The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  Liz asked, ‘No hobbies?’

  Betty shook her head. ‘One of the spare rooms is half full of books. He’s never had time to get to them the way he’d like. I know he’s looking forward to catching up with reading.’

  Liz arched an eyebrow. ‘Crime fiction?’

  Betty grinned. ‘No. History. Specifically Welsh history. It’s his thing. Loves it. Not something I know a great deal about – other than the usual bits and bobs I remember from school – but him? From thousands of years ago to contemporary times, he loves it, he does. And connected stuff.’ She leaned in. ‘I’ve picked up a nice book for him to read on our cruise – all about Captain Morgan, the Welsh pirate who became governor of Jamaica. He’ll enjoy that – loves to read about the impact the Welsh have had upon the world.’

  ‘I’m not surprised he hasn’t got much lined up other than reading – though reading with an interest is good. Joining group activities is pretty much out of the question for us, because if you join they expect you to turn up on a pretty regular basis. I’ve met a few here in Swansea who try to belong to choirs, for example, but they often get given the heave-ho for concerts because they haven’t been able to attend all the rehearsals.’

  ‘Evan’s never been a big joiner,’ said Betty.

  ‘That’s pretty common, too,’ replied Liz.

  ‘But I thought you were involved with scouting. Aren’t you?’ asked Betty.

  A wry smile crossed Liz’s face. ‘Much more so when I was in Bristol than I am here, now. More responsibilities because of my promotion. Less predictable hours. I’m only a part-time assistant leader here; I help when I can. The job has to come first.’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Betty, half-smiling. ‘It has to, or what’s the point? But he hasn’t usually brought it home with him, I’ll say that much. Until recently we’ve hardly talked about it, in detail. That all changed during that business with GGR Davies, of course. You must have seen how that case affected him.’

  Liz shrugged. ‘They say it’s best to not meet your heroes, and I’m sure that’s doubly the case when you find them dead at the bottom of a cliff, then discover they weren’t quite the person you’d always imagined them to be. A rugby hero that man might have been but, as for the way he lived the rest of his life?’

  Betty nodded her understanding. ‘That case was what brought up the idea of this early retirement. That, and my Auntie Barbara dying.’

  Liz smiled sadly. ‘I was sorry to hear about your aunt; sir said it was quick, and that you two weren’t close, which I suppose is the best you can hope for.’

  ‘I think you can call him Evan, now,’ said Betty.

  Liz chuckled. ‘It might be okay for me to do it, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to. He’ll always be “Sir” to me, or “DI Glover”.’

  Betty countered, ‘And he’s always been Evan to me, even when he became DI Glover. I wonder if we both know the same man?’

  ‘Back to being a psychologist?’ asked Liz.

  ‘Can’t help myself, I suppose. Like you lot. Always on the job, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re right, and sir . . . Evan . . . is retiring, not having a personality transplant, so I’m sure you’re in for some interesting times as he comes to terms with his new life,’ said Liz with a grin. ‘There you go, there’s the first lot leaving. It’ll go in waves from now on, I should think. It might be Saturday tomorrow, but some people here are on duty rotation; I know DCI Jenkins and I will be going down to Rhosddraig first thing to coordinate the team doing the door to door there.’

  ‘I hear it’s a man. The remains,’ said Betty.

  Liz looked surprised. ‘Really? How did you “hear” that then? I thought we’d kept that bit of information pretty quiet.’

  Betty blushed. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Let me guess – Doc Souza told Evan, and he told you?’

  ‘Sort of. I overheard part of a conversation, then Evan filled me in on all the gory details. Quite literally. I wasn’t too keen on the information he gave me about body fat melting. I wouldn’t have made a good detective. Too squeamish. How do you cope?’

  ‘I didn’t, not to start with. However, you tell yourself you have to, so I got over being disgusted by human remains early on. Nowadays it’s the actions of living beings which worry me more; the level of violent crime in the area is alarmingly high.’

