The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

‘Have mercy on me, Liz,’ said Evan springing from his seat. ‘This bloody case has been tormenting me. Just tell me everything, then maybe I can find some peace. Please. Betty’s right – not a word, from either of us. To anyone. I promise. Ever. I just have to know.’

  Liz crumpled like a newspaper emptied of its chips. ‘Alright then. Couldn’t find any connection between the dead dealer Hughes and Rhosddraig at all. We couldn’t even uncover much activity in terms of drug movement within the village. Most of the residents are well past it, though you never can tell. But then we found out that Aled Beynon’s mother died of an overdose back in 2010; she’d lost her job a few months earlier when they knocked down an old pub she used to work at close to what’s now the Dylan Thomas Museum in the Marina Quarter – bad reputation for all sorts of illicit goings-on.’

  ‘The Cat and Whistle?’ asked Evan, sitting again.

  Liz nodded. ‘Know it?’

  ‘Too well.’

  ‘As you’ll know by now, from the media coverage since we released his name, Dean Hughes was a nasty little dealer from Townhill; nothing big, mainly Spice it seems, but he’s been at it since he was a kid and he was never going to give up, just get worse. When we finally got all the permissions we needed, we were also able to access his juvenile record. It turns out Dean had been in the frame for supplying the drugs which killed Aled Beynon’s mother – a particularly fatal batch of Spice that was in circulation for a few weeks, and delivered four bodies to West Glam General and the ministrations of the lovely Dr Souza. Do you recall any of this?’

  Betty watched with admiration as her husband brought his insights to bear.

  Evan sat forward in his chair. ‘Of course. Not my case – nothing to do with me, in fact. Bloody awful, it was. Spice was still quite new at the time; well, newish. It had only been doing the rounds hereabouts since 2007 or so, and the grasping sickos who made it kept changing the chemicals and additives they sprayed onto the plant materials in the baggies, trying to stay on the “right side of the law”. Used a potion they made by brewing up magic mushrooms for a while I remember – probably because they could pick them for free across half of South Wales, but they varied their concoctions over time. Because of that, the medics could never be certain what a person had taken, so they didn’t know how to treat overdoses. Whatever was in that specific batch was deadly, I remember. Two of the victims were suspected to have got their drugs from a young lad, whose name I don’t think I ever knew. But Vice didn’t have enough to get him on it.’

  Betty smiled as her husband’s hand scratched through his hair for a moment.

  He continued, ‘So, do you think Aled found out that this Dean might have “killed his mother”, so to speak, and did the same to him?’

  Liz replied, ‘That’s where we were with it when we brought him in the first time, for questioning; enough to have a certain level of suspicion, but nothing concrete. We thought we’d be able to get something out of him in the interviews, but he didn’t say anything. At all.’

  Betty noticed Evan’s expression shift as he asked, ‘What do you mean?’

  Liz picked up her can, as if she was about to drink, but didn’t. ‘Exactly what I said. Began with one “No comment”, which isn’t unusual, but even when his solicitor turned up he said nothing helpful then, either. Not even any more responses of “No comment” which, as you know, is the last resort of the smug, when their legal representative tells them to keep their gob shut.’

  ‘What did his solicitor say to you about him?’ Evan sat further forward. ‘Anything?’

  Liz shook her head. ‘Not a lot. I got the impression he hadn’t told her a thing. Aled nodded when asked if he understood something, or shook his head when asked if he’d like to say something. That was it. See? Like I said – I’ve never seen anything like it. They always say something.’

  Evan nodded. ‘Even if it’s just “piss off”.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Betty wondered where this was going.

  ‘So why are you getting him back in now?’ asked Evan, almost sliding off the front of the cushion on his chair.

  ‘Thanks to good old-fashioned detective work, and a bit of good luck as well, we’re now in possession of two key facts we didn’t have before. To start with, we’ve got an eyewitness.’ Liz took a swig of beer.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ exclaimed Evan. ‘Who? Where’ve they been until now? It’s been months. Too frightened to speak? Living under a rock?’

