“I dunno,” he said now to Alun, his voice full of self-mockery. “Maybe I just didn’t want to run the risk of being told something I didn’t want to hear.” He picked up their glasses. “Same again?”
Alun looked up at him, tight-lipped. “Okay, and when you get back I’m gonna to put you straight bach.”
When Matt got back Alun downed half his pint before saying anything. Putting the glass down carefully, he leant his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, looking sideways at Matt.
“I’ll have to go back a tidy bit, about three and a half year, I suppose. Neville Breverton was a leading light in Cardiff City Council, the coming man, tipped for selection as the Labour candidate in the next election. He was a big butty of the then Assistant Chief Constable, Vivian Sligo. I ask you, what kind of a name for a God-fearing Welshman is that? Anyway, their wives were distantly related and very close, and they were both in the same Lodge, the two men I mean.”
Matt’s eyebrows shot up and Alun gave him an acid little smile. “Surprise you, does it, that Breverton is a Mason? Perhaps I should say was. Wriggled out of all that, of course, when he was selected as a Labour candidate. Didn’t suit his political ambitions, see. Anyway, Fabia was with the fraud squad by then, so was I, and she got a tip-off about a big property deal involving a consortium with some very dodgy connections. For instance, one of the people mentioned was Tony Vasic.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose. That was a familiar name, a man who was suspected of dabbling in many a shady scheme and who, so far, had got away with it. He was a thorn in the flesh of several police forces, and Gwent was no exception. So far not one of them had managed to pin him down. It was rumoured that he had powerful friends who’d protected him for years, but this too had never been proved.
“Who else was in this consortium?” Matt asked.
“That’s where it got interesting. One of the names the contact mentioned was Neville Breverton. It followed he’d have been very useful. He could have made sure planning permission went through nice and smooth because of his position on the Council. What’s more, although he couldn’t give Fabia a specific name, the contact told her a senior police officer was also involved.” He was watching Matt’s face closely for a reaction, but Matt tried not to give away what he was thinking. He’d rather wait till he’d heard the rest.
Alun took another pull at his pint and went on. “Fabia thought of Sligo. She’d had a run in with him way back and she had good reason not to trust him, but it was also because of his friendship with Breverton, and anyway she had an instinct for picking out a villain, even if he was in uniform.”
“And did she actually manage to prove anything?”
“Not exactly prove, but there was a hell of a lot of circumstantial evidence, and the rumour machine was going like the clappers. She told her immediate boss, that was our present chief, Rees-Jones, back then. He seemed interested at first, she said, and she really thought she was getting somewhere.”
“So, what happened?”
“It all blew up in her face, and it was made very clear we had to drop the investigation. What really got to me is they seemed to have some hold over Fabia. She never told me exactly what they threatened her with, but she backed off. I’d never seen her so angry, but she still wouldn’t tell me what was going on. I pushed her, believe me I did, but she just wouldn’t give in. There was definitely something, or someone, that she was protecting, that’s the only way I can describe it. Anyway, she said they’d poisoned police work for her. She told me all she wanted was to get right away from it all and paint, just be on her own and concentrate on a clean, honest profession. How’d she put it? Something that wouldn’t make her feel grubby and ashamed of herself. Trouble was it doesn’t exactly pay, the painting, however talented you are, and I think that was why she was willing to go along with the sick leave business. That way at least she’s managed to live okay these last two years, until she got this artist thing off the ground.”
Matt wasn’t satisfied. “So how did they persuade her? It’s not like Fabia to give in easily.”
“I don’t think you can say she gave in easily,” Alun said defensively, flashing him an angry glance. “They put a hell of a lot of pressure on her, and because of that the sick leave thing maybe wasn’t such a fantasy. She was definitely suffering from a hell of a lot of stress. Would have broken many a stronger woman, I can tell you; or man for that matter.” He paused as if he wasn’t sure whether to say any more. “I do have my own ideas on it though. I’d heard rumours of something happening when she was at Milford Haven. An affair with another officer or some such, but things like that happen often enough. I dunno. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Matt looked at him, tight-lipped. “I might well do that.”
