Wild People

DS Glyn Capaldi is in hospital recuperating from concussion and the after-effects of a car crash.

But, worse than that, a young woman is dead. She was the passenger in the car, whom he was bringing in for questioning following a night operation in a remote rural location.

Glyn is initially riven with guilt and self-recrimination. Until he starts to question the possibility that it may not have been an accident. But, if not, who had been the target? Had he made an enemy capable of achieving that level of planning and implementation? Or, if not him, what could a young woman have possibly done in her short country life to warrant that degree of retribution?

Glyn, on sick leave, has time on his hands to explore the background to these questions, and, in doing so, confronts a conspiracy that envelops arson, torture, blackmail, and leaves a clutter of bodies that further muddy the already murky waters.

EWART HUTTON

Wild People

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Ewart Hutton 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014.

Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com

Ewart Hutton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007391196

Ebook Edition © March 2014 ISBN: 9780007507511

Version: 2015-03-05

Dedication

For all the scattered ones – family and friends.

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

The Dust Settles

About the Author

Also by Ewart Hutton

About the Publisher

1

I was bad juju again. But this time they had learned from experience, and had tucked me away out of sight. Unlike the previous fiasco in Cardiff, when they tried to pull a PR trick and highlight me as a hero in an attempt to deflect the mess that had really gone down. No, this time they knew better. This time they treated me like the crazy uncle in the attic, and used the equivalent of nine-inch coach bolts and a heavy-duty plank to keep me secure behind the door.

I didn’t care, because this time I had real injuries.

The medicos were mostly concerned about the after-effects of the concussion that had knocked me out. I wasn’t, because that was nothing more than clinical record by the time I surfaced from it. The real bitch for me was the cracked ribs. Especially since the fuckers had only just started to heal after the Evie Salmon investigation. The contusions didn’t help either. The fact that my face looked like a twisted biochemist was trying to cross a yellow tomato with an aubergine. With stubble, as it hurt too much to shave.

They had shipped me off to a specialist hospital in north Shropshire. I only found out later that I was in a secure and private wing that they kept reserved for damaged cops and high-echelon gangsters who had been mysteriously injured in the course of turning Queen’s evidence.

I was hurting.

And as I started to adjust to it and come to terms with the physical side of the pain, the emotional trauma took over. But no one would tell me anything. They shushed me and said I needed to reserve all my mental strength for the recovery process. But even in a tight, shut-down place like that I was picking up the broad brushstrokes through a kind of osmosis.

Something terrible had happened.

I had quickly checked out the fundamentals. I still had my arms and my legs, my cock and my balls, and could move the parts that were meant to be moved. I could still remember that a tangent was the product of the opposite over the adjacent, and my date of birth. So it wasn’t me.

It wasn’t too hard to figure out after that. Although I was still refusing to accept it.

Until I had to.

Two days into it and they deemed me fit enough to receive a visitor.

DCI Bryn Jones knocked diffidently and shuffled his big bulk uncertainly into the room. It was crepuscular, the blinds were drawn, and I could tell that he wasn’t ready to be sure that he had the right occupant. Until he started to adjust to the light and his expression screwed-over involuntarily at the sight of my face.

I shuffled to sit up. He gestured for me not to bother. It was the signal I had been testing for. This was unofficial. He was on his own.

‘It’s a stupid question, but are you okay?’ His exploratory smile didn’t mask his concern.

I nodded lumpily, keeping the movement within the safe parameters I now knew to work to. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Everyone in Carmarthen sends their best,’ he lied.

‘Will DCS Galbraith be coming?’

He knew what I was asking. ‘Not yet,’ he said softly.

He had answered my question. I had to accept it then. I was a Cop Who Had Killed a Girl.

I was Bad Karma.

‘They haven’t told you?’ he probed.

I shook my head gingerly.

‘It would have been instantaneous.’

The suppressed knowledge crashed to the surface. And there was no relief in the acceptance. ‘Tell me about her, Bryn.’

‘What do you know?’

‘Her name was Josie.’

He shook his head gently. ‘Jessie.’

Fuck. I felt the tears rise. I had killed her, and I hadn’t even got her name right.

‘Jessie Bullock.’

‘What age?’ I asked, dreading the answer.

‘Nearly eighteen.’

My multicoloured face collapsed.

He looked miserable as the messenger. ‘Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident. We’re all sure there’s nothing you could have done about it.’ He paused, waiting for me. I stayed silent. ‘What do you remember?’

