‘So far there have been three dead schoolchildren,’ he said sucking thoughtfully on a stick of Blackpool humbug. ‘All in the same class at school. Bronzini, Llewellyn and Brainbocs; and Evans the Boot is still missing.’
The waitress appeared and I ordered the assiette.
‘It’s all being kept under wraps of course. And you didn’t hear any of this from me.’
‘So how did they die?’
He took the rock out of his mouth. ‘Brainbocs fell into one of the slurry vats at the cheese yards. Bronzini and Llewellyn were both given “squirty flowers”.’
‘Cobra venom?’
‘Some sort of neurotoxin.’
I whistled. It was an old trick. Send a kid one of those squirt-water-in-your-eye flowers from the joke shop and fill it with cobra venom.
‘Any idea who’s doing it?’
‘Hard to tell. Three of the kids were all of a bunch. Llewellyn, Bronzini, Evans the Boot were all hooligans. And we know there was no love lost between them and some of those South Aberystwyth gangs – posses or whatever it is they call themselves these days. But Brainbocs doesn’t fit in. This kid was a child prodigy. The Cambrian Mozart they called him. Brilliant at history and just about everything else he turned his hand to. He spent last summer transcribing Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu into runes.’
I gasped. ‘Wow! I couldn’t even manage the cat sat on the mat!’
‘Normally Brainbocs wouldn’t go near kids like that, not unless he wanted his head kicked in.’
‘So Bronzini and Llewellyn would have had plenty of enemies, and Brainbocs wouldn’t say boo to a goose?’
‘Just about. Although even Brainbocs had a few enemies.’
‘Really?’
‘Brainbocs got a Saturday job working at the rock factory – helping out in the R&D unit after hours. He became interested in the great age-old puzzle of rock manufacturing, called De Quincey’s Theorem. It’s very complicated, but basically it concerns the attempt to change the wording of the letters midway through the rock. You know, so it starts off saying Blackpool and then after a few mouthfuls it says Zanzibar or something. It’s one of the last great challenges of the rock-maker’s art. And he cracked it. Just like that. Sat down with a pen and paper and a set of log tables and worked it out. So then the management make him head of R&D and within a week – and the kid is still in school, don’t forget, hasn’t even done his O levels – within a week he’d found a way of computer type-setting the letters. Saved a fortune: twenty oldtimers were thrown out of work the same afternoon. Entire factory closes down on strike. The Unions say, “Get rid of the kid, or you’ll never make another stick of rock in this town.” So they fire the kid. His parting shot was forty cases of rock that said “Aberystwyth” and then after two mouthfuls read: “I’ve pissed in this rock”.’
If you walk south past the Pier and the Bandstand you come to Castle Point where the Promenade turns sharply as if on a hinge. After that the town takes on a different character: an exposed, wind-beaten strip leading down to the harbour with a down-at-heel air where life seems a constant battle with discarded newspapers flying in the wind. The buildings are mostly guesthouses or the sad annexes used by the hotels on the main Prom when they are full. The only people you see are beachcombers and dog-walkers in their flapping macs.
It was down this stretch that I found Mr Giles sitting in the harbour-side pub, the Ship’s Biscuit.
‘Morning Mr Giles!’
He gave me a sheepish look as if embarrassed about the other night.
‘Oh hello. Everything OK?’
‘Fine, and yourself?’
‘Oh, can’t complain,’ he said stoically in a tone that stabbed the heart. He was a gentle man who had dedicated his years to the nurturing of tender shoots and seedlings, yet now some cruel trick of fate had led to him spending the autumn of his life as caretaker at St Luddite’s. Who in the world had a right to complain if he didn’t?
I bought him a pint and asked about the Bronzini incident.
After taking a long drink he spoke quietly to his glass.
‘Few weeks ago Mrs Morgan went walking with her dog Lucky across the school grounds. You know we’ve got a sign up, says “Beware of your Dog”, but they never read it, do they? You see a sign like that every day, so you read it but you don’t really read it, if you know what I mean. You miss the difference in the wording. So she takes Lucky for a walk, and the dog disappears. Can’t find him anywhere. All afternoon she’s wandering around, shouting “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky!”, but he’s gone without a trace. Come nightfall, she has to give up. Never mind, she thinks; he’ll turn up. But he doesn’t. Next week Mrs Morgan’s walking past the school and Bronzini appears at the gate and offers to sell her some fur gloves. Said he’d made them himself. Well, she was only too pleased to encourage a bit of industry and self-reliance among the youth, especially after all those terrible things she’s been hearing about the school. So she buys the gloves. Nicely made they were, and there’s something about the pattern she likes, something familiar, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. They say when she got home she put the gloves on the reading table next to the fireplace and goes to make a cup of tea. When she comes back in she finds Sheba – the dog’s mother – standing at the foot of the table staring up at the gloves and making this pitiful whining sound, and pawing at the ground. Terrible thing it was.’
I shook my head, appalled at the crime.
‘Of course,’ the caretaker added, ‘the kids have their own theory about the murders.’
‘Yes?’
‘They think it’s the Welsh teacher.’
