Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  Fabia’s eyes widened but she didn’t interrupt.

  “There’re several versions, some just the odd phrase. But it’s pretty obvious what they were intended for, although there are no names and no indication of whom they were sent to. From that entry in the diary, it seems she actually sent them off.”

  “She did. At least, she sent one off.” Quickly she told him about the letter to Rhona and her efforts to return it, and Rhona’s reaction that morning when she’d finally succeeded in doing so. Matt’s eyes widened. She could see he was angry, but she forestalled any outburst. “Don’t start on me for not mentioning this earlier. I had absolutely no reason to until I read this.”

  “Okay. But it certainly puts a different complexion on things. I’ll have to have a word with Miss Griffiths as soon as possible.”

  “But I’d speak to young Craig Evans first if I were you,” she said without thinking.

  “Obviously we’ll be talking to everyone involved.” His tone was chilly.

  “Yes, of course,” she said stiffly, feeling snubbed. She went back to the diary. “That last entry, when was it? Damn, it’s not dated. Had you noticed the language is different? Less theatrical, much more serious? What was it she found out? And she talks about needing to talk to CJ. I wonder if she had the chance to do so. I’m sure whatever it was shocked her, but it also made her very angry.”

  Matt glanced down the last page again. “I see what you mean. At this stage we’ve no way of knowing what it was, we’ll just have to keep delving, speculation’s going to get us nowhere.”

  “Maybe not, but an educated guess or two might help.”

  “I’m not going to start guessing, Fabia.” The frosty tone resumed. “You should know me better than that.”

  She made no comment. What would be the point?

  “Well, thank you very much,” Matt said, formal now. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “That’s okay,” she said awkwardly. “Would you mind if I kept these copies? I’d like to look through it all again, get a better feel for it. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.”

  He hesitated for a moment but, after a sideways glance at her said, “Fine, so long as you keep them strictly to yourself.”

  “Of course,” she said coldly. “What else would I do?”

  He ignored this. “I’d better be going then. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll... um... I’ll keep you posted.”

  For a long while after he’d gone, Fabia sat on at the kitchen table, wishing things were as they used to be between them, but knowing they never would be. To distract herself, she pulled the photocopied sheets towards her, began to read them again. What on earth had possessed Amber to send that letter to Rhona? For Fabia was sure now that she had. She thought back, trying to remember what the letter had said, and wishing now she’d taken a copy. That last line, something about watching out or she’d tell what she’d seen. Had Amber told what she’d seen? Was that why she’d been killed? But Rhona hadn’t seen the letter until after Amber died. Still, that might not make any difference, if she’d felt threatened by Amber in some other way, perhaps she’d lashed out. No, thought Fabia, I just can’t see Rhona as a murderer, but still, as a policewoman she knew only too well there was no particular type who committed this kind of crime. There was no such thing as a typical murderer.

  Chapter 9

  Matt felt misery close in on him as he drove away from Fabia’s. It was bad enough that this case brought his sister so strongly back into his mind, but Fabia’s involvement made things even worse. He felt angry with her for being involved and, however much he told himself that was unreasonable, it made no difference, the anger still simmered. And yet part of him was elated at meeting up with her again. She hadn’t changed, not one bit, still as assertive as ever, and as attractive.

  He couldn’t stop himself wondering how different things would be now if she’d given in that weekend when he’d helped her decorate the kitchen. Standing there in the middle of the room, brush in hand, his clothes flecked with paint, he’d stared at her. “Don’t be obtuse, Fabia. Surely by now you know what I want.”

  “Yes, but it’s just not on, Matt, it really isn’t.” Her gentle tone belied the words. She’d turned and begun to rinse out some brushes in the sink.

  “We work too closely together,” she’d told him. “You know how difficult it is to keep a relationship going with our job, and when it’s with someone else in the force, that just adds to the problems. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about here.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you one day. You’re such a good friend to me, I don’t want to lose that.”

  “I wouldn’t stop being your friend, I’d just be your–” he’d paused, come closer, turned her to face him, put out a hand and gently run a finger down her cheek and neck. Before he got any further down, she’d stopped his hand with her own.

  “No, Matt. Please don’t.”

  “Why not? Is it to do with the fact you out-rank me? I grant you that could be a problem, but surely not one we can’t overcome. I could ask for a transfer to Cardiff or somewhere.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Well, what then? The age difference?”

  She’d smiled ruefully. “Don’t be silly, what does five years matter? If it was you that was older than me, no-one would even think about it. No, it’s – it’s just that I don’t want to lose you…” He’d felt a stirring of hope, but she’d hurried on before he could say anything. “I don’t want to lose what we have already. You’re, sort of, the closest I’ve ever had to a brother.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake Fabia, that’s positively incestuous.”

  Her eyes had slid away from his. “Matt, I love you, very much, but as a friend, nothing else. Can’t we leave it like that?”

  He’d stood there, utterly still, looking down at her and studying her face minutely, then he’d sighed. He didn’t believe her, but couldn’t say so. “Okay. For now. But I’m not going to give up.”

