Simeon's Bride

by Alison G. Taylor

  ‘Circumstantial evidence. But it’s building up nicely, and I think we might have to rely on that in the end. Nobody’s going to confess, and whoever’s been covering up their tracks so far has made a bloody good job of it. When is Eifion Roberts going to know about Jamie?’

  ‘Later today, he said.’

  ‘And where’s Inspector Tuttle?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I don’t think he’s in the building.’

  ‘I want Gwen Stott in for questioning first thing in the morning. Under caution, with a policewoman and solicitor present.’

  ‘What do we ask her?’

  ‘Specifically, about the tale she told Romy Cheney about her husband and Trefor Prosser, about letting that woman molest Jenny, and about where she was yesterday afternoon. Otherwise, I’m sure you’ll find your way to asking her about a few other things, won’t you?’

  Chapter 33

  The smell of the hospital made McKenna feel ill, his memory responding to this most powerful of the senses. Dr Rankilor’s office, where he waited for the psychiatrist and Trefor Prosser, was scented with aftershave, and the throat-drying odour of new carpet.

  Prosser trailed behind his guardian like a bit of flotsam in the wake of a liner, looking ill, diminished, the once shiny, well-filled skin wrinkling and loose about his bones. Head still bandaged, he snuffled and sniffed, eyes rheumy and dulled.

  ‘How are you, Mr Prosser?’ McKenna asked. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’

  Prosser subsided into a chair, looking carefully to make sure it was in the right place, as if his bones were stiff and his body unreliable. McKenna realized he was probably heavily sedated. ‘I knew you’d come,’ Prosser whispered. ‘I knew you’d get to me sooner or later.’ He spoke as if Nemesis came clothed in McKenna’s garb. ‘I can’t keep running away. I’m too tired.’

  ‘Remember my warning,’ Dr Rankilor said, as he left the room. ‘My patient is not to be upset.’

  Prosser smiled bleakly. ‘They’re convinced I tried to kill myself. I keep saying it was an accident, but nobody believes me.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose it suits their purpose, doesn’t it? Makes sure they stay in business…’

  McKenna sat down. ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘It was, and all my own fault … my own stupid fault. I don’t have the guts to do away with myself…. I don’t have the guts for a lot of things … no doubt why there’s been so much trouble. I’ve had a lot of time to think in here – there’s damn all else to do with your time….’ He fell silent. McKenna waited for the rambling thoughts to be given their voice.

  Prosser smiled. ‘You’ll really think I’m mad if I say I’m glad you’ve come, won’t you?’

  ‘Why should you be glad?’

  ‘Because you can set me free … that’s how I see it now. You’ve given me an escape route.’

  ‘Free from what?’

  The response was oblique. ‘When psychiatrists decide you’re suicidal, you have to think about it. So I did. As I said, there’s been plenty of time.’ His voice was growing stronger, more sure of itself. ‘And God knows, the more I thought, the more I was surprised I hadn’t tried, if you understand me.’

  McKenna wanted to walk from the room, so that Trefor Prosser, reaching out, could not touch him where he hurt.

  ‘You see,’ Prosser continued, ‘I’m one of those people who feel, deep down, if things are too awful, God or somebody will come along sooner or later and make a bit of breathing space. So you can build up your strength again for the next onslaught.’

  ‘What onslaught?’

  ‘Life, Mr McKenna. It’s a battle for some of us, isn’t it? Always got something up its sleeve to clout you with when you least expect it, something to fight if you want to survive … I’m a timid little soul afraid of the world, afraid of offering any challenges to life, trying to keep my head down below the parapets, as it were … not give people the chance to take potshots at me. That’s why I love my job. I can hide in my little office behind the castle walls, pushing pieces of paper here and there, safe and cosy, and get into my car and drive home, and lock my front door against the huge dangerous outside.’

  ‘And who invaded your safe little world? Who laid you to siege?’ McKenna leaned forward, the antiseptic smell of Prosser’s clothes sharp in his nostrils. ‘Was it Christopher Stott?’

