by E. A. Clark
This did nothing to allay my fears. I was convinced now, more than ever, that something wasn’t right.
‘Do you think I ought to contact the police? When I phoned her workplace, Sarah hadn’t been in. They said she was sick. She could be lying unconscious somewhere, for all I know.’
‘Listen, why don’t you try to ring her once more, and if you still have no luck, call the police. Arfon and I will drive you home in the morning,’ suggested Nia, who had been so quiet I had almost forgotten she was still in the room. ‘I have a gut feeling that everything is OK, and I can usually pick up when there’s something wrong.’
I wished that I could share Nia’s optimism, but agreed, thanking her for the offer.
Taking a deep breath, I went into the hall and dialled Sarah’s number once again, willing her to pick up. No reply: the answer machine kicked in. Just as I was about to hang up, I could hear Sarah’s voice breathlessly responding at the other end of the line.
‘Annie? Is that you? Thank God!’
‘Sarah, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick!’
Sarah gave a huge sigh. ‘Oh my God, Annie, you’ve no idea … I don’t know where to begin.’
She proceeded to explain that she had actually had a migraine on the Monday morning and called in sick to work. Having left her mobile on silent, she took strong painkillers and went to sleep it off.
‘I heard the house phone ringing, but I just couldn’t drag myself out of bed. I was still pretty woozy on Monday evening when the doorbell went – I wasn’t going to answer it to be honest, but whoever it was just wouldn’t go away. So I came down – and there was this guy standing there. He’d obviously had a few. He looked a bit of a roughneck and forced his way in. I was shitting bricks; let me tell you.
‘But he was in a hell of a state. Said he’d found out I was a friend of Peter’s and was trying to track him down. It’d taken him months, but he’d managed to find out where Peter worked and was waiting for him outside the building on Monday afternoon. But of course Peter was still up in Wales with you … Anyway, the guy gave the receptionist some cock and bull story – said he was a long-lost relative or something. Peter moved house recently and the woman couldn’t find his new address, but knew I was mates with him, so she told him where I lived, the idiot.’
‘Christ, Sarah, what did you do?’
‘Sat and listened – I didn’t have much option! The phone went off a few times, but he screamed at me not to answer it. I wasn’t about to argue with him. It transpired that this bloke’s girlfriend went missing last summer up in Anglesey. She used to be engaged to the son of the people who own the farm where you’re staying, apparently …’
An awful coldness crept over me. I realized where this conversation was going.
‘Anyway, it seems that the police questioned Peter last year over her disappearance but it didn’t amount to anything. The guy who forced his way into my house – I never found out his name – was into drugs in a big way and had a criminal record; he was suspect number one, not surprisingly, so he went on the run. He’d been living in a squat somewhere in Birmingham for months. But he was clearly completely smitten with this Aneira girl and determined to find out what had happened to her … and he’s convinced Peter’s at the bottom of it all …’
My stomach churned. It was becoming clear that there was almost definitely more to Peter’s involvement in the situation than met the eye.
‘I can’t believe Peter would’ve had anything to do with the situation,’ Sarah went on. ‘But this lad’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. He was here all night, ranting and raving. He said he was going to beat the crap out of Peter until he told him what he’d done with her. Eventually, I managed to convince him that Peter was away for a couple of weeks. He said he’d be back. I was a nervous wreck by the time he left. He wouldn’t let me answer the door, or pick up the phone or even open the curtains. I’ve been like a prisoner in my own home!’
‘Oh my God, Sarah! Did he – hurt you?’
‘No, but I really thought he was going to a couple of times. I just tried to cooperate as much as I could. I didn’t want to antagonize the man – he was clearly on a knife edge. I rang the police as soon as he left, so they’re on to him. I’ve been down at the station giving a statement – I had to do one of those photo-fit things!’
‘What about Peter? Did you call him?’
‘I tried to ring him but there was no answer. The police are aware that the guy’s after him, so they’ll be going round to warn him.’
