She sang all the old favourites: 'David of White Rock'; the ancient Welsh hymn 'Galon Lan'; 'Una Paloma Blanca'; and, of course, 'Myfanwy', Everyone had heard it a thousand times before, and no one cared. It was a class act and lasted for well over an hour. Towards the end she came down from the stage and wandered like a minstrel among the tables, teasing the men who made good-natured grabs for her. I tried not to catch her eye, but it was impossible. For the final chorus of 'Myfanwy' she came and stood at my table. I looked slowly up from my glass, our gazes locked, and to the everlasting grief of the yearning audience, she delicately plucked the rosebud from her hair and threw it into my lap. Then the lights went out.
Outside, much later, the night had turned cold and the air was full of that moisture that hangs halfway between drizzle and rain. It was about five or so minutes to one and the streets were deserted except for the occasional lone figure lurching drunkenly home. I pulled up my collar and walked along the Prom past the old university building and towards Constitution Hill. Above my head, illuminated cartoon figures shone with electric smiles in the night, and on the other side of the road, high up on the wall of the old college, Father Time sat preserved in a mosaic. His long white beard and hour glass warning everyone who looked up — and in a language they could all understand — that, for every man alive, the hours left before closing time were short.
By the time I reached the Whelk Stall the drizzle had finally made up its mind and turned into rain, driving full and hard off the sea and into my face. The booth was quiet: no one there except the kid in charge - a pimply adolescent in a grubby white coat and a silly cardboard hat. I ordered the special and waited, as the youth kept a wary eye on me; trouble was never far away at this time of night. Some instinct had long ago told me that the kid on the answerphone was not going to turn up, but I had to stay just in case. So I waited, grimly crunching the gritty pickled delicacies. After half an hour, and soaked to the skin, I gave up and left.
When I got home there was someone in the office, standing at the window with his back to me. It was Detective Inspector Llunos. Short and portly with a permanent look of weary sadness.
'You keep late hours,' he said without turning.
'Is that a police matter?'
'Depends what you get up to during them.'
I went into the kitchenette, picked up two glasses from the draining board and poured us both a rum. By the time I returned he was sitting in the client's chair, just like Myfanwy had done earlier in the day. It seemed like last year.
'What did you get up to?'
I waited a few seconds and let the fire of the rum chase out the late-night damp.
'I was at the Moulin.'
'I know. What did you do after that?'
'Went for a walk.'
'A walk?' He pretended to consider my answer. 'That's nice. Anywhere in particular?'
'No, just around.'
I wondered what he was getting at; he wasn't here for a chat.
'With a girl were you?'
I shook my head.
'Or was it little boys?'
I poured another drink and looked at him sleepily.
He sighed. During his years on the Force in Aberystwyth he'd seen everything there was to see and had long ago lost the energy to be offended by it. Just as the man who cleans up after the donkeys on the Prom no longer notices what it is he sweeps up. I'd run into him a number of times before. There was a sort of uneasy truce between us. Like any cop he didn't like having private operatives sniffing around on his turf. I didn't blame him for it; when I was walking the beat in Swansea I didn't like them either. But I had a right to operate, as long as I kept within certain limits; and as long as I did, he tolerated me. The key requirement was that I dealt straight with him; if I did, things ran smoothly enough. But if I played what he called 'silly buggers', he could be very, very hard. Sadly, my instinct was telling me that on this case I was going to be playing silly buggers.
He drank his rum slowly and then started again.
'Did you have an appointment with anyone tonight?'
I shook my head.
'An appointment with Giuseppe Bronzini?'
I paused for a second, and then said, 'Who?'
He laughed. The hesitation had been for the tiniest fraction of a second but the wily cop had seen it. I didn't like where this was heading.
'We spoke to his mother earlier; he told her he was going to meet you this evening. Know anything about that?'
'Llunos, what the fuck do you want?'
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card I had given Calamity Jane in the afternoon.
'Recognise this?'
'It looks like one of my cards.'