  ‘Drugs?’ asked Betty, knowing the answer.

  Liz nodded. ‘Sadly. Same all over the UK nowadays. They use a system we call “county lines”, which is just another way of talking about child slavery. Forced to sell drugs, given instructions by dedicated mobile phones, kids as young as eight or nine are involved.’

  Betty could tell Liz was on a bit of a roll, so didn’t like to tell her that Evan had she had shared this conversation several times in the past.

  Liz looked anxious as she added, ‘These kids are vulnerable, being exploited – but they have the advantage that they can get everywhere, usually unnoticed. It’s like gangrene, eating its way into every part of life. There isn’t anywhere you can name that drugs aren’t available these days – it’s not just a club thing, or something that affects a certain sort of person with a particular background; it’s permeated every level and every part of society. Even rural areas aren’t exempt; they use this process called cuckooing, where young kids are sent to live under the seeming oversight of an adult – often vulnerable themselves, for some reason. And they offer a direct line of access for all sorts of drugs into any type of community.’

  ‘Do you think this burned body in Rhosddraig is drug related?’ Betty asked. ‘It’s so beautiful and peaceful there. I mean, there’s hardly a “there” at all, really. It’s just a tiny village. Surely there’s no drug problem in Rhosddraig?’

  ‘The area gets a lot of visitors each year – and they all might seem to be healthy, outdoors types, but – like I say – drug users, and dealers, come in all shapes and sizes, and from all walks of life. It’s not all begrimed, wild-eyed, rough sleepers with mental health issues; many people who use, and therefore sustain the supply chain, manage to function in what most would see as a “normal” way.’

  Liz paused and shrugged. ‘But I’m sure you, being a psychologist, would understand all that, wouldn’t you?’

  Betty looked across the now less-crowded room to where her husband was being hugged with great affection by a short, stout man wearing an ill-fitting sports jacket. She recognized him as someone whose own retirement party she and Evan had attended just a couple of years earlier. His beer belly, ruddy nose, and veined cheeks suggested he’d taken up heavy drinking as his hobby since then.

  ‘Indeed I do understand, Liz. Sadly quite a lot of the people I’ve come into contact with over the years have struggled with addiction, of some sort or another. But there, that’s all I can say about that. Like you, I have to be careful about what I say, and to whom.’

  ‘No tales out of school? I understand.’ Liz smiled and stood. ‘I’d better do a bit of mingling before I leave, and that ought to be soon-ish. Up and at ’em in the morning for me. I’m meeting DCI Jenkins out at Rhosddraig at eight. And then it begins in earnest; the people who live there will have their lives changed forever because of this – we’ll have to poke and pry, and they won’t like that. Very soon they’ll see the police as the cause of the infection of unrest and suspicion, when all we’re doing is trying to unearth truths.’

  Betty also stood, catching her husband’s eye. ‘I expect you’re right about that; a crime in a community impacts everyone’s life in some way or other. And you’re certainly right about the mingling. Time for me to do a bit too, now the crowd’s thinned out. You be careful, Liz.’

  Liz hugged Betty. ‘Don’t you go starting to worry about me, now that you’re able to stop worrying about him.’ She nodded in Glover’s direction. ‘Give yourselves some time to get used to your new way of life, and enjoy it.’

  The women parted, Liz walking toward a
group of younger men, and Betty heading for her husband, who reached out his arm and placed it around her waist. She mirrored his actions, knowing they would be just fine working out how their new lives would be lived.

  11th November

  Nan

  Damn and blast, I should have put the heating on in this blessed church yesterday morning, not last night.

  Nan felt cross with herself as she pushed the communion wafers into the silver ciborium from which Reverend Thomas would take them during the service, counting them out appropriately for the number of congregants.

  She filled the cut-glass cruet with wine, right up to the top, and even filled a second, which the vicar wouldn’t bless if not enough people attended to warrant it; then she set up the credence table, off to one side of the altar, so it looked perfect. The water was fresh, and the lavabo was ready. The gold one, for a special occasion.