Chapter 4
I THINK MY great-great-uncle Noel must have been in love with the woman in the jungle, Hermione Wilberforce, even though he had never met her – or at least, if he did, he only met her years after he fell in love with her. Is such a thing possible? I leaned back in the chair and listened as the scratchy strains of Myfanwy Live at the Moulin filled the room. Mrs Llantrisant had brought the LP round that morning. She said she’d found it in her garage but the cover didn’t look like it had been gathering dust anywhere. So typical of Mrs Llantrisant to fib like that. After spending months at her stall every night calling the celebrated night-club singer a flibbertigibbet, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she liked her music as much as anyone else. I looked up at the portrait of great-great-uncle Noel, now sadly defaced by a hairline crack in the picture glass – a legacy of the recent ransacking. Those Druid tough guys would never have manhandled him like that if he’d been alive, that was for sure. He was, by all accounts, a man to be reckoned with. A man who liked nothing better than to enter the ring at county fairs to take on the roving pugilist. When friends and family and several members of the Borneo Society condemned his quest to rescue the white woman lost in the jungle as a romantic fool’s errand, it just made him more determined. And so on 14 January 1868 he set off from Aberystwyth for Shrewsbury, en route to Singapore. Five years later the bishop’s wife traded two brass kettles for his journal which had been found gathering dust under a chandelier of skulls in the corner of a longhouse.
Further contemplation of his fate was halted by the arrival in the office of a man who looked liked he’d just stepped out of an Al Capone movie: double-breasted suit in dark blue pinstripe, baggy parallel seamed trousers, silk tie, fedora hat – it was Tutti-frutti, the eldest Bronzini son. Two muscle-bound henchmen followed him in.
‘The boss wants to talk to you,’ he said simply.
‘Would he like to make an appointment?’
The two henchmen walked round the desk, grabbed my arms, and held me pinned against the back of my seat.
‘Just sit down and keep your mouth shut.’
Papa Bronzini walked in, leaning heavily on a cane. Tutti-frutti eased the old man’s coat off his shoulders and helped him into the client’s chair. He took his time making himself comfortable but did not seem bothered by the fact that a roomful of people was
waiting for him. It came naturally to him. Once he’d made himself at ease he looked slowly up at me.
‘Buon giorno.’
‘Bore da. I’m sorry about your boy.’
He raised a hand as if to indicate my condolences were taken for granted. ‘It’s been a great shock for the family.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Naturally we would like to find out who did this thing.’
‘Naturally.’
For a while no one spoke. The Papa seemed to be pondering the right way to broach the subject.
‘You will forgive the impertinence, I hear you were a recent guest at the police station?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘May I ask why?’
It was my turn to ponder. What should I tell him? Protecting client confidentiality was a ground rule of the profession. It was true that technically Myfanwy wasn’t a client because I wasn’t getting paid, but that was only a technicality. Morally I was beholden to protect her interests. I knew, too, that Papa Bronzini was no fool. He had connections; he would already know why Llunos took me in.
‘Are you having trouble remembering?’ The question was politely put, but the undertone of impatience was clear.
‘I can’t tell you,’ I said.
The thug on my left took out a small rubber cosh and cradled it casually in both hands.
Papa Bronzini looked at me sadly. ‘I’m dismayed to hear that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Especially about your boy; but Llunos wanted to speak to me about a different matter.’
‘Is that so?’ he asked simply. Again there was silence. This time with an edge of tension. ‘You should understand Mr Knight, no one is accusing anyone of anything. It’s simply a matter of fact-finding. You’re a father yourself, you must understand –’
‘No I’m not.’
Papa Bronzini looked confused.
‘I’m not a father.’
He picked up the photo of Marty.
‘He’s not my son. He was a school friend of mine; he died when I was fourteen.’
Bronzini put the photo frame back on the desk with exaggerated respect. ‘You must have been very close to him, to keep the picture on your desk all these years.’
‘I suppose you could say so. Although it’s a bit more complicated than that.’ I didn’t tell him Marty died for starting a mutiny during a PE lesson.
Bronzini raised a hand. ‘Even so, someone with such sensitivity would surely understand my feelings as a father. We’re talking simple courtesy and decency here –’
‘I do understand, Mr Bronzini, but I can’t tell you what Llunos wanted to see me about. It’s a matter of honour. As a Sicilian you would surely –’
Papa Bronzini banged the desk with his fist. ‘You talk of honour and lie to me in the same breath!’
I wondered how long it would be before they used the cosh. Suddenly I became angry; who were these cheap gangsters to force their way into my office and give me a lecture on manners?
‘Look, Mr Bronzini!’ I snapped. ‘I sympathise about your son, but let’s not get carried away; we both know what you and your boys get up to round this town, so don’t come here preaching to me about courtesy –’
The cosh landed on the side of my head; sparks shot across my field of vision and the room turned on its side. I lay sideways on the floor for a few seconds before the two thugs dragged me back up and put me in the chair.
Tutti-frutti leaped round the desk and shouted into my face as the two brutes held me back.
‘Don’t disrespect our son, he was a good boy!’
