Grey in the Dark E-Book

John Lincoln

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 470

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Too many people loved Kelly Rowland. One of them killed her, but was it the man in prison for her murder? 'A thrilling finale'Crime Review 'A clever, witty plot... a delight to read'Times Gethin Grey is back in the game. His wife may have left him and he's struggling with life as a single father, but now he's got his biggest case in years. The brutal murder of a young woman called Kelly Rowland has been the talk of the South Wales valleys. Even the conviction of a neighbour failed to stop the gossip. There were too many other suspects still around, among them a pair of coppers: brother and sister. So Gethin was delighted when Morgan's family stumped up the money to pay him and his Last Resort Legals team to reinvestigate the case. But when a new lead takes him undercover into a support group for recovering addicts, Gethin has to confront his own demons. Moving from the former mining towns of the valleys to the shiny new waterfront developments of Cardiff, taking in adult puppet shows and piercing parlors, derelict mines and country clubs, Grey In The Dark lays bare a world in which sex and money collide and everyone has their secrets.

Leseprobe

Praise for FADE TO GREY

‘A strong cast coupled with slick writing and plenty of action gets what promises to be an excellent series off to a flying start’ – Guardian

‘A clever, witty plot, Grey and his Last Resort Legal staff are fetching characters and it’s a delight to read’ – Times

‘This is not to be missed’ – Daily Mail

‘Lincoln has created a quirkily conflicted protagonist and a narrative that keeps tension and incident satisfyingly to the fore, with Cardiff as darkly minatory a city as Rankin’s Edinburgh’ – Financial Times

‘The tale is told with vim and vigour, racing along at a high-octane lick, with plenty of humour thrown into the mix’ – Nation Cymru

‘Believable characters, suitably sinister villains and an all too human and fallible detective with the right touch of compassion and obstinacy allied with a well-calibrated plot make this a most enjoyable read’ – CrimeTime

‘A dark, gripping and intelligent thriller that will keep you up all night. The writing is good, the plot better and the characters fantastic. A gritty and trenchant look at twenty-first-century Britain and a page-turner that introduces a great new series. Read it before everyone else does’ – Catholic Herald

‘A terrific ride through the mean streets of Cardiff’ – Mick Herron

‘If John Lincoln/Williams had been born in America, his name would be Raymond Chandler’ – Kinky Friedman

‘I’m an instant Gethin Grey fan. He’s the classic PI, brilliantly reinvented for our messy, modern times’ – William Shaw

‘An altogether engaging suspense novel; the cast of characters at Last Resort Legals grab and hold one’s interest and sympathies, and the author is a sure hand. Wouldn’t mind seeing these folks again’ – Daniel Woodrell

‘John Williams writes with conscience and with passion about social injustice, and he understands how society and the system actually work’ – James Lee Burke

For my mum and dad, Gillie and David Williams

One

Gethin didn’t mind that the guy was lying. All his clients lied to him. Even the ones who were actually innocent.

He didn’t mind that he was sure Karl Fletcher was guilty. Most of his clients were. When they claimed to be innocent, they didn’t generally mean it in the civilian sense. They weren’t saying they didn’t actually do the crime they were convicted of. They were talking about being innocent in the professional sense – that the evidence against them wasn’t strong enough to justify their conviction, that they’d spotted a loophole. That kind of innocent.

No, the thing that was really bothering Gethin, as he sat in the delightful visiting area of Long Lartin Prison, was that the guy stank. In prison most people shower pretty regularly – apart from anything else it’s a disciplinary offence not to. This guy though – it wasn’t even that he was obviously dirty, he just smelt rotten. There was no other way to say it. Gethin tried and failed to put out of his mind some of the sordid stuff that had come out at his trial – the huge collection of pornography and all that. So when Karl put his hand out to shake, Gethin just pretended not to see it.

The third person at the table, Mrs Kendall, didn’t seem to mind, though. She took Karl Fletcher’s hand all right, and stared at him like he was Nelson Mandela in Robben Island, strong and noble.

Gethin sat back in his chair and looked at the pair of them with frank bewilderment. It really does take all sorts. Karl was lank and greasy and hunched over. Even his clothes, the chinos and the striped shirt he always wore, looked like they were coated in grease. In the photos of him from the trial he’d looked handsome enough after a fashion. A preppie psychopath in his late twenties. Ten years of jail time later he looked like hell. Prison has a way of ruining people.

Mrs Kendall, though, was rather more of a puzzle. For starters what modern woman in her mid-thirties insisted on being called Mrs at all times? Her name – he’d seen it on the cheques – was Hayley but woe betide you if you tried using it. Nor was there any sign of a Mr Kendall. Whoever he was, he was long gone. She was, Gethin figured, one of those people who live their whole lives like they are starring in their own movie. And in her own head she was doubtless a mysterious blonde called Mrs Kendall.

It was just that this presumable inner life didn’t manifest itself on the outside. To look at she was a neat, compact person, dressed in an older woman’s twinset, with her hair in a carefully coiffed helmet. She was a good-looking woman, seen in the abstract, but there was nothing overtly sexual about her, just a sort of grim determination occasionally lit up with love for her great cause in life, Karl Fletcher.

Not that Mrs Kendall’s peculiarity mattered to Gethin. What mattered was that she was rich. Rich enough to keep paying Last Resort Legals to look into the conviction of her beloved. A conviction which she, and a very few other people, believed to be a miscarriage of justice. Gethin himself was frankly dubious about this, but he had learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

‘So,’ he said, once Mr Fletcher and Mrs Kendall had had their fill of gazing at each other adoringly, ‘first the good news. We found the postman.’

‘You did?’ Mrs Kendall turned to look around at him: ‘That’s fantastic.’