Chapter 15
As he drove home he went over and over what Alun Richards had told him. He was angry with himself for, as he saw it now, his betrayal of his friendship with Fabia, and was willing to take responsibility for the way things were between them, but he was also angry with her for staying silent. She could so easily have explained things to him that last ghastly day – couldn’t she? Why hadn’t she? And then he thought back. Had he given her a chance to do so? And on top of everything else, he’d called her a coward. Looking at it with this new, cold light, he knew that had been unforgivable. He’d hurt her so badly. Guilt gnawed at him, and then anger with Fabia returned because of the guilt.
Like some ghastly pendulum on and on he swung between anger and guilt. And how on earth was he going to sort this bloody mess out, particularly in the middle of a nightmarish case and all the ghosts it resurrected? Clear as if he was seeing it right now, the picture of his sister’s drowned, dead face leapt up before him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, opened them again and realised he’d gone straight through a red light. Christ! Forcing himself to concentrate, he drove the rest of the way home keeping strictly to the speed limit.
Matt parked his car in his usual place, in the car park of a pub called The Feathers, an arrangement he’d had with the landlord for some years now. His first floor flat was in a Victorian villa across the road from the pub. All was quiet at this time of night, the pub regulars having gone off home half an hour ago and, as Matt crossed the road, only one solitary car passed to disturb the silence.
He let himself in, and threw his coat on a chair in the hallway, which already groaned under the weight of another coat, a pile of newspapers, a copy of Blackstone’s Evidence and Procedure and a navy-blue Guernsey jumper. Looking at this pile, he remembered how Fabia had always been surprised at his untidiness.
“How can you live with so much mess when your mind’s so tidy and methodical?” she’d asked on more than one occasion. He’d found the question unanswerable, could only think that he never really thought of his flat as a home, just the place he slept and, sometimes, ate in. Now if he and Fabia – he cut the thought off before it developed, and went to the equally untidy kitchen, made himself some coffee and, to distract himself, began to go over what Alun had said about Neville Breverton and Vivian Sligo.
Matt was determined to do some digging to see if he could unearth any evidence. But when? That was the problem. Maybe Dilys could give him a hand. She had extremely trenchant views on bent coppers, nor did she have any love for the likes of Neville Breverton. Could he spare her? Not really. And there was no way he could spend time researching events long past when he had this case on his hands. But wait, maybe he could use the case itself as a reason to delve deeper. Even Rees-Jones couldn’t protest if Matt told him it had something to do with Amber Morgan’s death, however awkward the questions may become. And Tony Vasic, what was he up to now? He must put someone reliable onto all this first thing in the morning.
Even after he’d gone to bed, round and round it went, making sleep impossible. Finally, at two in the morning, he gave up trying to sleep and sat down with his laptop to make some notes. At four he found it impossible to keep his eyes open any l
onger and fell back into bed. At seven the alarm dragged him up from a sleep fathoms deep.
* * *
Dilys took one look at Matt when he walked into the office at eight and went for the coffee. She was soon back with a large, steaming mug. “There you are, sir,” she said, “black and very strong, made fresh and not from the machine. Should help.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Close the door Dilys. I want a quiet word.”
She did so and came to sit opposite him, waited calmly for him to go on, and he felt grateful for her unquestioning attitude. She didn’t even ask what was up.
“I want some research done, but I want it done discreetly. If anyone queries it, we can say it’s to do with this case, but I want the net spread a little wider than that, and I can’t spare you. I wondered if Chloe Daniels could be trusted with a job like that?”
Dilys didn’t blink an eye. “Depends what exactly you want done, but on the whole, yes. She’s keen, and she really enjoys working for you, so she wouldn’t want to blot her copybook.”
