Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  Pat Curtis and her assistant were there, still clothed in their blue overalls, but an effort had been made to make the scene as unobjectionable as possible. On an operating table lay a body shrouded in a sheet. Pat gave Cole a sharp but not unkind glance as Matt introduced him. She murmured some phrase of condolence, then said, more briskly, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Gently the assistant pulled the sheet away from the top of the body revealing Amber’s face and shoulders. Her face now, in the rigid repose of death, looked more like a waxwork than a human being. The jet-black hair was spread across the table and her lashes created two dark crescents above her cheeks, now slightly sunken. On the side of her face and running up into the hairline, a bruise, purple-veined, had developed. Her lips, that had been so full and red in life, held a blue tinge and seemed diminished and thinner in death.

  Beside him, Matt heard Cole draw in his breath with a quiet hiss. He swayed suddenly, and Matt put out a hand and took his arm. “Are you all right, sir. Could you tell us–”

  He was interrupted. “Yes. That’s our girl, that’s Amber. I need to go now.” He turned and walked rapidly to the door and out of the room, followed by Matt and Dilys.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock, back at the station where an incident room had been set up, Matt had called his team together for the end of day briefing. They sat round, perched on chairs or desks, or leaning against the wall. In spite of the hour and the weather – from outside came the persistent hiss and patter of rain – they were still alert and listened intently to every word he said. He felt a wave of gratitude to them all. Thank God he had such a good team – the best in Gwent, so far as he was concerned – because he wanted this killer, badly.

  “So, that’s about it. Thanks, everyone, for staying on. First thing tomorrow, the diving team will start looking for that bike. If it is in the river, I can’t imagine it can have travelled far. And the earring, we really want that as well, if it’s somewhere in the undergrowth I want it found, okay?” There was a murmur of assent. “And also, tomorrow, you’ll be delighted to know, we start on the door to doors.” This time there was a groan. Matt managed a smile. “I knew you’d be pleased. Okay, folks. Get home and get some sleep.”

  As he drove home he thought about the last thing he’d said. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep himself.

  Chapter 7

  Pontygwyn House was on the outskirts of the town. It was a rather ugly Victorian structure, probably built by some nineteenth-century land owner to show off his wealth, but it had magnificent views over the surrounding hills, and the sweeping circular drive and well laid out grounds spoke of money and position just as much now as they had in the past. Well behaved flower beds lined the lawn with daffodils nodding in the breeze and neatly pruned rose bushes just beginning to sprout new leaf. Neville Breverton had bought it about the same time as he’d been elected to Parliament and, according to rumour, spent a small fortune on renovations and decorating. Where all the money had come from no-one was entirely sure.

  In the sitting room, which looked like a room straight from the pages of Homes & Gardens with its restrained creams and corals, tastefully placed watercolours, family photos and thick carpet, the mantelpiece clock had just chimed eight o’clock and Gwen Breverton was pouring coffee for her husband and herself. She glanced across at Neville as she did so and wished, not for the first time, that he’d take more care of himself. He was an attractive man. As a young woman she’d found his rugged, full-lipped good looks extremely exciting. But at the moment, slumped as he was in his armchair, shirt unbuttoned, and a newspaper draped across his stomach, which was beginning to run to fat, he was not at his best. Perhaps she’d suggest he take advantage of the health club at the Celtic Manor resort as well as playing golf there. It might be a good move on other fronts from the point of view of meeting and greeting the right people, quite apart from any peripheral effect it would have on Neville’s body.

  She sighed and smoothed a hand down her skirt, part of her mind relishing the feel of the expensive fabric. She devoted a great deal of thought to her clothes, and she knew she looked as if she’d just stepped from the pages of some up-market glossy magazine. At least she looked the part even if Neville didn’t, and God knows, she worked hard enough to achieve just this effect.

  But she said nothing as she placed her husband’s cup on a small table beside him. There’d be time later to tackle Neville about getting more exercise. Right now, she needed to go back to the subject they’d been discussing earlier.

  “Neville. It’s not that I don’t understand he could be useful to you. It’s just that his background is somewhat suspect, isn’t it?”

  “His background’s not much different from yours, my dear,” he said, with a cruel twist to his lips. “Working class boy come up in the world. And he’s loaded, and influential in some circles. Paul Vaughan could be very useful on several fronts.”

  Gwen, slightly flushed, decided to ignore the jibe. “I realise that, darling, but you can’t afford to be seen to be too friendly.”

  “Come on Gwen, one game of golf doesn’t mean I’m about to shack up with the man.”

  “Neville, I’m serious about this. It’s never been proved, but it’s strongly rumoured some of his millions come from the drug trade.”

  “Load of nonsense. Those rumours are probably put about by people who’re jealous of his money. You shouldn’t listen to gutter gossip.”

  “I don’t.” She was angry now. “But I do keep my ear to the ground. I just think you should be careful, that’s all.”

  For a moment their eyes met over the top of his newspaper. Gwen held his gaze, knowing he’d be the first to look away. He did.

  “Okay. I’ll be careful.” He smiled, trying to regain lost ground, but she wasn’t going to be won round that easily. Without returning the smile, she picked up a magazine and started flicking through it.