‘Took quite a bit of doing,’ said Gethin. ‘He quit the job three months later. And you won’t believe how many people called Matt Edwards there are in this country, but we found him eventually.’

‘Well, that’s what I pay you for.’

Gethin nodded. It was a fair enough point and in reality it had taken Bex about five minutes to find Matt Edwards on Facebook. He just hoped he was storing up a bit of credit before delivering the bad news. ‘He’s living in the Peak District these days, working as a property investor.’ Which was a polite term for a bloke who’d watched way too many episodes of Homes Under the Hammer and finally bought a couple of little terraced houses in Stoke which he rented out to unfortunate students. Anyway Gethin hoped it all sounded like he’d been earning his fee, given that Mr Edwards had been last heard of living in Chislehurst, Kent.

‘So?’ said Mrs Kendall.

‘Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember seeing your brother at any time that morning.’

‘Oh,’ said Karl. ‘Fuck. You’re sure he didn’t see anything at all?’

‘No,’ said Gethin. ‘I mean it’s ten years ago and obviously it was a big deal at the time so he remembered the morning pretty well, but he didn’t see a man in a blue Audi TT at any time and he likes cars, so he thinks he would have remembered.’

‘Is he absolutely certain?’ asked Mrs Kendall. ‘Did you get him hypnotised?’

Gethin looked at her in amazement. ‘No, I didn’t get him hypnotised.’

‘Well, why not? For God’s sake.’ She swivelled round. ‘See, I told you they were incompetents.’

Gethin took a deep breath. Reminded himself that he needed Mrs Kendall rather more than she needed him. If she wanted him to eat shit he would grin and ask how much.

‘I’m sorry. Of course I considered the hypnotism option’ – yeah right – ‘but I thought I would report to you first, before incurring the extra time and expenditure, given that Matt Edwards – the postman – did seem to be quite a reliable witness.’

‘He’s not that reliable, is he? He didn’t see James drive by.’

‘Well, no, but of course he might have been delivering a parcel at the moment in question.’

James was Karl’s brother. Karl’s defence case was based around the idea that he, James, was the man responsible for massacring the family. The only problem being that no one had ever placed James within three hundred miles of the scene of the crime. Hence the interview with the postman.

‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Kendall. ‘That must have been what happened. He would have been on the doorstep, pushing letters through the box or whatever, when James drove by. His brain will have noticed it subconsciously and once you have him hypnotised he’ll remember it.’

* * *

Gethin managed to keep it together until he was back in the car. Then he banged his forehead repeatedly on the steering wheel. For Christ’s sake! Surely there had to be a better way of making a living than this – taking a deluded woman’s money in the vain hope that he might somehow find the evidence that would free an obvious scumbag like Karl Fletcher. That wasn’t why he’d started Last Resort Legals. He had been full of idealism then – keen to ride to the rescue of victims of miscarriages of justice across Britain.

A few months ago he’d really thought they were finally getting somewhere. They’d taken on the case of Izma M, the poster boy for moderate Islam, and that was a proper battle for truth and justice. They did a hell of a job getting to the truth, but unfortunately the way it had all played out meant that most of it never made the press and, while there had been an uptick in business, and the wolf was currently having a nap some way from the door, there hadn’t been the surge of new cases he’d expected. So Karl Fletcher remained a valued client.

He put the car into gear. Maybe he’d make it back to Cardiff before the rush hour choked up the M4. Reaching over to check Google Maps on his phone, he noticed a message.

It was from Cat and it just said ‘Call me’.

Gethin put the car back into neutral. What did his just-about-wife want now? She’d left him three months ago for reasons he still didn’t really understand. Surely the mid-life crisis was a male thing? Not for sensible, professional, super organised women like Catriona. But then a lot of things you never hear about happen all the time. Innocent people go to prison, guilty ones don’t. He still couldn’t quite believe it though, still expected she’d be back soon.

Anyway the question was, what did she want now? Probably to bend his ear about Hattie, their daughter and only child. That was the hardest part of it all. Hattie was thirteen, with all that entails, and she was absolutely livid with Cat. Partly, Gethin figured, it was simple outrage at having her family unit ripped asunder, and partly it was super-strength adolescent embarrassment – how could her mum show her up like this? Running off with Nils bloody Hofberg, like she was a teenager herself.

So Hattie absolutely refused to visit Cat where she was living, some rented flat in Roath. Instead Cat would come over for a few hours every weekend. Gethin would do the weekly shop and maybe have a pint in the Gwaelod Y Garth Inn and Cat and Hattie would have their mother and daughter time. Gethin almost sympathised with Cat over that – being the full focus of Hattie’s fury for an afternoon couldn’t be much fun. But she had made her bed and she was most certainly lying in it.

He waited till he was on a clear stretch of the M4 before calling her on the hands-free.

‘Hi,’ she said, then went quiet, presumably moving to somewhere more private. ‘You okay?’

Gethin bit back the urge to ask what business it was of hers and just gave a noncommittal grunt.

‘Listen, this isn’t about Hattie.’

‘Oh?’ Dear God, was she going to launch into a big relationship chat? ‘Can it wait? I’m driving.’

‘Yeah, I mean fine, call me later, but it’s about a case you might be interested in.’

That was a turn-up. Cat had never brought him any work before. She was an NHS psychiatrist specialising in drug rehab in the South Wales valleys and, while she dealt with plenty of criminal types, none of them had a pot to piss in and most of them saw prison as a kind of economy rehab scheme. ‘What sort of thing? I’m not doing any pro bono for your junkie fuck-ups.’

‘No,’ said Cat, ‘nothing like that, not really. It’s the Morgan Hopkins case.’

This was interesting. The Morgan Hopkins case had been all over the Welsh news for the past few months. Hopkins had been convicted of murdering a woman called Kelly Rowlands. It was a horrible, brutal murder and there’d been lots of lurid details about the dead woman’s lifestyle that had kept the tabloids salivating. Hopkins had always protested his innocence. ‘So, what’s your connection?’