I lay there, looking up at the grid of ceiling tiles, but knowing that I would have to relinquish the numbness I had previously found there. ‘I’ve been in car crashes before. There’s usually an instant when you recognize the inevitability of it, and time locks down, and everything shunts on towards the moment.’ I shut my eyes and went back to it again. ‘But not this time. There was no build-up, Bryn. No recognition that we’d just entered an event. This was like suddenly finding yourself blindfolded and taking off in a rocket that you didn’t even know you were travelling in. There was no lead-up sequence of things starting to go wrong. It was as sudden as that.’

He nodded. ‘They say that your seat belt saved your life.’

‘Why didn’t hers?’

His expression saddened. ‘She wasn’t wearing one. They found her outside the car. She had been thrown. Her neck was broken.’

I shook my head. I looked at him intently. ‘She had her seat belt on, Bryn.’ It wasn’t meant to be a plea, but it came out like one.

‘Put your seat belt on.’

After Bryn had gone I went back to that night in the car park in the woods in the rain. The girl had been pulled. But they had already fucked up. They had been too eager. Broken out of cover too soon. We were standing around in the drizzle, heavy drips coming off the trees, while they reorganized themselves. They were going to have to go chasing into the woods now, relying on blind luck. This was bullshit. I wanted out of there. I offered to take the girl off their hands and drive her back to the police house in Dinas.

Why hadn’t I got to know something about her? Concentrated, made more of an effort. Instead of just using her as a ticket out of that mess.

‘Here’s how it’s going to go down,’ I told her as I led her back to my car. Knowing better than to hold her. But poised, ready to grab her above the elbows if she made any move to run. ‘I’m going to drive you to Dinas. There will be a woman police officer there to look after you’ – I avoided using the word process – ‘until we bring the others in, and then you’ll all be taken to either Aberystwyth or Newtown.’

‘How are you going to do that?’ she asked.

And that was the only time I really saw her. I looked down at her then. In the pale second-hand gleam of a headlight reflecting off a car’s side window. A wan teenager with a sharp nose and a curled wisp of damp hair dangling over her forehead under the hooded top. Curiosity framed in her expression.

‘Do what?’

‘How do you know there are others to bring in?’

‘Are you saying you were on your own out there?’

‘I’m not saying anything.’ We had passed out of the light and I couldn’t make out her face any more, but from her tone I got the impression that she wasn’t being cute. Simply matter-of-fact. Saying it as it came to her. Knowing that it was up to us to do the work.

She also hadn’t seemed concerned. This only came back to me now. She had just been arrested, but she showed no sign of anxiety. No nervous bravado reaction, no fear, only curiosity.

I stopped at my car and opened the rear door for her. Another opportunity missed. I could have used the interior light to study her. But I didn’t, I used it to make sure she fastened her seat belt.

‘Put your seat belt on,’ I instructed, and she complied.

I flashed on the ways I could have fucked up. But I wouldn’t have driven too fast on that road. I didn’t know it well enough. And it was dark, and it was one of those rains that filmed the windscreen. I would have been extra careful.

‘I’m Glyn Capaldi. What’s your name?’ I asked into the rear as we drove away.

‘Josie.’ I thought she had said Josie.

‘You don’t strike me as a thief, Josie,’ I said, my eyes on the rear-view mirror, my tone telling her that I wasn’t being mean, letting her know that I was prepared to listen if she wanted to talk.

She stayed silent.

And she remained silent. The radio turned right down to velvet static, only the windscreen wipers and the wet tyre hiss as a backdrop. I would have heard it. I was sure of it. One of the few things I was certain of. At no time did I hear even the faintest hint of her seat belt being unbuckled.

I wasn’t used to this road, but I had driven it enough times to know about the bend. To treat it with respect. I had approached it with anticipation, doing all the right things, dropping down to third gear, braking evenly, starting the turn.

And then the car had stopped turning. A huge jolt, which I later realized must have been the offside front wheel hitting a rock on the verge after the tyre had blown. Then take-off.

Did she scream?

Am I going back into a voided memory and inventing that?

But her seat belt was on. And the rear door was locked.

How could they have found her outside the car?

Could I have missed anything in the build-up?

Emrys Hughes had called me. He was the local uniform sergeant, and acted as if Dinas had been his patch ever since his ancestors had crawled out of the sea complete with gills, Stalin moustache and truncheon. I could understand that he would have mightily resented it when my boss DCS Jack Galbraith had decreed that he was going to be sharing his demesne with me. I could even sympathize. Although empathy didn’t stop me from rubbing his nose in it from time to time. Sparking up Emrys Hughes had been one of the pastimes that helped to ease my way through a long Mid Wales winter.

