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“I need you to sort out this report of two missing students. As far as I can tell, nothing to do with the assaults on young women.” Mal Kent had told Charlie. “The college says it’s not a big deal, students disappear and come back all the time, but I’ve had one of the dads on the phone, worried sick. He says Rico, that’s his son, contacts home every day without fail and they haven’t heard from him for over a week. His dad also says Rico hasn’t spent any money for a week either; they have access to his account online.”
“How old?” Charlie asked.
“Nineteen. From the States. His parents live there. So is the other one, Kaylan, an American, I mean. But we only found out about him because they both missed the same trip yesterday. It could be a storm in a teacup, or it could be serious.”
“What have the locals done to find them? Or the people at the college?”
Kent sighed and lined up his pen and notebook until they were exactly parallel with the sleek laptop which was the only other thing on his desk.
“You know what state the local police are in, and the college is in worse chaos than the police. The governing body of the college has had to bring some bloke back from his sabbatical in New York to take over as Principal, because Sir John Singer has, I quote, stepped aside. The new bloke is a Dr Tomos Pennant. So go and find out if Rico and Kaylan are actually missing, and if they are, find them. We can’t afford for anything else to go wrong in Llanfair.”
“What about the assaults? Charlie asked. “Am I looking into those too?”
“If you trip over any evidence, share it. But the whole question of the assaults has become so political that I don’t know if it will ever be resolved. Evidence. That’s what we need. There are already enough theories to sink a ship.”
No pressure, then.
It wasn’t far from the north Wales coast to the college town of Llanfair. The road followed the course of the river valley, flat in the valley bottom with views of the mountains of Eryri—Snowdonia—on the right. As he drove, he could see the river estuary as it meandered towards the sea. The sun sparkled on the water, blue and gold, as it had from Hayden’s windows. The river narrowed as he went south away from the sea, but the valley was wide, with roads and railway clinging to the edges of steep slopes. Across the valley, the land rose steeply, the lower slopes of the mountains covered with trees. There could have been a sign: Glacier Was Here. No roads crossed the valley, because the only bridges were at the coast and forty miles further south at Llanfair. He was only an hour and a half away from his old home in Melin Tywyll, but it felt like another world.
Only the sheep were the same—looking bleached against grass shining emerald in the sun. The leaves had begun to turn on the higher ground, gold and copper mixed in with the remaining greens.
The hangover headache lurked in the back of Charlie’s skull, and the night in the car was still all too present in sore limbs and joints in need of oil. But the churning in his gut, and the pain in his chest pushed those minor aches and pains to one side. Nerves made every breath hurt, and the closer he got, the worse he felt.
There had been nine police officers, all in uniform, at the Llanfair station—a lot for such a small town. But the famous art college carried weight amongst the powers-that-be in Clwyd Police. Of the nine, five were left: four women constables, and the trainee who had blown the whistle.
“It doesn’t mean they weren’t involved. It’s just less likely,” Kent had said.
Everyone else had either resigned or been suspended. That was the police, and Charlie understood how the police worked, or in this case, didn’t. But there was the college too, and that was new territory. According to his information, the college management had only acted after one of the victims had attempted suicide. Even as the principal “stepped aside” which seemed to be code for “will be keeping a low profile until the heat dies down”, the official statements denied any wrongdoing.
As people had been saying since Watergate: it’s not so much the crime as the cover-up that causes the trouble...
The Llanfair police station was on the edge of the town. It was an Arts and Crafts style building of dark grey slate with a gabled frontage. Blue paint peeled from the window frames and the wooden noticeboard fixed to the outside wall. The windows were small, and even on this bright day, Charlie saw lights on behind them all. He thought he caught sight of a face peering out, but it disappeared before he could be sure he hadn’t imagined it. There was a small car park behind the building, and he parked next to a patrol car, got out, checked he had his ID, his phone and wallet, and locked the car. His legs felt as if they belonged to another man, his headache was back with full force, and he wanted to throw up. Missing students, he told himself. The town is entitled to competent policing, and that’s why I’m here.
As he walked around the building, his phone vibrated with a text.
Supt Kent: Good luck. I am sure you will do a thoroughly professional job.
I’m glad one of us is, because I’m not sure of anything.
Charlie slipped the phone back into his pocket. It was a minute before nine. He took a deep breath and pushed at the door to the police station, painted in the same sun-whitened blue paint that was peeling from the windows and notice board.
It didn’t open.
Could this morning get any worse?
Apparently, it could.
“They don’t let anyone inside anymore. You have to ring up. The number’s on the notice,” a woman’s voice said behind him. Then a black dog, the size of a small horse, or so it seemed, leapt at him, almost knocking him down. The dog licked Charlie’s face with enthusiasm and delight, as the woman pulled ineffectively at its lead.
“Coco! Get down! I’m so sorry. Coco! No! Come here!”
Huge paws raked down the front of Charlie’s suit, tearing the cloth and leaving smears of mud. The dog panted and danced on its hind legs at the end of its lead, desperate for another go.
The woman held on for grim death. She and Charlie looked at each other, and at the dog. The woman’s clothes were also torn and muddy.
“I know,” she said. “I do know. He’s out of control. He’s not mine, but his owner’s in hospital.” She looked pleadingly at Charlie, and he saw tears in her eyes.
“Better not take him into town,” Charlie said. He was pissed off at the wreck of his suit but couldn’t help sympathising with the woman.