‘He was in one of my rehab groups – though you mustn’t tell anyone that.’

‘Oh great,’ said Gethin, ‘so you want me to take on another case for no money?’

Last Resort Legals was not a charity. Gethin liked to think they were on the side of the angels, working for people who believed they were wrongfully imprisoned, but they had to make a living, so a rich, innocent man was always going to be a more appealing client than a poverty-stricken junkie.

‘Don’t worry, he’s got money. He is, he was, a builder. Got his own business. He’s happy to pay your fees.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘The family. His sister got in touch. I met her before and she’s at her wits’ end, trying to find someone to help. Says that Morgan’s lawyer was an idiot.’

‘So you put in a word for me?’

‘Yeah well, just ’cause you’re an arsehole doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re good at your job.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gethin. ‘I suppose. Got to go now, junction up ahead, but I’ll call you when I get back to the office.’

Gethin ended the call, and settled back in his seat, trying to bring back to mind what he remembered about the Morgan Hopkins case. And also wondering why Cat should throw him this juicy bone. If there was one thing twenty odd years with Catriona had taught him, it was always to watch out for an ulterior motive.

* * *

The Last Resort Legals office was in the Coal Exchange, the faded centrepiece of the Cardiff docks. A century ago it had been the place where the first million-dollar cheque was written. Over the years of the city’s decline it gradually emptied out, turned into an occasional rock venue and a dilapidated HQ for any number of fly-by-night businesses. Last Resort was actually one of the more long-term tenants, but any time they were more than a month away from bankruptcy, Gethin counted his blessings.

The firm’s other two full-time employees, Bex and Lee, were standing outside the office in the early autumn sunshine, vaping and chatting as Gethin approached.

‘Nice hair,’ he said to Bex.

Bex was rocking a blue and blonde bob. Gethin was fairly sure it was her own hair as, while Bex was partial to a wig, they were always clearly identifiable as whichever 80s legend Bex was impersonating that night in the tribute band she fronted. And he was struggling to think of an 80s legend with blonde and blue hair. Toyah maybe – but who in their right mind would book a Toyah tribute act?

Bex did a little pirouette – she was a surprisingly graceful mover for a big girl.

‘How was Karl?’ asked Lee. ‘And his lovely fiancée. She was there too I suppose?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Gethin. ‘She was there all right.’

Lee rolled her eyes. ‘Gives me the creeps she does. Worse than him.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Bet she wasn’t too happy about the postman.’

‘Not happy is right. She wants us to get him hypnotised.’

Bex laughed: ‘She really is a maniac.’

‘Sure is. But it’s all billable, so why not? Either of you two know any hypnotists?’

Lee shook her head and grinned, her gold tooth glinting in the sun.

‘I do,’ said Bex. ‘Guy on Cathedral Road. I went to him once to try and stop smoking.’

Gethin stared meaningfully at the vape in her hands. ‘Not much good then?’

‘Fuck off, it’s better than fags, Geth. It didn’t totally work like, but he was good at hypnotising. I was out in no time and afterwards I felt like I’d been smoking some really good draw, all light and spacy.’

‘Fine. Can you give him a bell, see if he undertakes this kind of work? And if not maybe he knows someone who does?’

‘No worries.’ Bex stuck her vape back in her handbag and led the way back into the office down a sulphurous green corridor with barred windows that had, like most of the communal parts of the Coal Exchange, the air of a long-since decommissioned mental hospital.

* * *

‘Anything happening?’ asked Gethin, once Bex had squeezed herself in behind her desk and started checking her email.

‘Nothing much. Couple of possible leads. I’ve forwarded them on to you. Looks like we might have a result on the Donaldson case.’

This was another lowlight of the current roster. A death by dangerous driving case that had landed a pissed-up accountant in prison. Last Resort had been working on getting it reduced to plain dangerous driving.

He turned to Lee. ‘Nice work on that.’

‘Cheers. Lucky it was only a Muslim the twat ran over, otherwise we’d have had no chance.’

Gethin started to laugh then realised Lee wasn’t making a joke of it. She was genuinely pissed off by this particular example of the injustice of the world. Mostly she kept up an effective mask of blanket cynicism, but every now and again she let it drop and Gethin could see the anger there in her black eyes.

He sighed. ‘Fucking world we live in, eh? But guess what, for once I’ve got some good news.’

‘Uh huh?’

‘Morgan Hopkins.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Bex, ‘you’re kidding. They want us on that? How come?’

‘You won’t ever guess,’ said Gethin. ‘Catriona just called me about it. Apparently she knows Hopkins and his family from her rehab thing.’

‘You two getting on better then?’

‘No, that’s what’s weird about it.’ He paused. ‘Maybe she just wants to make sure I’m earning.’

His colleagues were divided on the subject of Cat’s desertion. Bex was hopeful she’d come back, once she’d seen the error of her ways, and they’d be okay. Lee was more of the opinion that Gethin should have given her a slap and moved on. At least that’s what she said. As ever with Lee, it was hard to know for sure whether she was joking or not.

‘Anyway, got to be good news for us. So, Morgan Hopkins, what do we know?’

Two

Gethin was ten minutes late picking Hattie up from her friend Alys’s house. The mum, Martina, was fine about it. She was German, worked in the theatre on the admin side and seemed, dare he say it, very efficient. Nice too. She had been more friendly with Catriona than him, before the shit hit the fan, but she had been careful not to say anything that suggested she was taking sides. Instead she just helped out. They had an arrangement in place that Hattie went there three nights a week after school.

Gethin felt bad turning up late, like he was taking her for granted. And bad for Hattie too. She needed all the stability he could offer and picking her up late was poor.