‘You poor thing. You must be frazzled.’
‘I’ve been better!’ joked Sarah. ‘I could do with a few stiff drinks, and that’s no lie. Anyway, how are you? Are you having a good break?’
And so it all spilled out: the hauntings, the body in the attic, the love letters, the burial of the baby’s bones. There was an extended silence from the other end of the line.
‘Well, I thought I’d had an eventful twenty-four hours!’ Sarah responded eventually. ‘So what do you want to do about the rest of the holiday? I’m assuming you’d rather come back to the sanity of the Midlands after all that. I can come and collect you first thing in the morning if you want.’
‘I think I’d like that. This whole matter has left a very nasty taste. It’s such a shame – the Parrys are a really lovely old couple. They’ve got such a lot to deal with. It’s bound to take its toll on them.’
‘And what about Peter? Just shows – you think you know a person. To think – it sounds as though he might well be involved with this poor girl’s death … although I did have an inkling he might be gay.’
‘Well, that’s more than I did. I used to think he fancied you! Clearly I’m not a very good judge when it comes to affairs of the heart …’
Sarah gave a nervous little laugh but said no more on the matter. We agreed to see one another in the morning and rounded off our conversation.
*
The dialogue around the Parrys’ table was uncomfortably limited. Mr and Mrs Parry were very downcast and said little over supper. I explained what had happened to Sarah, which did nothing to improve the atmosphere.
‘Bloody thug, terrorizing a young woman like that,’ Mr Parry had growled, but said no more on the matter.
‘Mr Parry, it’s been an incredibly eventful day. So much has happened while you’ve been away.’ Nia proceeded to tell the old man about the spirit of Anwen and her poor lost infant, the bones in the well and the subsequent burial.
‘You were right about that one, then, Mr Parry,’ I said, hoping to engage the old man. He grunted but showed little interest in Nia’s story.
‘It seems, Mr Parry, that your great-grandfather, John Owen Parry, was the father of Anwen’s child,’ she went on. ‘He broke his promise to stand by her and told her that he couldn’t leave his wife. In desperation the poor girl drowned herself and the baby. She told me that she’d put a curse on the family.’
My eyes widened. This was a new revelation.
‘Well, that makes sense.’ Mr Parry’s sad, rheumy eyes did not leave his wife. She fidgeted uncomfortably.
‘We couldn’t have much more bad luck, let’s face it. The rotten old bugger. Maybe we have him to blame for it all, then.’
‘Arfon and I have had many such experiences over the years, but I’m sure it’s been an awful lot for poor Mrs Parry and Annie here to take in …’
It was obviously all too much for Mr Parry. ‘It’s been a lot for me to take in too, let me tell you. If you will all excuse me - ’ The old man rose from the table. ‘It’s been a very long day. I’m going to turn in.’ He seemed to look straight through his wife; the sorrow and resentment he felt was tangible. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Nos da.’
Mrs Parry looked on sadly as her husband trudged heavily from the kitchen.
‘He’s angry with me for not telling him about Peter,’ she said softly. ‘How could I have said anything? He’s such an old-fashioned soul. And he’s
always thought the world of the lad – more so since we lost Glyn. This will destroy their relationship.’
‘Nonsense, Mrs Parry!’ The Reverend Evans placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘He’ll come round. Just give him time. It’s been an awful lot to take in, in one day.’
Once Nia and Arfon had left, I sat with Mrs Parry and we talked for a short while. The subject of Peter did not arise.
‘I’m really sorry your holiday has been ruined,’ she said. ‘I do hope you’ll return when things have settled down. Perhaps when the baby is here.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘You have something to look forward to. A new life is always to be celebrated.’
I nodded in agreement. If nothing else, my experience had made me realize that I was ready to embrace life once more, with or without Graham. Our baby had given me something to live for.