  She’d polished the chalice at her kitchen table the previous night, and she made sure to wear a clean pair of her white cotton gloves when she placed it on the altar in the exact center of the nine freshly pressed squares in the starched corporal, which she’d aligned perfectly with the edge of the fair linen on the altar top. She carefully placed the purificator over the chalice; she loved the way it smelled comfortingly of Pears Coal Tar soap – by far the best thing for getting wine stains out of linen, she’d found – then set the paten at dead center, and added the priest’s wafer. She’d also laundered the linen cover of the pall during the past week, and was pleased it looked fresh as she popped it on top of the wafer.

  Nan spent quite a few minutes fiddling about with the veil, making sure its points looked crisp from the front and back. Finally she popped the burse on the top, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. She was pleased with it. Mair was a bit slapdash when it came to positioning the veil, she always thought. Hers was perfectly draped.

  She looked around. Yes, everything was as it should be. Nan had always enjoyed the process of setting up for communion because the special items connected with the sacrament entranced her. Also, she was able to enjoy the service more when she knew everything was just as it should be, because she’d made it so.

  The only problem was that the church was freezing, and even more cold air would rush in when people opened the door. There might be a magnificent old porch on the church, but there was only a little distance between the ancient wooden door and the new, inner glass one – installed to try to prevent the wind from gusting inside.

  If a lot of people all arrive at once, both doors’ll be open at the same time. They might as well not be there at all, thought Nan. Still, there’s nothing I can do about that.

  She headed for the vestry where she pulled the old poppy wreath out of its box and dusted it off. It took a while, but she finally managed to make it look quite presentable. She propped it at an angle between the floor and the center of the altar, so it showed up nicely against the green hanging.

  The red and green together look almost Christmassy, she thought. Not long now and it’ll be Advent.

  ‘Oh no, where’s my poppy?’ gasped Nan aloud. She patted her bosom, then looked around the floor of the church. She was sure she’d pinned it to herself before she’d left the pub. She checked the vestry and behind the altar, but it was nowhere to be found. Where would she get another? She couldn’t be seen without one; that would be scandalous. She eyed the wreath, wondering if she could pull just one of the flower heads off it, and somehow attach it to the lapel of her coat. But she’d need scissors. At least she knew where to find them.

  Nan bustled into the vestry again and pulled open the little cupboard that held all manner of supplies, looking for the box containing stationery items. Finding it on the lowest shelf, she noticed they’d almost run out of the oil used to fill the reservoirs in the everlasting candles they’d invested in a few years ago. She’d have to have a word with the vicar about that; he’d have to order more to be sure they had enough for all the special advent and Christmas services.

  Finding the scissors, Nan lost no time in selecting a decent looking poppy from the wreath, snipping it off, and rearranging the remaining flowers. She rushed back to the vestry to try to find a safety pin, which she managed to hide inside her coat while securing the poppy head to her chest. By the time Hywel arrived to ring the bell at nine thirty, calling communicants to the ten o’clock service, Nan was feeling quite hot around her collar, and was glad to sit out in the porch for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Lovely day for it. Cold though,’ said Mair when she arrived. ‘Nice to come out without a mac on for a change, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, Mair,’ agreed Nan, gazing up at the pale blue sky and puffy clouds. ‘No rain up there, though the wind’s still got a nasty nip to it.’

  ‘It has. But at least we won’t all get wet when we go outside to the war memorial for eleven o’clock.’

  ‘If it stays like this,’ said Nan.

  ‘Everything ready inside?’ asked Mair as she pushed open the heavy door. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘No. I’ve done everything.’

  ‘I’ll go in then. Hywel will be playing the piano, won’t he?’

  ‘As soon as he’s finished with the bell, yes. Something appropriate for the occasion, he said. The servers should be along any minute now, to dress for the service. Both Aled and Stew are on today, I see from the list.’