  ‘Christopher Stott? Oh, no, Mr McKenna. Chris has been crouching down behind the parapet with me for a good long time. I suppose,’ he said, almost laughing, ‘you could even call us brothers-in-arms, except we had no ammunition. It wasn’t Chris. Surely you know that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know anything.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you’re just as much blundering around in the dark as me, not knowing which way to turn to get out … the door slammed in your face every time you see a chink of light….’

  ‘We’re mixing metaphors an awful lot.’ McKenna watched the other man, wondering if it were merely fancy, or if Prosser were in reality growing before his eyes, filling up his skin and retrieving his self from wherever it went to hide in terror and in shame.

  ‘Aren’t we indeed. Are you fully recovered? I heard they brought you in here.’

  ‘Yes, I am better. Thank you for asking. Do you know when you’ll be discharged?’

  ‘When I can convince them I’m no risk to myself, I suppose.’ The little man rose to stand with his back to McKenna, looking from the window on to a paved quadrangle where an elderly man bent over a flower bed, scrabbling in the soil, looking for something he was unable to find, and crying to himself in his distress. ‘Before I become like that poor old soul out there, I hope.’ Prosser turned. ‘I also heard you had Chris in custody. Have you charged him with anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t ask you if you will, because I don’t think you know. Anymore than you know if you’ll charge me with anything except driving under the influence of drugs and not wearing a seat belt.’

  ‘You won’t be charged in connection with the accident.’

  ‘No? Well, that’s very civil of you, I must say.’ He sat down. ‘One load off my mind, at least.’ He stared at McKenna, forcefully. ‘If you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, I think you should keep Chris locked up until such time as you’ve put his dear wife away where she can’t do any more harm. God knows, she’s already done more than the rest of the monstrous regiment put together!’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Jenny at some length. She’s staying with her aunt.’

  ‘Have you?’ Prosser smiled brilliantly. ‘Then you’ve already opened the door wide for my escape, haven’t you? And for Jenny and Chris.’ The smile disappeared, as the sun behind a swift-blowing cloud. He spoke almost in a whisper. ‘We can all get out now … after all this time….’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Prosser. Just tell me.’

  ‘There’s little to tell that’s of any use to you. Only a small tragedy … two weak men enfeebled by their own weakness, as you might say. But the child … now, there’s the big tragedy, and I don’t know what God or man can do to put it right.’ His breath rasped a little in a lengthening silence. ‘Gwen Stott blackmailed me, blackmailed Chris, and crucified her own child,’ he said eventually. ‘And we let her, make no mistake about that. We let her because we’re as weak and as fearful as she is amoral and wicked. If you ever want to know about wickedness and evil, Mr McKenna, ask a woman. Women have the imagination for it. More importantly, they have the stomach.’

  ‘What did you do for her?’

  ‘I took the mail for that woman at Gallows Cottage and gave it to Gwen.’

  ‘And what did her husband do?’

  ‘Chris did nothing, Mr McKenna. He did nothing and said nothing. That was his sin.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to us and say you were being blackmailed? Why didn’t her husband take the child away?’

  ‘Because Gwen would have branded us, not only as homosexuals, but as child abusers. And then what would happen?’ Prosser a
sked. ‘You know as well as I do, don’t you? We would have been arrested, and Jenny would’ve been put into a children’s home and left to rot … or worse: she might’ve been left alone with Gwen, utterly and completely at her mercy.’ He stared, challenging McKenna. ‘What would you have done, knowing the consequences for Jenny? I’m not making excuses for myself, because there aren’t any, and I must live with that. But Chris and I thought if we let Gwen have her way about the post and the furniture and whatever, it was simply the least of a lot of evils.’

  ‘Was Jamie blackmailing you as well?’

  ‘Jamie Thief? Of course he wasn’t. Why should you think he was?’

  ‘The car?’

  ‘All Chris ever did over the bloody car is cover up for Gwen. She let Jamie use it…. I wonder why? Why don’t you ask him? He might tell you. Whether he’ll tell you the truth is another kettle of fish, isn’t it? Jamie never tells the truth when a lie will do. Has it occurred to you, Mr McKenna, that he might’ve been blackmailing Gwen?’