Not that she seemed to mind. Sitting in the passenger seat for the short drive up the hill to Gwaelod Y Garth, she was happily burbling away about the school play and which part she should audition for.

‘D’you think I’d be better as Hermia or Titania?’

Gethin struggled to bring Midsummer Night’s Dream into focus: ‘Titania is the Fairy Queen right?’

‘Obviously! And Hermia is like the young princess who’s in love with Lysander.’

‘Okay, that sounds like a good part.’

‘Yes, but Titania gets to sing a song.’

Hattie’s love of singing was undeniable but even her doting father had to admit to some reservations when it came to her ability to stay in tune. ‘I still think Hermia sounds good for you.’

‘Yeah me too.’

Gethin stuck the car into first gear to make it up the steep incline that led to their house. The upside-down house as everyone called it, because the bedrooms were on the lower floors, with the living room up above. It was all to do with the way the house perched on the side of the valley.

Once inside Hattie disappeared into her room. Gethin yelled after her to do her homework and not just spend all evening Snapchatting her friends or whatever. He was sure she was taking no notice, but you had to show some intent at least.

Gethin himself headed for the living room and poured himself a large glass of a nice Spanish Albarino and stuck an old Lucinda Williams album on the stereo, enjoying the fact that Cat wasn’t there to look disapprovingly at his drinking and tell him to turn the music down.

Did he want her back? Not that there was any sign of her wanting to come back, rather the reverse. Right now, with a new case in the offing, he felt like he could be fine without her. Maybe even better off. He could find someone else. Enjoy the thrill of the chase, start a whole new chapter. Other times though, the sleepless four in the morning times, he felt like his world was shattered and he couldn’t put himself back together again. Not without Cat. He didn’t want to raise his daughter alone. He didn’t want the thrill of the bloody chase. He just wanted her back, wanted his life back.

Inevitably, just as he was enjoying the absence of Cat, he remembered he needed to call her back about Morgan Hopkins… She picked up after three rings. No hello, she just went straight to business, the way that in previous times she’d have issued a list of instructions for domestic matters.

‘So I’ve talked to the sister. She’s called Linda and she wants to come to see you at your office tomorrow morning. Here’s her number. You have a pen?’

Gethin dutifully picked up a biro and took down a mobile number. ‘Did you mention our fees?’

‘Well I don’t know how much you’ll charge her, do I? You’ve never bothered to let me know how you run your business.’

Gethin declined the invitation to an argument. First, there was no point. And second, he didn’t want to rile Catriona till he’d taken delivery of this particular bit of new business.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll call her now.’

Gethin turned the music back up loud, let Lucinda’s righteous anger wash over him.

At the end of Lucinda’s Stonesy thrash, ‘Guitar Strings and Bleeding Fingers’, he turned the music off and sat down at the desk he’d recently moved into a corner of the living room. Then he dialled Linda Hopkins’ number.

Linda turned out to be one of those Valleys women who had little trouble giving vent to their opinions. And it took him a while to get a word in edgeways. Eventually he persuaded her that it would be better if she saved up her thoughts for the following morning. She arranged to come in at 11 and Gethin sat back in his typing chair. It looked like he had a client and a case worth fighting for.

* * *

Later that evening, once Hattie was in bed sleeping/watching YouTube videos, Gethin started typing up an account of the case as he understood it.

It began with a woman called Kelly Rowlands, a heavily tattooed twenty-four-year-old, living in the Valleys village of Abertridwr, just north of Caerphilly – not more than five miles from Gethin’s house as the red kite flies.

Kelly had a colourful love life. She had had an ongoing relationship with Morgan Hopkins, an older man who lived a couple of streets away. She was also sexually involved with a policewoman called Leanne Batey and, if that wasn’t enough, she was alleged to have been seeing Batey’s brother Ryan as well. He was a copper too. There were also – or so Hopkins’ defence had claimed – any number of casual pick-ups. Even the suggestion that she was taking paying callers.

On 10 March 2015, someone – or, conceivably, two or more someones – had choked Kelly to death, then beaten her dead face to a pulp. The post-mortem injuries inflicted on Kelly suggested an extraordinary level of rage. Either before or after the murder the killer had ransacked the house, as if looking for something.

Gethin swallowed as he typed out the grim details of the violence. Even after all his years in the business it still shook him, the depths to which we are capable of sinking.

Suspicion had initially fallen on the policewoman, Leanne. She was the last known person to have seen Kelly. And her skin had been found beneath the dead woman’s fingernails. However, she had been alibied by her brother Ryan. Apparently the Batey siblings had been having a takeaway together in her flat when the call came in that there was a murder in Abertridwr. Gethin underlined this bit. Brother and sister coppers alibiing each other! That really wasn’t worth the paper their statements were printed on.

And to make matters yet murkier Ryan’s own fingerprints had been found all over the house. This was explained away by the fact that he’d been the first officer to arrive at the scene but still he seemed to have put his hands in an awful lot of places at a time when you’d think he’d have been careful not to damage the crime scene.

The possible involvement of one or other of the Bateys – that, surely, was the starting point for his own investigation. The police, it seemed to him, had pretty much given up investigating as soon as they got Morgan Hopkins in their sights. He just fitted the bill so nicely. And, most importantly, he wasn’t a copper.

He was older than Kelly. A jealous, controlling individual according to his ex-wife. He was an alcoholic whose efforts at recovery frequently went off the rails. Worse still, he had two previous convictions for violent offences. Both were basically pub fights when he was a much younger man, but still. And he had no alibi worth speaking of. He said he’d had a row with Kelly and that had tipped him off the wagon. He claimed to have been at home with a bottle of whisky and a Game of Thrones box set – ‘binge-watching, like’. Just to put a cherry on it, he had been heard mouthing off in the Four Feathers, their local pub, telling his mates that Kelly was a right slag and was going to get what was coming to her one of these days.

