, we lower them. Deeper, past jagged
rocks. Seaweed. Curious fish.
Containers – canisters designed for underwater recovery. Not
just for the deck of a Swedish ship in the storm. Not swept overboard but
jettisoned.
I sign Rashmi to strap two balloons to the first container
as I adjust their regulator pressure gauges for the correct depth. Then we scrutinize
the containers. No signifying marks. Nothing to divulge the contents. But
designed for lifting straps.
However, there is a suitable slit where I insert our own
tracker – a signal we can follow. Security 101.
We open the valves on the two scuba cylinders that inflate
the bags. Swim clear as the bags lift and carry the container towards the
surface.
Same procedure with the second canister – and second
transponder. Two more balloons. Then the final two canisters.
A for Ascent.
Almost over. Tension not disappearing. Breathe slowly. Don’t
waste precious air.
Our ascent takes longer as we need a stage decompression. Longer
climb than our descent and time working on the seabed. Time enough for the
waves to have picked up above.
The beginning of a squall.
No sign of the rapid deployment lift bags.
P for Panic as my stomach churns.
But the Njörðr
Hämnaren has sailed closer. They’ve already winched the cargo aboard.
Relief and Apprehension.
We take off our tanks to simplify our return journey.
Tattoos hammer T for Timing.
“Too easy,” I say to Rashmi. “Be prepared for
anything.”
Like the semi-automatic shots that spray the sea. R for
Revenge.
Pia hails us. “Time to stay where you are, detectives. Yes, we know who you are and thank the North Wales Police for their assistance. Lagens väktare. May you swim in peace.”
I dive at Kama as I spy the carelessly stowed spare sail and
scream.
[Music treat 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,]
ROGUE – Monday Afternoon
Regatta races are never routine. Padrig’s factors are in
play as he leads us rank and file racers. We were warned. That includes the
risk awaiting us on the Swedish yacht. Ffion tried to alert us, but thrills win
every time.
Evading rivals, we jibe too violently. Lose ground – and the
wind.
Patience. Rationalize. But we like to win – whatever the
odds.
As I steer us back into the breeze, my mind dual-tracks.
Sailing and strategy. Both risky but only one roils my stomach.
Rashmi shifts her weight as my next jibe is precise.
We’re no longer last.
Will Peder and Pia Pilkvist expect better? Reject us for shit
boat-handling? Fail us – with the case wide open?
Unlikely. They implied time was tight. But They know
something.
A boat closes on us. The next turn needs to be tight. No
room for error.
Setup perfect. Jibe gentle. Danger passed.
Smiles. For now.
Mistakes have been made. We know we have a renegade copper. A
police officer with a price. Our heads?
No suspects before we left Porthmadog. None now we are on
our own.
We cut inside another boat on the next turn. Gain another
place.
Sailing might become a serious pastime. Rashmi’s beaming’s
face underlines that – if we can abandon swimming.
Never.
I glance at my watch. Not long left
Raucous cries ring from the shore. Local fans and tourists.
Drowning out the roars from crews exhorting their partners for a final push.
Our interaction is
mental. Written on our faces and in our pounding blood. We are a team.
Unstoppable.
Except in a regatta. Trailing in mid-pack – also-rans.
Padrig and his racing partner win again.
“Do we congratulate them?” I ask. But Peder and
Pia Pilkvist are waving us over to the night-black luxury sailing yacht that
looms offshore.
We lower our sails as we draw alongside. Peder motions to
the stern which rears over us. He throws us a line, and we secure our Aberdaron
boat.
A metal ladder hangs off the yacht. We climb up, past the
blood red name
“Welcome aboard the Njörðr
Hämnaren,” says Pia, simpering like a snake. “She can out-sail most yachts
in her class – when we choose to compete. Not today though.”
The couple lead us to the cockpit which I recognise as
highly automated. A necessity with a minimal crew.
“Did you sail her here alone?” I ask, wondering if
we are expected to help with the yacht.
“All the way,” says Pia. “With all the
technology installed, especially the computer-controlled electric winches
controlling the sails, it was leisurely.”
State-of-the-art navigation equipment from what I can tell.
Someone has money from somewhere. Illegal goods?
“All we lack,” says Peder, “is a
submersible.” He laughs. “Human divers are preferable – especially at
night and close to the rocks.”
So, a night dive. No witnesses. What does that mean? Has the
rogue cop set us up? Rocks are treacherous too.
Cold fingers crawl up my spine. T for Treachery.