“Good. Send her in, would you?”
“Will do.” She paused by the door. “This wouldn’t be to do with Miss Havard, would it?”
Matt looked up at her. Not much got past Dilys. “Yes, it would, but keep that to yourself.”
“Of course.” But she didn’t leave immediately. “I liked her. Whatever happened with that sick leave business, I really can’t believe it was her fault. Be good to see the record put straight.” Before Matt had a chance to respond, she left the room closing the door quietly behind her.
* * *
Matt had told Dilys they’d have to play it by ear when they got to Pontygwyn House, according to which members of the Breverton family were actually at home. He knew he’d have to interview Neville Breverton on his own at some point, but this initial meeting, if he were present, could be useful. It’d give them an idea of the family dynamics, watching the interaction between the three of them could be informative.
As he stood before the ostentatious front door of heavy oak with bright brass fittings, Matt thrust his fingers through his dark hair. He wished Fabia was working alongside him. Dilys was a good officer, but she hadn’t Fabia’s flair. He’d give a lot for her insight right now.
The door was opened by a small woman. She was sharp-faced but beautifully made up and her clothes were plain and obviously expensive, her hair an unlikely shade of blond which Matt was sure she’d not been born with. He also took note of the signs of strain round her mouth and eyes. Outwardly she appeared to be at ease, but Matt was sure she wasn’t half as relaxed as she seemed. He hoped to find out soon enough if she was putting up a front.
“Mrs Breverton? I’m Chief Inspector Lambert, this is Detective Sergeant Bevan.”
“Yes, come in.” She led them into a sitting room to the right. “Please sit down, my husband will be here in a moment.”
So the great man had decided to give them some of his valuable time, Matt thought as he sat down in an armchair which was one of a group gathered round the fireplace. Dilys, successfully effacing herself, chose a straight-backed chair to the side of the room. In a minute she’d take out her notebook as usual and begin making notes. He hoped they wouldn’t notice. It was always easier that way.
“And perhaps we could see your daughter as well, Mrs Breverton, if it’s convenient.”
“Vanessa? Why would you? Oh, very well.” She went to the door and called. An answering voice shouted from upstairs. After a moment Mrs Breverton came back and sat down. She leant back, her pose relaxed, but her heavily beringed hands clasped tight in her lap gave her away.
A moment later Neville Breverton marched into the room. Both Matt and Dilys rose to greet him.
“Morning, Inspector Harwood.”
“Chief Inspector Lambert, sir.”
“What? Oh, sorry. Lambert.” He ignored Dilys who quietly sat down again.
“Sad business this, tragic loss,” Breverton said, obviously feeling he must express some kind of regret. But he ruined the effect by adding, “I can give you twenty minutes, then I’ve got to get going; so shall we get on with it?”
“We’re waiting for Vanessa, darling,” his wife said with a tight smile.
“Are we now? Why’s that?”
Matt decided it was time he took control and sat forward in his chair. “Your daughter was a friend of Amber Morgan’s. For that reason, we feel she might be able to make a valuable contribution to our investigation.”
“Do you now? I’d say that remains to be seen.”
“She’s very upset,” his wife added.
“Of course. As a close friend of Amber’s, that’s hardly surprising in the circumstances.” Matt watched her carefully as he spoke and noticed how her jaw clenched under the carefully made up cheeks.
“I’m not so very sure she was that close to Amber,” she said, her tone icy. “They just happened to have some mutual friends.”
He didn’t have time to respond to this before the door opened again and a girl with untidy fair hair slouched into the room. Matt thought she would have been attractive if it hadn’t been for her sulky expression and the drooping fringe which masked half her face. She glared at them then turned to her mother, who rose and put an arm round her shoulders.
“What’s all this about, Mum? I was busy with my revision, for Chrissake, and this has, like, totally broken my concentration.” It sounded as if she’d rehearsed this speech before entering the room.
