Rhys-Morgan liked his coffee like he did not like his women – strong and bitter. Hot and wet was okay but they should not come in a mug. (Rhys-Morgan had visited that particular club in Amsterdam and had not been impressed.) Coffee may stain your teeth but it would never run off with the men’s room attendant from your golf club.
He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. The visit to Smeg & Butterworth had stirred up dregs of bad memories from a past that Ifan wanted to remain buried. The only thing he could do in response was to bury himself in his work.
A quick gulp of his coffee snapped him out of his contemplation and he picked up the first sheet of paper from his in-tray. It was a copy of Sarah Jackson’s medical records. He knew what was coming next but was still hesitant as he turned the leaf and read the page stapled to it. It was a forensic report. Sarah’s profile was an exact match for one of the victims.
With an involuntarily curl of his top lip he cast the papers back on his desk. It was bad enough when a couple of scumbags had a lethal falling out (often the lethality was due to one of them falling out a tenth story window, or a moving car) but he really hated the part of his job that dealt with the death of innocents.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rhys-Morgan could see the familiar silhouette of Tommie through the frosted glass.
“Come in, Tommie.”
Tommie opened the door and lent around it. He gaze quickly flicked between the report on Rhys-Morgan’s desk and the expression on his face.
“You’ve seen my report, then.”
It was not a question but Rhys-Morgan felt it deserved a response. “Yes, Tommie.” He did not really know what else to say.
Tommie’s body followed his head into the office and he placed a Krispy Kreme donut box on the Inspector’s desk in which the sole survivor of an original glazed dozen sat. There was a brief pause as a Tommie tried to discern the mood of his boss. “Bobby and Tommo are back. Shall I send them in?”
Rhys-Morgan nodded with a resigned shrug. “Please. And I phoned in a request earlier for information on an Anthony Smeg and a Wendy Lloyd. I think Rog was doing the digging.” Tommie nodded, pleased to have an excuse to leave again. “I’ll get on it.”
Thirty seconds or so after Tommie closed the door there was another knock. This time it sounded like someone trying to be gentle but, having giant hams for fists, failing miserably.
Ifan did not even look up. “Come in Tommo.”
The door opened and the shut heavily. A shadow slowly loomed over Rhys-Morgan and produced a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the DVLA’s summary, Guv. Bobby’s finishing off the full report for you now.”
“Thanks Tommo,” Rhys-Morgan answered, taking the proffered paper. “What have we got?”
“The owners of the vehicles, Guv.”
“Yes, Tommo,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “I realise that. But what does it say?”
“Well, Guv, Bobby was right. That Landrover did belong to the Jacksons.”
Rhys-Morgan scanned the report. “Let’s see. ’82 Suzuki moped. Red.”
“Belongs to a young girl, Emma Fredricks. We haven’t managed to track her down, yet. Forensics are double-checking but it looks like one of the victims may be a match.” Rhys-Morgan drained the rest of his mug. “And what about the owner of the Volvo?” He checked the page. “Duncan Bridges.”
“Yeah. Twenty-three.” Tommo smirked. “Lives with his mum.”
“Found him?”
“Not yet. She didn’t know where he was. Went out very early yesterday morning. Hasn’t been since. Again, there’s a likely match with one of the bomb blast casualties. We should know for sure later.”
“Good. The sooner we get these I.D.s, the better.” He turned the page and frowned. “What’s this blue Fiesta? That wasn’t in the original list.”
“It got towed from a different lay-by to the other three,” Tommo explained. “Somehow got overlooked. Just as well, really - it didn’t belong to one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan read on. “Ah, yes. A Stephen Bailey reported it missing just before lunch.” He raised his eyebrows. “My, that is some colourful language. Send a car to his house and get a statement. He might have seen or heard something. Failing that, it might stop him lodging an official complaint; that’s one hassle, I could really do without.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan dropped Tommo’s report on top of the medical reports from Tommie. It was not much but it was a step on the right direction, at least.
“Right. Thanks, Tommo. Let me know when we have something more.”
“Sure thing, Guv.”
The shadow retreated, closing the door heavily behind it. Rhys-Morgan reached for the coffee pot. If forensics did get a positive match with Emma and Duncan then that would bring the identified victims to five. But who were the rest? And what was the link? And why could he not shake the feeling that he was not going to like the answers?
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