“Our money. The risk – deep diving at night close to the
shore.” My lowered voice is not fake concern. Every tattoo screams. “Five
thousand pounds at least.”
Am I provoking a fight? Or testing their commitment? Our
worth?
“Acceptable.” Without hesitation. “But first, we move
the Njörðr Hämnaren around the coast.”
Pia’s mask slips. Warning light. “While you two check the equipment we acquired
for you. Best scuba gear available.”
An attachment on the sonar depth indicator catches my eye. Like
a vehicle tracker. My glance shifts to an out-of-place garden gnome. On a
yacht? An electronic component smuggled into Wales?
But the gnome is staged. For us.
Peter taps his watch.
“Time to run those safety checks in the aft cabin. Go
below and it’s the one nearest the stern. We will tell you when we’ve reached
the dive site.”
As we head into the plush space below, Rashmi says, “Every
sense says get off this ride. Our cover is blown. But we are reduced to one choice.
Dive.”
I squeeze her hand as we reach the smallest cabin and inside
find the scuba gear.
Brand-new with labels still attached. Staging? Sizes are
right. Air tanks are full. We run through all the checks Varley taught us.
“These gloves, boots and hood fit snugly. But we use
our own special wetsuits – for luck,” says Rashmi. “And certainty.”
S for Safety and Security. T for Treacherous and Tanks. E
for Electronics. P for Price.
[Music treat 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,]
QUAKE – Sunday Evening
Quiet meals in quaint country restaurants can sap resolve.
Not tonight when we all have questions. Like what are the sea jewels? Not
drugs.
Peder and Pia Pilkvist collected us as arranged, taking us
to a French bistro well above our normal budget. Somewhere we aren’t known.
We are encouraged to choose anything – and the wine flows
freely.
“Did you eat Latin food in Patagonia? Or Welsh?”
“Welsh with an Argentinian twist.” I smile and
add, “seafood became our favourite as it was fresh from the sea at Puerto Madryn.”
“Perfect, I recommend Quenelles de Homard.” Pia explains.
“The lobster is local, maybe from off the Aberdaron coast.”
“I prefer Caille en Escabeche,” says Peder.
“With the quail, I’m partial to the blend of Latin and French – fusion is an
art form. Spare no expense when you order. We can afford this luxury.”
And the yacht. GEE is not an overtly rich company. No high
value electrical or engineering items. Certainly not garden gnomes.
“I’ll have the Escabeche,” says Rashmi.
I choose the quenelles, but my mind is tapping my bracer. Q
for Q-ships. Not what they seem. A disguise to hide weaponry. Like Quenelles de
brochet and pike bones.
“Great choices require the right wines, “says Peder
who then talks with the sommelier in passable French.
We aren’t meant to understand. But policing tourist areas
has advantages. But nothing triggers alarms – yet.
If G is for Garden Gnomes, is W for Weapons? H for Herrings
and more bones?
“Before the wine leaves us unfit to race tomorrow, what
do you need me and Sioned for? As divers or sailors?”
Pia dips her head to her husband. We’re not meant to see as
he is asking the sommelier for a bottle of vintage rosé Champagne.
“Divers primarily,” says Pia. “Your
competitive reputation is impressive. But you will need your boat.”
Our doctored qualifications were straightforward for NWP to
upload on the Internet. Our Q-ship.
“After we race tomorrow? No sooner I hope.”
Although our participation is not vital. But I falter as if dismayed.
“Race, but then we need you. We will bring our
yacht,” says Peder. “Then we’ll take you to the dive site.”
Late afternoon or later? Warning qualms kick in.
“Before the regatta ends?” Rashmi plunges deeper. “Or later when people disperse? A night dive will cost you more.”
Pia smiles and I shiver.
“After your race, join us on our yacht. No need to
spoil this quiet meal with details.”
N for Night – W for no Witnesses. And for Warnings.
They suspect us. No more quizzing them tonight. Maybe not
even on their yacht – their Q-ship. Or is that the freighter? The ship that is
meant to be in Sweden.
Or is it? Another loose end. But we’re alone as money rules.
I attempt to quell my fears with food. By quenching a thirst
for information that alcohol only stimulates.
Keeps them chatting. They’re digging too. Why? Do they know
we’re police? Queer and a threat? Quislings.
We are being interrogated with a smile. About Patagonia.
About diving competitions.
“How long have you two been together – diving? Amazing,
your families are both from the Llŷn.”
Pia pushes – gently. A for Attitude and Alarm.
