Rhys Thomas nodded at Tasha, before continuing. “It struck me that the priest was slain close to the Prince's memorial stone. The decapitation struck me as a helluva coincidence.”
“We're investigating several murders, all of which appear to have superficial similarities to murders in Welsh legend.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“You offered to help us.” Yvonne's face betrayed no emotion. “I'm very interested in your take on these crimes. We're still trying to establish motive. The victims were all mutilated, and the words 'Memento Mori' carved into each one.”
“That slogan has been used throughout history, in graveyards and churches, to remind people that they should be God-fearing and attend church. If you remember death, and that you will have to justify all of your actions to God, you're more likely to be a good person whilst alive.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I'm just outlining its historical use, Inspector. During the time of the Black Death, these murals were painted in many churches, always reminding the congregation of their mortality and the need to worship.”
“Is that why you were contacting the team? To tell us that?”
“Of course. I'm married to the DCI's sister. I just wanted to help.”
“How long have you been a history professor, Dr. Thomas?”
“About twelve years.”
“What did you do before that?”
“Post-doctoral study. Before that, I was a student.”
“Do you have any connection with the church?”
“So, I am a suspect...Do I need a lawyer?” His tone was facetious.
“Dr. Thomas, I can't really form a list of suspects until I've established motive.”
“Oh... wow... is that the time?” He pushed his chair sharply back, the chair legs scraping the floor.
“I'm sorry?”
“I thought I'd explained, my time today is short and my lecture starts in fifteen minutes.”
Yvonne sighed and shrugged. “Dr. Thomas, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch.”
She stood up as the historian turned to leave, her face betraying her disappointment.
“You'll get another chance” Tasha gave her a gentle nudge. “You're not going to avoid upsetting people when you're questioning them in connection with a string of murders. If you ask me, he's hiding something.”
“You think?”
“Don't cross him off your list.”
“Oh, Tasha, we're looking for a sword-wielding, gun-toting, religious fanatic with an interest in history. You'd think he'd stand out a country mile.” She took a deep breath. “Plus, he could be all of those things or none of those things and, even if he is all of those things, he may be all of those things without anyone knowing he is all of those things.”
Tasha chuckled. “Hey, if these cases were easy, we wouldn't need people like you to crack them. You're up to this challenge. Have faith in yourself. Now then, Llewelyn will be waiting, so get yourself to the station and talk to the intriguing Mr. Matthews.”
“So, it's you.” Arfon Matthews pursed his lips and tutted loudly. “It's a bit disconcerting when you receive a request to talk with police, out of the blue. Now, I realise I've spoken to you before.”
The DCI gave Yvonne a questioning look, which Yvonne ignored.
“Yes, Mr Matthews, I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself properly before. I wasn't talking to you in an official capacity.”
“How can I help?” Matthews tapped his thumb on the edge of the table.
Do you remember telling me about articles in these periodicals?” Yvonne pushed a photocopy of the library lending records towards him. The periodical entries were highlighted.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Those same periodicals have missing pages. Torn out. Stolen.”
“Is that why you asked to see me? Do you think I would steal items from the nation's heritage?”
“I haven't said that.” Yvonne kept her expression blank.
“You must suspect it. Otherwise, why talk to me?”
“You may have ideas about who might have stolen them. When did you last access them yourself?”
“I don't know...um...a year ago?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn't loan them. I used the microfiche.”
“Do you know anyone else who might have an interest in loaning them?”
“Not really, not those specific journals, no.”
“Do you know a 'Mr. Fish'?”
“No.”
“Mr Matthews, my name is DCI Llewelyn, I'm the lead investigator in a murder inquiry.”
Yvonne stifled a frown.
Matthews turned his attention to him.
“You were a student in Aber, in the late seventies and early eighties.”
“Yes, I was.”
“You were arrested and charged, in...” David Llewelyn checked his notes. “1982, for affray.”
“I wasn't convicted.”
“No, that's right, you weren't, but you were cautioned. Members of the Free Wales Army were present. You were spending a lot of time with them, weren't you?.”
“What's that got to...Look, I was young, impressionable and opinionated. I thought the FWA were exciting.”
“Did you attack houses? Set any fires?” Yvonne shot at him.
“Look, Wales was officially known as a third world country back then. Many people still had outdoor toilets...drew water from wells. Hell, some houses didn't even have electricity. Mid-Wales, especially, was in decline. So much so, in fact, that the government commissioned a Mid-Wales development board to revitalise the area – attract new businesses in.”
“Did you think you could make a difference?” The DCI was, again, doing the questioning.
“Newtown was known as the 'capital of Wales', during the woollen trade. It had been a rich town with a working network of canals. Flooding, and the decline of the woollen trade, put paid to that. People deserted in droves. What we were left with were empty shops, beautiful houses used only as second homes by holiday makers, and a language and population in decline. This was made worse, in my opinion, by the cheap, poor quality housing estates set up to house immigrant workers, populating the new factories which sprung up because of government incentives.”
“Immigrants?” Yvonne interjected.
