Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  “Fine, but–” He gulped. It was obvious Fabia’s garden was the last thing on his mind. “Can I have a word, like?”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside and ushered him in. “Is it about your friend?”

  “Sort of. Well no, not exactly. To be honest, that was me.”

  Fabia smiled at him. “I thought it might be.”

  “But, miss, now it’s all changed, ’cos now I know what I thought before was wrong, see. I’d got the wrong person fixed in my mind, and now it’s all changed.” His hands, clutching the rim of his helmet, passed it round and round, but she didn’t think he was aware of the action. “It’s important. It’s to do with Miss Griffiths.”

  “Hadn’t you better speak to Chief Inspector Lambert, then?” Deep down, Fabia hoped he’d say no.

  He did. “No way!” The fear was clear in his voice. “I’d rather tell you about it. I don’t want no more to do with the police, not if I can help it.”

  Fabia was about to say that he may have no choice in the matter, but she bit the words back when she’d taken a closer look at him. What she saw was a youngster barely out of childhood, acne and nascent beard struggling for supremacy on his face, fear in his eyes. Since he seemed to trust her, surely she should try to find out as much as possible from him.

  “Come along into the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink, and then you can tell me all about it. Will coffee do, or do you want tea?”

  “Tea thanks, miss.” He sank down in a chair, his whole body sagging in relief.

  Fabia put the kettle on, got down two mugs from the cupboard and searched in the fridge for milk. She made herself move slowly, no hurrying, no urgency. The last thing she wanted was to frighten Craig off.

  Craig put his helmet on the floor beside him. As Fabia pushed the mug across to him, she asked, “Do you take sugar?” He shook his head. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

  Now she’d asked the direct question, he seemed to hesitate. He took a gulp of his tea, then placed the mug slowly and carefully down in front of him. It could have been a valuable piece of crystal the way he handled it. Looking up at her under his brows, he chewed at his bottom lip. Fabia waited patiently, no point in rushing him. At last he began to speak.

  “I was coming back from... from a walk, like; Monday night, about half-past nine. When I got up by the top of Morwydden Avenue I heard some people coming out of the pub. I didn’t want them to see me.” He paused a moment, obviously realising this demanded some kind of explanation. “My Mam didn’t want me to go out, said I had to do some work, but I’d slipped out to... to meet a mate.”

  He wouldn’t look her in the eye and Fabia was sure she wasn’t getting the whole truth, but made no comment, she didn’t want to put him off.

  Craig went on. “I ducked down under them bushes, you know, where there’s a break in the fence by the church, so’s not to be seen. I was just about to come out, there was no-one around anymore, when I saw someone come out of the church, sort of furtive like.”

  Good Lord! she thought, and asked, as calmly as she could manage, “Who was it, Craig?”

  Taking a deep breath, he told her.

  * * *

  Fabia was desperate to get hold of Matt. She’d tried his mobile but, yet again, all she’d got was the voicemail. She’d phoned the station and managed, after a long wait and a great deal of foot tapping and muttering, to talk to a total stranger who’d treated her like some geriatric troublemaker. And when she’d told him who she was, the brisk and dismissive treatment she’d received had made her so angry she’d slammed the phone down. What to do? Nothing but wait for Matt to get back to her. She’d just have to hope and pray he’d manage to come round as he’d promised.

  But could she afford to wait? What if he didn’t get her message? Or if he did, what if it wasn’t until much later, or tomorrow even? What she’d found out for herself, and what Craig had told her, it all added up to one thing. Maybe she should have handed it all over to the unknown, and extremely irritating officer she’d just spoken to. At least then it would have been out of her hands. But that, if the truth were known, was just what she didn’t want. She wanted to be in on this, for Amber’s sake if nothing else. She grimaced ruefully to herself. Was that really the truth? Yes, maybe, but she was also desperate to be involved, to get back to the exhilaration of the chase.

  * * *

  Silence reigned as Dilys started up the car, turned right out of the gate, and made her way down the road towards the centre of Pontygwyn. Matt jabbed Fabia’s number into his mobile, held it to his ear. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing.