Gethin wasn’t too fazed by any of this. The depressing fact was that most genuine victims of miscarriages of justice were there because they fitted the part. That was why the police had arrested them and that’s why the jury had convicted. If you looked the part as much as Morgan Hopkins did, then it was no great surprise that you got blamed for bad shit that happened in your vicinity. Didn’t mean he’d done it. It just meant that coppers were lazy. And so were the general public. They saw Hopkins’ ugly mug on the front of the Sun with a headline calling him an animal, they didn’t think twice about it.

On the upside the forensic evidence was weak. Hopkins’ fingerprints were in the dead woman’s house, but then they would be. He wasn’t denying that he’d had a relationship with Kelly. Apart from that there was a microscopic bloodstain found on one of Hopkins’ shoes and some complicated business about Hopkins’ blood on a lottery ticket. That had probably played well with the jury but Gethin knew – and judges were coming to realise – that DNA contamination was a very real problem. Basically it would be easy to argue that a police forensics officer had a tiny amount of blood on their hands from handling the dead woman’s blood-soaked clothing and they had transferred an invisible spot of that blood on to Hopkins’ boot. Shouldn’t happen but it did.

Gethin circled this piece of information. If he could discredit the forensic evidence, that would open the door for him to demonstrate the possibility that one of Kelly’s other lovers was responsible – Ryan or Leanne Batey, most likely. He read over his notes and closed up his laptop, feeling a familiar buzz.

Three

‘You think he did it?’

Lee was sitting with her feet up on the conference table, drinking a can of Coke, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses and her skin a paler shade of brown than usual. It had been her partner Monica’s birthday the day before and they’d clearly celebrated long and hard.

‘That’s not the point, is it?’ said Gethin.

‘Geth, I do understand the bloody job. I’m just curious, ’cause I dunno about this one myself.’

‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. There’s plenty of stuff looks bad for him that’s for sure. Then again there’s other things look good for him.’

‘The coppers?’

‘Yeah, the coppers. Alibiing each other as well.’ Gethin thought of something. ‘You ever seen her about, the woman copper, Leanne?’

‘What? You think I knows every dyke in Wales?’

Gethin shrugged: ‘That’s what you told me.’

‘All right, fair point, and I did have a good look at her photo, but I can’t say for sure. There’s a lot of girls look a bit like that. In the old days it was a dead giveaway, a buzz cut, but now there’s millions of people have it. Businesswomen like. I’ll have an ask about though, in the Kings, see if there’s any goss.’

Bex had been on her phone through all this, but now she put it down and turned to face the others. ‘Deano says he knows the other copper, the bloke.’

That was good news. Deano was their part-time field investigator and Gethin had hoped he might know something. Deano had a wide assortment of dubious friends and acquaintances.

‘He say anything about him?’

‘Yeah, he said he’s an absolute cunt.’

Gethin laughed. ‘Well, he’s in the right job then.’ He didn’t entirely mean it. Most coppers were decent, hard-working, blah blah. It was just that when you worked on miscarriages of justice, inevitably you came up against the ones who weren’t. You came across the bent, the slipshod and the irredeemably thick. And once you took on the case, the coppers were the enemy. Never more so than in the last big case they worked. One which had left its scars on all of them.

It wasn’t going to be easy trying to investigate the Bateys. Leanne might be easier to get to as she wasn’t a copper any more, didn’t have the same level of protection. Getting to Ryan, though, was definitely going to be a challenge. He picked up his phone to give Deano a call, discuss their strategy.

But just then the intercom buzzed and, rather than let Linda Hopkins try to navigate the Coal Exchange’s labyrinthine corridors by herself, Gethin headed for the front door.

Linda Hopkins turned out to be somewhere in her forties: smart dyed-blonde hair, a business lady suit and a determined expression. Gethin figured her for a floor manageress at Debenhams, something like that..

He led her inside, introduced her to Bex and Lee, then sat her down at the conference table.

‘Well then, what can you do for us?’

Gethin looked her in the eye, hoping to project trustworthiness. ‘There are no guarantees, Linda, I’m sure you realise that. But I have looked over the case, as have my colleagues, and we are all convinced that Morgan’s trial – okay if I call him Morgan?’

Linda nodded. ‘It’s his bloody name, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’ Gethin winced. Was he sounding irredeemably pompous? ‘As I was saying Morgan’s trial was obviously unsatisfactory. And I’m confident that, at the very least, we can demonstrate grounds for appeal. After that you’re in the hands of the judges and, again, we can’t guarantee what a judge is going to do. What we can guarantee is that we’ll work every angle, shake every tree and find every bit of evidence there is to help Morgan’s case. How does that sound?’

Linda sighed. ‘Well, at least you’re not promising the moon like all the other bloody shysters I’ve talked to about all this. How much do you charge?’

Gethin was good at dodging this particular question. ‘It really depends. We’ll talk now about the case and put together a strategy and there’ll be a couple of different ways we can go within that. There will be a cheaper option where we just focus on the basics and then there will be a more expensive option where we go all out and follow every avenue we can. Initially it would be for a two-week period then we’ll have a conference and decide what more needs doing. How’s that sound?’

‘Fair enough. But don’t worry, Morgan might look like he doesn’t have a brass farthing but he was doing all right. He bought himself a bunch of houses up and down the valley, rents most of them out but there’s a couple he was doing up to sell and he’s told me to flog one of them and use the money for this. Not doing him any good inside, is it?’

‘True enough,’ said Gethin. ‘I’ll get the plan over to you later today and if you’re okay with it, then we’ll get started right away.’

‘Okay. Catriona says you’re the best and I trust her. Is there anything else you need from me? I’ve got to get back to work in a bit.’