The Evans’s had been of the opinion that things might settle down since the discovery of the body, and so I tentatively resumed occupancy of the Parrys’ spare bedroom. By now I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I wished Mrs Parry goodnight and climbed the stairs wearily.
The heat of the afternoon had left the bedroom a comfortably warm temperature. I opened the sash window a fraction and lay on top of the bed, closing my eyes. Sarah would be here tomorrow – and I would be going home.
Chapter Eleven
I was asleep almost instantly. My dreams were a tangle of everything that had happened during the day. It was as though my subconscious was trying to make sense of it all. Anwen and little Osian; Anni and Peter; Sarah; and Graham …
I awoke immediately. My heart was pounding like a drum now – not with the terrible fear that had plagued me recently, but with the sudden shocking resurgence of a memory that I had long buried. I felt sick. Sleep evaded me now. I paced the floor, bitter tears spilling from my eyes.
The constant rows in our final weeks together came flooding back to me now. The little digs about how work was clearly so important to me that perhaps I’d be better suited to the single life. How I could be more like my sister and take a more measured approach to things: realize what really mattered and get my priorities right.
The memory of the night he died came flooding back. The derisory comment I overheard him making to the wife of one of his workmates – ‘Oh no, we haven’t any children. Domesticity is anathema to Annie, I’m afraid.’
I remembered now what had happened at the party. Only the day before, I had discovered that the wife of one of Graham’s colleagues was a highly regarded headmistress at a school with an impressive Ofsted report and outstanding GCSE results. Having heard that there was a position for Head of English available at her establishment, I hoped to be able to speak to her and create a good impression, with a view to wheedling myself an interview.
Things had been hazy as, in an attempt to quell my nerves before talking to the headmistress, I had stupidly drunk rather too much, and spent a long time chatting to her lecherous husband, waiting in vain for a proper introduction. Graham had noticed me talking to his colleague, for whom he had nothing but contempt, and it was clearly the final straw.
The argument that preceded his abrupt departure from the party; his parting shot as he climbed into the car, all came back to me now – ‘No! I need to clear my head. You stay where you are – why don’t you go and do a bit more mingling – you might just meet some more useful contacts. It’s what’s most important to you in life, after all …’
My thoughtless behaviour had driven him away from the party – and ultimately to his death. I had been so wrapped up in my job and furthering my career that I didn’t see what it was doing to him. Our baby would never know his or her father and it had all been my own stupid, selfish fault. It was inconceivable.
I lay awake, tossing and turning until daylight began to creep through. No ghostly apparition came to distract me now and my thoughts were at once filled with self-directed anger and loathing. It was sheer misery. I felt a terrible hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Soon I could hear someone moving about in the kitchen below. I slipped out of bed and went downstairs, noticing from the hall clock that it was only 5.30 a.m. The kitchen curtains were still drawn, but Mrs Parry was laying the breakfast table and making tea. I had obviously startled her and she looked up sharply. I could see that she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and red.
‘Mrs Philips, I’m sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?’ She attempted a smile but her misery was palpable.
‘Not at all, Mrs Parry. I’ve been awake for hours, to tell you the truth.’
‘I’ve hardly slept, either. All this business with Tyddyn Bach and Peter. I don’t know what to think. And Will has turned his back on me all night. He’s taken it very badly …’ A single tear trickled from her eye and rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
‘It’s not your fault, Mrs Parry. How could you have known that Peter had written all those letters? And what good would it have done, telling your husband about Peter being in love with Glyn? You were only trying to spare his feelings.’
‘But that’s not how Will sees it. It’s as though there’s been some sort of conspiracy to keep him in the dark.’
I felt wretched. I had to come clean. ‘Mrs Parry, I’m afraid I’m responsible for the tea caddy turning up. I found it – inside the trunk of the old oak tree at the bottom of the field. I had hidden it under the bed in Tyddyn Bach – I was going to try to open it later, but one of the spirits must have moved it from where I’d left it. That’s how Nia came to find the thing. If I’d had any idea of the trouble it would cause, I’d have left well alone. I’m really sorry …’
The old lady smiled sadly. ‘It’s not your fault either. The past has a way of catching up with us all, sooner or later. Even without the upset with the box, there’s that poor girl … Oh God, it’s too awful to think about. I just can’t get my head round it all …’ She began to cry quietly.
