hope?’ She said it jokingly but the optimistic light shining in her eyes begged otherwise.
‘No, I didn’t kill her,’ he assured. He thanked them for his things. ‘Look, if anyone else like that comes around asking for me, don’t point out where I live, huh?’ He was feeling a tad uneasy about this mysterious man who appeared to be following him around.
At that moment two uniformed police officers came into the shop, seemingly filling it with their presence. Gareth gave one of them a glance and made as if to squeeze by them to leave. One of the sisters quipped loudly that they’d found him at last, and laughed, rather too shrilly.
‘Mr Davies?’ one of the officers said. ‘Mr Gareth Davies of Deller’s End?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he returned. Then realisation hit him. ‘Have you found the kids who damaged my wall?’
The second officer stepped forward, a sheer rock-face of a man. His expression was equally stony. ‘Mr Davies, we’d like you to accompany us to the station.’
‘Sorry?’ he said, bemused.
‘We’d like you to come along with us, sir.’
‘What, now?’
‘If you would, sir,’ he said, meaning definitely and don’t argue.
The faces of the two sisters were a sight to behold, thought Gareth as he left the shop with the policemen. That was the last time he would ever get offered their two-for-one cupcakes, he mused.
21
Gareth was one of those people, he decided, that just being in the company of the law made him feel instantly guilty. Everything about him told them he was guilty — his voice, his sweaty palms, his increasingly furtive looks. He bet they could fasten a lie detector on him and he’d come out responsible for anything from shoplifting to terrorism. Whatever it was they were looking for when they sat him in that sterile interview room he was certain they believed they found it in him. The officer who sat opposite him told him to relax, it was only a question or two, that’s all; shouldn’t take too long. Routine. He liked how they used that word. Just being in here was anything but routine.
‘What’s all this about?’ Gareth asked, glancing apprehensively at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room.
All in good time, the officer told him. He needed to confirm his name, date of birth, address, which he dutifully did. As he was finishing another man came into the room, dressed in plain clothes, closely followed by another dressed similarly. There was an obvious handover and the uniformed officer rose and left, the other two taking his place, sitting side by side opposite Gareth.
The older of the two looked familiar. Large-framed, good head of hair but almost grey, eyes that had seen it all and needed to rest; his partner was far younger, slim, quite handsome, a jaw that sported hair somewhere between a fashionable five o’clock shadow and stubble. He guessed they represented both ends of the career spectrum; starting out, seeing it out.
The elder introduced himself in a quiet, unhurried drawl as Detective Chief Inspector Stafford of the Greater Manchester Police; his colleague was Detective Inspector Styles.
‘How long have you lived at Deller’s End, Mr Davies?’ he asked. He told him. ‘And where did you move from?’
‘London.’
His head nodded gently. ‘Bit of a change, London to rural Wales. Don’t you find it a bit isolated?’
‘It suits me fine,’ said Gareth. ‘What is all this about?’
‘You’re a photographer,’ he said, looking down at the table.
‘I get by.’
‘Live on your own?’
‘Yes. Is that unusual?’
He flashed him a pasted-on smile. ‘Not at all, Mr Davies.’ From a cardboard folder that sat on the table he pulled out a photograph and slid it over to Gareth. ‘Do you recognise that, Mr Davies?’
He did, instantly. It was the painted symbol from his living room wall and he told them so. ‘One of your guys told me it was probably a graffiti tag. Seems a lot of bother to drag someone down all the way from Manchester to investigate a bit of vandalism.’
Slowly the officer removed another photograph and pushed it across the table so that it sat alongside the first. ‘Actually this photograph is the one from your wall; the first came from elsewhere,’ he said.
Gareth held them up together. ‘They look the same. Do you suppose they were done by the same person then?’
He ignored the question. ‘Have you ever lived in Manchester, Mr Davies?’
That took no time at all to answer. ‘Never. All I know about Manchester is that it has two football teams and a canal.’
‘A visit recently?’
‘No.’
‘Not even briefly?’
‘Not even for a nanosecond. What has the graffiti on my wall got to do with Manchester?’
He slid yet another photograph over. A young woman smiling for the camera, caught in the bright glare of the flash. She looked like she’d been taken unawares.
At first glance Gareth thought he was looking at Erica, and his heart lurched. But then he realised it wasn’t her, similar yes, but definitely not Erica.
‘Do you recognise this woman?’ said Stafford. The younger officer called Styles leant forward a fraction.
Gareth shook his head. ‘Never seen her before.’
‘Are you certain? Never met her, even briefly? Perhaps at a party somewhere, on the streets, in a cafe? Take another closer look,’ he insisted. ‘See if it refreshes your memory.’
Gareth pushed it back across the table. ‘Never clapped eyes on her till this moment when you showed me this. Who is she? Am I supposed to know her?’
‘Do you recognise the name Ania Dabrowska?’
‘It’s not a name I’m familiar with,’ he said. I think I’d remember that one; Polish, is it?’
‘Good guess,’ he said passing a sideways glance at Styles.
‘Hardly,’ Gareth countered, ‘I’ve known a few Polish people. Youngsters coming over for the work.’
‘And you are absolutely certain you never knew this young Polish person who came over for the work?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he said, exasperated, ‘I have never seen this woman before. Who the hell is she and what has she to do with me? Why am I being questioned like this?’
DCI Stafford sat back in his chair, stretching his back and shoulders. ‘You mean who
Gareth was stunned. Then he made the connection: the slot on the TV news some time ago, when he was in the hotel in St Davids; the young woman found dead in a Manchester flat. The man opposite him was the officer leading the investigation, the one who was asking for witnesses. That’s why he looked vaguely familiar.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Gareth, ‘you don’t suspect me of having had a hand in her murder, do you?’ He could feel his insides screw up like newspaper and his legs go weak. His mouth was mopped dry in an instant. He looked from elder to younger and back again, searching their dispassionate eyes.
‘As you can understand, Mr Davies,’ Stafford said, coming forward to lean on the table, ‘we need to chase any lead we find, and, naturally, want to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
Gareth’s hand swept back his hair in a nervous gesture he’d had since a kid. The tension was getting so tight he could hear it squeak. ‘I hadn’t realised I had to be eliminated from anything.’
‘Are you aware of how this woman died?’
