Simeon's Bride

by Alison G. Taylor

  ‘What did the toy look like?’

  ‘Red and green and round and not really like anything real. I could do a drawing if you want.’

  ‘Jenny’s very good at drawing,’ Serena said. ‘Aren’t you, dear?’

  A fleeting smile crossed the girl’s face. She stared at McKenna, her eyes dark.

  ‘Do you know Mr Prosser?’ he asked.

  ‘Uncle Trefor from the estate office?’ She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he ever come to your house?’

  Her face creased with distress. ‘Mummy and Daddy have worse rows about him than they ever did about Mrs Cheney, and I don’t know why. He’s sweet.’

  McKenna fidgeted with his lighter and an unlit cigarette.

  ‘You were talking about the car,’ Jenny reminded him.

  ‘Do you remember anything else about it?’

  ‘I think Mummy stole it from Mrs Cheney.’

  ‘Do you?’ McKenna was nonplussed. ‘Why should she do that? Your mother can’t drive.’

  ‘Well, she stole everything else, didn’t she?’ The girl looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘Most of the furniture and stuff in our house belonged to Mrs Cheney.’ She paused. ‘There was another row about that as well. Oh, there’s been such horrible rows!’ She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders shook. ‘It’s all that Mrs Cheney’s fault.’ Her voice, muffled by the hands, was broken and childish and wailing. ‘I wish Mummy’d never met her.’

  Serena hugged her niece, rocking her gently back and forth. Watching the woman and the girl, McKenna felt outside his body, outside this room, watching the drama as might a minor god presiding over the destruction of a family and a childhood.

  Jenny rubbed at her face with a fist, and clutched her aunt’s hand. ‘I’m all right.’ Her voice was weary. ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘About your mother stealing Mrs Cheney’s things?’

  ‘She told me Mrs Cheney’d gone away. She was always going away, anyway. She only stayed at the cottage for a few weekends, and Mummy said it was criminal to leave all that expensive furniture and carpets and books and ornaments to get stolen or ruined with damp.’ Jenny raised her eyes to McKenna. ‘I didn’t know she was dead, Mr McKenna. Honestly I didn’t! I didn’t know ’till I saw the newspaper the other week.’

  Serena stroked her hair. ‘Of course you didn’t know. Mr McKenna knows that.’

  ‘But I knew Mummy must’ve stolen Mrs Cheney’s things. What will you do to me?’ she whispered.

  McKenna wondered if this child would live the rest of her days beset with fears and dread triggered by the smallest word or incident, the most innocent memory. ‘No one will do anything to you. You’ve done nothing wrong. Do you understand that, Jenny?’

  ‘I’ve kept Mummy’s secret,’ she told him, and there was no answer to be made. ‘Mrs Cheney’s car was outside the house one day when I came back from school, and it was odd because she only ever came at weekends, and never before a Friday evening. Only it wasn’t her, it was that horrible Jamie Thief from the council estate, and Mummy went off with him in the car and I had to get my own tea. And the next day, when I got back from school, there was all this furniture in the house, and Mummy’d put the things Daddy’d bought out in the back yard for rubbish. There were carpets as well, and Mummy cut them up to fit. She went on and on about a carpet she said would’ve fitted in the sitting-room if Mrs Cheney hadn’t been her usual slovenly self and spilt a lot of wine and even ground out cigarettes on it and it was brand new. Daddy was so upset he cried, and it was horrible, and Mummy laughed in his face, and sat on the sofas, bouncing up and down shrieking about how they made such a change from the broken springs of a future which was all he could give her…. I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but I knew it was awful. Mummy made me have things from Gallows Cottage in my bedroom. I don’t like them, even though they’re very pretty, because they don’t belong to me.’

  McKenna sat in his office, lights switched off, thunder still growling intermittently in the distance, battle-weary and heartsick. He waited until twilight deepened almost to night before asking for Christopher Stott to be brought from the cells.

  ‘Tell me the rest of it,’ he said to the man who sat where the girl had poured out her tale of secrets and greed and spite and human frailty. ‘There’s no point keeping quiet any longer.’

