Or might it be better if the power did stay on so she and Harry could listen to the radio and dance? But, on the other hand, if the electricity did go off, that might not be so bad either, having to cuddle up together by candlelight…
Two hours later, the dripping candle wax had set into hard, pink puddles and their formerly cheerfully romantic appearance now seemed sad and pathetic. Over the past hour Mrs. Lloyd had reluctantly and gradually realized that Harry would not be coming. She had pulled the fish pie from the oven and, after taking one look at its charred, dry edges, had scraped it into the rubbish bin and left the pan to soak in the sink. After one last monitoring of the snow piling up outside, she yawned, accepted defeat, and plodded upstairs to bed. As she settled under the covers, she ran her hand longingly over the empty half of her bed. With a heavy sigh, she rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the spot where she had imagined Harry, arms outstretched and eager to hold her and smother her with tender kisses. She turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the duvet up around her ears, and closed her eyes.
I hope nothing bad’s happened to him, she thought. Still, he could have telephoned me. I hope he’s all right. Why didn’t he ring me? He might have known I’d be worried. As anxious little thoughts nibbled away at the edge of her consciousness, she pushed them away and slipped into an uneasy, restless sleep.
* * *
A few streets away, bundled up against the snow, Penny Brannigan said good night to Victoria and stepped out into the pathway that led to the road. Framed in the doorway, Victoria peered out into the shadowy night. She could just make out the River Conwy, its dark waters shifting like moving slate.
“I guess we should have paid more attention to the weather,” Victoria said, “and not worked so late so you could have been away earlier.”
“Well, there’s lots to do and it needed doing,” Penny replied. “Anyway, I don’t have far to go and I’m going to enjoy this.” She gestured at the snow and then, picking up a handful, threw it at Victoria who squealed, ducked for cover, and then with one last good night and a little flap of her hand, shut the door behind her.
Penny knew snow.
Growing up in Nova Scotia she had seen plenty of it during long, white winters filled with blinding storms. And, of course, according to elderly relatives, it had been even worse in their day. She recalled an aunt describing winters so severe the snow reached the top of the telephone poles and hardy folk who took the weather in their stride would cheerfully ski to church. Penny had left Canada behind decades ago and had made a good life for herself in this small Welsh town, safe and happy among its warm, welcoming people. Until recently, she’d thought that her life was in a pretty good place but now gratefully recognized it was in a much better one.
She was letting herself become increasingly attached to Detective Chief Inspector Davies and she knew he cared deeply for her. Unsure of just where she wanted the relationship to go, she was secure enough in herself to let it become what it was meant to be. She was smart enough to appreciate what she had while she was lucky enough to have it, and the thought of her warm, peaceful cottage waiting for her cheered her on.
The snow was blowing across the street and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see through the cascading flakes. She clutched her collar tightly and pressed on toward the cobbled town square. There was no traffic and the streets were eerily quiet. Lights glowed behind curtained windows, and for a moment she envied the people who lived there, snug and warm in their homes. But just a few more streets to plow through and she, too, would be home.
As she passed the churchyard, a small movement caught her eye and she stopped. Edging along the side of the rectory, she recognized the dim outline of two figures in the doorway of the church, caught in a tight embrace. She smiled to herself and prepared to move on, but something about the pair held her attention. She placed a hand against the rectory wall to steady herself and watched as the couple stepped back a few inches from each other. They were too far away and it was too dark to make out who they were, but something about them seemed familiar.
She watched as they held hands, looking at each other. As the smaller figure, whom she assumed to be a woman, turned to leave, the larger one pulled her back. They embraced again, obviously reluctant to part. The woman reached up and brushed a few flakes of snow off the man’s jacket. Penny watched for a few more moments, and then, starting to feel the cold seeping through her gloves and beginning to shiver, she turned and slipped silently into the night.
She arrived home a few minutes later, and after taking off her boots and hanging her coat and wet gloves to dry in the hall, she turned on the light in her sitting room and then passed through the dining area to her kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. If there was ever a night for a comforting mug of cocoa, this was it. She placed a small saucepan on the cooker, poured some milk into it, and turned on the element. While the milk heated, she took down a large mug, put in some cocoa powder, sugar, and a little milk, and stirred it all up to make a smooth brown paste.
When the milk was almost at the boiling point, she added it to the mug, gave it a good stir, and took her mug back to the living room. She settled on the sofa, tucked her legs under her, picked up her telephone, and dialed the code to listen to her voice mail messages.
“Hi, Penny, this is Alwynne. Do you think because of the storm we could postpone our lunch and sketching at Conwy Castle to Tuesday? I can’t make Monday and the roads should be clear by Tuesday. Let me know. Thanks.”
The Stretch and Sketch Club had planned to hold its annual Christmas lunch at a popular restaurant in Conwy on Sunday, and combine that with some sketching, if the weather permitted, at the castle. If it was too cold, the members would take photographs and paint from them later.
Tuesday it is, then, Penny thought. She looked at the clock on the mantel and, deciding it was too late to ring Alwynne, made a note to telephone her the next day. She drained the last of her cocoa and, licking her lips, suddenly realized how tired she was.