  About to tell Prosser of Jamie’s death, McKenna changed his mind, suddenly exhausted, bankrupt of sleep, of any will to talk or think or feel, as if the energy returning to Trefor Prosser had been stolen from his own body. ‘What about Romy Cheney?’

  Prosser’s face hardened. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you know anything about her death?’ McKenna’s voice betrayed his weariness.

  ‘Only,’ Prosser said, his eyes cold, ‘that if somebody hadn’t got to the evil bitch first, I would’ve killed her sooner or later, because if Gwen had never met her, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘In my heart!’ Prosser pushed his fist into his chest. ‘That creature was a catalyst. She breathed life into Gwen’s fantasies, gave her the strength to bring them to life. Gwen’s as weak and inadequate as the rest of us, and until she met that woman, she lived her life second-hand, draining people of their experiences, then regurgitating what she’d taken in…. Even then, she’d get it wrong one way or another. Whatever she said or did would be soured by her own bile, the poison in her soul.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘D’you know what I call Gwen Stott, Mr McKenna? The Queen of Night, after the character in Mozart’s Magic Flute. A serpent lives upon her tongue as well.’

  ‘How much sleep did you get last night?’ Eifion Roberts asked.

  ‘Couple of hours, I suppose,’ McKenna said.

  ‘It shows. You’re a bloody fool.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘And I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I? You’ve never heeded anybody in your whole life: parents, teachers, the parish priest … always gone your own sweet way.’

  McKenna lit a cigarette, coughing as the smoke seeped into a throat already raw from too many others. Eifion Roberts noted with clinical interest the pointers of decay which wove around McKenna like a cloudy web, sucking the life from him. ‘I can’t sit by and watch a friend go from bad to worse in front of my nose. I think you should see your doctor.’

  ‘Why? I doubt I’ve suddenly fallen foul of some mortal sickness.’

  ‘Perhaps it won’t be mortal sickness that takes you to your grave, Michael. Folk can die of a broken heart, you know.’

  ‘I doubt I’ve a heart to break. I hear all this misery and despair from people, see their fears thrust up in front of me like monsters, and ask myself if I really care.’ He leaned against the window ledge, his shadow on the blind. Ash dropped from the cigarette, drifted to the floor. ‘I’m as empty as Jamie Thief. No conscience, no heart, no love, no understanding … I pretend compassion because I can afford to. There’s no need for me to fight and scavenge for survival, is there?’ He slumped into his chair. ‘Look what I’ve done to Denise. And for why? Why should I need to do that?’

  ‘D’you want to know why your marriage has gone to blazes?’ Dr Roberts asked. ‘Because you and Denise should never have got together in the first place. You’re like chalk and cheese, and it’s as simple as that. Still, you’ve got to have some excuse for all this selfish whingeing, haven’t you? I suppose throwing out one bit of dead wood from your life is as good as any.’

  McKenna turned his head away. Eifion Roberts slammed his fist on to the desk. ‘I could kick your bloody arse from here to Chester and back again! You’re so wrapped up in the misery you’ve made for yourself you can’t see straight! D’you think Denise is sitting on her pretty backside wallowing in misery? She’s not, is she? Our Denise is busy packing her sun cream and her bikini and her fancy clothes and her frilly undies to go swanning off enjoying herself in Greece. I might not think much of her, but she’s got a bloody sight more sense than you’ll ever have!’

  McKenna took a cigarette from the almost empty packet, looked at it, then put it back. He raised his eyes, regarding the pathologist almost warily. ‘Did you finish the autopsy on Jamie?’