  Of course, in the end he had, and now it was pointless to speculate how different life would have been if she’d given in that day. And now he’d met up with her again and discovered his feelings for her were as strong as ever. He still longed to run his fingers through that mass of untidy curls – he stopped this thought in its tracks. Don’t go there, he told himself firmly. It’ll only make things worse. Concentrate on the job.

  Half an hour later, he picked Dilys up from the station where she’d been checking through a mountain of paperwork. Matt wanted her with him for their next two calls. Dilys had arranged a visit to Rhona Griffiths later in the day, but their first call was at The Oaks pub to have a word with Amber’s friend, Craig Evans.

  The Oaks was an old building, parts of it probably dated back to the seventeenth century. It had been a coaching inn and, where the stables and coach house had been, there was now a car park and a beer garden. In the summer, Matt thought, it would be pleasant to sit out here – the place bright with geraniums, petunias and busy lizzies – and relax with a pint. Now, though, he and Dilys parked in the empty car park – it was still a little early for the lunchtime trade – and entered through a door at the back. Matt had to duck to avoid first the lintel and then a dark wood beam, obviously an original, halfway along the passageway. At the end, they found a door that opened into a bar full of the same dark wood. Horse brasses decorated the walls, along with some willow patterned plates and a few rather attractive hunting prints. Matt liked the traditional decor. It wasn’t particularly imaginative, but it was comfortable and welcoming.

  The same could not be said of the publican who stood behind the bar. George Evans looked up from wiping glasses as they walked in. He frowned at the sight of them; obviously he knew full well they weren’t customers, and he wasn’t in the slightest bit pleased to see them. A second later, his eyes were veiled, revealing no more.

  “Don’t think he likes the look of us,” muttered Dilys. M
att didn’t comment, after all, it was a reaction every member of the police force was used to.

  “Good morning, Mr Evans. DCI Lambert and Sergeant Bevan.” Matt showed his warrant card. “We’re investigating the death of Amber Morgan.”

  “Ah.” George’s face fell automatically into an expression of concern. “Poor dab, that’s sad. A terrible thing to happen. Terrible thing…” he rumbled.

  “Yes, it is,” Matt interrupted, following this up with a brisk request to see George’s son, Craig. “He was a close friend of Miss Morgan, wasn’t he?”

  “They was pals, yes.” The publican sounded more cautious now. “Used to knock around together, see. They weren’t that close.”

  “We understood they were very close.”

  George shrugged his massive shoulders. “You know how it is with these kids.”

  “Could we have a word with him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Once more Matt interrupted, “It’s important. Obviously, you would want to help us find out who’s responsible, given that Amber was a friend?”

  “Yea, well – rightio then. Hang on a moment, I’ll just check out the back, see if he’s there.”

  George disappeared through a door behind the bar and Matt looked around the empty room. It smelt of stale beer with an overlay of furniture polish.

  “Sounds as if he comes from Swansea way, Mr Evans,” he said while they waited.

  “Sounds like it. He’s definitely not local.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “I’m told she’s from round here. Born in Newport, apparently.”

  When he returned, George took them through to the family’s private kitchen, a large, untidy room at the back of the building that obviously doubled as an office. There was a desk in the corner, piled high with papers of all kinds, a computer to one side half buried in the mess.

  Standing by a round table in the middle of the room, chewing at a thumbnail, shoulders hunched, was a gangly lad of about eighteen, his hair carefully shaved on either side of his head, what was left arranged in untidy spikes.

  “This is my boy Craig.” George said, looking from Matt to Dilys. After a moment’s hesitation and a nervous glance at his son, he went on. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the bar if you need me,” he said pointedly to his son, and left the room.

  It was obvious Craig had been crying. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks blotchy. But he had himself well in hand as he sat down at the table. Matt and Dilys took seats opposite him.

  “You gonna find out what happened to Amber then?” was the first thing he said, his tone aggressive.

  “We intend to do so, yes, with help from people like you,” said Matt.

  “Why me?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious. You were her friend. You might well have information that would be helpful in our enquiries.”

  Craig made a pathetic attempt to sneer. “Helping the police with their enquiries, think I don’t know what that means?”

  “It means just that. We’re making enquiries, you’re helping us. What’s wrong with that?”

  Craig made a derisive sound. “I knows what I knows,” he said cryptically, and slouched back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. He looked Matt defiantly in the eye. “So? What do you want to know?”

  Matt sighed and ploughed on. “I’m sure you’re as anxious as we are to find out who killed your girlfriend. Amber was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

  “No. Not so’s you’d notice. Just a friend.”

  “But you cared about her?”

  “S’pose.”

  “Well then, cooperating with us is your best chance of seeing whoever did it brought to justice.” God, I sound pompous, Matt thought, as he went on. “So, shall we start again without all the macho crap?”

  It was obvious Craig was struggling with his desire to keep up his defiant stance. But it was a losing battle. A look of pain flitted across his face, then he swallowed hard, sat up straighter and muttered, “Okay. S’pose you’re only doing your job.”