  Liz smiled wryly. ‘The last is possibly closest to the truth. It turns out an elderly resident in the area – a certain John Watkins – saw Aled Beynon riding his bicycle away from a fire up at the old RAF listening station late on the night of November 5th. The reason he didn’t come forward was because his wife had a heart attack that night, and various complications – including her death, him having a minor attack himself, then his migration to Australia to live with his son – meant he wasn’t aware of what was going on in Rhosddraig. Unfortunately, it seems the son he’s living with now is one of those people who don’t own a TV, so it wasn’t until the poor old bloke was propped up in a hospital bed in Sydney – having had another heart attack himself – that he saw some coverage of his village on the Aussie news, where they were doing a bit of a look at places to visit when you’re in the UK. They mentioned the grisly death in passing, he put two and two together, and phoned the tip-line we’ve had going for months. The locals over there have interviewed him; it looks solid.’

  Evan was rapt. ‘And?’

  Betty noticed a hint of a smile at the corner of Liz’s lips as she replied, ‘He knew Aled well, and gave a full description of the boy’s coat and bicycle. That, plus the connection between the dead dealer and Aled’s mother, is compelling.’

  Betty watched her husband’s face and hands as he analyzed this new information. Both were in motion.

  ‘An eyewitness is excellent,’ he said, rubbing the ends of his fingers together almost as though he could feel Aled Beynon’s shirt collar between them. ‘What’s the other factor? The witness in Australia has to be the piece of good luck – what about the diligence of the detectives on the case? You?’

  Liz smiled broadly. Betty always thought she looked so much younger than her real age when she did that. ‘As it happens, yes, it was me who found out something critical. We got a forensic report quite early on about the possible accelerant used; apparently there were traces found in cracks in the concrete surrounding the main burn site. We knew it was a type of flammable oil, but that was it. I discovered that St David’s in Rhosddraig uses a type of altar candle that holds lamp oil in a little reservoir, like they had at the church my Scout troop would attend in Bristol. I spoke to the vicar at St David’s, who told me they’d had to order more supplies of oil in November due to theirs having run low surprisingly quickly. By his reckoning they’d “lost” three bottles of the stuff.’

  Betty noticed her husband’s eyes darting back and forth. ‘Access?’ he snapped.

  ‘Aled Beynon is an altar boy at St David’s; in and out of the vestry where the oil is stored pretty much at will. All in all, another solid piece of connective tissue, and a possibly significant one, in that it suggests premeditation. Of course, we’d essentially stopped working the case until we got an ID on the victim, because we literally had nowhere to go with it, but we’ve moved pretty quickly since then, and we’ve put a lot of hours into it. It’s one of those cases where tenacity has paid off.’

  ‘To be fair to him, although he’s a bit pedantic, Ted Jenkins was always good at that. You too,’ said Evan. ‘Not that you’re pedantic, I meant you give good attention to detail.’

  Betty was relieved to see him settle back into his chair as he asked, ‘And do you have any idea why this Hughes character was in the village on the night in question – which I’m assuming is now confirmed as the 5th to 6th November?’

  ‘It is, and we think we do. They had an event at The Dragon’s Head pub that night. Guy Fawkes Night. Door t
o door has established quite a few of those who attended were not villagers; Helen Jones at the pub confirmed that she and her mother had hoped the festivities would appeal to an outside crowd, and it seems that happened. Our working assumption is that Hughes came to the village for the party, was recognized by the Beynon boy, and violence ensued.’

  Betty loved seeing her husband’s mind working. ‘But how did the victim get to Rhosddraig? Probably not the type to catch a bus, so he’d have driven there, or he’d have been a passenger in a car. I’m assuming there haven’t been any vehicles left in the area – you’d have mentioned that. So what about someone from within his circle giving any information about him having gone there with them, but not leaving? Any insights at all?’ Betty noted how his voice had shifted gear; it had taken on an edge of despair.

  Liz chuckled. ‘You’re kidding, right? They’d rather set their hair on fire than talk to us lot.’ She paused, then added, ‘Sorry, that’s probably an insensitive metaphor, given the nature of Dean Hughes’s demise. He was a human being, after all, and deserves our respect.’

