by Cathy Ace
‘I think we should be spending more time looking into Aled Beynon’s entire background. Jenkins called a halt when he found the Dean Hughes connection to the death of Aled’s mother, Jackie.’
Evan gave the idea some thought. ‘Yes, right. And you might look into the mother herself a bit more, too. If Jenkins is pinning his hopes on Aled Beynon and a link to his mother’s overdose, you could do worse than understand what led to that, other than just a bad batch of Spice. Under what specific circumstances did she die? As I told you, I wasn’t on that case.’
Liz dropped her head into her hands. ‘She was scooped up off Swansea Kingsway and pronounced dead. The case was pursued only as far as Dean Hughes, and charges against him were dropped.’
‘Dead end?’
‘Dead end, at the moment. But you’re right – that whole avenue should be pursued. There are too many unanswered questions at this point.’
‘Why is always the most important question to ask,’ said Evan, frustrated that he wouldn’t be the one asking the questions himself, nor the one finding the answers.
1st April
Nan
Nan felt a certain amount of pride in her recent achievements; she’d entertained reporters when they’d needed it, fed them bits of information and gossip as necessary, and had made sure she’d been available whenever they wanted to reach her either on her pub or private phone, or in person.
It was all paying off.
Not that she wanted to be the center of attention or anything like that, she just wanted to boost business while she had the opportunity to do so.
Who’d have imagined that a dead body up on the hill would have still proved so lucrative after all these months? The influx of curious visitors to The Dragon’s Head wasn’t as noticeable on a Monday morning as it was at the weekends, but it was still enough to allow profits to be substantially higher than she might have expected for the time of year.
All that being said, she was glad to have a quieter day; she’d been working too hard, that must be why she was so tired, she told herself. She’d taken Helen’s advice, for once; having a few lie-downs during the day was helping her keep her overall energy levels up, and she was beginning to like the new pattern of activity and rest she’d begun a couple of days earlier.
Besides, she needed her wits about her when she was in the pub itself; there were too many people making smart aleck remarks about her recent run-in with Gwen Beynon – all of whom needed to be brought down a peg or two – for her to not be feeling up to snuff.
Nan felt restless lying on her bed, so she got up and looked out of the window, toward the beach below.
She lit a cigarette and opened the latch of the small casement, allowing the fresh breeze in, and the smoke out.
The rain had stopped hours earlier, and there was a true touch of spring in the air. As she looked up from the beach, and across to the hillside, the sharp black lines of the Devil’s Table and the Concubine’s Pillow made her shiver.
What was it about them that she hated so much? Was it all the stories about pagan sacrifices? Doors to the underworld? They were just creepy.
She reckoned she’d spent years of her life, in total, staring at them, the beach, and the sea, through the same small window frame. She’d lived in the pub her entire life, but she’d been many different people during that time: child, young woman, bride, wife, mother, grandmother.
And a victim of men’s whims at every stage.
Her father had been a brute, to both her and her mother.
Her husband? Well, Jack’s true nature had come as a complete shock to her. Her son-in-law had been a total idiot, and now it seemed this Aled Beynon was making her Sadie’s life – and her life, by extension – a complete misery.
Bloody men.
She’d seen the looks passing between Sadie and Aled, but hadn’t thought too much of it; they were both so young. But she shouldn’t have allowed him under her roof. Not with him coming from the stock he did.
She should have known better.
Though she’d enjoyed having him under her power.
At least she’d done her best to make everyone see sense since the police had hauled him in. Once they found out who it had really been up there, dead, on the hill, she knew it would be easy for her to restart the conversations about how he was bound to have done it.
She stubbed out her cigarette and took one of her special tablets. She hoped just one would get her through until after the Corries left.
As she pushed the plastic container into the drawer she wondered if she was running a bit short. She’d have to talk the doctor into writing her another prescription. If she couldn’t collect them herself from the chemist without Helen seeing what she was doing, she’d get them delivered to Mair like she had in the past, and pick them up from there.
