by P. R. Black
Freya remembered to breathe properly. She kept a smile fixed on her face. And she recalled Mick Harvie’s warning: ‘Your father’s a liar. Remember that. Don’t believe anything he says.’
‘Carol Ramirez is an interesting character,’ she said.
‘Isn’t she just? I thought so. You know, there was a time, I thought we might be soul mates. I hesitate to say that. No disrespect to your mother. I mean, I had a real connection with her, too, no denying that.’
‘One that you broke immediately, once you got her pregnant.’
‘Now, that hurts my feelings.’ It didn’t appear to have done this at all. He sighed, and folded his arms. ‘Actually, yeah, you’re right. Adult relationships – sometimes they’re complicated. And sometimes, they’re not.’
‘So, you were with Carol Ramirez. You admit that. Strange that it was never mentioned during your trial.’
Solomon clucked his tongue, and considered the tiles on the ceiling for a good four or five seconds. ‘Are you familiar with the phrase, “done up like a kipper”?’
‘I’ve heard it said on very old movies.’
‘It’s apt, in my case. Throughout my defence, led by the late, and most learned and esteemed Brian Vinnicombe QC, I was told that this should not be mentioned, and that her evidence would not be deemed admissible in court. He said that she would hinder my case, not help it.’
‘But… she was your alibi, surely. How on earth could that not be relevant?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t irrelevant. The word I used was “inadmissible”. You can ask her why, if they’ll let you in. You’ll probably have found it easier to speak to me in this place, rather than speak to her.’
‘Why – is she in prison for something?’
‘No, but she is locked up. Secure unit. Mentally ill.’
‘What type of mental illness?’
Solomon scratched his beard. ‘You know, nothing I could identify, looking back on it. I wouldn’t have said she was ill, but she was twisted. We shared similar appetites, but she was way off the deep end.’
‘Appetites? What do you mean by that?’
‘Go ask her. A father shouldn’t share that stuff with his daughter. That’s just perverse!’
‘Well, what happened to her?’
‘She had cracked by the time I came to court, completely gaga. Not of this earth. She denied ever seeing me, ever knowing me. That was the only stuff that made sense.’ He swallowed, and sat forward. Then something extraordinary happened; he put his head in his hands, and he sagged. Then he slapped himself, twice, as if returning to sensibility. She noted that his eyes were raw and red. ‘We had something, Carol and I. I can’t believe what happened, can’t believe how quickly she went downhill… I’ve got my suspicions, you know.’
‘About what?’ She could barely believe his response, how quickly it came on. And yet he was genuinely crestfallen. It was the first time he had sounded remorseful. It was the type of tension release, that grief detonation, that could arrive suddenly. Freya knew all about that.
‘It sounds paranoid. But God knows what pressure they put her under. For months on end. All the time I was on remand. Gnawing at her, knowing she would make me a free man… I have a lot of suspicions, put it that way. On top of that, I wouldn’t be surprised if Brian Vinnicombe QC, God rest his soul, actually wanted me to end up in prison. You could say we didn’t see eye to eye. Add these two elements together, on top of Bernie Galvin’s shenanigans… Sorry, you want me to stop? You can catch your breath, if you like.’ He indicated Freya’s notepad; she was taking notes at quite some pace.
She took him up on his offer, making sure she wrote clearly and carefully, underlining certain parts. ‘This is incredible… Thanks for this. I mean, it’s extraordinary.’
‘And I haven’t even told you the best part. About these little whispers I heard. And the reason Bernie Galvin’s lost the plot.’
‘Go on.’
He winked. ‘Oh, I have to keep back the odd secret. Where would be the fun in spilling my guts about everything? You’ll find out soon enough.’ He signalled to the guard; the interview was over.
20
The wooden fencing hemmed her in on either side, the alleyway constricting as before. Freya had a sudden flashback to the axe in the skull, and the chill damp of the unquiet grave she’d helped disturb. As the boarding scrolled past her, she imagined a worm, and its food passing through its guts.
She grit her teeth, and shook her head. She pushed on. Stay steady, stay strong, and push through.
When the graffiti appeared, it was so jarring she stopped completely, calves and thighs seizing up. Indigo blue spray paint, lettering a foot or more high, stretching along one side of the wall.
FREYA.
On the other side of the fence, there was smaller, denser text. She had to peer closely to read it.
After she’d taken a picture on her phone, she ran back out of the alley, utterly convinced someone was behind her, in front of her, running parallel on the other side of the fence. When she emerged into the main street, she cried out, wheezing, bent almost double.
She lifted her phone, made a decision, and called Glenn.
*
Freya checked there was no one around on the bus to overhear, then she whispered in Glenn’s ear: ‘It said, “The Mystery machinery moves slowly.” Then it said: “The 49er knows where the Cyclops grows.”’
‘Right… That means nothing to me,’ Glenn said.
‘Mystery Machine is to do with Scooby-Doo. That’s what Shaggy and Velma and the gang all travelled in – their psychedelic van.’
‘This is a bit before my time.’