  Silence reigned for a while until a sudden commotion erupted outside the room. Footsteps could be heard clattering down the stairs and, a second later, a teenage girl burst in, her eyes round with fright and her blonde hair escaping from the luminous orange clip attempting to hold it in place.

  “Mum! Dad! Have you heard the news? Shit! It’s awful! I just can’t believe it!”

  “Vanessa darling,” Gwen said, her voice cool. “Do try not to be quite so loud.”

  “What on earth’s the matter, Nessa?” her father rumbled from the depths of his chair. “Can’t you see your mother and I are busy.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” She threw herself in the armchair opposite her father. “So, you don’t care that one of my best friends is dead?”

  This got their attention. Her father jerked upright in his chair and the newspaper slithered to the floor. He opened his mouth to protest, but Gwen intervened.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked sharply.

  “Amber. She’s dead, drowned. Her body was found in the Gwyn.”

  For a moment there was absolute silence. The shock of Vanessa’s words hit Gwen as if she’d been winded and she could feel the blood draining from her face. She had time to be relieved that her makeup would probably hide it, and made an effort to compose herself as Vanessa went on.

  “I just got a text from Craig. You know, the Evanses from the pub, their son. Poor old CJ, he’s really cut up. He was obsessed with Amber. He said they found her body this morning, down in the bendy bit above Gwiddon Pond. Oh, Mum,” she wailed, sounding very much younger than her seventeen years, “it’s so awful.” And with that she burst into tears.

  Gwen got up and put an arm round her daughter, gave her shoulder a conventional pat and murmured comfortingly while her mind raced. Over the top of Vanessa’s head her eyes met those of her husband, and what she saw in his face made her stomach contract again. Oh God, just when everything had been going so well, she thought bitterly.

  A moment later she felt a cold wave of pani
c, she’d remembered the anonymous letter.

  * * *

  It had arrived early on Monday morning. Setting aside those letters addressed to Neville, she had taken her own over to her desk. Amongst them had been a large lime green envelope. It looked as if it would contain some particularly garish greeting card. The letters of the address were smudged and unclear, the printing erratic. She remembered sitting and staring at it, thinking it was probably another of those cranky begging letters that turned up from time to time.

  With an exasperated sigh, she had slit the envelope open and unfolded the single sheet of lined paper. Slowly she’d read the printed words.

  I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND AND HIS WOMEN. LIKES THEM YOUNG DOESN’T HE? DO THE TABLOIDS KNOW ABOUT THEM TOO? IF NOT I CAN ALWAYS MAKE SURE THEY FIND OUT, UNLESS YOU CAN GIVE ME A GOOD REASON NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS.

  She had felt sick as she read it through again; she had turned the paper over, but there had been nothing on the other side. And there had been no demand for money either. She had picked up the envelope again and tried to decipher the postmark. It was smudged as well, but she thought she could decipher the word ‘Cardiff’. So, no real help there. The nausea increased and, with an effort, she had pulled herself together, tried to think clearly. Should she tell Neville? No, not at the moment, he was too unpredictable. In the end she had decided to hide the letter until she could work out what to do about it.

  Opening the bottom drawer of her desk, she had lifted out a pile of old address books at the back and thrust the letter underneath them, then closed the drawer with a snap, but her hand remained on the handle. She’d looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. Her sister, Betti, was expecting her and Vanessa for lunch. There was little chance they would be back before four or five in the afternoon. What if someone came in and found the hidden letter? What if Mrs Pritchard started snooping? Gwen had known it was hardly likely, but she hadn’t been able to control a shiver of panic at the thought. Better to destroy it. She had pulled the drawer open again and taken the letter out, walked over to the fireplace and lifted a box of matches from the mantelpiece, watched as the flames licked at the paper. Then she had heard Vanessa calling.

  “Mum? Hadn’t we better get going?”

  Panic rose. What should she do? The seconds had ticked by as she hesitated, unable to decide. She couldn’t leave this, but Vanessa mustn’t see it. She grabbed the brush from the set of ornamental brasses that stood on the hearth, and tapped ineffectually at the burning paper. The flames died down. A moment later, with a last glance at the smouldering remains, she had left the room before Vanessa came to find her.

  * * *

  Fabia had watched the local news on television, but there’d been no mention of Amber’s death. Matt had obviously kept the hatches well battened, but it couldn’t last. Come tomorrow she was sure the media pack would be in full cry.

  She found she couldn’t settle to do anything. In spite of another phone call from Sheena, she hadn’t even read through the manuscript, let alone started sketching out any ideas for the illustrations. There was no doubt she’d have to start soon, Sheena wouldn’t let up, but Fabia just didn’t feel up to concentrating on anything creative right now.

  So many questions kept nagging at her. Who would want to kill Amber? Where was the second earring? Had it been torn off in a scuffle or did the murderer still have it? Why had Amber been in such a hurry? And Amber’s bike, what had happened to it? A bike was large, cumbersome, not easy to get rid of.

