Chapter 4
DAY ONE, EVENING, DAY TWO, MORNING
Reaction came in the form of a call from his sister before he had driven halfway back to the village outside Cardiff where he lived.
“What are you playing at?” his sister Branwen yelled.
“Do you need the phone?” Deryn answered. “They can hear you in England.”
“Shut the fuck up and listen for once.”
“I’ve heard it already,” Deryn said, and ended the call.
Branwen rang back, more than once, but he ignored her until she gave up.
No doubt other members of his family would call, and someone would mention who owned the place he called home, and whose money had paid for his car.
There was no such thing as a free lunch, and he was bound to his family with strong ropes of obligation.
Getting his mother to take sides was impossible — she had a PhD in deliberate ignorance about how her family made money.
Which didn’t mean Deryn couldn’t give her a coded heads-up when she telephoned.
Which she did, about twenty minutes later as he was peering into his fridge, hoping for something more exciting than a fish finger sandwich for dinner.
“I’ve had a terrible day,” he told her. “Two people died and left a tiny baby. Joe, the baby’s name is.
The neighbour only found him because she heard the crying, poor dab.
” Gossip would have told her that already, and probably why they died, but that would be something she could pretend was nothing to do with anyone called Kent.
“Oh, that’s awful,” she said. “I heard the parents were drug addicts. The council should have been keeping an eye on the baby.”
Deryn explained about fentanyl because for sure, no one else would.
The conversation didn’t last much longer.
That left him with nothing else to do but return to the fridge.
He decided on a bowl of cereal and an apple, with the option of toast later.
He ate, but everything felt wrong. Was wrong.
There was a solution, one that pulled hard.
Deryn double-locked the front door and pulled all the curtains closed against the dusk.
Then he went into his bedroom and pulled a sports bag out from under the bed.
From it he took a carefully folded black satin slip edged with lace, and the matching knickers.
He considered the stockings in their neat bags, the two pairs of high-heeled shoes, and the make-up case.
In the end he chose the black shoes, sheer stockings, a long black satin robe, and left everything else behind, zipping the bag carefully.
In the bathroom, he showered, shaved, and changed into his other self.
In the misty mirror, Deryn saw a woman, called Dee, and she felt calm, ready for an evening of research.
Dee spent the evening and a good chunk of the night staring at a computer screen, scratching a curiosity itch.
If Brody Murphy was telling the truth, and Mason Abruzzi was a millionaire, what was he doing in the Welsh Valleys?
He wouldn’t be the first rich man to go in search of a simpler life, but a poverty-stricken corner of post-industrial Wales seemed a bizarre choice.
The internet had no clues as to Mason Abruzzi’s relocation decision, or indeed any pictures of Mason himself.
What it did have were pictures and stories about the Abruzzi family, mostly at grand events.
They lived in Manhattan, attended a lot of parties, and could be found on the boards of arts organisations.
Dee had no context for judging just how much money the Abruzzis had, but they were pictured with past and present US presidents, media moguls, and the heads of major finance companies.
A very great deal of money was probably a good guess.
Dee found herself engaged by the women’s red carpet outfits, the brilliant jewellery, hairstyles and shoes, imagining herself in one of the flowing dresses, dripping with diamonds.
It was hard to focus on the here and now, to operate as Deryn, but she managed a quick email to DI Glover to say that it was possible that Abruzzi had been kidnapped for ransom, as his family were rich.
There was no point in speculating about who might have carried out the kidnapping.
A reply came back almost immediately. Dee wasn’t the only one burning the midnight oil.
From: DI Irene Glover
To: DC Deryn Kent
Re: Mason Abruzzi/other
It’s too soon to begin a manhunt for Abruzzi. Stay in touch with his friend. Keep me posted. First thing, start visiting known addicts warning of contaminated heroin. Find out who is supplying it. Briefing at two.
IG
Dee slept after that, still in the silky slip, waking to a call from Brody Murphy and the realisation that Dee needed to go and Deryn to return.
It was hard, but there wasn’t a choice. She told Brody to wait for a moment, put the slip and matching knickers in the washing basket, burying them underneath a load of towels.
The rest of Dee’s clothes went back into the sports bag to be replaced with a dark grey dressing gown.
“I’m back at Mason’s house,” Brody said, “and I’ve been talking to the neighbours. I think you should hear what they have to say.”
“Just tell me,” Deryn said.