“Fate – except our families left together, so it was
inevitable we were friends at school. And on the swimming team together.”
Rashmi is inventive, but Pia’s face indicates the story is
disbelieved. Why? Who are they? More than smugglers.
S for Sail, Swim and Smugglers.
I shiver. Quake as my fears build. No coincidence.
I for Inside Information and Interrogation. R for Renegade –
the cop that ratted on us.
Who?
RAIS – raison d’être. Why betray us? Prejudice or high-value
goods? Or both?
Or RANG – ranged weapons?
In too deep without backup. The jeopardy thrills again. Quivering
and riled. Rats.
[Music treat 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,]
PREJUDICE – Sunday Early Morning
Police protection is deemed too pricey for our pay grade. Detective Inspectors might justify paying. Someone’s counting the police pennies again. And we’re not police for this practice day. We’re on our own as Sioned Wilkins and Rashmi Sharma – divers.
No bikes. A nondescript rental Vauxhall Astra parked outside
a cheap B&B in Penrhos.
When I reported to Ffion that my investigation into the
arson-robbery would have to wait, she agreed, “The assaults are our
priority. Progress that case first and prove our strategy best.”
“Finding the right clothes is a challenge. Black or
black.” We laugh. “I’m not dressing in pink.”
“Pink is pretty. But maybe not you. Just add a few spots
of acceptable colour. A perfect performance requires sacrifices – all round.
From disgruntled gift shop owner to officers undercover.”
Words we are acting on.
The padlocked path to Port Meudwy is open. We drive down to
where fishermen are unloading their catches of lobsters and crabs. They pack
the crustaceans into containers on pallets to be delivered by vans around the
region.
Guto approaches us and points to a freshly painted clinker-built
boat on a trailer.
“Your practice starts with pushing that trailer into
the sea – if you know how.”
“By tractor.” Kama gestures at an ancient salt
encrusted machine. “I’ll drive and Sioned will hitch us up.”
Guto nods then turns to the watching fishermen.
“Told you guys these genethod were smart. Now to see if they can handle an Aberdaron
boat.”
The genethod –
lasses – is said with praise. Relax.
“My uncle Pugh could never abide women in boats,”
says one man who resembles my uncle, Ivor Pugh. “But he’s dead now.”
My uncle, Ivor Pugh, is alive and runs the family farm. Is this a distant Pugh relation? Is my cover blown? Or have we disguised ourselves enough? At least, Pugh politics have kept us apart from most of my family.
My attention shifts to my allotted task.
With the boat afloat, I secure her with the painter as ‘Rashmi’
parks the tractor and trailer under Guto’s direction.
My Pugh relation and Guto board another boat. He shouts
across as Rashmi and I push off.
“Padrig is the man to prove yourself to. I build while
he perfects the handling. Partners like you two.”
Like us. Unlikely. Guto only knows parts of our secret – the
professional aspect.
Guto and Padrig row out some yards then hoist their sails.
We do likewise and head south following the coastline of the Llŷn Peninsula.
Choppy waves and an erratic breeze test us. Gusts and becalming
lulls to prove our worth. I probe Rashmi’s face as our teamwork makes up for
lack of sailing time. This is a new phase – a giant leap from playing in
dinghies for fun.
“You need to learn how to right one of our Aberdaron
boats,” says Padrig. “Not hard but different. Do I need to show you
how to capsize?”
We demonstrate that skill. Sit on the same side and let the
boom out too far.
The water is our second home. Even when we are told to swim under the capsized craft before following the correct procedure to recover our previous position.
“Glad we wore our wetsuits underneath now.” I grin
at Rashmi.
“Your colourful top and slacks will never dry in this
weather.”
Weak sun and cold air. Discomfort is acceptable. Would Sioned worry about appearance as a pro-athlete?
“We need to polish up if photographers appear.”
She smiles in agreement as Guto points north and mouths,
“Aberdaron“.
The wind picks up – but a headwind. We tack and tack until
the manoeuvre becomes routine. Precision.
“Impressive, but racing is never so precise,” says
Padrig. “Beware other boats performing moves to fool you. Weather and sea
factors Will keep you alert.”
“Like diving,” says Rashmi. “We’ve learned to
prepare. Performance ploys.”
Even more so as police. Alert keeps us ahead of the
offenders – if we can only identify them.
We approach Aberdaron beach. Guto indicates where the water is
shallowest and sandier.
“Pull her ashore over there. Then we can wander up to
the pub. Final pointers over a pint – if you genethod drink.”