  They took him through his last encounter with Amber. That had been on Wednesday afternoon, he said, on the bridge. “She was going on about this interview she’d had at some fancy college. She’d just got back, texted me to meet her, full of it, she was. She was good, Amber, at painting and that. We was having a laugh, see, and I was showing her my new bike.” For a moment, there was animation in his face, “It’s a Yamaha TTR 750 cc. Lovely machine, goes sweet as a nut.” But it didn’t last long. Soon his eyes darkened again. “Then that old crone come past, stupid cow.”

  “Which old crone is that?”

  “Miss bloody high and mighty Rhona Griffiths. Thinks she’s so fuckin’ important, she does.” His voice was loaded with scorn. “Told me to get my bike off the pavement. Amber dealt with her all right. Sent her off with a flea in her ear. She was good at that sort of thing, Amb.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Told her what she needed was a good screw,” he said defiantly. “Said something ‘bout she should wait till tomorrow, then she’d know all about it.”

  “Did she?” Matt glanced at Dilys, wondering if she’d picked up on this.

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Craig met this question with sullen silence, so Matt changed tack. “And what was Miss Griffiths’ reaction to what Amber said?”

  “Usual sort of stuff for her, popping eyes, spluttering, and then she stomped off. She told Amb she was going to talk to her Mam. Amber didn’t like that, she hates,” a spasm of pain crossed his face, then he corrected himself, “hated it when people said things about her Mam. She didn’t like her upset, see?”

  This was a new slant on Amber, and Matt added it to the picture he was building up of the murdered girl. “Did you notice anything unusual about her that afternoon? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Craig frowned and chewed at his bottom lip, obviously thinking hard about these questions. After a while he said, “I don’t know as there was anything unusual exactly. She was a bit uptight, sort of excited, but inside, you know. I thought it was because of that art school. She wanted me to take her for a spin on my bike, but I couldn’t. That annoyed her.”

  “But she was normal otherwise?”

  “Yea, maybe. She was always moody, like, up and down.”

  “Was it enough for you to notice a difference that particular evening?”

  “I s’pose, but only when I thought about it after – you know – when I heard.” He paused, frowning, and pressed a thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes. “It was only when I went past her, as I was riding home, she waved, and I thought at the time it was just ordinary waving like, but now I think maybe she was trying to get me to stop. I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “So, she hadn’t mentioned anything that was worrying her?”

  Craig leant forward aggressively. “Haven’t I just said? Nothing out of the ordinary happened, other than that old crow and her yakking. Don’t you think that was enough to make anybody angry? I s’pose you think Amb should have done the yes miss, no miss shit with the stupid old bag?” He slouched back again and began to chew at a fingernail.

  With a glance at Matt, Dilys took over. “How soon after the encounter with Miss Griffiths did the two of you go home?”

  “Not long,” Craig said, calmer now. “Amb walked up the High Street and along up St Madoc’s Road.”

  “How long would that have taken her?”

  “Fifteen minutes, no more.” Craig shrugged. “She probably got back to her place about half five.”

  “And did you make any arrangements to meet later that evening?” Matt asked.

  “Sort of, we met up most nights.” There was a second of absolute stillness, then he realised what he’d said. The colour drained from his face and his hands clenched convulsively where they lay clasped before him on the table. “B
ut I didn’t see her, not Wednesday evening. You trying to trick me or something? I’ve got an alibi, I have. You ask Viz–”

  Dilys’s eyes widened but Matt forestalled her, “Who’s Viz?”

  “Vanessa Breverton, she’s a mate too, not bad considering her mam and da are such nobs,” Craig remarked with an incongruous diversion into mundanity. “The three of us were going to go into Newport, have a few drinks, go to a club, but Amb never showed. We... we didn’t think that much of it. Sometimes her folks got stupid, told her she couldn’t go out and that, and we thought maybe that was it, you know?”

  “And where had you arranged to meet her?”

  “Back there on...” His voice petered out and he made a little choking noise, put his hand up and pressed his thumb and fingertips to his eyes.

  Matt glanced at Dilys, eyebrows raised. They waited a moment, then he asked, his voice firm but not unsympathetic. “Craig, I know this is difficult, but we really do need to know everyone’s movements. Where did you arrange to meet Amber?”

  Taking a shuddering breath and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand he said, almost inaudibly, “Down by the street lamp, on the bridge.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine.”

  “And did you go down at that time?”

  “Yes, but she never showed.” His voice was anguished, then it changed, and he said dully, “In the end me and Viz just went back to the pub.”

  “You arrived at the bridge at the same time, you and Vanessa?”

  “Yea. We met up in the High Street. She’s got a car and she picked me up.”

  “And there was no sign of Amber?”

  “No.” A look of horror gradually growing in his eyes, he asked, “Was she – was she dead then?”

  “We don’t know yet when she died, but we’re pretty sure she fell from the bridge itself.” A small part of Matt regretted the shock tactics, but it was sometimes useful.