  Evan nodded, and started to suck the end of his thumb. ‘So you’re hoping the Beynon lad will confess this time? To both the killing, and the destruction of the body?’

  Liz nodded. ‘DCI Jenkins thinks this new evidence might shift him. Revenge is a good motive, he had the means, the opportunity, and we have an eyewitness seeing him flee the site of the fire. DCI Jenkins reckons we could move without a confession, but I wish the boy would say something. Anything. Even something in his defense. It’s incredibly frustrating.’

  Betty decided it would be alright for her to jump in. ‘Why do you think he didn’t say anything when you pulled him in first time around?’

  Liz replied grimly, ‘Maybe because he knew he was as guilty as sin, and that anything he said might come back to bite him in the backside? I think he’s chosen to ignore the advice of his solicitor about telling us something that might prove useful in his defense. He’s a bright boy, by all accounts; his schoolteachers speak highly of him, as does – frankly – anyone you talk to. I think he reckoned keeping schtum was his best bet. And, to be fair, until we got these two new pieces of the puzzle, it worked well for him. We let him go, and he’s even returned to school; got a week’s compassionate leave – to study for his A levels – then he was back in the classroom. We’re going down to Rhosddraig first thing. Which is why I’m off now. And leaving you with a sense of closure, and an absolute understanding that I was never here tonight, and this conversation never took place.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Betty, taking her cue.

  ‘Of course. And thanks, Stanley,’ said Evan.

  ‘I think you can call me Liz now, Evan, don’t you?’

  By the time Betty had waved Liz off in her car, locked up, and tidied the kitchen a bit, she wasn’t surprised to find she had to shake Evan awake in the chair to get him to go to bed.

  Snuggling beside him in the darkness as he snored, happy he could relax so completely, Betty wondered how Aled Beynon being charged with murder would affect the inhabitants of Rhosddraig. A crime in the midst of a community always had repercussions, and now it seemed the culprit was being plucked from within a tight-knit group. She couldn’t imagine life would carry on as normal there, but wondered how any changes would manifest themselves. She was particularly concerned that Helen Jones was likely to be facing yet another stressor – her daughter’s school friend being locked up on murder charges, rather than just taken in for questioning.

  But there was something else bothering Betty Glover; she prided herself on being pretty good at reading people, and she’d noticed that Liz Stanley had talked a good case against Aled Beynon, but she’d almost seemed to be trying to convince herself, not them.

  From what Betty knew of Liz, that wasn’t at all like her. Not usually.

  2nd March

  Sadie

  I love it here on the hillside first thing, especially when it’s still dark, and the tide’s going out. It’s as though the sea’s giving the land back to us, just for a little while. When I woke up this morning I knew it would be the perfect time to walk up to the old place. My place. I left a note for Mam so she doesn’t panic when she sees I’m not in bed.

  I haven’t done this for what seems like ages. As the sun comes up it makes the sea look magical – oily and mercurial. This is my time of day. Me and the hares. They’re busy at this time of year – Mad March Hares. No one ever comes here for the sunrise except me. Not even Aled. Not even he knows I do this.

  It’s fantastic to have something that’s just mine. Everyone should have a secret place they can go to, or remember whenever they need to find a bit of peace and beauty inside themselves.

  You’re not really a whole person unless you have a secret.

  And a secret place.

  The sort of place that, even if other people can see it, they don’t feel the same way about it that you do. Don’t relate to it the way you do. Don’t know it like you do. But they’d have to find their own place, this is mine.

  Mrs Hare showed it to me, a long time ago. This is my shelter, my haven, my connection to everything that really matters to me. Now, more than ever. And she gave it to me. She’s shown me, and taught me, so much.

  I love seeing the light change. It’s like everything is possible, and it will all be good. At least, it used to feel that way. But what Romeo says is true, ‘More light and light – more dark and dark our woes’; maybe the sunshine will only make my sadness seem even worse.