She didn’t want Helen to know she needed such strong tablets; she was alright with her daughter seeing her down a couple of over-the-counter pills now and again, but Solpadols? Everyone knew they had a lot of codeine in them, and she didn’t want Helen to worry.
Sadie
This is a nightmare. Everything’s coming apart.
@wrongboy10 is getting trolled now, and by some really horrible people. I’ve hardly Tweeted; I don’t know what to say.
Even my silence is being condemned.
Why did the stupid police get it wrong?
It was all going so well.
Now – who knows?
I promised Aled I’d help him. ‘Don’t say anything,’ I told him. And I know he hasn’t, because if he’d talked, he wouldn’t still be in prison.
But now I’m wondering if it’s my fault he’s not out yet; the telly said he might have been refused bail when they dropped the murder charge because it would be seen as special treatment for a high profile case.
I thought I was doing the best I could to help him, by making his case well-known.
But now?
Now I’m not so sure it’s a good thing after all.
What if he thinks I’ve let him down?
He mustn’t think that.
He wouldn’t like that, and he’s not nice to me when he thinks I’ve done something stupid, or not been as helpful as I could be.
He’s no more cross with me than I deserve, of course, and he always apologizes afterwards – which is lovely.
I don’t know why Mrs Lee has us all sitting here in the dark watching this boring TV program about Verona; she said it’ll let us see what the real setting for Romeo and Juliet is like, but it’s got a commentator who’s trying to make it all so interesting for ‘young people’ that he’s acting like a complete arse. We don’t need some hyperactive twat prancing about in tights to allow us to work out there’s a balcony on a building.
Shoot me now.
At least I have a study period after this, and I’ll have enough time to get to the library and back. I’ll try to Tweet some things that will balance all the nastiness swirling around Aled’s name.
I know he’ll love me all the more for it.
2nd April
Helen
‘Of course Agata will be able to cope on her own in the pub, Mum.’ Helen forced her voice to sound patient. ‘She’s perfectly capable, and this was the only time available to see the doctor. You were lucky to get in today at all.’
‘You used to be able to see a doctor whenever you wanted.’ Her mother’s voice was jagged. ‘You shouldn’t have to be phoning them up at eight o’clock in the morning, and having to hang on for ages, just to get an appointment. We will get there on time, won’t we? Can’t you drive faster?’
Helen understood that her mother needed to see the doctor, and was usually only too happy to drive her to the surgery, but this morning, of all mornings, she’d wanted to be able to talk to Sadie before she went off to school, rather than hanging on the phone on her mother’s behalf.
Something was wrong with her daughter, she could tell. She’d heard crying during the night, and that wasn’t like Sadie. What had he
r really worried was that she’d been sent away from a bedroom door her daughter had wedged shut with a chair. Sadie had never done that before.
Torn between her mother and her daughter, Helen didn’t seem to be able to be everything either of them needed. She was failing them both.
‘Look out!’ shouted Nan.
Helen swerved just in time to avoid an oncoming motorcyclist who’d cut a corner on the narrow, winding road. She automatically stretched her arm across her mother’s body as they crunched to a halt in a gated gap in the hedge.
‘Don’t do that; I’ve got my seatbelt on. And when I said go faster, I didn’t mean kill us both,’ screamed her mother.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ was all Helen had the energy to squeak out. She put the car into gear and they continued toward the doctor’s surgery in Killay. The lanes opened out, then they rattled over the familiar cattle grid at the edge of Fairwood Common. Finally they were driving past the large semis and even more impressive detached homes of the aspirational area of Killay. At least, that was how Helen had always thought of the place.
‘About time,’ was all Nan said as she extricated herself from the seatbelt when Helen had parked. ‘Bloody ridiculous we have to come all this way, when there used to be a perfectly good doctor in Lower Middleford.’
‘Consolidation of resources, Mum,’ said Helen as she followed her mother inside.