“We do. Always.”
Even on-duty – where necessary. But this time I’ll resist
ordering my unusual favourite.
We pull the two boats ashore and wander at a purposeful pace
up to the same pub where I began my investigation.
My stomach sinks when I see the same barman. Will he
recognize me despite the garish outfit and streak-dyed hair?
Guto steps forward. “These are our new arrivals – Sioned
Wilkins and Rashmi Sharma. They’re competing in the regatta, tomorrow. A round
of your best Llŷn pale ale – four pints of Houdini.”
The barman studies me.
My heart flips. Recognition.
A wink and a nod.
“On the house, Guto.” He smiles. “Sioned, Rashmi,
how far have you come? Not many visitors race here. Except the rare brave ones.
Most tourists just watch.”
“South America,” I reply, praying my Welsh lilt is
buried under my pseudo-Spanish accent. “Patagonia. But we were born on the
Llŷn near Pwllheli.”
“That makes you locals almost,” says Padrig.
“Learn any Welsh before you left?” “
Breathe. Was our preparation too hasty? Does he suspect?
“If they went to Chubut Province in Argentina, they
must know some,” says another voice. “Patagonia has a large Welsh
community and the main colony is there.”
Recognising the voice, I say, “That’s why our families went
there. Swimming took us to Puerto Madryn on the Golfo Nuevo, which is formed by
the Península Valdés and the Punta Ninfas.” I pause my tourist talk to add for
the Welsh speakers, “Mae’n wych bod yn
gartref.”
The locals all raise their pints.
Our tame journalist, Kristina picks up on the tourist confusion. “These ladies say it’s wonderful to be home. But Puerto Madryn has strong ties to here. It is twinned with Nefyn, just 13 miles away on the north coast of the Llŷn Peninsula. Excuse me as I need to interview these professional athletes. Make sure that you are here tomorrow, when they are competing on the first day of the Aberdaron Regatta.”
As people drift away, Kristina shakes hands with us.
“I’m Kristina Yoxall. We spoke on the phone. Please can
we talk more – I’ll write a great story.” She holds up a camera. “And
get a photo. Love those patterned tops. They must be traditional.”
She chats and helps us develop our personas further as our
party finds a table outside overlooking the beach and sea.
Holidaymakers are gathering in the village. Not crowds like
Llandudno or Porthmadog but those drawn by the simpler pastimes like sand
castles, playing in the sea, and the regatta.
The interview probes and provides colour to our profiles –
culminating in key questions.
“Can our wanderers challenge tomorrow?” asks Kristina.
“Are they contenders?”
Guto and Padrig shrug.
But my relative says, “Perhaps. As I’ve said there are factors – including local advantage. They have skills and guts. Maybe one day.”
“And you are a favourite, Padrig. As in past years,”
says Guto.
We all laugh, and I slap Padrig on the back.
Recognition. My heart beats faster.
The Swedish woman is watching us. Pretending to peer out to
sea.
Precisely as planned. Bait taken.
Kristina follows my gaze. Takes out her mobile. Glances at
the screen.
“Pric pwdin. Idiot
colleague. I need to hurry. Can we do the photo by the boats, then I must leave
you.”
We stride down to the beach and pose with our boats. Group
photo, then us the two pretenders.
We part, Kristina to her pretend assignment, Guto and Padrig
to Porth Meudwy.
“ Genethod,
Padrig and I will go ahead. We have work to do – boats to paint. Follow when
you’re ready. Practice as much as you need to along the coast. And master that
boat – with skills not force. She’s another geneth.“
Our builder is as quick as our journalist. Our secret is
safe.
We prepare to launch, but I play for time.
“Do we need provisions, Rashmi? Or will our B&B in
Penrhos provide everything?”
“Only basics. Anyway, I need a better face cleanser for
this climate. And we need diving supplies – but they can wait. We’ve no
competitions for a fortnight.”
“Maybe we can help each other.”
We turn. The Swedish couple smile at us.
“That would be kind,” I say. “You’re
local?”
The woman laughs. Potent, poisonous, and the trigger for my
tattoos.
L for Lies and L for Lure.
“Not exactly. But we know the Llŷn Peninsula. We’ve
been here awhile. And our yacht is moored at Llandudno.”
The man steps forward. 6’3″. Blond sun-scored hair.
Tanned. Athletic and muscular. Like a panther.
“We have a small job for divers that pays well –
especially the way you to handle that boat.”