‘You don’t know Scooby-Doo? This is classical scholarship, here. There’s a monster in Scooby-Doo called the Miner 49er. Old guy, beard, hat, up to some scheme or other down a mine. That got me thinking, after what you said…’
‘And the Cyclops?’
‘Not sure of the connection there. But I guess we’re going to find out.’
Glenn ate crisps the way a squirrel might; his hands moved so fast you had to slow the film down a little to see them, and his jaws clashed in rapid-fire. ‘I’ve got a hunch,’ he said.
‘Like the Hanging Oak?’ Freya asked. They were sat on the top deck of a bus. It was a fine May morning, with blossom on the trees falling as the window brushed the trailing branches.
‘Kind of. There was a bit of logic to that. But this is different. This is more of a hunch, and could turn out to be absolutely nothing. Sure you won’t have a crisp?’
‘…I still get spots.’
‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’
Freya demurred. ‘So, what’s your hunch based on?’
‘Well – you told me Mick Harvie gave you the tip-off about a ghost town. And then your dad told you something about a quarry. This seemed strange to me, as the Woodcutter case never focused on either of those things, so far as anyone knows.’
‘It’s from the police – so they’re bound to keep some stuff back in their investigations.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, after a while. I find out everything, eventually. Retired policemen sometimes get involved on the message boards, people who worked the cases. Journalists too. They want to get involved. Get the cases solved, you know? I’ve seen detailed transcripts of press conferences, had more than one source working on the case who confirmed details that Bernie Galvin gave at briefings… No sign of a quarry or a ghost town. But the two could be linked. So, I carried out a search for those, and…’ He dug out his phone.
Freya narrowed her eyes at the image. ‘I’ve no idea what that is. A cave? A stain on the wall? Something unspeakable?’
‘The first answer was closest. That’s an old slate mine. West Wales. St Mervyn’s.’
‘That’ll be why we’re going to Wales?’
‘Yep. I’ve booked us a room, too. I hope you don’t mind – you said you were free, the next couple of days.’
‘Must have cost you. How m
uch?’
‘We can sort it out later. I can set up a bank transfer.’
‘Nah, I don’t do those. Cash is fine.’
Glenn arched an eyebrow. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, you know. They have safeguards and what have you. Encryption.’
‘And I just told you, I don’t do bank transfers. I used to work in finance. In a phone farm. For a glorious three-week spell, I handled the complaints desk. That’s the really, really persistent people who get past the automation. I’ve investigated their complaints. These things aren’t as safe as you think.’
‘OK.’ He was bemused by this. ‘I guess there’s a bank machine at the station. Plus, you can buy me dinner.’
‘Why do I feel as if I’m in a snare?’ She grinned, and snatched at his crisps. By reflex his hand scrunched up the bag. Reluctantly, he unclenched his fist and the bag tried to return to its previous shape, like a ragged flower.
‘Think I’ll buy you cheese and onion for your dinner. Go exotic.’
‘People will think we’re a couple,’ he said. Then he stared out the window, and it was hard to tell if he was blushing.
‘Well, people can think, can’t they?’
No one spoke for a moment or two, and they listened to the rumble and cadence of the bus. She had no idea why she’d said this… Or maybe she did. Maybe this was like Stuart Russell, her first and only crush from school. She could cringe at any time at the merest mention of his name. She’d bombarded him with calls, she’d written him notes in class, she’d even gone to his house, but Stuart Russell, all five feet six and fourteen years of him, had not been interested. It had taken a long time for her to recover from Stuart Russell – socially, she probably never did. Except the situation wasn’t analogous. She didn’t fancy Glenn, of course. But she needed him beside her. A partner, lower case p, rather than another half. Someone to share the load.
She studied the side of his face for a second or two, the hair straggling over his almost comically small ears. And what went on in Glenn’s head? There was no doubt that in this scenario, Freya was the most important – and that might be the first time she could ever have said that about herself with any degree of confidence. So was Glenn only using her?
Guess we’ll find out, sooner or later.
*
The road to the old slate mine was a different type of physical challenge to the ones Freya was used to. In her way she enjoyed the slower drag on her muscles, the fight against gravity, as opposed to the plodding monotony of a run. Glenn fared less well, but he lasted the pace. She took a quiet satisfaction in knowing she was fitter than him, but perhaps not by much.
‘Perfect place to hide a car, if you were a killer,’ he said, as they climbed a path made of broken slate.
‘The road’s wide enough, too. Used to be a working road – tarmac, the lot. It’s broken up; grass and weeds did that, over time. You can still make the route out. Walkers’ path, now.’
‘Haven’t seen any others out here, today.’
‘No.’ Glenn nodded towards a curve in the hills, which rose steeply on either side of them. ‘I reckon I can see an entrance, there.’
‘We’re not going in it, surely? I was born to have adventure, but spelunking wasn’t part of my diary today.’