Half an hour later, settled in her new bed, and enjoying the tranquility of her stylish bedroom that overlooked the garden at the back of the house, she picked up her library book. A few moments later, realizing she had read the same paragraph three times without any recollection of it, she put the book down and switched off the light.
She lay there in the dark thinking about the courting couple she had seen in the churchyard.
But were they courting, she asked herself. Something about their body language, the way they couldn’t seem to resist each other, the way he pulled her back to him, suggested something different. There had been an unfulfilled eagerness there, a reluctant yearning. She closed her eyes and visualized the scene. And a moment later it came to her.
At least one of them, she thought, is married to someone else. What she had seen was the excitement, the furtiveness of forbidden passion.
She’d had a classmate at university who had been swept up in a mad affair with a married professor. She’d come upon them one morning during Reading Week, when the campus was relatively deserted, kissing passionately in an empty classroom, unable to keep their hands off each other. They’d had that same look about them, except that pair had noticed her. They’d jumped apart, their faces filled with guilt and, in his case, fear. The professor had gathered up his briefcase and, avoiding Penny’s eyes, had hurried out of the room. That relationship had ended badly, as most relationships built on the sandy foundation of deceit tend to do. By the next September a new intake of impressionable female students had provided the professor with lots of new girls to choose from, and her former classmate did not return to school.
She wondered what lies the married one she’d seen earlier that evening had told his or her partner to get out of the house in the middle of a snowstorm. And then she realized it didn’t matter. There would always be enough lies to cover up an affair. At the beginning, anyway. But only for a while.
Ten
&
nbsp; And still it snowed. Tree branches bowed under the weight of the snow and deep drifts made the rural roads almost impassable. On the hill farms above the valley the sheep had sensed the approaching storm and taken shelter in the hollows. But there lay danger, so the shepherds, helped by their trained and eager dogs, moved the ewes and rams onto more exposed land so the drifting snow would not bury them. The flocks huddled together beside the stone fences, vague silhouettes, almost invisible against the cold landscape of endless snow.
In the town, the primary school was closed, shelves in the food stores had been stripped bare, and travel was almost at a standstill.
Many were forced to stay home from work, but those who could, plowed bravely through the snow to open their businesses. Among this hardy group was Huw Bowen, who held the keys to the bank. And not only did the bank open as usual, it opened on time.
At ten past ten his assistant knocked on the door to his office.
“Come.”
“Morning, Mr. Bowen. Just wanted to let you know that there’s been a request from the branch in Chester to transfer funds out of an account that was recently opened with us. It’s a large sum.” She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. “Yes, quite large, actually. Twenty thousand pounds. It all seems in order, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Quite right, too, Gaynor.” He let out a long sigh. “Now don’t tell me. We’re talking about the Lloyd-Saunders joint account.”
“Yes, Mr. Bowen, that’s right. That’s the one.”
“Right. Chester, you say. Thanks very much.”
He waited until she closed the door behind her and then reached for the telephone.
Mrs. Lloyd put the phone down and stood in the hall, unseeing. She had been ringing Saunders on his mobile for two days and had not reached him. At first she had been able to push back the rising tide of anxiety that kept creeping into her awareness, but as the days and nights passed, the mild anxiety had turned into a dawning realization, with an undercurrent of disbelief, desperation, and cold, gripping fear that clawed at the very centre of her.
And just now, Huw Bowen had called from the bank to tell her that the bank had released twenty thousand pounds to Saunders. Well, they’d had to, hadn’t they? It was a joint account with his name on it and only one signature had been required to make a withdrawal. He was entitled to what was essentially his money because she had given it to him. Everything had been done by the book. Oh, if only she’d listened to Huw.
She tried to reassure herself for the thousandth time that Saunders had been trapped in the storm over the weekend and today had taken out the money to invest, just as he’d said he would. But the little voice inside her, that she was wishing she’d paid more attention to earlier, would not be silenced. And it was telling her something different.
When the phone rang again, she picked it up eagerly. Oh please be him, she breathed.
“Hello? Is that you, Harry?”
Her shoulders sagged.
“Yes, I figured you were trapped in the storm, so I wasn’t worried about you at all, Florence.” She listened. “Oh, meant to clear up, is it? You’re taking the train. Yes, well, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow then. Thank you for ringing. Must get on. Good-bye, now.”
She replaced the telephone receiver and then immediately headed to the drinks table in the sitting room to do something she had done only once before in her life at ten o’clock in the morning. She poured two fingers of whisky into a glass, hesitated, then added another two. She took a small sip, then a large gulp. A moment later she set the empty glass on the tray and, fueled by a surge of alcohol-laced adrenaline and anger, strode back to the hallway and opened the closet door. She pulled out her warmest coat and scrabbled around in the back of the cupboard to see if she could find her old pair of winter boots. She found one boot, covered in dust with a broken lace, but it would have to do. She dove back in, tossing out pairs of shoes, a lost glove, a long-forgotten dog lead, and a hairbrush, until she found the mate to the boot she held in her hand.