‘Oh yeah!’ I shouted, anger blowing away the last remnant of good judgment. ‘Try telling that to Mrs Morgan whose gloves bark every time she goes past the butcher’s!’
The cosh landed again.
Papa Bronzini sighed and then stood up slowly, signalling with a slight waft of his hand that the interview was over.
‘You are a fool, Mr Knight,’ he said. ‘You will regret your insult to our family.’
After they left, I lay on the floor looking at the room sideways, so angry that I didn’t notice for quite some time the large tender bump starting to form on the side of my head. The phone rang and I climbed back on to my chair to answer it.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hey Peeper!’
‘Calamity?’
‘I thought I’d check if you’ve changed your mind yet.’
‘About what?’
‘The partnership.’
I rested the phone against my cheek and said nothing.
‘You still there?’
‘Look, Calamity –’
‘I know you think I’m just a kid and all that, but I think I know who’s behind all this.’
‘Look, Calamity –’
‘Police are baffled, but –’
‘Calamity!’ I said sharply. There was a second’s silence on the line. ‘This isn’t a game. If you know anything about this you should go to the authorities.’
She made a derisory farting sound. ‘Police! If we left it to them the whole school would be dead.’
‘It’s not a game, kid.’
‘50p a day. That’s all.’
I shook my head. ‘No dice.’
‘I’ll be down the Pier if you change your mind.’ The line clicked dead.
After sunset the night got hotter rather than cooler until by ten o’clock the people wandering the Prom were sweating more than they had been in the afternoon. As the heat increased, the paving slabs, like flowers opening at dusk, started to release the distinctive perfume of the summer night. It was a mixture that would have kept a wine-taster happy for days unravelling the different notes. Heavier tones of fried onions, spilled beer and the salty tang of sun-dried sea weed; and on top of that coconut oil, sweat, spilled ice cream, cheap aftershave and dog piss. It was a smell that belonged to the overhead lights just as assuredly as the scent of pine belonged to Christmas-tree lights; a smell which would always be linked in the photo album of the soul with three particular sounds: the muted roar of the sea; the electronic chimes of the amusement arcades; and the demented banshee wail of the police sirens.
At the Moulin I was shown to a table only two rows from the front. It meant nothing to me at the time, it was just a table: in the same way that youth means nothing to those who obliviously possess it. I was unaware then of that forlorn army of Myfanwy-worshippers sitting at the back behind the pillars who would have been craning their necks to follow my progress with envy.
Bianca came over with another girl.
‘Hi, this is Pandora.’
‘Pandy!’ the girl announced holding out her hand to shake. She was very small, probably not much over five foot, cute and dressed as a cabin girl. I shook her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Bianca turned to Pandora. ‘Perhaps now we can get some peace at last.’
‘Not before time,’ said Pandora.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘You of course,’ said Pandora. ‘Myfanwy won’t stop talking about you.’
‘Get away!’
‘It’s been Louie this and Louie that –’
‘We’re sick of it.’
‘Oh you should listen to her!’ Pandora rolled her eyes as she forced herself to remember the tedium of hearing my name mentioned every minute of the day.
‘We had to tell her to shut up. “Who cares how handsome he is?” we said.’
I laughed off their nonsense. ‘You must think I was born yesterday!’
‘It’s true!’ they chimed in chorus.
Myfanwy arrived. ‘OK scram, kids, go and find your own man!’
‘Pardon us I’m sure!’ Pandora and Bianca minced off through the tables, making an exaggerated show of being put out. Myfanwy watched them go.
‘That one’s Pandy. All the men fancy her. They like her white socks. You wouldn’t think she keeps a flick-knife in the right one, would you?’
She kissed me o
n the cheek, sat down and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d be back.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, I just didn’t. I suppose because I wanted you to come back.’
‘You did?’
‘Of course! I’m sorry I was rude to you in your office.’
‘You weren’t, were you?’
‘Wasn’t I?’
‘I don’t think so.’
A waiter appeared.
‘I’m on stage in a little while, but we’ll have a quick drink. Order something.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Anything, whatever you’re having.’
I ordered two straight rums.
‘I mean, I understand why you wouldn’t want to take the case and that.’
‘Have you heard any more about your cousin?’
She shook her head sadly. ‘No, his Mam’s going out of her mind.’
‘I asked around a bit, to see if anyone has heard anything.’
She looked at me wide-eyed. ‘You did?’
‘Here and there, nothing special.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, of course.’
‘But I must give you something.’ She picked up her handbag and I put a restraining hand on her forearm.
‘There’s something I need to ask you. That afternoon you came to see me, the Druids broke into my office – they were looking for something. Something important to them, which they seem to think you gave me. You don’t know what it is do you?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No, I’ve no idea.’ She tried to open her bag. ‘I must give you something.’
‘No,’ I said again.
A frown furrowed her brow and then she brightened. ‘I know, I’ll tell them not to charge you for the time.’
Now I looked puzzled. ‘What time?’
‘For me sitting here.’
My eyes widened. ‘You mean you’re going to charge me?’
Aberystwyth Mon Amour Page 4