  ‘I saw Aled on his bike. Went right past me he did, fast as you like. I’d have thought he’d have been here ages ago,’ replied Mair. ‘Where could he have been going at speed, if not here?’

  ‘No idea. Not the pub. He doesn’t start there until noon today. He should be here already, by rights. So should Stew Wingfield.’ Nan was annoyed. Boys would be boys, but Aled should have known better; he shouldn’t be cycling around the village like a madman on a Sunday morning.

  ‘You staying out here, are you?’

  ‘I’ll be in now, in a minute,’ replied Nan, shutting the door to the church behind her friend, and finally feeling the sweat around her neck cooling off.

  A gruff voice behind her made her jump. ‘Morning Myfanwy.’

  It was Gwen Beynon.

  ‘Morning Gwendolyn,’ replied Nan, instantly angry.

  How she hated that woman.

  Gwen had always given herself airs, and the red, white, and black Welsh tapestry cape she was wearing was one of her prized possessions. Nan would have chucked a tin of paint over it if she could have done; the thing stank of mothballs – she must have had it for forty years or more.

  ‘Style never goes out of fashion,’ Nan had once overheard Gwen say to someone or other.

  And nor does showing off, Nan had thought at the time.

  Still did.

  The two women exchanged as few words as they could, whenever it was impossible for them to avoid being in each other’s company.

  Nan had been glad when Gwen had stopped attending Mothers’ Union; quite right too, the way that daughter of hers had died.

  Nan had said at the time, ‘That sort of an end can only come after bad parenting.’

  She still believed it.

  She supposed Gwen had done a slightly better job with her grandson, Aled, but there was still time for him to go off the rails; his mother had seemed like a nice girl, and even a nice woman, until she obviously wasn’t.

  And then she died.

  Best out of it, with a life like that. Just a few years younger than Helen, she’d been. And Aled only ten when she’d been found dead.

  Awful.

  Even ‘accidental’ drug overdoses were just like suicide, to Nan’s way of thinking.

  She took her revenge on Gwen for her past evils every way she could; employing Aled at the pub was her most recent strategy.

  She rather enjoyed the fact that Gwen’s grandson had to do whatever she told him to, because she was his boss.

  Loved that he had to ask just the right way to get extra hours to work.

  Was delighte
d that he was, to all intents and purposes, her servant.

  Deeply satisfying.

  Sadie

  Aled looks so angelic in his cassock and crisp surplice. Even though his hair’s not quite as blond as it was in the summer, he still looks so beautiful with that little ruffle around his neck. He’s got the bluest eyes. So pale. Beautiful. And his voice? He’d do well as the lead singer in a band. But then other girls would get to look at him all the time, and I wouldn’t like that. Not at all. There’s not much room up there by the altar for both him and Stew; they keep bumping into each other. But I suppose the vicar does need the extra help today.

  I can sit here and mouth the words of the service easily – I know them off by heart. It means I can just think of Aled and me, together. Think of his hands on me. I wonder what that would feel like if he was wearing what he’s got on now. A bit odd, maybe?

  Why is that? They’re just clothes, after all.

  All this church stuff doesn’t mean anything to me. Nan goes mental about it. Washing things, then ironing them like her life depends on it.

  Sometimes she has that long white tablecloth-type thing hanging around in our kitchen for hours and hours, until there’s just the right amount of dampness left in it for her to press it. Then Mam has to help her carry it up to the church, flat. It’s stupid. Why can’t it have any creases in it?

  If her God’s all Nan says he is, he would understand a few creases. I had to help her once, and she went on and on about it all being perfect.

  Oh my God, Mam’s kneeler just let out a noise like a fart. That’s hilarious, but I shouldn’t giggle, I suppose.

  There are people here I usually only see at Christmas and Easter, and there are even some faces I’ve never seen before. Nan said it was nice we had some visitors to contribute to the collection today.