‘Did you know about Morgan’s relationship with the dead woman?’

‘That skank, Kelly? Sorry, shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but that’s what she was. Yeah, I knew about it all right. Told him to leave her alone, he could do better than that. But he wouldn’t have it, said I didn’t understand, said she wasn’t like everyone thought she was.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yeah. She was one of those girls everyone knew, everyone gossiped about. In Abertridwr anyway.’

‘You know where they met?’

Linda snorted. ‘In the pub of course. Four Feathers.’

‘I thought Morgan had stopped drinking?’

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t go to the pub though. And he was always relapsing. But this was when he was still properly drinking. Must have been two, three years ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Gethin, ‘so it was quite a long-running thing, the two of them?’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Linda looked instantly stressed. ‘He was nuts about her, infatuated like. Don’t know why, she was pretty enough, I suppose, if you don’t mind all the tattoos and piercings and that. But I couldn’t see there was anything special about her. There’s loads of girls like that. Go in to town on a Friday night…’ She tailed off, shaking her head.

Gethin frowned. This was not really what he wanted to hear. It all sounded guilty, guilty, guilty. His thoughts must have shown on his face.

‘He didn’t do it, you know.’

Gethin raised his hands in an attempted display of innocence. ‘I didn’t…’

‘Yeah, you did. Of course you did. I did too, at first. I heard someone had smashed Kelly’s face in, and I thought oh my God, Morgan, what have you done? But then I went to see him and I asked him straight out and I know he’s innocent. I’m his big sister, I’ve seen him trying to lie to me since he was born and he never managed it. If he’d killed her I’d know, believe me.’

‘Okay,’ said Gethin, ‘that’s good enough for me. But to be honest it doesn’t make much difference to how we go about things. If you’re going to get someone acquitted you need to know how the prosecutor thinks. You look at the case as if you’re trying to prove he’s guilty, and then you notice all the little things that don’t add up, all the gaps in the evidence. And I can assure you, from what I know already, there’s plenty of gaps and plenty of unanswered questions.’

‘All right,’ said Linda. ‘You just get him out, okay?’

* * *

After he’d shown Linda Hopkins out of the Coal Exchange, Gethin got the three of them to thrash out a strategy. The question was which threads to pull, and in which order. First off, there would be the substantial task of going through all the material that had been disclosed by the prosecution, all the witness statements and so forth. Then there was the forensics. They could potentially commission an expert to report on the evidence against Morgan Hopkins. It looked thin to Gethin, but he needed that verified.

Finally, there was the matter of the other suspects. Generally Gethin didn’t like this approach: it reeked of desperation, trying to find someone else to point the finger at. The whole point of an outfit like Last Resort was to prove their guy was innocent, not to prove some other guy or gal was guilty. But in some cases – and this was definitely one of them – it was a valid enough approach. It wasn’t like they were going to have to look far to find viable suspects.

They quickly drew up a shortlist. First up was the policewoman, Leanne Batey. Though, according to one of the news stories, she’d subsequently left the force. The case against her was pretty straightforward. She had admitted having a sexual relationship with the dead woman and had seen her on the day she died. DNA tests had shown that there were bits of Leanne’s skin under Kelly’s fingernails when she died. Leanne claimed this was down to passionate lovemaking. But it could just as easily suggest a fight. Gethin could find no suggestion that her fellow coppers had asked Leanne to show them the scratches on her body that Kelly was meant to have made.

Second up was Leanne’s brother and fellow cop, Ryan Batey. He had denied knowing the dead girl other than by sight. He further claimed that he’d never been into her house before he showed up in a professional capacity after her death. As for the matter of his fingerprints being all over the place, he had apologised for the poor police work, but blamed it on being freaked out by what he’d found there. Which, to be fair, did make sense. None of the Last Resort team liked him for it as much as his sister, but he was definitely still a person of interest.

The other obvious suspect should have been Kelly’s estranged husband, Aston, but he had a pretty cast-iron alibi. He was in Parc Prison at the time, doing three months for possession with intent to supply.

‘Anyone else?’ asked Gethin.

‘Could have been a punter,’ said Lee. ‘Sounds like she was doing business.’

‘Yeah, we should definitely follow up that angle. That it?’

‘Hope so,’ said Bex. ‘I reckon that’s plenty to be getting on with.’

Gethin sat back and considered the task ahead. ‘Looks like about two weeks work for all three of us, plus the forensic report. Bex, you want to type all that up and send the quote over to Mrs Hopkins? Soon as she okays it, we can get moving.’

Four

Gethin left the office early that afternoon. He drove a half-mile or so up Dumballs Road, past the new gated blocks of private flats which had replaced the old factories. John Williams Steel and Currans, where the young Shirley Bassey had gone to work age fourteen, packing chamber pots. He parked on Callaghan Square and walked into town, en route to meet Andy Moles. Andy was an old mate who worked on the local paper crime beat, so Gethin figured he’d be a good source of gossip on the Hopkins case. He was jumping the gun really. He knew he should wait till the money had been agreed before starting work, but what the hell. Finally he had a case with the potential to take his mind off the devastation of his private life, and he just wanted to throw himself into it.

Andy Moles was stood at the bar of the City Arms, over the road from the Stadium, with a half-empty pint of a very dark beer in his hand and a copy of the South Wales Echo on the bar in front of him. Andy was a short, fat bloke who had lately decided to make up for the disappearance of his once curly hair by adding a bushy new beard.

‘Pint?’

‘Mineral water, please,’ said Gethin, ‘I’m driving.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Andy ordered another pint for himself, plus the water.