  ‘What did Jenny say?’ Stott asked. After two days, the beard was growing straggly about a face become almost cadaverous.

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Fear sharpened Stott’s tone.

  ‘Dewi Prys is taking her back to Rhyl with your sister,’ McKenna said, watching the man slump in relief. ‘I want to know about the car. I want to know about Mrs Cheney and your wife. And most of all, I want to know about Jamie.’

  Stott spread his hands, palm upwards. ‘Where shall I begin?’

  ‘Try the beginning.’ Tired, McKenna was becoming irritable. ‘When did your wife meet Mrs Cheney?’

  ‘Not long after Mrs Cheney rented that dump of a cottage and started spending money like it grew on trees. She latched on to Gwen, and to this day, I don’t know why.’ He stared at nothing. ‘I was pleased Gwen had a friend, because she’d never had a proper woman friend before, but I couldn’t take to Romy Cheney. I thought she was a fake, with a fake name pinched from that book by Vita Sackville-West…. She drank too much as well. I often wondered if she was trying to drink herself into an early grave.’

  ‘She found an early grave one way or another, didn’t she? Maybe she was just looking for oblivion.’

  ‘I don’t know what she was looking for.’ Lost in thought, Stott’s features relaxed. ‘Whatever it was, I doubt she found it with my wife.’ He laughed, a bitter harsh sound. ‘Romy Cheney fared no better than the rest of us where Gwen’s concerned. I used to hear her weeping on the phone, begging Gwen to visit, and Gwen would look at me and smirk, and tell Romy she didn’t know if I’d let her go, which wasn’t true because I was glad to see the back of her.’ Stott paused. ‘And, of course, she couldn’t go because it wasn’t safe to leave Jenny alone with me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Like his daughter, Christopher Stott rubbed his eyes with his fist. ‘I was supposed to be abusing the child, Mr McKenna. Sexually abusing her. And letting Trefor Prosser do the same. Gwen used to bring Romy to the house, you know, and they’d sit on the sofa, the pair of them, and Gwen would bounce up and down, and say “Oops!”, and Romy would laugh and say “Broken springs!”, then they’d both start screeching and tittering. Gwen told me Romy spent more on one of her sofas than I earned in a month.’ He laughed himself. ‘Well, she’s got both of Romy’s posh sofas now, hasn’t she? You might have noticed.’

  ‘What did they say about your daughter?’

  ‘They used to quiz Jenny about Trefor Prosser and how often he visited, and what he did, and what I did … then they’d have a bit more sport with me. They were a very strange pair together,’ Stott added. ‘I could never work out who was leading who. There was something unhealthy about it all, though I don’t know why or what…. Why aren’t you taking notes?’

  ‘We have to record statements, and I’m not sure what I want to record yet. I must ask,’ McKenna said, ‘about your relationship with Trefor Prosser, and the accusations made by your wife.’

  ‘You must ask Jenny yourself, Mr McKenna.’

  ‘And Trefor Prosser?’

  ‘He’s a friend. A close friend. He got me the job at the castle, and I’ll forever be grateful to him for that. I’m not qualified for anything.’

  ‘There have been suggestions that your relationship with him is sexual.’

  ‘I’m sure there have, but it isn’t. I doubt either of us would have the guts, even if we wanted to.’

  ‘Then why did Prosser keep the mail for Gallows Cottage? What did he do with it? And why did he run away and crash his car when we asked him?’

  ‘Keeping the post was Trefor�
��s side of the bargain. Keeping quiet about Jenny was Gwen’s.’ Stott smiled gently. ‘D’you know, I’m telling you things I thought I’d have to keep to myself ’til the day I die.’

  ‘It makes you feel better, does it?’

  ‘Better? No, not really. Even if you know you’re weak and stupid, it’s not very pleasant when your sins of omission find you out, is it? I’ve done nothing and said nothing and thought I could make things go away by pretending they weren’t there. It doesn’t work, does it? Once Gwen acquired the taste for power, she had to have more and more.’

  ‘Why did you marry her?’

