Wild People. Ewart Hutton

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      The coincidences seemed to be just too loaded.

      I had been lying there for days wallowing in guilt and anguish until something in the kick-ass side of my brain took over and said, Wait a minute, stop playing the helpless victim and look at this in another light. A tyre bursts on you, bad news, but it happens. Invariably you pull over to the side of the road, fix the bastard and get your hands dirty. But when the one crucial tyre explodes on a wet surface, at the very worst point on a killer bend and you go flying off the road, you have to start questioning the likelihood of all those factors coming into conjunction without perhaps a little assistance.

      Jack Galbraith turned back to face me. ‘We thought about that.’

      ‘We checked it out. It was definitely an accident,’ Bryn amplified.

      ‘No disrespect, Capaldi, but who would go to all that fucking effort to waste you?’

      Who indeed?

      I racked my brains for people with grudges. Sadly there were plenty of takers. I then factored in the possession of enough intelligence and resources to have come up with a scheme like this that had left no trace, and that narrowed the field down quite considerably. To zero in fact. I could think of no fiendish Professor Moriarty type who I had crossed badly enough in my past.

      But it was occupying me. Keeping my brain engaged. And, more importantly, deflecting my sense of guilt. If someone else had caused this, I could concentrate on retribution rather than morbidity. I could act rather than mope. I was a cop after all. I could use my métier to find out who had been behind it.

      I started by putting a call in to Kevin Fletcher in Cardiff. I had been his mentor when he had first joined the force. We had worked together when we had both been detective sergeants, although he had since risen to the rank of detective chief inspector, while I remained a DS, with the added distinction of now being a disgraced emissary in the boondocks. We didn’t like each other these days, but I reckoned that he owed me one for unintentionally giving his career another upward shunt recently.

      ‘Glyn!’ His tone was ebullient.

      ‘Hi, Kevin, can you talk, or is this a bad time?’

      ‘Absolutely no problemo.’ His voice was raised over a background of clinking glasses and conversations. I could picture him in his element, networking with the movers and the sharks in a swanky boozer. His tone dropped to sympathetic. ‘Are you okay? We heard about the accident. Fucking shame.’

      ‘It’s a terrible thing. And thanks, I’m getting better, but I need a favour, Kevin.’

      The brief silence was like a security grille crashing into place. ‘And I’d love to have you back here working for me, don’t get me wrong. Like a shot, if the decision was mine to make. But it’s a political thing.’ In the background I heard a couple of his cronies laugh, and I wondered what gesture he’d just flashed them. ‘You’re still a raw wound down here. The head honchos wouldn’t consider it.’

      I gritted my teeth to cover my gag reaction at all that faux sincerity, and tried to keep my voice sunny. ‘I’m not looking for a transfer, only some information.’

      He chuckled benignly. ‘That I can do, if I’m able.’

      ‘Can you ask around discreetly to see if there’s any talk out there about anyone having a special interest in me.’

      ‘Special interest?’ His voice was alert now.

      ‘A big chip on their shoulder. It might be someone I put away, or it might be a more tenuous connection. Perhaps someone I put inside has died in the nick, and a relative might be holding me responsible.’

      ‘As in revenge?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      He sewed the pieces together. ‘You think the accident might not have been an accident?’

      ‘I’d just like to reassure myself.’

      ‘Leave it with me.’

      Give him credit, he acted quickly. Pity he didn’t do it in my interest.

      ‘Capaldi!’

      ‘Sir?’ As soon as I saw Jack Galbraith’s number come up on the caller display I knew that Fletcher had finked on me.

      ‘A little bird has told me that you are about to take off on a flight of fucking fantasy.’

      ‘I just thought I’d check out the opposition, Sir. There are some twisted people out there.’

      His voice rose. ‘And I told you we already had.’

      I held the phone away from me and ate shit. ‘Yes, Sir.’

      ‘The possibility has been checked and discounted.’

      ‘Yes, Sir.’

      ‘Get this, Capaldi, you are currently non-operational. So you are either going to be on sick leave getting up to whatever you do with your sheep or your fucking elks or whatever else you use to relax with up there, or I will haul you back to Carmarthen and have you collating endless reams of useless shit. Understood?’

      ‘I understand, Sir.’

      Contacting Fletcher had been a calculated risk. But, even if he hadn’t shafted me, I had always known that probably, and sooner rather than later, I was going to have to take this thing underground.

      Which is why I declined the offer of a police driver to take me home and asked Mackay to come for me instead. Without my mother this time.

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