MORNING SERIAL

“YEAH, OK. I see you can guess all the moves, but, believe me, the outcome is one to leave alone. The moves … well, you know those; Mal had made a pile, dot com and all that. And he diversified.

But not enough, as it happened. So, he took out insurance, buying up land across the heads of the valleys. Cheap. Useless land. No good for local homes or for commuters to travel to work elsewhere, or for factory sheds and inward investors. Good for schemes, though.

He persuaded the powersthat-be to establish a Research Park. He invested in it. Of course he made himself the chairman of the board, and had Gwil, dear, sweet, shitty Gwil, appointed as Director. With my contacts and Ceri’s profile, we promoted Tir Werin in Europe as a practical vehicle to make real the ideas and schemes dreamed up in the Alfred Wallace Building.

Neat name, huh? Mal geared Gwilym up to write the business plan for a major regeneration centre, with social benefits and visitor offshoots. Feasibility studies. Project money. Grant aid and start-up money, to purchase the necessary land. Now, soon, take-off money. Follow?”

I nodded. Bran said nothing. So, I did the follow on myself.

“Only the stuff I’ve seen kind of suggests the money went round and round, so to speak.

From Brussels to the government to Tir Werin, to Valleyscorp, so to you, and Mal? And I’d guess to Ceri. Our old friend and comrade, Sir Ceri Evans.”

Bran flicked me a smile. I threw another stick on the fire dying between us.

“Suggest, you say. Doesn’t prove anything, does it?” she countered.

“Not yet, no. I’ll want to talk to Haf, won’t I?” Was that a threat? She seemed to take it as such. She was right to do so. But then she surprised again.

Bran stood. She picked up a soft leather handbag that didn’t gleam and was studded with dull bronze metal clasps and non-functional straps.

She opened the clasp that was like an antique key and reached inside for a shiny, black fountain pen with a snow cone on top.