Gethin frowned at his glass, wondering why he’d turned down the offer of a real drink. He could drive perfectly well after a single pint. And then he got it: part of him was still anticipating Cat’s disapproval if he came home with beer on his breath. Christ, it was ironic. She’d spent all those years treating him like he was an alcoholic any time he opened a second bottle of wine, and now she was seeing a bloke who mainlined vodka for breakfast. Maybe that was his mistake, trying to please her. Maybe she’d have liked him better if he’d just done as he pleased.

‘Are we here for a chat or are you just going to stare into space for the next hour?’

‘Sorry, mate, stuff on my mind.’

Andy nodded. ‘I heard about Cat. Shame.’

‘Yeah well. We’ll see.’

This was about as close to a heart to heart as Gethin had ever had with Andy Moles, so they both fell silent while Andy finished off his first pint with one long swallow.

Gethin cracked at the sight and ordered himself a pint of the weakest pale ale on offer, clinked glasses with Andy and got down to business.

‘Morgan Hopkins.’

Andy looked at him sharply: ‘Are you on that? I hadn’t heard.’

‘It’s not confirmed yet, but I think so.’

‘Who’s paying you? The sister?’

‘Yeah but it’s his money as I understand it. So, what d’you think?’

‘Can of worms. You know what everyone reckons, don’t you? Who really did it?’

‘I dunno,’ said Gethin, ‘the copper? Leanne?’

‘What I’m hearing is, it was the brother.’

‘The one that gave the alibi? I can see that’s obviously dodgy, but what’s his motive?’

Andy gave him the kind of smirk that only twenty years of crime reporting in South Wales can produce, the kind of smirk that makes everyone in its vicinity feel dirty. ‘Word is he was doing her too.’

Gethin frowned. This wasn’t even hot gossip, it had come out at the trial. Maybe he was wasting his time talking to Andy: ‘Yeah, I heard that rumour. You reckon it’s true? ’

‘Don’t think she was fussy, not after the first bottle of Blossom Hill anyway.’

Gethin started to laugh then stopped himself, remembered they were talking about a dead woman. Another couple of weeks of working on the case and he’d probably be joking away with the rest of them, but right now he wanted to maintain a little respect.

He was about to ask if there were any more concrete rumours about Ryan Batey that he needed to know, when he felt his phone buzz. A message from Bex. Good news, Linda Hopkins had got back to them straightaway. She’d pay 50 per cent up front on Monday morning. Gethin returned to his pint with renewed enthusiasm.

Andy had obviously received a message as well. He was scowling at his phone and tapping away. ‘Got to go, Geth. Two kids been arrested for terrorist offences over in Riverside.’

‘Christ,’ said Gethin, ‘depressing, innit?’ Cardiff seemed to have acquired more than its share of back bedroom jihadis in recent years. ‘Before you go though, you know anyone I should talk to about all this?’

Andy thought about it. ‘Not as such. You could try asking about in her old local.’

‘Where’s that then?’

‘The Four Feathers, up in Capeldewi.’

Gethin nodded; that was the same place Linda Hopkins said Morgan had met Kelly.

‘Ask for Vic, the landlord.’ Andy heaved his bulk off the bar stool. ‘Mention my name. I’d watch your back though. It’s a bit of an unfriendly local, the Four Feathers.’

* * *

Gethin picked Hattie up at half five then announced a change of plan.

‘You’re going over to grandad’s tonight, love, I have to work. Hope that’s okay.’

‘Of course it’s okay. I love going to his house, it’s really cool. And he’s teaching me to play chess.’

‘Great. We’ll swing by the house and pick up your stuff.’

They drove up the hill into Gwaelod Y Garth in companionable silence, Hattie engrossed in her phone. Gethin hoped he could take her perkiness at face value. She was obviously determined to put a brave face on things and show him that she was absolutely on his side. He loved her for it, but it made his heart ache. How long could they keep it up? How long could she put up with being shuttled from Martina to grandad to babysitter? How could he ever be mum and dad both?

Back at the house, while Hattie was assembling her overnight bag, Gethin took the opportunity to call Cat and check the weekend childcare arrangements.

Normally she sounded aggrieved when he called her, ready to start a row at any moment, so Gethin instinctively steeled himself for the fray. This time, though, she sounded different. There was no aggression, just a quiet, defeated tone as she assured him that yes, she was okay to show up at 12.30 the next day, Saturday, and yes, she’d be fine to give Hattie lunch.

Gethin hesitated, wondering whether to say anything, then decided there was nothing to lose: ‘Cat, are you okay?’

‘Yes, sure,’ she forced out an unconvincing half-laugh. ‘Been a long week, that’s all. And I haven’t been sleeping much, to be honest.’

In the early days of her desertion Gethin would have read only one thing into a remark like that – that she and Nils were screwing each other’s brains out all night long – but there was no hint of gloating in her voice this time, just exhaustion. Was she starting to have regrets? Well, even if she was, he didn’t feel like being too sympathetic. She’d made her bed, and if she found it hard to sleep in, that was her problem.

‘Have you spoken to Linda Hopkins, then? Actually scratch that, I know you have. She told me. So you’re going to take the case?’

‘Looks like it. If you want me to say thanks again, then here you go. Thanks very much. Don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Oh Geth, you don’t have to be so…’ She trailed off. ‘I suppose you do.’ Another pause. ‘Look, Morgan’s a good man, okay? He may not look like it, but he is. And I know he didn’t do this thing.’

Gethin stared at his phone, surprised. Whatever else she was, Cat was an experienced psychiatrist who knew full well that the most unlikely people were capable of the most appalling acts. What on earth made her so certain that Morgan Hopkins wasn’t one of those? He was about to say something when Hattie appeared, coat on and backpack in hand. He told Cat he had to go and led the way down to the car.

* * *

Gethin’s father, former high court judge Anthony Grey, lived in an architect-designed modern house overlooking the Bristol Channel, between the Edwardian resort town of Penarth and the retirement bungalows of Sully.

