Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  This brought Rhona Griffiths back into Amber’s mind. Her mood darkened. As for her, she deserved all she got, lousy bitch. And if she’d phoned Mum and ranted on – Amber’s hands balled into fists at her side and she began to run. She must get home and find out. Anxiety mounted inside her. Please God, don’t let Rhona have phoned. Stupid, stupid to have wound her up like that. Fabia was right. But it was too late now.

  Nearly home. She clenched her teeth as she got to the front door. And please God, don’t let Mum be in one of her stresses.

  Chapter 2

  “Registered package,” the postman said when Fabia opened the door. She squinted in the bright morning light, her head throbbing as she signed for the large padded envelope. What an idiot to have drunk so much last night.

  She was about to go back inside when a high-pitched voice called, “Good morning, Fabia! God has blessed us with sun at last.”

  Rhona Griffiths was standing on her side of the low fence, her small eyes and pointed nose making her look like some malevolent Beatrix Potter character. Fabia considered mentioning the confrontation she’d witnessed the day before, try to smooth things over for Amber, but decided against it. A hangover and Rhona were not a happy combination, and she was reluctant to appear as much of a snoop as Rhona herself.

  “So he has,” Fabia said, trying not to sound too unfriendly.

  “Interesting post?” Rhona went on, avid for confidences.

  “Nothing much. Some work from my agent and probably a pile of junk mail.”

  “And what’s the present project then?”

  “Illustrations for what will probably be a series of children’s picture books.”

  “There’s lovely. I used to adore picture books, all those little animals and fairies. My dearest Da used to read to us every evening when we were children, never mind how busy he was.”

  “That must have been nice for you,” Fabia said, then added maliciously. “But they’re a bit different nowadays. The ones I’m illustrating are all about learning the facts of life, you know, sex, reproduction, that sort of thing.”

  Rhona’s thin lips tightened and an ugly flush crept up her neck and spread over her cheeks. “It’s my opinion the young know far too much about that sort of thing. Disgusting I call it. Really Fabia, I don’t know how you could involve yourself in such a thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, the sooner they learn the facts the better, and anyway, it helps pay my bills.”

  “My dearest Da, who was a pastor as you know, would not have approved, and nor do I.” She could have sworn Rhona’s nose was actually twitching, any minute now she’d sprout whiskers as she gripped the top of the fence and leant further over it. Rhona lowered her voice to a sibilant whisper. “I could tell you such things about certain people in this town. Lewd behaviour, disgraceful language. As you saw yesterday, that daughter of–”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Fabia interrupted, regretting her impulse to bait her next-door neighbour. All she really wanted to do was retreat to her kitchen for a cup of coffee and two paracetamols. “But I really have to go now. Work to do.”

  “Well, I do think someone like you shouldn’t lower themselves to such work. You used to have some standing in the community, after all. But perhaps your standards aren’t quite as high as they used to be.” And with this parting shot Rhona swung round and disappeared back inside, slamming her front door behind her.

  Fabia no longer felt guilty about baiting her, and she was beginning to think Amber had had every reason to lash out. Poisonous little trout was about right. She behaves like a geriatric witch and she’s barely fifty, and as for that much-quoted dearest Da of hers, thank God I never met him, she thought.

  * * *

  There were definitely gaps in Fabia’s memory of the evening before, although leftover snatches of conversation kept bubbling up in her mind. She was a good cook and had given her erstwhile colleagues a meal to remember, and the wine had flowed, followed by several malt whiskies. If she wasn’t careful she’d turn into a forty-year-old lush, not a happy prospect.

  She hadn’t told them she’d seen Matt that morning, although she wasn’t entirely sure why not, but she did seem to remember asking them about his promotion. And hadn’t she said something about his having been like a brother to her? God, she’d been that drunk! Alun Richards had given a snort of laughter. She remembered telling him, with as much dignity as she could muster, that she was no baby snatcher. He’d grinned and winked at her; bastard!