“These two police officers are investigating Amber’s death, Vanessa darling,” her mother said with a pacifying tone, “and they’d like to ask us all some questions.”
The girl threw herself down by her mother, thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans and, head bent, stared at Matt through the fringe of hair. She said nothing more. Matt noticed both her parents glance at her and quickly away again. Vanessa studied her nails, picked at chipped navy-blue varnish, and then resumed her veiled stare.
Matt kept his eyes on her. “I wonder if you could tell me, Miss Breverton, when you last saw Amber Morgan?”
“Sounds as if you’re going to get the handcuffs out any minute.”
“Vanessa!” Her mother said, repressively.
“Not quite yet,” Matt responded. “Now perhaps we could take this seriously. We are dealing, Miss Breverton, with a murder investigation.”
This got through to her. She shrunk back a little, edging closer to her mother and, pushing the hair back from her face, she looked suddenly much younger. Just for a moment her lips trembled. Matt thought he could see the glint of tears in her eyes, but before she could speak her father intervened.
“That’s certain, is it?”
“Yes. The post-mortem was pretty conclusive.”
“Pretty conclusive?” His tone was tinged with scorn.
Matt could have kicked himself for this mistake. He added, a hard edge in his voice, “I’m certain in my own mind it’s murder we’re dealing with.”
Breverton said no more and Matt turned back to his daughter. “So, have you remembered when it was that you last saw her?”
“The weekend before last I suppose. CJ, that’s Craig Evans from down the pub, Amber and me went clubbing with some other friends.”
“Where was this?”
“In Newport.”
“Can you remember exactly where you went?”
“Down the Kings Head, then the Golden Monkey.”
“Had you been there before?”
“‘Course,” she said scornfully, “loads of times.”
“Is this relevant, Chief Inspector?” Breverton’s voice cut in sharply.
“I believe so, sir,” Matt said calmly. “Miss Morgan’s movements over the last days and weeks of her life are of great importance.” Once again, he turned back to Vanessa. “And did she seem just as usual that evening?”
“Yes. We had a great time. We got–” She stopped speaking suddenly. Up unt
il that moment she’d managed to look him in the eye, defiantly, but now her eyes slid away. She began to study her nails again, carefully peeled off another layer of varnish. “We met some other mates and when the club closed we hung around a bit, then came home.”
Somehow it didn’t sound right. She was either lying or only telling half the truth, but Matt couldn’t work out exactly which. Had she been about to say something about drugs perhaps? That’d be too good to be true. He wondered if he should push it, but decided not to. At the moment, he’d rather they were lulled into a false sense of security. Better to have them as much on his side as possible, just for a while longer, and choose his own moment to burst the bubble.
Matt turned so that he could look directly at Breverton. “Perhaps you could tell me when you last saw Amber?”
“Me?” Resting his elbows on the arm of his chair, he steepled his fingers in front of his face, effectively masking his expression. “Hard to remember, really. I’m out a lot, as I’m sure you can understand, so I don’t often bump into my daughter’s friends.”
“On the other hand, in my experience an event like this is inclined to concentrate the mind, cause people to go back over past contacts with the deceased. Perhaps, if you thought a bit harder?”
“That may be so,” Neville Breverton said stiffly, “but I’m afraid I’m very often away. When the House is sitting I spend a large part of my life at our flat in London, as my wife will no doubt tell you. If the truth were known, I can hardly bring this girl’s face to mind, let alone remember when I last saw her.”
“But Daddy, that’s ridiculous,” Vanessa said suddenly.
Her father turned to look at her. It was a look Matt had seen him use on television if the interviewer was probing too close to the mark. “In what way, Vanessa?”
“You really liked Amber. You said so.” Her eyes slid away from her father’s and Matt saw her clench her hands together, noticed her cheeks gradually grow pink, but she still went on. “Don’t you remember giving her a lift home last Saturday, the evening you had that flat tyre?”
Murder in the Valleys Page 13