  Stott laughed then, a bellow of genuine amusement. ‘Why d’you think? She was pregnant, and I’ve often wondered how much that moment of wayward passion actually cost me. Being married to Gwen is rather like catching an incurable disease, an AIDS of the spirit … but then, I suppose you might say we deserve each other.’

  ‘Tell me about Mrs Cheney.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I thought she was a fake, so I never took much notice of her.’ He fell silent, trawling again those dark alleyways of his past. ‘She was unstable and neurotic. Maybe impulsive … what the psychologists call prone to inconsequential behaviour. Women like her are silly, selfish creatures. She and Gwen fed off each other in a way, like parasites, copying each other so you could never tell where one ended and the other began … bringing out the worst in each other. She copied Gwen’s thinking and behaving; Gwen copied her clothes and drinking and smoking. Romy even bought clothes for her.’

  ‘What sort of clothes?’

  ‘Fancy silk scarves, underwear. She bought her a suit, as well, a grey one with a patterned jacket. It was too tight, but Gwen always has her clothes tight because she thinks she looks thinner that way.’

  ‘Has she still got the suit?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What happened to the money from the sale of the Scorpio?’

  ‘Gwen had it. She has all the money. I keep about twenty pounds a week for fares and odds and ends.’

  ‘What did she do with it?’

  ‘She said she was putting it by for a rainy day, as there were sure to be plenty as long as she was married to me.’

  ‘You astound me, Mr Stott. Why on earth have you stayed married to each other?’

  ‘Now there’s a question.’ Stott smiled a little. ‘I suppose we stay together because we know no one else would want us, and anything’s better than being alone. Perhaps we simply became a habit for each other, a very bad habit like smoking or heroin addiction.’

  ‘Let’s talk about when Mrs Cheney died, shall we?’

  ‘I don’t know when she died. I didn’t know she was dead until you found her body.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  Stott shrugged. ‘Gwen said Romy had gone back to England when the lease on the cottage ran out. She couldn’t be bothered moving out the furniture, and gave it to Gwen.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Gwen said it was a present.’

  ‘Why should she give your wife a car when your wife can’t drive? And a very expensive car into the bargain. Are you really so naive? Do you really think I am?’

  ‘Mr McKenna, I’m telling you what my wife said, and it doesn’t in the least matter whether you or I believe her. If Gwen says a thing is so, then it is so, as far as she or anyone else is concerned. And you must bear in mind there was nothing unusual about Romy Cheney disappearing for weeks on end. I doubt if she spent more than a month in that cottage all told.’ Stott paused. ‘What would you have done in my position, Mr McKenna? How would you have set about proving Gwen a liar and a thief? And why? What purpose would it serve?’

  ‘What did she do with the mail?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Did you really not know Mrs Cheney was dead?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, and Gwen still talks as if she expects her to turn up sooner or later. Says she misses her, says Romy wanted her to leave me and shack up with her….’

  ‘And Jamie?’

  ‘Jamie knew Romy. He used to borrow the car, and Gwen said Romy wanted him to go on using it. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jamie was having an affair with her.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘I’ve never heard such a brew of a tale. He’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes.’ Jack lounged on McKenna’s own ancient sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. ‘I’m surprised you sat listening to him for so long. And you’ve only heard his side of the story. Wait ’til his missis gets her oar in.’

  McKenna ignored the jibe. ‘What about the tale the girl told?’

  ‘Something and nothing, isn’t it?’

  ‘She knew about the furniture.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And she knew about Jamie.’

  ‘Yes, but she doesn’t know anything worth knowing, does she?’ Jack pointed out. ‘Nothing that’s any use to us.’

  McKenna downed his own whiskey. ‘It will be when we get our hands on Jamie.’

  ‘Did you get a warrant for him?’

  ‘Yes, and a search warrant for Stott’s house.’

  ‘Are you going to impound the car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll have a busy day tomorrow then, won’t we?’

  ‘Stop sniping,’ McKenna snapped. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘What are we doing with Stott?’

  ‘Holding him without charge for a further forty-eight hours.’