‘My back’s too bad for me to stand. You go to the counter and tell them I’m here, I’ll get us some seats,’ said Nan.
‘I’ll check you in, but I won’t wait with you, Mum. I thought I’d pop to the shops and pick up a few bits and pieces while I’m here – there’s that place with the nice delicatessen just across the road. I won’t be long. Besides, you never want me in there with you and the doctor, do you? You prefer it to be just the two of you.’
Helen hated the way her mother looked at her; disappointment, disapproval, and disdain, all rolled into one withering glance. ‘Oh,’ was all her mother said. The single syllable communicated volumes.
Having done her duty, Helen left the small building that housed the offices for three doctors, two nurses and a dispensing chemist; it was only about five years old and already the exterior finishes were peeling and looking terribly sorry for themselves. At least there was parking for a dozen cars, which was helpful, given that the rest of Killay offered very few opportunities.
She crossed the busy road with care and patience, and allowed herself to enjoy her little bit of peace and quiet. She browsed the selection of salamis, cold cuts, and cheeses with a smile on her face; she imagined picnics on the hilltops at Rhosddraig with her happy, thriving daughter, her generous mother, and – if only – her wonderful father. In her fantasy she was a size ten, and her skin glowed with youthful vitality. Bob had no place in the scenario in her head.
‘Fancy a bit of that honey roasted ham? I’ll cut it as thick or thin as you like, fresh.’
Helen looked into the face of the boy wearing a striped apron, a straw boater set at a jaunty angle, and a smile revealing some questionable teeth. He looked to be about twelve, but she told herself he was probably in his twenties. She wondered if this was the future his mother had envisaged for him. Was this the sort of thing Sadie would end up doing for a living – slicing meats to order behind a counter in Killay? Surely not. She was going to get her A level grades, get into university, and make something of herself.
‘Not the ham then,’ said the boy, reacting to Helen’s hesitation. ‘Anything else appealing to you? The roast turkey’s lovely, or maybe something a bit spicy?’ He held a large salami dotted with peppercorns and chili toward her.
Come on Helen, she told herself. ‘Two hundreds grams of the spicy salami, please, and do you have any cacciatore sausage?’
The boy’s grin grew. ‘Indeed I do.’ He reached across the counter and pointed to pre-packaged small salamis. ‘Just pop them in your basket yourself, while I cut this. Thick or thin?’
‘Very thin, please,’ replied Helen. She had to ration herself with such fat-laden treats.
As she watched him work, he did his best to engage her. ‘From around here, are you?’
‘Rhosddraig.’
His eyes strayed from the slicer, opening wide. ‘Oh, you’re in the middle of it all then, aren’t you? All that scandal about that gruesome dead body, the choirboy who did it, and all that. It must be very exciting. They still don’t know who it was he killed, do they? Weird that other bloke turning up alive after all. Do you know the lad who did it?’
Helen sighed. ‘Yes . . . no. We don’t know if he did do it.’
The expression on the boy’s face told Helen he harbored no doubt on the matter. ‘Yes. Okay. So, what’s he really like then? The telly and the papers would have us believe he’s some sort of saint. On a mission to rid South Wales of drug dealers, is he?’
‘Nobody’s one hundred percent good. Are you?’
The boy blushed. ‘Well, no, not all the time. Though my mam would kill anyone who said so.’
‘That’s what mothers are for,’ said Helen, taking her wrapped meat and heading for the till.
That’s what mothers are supposed to be for, she thought as she queued behind a woman who seemed to be buying a year’s supply of tinned steak and kidney pies.
Trust me to get a mother who wouldn’t stand up for me in a strong wind, let alone if I was really in trouble. I have to be a mother who supports her child. I’ll make sure I talk to Sadie tonight. Mum can cope with just Agata helping her for an hour or two.