“Yes, English people. They came in to take up the work, with the promise of cheap housing. Welsh farmland was bought up and turned over to housing. There were a lot of disgruntled locals.”
“Were you a member of either the Free Wales Army or Meibion Glyndwr?” Yvonne hoped she'd said the latter correctly.
“What if I had been?”
“Do you think those organisations could be rekindled?”
“The late seventies was a time of serious recession. We're in recession now. Who knows?”
“Would you be for rekindling them?”
“Inspector, I'm in my early fifties. My marching days are over. I leave those activities to the young. I told you, I found it exciting at the time. I wouldn't these days. Now, if I'm not under arrest, can I go?”
The DCI flicked his head. “Of course, this was just an informal chat.”
When they arrived back in Newtown, Tasha was waiting for Yvonne, her eyes shining with excitement.
“Tasha, what's happened? You look like you're going to explode.”
“I've been finding all I can on the Free Wales Army and Meibion Glyndwr. There's a mine of information about them. Also, other organisations that most of us have probably never heard of.”
“I thought you saw the Free Wales Army reference as a red herring?”
“I do, inasmuch as I still believe this to be a lone individual, but that doesn't mean that our killer hasn't taken on their old beliefs. He may even hold their ideologies close to his heart.”
“Okay, go for it.”
“Well, the Free Wales Army, or Mudiad Amddyffin Cymru, as they are known in Welsh...”
Yvonne raised her brows and grinne
d, as if to say, 'show off', at Tasha's Welsh pronunciation. “Who told you how to say that?”
“What makes you think I had to be shown?”
“Tasha, nobody knows how to pronounce large Welsh words like that without being shown”
“Alright, it was Dewi.”
“I knew it.”
Tasha pushed out her tongue. “Anyhow, they first became public in 1965. Apparently, they were voicing protest against the flooding of a village called Capel Celyn in Gwynedd in North Wales.”
“Flooding of a whole village?”
“Yes, the village was evacuated by force to allow the flooding of the valley. The construction of the Llyn Celyn resevoir, which was going to be a source of water for the people of Liverpool.”
“You said forced evacuation...”
“The people from the village and local farms were offered money for their homes. Many accepted it, seeing that the building of the reservoir was pretty much inevitable, but many didn't. Some of the elderly residents said that they would rather die in their homes than leave. Some families had owned their homes for generations.”
“So the flooding went ahead.”
“Yeah. By then, everyone had been removed. There was massive opposition in Wales. The village was a stronghold for Welsh language and culture.”
“I see.”
“The FWA also helped the families of the Aberfan disaster, when a slag heap, from a coal mine, slid down a valley and buried a primary school. Most of the children, and their teachers, died in the tragedy. The FWA supported compensation claims for the families, as it seems that claims were being thwarted by authorities at that time.
“I had no idea the FWA had their fingers in so many pies.”
“Neither did I, till I started digging.”
“There were also suggested links between the FWA and the IRA, and it was reputed that the IRA sold its armaments to the FWA, when it relinquished violence, prior to 1969. They were also said to have trained FWA in military techniques over in Ireland.
“There were also suggested links with Basque separatists, but those were more difficult to pin down.”
“Wow, I had no idea. What about Meibion Glyndwr?”
“Sons of Glyndwr, were Welsh nationalists. They were definitely in favour of using violence, in order to halt the loss of Welsh culture and language. They were famous for torching second homes, which had been purchased by people from England.”
“Well, if what I was told by Arfon Matthews was right, then there would have been a lot of empty homes on the market, due to the large efflux of Welsh people when the woollen industry collapsed.”
“Oh, I'm not sure about that. Anyway, torching the homes was the way they chose to deal with it, and this continued from around 1979 to the mid 1990s.”
“I'm impressed, Tasha, you've been busy.”
“Google is an amazing resource.” Tasha grinned. “Just one more thing. There were a few other nationalist groups, including: Cadwyr Cymru - the keepers of Wales; and WAWR – the Welsh Army for the Workers Republic. Meibion Glyndwr was, though, the most successful. Interestingly, a Welsh MEP speculated at the time that they were a front for MI5.”
“Why would MI5 use a Welsh nationalist group as a front?”
“Access to the IRA? I don't know, and I also don't know what basis he had for suggesting this, I'm afraid.”
“Have you got all this down?”
“Yes.” Tasha held up her pad.
“Great. Arfon Matthews, the Welsh legend researcher we met at the National Library, was associating with the FWA in the late seventies.”
“Hmmm...”
“Quite.”
33
Meirwen Ellis sighed, deeply, as she climbed out of her Mini Metro and walked towards the church at Nantmel. She gave a cursory nod to the two officers standing outside, just as she'd done to the two officers outside of her home.
She hoped resentment wasn't showing on her face. She felt guilty about feeling it. They were only doing their duty, trying to protect her. However, week on week, she had witnessed her congregation becoming smaller and smaller. Soon, she would be preaching to herself.
As she crossed the threshold of the church, a voice came over an officer's handset, startling her, and she placed a hand against her chest to calm her racing heart. She couldn't blame her congregation, everyone was nervous.