  “Damn. This bloody thing’s playing up again. Never mind. Back to the station. I want to check up on how far Roberts got with the contents of that suitcase. With any luck, he’ll have turned up something useful.”

  “Isn’t he off duty now?” Dilys asked.

  “Is he? Well he’s had time to go through most of it. I know he’s methodical, but surely?”

  “He’s got things on his mind. Their baby’s due any day now.”

  “Of course, I’d forgotten about that. Let’s hope he handed over to someone else before disappearing off home.”

  It was halfway down Pontygwyn High Street that a large Mercedes convertible sailed past and turned up St Madoc’s Road.

  “Stop!” Matt ordered. “That was Paul Vaughan. We could catch him now before going back. Turn into the Spar car park and we can go round that way.”

  They arrived just as Vaughan was mounting the steps to his front door. He turned to see who it was, then waited for them to approach. “So, what can I do for you this time?” His tone was far from friendly.

  “We’d just like a quick word, Mr Vaughan,” Matt replied. “Can we come in?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  Matt didn’t bother to respond to this.

  “You’d better make it snappy,” Vaughan growled. “I haven’t got any time to waste.”

  They followed him across the tiled hall, and into the cream and white lounge. He took up a position with his back to the fireplace, legs astride, arms crossed, and glared at them. Gone was the studied charm of their first encounter, he wasn’t bothering with any of that this time. Perhaps he’d had enough of the police in London these last few days, thought Matt.

  “When we last spoke to you, you mentioned your girlfriend, Mel Franklin. We understand she’s been arrested for possession of cocaine.”

  “‘S’right, silly bitch, and she’s my ex-girlfriend now.” Matt could see his jaw clench. “Anyway, what’s it got to do with you?”

  “She told the police in London you supplied her with the drug. Is that true?”

  “That she told them some fairy story, yes. That I supplied her with the stuff, no.”

  Matt said nothing in response to this. Just waited to see if Vaughan would elaborate, but he didn’t. In the end, Matt gave in. “Can you prove you didn’t?”

  “Look, mate, I’ve been through all this with your pals in the Met and I’m not about to go through it again with you. They’ve got nothing on me, whatever that stupid little slapper chooses to say, so you might as well accept it just as they’ve had to.”

  “And you didn’t supply Amber Morgan with drugs either?” Matt asked blandly.

  “Ah-ha. So that’s where you’re heading is it?” He seemed completely unperturbed and in control. If he was guilty he was certainly a good actor. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did he indicate any kind of uncertainty. “No, I didn’t. Nor do I allow anyone in any of my clubs – I’m sure you’ve checked up on which ones I have an interest in – to deal in drugs or take drugs on the premises. Anyone who tries it gets kicked out and banned, understand?”

  Matt found it hard to believe a word, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. “Just one more question, sir. Did you ever see Amber take drugs of any kind?”

  “No. Now, I’d be grateful if you’d bugger off and leave me in peace.”

  “
I think that’s all we need from you at the moment,” Matt said, trying to retrieve something from this confrontation, “but I might want to speak to you again.”

  “Not if I see you first. You can find your own way out.”

  Matt gave in. There was nothing else to do but retreat with as much dignity as possible. As he and Dilys made their way to the front door, he noticed Vaughan’s troll-like guardian watching them from a doorway the other side of the hall. A talk with him might be a good idea at some point, but not now. Now the most important thing was to find out if Roberts had turned up anything useful from Rhona Griffiths’ suitcase.

  Back at the station they found Roberts had had to rush off after a phone call from his mother-in-law. His wife was in labour and he was needed.

  “He said to tell you he’s finished with the suitcase, sir,” Chloe Daniels told Matt. “He’s left a list on your desk. Nothing startling, just sad, really. A whole lot of photograph albums, theatre programmes and such like, and some letters, very flowery and dated about twenty years ago. It seems Miss Griffiths had a pash for some chap who went off to South Africa and left her, poor old dear. Some of the letters were written by her and had obviously been returned. And there’s a pile of stuff about her father, newspaper cuttings and copies of sermons, stuff like that. Nothing relevant to the matter in hand is how he described it. Would you like me to go through it all again? A second opinion, so to speak?”