  ‘That should please him and his brief.’ Jack finished his drink and made ready to leave. ‘I’ll be off. I’m trying to relax as much as possible before Emma goes off jaunting with your Denise.’ He lingered at the foot of the staircase. ‘I’m not very struck with the idea, you know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for them to go off alone like that. Why couldn’t they have few days in London, or at least somewhere nearer than Rhodes?’

  ‘Because London isn’t warm and sunny with blue sea and golden beaches.’

  ‘Well I won’t rest ’til they’re back safe and sound.’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid Emma might run off with a handsome young Greek?’

  Returning from Rhyl, Dewi turned into Salem village and parked in the lane by Mary Ann’s house. Dim light glowed behind the closed curtains of her parlour window, its reflection dull on wet tarmac. Raindrops dripped on to his head as he waited at the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Dewi Police, Mary Ann.’

  In the musty, overheated little parlour, Beti Gloff perched on the edge of the sofa, her stiff leg poking out on to the hearthrug.

  ‘How’s it going with you?’ Mary Ann asked.

  ‘So-so,’ Dewi said. ‘And you?’

  ‘The weather’s making my leg play up something chronic. I could hardly get out of bed this morning.’

  ‘It’ll perk up soon. We’ll be in May before long.’

  ‘I’ve seen snow on the mountains above Bethesda in July before now,’ Mary Ann said. ‘You don’t expect any miracles from the weather when you’re as old as me.’

  ‘How’s John Jones, Beti? Giving you any more grief?’

  ‘He’s minding his p’s and q’s for the present.’ Mary Ann spoke for her. ‘We’ll tell you when he stops. And what brings you calling at this hour, Dewi Prys?’

  ‘Keeping an eye on you two. And looking for Jamie.’

  ‘Jamie Thief?’ Beti gobbled. ‘He’s at home.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Dewi said. ‘He did a flit a few days ago, and he’s not been seen since.’

  ‘He’ll be in the caravan, then,’ Beti offered

  ‘What caravan?’

  ‘The caravan in the woods behind the old railway houses near the quarry,’ Mary Ann said. ‘Am’t I right, Beti?’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘He always goes there when you coppers’re after him, doesn’t he?’

  The last vestiges of day lit t
he sky in the far west, full night already folded into the crevices and over the steep cliffs of the Black Ladders, as Dewi turned the car towards Bangor and McKenna’s house.

  ‘D’you know what time is?’ McKenna asked. ‘Can’t whatever it is wait?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. I thought I’d better ask you that.’

  ‘D’you want a drink?’

  ‘A brew wouldn’t go amiss.’ He trailed into the kitchen, sat biting his thumbnail while McKenna made tea and put it to stew on the cooker.

  ‘Any problems with Jenny and her aunt?’

  ‘No, sir. Jenny was asleep most of the time.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The aunt didn’t say anything?’

  ‘This and that about the family. Her son’s at university in Liverpool. I got the impression she’s had a bellyful of her brother and his wife. Weird pair, by the sounds of it.’ Dewi poured milk into two mugs, took the teapot off the cooker, swirled its contents and poured.

  ‘Gwen Stott’s been keeping Prosser in line by threatening to grass him up for allegedly molesting her daughter. She also allegedly told Romy Cheney that Stott was doing the same.’ McKenna picked up his tea.

  ‘Stott told you that, did he?’ Dewi sipped his tea, blowing across its surface to cool the boiling liquid. ‘Assuming he’s telling the truth, it doesn’t say much for her, does it? Letting it go on and doing nothing to stop them. She’d have to be pretty stupid not to realize she was dropping herself in it along with them, and I don’t think she is – stupid, I mean. Mind you, Stott and Prosser must be really thick to let her get away with it.’

  ‘Perhaps they were simply scared. Once mud like that’s been thrown at you, it sticks. Better to dodge it.’

  ‘Will you tell Social Services?’ Dewi asked.

  ‘Only if I must. Jenny would be taken into care, and I don’t think being in a children’s home would do her much good.’

  Dewi drained his tea. ‘She’s safe for the time being, anyway. I came to see you about Jamie, sir, because I might know where he is.’