  Aled’s not the same since he came back. Something’s changed in him. He’s . . . hardened. I could see it in his eyes when he walked into the church straight out of the police car, and it’s still there now. We’ve hardly talked at all since they let him out. Mr Wingfield has driven Stew and Aled to school every day, so I haven’t seen him on the bus, and when we’re in class, or in the sixth form rooms, he’s off on his own with Stew all the time. They whisper together.

  He’s avoiding me. I know it. He knows I know it. It’s the most dreadful feeling. I’ve been abandoned by him. It’s like when Dad went away. No one said anything, he just wasn’t there anymore. I felt empty then, like I feel empty now.

  I’m worried that the bond between me and Aled is slipping away, like the sea is slipping away from the land. I can’t let that happen. I have to find a way for us to be together.

  I suppose I’ve done something for us; people aren’t saying as many nasty things about him behind his back anymore. My #wrongboy10 and @wrongboy10 things are working really well. No one knows it’s all because of me – they don’t even suspect it – and it’s becoming a real buzz around the school. People are writing their own Tweets using the hashtag, and Retweeting from the @wrongboy10 account all the time now. It’s really good.

  I wish Aled and I could be as free as the hares that run around on the hills and moors here. They travel where they please, streaking past the human eye so they’re just a blur. Magical. In every sense. Holy, even. St Melangell knew that, and her ancient church is just beneath me, lost to the sand and the sea. That’s another reason this place is so special. Even the air smells sweeter, because of her spirit infusing it with love.

  If I brush this moss along my cheek, it’s almost as though Aled is here with me, touching my skin with his fingertips. Gentle, like he is. That’s what no one understands about Aled – he’s such a kind, thoughtful person, he wouldn’t harm a fly. Well, not unless the fly was being a nuisance. No one really means they wouldn’t hurt a fly, do they? It’s just a figure of speech.

  I wish I hadn’t thought of that; figures of speech, metaphors, similes, hyperbole, and alliteration. I’ll be thinking about my homework now, until I’ve done it. Anyway, the sun’s up, the wind has changed, and it isn’t magic here anymore – I’m getting a bit cold.

  I suppose I’d better walk back down and have some breakfast, while I’m stared at across the table by Nan with that horrible monkey-mouth of hers. All those lines
she’s got are made out of hate. That poison she’s been spewing about Aled and his Grannie Gwen? I’m the antidote – my Tweets will beat her village gossip any day now. Just you wait, Nan. I’ll win. You’ll see.

  For Aled.

  Helen

  Sitting on the edge of the wonky chair in the kitchen, Helen reread the note her daughter had left. She was thankful Sadie was so thoughtful – she’d have been panic-stricken otherwise.

  I don’t like it when she goes out before dawn, but she’s done it for years and never been the worse for it. I mustn’t molly-coddle her; she’s a bit like a sheep when she’s on uneven ground, and she knows the cliff paths like the back of her hand, thank goodness. Helen was grateful that at least it was a lovely clear morning, with no hint of the dragon’s breath.

  It’s almost spring. About time, too, after this past winter. The thought made her anxious; her mother had already started making noises about giving the pub a good cleaning. Helen knew her mum was right, acknowledging that the sunshine showed up a lot of issues that wouldn’t have been noticed through the darker months, but she hated the process; it seemed to take forever. Despite her misgivings she wondered if she should talk to her mother about it that morning – taking the initiative she was always accused of lacking.

  But first, breakfast. I’ll get some eggs out of the fridge to warm up a bit so I can scramble them for Sadie if she fancies them when she gets back.

  ‘Mam, Mam – come quick!’ the sound of Sadie’s shrill voice at the foot of the stairs made Helen’s soul sink. She immediately envisaged her baby girl in mortal danger, or of Bob having somehow appeared on the scene.

  ‘What is it?’ she called, rushing down as fast as she could. Sadie stood inside the open door; she seemed to be all in one piece – there was no blood, no torn clothing. ‘Are you alright?’

  Sadie bleated, ‘There’s something happening up at Green Cottage, Mam. There are police cars there. I think it’s Aled; I think they’ve come to take him away again.’