  But all in all, it had been a good enough evening with that small group of friends from the force who’d stood by her. Part of her had enjoyed catching up on all the police gossip, in spite of the growing feeling she had now of being an outsider. Such a pity so few of her old colleagues kept in touch, but hardly surprising.

  She put the kettle on and rummaged in one of the kitchen cupboards for the packet of paracetamol, pressed two into her palm and went to the sink for some water. While she waited for the kettle to boil, Fabia opened the window and leant on the sill, breathing in the clear crisp Welsh air. She always found this view calming, and calm was exactly what she needed. For Fabia nothing could match up to the landscape of her homeland. Her spirits crept up. Through the tangled branches of the old apple tree she could see the fields stretching away from the bottom of her garden in a gradual upward slope, a patchwork of greens and browns interrupted, at this time of year, by the bright yellow of daffodils. Dotted here and there were sheep, cream and occasionally black bundles of wool moving lazily about, cropping at the grass. In the far distance, the fields gave way to a more severe landscape as the lower slopes of the Black Mountains began to rise, and here the colours changed to misty blue, grey and mauve. And there, in the far distance, was the distinctive shape of the Sugar Loaf mountain. Matt had once decided they should hike up that peak, but Fabia had chickened out, opting for the much easier Little Skirrid. He’d teased her over it for days, calling her a lazy wimp.

  But all this daydreaming would get her nowhere. Quickly she made the coffee, then leant across and closed the window. It was time to get to work, headache or no headache. But still her mind drifted. How strange, she thought, to be thinking of the painting as work. It didn’t feel right. Sort of theoretical rather than actual. She knew, deep down, it would take a long time before she’d stop feeling like a police officer, but there was little point in dwelling on it. At least, she told herself briskly, she was lucky enough to have this second string to her bow. How many people could say that? And there were similarities, if you thought about it. In both professions you had to study faces, and body language mattered. You had to have an eye for place and position, for detail, and a good memory. Not so very different really, she told herself.

  Feeling better for the coffee, she stuffed her wild hair into a scrunchy and made her way down the hall to the dining room, but before she got there the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and wandered with it into the dining room, which doubled as her study.

  It was her agent, Sheena. She wanted to know if the manuscript had arrived. Fabia told her it had. Had Fabia looked at it yet? No, she hadn’t had the chance yet. When would she do so? Well, now, actually. And how soon would she be able to send the first sketches? Fabia sighed, her head throbbed as she promised to get some work sent off by the beginning of next week. It was the best she could do. There was a clicking sound of irritation from the other end of the line.

  “Give me a chance,” Fabia protested. “Quite apart from anything else, I’ve got a bloody hangover.”

  “Self-inflicted injury,” was the unsympathetic comment.

  “Okay, okay. Look, I promise I’ll get the first drafts to you as soon as I possibly can.”

  Feeling hounded, Fabia put the phone down quickly before her tormentor could say anything else. But she knew she’d have to get some serious work done as soon as possible. This could turn out to be a really lucrative commission and she couldn’t afford to lose it. She pulled the padded envelope from the elast
ic band that bound it to the rest of the post and headed for the dining room and her desk.

  * * *

  The work wasn’t going well. However hard she tried, Fabia couldn’t concentrate, and it seemed the weather had caught her unsettled mood. The sun had gone and grey clouds were rolling in, sombre and glowering. Rain was threatening yet again. Let’s face it, she had plenty to worry about – Matt, Amber, her work. It was hopeless. She’d never produce anything useful in this frame of mind. Sod the weather, maybe some fresh air would help get rid of the gremlins. It’d turned chilly but it wasn’t actually raining yet. A walk across Gwiddon Park would do her good. She pulled on her boots and threw on a waterproof jacket just in case. Hunched in her coat, hands deep in the pockets, she made her way down the road and into the park.