‘Morning, Glyn.’ His tone was cheerful and friendly, and I was immediately wary. His usual greeting was ‘Fuck you, Capaldi.’

‘Emrys.’

‘I was wondering how busy you are.’

I was at my desk in Unit 13 Hen Felin Caravan Park, which doubled up as my office and approximation of a home. I didn’t have to look anything up to know that my caseload comprised a con couple, male and female, who were claiming to be from Social Services and targeting pensioners, and an outfit who were knocking off touring caravans. On the computer screen I had the latest swatch of missing person reports. Customers of varied form and function whose last-known coordinates made it possible that they could have been heading into these latitudes. I had a female Latvian student, a middle-aged Turkish Cypriot businessman, and a dyke from Brighton with a completely shaven head, including eyebrows, who was described as bipolar.

‘Snowed under,’ I told him.

‘Good.’ The bastard hadn’t even allowed my reply to register on his consciousness. ‘So how would you feel about helping make up the manpower on a stakeout that Inspector Morgan has asked me to organize?’

In the normal course of events I would have told him straight out where to stick his stakeout. But Jack Galbraith had recently instructed me to mend my bridges with the local force, conveniently ignoring the fact that he was responsible for alienating them in the first place by dumping me in Dinas to act as his command outpost in the empty quarter. Get onto sweetheart terms, he had told me, just in case I ever needed the back-up, because, in the current state of the relationship, any emergency call from me would have most of them reaching for the cudgels so that they could have their go at me before the opposition bagged all the fun.

Which meant that I now had to add finesse to my avoidance tactics. I sucked in a deep doubtful breath. ‘It’s looking like my diary’s pretty stuffed-up here.’

‘You’ll be free on this night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Inspector Morgan’s already cleared it with DCS Galbraith.’ I heard the smug chuckle spread down the line.

I checked my annoyance. He’d been playing with me, it was already a done deal. ‘What’s the operation?’ I asked.

His voice dropped low. ‘You’ll find out on the night. We’re keeping this close to our chest. A need-to-know basis, we don’t want the targets getting wind of it.’ Jesus, he was taking this way too seriously. I’ll bet he was even having Special Forces dreams.

I looked out of the caravan’s window. We were having a run of good early summer weather. The tops of the exposed boulders in the low-running river were bleached dry and streaked with wagtail guano, the deep green leaves on the alders that fringed the bank were a celebration of chlorophyll, and the sky thrummed blue with small groups of puffy prancing white clouds. I just knew that it was going to end up raining on the night.

I called Huw Davies, a local uniform cop I had made friends with. Huw kept away from the politics and the backbiting, but was an astute enough observer to be able to go to for an overview. ‘Have you got any information about a stakeout operation that Inspector Morgan’s corralled me into?’

He chuckled. ‘You too?’

‘It’s supposed to be a secret.’

‘Oh, it is, everyone that’s been told has been made to promise not to tell anyone else.’

‘Okay, so it’s a golf club locker room kind of secret?’ I ventured.

‘That’s right.’

‘So how come no one has made me promise not to tell?’

He laughed. ‘Because no one talks to you.’

‘I promise not to tell anyone, Huw.’

‘Have you heard of the Monks’ Trail?’

‘Vaguely. Remind me.’

‘It’s a long-distance footpath that starts near the village of Llandewi. There’s a purpose-built car park in the woods at the beginning of the trail. That’s where the problem is. Some of the cars that have been left there have been vandalized and broken into while their owners have been off hiking or mountain biking. Certain local worthies have got it into their heads that this is bad for tourism, ergo their businesses, and have bent Inspector Morgan’s ear.’

‘We’re gathering all this manpower and going on a stakeout for vandals?’ I let him hear my amazement.

‘Correct.’

‘There’s something quite endearingly reassuring about this, Huw. That this is the extent of major crime in the area. But is it really worth the time and the effort?’

‘Feral youth.’ I heard his amusement.

‘What?’

‘They’ve somehow fixed on the notion that it’s down to gangs of wild drug- and booze-fuelled kids from Swansea or Liverpool driving in to target our community and heading back with their bags full of swag.’

‘I take it you’re not sharing this apocalyptic vision?’

‘I think we’d have come across a bit more noise and a lot more damage. And they’re not taking our virgins with them.’

‘Have you got anyone in mind for it?’

‘I could probably point to a couple of people, but I’m keeping my head down. I don’t want to be seen as the one who pissed on Inspector Morgan’s crusade.’

I registered the warning.

Feral youth?

Back in my hospital bed I tried to square that with what little I remembered of Jessie Bullock. I couldn’t. No snarls, no attitude, not even a visible piercing.