  “Not now, Chloe. If you’ve got time tomorrow, you could have a quick look through.” Matt went to his desk and picked up the sheaf of papers Roberts had left for him. He leafed through it, but a quick glance didn’t produce anything of real use. He’d had a niggling hope that Rhona had hidden the poison pen letter somewhere in the suitcase, but it had been a forlorn hope. Why should she keep it? No doubt, she’d disposed of it just as Gwen Breverton had hers, burnt or maybe flushed down the pan. But still, he had this prickling at the back of his neck. Fabia would call it a hunch.

  He pulled a report of the door to door enquiries that had been made so far towards him, began to leaf through it, and was interrupted by a knock, followed swiftly by Glyn Pryce appearing round the door.

  “Message for you, sir,” he said. “Miss Havard called wanting to talk to you. The lad who took the message, well I’m afraid he didn’t take it too seriously.”

  Matt scowled at Pryce. “Why the hell not?”

  Pryce looked embarrassed. “Said he thought she was, like, trying to interfere or some such.”

  “I’ll deal with him later,” Matt said grimly. “When did this message come in?”

  “Couple of hours ago. She tried your mobile but said she couldn’t get through. Do you want me to get her for you?”

  “Leave it with me.” He reached his hand out for the phone and chose Fabia’s number. It rang and rang. In the end, he gave up, but he was feeling edgy. What had she wanted? What’s more, what was she up to? He got up and threw on his coat, glanced at his watch. Nearly five. That meant she must have phoned about three. His sense of urgency increased.

  “Dilys,” he called out, “I’m going out for a bit. Won’t be long.”

  “But, sir, what about that meeting with the chief super?”

  “Oh, bugger. What time’s he expecting me?”

  “Half five.”

  Matt dithered. He really couldn’t miss seeing Rees-Jones, not if he wanted to keep the man sweet until he had all the information he needed. He wanted to be able to present him with a fait accompli, not allow him the chance to wriggle out of facing the truth. But what about Fabia? He’d have to put Dilys on to it.

  “Could you give Fabia Havard a call and tell her I’ll be round later, and not to go out until I get there?”

  Dilys gave him a curious look but simply said, “Okay.”

  Matt felt a rush of gratitude for her unquestioning attitude. “Phone me on my mobile and tell me what she says.”

  “Is your mobile working now?”

  “I’ll try it out.” He punched in Dilys’s number and a second later a muffled tune, vaguely resembling one of Bach’s Brandenburg concertos, could be heard.

  “Seems it is,” said Matt as Dilys delved in her pocket.

  Matt rushed out of the station and got into his car, telling himself as he went that there was nothing to worry about. But the edgy feeling persisted. He knew Fabia. She couldn’t be trusted not to go it alone. But, surely, she wouldn’t now that she was no longer in the force? He wasn’t convinced. The sooner this meeting was over the happier he’d be.

  Chapter 29

  As the day had worn on, Fabia’s restlessness had increased. She desperately needed something to do but couldn’t settle to anything. Now it was late afternoon and still there was no sign of Matt. She kept thinking about Cecily; felt she really should do something to help her. The poor woman needed all the friends she could get at the moment. The walk up to Well House would be good exercise, it’d blow away the cobwebs and help her think straight, clarify the tumble of thoughts that had been plaguing her.

  She glanced next door as she went down the path, and said good evening to the constable, a different one this time, stationed outside Rhona’s door.

  “Nice afternoon for a stroll.” He sounded envious.

  “Yes. I thought a walk would do me good,” she told him. “Just going to see Mrs Cole up at Well House.”

  “That’s the murdered girl’s Mam, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, poor woman.”

  “Needs her friends at a time like this, I should think,” he said.

  Fabia smiled, lifted a hand in farewell, and went on her way. As she strode up Morwydden Lane towards the High Street she went over and over what had been on her mind. From whatever direction she approached it, what Craig had told her and what she’d seen for herself, it still came round to the same thing in the end, however unacceptable. But how to prove it? As always, that was the problem.

