Was this a simple case of sheep rustling, or was there something stranger happening in Cwm Coed?
BY CLARE MACKINTOSH
Detective Constable Ffion Morgan was having a bad day. The owner of the tiny cottage she rented had realised he could make much more from holidaymakers than from Ffion and had given her notice.
Ffion was now desperately searching for somewhere to live. She closed the property site as Detective Inspector Malik approached her desk.
“What have you got, boss?”
“A flock of sheep stolen from Penrhyn farm overnight. Uniform are tied up. Can you take a look on your way home?”
“Will do.” When Ffion was at training college with students from outside Wales, it was a running joke that she would be dealing with nothing but sheep rustling.
It turned out not to be a joke; not only because it was a frequent occurrence, but because there was nothing funny about losing thousands of pounds in livestock.
The offenders often travelled hundreds of miles, loading the unwitting sheep into lorries designed for half as many animals, before selling them on the black market. The chances of recovering them were slim.
Penrhyn looked promising from the road, iron gates bearing the farm’s name and a glossy postbox so the postman could bypass the bumpy drive. But as Ffion drove nearer to the farmhouse, she saw broken fencing and rusting machinery; piles of junk amid overgrown grazing. The farmhouse itself was a small building on one side of a concrete yard, opposite a large barn. As Ffion approached, a door opened at the side of the building and a woman called out.
“Dach chi’n iawn?”
Ffion walked towards the woman, holding out her warrant card.
“Ffion Morgan,” she said. “Heddlu.” Police. Ffion never gave a thought to whether she was speaking Welsh or English. It just happened, depending on who she was speaking to.
“Alys Davis,” the woman said. “It’s my farm. What’s left of it.”
Alys’s sheep had been taken from the bottom field, next to the main road. Two rails had been forced loose from the post and the entire flock driven out of the field.
“Texel crosses,” Alys said, as Ffion wrote down the flock number. “Twelve breeding ewes with twenty-one new season lambs between them. Around two and a half grand, I reckon.”
“Markings?”
“A blue letter P on their right sides.”
Ffion made a note.
“You didn’t hear anything overnight?”
“Nothing.” Alys was making a paned, the kettle just short of whistling. “I’ve not slept well lately, but when I do drop off, I’m out for the count.”
“Are you coping OK?” Ffion said quietly. It was both a blessing and a curse that