  ‘I finished cutting him up, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t found out what killed him. I’ll know that when I know, and I’ll tell you when I know.’ Dr Roberts stood up, pushing back his chair. ‘You shouldn’t set yourself apart from the common herd, Michael. Arrogance is a sin in your church. We all know the world’s a detestable place, and the likes of you thinking they’ve got the right to remind folk doesn’t make it any less so. And I’ll tell you something else. Jamie had a heart like the rest of us. I know because I cut it right out of him, held it in my hands, felt the weight of death in it … and for all we know, he could’ve had a conscience to go with it. Not his fault if he never knew where to look, was it?’ He walked to the door. ‘We all die of it in the end, you know. It’s what we do while we’re waiting for death that hurts or not, as the case may be.’ He pulled the door open. Standing in the opening, he looked back at McKenna, and sighed. ‘And I suppose you won’t speak to me for weeks now, will you? Avoid me like the plague, because I’ve seen through you, and had the cheek to say I’m not smitten with what I’ve looked at. And when you can’t avoid me any longer, you’ll put on the snooty face and the icy voice and the snotty attitude you’re so good at.’ He walked into the corridor. McKenna heard him say, ‘Well, you can please your bloody self!’ before the fire door closed behind him, leaving McKenna to the night.

  Chapter 34

  Beyond the window of Owen Griffiths’ office, early morning traffic moved down the road as sluggishly as the rubbish swilling against the pavement beside the bus stops, washed by remnants of the night’s rain draining from the mountain and through the city streets. McKenna leaned against the window ledge, weariness dulling his eyes.

  ‘When will Eifion Roberts know how Jamie died?’ Owen Griffiths asked.

  McKenna shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Because that’s your bloody job! You’ve got Stott locked up in one cell and his missis being questioned under caution in another. What d’you propose doing with them if you don’t know they had anything to do with Jamie Thief?’

  McKenna lit another cigarette, the third, Jack counted, since this meeting began. Jack watched him, noting the crêpey skin beneath his eyes, the hollowed cheeks.

  ‘And why don’t they have the same solicitor?’ Griffiths added. ‘Why has Stott got one and his wife another? It’s all adding to the cost.’

  ‘Conflict of interest. Stott will be expected to give evidence against her.’

  ‘Will he? What’s she being charged with?’

  ‘I intend to charge Gwendolen Stott with extortion, perverting the course of justice, procuring a minor, and permitting the minor to be abused. And if Jamie and that Cheney woman weren’t out of the way, I’d charge her with conspiracy, as well.’

  ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to make sure Prosser and the girl’s father didn’t molest her before you go committing us to a particular course of action?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘How? I’m not. We’re not equipped to deal fully with allegations of sexual abuse, let alone make decisions. Those are jobs for the s
ocial workers and Crown Prosecution.’

  ‘Nobody’s made such an allegation. Least of all Jenny Stott.’

  ‘Yes, she has,’ Griffiths argued. ‘She said the Cheney woman touched her up. But only after you’d raised the issue. Can’t you see how conveniently it’s all been put together? Stott tells you first, to pre-empt anything his wife might say. Then the girl throws a wobbler when you ask her about it, and gives you a first-rate reason for not making the allegation herself. Fortunately for both of them, Romy Cheney’s not around to say yea or nay to anything.’

  ‘What reason did Jenny give?’

  ‘What she said about how other people regard girls who get molested by their father. That’s enough to keep any girl’s mouth shut a damned sight tighter than her legs, isn’t it?’

  Distaste soured McKenna’s face. ‘Do you believe what you’re saying? Or are you playing Devil’s advocate?’

  ‘Neither. I’m pointing out the way we need to look at this mess. You’ve got to consider every angle. Say for the sake of argument that Stott did molest her, and maybe Prosser as well. So what happens? Gwen Stott somehow finds out. She tells her mate Romy, asks her advice. Romy challenges Stott, tells him to leave the kid alone. And then Stott gets the wind up. He kills Romy, and sets up this great big smokescreen.’

  ‘And what does Gwen Stott do?’ McKenna asked. ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘They go along with it. You know how families cover up as well as I do, McKenna. They stick together, because they think there’s less to lose that way.’

  McKenna ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, and immediately lit another. ‘If Stott hadn’t told me, we would never have known.’

  ‘You can’t say that because you’ve no idea what his wife would’ve said.’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything so far, ‘Jack pointed out.

  ‘That’s not to say she won’t. In any case, I get the impression Jenny Stott doesn’t like her mother very much, so she’s hardly likely to drop her father in the shit, even if he belongs there. And for all we know, she might be wanting revenge on her mother for something.’