The Ripper of Rhuthun

"delightfully different dishevelled detective" ? 🕵️‍♂️

— IAWN (@IAWNyarc) July 3, 2019

Ken Frane did not want to go back to North Wales, but he had to. Bermo had left a bad taste in his mouth. The taste of burnt sausage. It wasn't the fact that it was North Wales per se. It was the fact that he didn’t own a car and he didn’t particularly like driving but the case that he had been handed looked like a humdinger. He needed to get to the medieval town of Rhuthun spelt Ruthin in the English. There was no train station in Rhuthun. Somebody called David Garland Jones had written a song about it. So how was he going to get up there from Fidlas Avenue, Llanishen, Cardiff? Train to Wrexham, Prestatyn or Rhyl was his safest bet, or he could hire a car.

Again, Frane chose the train and still could not get his head around the fact that he had to go into England to get to Rhuthun. The marcher kingdom of Shrewsbury. Neither Denbigh, Mold nor Rhuthun had a train station. Mold! What kind of a name for a town was that? Not the kind of place for a food festival.

As soon as he arrived, he checked into the Hotel on the Square which doubled as a well-known pub chain. From his bedroom window Frane could see the clock, which had kept good time since the 19th Century. He was going to be briefed about a spate of killings, 3 so far, a serial killer. Ken Frane noticed the attractive raven haired green-eyed young lady on reception. Irish looking. He nodded and half smiled but hid his teeth as he did, so acutely aware of the yellow staining from his 40 years of Cafe Creme cigars.