She shook the dust out of them and, hoping no spiders or mice were living inside, put them on. She pulled on a warm hat and let herself out of the house. As she plowed along Rosemary Lane, clamping her hat to her head with one hand, her wind-bitten face was taut with distress.
She wasn’t sure if there was anything to be done, if anything could be done, but she desperately needed to speak to Huw Bowen. As she turned the corner into the town square, she glimpsed a patch of blue sky over the church tower and realized it had finally stopped snowing. Maybe now, she thought, maybe now he’ll be able to get here and everything will be fine. It’ll all have been much ado about nothing.
A half hour later, she left the bank. She took her time walking home, knowing there was nothing more she could do, except wait to see if Saunders, as she was beginning to think of him, would contact her. Her conversation with Huw Bowen had not gone well. There had been no hearty reassurance, no attempt to comfort her, just a hard cold dose of reality. Yes, he’d had his suspicions. Yes, he had tried to talk her out of it. Yes, he had recommended two signatures on the joint account. But it was too late to put that right, the question was what could she do now.
But the worst part had been when she had asked Huw what he thought had happened.
“May I speak frankly?” he had asked, and when she nodded, he had said, “I think he’s gone for good, Evelyn, and he’s taken your money with him.” Along with my self-respect and position in this town, Mrs. Lloyd thought.
“And what’s more,” Huw had added, “I think it’s time we called in the police and I am advising you to do that.”
But why, Mrs. Lloyd had asked. He hadn’t done anything illegal, and besides, she didn’t want the whole town knowing about this.
“That’s exactly how these men operate,” Huw had replied. “They work quickly to build trust and then trick sensible, intelligent women into giving them money, and they count on the fact that their victims, for one reason or another, usually shame and embarrassment, will not go public with it. And it’s that silence that allows them to move on to their next victim. And the one after that.”
But Mrs. Lloyd was not ready to call in the police and told her financial advisor that she wanted to give it another day or two, just in case there was a simple explanation.
But still, hoping against hope that everything might yet turn out all right, in her own mind she feared the worst. And she had another long day, filled with stomach-churning dread, to get through. She needed to talk to someone, someone she could trust.
As she turned into Rosemary Lane, she decided that as soon as she took her coat off, she would call her longtime friend Bunny from the old post office days and see if she was free for lunch tomorrow. Somewhere different, Conwy, maybe. It wasn’t far. And while she didn’t think she’d be in the mood for Christmas shopping, a look round the shops might be nice. She might pop into that kitchen-supply place and buy Florence something for the kitchen as a Christmas present, since she liked cooking and baking so much. Looking forward to a little outing always made things seem brighter, Mrs. Lloyd told herself. Taking charge of the situation was the thing to do. And besides, Bunny would not only understand but, being a practical person, might be able to suggest something. Anything.
But the first call she made when she got home was to Saunders. He didn’t answer, but how could he? The ringer on his mobile phone had been switched off and the device lay at the bottom of a rubbish bin on a platform of the Chester railway station covered with a banana peel, a couple of sandwich wrappers, a dirty nappy, and a half-empty can of ginger ale.
Eleven
The next morning, as the sun tried valiantly to assert itself through a pale battalion of dense, grey clouds, Penny and Alwynne Gwilt set off on the twenty-minute drive up the valley to Conwy where the Stretch and Sketch Club had been able to change their reservations at a local restaurant for the group’s Christmas lunch. The narrow rural road wound on, bordered on each side by
stone fences, hedges, and the occasional cluster of holly bushes bearing bright red berries. Fields, green just a few days ago but now blanketed in snow, sloped away into the distance.
“It’s nice that our two new members were able to come today,” Alynne remarked as she slowed down to take a sharp turn. “Brian and Glynnis.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about her,” Penny replied. “I don’t know her very well, but she seems, well, I’m not sure if sad is the right word but down in the dumps.”
“She didn’t used to be like that,” Alwynne replied. “She used to be quite lively and great fun. But I think living with Huw Bowen would take it out of most women. He’s a good man in many ways, I guess, but he can be domineering and demanding. Maybe it’s the banker in him, but everything’s got to be done just so. I think that would be very hard on any woman, living with that day after day. Still, I expect they have no more of the ups and downs of married life than the rest of us.”
“Why did she marry him, do you think?”
Alwynne gave a little shrug and glanced at her companion in the passenger seat. “Why does anyone marry someone? Maybe she thought he was her last chance. She was in her late thirties when they married. She gave up her job-used to be a teacher at the high school.”
She pointed out the window as the battlemented outline of Conwy Castle came into view.
“I’ve seen that view all my life and it never fails to amaze me, the sheer size and strength of it,” said Alwynne. “It gives a whole new meaning to the word intimidating.”
The little car squeezed through the upper gate, the main landward entry into the town and one of only three arched gateways in the well-preserved stone walls that encircled the town. They inched along narrow one-way streets until they reached the restaurant, located in the looming shadow of the great medieval fortress.
A Killer's Christmas in Wales Page 9