I had been prescient. It did rain on the night.

Those of us who weren’t already in their assigned places assembled in a hut that was shared between the local Boy Scout troop and the Women’s Institute, as evidenced by the rope knot posters and a tea-making roster on the walls. The floors creaked, and I imagined the memories locked into the fabric, a combination of suppressed unfocused juvenile lusts and home-made scones and jam.

Everyone was in mufti, and most of them had somehow managed to over-emphasize the fact that they were out of uniform by making their outfits look like disguises. A room full of charged and eager hyper-civilians.

Morgan briefed us from the raised dais. I had only ever seen him in uniform before, a stiff and disapproving man with a widow’s peak over a crinkled washboard forehead. Tonight he looked incongruous in a pale blue anorak and a knitted ski cap, his voice raised to overcompensate for the lack of visible rank badges.

He ran us through it. Two vehicles had been planted in the car park to act as honey pots, a swanked-up BMW 3 Series coupé, and a Subaru Impreza. Two surveillance vehicles were already in place, a camper van at the far end, and a Ford Transit covering the entrance, which could also double up as a blockade vehicle if the bad guys attempted to leave the car park in a hurry.

The police house in Dinas was going to be used as a reception and holding area, from where the detained suspects would be distributed to the larger centres.

The rest of us were assigned to roadside stations where we would park out of sight and cover all the routes leading to the car park. If any suspicious vehicle went past us we were to call it in to Morgan. But we were to wait for his signal before we moved.

‘Any questions?’ Morgan asked, his wrist crooked in front of his face as he made a big deal of checking his watch.

I put my hand up. I knew I should have kept quiet, but I couldn’t help it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Huw Davies give me a significant look.

‘Sergeant Capaldi?’

‘It’s the bait vehicles, Sir.’

‘What about them?’

‘Aren’t they a bit …’ I searched for a nice way to put it. ‘Aren’t they kind of out of place?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘It’s just that I can’t imagine the kind of people who would normally drive that type of car to be the sort who would leave it in the middle of the countryside while they go off for a long healthy hike.’

He smiled nastily. ‘You’re probably right, but the people we’re targeting tonight don’t know that.’

‘Sir?’

‘They’re only interested in the bling, Sergeant. They don’t care what motivates people to come out here. That’s why we’ve carefully chosen these particular cars.’ He smiled superciliously. ‘I think you’ll find that they’re going to be more interested in the Subaru or the BMW than any old Land Rover or Vauxhall Corsa we could have left in there with a no-nukes sticker on it.’ He was rewarded by an all-round chuckle.

‘Yes, Sir.’ I bowed out.

The teams paired up preparatory to leaving. I was left conspicuously on my own.

I sat in my car in my allocated slot in the dark and listened to the carillon of heavy drips on the roof from the tree canopy, with the occasional heavier note of dislodged beech mast. The radio was turned down to low static with the odd interference jump.

This was bullshit, I told myself again.

‘Go, go, go!’ Morgan’s voice whipped out. And, despite my deep-seated cynicism, I felt the familiar lurch of adrenalin and excitement kicking in as I reached out to start my car.

There were two other cars fishtailing down the access road to the car park in front of me. I pulled up at the entrance and tried to make sense of it. The far end of the car park was illuminated by headlights which were focused on the surveillance team’s camper van. The two honeypot vehicles were off to the side, still in the dark, and being ignored. On the other side was the dark hulk of an abandoned and burnt-out car that ruin had made unrecognizable.

I got out and slipped a high-visibility police raincoat on. I walked across the car park until I caught up with a straggler on the edge of the group that was concentrated around the camper van. A loose semi-circle of people had formed, and I could make out Emrys Hughes and Inspector Morgan in the midst of it.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘We’ve caught a kid,’ he replied breathlessly, still meshed up in the excitement of the chase.

‘What about the rest of them?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

I moved towards the semi-circle in time to catch Morgan saying, ‘… spread out and move into the woods.’ My heart sank.

He caught sight of my hi-viz jacket and scowled at me furiously. ‘I didn’t give any orders about breaking out of cover, Sergeant Capaldi.’

I looked at the floodlit mêlée that had been created, but thought better than to remark on it. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I just thought we had a result.’

‘We got one of the little buggers,’ Emrys Hughes chimed in gleefully.

I made a point of looking round significantly. ‘Have we got their vehicle trapped in here, Sir?’

‘They’ve parked somewhere else,’ Morgan announced crossly. ‘They didn’t drive in, they came down out of the woods.’