For years, after his mother died, it had been a gloomy place, less a home than a bunker, a place for the Judge to hide away from the world. A high wall protected it from the stares of passing walkers on the coastal path. In theory, in the architect’s intention, this was counterbalanced by a huge upstairs window offering views over the Channel for miles in all directions. On a clear day you could see both the Severn Bridge, twenty-odd miles to the north-east, and Minehead, a similar distance to the south-west. But for years the curtains had been kept closed and the only inhabitant was apparently happy to brood alone in the gloom. Lately though, the Judge seemed to be returning to the world.

In particular he’d shown a new interest in his granddaughter, and it was one she was keen to reciprocate. Her maternal grandparents were fine, but had retired to the Isle of Mull and so, with Gethin’s mother dead, she was keen to see more of the one grandparent she had to hand. Which was just as well from Gethin’s point of view. He needed all the help he could get with looking after her.

They parked in the lane and Gethin pressed the buzzer. The front door opened into a big dining–living area, which was now full of light on what was turning into a lovely autumn evening.

‘Take your bag up, dear,’ said the Judge, ‘then help yourself to a drink. I have some apple juice in the fridge for you.’

‘Thanks, Grandad,’ said Hattie and bounded up the stairs.

The Judge gave Gethin a thoughtful look, as if he was examining a new witness in the dock. Examination completed, he nodded to himself.

‘Do I detect a new case? You look better than of late.’

Gethin rolled his eyes. ‘Well spotted, your honour. Though I might observe that I told you I needed to be out this evening for work.’

‘A fair point. Can you tell me which well-funded reprobate has engaged your services this time?’

‘Morgan Hopkins.’

The Judge raised his eyebrows. ‘I confess I was wondering if that one might come your way. Interesting case.’

‘Yes, I suppose. As long as your definition of someone choking a woman to death is “interesting”.’

The Judge raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry, I rather thought I was talking to a professional.’

Gethin put his palm up in surrender. ‘Yes, sorry, I’ll get off my high horse. You’re right, it is interesting. My guy is plausible for it, but so are about half a dozen other people. Have you heard much about it?’ Gethin knew the Judge still met up with a bunch of fellow legal types every Thursday lunchtime at his club. If there was gossip floating about – and there was bound to be with a case that had aroused as much local interest as this one – he was likely to hear it.

The Judge gave him a tiny nod, accepting the apology. ‘It’s the dog that didn’t bark.’

Gethin thought about that: ‘Nobody’s talked about it?’

‘Well, some people have, of course. But not the ones who actually know anything. Llew hasn’t said a word.’

Llew was the judge who presided over the case, Llewellyn Richards.

‘And Vickers has barely said anything either. And normally when he loses a case like that he’s blaming all and sundry after the second large whisky. Not after this one.’

Vickers – Harry Vickers – was Morgan Hopkins’ barrister at the trial. ‘So what do you make of it?’

‘They don’t like it. The verdict.’

‘Any thoughts as to why?’

‘The police involvement, I suspect. As you say, Mr Hopkins fits the bill very nicely. On the other hand having two serving officers alibi each other in a case like that, well people are going to wonder, aren’t they? But you’re not going to spread that sort of gossip around the club, not with a chief constable sat at the table.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Gethin. In past years he would have gone on a rant then – asking how anyone expected justice to be done in this city when the senior cops and the senior lawyers and the judges all sat down to dinner together, were all quite literally in the same club. These days, though, he supposed he too had mellowed, or just lost the energy to fight against the status quo. He’d reluctantly come to accept that he was better off keeping his powder dry for battles he might just have a chance of winning. And rather than rail against his father’s cronies he would simply take advantage of them.

‘I’ll need to talk to Vickers. Do you think you might put in a word?’

‘Of course,’ said the Judge, then turned his attention to Hattie, who had come back downstairs wearing a unicorn onesie.

Gethin gave her a goodnight hug and told her to be ready to be collected at 11 the next morning. ‘Your mum’s coming to see you at 12.30, remember?’

Hattie pantomimed retching and Gethin smiled, but felt a wave of sadness. He didn’t want Hattie hating her mum. He wanted things to be back how they were. Though one of the many things his work had told him was that that never happened. Once you’d been imprisoned for something you didn’t do, you were never going to go back to being the person you were before. And once your mother walked out on you, it was never going to be the same again, even if she walked back in.

On which cheery note he said goodbye to the Judge and pointed the car in the direction of the Four Feathers in Capeldewi.

Five

To reach the Four Feathers Gethin had to retrace the route back home. But instead of turning off for Gwaelod Y Garth he carried on up the A470 to the next junction.

As he did so, it struck him how rarely he drove north from his house. Gwaelod Y Garth was technically in the Valleys. It perched on the western side of the Merthyr Valley, but to all intents and purposes it was a suburb of Cardiff. Its inhabitants were largely professional people like Cat and himself.

Everything to the north was different. There were no mines left on the valley floor – it was all retail and light industrial parks these days. Sure there were still some jobs out there, but the focal points had gone. There was still a strong sense of community in these little towns, strung out along the hillsides, but it was one based on a shared sense of loss and displacement. The industrial workforce, once the shock troops of the British labour movement, were reduced to part-time jobs in Aldi or Screwfix.

Gethin turned off the main road, took a couple of right turns and started following a lane climbing up the eastern side of the Merthyr Valley. At once he was surrounded by clear evidence of the other great change to have taken place in the Valleys over the past thirty years. How green they were now, these valleys. How little trace there was of the smoke and slag that Gethin remembered from his childhood. Just a few hundred yards from the main road, he was surrounded by nature, green and impassive. Humans may have mastered this terrain for a while, but it was fast returning to its prelapsarian state. It was both reassuring and slightly chilling to realise how fleeting are the works of men.