‘Nah. We’re going to see if anyone’s been in it recently. If the cops have found anything recently, it’ll be taped off.’ He stopped to take a drink of water, then consulted an OS map. Not too long ago it had been pristine, delivered after an online order just that morning. Already it was showing the scars of use in the field; untidy creases, and a little bit soggy in places. ‘We’re definitely on track.’
The mouth of the slate mine was indeed tightly fenced off, with the feel of a medieval trellis dropped across the entrance to a castle. Furthermore, police tape criss-crossed the entrance, warning people not to enter.
‘That’s that,’ Freya said. ‘Unless you really want to try and get in.’
‘Nah. We’ve seen what we came for.’
‘So that’s it? That’s what you dragged me out here for, really? To make sure the police had been here?’
‘Yeah. It means what your dad and Mick Harvie say checks out, perfectly. But there’s something else we need to look at.’
Freya placed a hand on the small of her back, and stretched, relieving some tension back there. ‘The ghost town.’
‘Right. St Mervyn’s, they called it. Accommodation built for the miners. Not even so much of a town. Crappy little quads. Some of it burnt out, but it was too high up and too remote to bother with demolishing. Some folk use the units as bothies, but they’ve become unsafe. It doesn’t even have a name on the maps, any more. I think the caves might have a clue of some kind for the police. But the ghost town will have a clue for us.’
‘You mean like the Hanging Oak?’ As soon as she said the words, she had an unnerving flashback: the muddy yellow of bone left in the earth for a long time; the lacquered handle, still good enough to swing; and the dull metal lodged inside. Freya wanted to cover her eyes, blink it clear.
Perhaps Glenn had had a similar experience. He swallowed, then said: ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m thinking we might find another body here.’
‘You might be right. Though we might find nothing. This could be a complete shot in the dark. We might have got nothing but blisters out of this. And don’t forget, the police were here recently. You’d have thought they would have found something.’
‘They were ham-fisted when it came to the investigation long ago. They might be equally clumsy now.’ Freya glanced up at the sky. ‘We should probably have stayed overnight and set out at first light. Time’s getting on. How far away is the town?’
Glenn checked the map again. ‘We don’t head for the summit – we take the road around this mountain, leading away from the old pithead, then head down to the valley. St Mervyn’s, or what’s left of it, should be down the mountain in the valley.’
‘And you brought your metal detector?’
He patted the backpack. ‘Don’t leave home without it.’
Freya shivered. ‘There’s one big question about all this. Something I don’t get.’
Glenn looked tense. ‘Go on.’
‘Why? Why are we getting these clues? Why is this being exposed, now?’
‘We talked about this before – the real killer wants us to find it, is my best guess. Or maybe your dad wants us to find the clues – maybe he thinks it’ll help spring him. Those are the two logical answers, right?’
‘I suppose… Part of me thinks he might be drawing us into the wilderness for a very bad reason.’
‘We’re almost there,’ Glenn said, perhaps too keen to change the subject. ‘We should still have some good light. I hope.’
21
It was overcast when they arrived at St Mervyn’s, which didn’t do much for its appearance.
How Freya had pictured the place wasn’t too far away from the truth: two rows of cheap, brutalist cottage flats and bungalows, probably built in the early 1960s. They reminded Freya of an old secondary school she’d seen demolished in her home town, a couple of years before she had been due to attend it.
It seemed an obscenity that something so squat and functional should exist in lieu of such wonderful scenery; perverse that someone should have planned it that way. Nature had reclaimed a lot of the buildings, but nowhere near enough. Bushes had sprung out of broken roofs and guttering. Greenery was winning against the tarmac; the latter was in full retreat in the middle of the road, eruptions of grass and weeds corralling the grey and black into ever-decreasing segments. This pleased Freya’s eye more than the broken windows and graffiti. A deer walking down the centre of the street would not have looked out of place, but a person would.
She said: ‘Even if I was a rough ’n’ ready wild-camping, backpackery-hillwalkery-type person, I wouldn’t stay here.’
‘Bit remote for your druggie set, but I get the point.’ Glenn slid the OS map into a fl
ap of his backpack. ‘Timewise, we’ve probably got a couple of hours. We can always come back tomorrow morning if there’s something we don’t quite like the look of… Jesus.’ His head jerked.
‘What?’
‘Thought I saw something move in one of the houses.’
‘Where?’
‘The last one on the left.’
Freya swallowed. ‘I saw that movie.’
‘Nothing there now. Or if it was, it’s hiding.’
‘Big or small?’
‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Not big enough to be a person.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Pretty sure, yes!’ He stopped and stood up straight. She saw in his defensiveness that the tension had risen in him, just as the fear had swelled in her. Freya had a notion to take his hand.
Instead, she said: ‘Sorry. I’m a bit keyed up. I shouldn’t be so jumpy.’
‘It’s fine,’ he mumbled, hitching up the backpack. ‘Me too. I suppose. Best we get going. Something about this place.’
‘I know what you’re saying. Please don’t say any more. Let’s get in and get out.’
‘Best we get looking. “Cyclops” is the key. Look for a house with one window. Something like that.’