Curb enthusiasm. But reel them in.
I let Rashmi continue as planned. “Interesting. We’re open to
persuasion. But we have questions –”
“– As do we.” He hands us both GEE business cards
– Peder & Pia Pilkvist. “Can we meet for a quiet meal? Pick you up at
6 p.m at your place. Our treat.”
Presumptive means desperate. Time must be tightening. What
is the cargo?
My tattoos twist in pain. But only D for Drugs and that
feels wrong.
“If there’s money on offer,” says Rashmi. “Sioned and I have
expenses. So, yes – if you’re buying.”
“Always,” replies Pia. “One initial question.
Wales or Argentina? Where are your loyalties?”
Where is this going? My heart, pounds nerves jangle. A test of what? Not rugby.
“We dive for ourselves – for the country that rewards us best. Patagonia yesterday. Maybe Wales tomorrow. I have only one loyalty – my dive partner. Rashmi.”
The Swedes study us, then whisper to each other in Swedish –
something about ‘älskande‘. Lovers.
Us or them? What do they know about us? Has the office prejudice seeped out
from a jealous colleague?
U for Unwary and Unexpected. Q for Queer and Questions. E
for Evasion and Evaluation.
QUELL. The fire for my lover? Or the fear building?
Odious odours and smoke obscure the scene at the junction of Snowdon and Madog. I thread my way through the onlookers and under the police tape. The fire was fierce, destroying most of the corner building’s façade. A charred signboard hangs dangerously loose.
A group of North Wales firefighters are dousing down. One acts officious.
“Late as always, Meinwen. I solved this hours ago.”
Unlikely. Owen Anwyl might be a fire investigator, but his solutions
depend on others.
I’ve known him all my life, but I’m the eldest sibling by a
year.
“Some of us have other cases to occupy our hours.”
His smirk prepares me for more taunts.
But a man in blue slacks, red shirt and white flannel jacket
pushes his way through the barrier towards us. 5 foot 11, athletic, tanned,
dyed black hair.
“Hugh Arbuthnot. I own this shop.” His voice
pronounces every word like another royal invader. His icy stare flicks between
us, then he selects my brother in his dusty uniform – casts me away.
“Officer, I need to know what happened here.”
His equally posh lawyer will be next – or his accountant to
count the losses.
“A car mounted the pavement and skidded into your shop
front. Then the ruptured fuel tank exploded. Petrol – that’s the acrid odour. A
simple accident.”
Owen leads the owner around the burnt out 4×4 – torched by
the ram-raiders. No accident. Nor the petty thief we at CID are tracking.
I assess the interior. Any robbery evidence is obliterated
by arson. Convenient – for the perpetrators.
Tattoos tingling, I tap my bracer. A for Arson. R for
Robbery. O for Organised. Deliberate. ROAD. But not road rage.
“Why the police tape? Do you suspect a crime?”
“No, just routine to keep onlookers back.” More
Owen bull-shit.
“I disagree, this is a crime scene.”
“Who are you?”
I’m not dressed as a cop. So, I reach inside my biking
leathers for my warrant card.
“An opinionated observer who’s operating without her
lezzie partner – for once.”
I scowl at Owen, but the posh Englishman flinches – one
gesture short of crossing himself.
“I’m Detective Sparkle Anwyl, CID. This officer
requested our involvement in this suspected arson, which I believe was a ram
raid robbery.”
Glancing at my ID, Hugh Arbuthnot frowns, hands behind his
back. “I demand another detective – a second opinion. Not from someone
like you.”
“So, not Welsh,” I say, twisting his insult.
“Not easy in North Wales. But my partner is Tamil – her family immigrated
from South India. And she’s a more senior detective. Plus, our boss, Detective
Inspector Ffion Baines approves of our teamwork. Now, do you want to obstruct
us or resolve this case?”
I’m out of order but annoyed. Ffion would agree. Owen is stirring.
He requested me on purpose. Petty sibling rivalry.
A for Arson and Arbuthnot. R for Ram-raid and Robbery. O for
Owner and Obstructions. D for Disagree and Disgrace.
ROAD. Ignoring the rage, where to? Trace the 4 x 4.
“Officer Anwyl, finish off your fire investigation,
then please allow our forensic team to gather what they need – like that
vehicle.”
At the outside corner of the shop, I wait for Hugh
Arbuthnot. He will talk to me. He has no choice.
I gather more evidence. The angle of the crash is deliberate.