Betty
The clutter piled on the little landing at the top of the stairs was a bit of a pain, but Betty didn’t mind it too much – both she and Evan were still lithe enough to circumnavigate it without the risk of doing too much damage. They’d both agreed they wouldn’t just dump it all back into the unused bedroom when they had the space, but would give it a good going through, and keep as little as possible, while chucking out as much as they could, and donating the rest to charity.
The second of the two spare rooms was no longer spare; the bed had become a seating area, the sliding wardrobe doors a noticeboard, and the chest of drawers a receptacle for folders full of papers. Evan’s laptop and printer were set up on the dressing table, its somewhat rickety stool having been replaced with a dining chair from downstairs. To all intents and purposes the Glovers now had their very own murder case management room.
Betty had erected a collapsible card table she’d inherited from her grandmother, via her mum, in a corner, to allow for the constant supply of tea and coffee to be kept away from any electrical items. As she carefully placed a fresh pot and full jug of milk in the exact center of the table – because it wobbled a bit – she wondered how long the remains in Rhosddraig would upend their lives.
She told herself that what she and her husband were doing was quite normal, considering their backgrounds.
Evan looked up from his screen. ‘Did you know that Aled Beynon got some of the highest marks in Wales for his chemistry GCSE? Won a prize for it, no less. Yet he still went on to do English, History, and Film Studies for his A levels.’
Betty had to admit she hadn’t known that.
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it,’ mused her husband, scratching his head with both hands. ‘Sounds to me like he’s a bright boy who took options that required less effort on his part. I mean, come on – Film Studies? What sort of an A level is that when it’s at home?’
Betty had settled into her new role by now – the level-headed psychologist who listened, baited and parried, and provided helpful insights. ‘Maybe he wants to work in the world of film-making at some point? English and History would play into being able to understand and work with screenplays and settings, while the Film Studies would furnish him with the technical vocabulary he’d need, and a basic understanding of the history and business of film. That might be it.’
Evan had a glint in his eye when he replied, ‘Or else he picked subjects he thought he could coas
t through, allowing him more time to work to make money, and surf whenever he wants.’
Betty smiled. ‘Or there’s that, yes.’
‘But why, Betty? Why has he been working ever since he was legally allowed to? His grandmother owns their home outright – must do, it’s been in the family for generations. We both know what a difference no mortgage makes.’
Betty sat on the bed and sipped her tea while her husband looked at his with trepidation. ‘Blow on it,’ she said, ‘it’ll cool off in a minute. And what if Gwen Beynon can’t get by on just a pension, when it’s her and him? That can’t be easy. Maybe the boy just wanted to help out.’
‘Making home deliveries of take-away food on a bicycle is a weird way to help out. Couldn’t he have got a proper job in a shop, or something?’
‘You do know this isn’t 1963, don’t you?’ retorted Betty.
Evan finally dared a sip of steaming tea. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, sounding a little hurt.
‘The gig economy, you know. People having several jobs, all at the same time. Zero hour contracts have made it much more appealing. After all, if you have no idea how many hours you’ll be asked to work and therefore paid for, with a so-called “real” job these days, why not become your own manager and rent yourself out to the highest bidder, with the best hours for you, so you know how much money you’ll have coming in? It makes sense to me.’
‘It makes sense to you because that’s been the shape of your career,’ said Evan, wearing his sulky expression. ‘I’ve put in the hours over the years, alright, and many of them paid as overtime – though I certainly haven’t been paid for all the hours I’ve worked.’
‘Especially if you count the sleepless ones, when you were worrying about a case so much you just tossed and turned in bed,’ added Betty, glad at least that was – theoretically – behind them.
‘And of course I understand the gig economy. Mind you, I have to admit an awful lot of the people I’ve run up against during my career have been of the “no visible source of income” brigade. So I understand the jobs’ market, and the “too idle or bent to want to even try to earn an honest living” lot. And as for my working life? Well, that’s behind me, now.’ Evan sounded glum. ‘This is now my “hobby”, I suppose. So – why the life he’s lived? Where has all the money gone?’