  There was no-one else about – all too sensible, back inside having their lunch and avoiding the threatening weather. But she was glad of the solitude, and she loved it down by the river in almost any weather. She liked to watch out for occasional bubbles rising as fish went about their business just below the surface. And she loved the colours, the soft greeny brown of the water, the rich brown of the earth on the banks, and the varied shades of branches bending low, mud-spattered and glistening where they’d been splashed by the passing river. All this had been one of the main attractions when she’d moved into the house her aunt had left her. But it wasn’t having its usual effect. The gloom that had settled inside her refused to be shifted.

  Fabia trudged on. Since the grass was so wet, she kept to the path that curved down and then turned along the river’s edge. If she got nearer to the water maybe she’d be able to spot a trout or two in the pools and eddies just above the pond. She glanced up at the sky. Slate grey clouds were gathering and even the colour of a bright orange lifebelt hooked to a post on the bank seemed suddenly dulled. She shivered and hugged her arms round her body. The first raindrops began to spatter down. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. It was time to give in and go home. Perhaps she’d heat up a bowl of soup to take the chill out of her bones.

  Fabia looked up at the cloudy sky and a large drop of rain hit her in the eye. At the same moment, her foot slipped and she had to grab a branch to steady herself, but still she slithered down towards the fast-flowing water. She was relieved when, with a jolt, a protruding root arrested her fall, but as she turned to make her way back up the bank something caught her eye. Just below her, in a bend of the river, where reeds were tangled in the branches of a fallen tree trunk, came a glint and gleam of silver. Slowly it glittered back and forth with the motion of the water.

  She stared down, trying to make out what it was, then picked up a stick and, stepping carefully on the soft mud of the bank, edged closer. Stretching out precariously, she tried to hook out the silver object with the end of the stick, but all she came up with were long, thin black reeds. Black reeds? No. No. Black hair!

  Stock still, frozen for a moment in disbelief, she gazed down at the rushing water, then threw the stick violently away from her. What she was looking at was so repugnant that at first her mind rejected it. But not for long. There was no getting away from the grisly truth as the swirl of the current cleared the hair away from a blue-white moon face. There was the glint of silver from a long earring, black sodden clothing, hair swirling in a grotesque dance, and worst of all, two open eyes staring up at her from under the water. Amber Morgan’s eyes.

  Chapter 3

  The shock was an icy blast stinging her whole body. Fabia felt nausea rising. She clamped it down, refusing to give in to the urge. For God’s sake, she’d seen enough bodies in her time, some twisted and mutilated, others who’d died with terror imprinted on their faces glaring out at her. But this was different. This had taken her completely by surprise. It was out of context. She wasn’t prepared.

  Anchored by her clothes, which had wrapped round some tree roots, one pale arm above the head in a macabre wave, Amber’s body shifted with the current. For a second, the urge to stumble down and drag her out was almost overwhelming, but it only lasted for a second. Mustn’t get too close. This could be a crime scene. She must avoid any more contamination of the area. But why should she think of it like that? It was far more likely to have been a tragic accident. That was irrelevant. It was obvious Amber was dead. There was nothing to be done to save her. This had to be handed over to the police, and that did not mean her, ex-Superintendent Fabia Havard.

  With infinite care she climbed back up the bank and looked around. There was no-one in sight. Not another soul, and she hadn’t got her mobile with her, hadn’t thought to bring it. No choice, she’d have to get back to the house as fast as she could and phone from there. Covered in mud, dripping and cold, she broke into a stumbling run.

  She felt sick at the thought of a vibrant young life cut brutally short. And Amber had been a friend, Fabia had cared about her. But in spite of this, as she ran, her training took over. Her mind began methodically sifting through what she’d seen, analysing it, filing away each and every detail.

  * * *

  It was raining hard now, but Fabia barely noticed as she pounded along the tarmac path and across the road, her breath rasping cold down her throat. A horn blared as a car swerved to avoid her. The motorist shouted obscenities, but she hardly noticed. She turned into Morwydden Lane and through her own gate, up the path, scrabbling for the key in one pocket, then another. At last she found it.