Her verger, placing the flowers at the back of the church, greeted her warmly as she entered.
“Thanks, Jim,” she said, when he handed her a cup of milky coffee. “I wonder if we'll have many here today.”
“It'll get better,” he smiled reassuringly. “The killer will be caught and then it'll all be back to normal. You'll see.”
She wished she could believe that and, later as she crossed the church to the pulpit, she counted only three expectant faces. This couldn't continue. She'd speak to DI Giles and get her to call off the protection.
“Meirwen, I can't do that.” Yvonne's brow furrowed, her voice earnest, as she spoke into the phone. “In all conscience, I don't know where this madman is going to strike next. He's already called at your church, of that we're sure. We have reason to suspect he may be stalking his victims for some weeks prior to harming them. We cannot guarantee that he hasn't been stalking you. Our officers have been vigilant but I wouldn't put anything past this killer, Meirwen”
“Please remove my protection...It's what I want. It's not helping me.” Meirwen's voice was strong and firm.
“Look, I'll speak with the DCI, but if he gives his permission and we remove your protection, I want you to carry a personal alarm at all times. We'll program the emergency number into your mobile, so it's triggered by one button. I have to tell you, in no uncertain terms, you will be in danger if we do as you request.”
“You can leave the protection at my house. I am grateful for it, honestly, just please remove it form my church.”
Later that day, with the DCI's permission, and against Yvonne's better judgment, the protection duty assigned to St. Cynllo's church at Nantmel, was called off.
34
Dewi scratched his head as he rummaged through the papers on his desk. Yvonne perched herself on one corner of it, swinging her legs.
“Ma'am,” he said, without looking up...
“Lost something, Dewi?” she asked, as she plopped a hot mug of tea down for him.
“Oh, thank you.” He eyed the tea gratefully. “Yes, I've been through the membership list of Leighton Fencing Club and identifying potential perps, according to Tasha's profile. I seem to have mislaid them...”
“You mean these?” Yvonne pulled a wodge from behind her back, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh phew.” Dewi looked relieved.
“Well, what have you got?”
“Two possibles: John Rees, thirty nine years old, runs his own carpentry business. His family own a farm out near Dolfor and he has a gun licence.”
“Where's Dolfor?”
“About five miles out of Newtown, on the Llandrindod Wells road.”
“Does he have an interest in Welsh history?”
“Won't know until we question him, but he is fluent in Welsh.”
“Okay, and who's the other one?”
“Kevin Abbott. He's thirty four years old, and a consultant cardiologist at Shrewsbury Hospital.”
“How does he fit the profile?”
“Well, he lives in Bettws, a village six miles from Newtown in the Shrewsbury direction. He's married to a Welsh woman and has a gun licence. He's also a member of a gun club near Knighton.
“Well done, Dewi. We'll talk to both of them.”
Meirwen had a haunted appearance, her eyes dark and hollow, her face gaunt. After the events of the last few months, she ought to feel fear, even terror. Instead, she felt calm. Numb. She told herself she was probably too tired to feel anything else.
Removing her chasuble vestment and scarf in the vestry, she examined her image in the full length mirror. Yes, it was a g
ood job she wasn't vain, she mused.
She thought she saw a shadow pass behind her in the mirror, but shrugged it off. She'd seen a few things that weren't there recently. Her tired mind playing tricks. She walked across the room and placed her holy garments on the back of the chair. Hearing a rustling, a lump developed in her throat. She wasn't expecting anyone.
“It's you, isn't it?” She tried to sound strong, calm and steady, but the wobble in her voice betrayed her. “It's my time, isn't it...You've come for me.” She didn't try to look. Didn't want to see the face of her murderer.
“Do not turn around. Do not look at me.” He didn't know the words were unnecessary.
Expecting either no reply or a human voice, what she heard took her by surprise. The intruder was using text-to-speech.
“What is it? What do you want?”
“If you do as I say, no harm will come to you.”
Meirwen bit her lip and could taste the iron tang of her own blood. “And if I don't?”
“I will kill you.”
She swallowed hard and began praying silently.
“Put this on.”
The figure in black was behind her, handing her a cloth bag.
Although scared, there was some reassurance in his use of text-to-speech. If his intention was to kill her, there would be no need of either the device or the blindfold.
With shaking hands, she took the bag and placed it over her own head.
“Come with me.”
His hand on her elbow, fingers digging into her flesh, making her wince. He pushed her roughly forward.
She felt her way along, disappointed with herself for giving up her protection. Both her mobile phone and her personal alarm were in her bag, in a cupboard in the vestry. Jim had left early, to go to a family get together.
Her foot caught a doorstop, on the way out of the church, and she tumbled, headlong, onto the path. The killer, to save himself, had let go of her and she hit her head on an iron shoe-scraper.
As she was pulled to her feet, she felt, a cold trickle of blood down the right side of her face. He shoved her in the middle of her back, propelling her along the pathway leading from the church. A car door was opened and she was forced, headlong, inside. A plastic cable tie was used to bind her wrists behind her. She heard him go around to the driver's seat and the central locking engaged.
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