I didn’t know how to comfort her. I just hoped that Mr Parry would come round eventually and that the situation would be resolved. We would know more later with regard to the identification of the body, as the police had promised that they would keep us informed as soon as they had further news from the forensic team.
We ate an early breakfast, and I had only just returned to the kitchen after finishing my ablutions when there was a loud knock at the back door. It was Marian Williams, looking extremely agitated. She burst into the room, an almost maniacal look on her face.
‘I had to come. I saw all the police cars last night. The lads told me to stay away but I just had to know what was going on. What’s happened?’
Mrs Parry looked aghast. The discovery of a young, female body when Marian’s own daughter was still missing was not something she felt able to convey to the girl’s distraught mother. She looked to me for support.
‘Mrs Williams, a body was found yesterday – in the cottage,’ I found myself saying. ‘The police haven’t confirmed its identity yet, nor how the person died, but hopefully we should learn more later …’
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ The woman’s eyes were wild. She looked panic-stricken. ‘It’s my daughter!’
‘They don’t know for sure who it is yet,’ I told her, trying to remain calm. ‘They’ll need to check dental records before they can be certain.’
Marian Williams let out a howl, like an animal caught in a snare. She buried her face in her hands.
‘It has to be Aneira!’ she cried. ‘And it must have been that bastard who put her there! Maybe they will believe me now – and you too, Gwen.’ She rounded on poor Mrs Parry, who was at a loss for words. ‘Never mind all your “he’s a good boy” rubbish. I told you what he was and you wouldn’t listen! Well, I hope you’re happy now!’
She turned and fled from the building. Mrs Parry and I looked at one another.
‘I hope that there is some other explanation for all this,’ I said to her, ‘but I’ve an awful feeling she may be right.’
Mrs Parry’s tr
oubled expression said it all. Maybe deep down she’d had her doubts too, but didn’t want to acknowledge them. What a terrible predicament she was in now.
Two male police officers, one grey-haired and in plain clothes, the other a somewhat younger and taller man in uniform, arrived halfway through the morning. Mrs Parry invited them into the kitchen. They politely refused the offer of either a seat or tea.
‘Mrs Parry, I regret to inform you that the dental records have positively identified the deceased as Miss Aneira Williams,’ the older man said gravely.
The old woman sank into the armchair by the range. The colour had leached from her cheeks. She stared open-mouthed at the policeman, but said nothing. I noticed that her hands had begun to tremble.
‘I have to ask if you have any idea how she may have come to be in your holiday cottage. We are not as yet at liberty to reveal the exact cause of death, but foul play is suspected.’
I observed the younger officer attempting to conceal a smirk at this assertion of the bleeding obvious.
‘Two of my team are informing the girl’s mother of the discovery as we speak,’ he went on, shooting his junior a withering stare. ‘I shall need statements from all those present when the remains were discovered. And most importantly, I must have further statements from your good self and your husband.’
He paused to look at a notebook he had withdrawn from his jacket pocket, and then handed it to the other officer, who was armed with a pen.
‘A Mr Peter Roberts was questioned last year with regard to the disappearance of Miss Williams. Do you know where we might find Mr Roberts now?’
Mrs Parry appeared to have lost the gift of speech. The news had clearly propelled her into some sort of stupor. Her eyes were trained vacantly on the ground.
‘He lives not far from me, in Birmingham,’ I interjected. ‘He was actually the one who brought me here. My sister has his contact details … She should be on her way here now.’
At the mention of home, my stomach turned over as my thoughts turned once again to Graham. My beautiful, sweet, caring husband. The burden of responsibility for his death felt like a punch.