About Rhys Maren - fictional investigator of historical mysteries

I was born in Tal-y-Cafn, in the Conwy Valley, between the coast and the hills, in 1963. Eleanor, my mother, died in childbirth, so I was raised by my grandmother, Margaret. I left for a while, as people do but eventually returned to the same house where she raised me.

Stories have always interested me, particularly those that have survived without anyone paying much attention to them. An old photograph, a letter found in a drawer or a family paper that has been passed from one generation to the next can reveal more than its owner ever intended. I have always been curious about what lies behind those fragments and, more importantly, about the people who left them behind. That curiosity eventually became the work I do.

There is usually a cup of tea on the kitchen table, although I have a habit of forgetting it when I become absorbed in something. When I need to think, I walk. The lanes and footpaths around here have been familiar to me since I was a boy, and the coast has always been somewhere I can go when I need to clear my head. I do not always come back with an answer, but I usually come back knowing what I need to look at next. If the weather has turned, I come back wet as well.

My Land Rover Defender sits outside the house. I bought it new on my thirtieth birthday and have kept it ever since. There is also a Triumph Bonneville in the garage, a Meriden model from the final years of the original factory. I have had motorcycles for most of my adult life, although the Bonneville now tends to come out only when the weather is good and I have nowhere that I need to be.

I learned to cook from my grandmother, although necessity taught me rather more than she did. I make bread, soups and stews, usually the sort of food that can be left to itself while I am doing something else. The garden is less cooperative. It has never been particularly orderly and has a tendency to grow according to its own ideas. Some of the plants have been there since I was a boy, which makes it difficult to remove them even when they have become inconvenient.

Music has been part of the house for as long as I can remember. The records I listened to when I was young are still here, alongside the many more I have accumulated since. There is usually a radio playing somewhere, whether it is music, a play, a documentary or a discussion about something I knew nothing about when I switched it on.

I have never wanted a complicated life. The house, the garden, the road to the coast and the things I have collected over the years are enough. Most days pass without anything remarkable happening. Then something turns up: a photograph, a name, a letter or a detail that does not make sense. That is usually when things become interesting.

Investigative Method & Focus

I start with what is there rather than with what I expect to find. Before deciding what something means, I want to know where it came from, who created it and whether it can be trusted. I cross-check dates, places, names and details against whatever other records I can find, looking for anything that confirms or contradicts what I have been told. A colour photograph from 1921, a missing BBC recording or an unfamiliar ritual may seem insignificant at first, but sometimes the smallest detail is enough to open up an entirely different story. I do not rely on hunches. I follow the evidence, however long that takes, until the pieces begin to make sense.

What interests me most is what the evidence reveals about the people involved. The names that appear in records are usually attached to ordinary lives rather than famous ones. They worked, travelled, married, lost people, kept secrets and left things behind without knowing that someone might one day try to understand them. That is what keeps me interested. Finding the answer matters, but understanding the life behind it matters more.