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Tuesday evening

By the time Charlie got to Wrexham, both his leg and his ribs were aching like a bitch. Vile word, but the only one that worked. He stopped at a garage for petrol, chocolate, and a machine coffee to take more painkillers. It was technically too early for another one, but he figured the instructions were probably on the conservative side. And he was taking it with food. Well, chocolate.

His appointment with Ella Williams wasn’t for an hour, so he went to the Pettifor house, dreading the conversation to come, sitting in the car outside, gathering his courage. In the end, he made himself get out of the car and knock on the front door.

It was opened by a red-faced man in his fifties or early sixties, who had clearly been too long in the sun. Pale rings around his eyes showed the shape of his sunglasses. The sunburn looked fierce, the skin on his nose already beginning to peel. Charlie’s leg ached in sympathy. He’d left the crutches in the car and was regretting it.

“Mr Pettifor, I’m Detective Sergeant Charlie Rees,” he said, showing the man his ID. “May I come in?” The man looked puzzled but let Charlie into the house. “Is Mrs Pettifor at home?” Charlie asked.

The man nodded. “What is this?” he said.

“Perhaps you would call your wife, sir, and I could talk to you both.”

Charlie could see fear in the man’s eyes. “Jen,” he called, and his voice was shaky.

A well-tanned woman came into the room, drying her hands on a tea towel. “What’s up, love? Who’s this?” she asked.

Charlie asked if they could sit down and was led to the front room, where the Pettifors perched on a very shiny red leather sofa in front of an enormous TV set. Charlie sat on a matching armchair. “This morning, we found the body of a man, who we believe may be your son, Joshua,” he said. Mrs Pettifor put her hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened until they were almost round.

“No,” she said.

“You said may be Joshua ,” the man said. “So, it might not be him.”

Charlie started to take a deep breath and remembered not to, just in time. This was the worst part. “The person was found in your son’s camper van, in Llanfair at the car parts firm where he worked. There is no evidence that anyone other than your son was using the van. I’m afraid there had been a very bad fire, and it means we aren’t able to identify …”

Mrs Pettifor interrupted. “Let me see. It won’t be my Joshey.”

Oh, God. Charlie thought of the remains of whoever had been in the van.

“That won’t be possible, Mrs Pettifor. As I said, the person is unrecognisable. They were very badly burned in the fire.”

“I’d know, ” she said.

No, you wouldn’t.

“The doctor who carried out the post mortem examination has given me a set of dental X-rays. Can you tell me who your son’s dentist is? If he had been to the dentist recently …”

This time it was Mr Pettifor who interrupted. “That would be Gareth Rhidian. He’s a friend. I’ll call him.” Pettifor got out his phone. “Gareth. We’ve got a detective here who says Joshua … may be dead.” Pause. “He’s got some X-rays. He wants to know if they are Josh’s.”

Charlie couldn’t hear what the other person said. Pettifor was holding the phone too tightly.

“It isn’t him,” Mrs Pettifor said. She was shaking, and her teeth began to chatter. “It isn’t him.”

Pettifor’s call ended. “He says to meet him at the surgery with your X-rays. It’s the one on Dynefor Street. He’s going there now.”

Charlie stood up.

“Gareth is Joshua’s godfather,” Pettifor said.

Dynefor Street was only a few minutes’ drive. Charlie parked outside, gathered his crutches and knocked at the surgery door. It was opened by a tall, handsome man in casual clothes. Charlie showed him his ID.

“Dr Rhidian,” Charlie said. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Who took the X-Rays?” Rhidian asked, holding out his hand for the envelope.

“Hector Powell, the pathologist,” Charlie told him and got a humph in return.

Rhidian turned on a computer on the reception desk, and once it had booted up, rattled the keys, as he shook the X-Ray films out of the envelope. He held up Hector’s X-Rays and peered at the computer screen. Then he said “Shit,” and put his head in his hands on the desk.

“It’s a match?” Charlie asked, knowing the answer.

Rhidian lifted his head, and Charlie saw tears in his eyes. “He was a lovely boy,” he said. “This is going to kill them.”

“I’ll need to take a formal statement from you, Dr Rhidian,” Charlie said. “But there’s no hurry. I’ll go back to Mr and Mrs Pettifor now.” He couldn’t help wondering whether he was a lovely boy perhaps implied that Josh hadn’t been a lovely man.

“I’ll go,” Rhidian said. “Let me tell them. They’re my best friends.”

It was Charlie’s job to go, and he was about to say so when his phone rang: Alun Evans MP .

Charlie apologised and allowed Rhidian to escort him from the building.

“Mr Evans,” Charlie said, watching as Rhidian got into a BMW 4x4 and drove off. “What can I do for you?” His heart sank at the thought of another press conference, or more questions from the MP, none of which he could answer. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg.

When Evans spoke, it was in a whisper. “There’s a man in my house. He’s got a knife, and he says he’s going to kill my family.”

“Ring 999,” Charlie said. “Do it now.”

“No, wait, he says no police …”

Charlie wanted to say he was the police, but he heard the fear in Evans’ voice. “Are you somewhere safe?” he asked.

“Downstairs toilet,” came the whispered reply. “I think he’s mad. My wife will be back with the children soon. He’s waiting for them. She’s not answering her phone. I didn’t know who else to call.” There was a barely concealed sob in Evans’ voice.

Charlie opened his mouth to ask for the address when there was a crashing noise, and a scream.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?”

Charlie knew that voice. Jeff Burton. The phone went dead.