“It’s better coming from them. How soon can you get here?”
Deryn clenched his jaw to stop himself yelling that he wasn’t Murphy’s personal policeman. He was on his way to Cwmcoed anyway. What harm could it do to talk to Murphy? If nothing else it would quieten the thoughts about Phillip’s drug dealing, and whether his colleagues had made the connection.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said, and dressed in black jeans and black shirt, ready for work.
Brody’s hire car was still parked on the street outside the house, and Deryn parked behind it. Murphy must have taken a taxi from the hotel. The weather was warm enough to sit outside with the cat and chickens, so Deryn opened the back gate, and sure enough, Brody was there.
A night’s sleep appeared to have restored him; the shadows were gone from his face and his eyes were bright.
“Hotel OK?” Deryn asked.
“Good. Better than I expected, and the breakfast was huge. But that’s not important.
I think Mason’s been kidnapped. Come and listen to the woman in the next house.
” Murphy moved impatiently towards the garden gate.
Deryn followed as Murphy led the way to the street and rang the neighbour’s doorbell.
“Mrs Davies,” Murphy said, “this is Detective Constable Kent. Could you tell him what you told me?”
Mrs Davies was in her seventies, maybe older; a small, stooped woman with white hair and a lot of wrinkles. She looked up at Deryn. “I know who he is,” she said, and she didn’t seem impressed. “You’d better come in.”
The door opened straight into the living room, shaded by spotless lace curtains, and well filled with everything from Harlequin romances to china dogs, via crochet blankets, and a small army of cuddly toys.
A large television stood on one side of the gas fire, and on the other, by the window, a dining table and chairs.
One of the chairs was pulled back from the table as if Mrs Davies had just risen from it to answer the door.
“I like to see what’s going on,” she said, gesturing at the chair. “When you’re on your own, you want to know who’s in the street. I used to know everyone. But it’s all changed now.”
“You know Mason, from next door, though?” Murphy asked.
“Funny lad, but good-hearted. He took me shopping to the supermarket most weeks. Gave me some of his eggs when he could.”
“Tell DC Kent about yesterday morning,” Murphy said.
Mrs Davies sighed. “I was eating my tea, looking out of the window. I mostly watch the telly at teatime, Escape to the Country, but there was cricket or something like that. Anyway, this big car rolls up and stops outside. Two men get out and go into Mason’s house — round the back; no one uses the front door.
So, I finish my tea and take my things in the kitchen to wash up and when I come back, Mason is getting into the big car and it drives off with one of the men.
The other one gets into Mason’s car and drives away as well. ”
“You told me that the man pushed Mason into the big car,” Murphy said. “That you didn’t think he went willingly.”
Mrs Davies looked at Deryn and back at Murphy.
“I can’t be sure about that. Not to say so in court or to the police.”
“Could you tell us anything about the car, Mrs Davies?” Deryn asked. “Did you see what make it was? What colour?”
“I don’t know anything about cars. It was big, sort of a grey colour. That’s all I know.” Her face had closed up, as if she was going to start saying no comment to any further questions.
“Thank you for your time,” Deryn said.
Murphy took the hint, and they left. Once out of earshot of Mrs Davies, Murphy burst out, “She told me he was pushed into the car! That’s why I wanted you to hear it from her directly.”
“I believe you,” Deryn said, because he did.
Mrs Davies, like so many others in Cwmcoed, didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the Kent family.
Which suggested that the Kent family was somehow involved in the disappearance of Mason Abruzzi.
Or at least, Mrs Davies thought that they might be.
Everywhere he turned, the malign influence of his family stopped him doing his job properly.
Two people were dead and a baby orphaned because of Phillip’s greed.
Deryn had told him No more but if Phillip told what he knew …
Harry Styles could walk the red carpet and be photographed in a dress; Deryn Kent, Welsh detective constable, not so much, not judging by the ‘banter’ of his colleagues.
Brody Murphy’s friend was missing, and this pleasant woman wouldn’t tell him the truth because of his surname.
He would protect his family if he could, but he was done with covering up.
Sammi, Ky, and little Joe deserved his best efforts.
Mason Abruzzi’s disappearance deserved a proper investigation.
Maybe there was an innocent explanation for his absence, and for the blood on the floor, but finding out the truth and bringing villains to justice was Deryn’s job and he was going to do it.
Dee and all her clothes, shoes and, make-up, would have to go.
A resolution Deryn had made before.