  When she arrived and knocked on the Coles’ front door it was opened, once again, by their neighbour. Fabia wasn’t surprised. Cole was a creature of habit and Tuesday evening was one of the rehearsal nights for the Pontygwyn Male Voice Choir. Even at a time like this, she couldn’t see him missing that. Telling Mrs Greaves that she’d see herself up, and suggesting she take the opportunity to pop home while Fabia was with Cecily, she strode purposefully up the stairs and knocked gently on the bedroom door.

  As before, Cecily was curled in bed. The curtains were half closed, filling the room with the same gloomy shadows. Fabia walked across to the bed. “Only me, Cecily,” she said. “I thought I’d drop back and check up on you.”

  The washed-out blue eyes gazed up at her. “Fabia!” There was alarm in her voice as she pushed herself up on the pillows, and tried to see round Fabia to the door. “Where’s Murray? Does he know you’re here?”

  “I didn’t see him when I arrived. Mrs Greaves let me in.” She reached across to the bedside lamp and turned it on. Cecily hardly seemed to notice, although the glow picked out the dark shadows under her eyes, and the fear in them as well.

  “That’s all right then,” Cecily said, sounding greatly relieved.

  “What is?”

  “Murray doesn’t like me to have visitors, in case I get upset again. He hates it when I get upset. So long as he doesn’t know you’re here, that’s all right.”

  “I’m sure, at a time like this, he understands.”

  “No. No.” She was becoming agitated. “He hates it. It makes him – worried.” Fabia was sure that wasn’t the word she’d intended to use. “He doesn’t like to see me cry,” Cecily finished lamely and, as if the word had prompted them, tears filled her pale eyes. “Oh Fabia, what am I going to do?”

  Fabia sat down on the bed, took one of Cecily’s thin, white hands and held it between both her own. “I don’t know, my dear. There’s nothing anyone can say to make things easier for you I’m afraid. But it will become bearable in time, I’m sure it will.” What else could she say? She’d never had
a child. How could she know the agony of losing one, and in such a terrible way?

  “I know Amber was wild, and I know she could be very difficult,” Cecily spoke in a rushed undertone, as if she didn’t want to be overheard, “but she was so talented, Fabia. You knew that, didn’t you? She loved visiting you. She said you understood, about her art. She was talented, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, very. One of the best untrained artists I’ve ever come across.”

  “Yes, yes, and so bright and lively. My dark angel, I used to call her when she was a child – my dark angel. She looked so like her father. Huw would have known how to handle her, he was an artist too, you know?” Cecily sat up eagerly, obviously wanting to talk about her daughter, as if doing so might bring her back. “He wouldn’t have tried to tie her down, make her conform. He probably would have joined in her wild schemes.” Tears were crawling down her pale cheeks, but she hardly seemed to notice them, and still she spoke in the rushed undertone. “Murray just didn’t understand. He tried hard to do so, but he likes things to be predictable and, sort of, run to a set timetable. And he likes people to do as he says which, of course, Amber never would. I’m afraid I’ve been a great disappointment to him.”

  “Oh, surely not.” Fabia reached out a hand to touch the poor woman’s arm and was shocked to see her flinch. “What is it?” As she spoke, the cardigan Cecily was wearing slipped off her thin shoulder, almost down to the elbow, and through the thin material of her nightdress Fabia saw that her arm was covered in a fuchsia purple bruise.

  “Cecily!” she exclaimed, before she could stop herself. Too late a pale hand came up to grab the cardigan, drag it back to cover the bruise, but Fabia was on her feet, leaning over to look at Cecily’s back. The bruising travelled across her back and there were familiar marks under the ears which Fabia only saw when, very gently, she lifted the fair hair away from Cecily’s face.

  “No, no, Fabia, leave it. Don’t, please don’t!” But her protests were too late, Fabia had seen all she needed to see. She’d seen bruising and marks like these before, many times in fact, during her time in the police.