  On and on it went with no answers. She so desperately wanted to be involved in the investigation, help to answer all the questions, but knew there was little possibility of that happening. Matt had made it very clear how he felt about her involvement already. He was hardly likely to consult her. And yet she was sure she could help. She’d known the girl well, for God’s sake.

  A knock on the front door had her rushing to open it. But there was no lanky police officer on the doorstep. The woman who stood there was short and plump, her wildly curling hair flecked with grey and her bright red coat in stark contrast with the clerical collar around her neck.

  “Fabia, my dear. I thought I’d pop round to see how you are. This is a dreadful business.”

  “Hallo Cath,” Fabia stood aside to let her in. She liked their local vicar and was pleased to see her. At least Cath’s visit would put a stop to her prowling around, wondering what Matt was up to.

  “Come in, do. I really need some company.”

  “I’m sure you do. I gather it was you who found Amber’s body. It must have been such a shock.” She followed Fabia into the kitchen. “I’ve just come from the Coles’, poor Cecily is completely distraught. Her friend who lives next door, can’t remember her name, is with her. It was she who told me you were the one who found Amber’s body. That poor child, she must have been desperate, or maybe it was an accident.”

  Fabia looked up at her, wondering if she should tell her the truth. Why not? Surely, it’d be common knowledge soon enough. Once the door to doors and the questioning started, few people in Pontygwyn would escape the effects of Amber’s murder. It was only fair to warn her.

  “It wasn’t suicide, Cath, or an accident,” she said slowly. “Amber was murdered.”

  “Oh my God!” Cath’s hand went to her mouth, her eyes round above the lifted fingers as she subsided into a chair. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She explained that Matt had been with her when the call came through from the pathologist. “I think we both need a drink. Whisky?”

  “Please. A large one.”

  Nothing more was said until Fabia put a tumbler, half full of straw-coloured liquid, in front of her friend. Cath picked it up and gulped at the contents, spluttered a little, then recovered herself. “Who would do such a dreadful thing?”

  Fabia shook her head, knowing there was no answer to that question yet. “Matt Lambert’s very good. I used to work with him. He’ll be particularly determined on this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fabia took a deep breath, again unsure for a minute how much she should say, but this was Cath, she had keep it to herself. “His sister, Bethan, was drowned when she was seventeen. It wasn’t murder or an accident, she committed suicide, but there are similarities with this business. Bethan jumped off a bridge into the Usk when it was running very fast. There had been a hell of a lot of rain on the Beacons, and you know the effect that has. Her body became entangled in some fallen branches and that’s how they recovered it from the water, just like Amber. Matt had to identify her. He was working with me in Newport at the time. I thought he was going to crack up completely. He and Bethan had been very close and he blamed himself for her death.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “It’s a long story. She was always fragile, mentally, almost as if she was born with an outer layer of skin missing. Do you know what I mean? I think she’d have been diagnosed as a manic depressive if her parents had ever thought to consult a specialist. The trouble was neither of them was aware enough really, and they had too many problems of their own. Matt’s father was an unworldly theologian who was never that close to his children – should have been a monk really.”

  “His father was a parson, was he?”

  “Oh yes, so’s Matt’s brother Pierre. His mother, well, she was simply over-worked, she had a full-time job, as a primary school teacher, quite apart from being an unpaid curate as all parson’s wives used to be. She was half Norman French, half Guernsey, both – according to Matt – people who don’t show their emotions easily, just have a ‘get on with it’ attitude to life. He says neither of them ever understood Bethan. Matt was more of a father to Bethan than their dad ever was. She was ten years younger than him and he adored her.”

  Fabia sat silent for a moment, sipping at her whisky and thinking back to that dreadful time just after Bethan died. Matt had blamed himself, saying time and time again that he should have known, should have got help for her. At first,
she’d protested, assured him it wasn’t his fault, insisted he couldn’t have known what Bethan intended, let alone prevented her suicide, but whatever she’d said had made no difference. In the end, she’d resorted to listening in silence and making sure he was kept so busy he had no time for brooding. Gradually, he’d stopped talking about Bethan, but she knew very well thoughts of her were never far from his mind, and now this had probably brought it all flooding back to him, and what grieved her most is that she wasn’t able to help.

  Cath’s sympathetic voice brought her back to the present. “How awful, and now he has to deal with this. Can’t someone else take charge?”

  “I don’t think he’d let them. If I know anything about Matt, he’ll stick to it like a leech. He’s not going to let go until he finds out exactly what happened to Amber and he has her killer, or killers, behind bars.”

  Cath sighed. “I can’t get my mind round the idea of Amber dead. She was so full of life.”

  “Overflowing with it. I was talking to Matt earlier on about how talented she was, and she’d got such plans for the future. Did you know she had a final interview at Cardiff the day before yesterday and one coming up at St Martin’s? She was almost certain to have been offered a place.”

  “Poor Cecily, how is she going to cope?”

  “God knows. Amber might have been a bit wild, but she was devoted to her mother in her own way, very protective of her. She told me her father, Cecily’s first husband, was an artist, and her mother was particularly delighted his talent had been passed on to Amber.” She thumped the table with her fist. “What a waste! Christ, I’d like to get my hands on whoever’s responsible!”