The torched vehicle designed to obliterate evidence but not destroy the
building. Measured. Observed in advance.
Hugh interrupts.
“My official objection will be lodged. I can give my
opinion but no more than that.”
“That’s your right, sir. For now, I need to know how
long you’ve owned this shop, what would the robbers take, and have there been
any other occurrences?”
He paces, throwing glances at the building and the burnt-out
car.
“My wife bought The Jewel Box two years ago.” He
grits his teeth and taps his left foot. “She died in the spring. I’ve
attempted to run this gift shop, but I have my own work. I’m a movie producer
with a demanding professional schedule.”
He hands me a fancy card – Hugh B Arbuthnot, Oriole
Productions, Executive Producer.
“Who runs the shop when you’re working?”
“My daughter, Olivia and her husband.” He snorts,
head held high. “Poulsen.” He slaps his left palm to his forehead.
“He mixes in shady circles. Some of his cronies did this.”
Opportunistic thieves? Or convenient coincidence? Whose
production?
For those that wondered, yes this is my #WEP/IWSG post for April
so part of the 2019
WEP/IWSG Challenge. This incident will be explored further over
the course of the next four #WEP/IWSG posts. In the meantime, please enjoy
Azure Spark, another case for Sparkle Anwyl and her colleagues.
Word Count 731: MPA
Comments are welcome as usual, but for the WEP/IWSG
Challenge, the following applies:
(FCA welcome – if you want to send one, just
let me know in the comments.)
[Music treat 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,]
NARCOSIS – Saturday Afternoon
Nurturing natural nooks enhances our wild Welsh landscape.
The sea looks unspoilt, but we fear what lurks unseen. Humanity the criminal.
Crime never sleeps.
Not this weekend. At 4 p.m. there are reports to tackle and
the NWP nicks are filling up.
Ensure we are ready for tomorrow. Check everything, While
Kama confirms that Wiley is ready to submit the fraud case to CPS.
“It won’t be a late night,” she says, her tone
reassuring. “We’ve an early start.”
“Nemesis draws nearer for our criminals – if they
show.”
“They will, cariad.
They need divers – and we’re qualified.”
What am I overlooking? Unknown nightmare scenarios.
Stifle fear and suppress the nausea. Ignore glances from possibly dangerous colleagues. Kama has zero probable names. Hoax or hazard? Nerves jangling.
My phone rings. Our new desk sergeant – the one who replaced
my tad.
“Uniform have a prisoner you need to interview. Ellis
Evans. Arrested in Nannau near Dolgellau for dealing drugs.”
A new development. Relax. Prioritise.
In the interview room, seated beside a uniform colleague, I
switch on the tape recorder, giving the time and my name.
“Suspect is Ellis Evans. No lawyer has been
requested.”
I place eight bags of cannabis on the table. “These yours? For sale?”
He squints. “I never sell narcotics. These are a
friend’s for keeping safe.” He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest.
“And your friend’s name?”
“Vic Vaughn. He’s in hospital, so I keep for him.”
String him along.
“Bangor? When did you see him last?”
“A few days ago. I can’t remember.”
“Amnesia. Narcosis. Ever been treated for those?”
“No. I’ve never been in hospital. I not register with
NHS.”
I lean forward. Open his file. Produce a photo of him
injured and in a coma. Slide it over.
“Never? Not at Bangor Hospital?”
His face goes ashen and drops. Sick at the sight of his
injuries. And more.
“I only remember leaving the building. I had to get
outside and breathe. To escape everything.”
“The drugs?”
“We never knew what is happening. They never told us
nothing.”
“Never told you and Stefan Mikaelsson – your friend.
His drugs? You ready to tell him that, Ivan Tjäder?”
He shakes his head and cries.
“I sell drugs to escape, to go home back to Sweden. I
won’t dive for them. Where is Stefan?”
“Safe. Tell me everything, and you will be safe here
to.”
His confession tallies with his friend’s. One less loose
end, but the kingpins remain unidentified.
As I walk back upstairs, Ffion waves me into her office. She
pushes a file across her desk.
“I fear the incidents have escalated a level. This time it’s
not a petty crime but arson. Can you investigate this evening? The fire officer
has asked for you specifically.”
Do we have a name?”
Her look fills me with dread. I start tapping my bracer
furiously.
D for Drugs and Dread. U for Untimely and Urgent. S for
Sailing, Smoke and Sweat.
“Owen Anwyl.”
O for Opportunist and Owen. I for Insensitive and Investigation.
Writing Wings 