  Slamming the door behind her, for a second she bent, hands on knees, trying to get her breath, then she grabbed the phone and dialled 999. She gave the details with practised efficiency, hardly faltering at all. Only when she’d been assured there would be someone along very soon, did she slump down on a chair and rub at her face with soiled hands. She thought again of the blue-white skin, the long strands of black hair, and rushed upstairs to splash cold water on her face. The shock of it helped, and so did stripping off her mud-soaked boots and sodden socks. As she did so, her mind was working away.

  How long had the poor child been in the river? When had she last seen her? Of course, on the bridge yesterday, that row with Rhona, and then the poor girl had gone off to her interview in Cardiff, so full of enthusiasm she could hardly contain herself. Christ! This was a nightmare.

  As Fabia changed into dry clothes, the policewoman in her began to pick over the possibilities. Could it have been an accident when Amber was drunk or high on something or other? She knew Amber had dabbled in drugs; not class As, but it didn’t take much as she well knew. Maybe the interview had gone really well and she’d been celebrating. On the other hand, what if it had been a total disaster? Amber was a girl of extremes. If the whole thing had fallen through, could she have decided to end it all? She wasn’t the most stable person, and she’d had enough grief in her life. But somehow Fabia didn’t think suicide would be Amber’s way. Wouldn’t she be more likely to lash out at someone else than kill herself?

  It was pointless speculating. Soon enough the police machine would get underway and Fabia would be out of it. But only in an official capacity. For the first time, it occurred to her: she’d never been involved in such a tragedy from a personal point of view. Apart from when she’d had to help Matt through that awful business with his sister, Bethan, but that had so obviously been suicide.

  And what about Amber’s family? Poor, poor Cecily. This could destroy her. And her stepfather, so conventional, but also so caring. He’d tried hard to do the right thing for his stepdaughter. They just won’t know what’s hit them, Fabia thought. Even as she told herself she would have to try and help Cecily through this, her mind flinched from the idea. What could she do? She’d never had children. How could she know how a mother would feel?

  The knock on the door came just as Fabia walked down the stairs again. Two uniformed police officers stood on the doorstep.

  “Miss Havard? You reported an incident.”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  His eyebrows raised at her tone of voice. “Serg
eant Pryce,” the older of the two said. “This is Police Constable Roberts. Now would you tell us what this is about?”

  She closed the door behind her and said briskly, “Come on. I’ll show you. We’ll go in your car. The park gates are open, so you’ll be able to drive down there.”

  The one whose name was Roberts looked as if he was about to protest but, after a sharp glance from his older colleague, he changed his mind. Fabia was relieved. The last thing she wanted to do was drag in her past connections in order to pull rank. As she climbed into the car Fabia noticed Rhona’s sharp face staring out at them from a downstairs window next door.

  Roberts, who was driving, manoeuvred carefully through the gates of the park and drove along the tarmac path. Leaning forward in her seat, Fabia gave them a brief account of what she’d found. After a few minutes, he parked at the point where the tarmac met the towpath and Fabia led the way to the bend in the river. In spite of a murmured protest from the sergeant, she stepped closer, part of her wondering if the body was still there. Stupid. Of course it was. She looked down at the pathetic shape in the water. The white face with its staring eyes gazed back at her, the black hair swirled, the pale arm waved. She felt pity, and revulsion grip at her stomach once again.

  “Excuse me, Miss Havard,” Sergeant Pryce’s voice was brisk, “would you mind?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Fabia. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

  He gave her a sharp look but didn’t comment as she stepped back up the bank. She stood watching while the policemen clambered down, talking in low voices as they went. One of them lifted his radio and muttered into it. The other, hanging on to a dangling branch, leant precariously out over the water and stayed there for some time, but it wasn’t very long before they trudged back up again. Like Fabia had been, they were both spattered with mud and their shoes were caked in the stuff.