Good People

‘Distraught, sir.’

‘You’re a sly bastard, Capaldi.’ I heard the contained laugh under his voice.

‘Is that a yes, sir?’

‘You know it’s not a yes. But I’m not in control of your actions until I get a chance to confer with DCS Galbraith on how we should instruct you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ I disconnected quickly before he could remember his beef with the Army and rein me back in.

Trevor Vaughan was my obvious choice. But going to his farm would be pointless; it would just end up as a stand-off between me, him, and whoever had been appointed as minder for that day.

Even in the sad dead grip of winter an amateur like me, who was still trying out for his country-boy badge, could tell that Rhos-goch was a prosperous farm. The hedges were tidy and the drive was smooth, lined with beech trees that someone had had the unselfish foresight to plant a few generations ago.

Ken McGuire’s grey Discovery was parked in front of the house along with a red Audi A3 and a low-slung, black, two-door BMW 3 Series. All swanky machinery for these latitudes.

The house was a big architectural hybrid; a Victorian copy of a Georgian façade in stone, with a two-storey yellow-brick side extension. It was all in good shape and, I was glad to see, the dogs were kept locked up.

The woman who answered the door disappointed me though. She didn’t go with the house or the cars on the drive. A myopic woman in an apron, who peered at me as if she had forgotten that opening front doors sometimes revealed people standing there.

‘Is Mr McGuire in?’

‘No, he’s out in the cattle shed, checking the bedding.’

‘Can I wait for him?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Birdie … ?’

The woman at the door cocked her head at the sound of the voice down the corridor.

‘Who is it?’ the voice asked, coming into view. She was in her mid-twenties, loosely styled brown hair, outdoor cheeks, a slight build, and the natural confidence of a woman who had learned to master horses and brothers at an early age.

‘Detective Sergeant Capaldi.’ I held up my warrant card. ‘Mrs McGuire?’

She nodded, an all-purpose smile masking her scrutiny and curiosity. Taking just a little bit longer over it than she needed, to fit me into place. ‘It’s all right, Birdie, I’ll take care of the sergeant. I’m Sheila McGuire. Please, come in.’ She used the act of opening the door wider as an excuse not to shake my hand. ‘Ken isn’t around at the moment. Assuming that it’s him you’re here to see?’

‘Would you mind me waiting?’

‘Not at all. We’re in the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle back on.’

I followed her. She was wearing a baggy sweater, and swung a good bum in a pair of tight-fitting, navy blue riding breeches that were stained at the contact points with something that I assumed was equestrian.

When I walked into the big kitchen, the other woman sitting at the long refectory table, with a cigarette and a mug of coffee, made no pretence of welcoming me into the tent. She looked at me as if I was something that had turned up on her plate that she hadn’t ordered.

‘This is Zoë McGuire, my sister-in-law.’ Sheila introduced us. Zoë raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, and then deigned to incline her head at me, still watching, as if she had been tipped off that I was about to do something really stupid.

So, this was Gordon’s wife. The younger brother, the auctioneer. I marked her down for the black BMW. I was in the presence of both the McGuire ladies and had not prepared myself for the eventuality.

Zoë was wearing make-up and showing cleavage. Both were artfully presented. Her hair was blonde and cut short, gamine style, setting off the sculptural forms of the long neck, chin and cheekbones. She had played it wild with the make-up around her eyes, making them hard to read.

‘I hope that you’re here to arrest the bastards,’ Zoë declaimed. I thought that the accent might be Shropshire or Cheshire.

Sheila laughed.

‘What reason would I have to arrest them?’

‘They’ve reneged on the deal, the cheapskates.’

‘Zoë …’ Sheila protested amiably.

‘What deal would that be?’ I asked, playing it slightly dumb and nervous in the presence of glory.

‘You tell him,’ Zoë instructed Sheila. ‘You’re pissed off about it too.’

Sheila smiled, apologizing for her sister-in-law. ‘Our husbands have cried off taking us to the rugby in Dublin.’

‘It’s a bloody institution, the Dublin trip,’ Zoë wailed.

‘They’re not going?’

‘Oh, they’re going all right, they just don’t want the WAGs with them this time. Selfish buggers,’ Zoë snarled.

‘Ah.’ I grinned, pretending that I had only just seen the light. ‘I thought you meant arrest them for what happened on Saturday night.’ I segued into a big, dopey cop smile, and waited for the reactions.

Sheila had the grace to look uncomfortable. Zoë just shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Bloody schoolboys,’ she hissed.

‘It was a silly stunt that went wrong, Sergeant, and now the episode is closed,’ Sheila said firmly.

‘And they learnt a lesson,’ Zoë added.

‘What lesson was that, Mrs McGuire?’

‘Getting ripped off by that dirty bitch, and spending a freezing night out in the forest. And then having to pay for the repairs to that minibus.’

‘Zoë, Sergeant Capaldi isn’t here to talk about Saturday night,’ Sheila said, and from the look she gave me, I realized that I was meant to recognize that as an instruction.

‘What are you here for?’ Zoë asked.

‘Do you know Boon Paterson?’

‘Of course,’ Zoë answered.

Sheila just nodded, but I thought that I picked up a small surge in the current of her concentration.

‘He didn’t turn up for his flight back to his unit in Cyprus.’

‘Has there been an accident?’ Sheila asked, and this time it was Zoë’s attention that seemed to be nailed.