Llunos examined it as if he'd only just noticed it. 'Yes it does, doesn't it?' He flicked the card with his thumb. 'We found it on Bronzini earlier this evening. I don't suppose you can explain that?'
'Bronzini?'
'Yes. He was dead, by the way.'
I stared at him across the desk, fear starting to flutter in my stomach. He raised one eyebrow, prompting me to explain.
'I went to the Moulin, I left and went for a walk. I had some whelks and came home. I had no meeting arranged. And I've never met this kid.' It was silly buggers time.
'Any idea how he came to have your card?'
'I don't know. Maybe he picked it up off the floor.'
The tired detective stared at the ceiling and considered my reply with an air of sarcastic thoughtfulness.
'I see,' he continued. 'So you've never seen the dead boy. You didn't have any arrangement to see him this evening, you were just out walking. Hmmm.' He examined my story like someone trying on a hat they know doesn't fit, just to be fair to the hat. 'And you say he probably picked your card up off the floor. Hmmm. Any idea why he stuck it up his arse?"
Chapter 3
THE CELL DOOR clanged open and banged shut throughout the night as rhythmically as a pile-driver. I sat in the corner and gazed through red throbbing eyes at the lurid pageant: drunks and punks and pimps and ponces; young farmers and old farmers; pool-hall hustlers and pick pockets; Vimto louts, card sharps and shove ha'penny sharps; sailors and lobster fisherman and hookers from the putting green; the one-armed man from the all-night sweet shop, dandies and dish-washers and drunken school teachers; fire-walkers and whelk-eaters, high priests and low priests; footpads and cut-throats; waifs, strays, vanilla thieves and peat stealers; the clerk from the library, the engineer from the Great Little Train of Wales ... it rolled on without end. At about 2am they brought in the caretaker from the school, Mr Giles, wearing the same tree-coloured tweeds he wore when I had been in school two decades ago. He slumped on to one of the benches lining the wall and held his head in his hands. Everyone was in a bad way here, but he looked more unhappy than most. I went over to him.
'Mr Giles?' I said placing a gentle hand on his broad back. I could feel silent sobs quivering through his large frame.
'Mr Giles?'
He looked up. He was a friend of my father and knew me well.
'Louie!'
'You OK?'
'Oh no, no, no, no I'm not.'
'Did they beat you?'
He shook his head.
'What did they get you for?'
'They haven't told me.'
I nodded. It was the usual way. You wouldn't find the procedure outlined in any of the pamphlets issued by Her Majesty's Stationery Office, but Llunos had his own methods. Most people were picked up, thrown in and thrown out again the following morning without being charged or any sort of paperwork involved. It helped keep the crime figures down.
'I know what he's up to, though,' Mr Giles said. 'It's about that dog.'
'What dog?'
'At the school. He's going to pin it on me. It just isn't fair.' He buried his face in his hands again. It was unusual to see Mr Giles as upset as this. For a man who spent his life stockaded into a potting shed at the corner of the rugby field at St Luddite's, his hoe s
wapped for a night-stick, fortitude was a way of life. It was probably the drink making him emotional.
'What's this about a dog?'
He answered into the palms of his hands. 'One of the Bronzini boys killed Mrs Morgan's dog and they're blaming me.'
There was a fresh bout of silent sobbing; I patted him gently and moved off, leaving him to his pain.
Just before breakfast, Llunos released me. I stood blinking in the bright morning sunshine on the steps of the jail.
'You're letting me go?'
He nodded. 'You've got friends in high places.'
'News to me.'
He turned to go back inside. 'Not the sort of friends I'd like to have, though.'
I stepped down on to the pavement.
'One thing, Peeper!' he called after me.
I stopped and looked round.
'This Bronzini kid . . . was murder. Serious stuff. No room here for a private operative, you understand?'
'Sure.'
'If I find you sniffing round it, we might have to arrange for you to fall down the police station steps.'
I said nothing and walked away. An awful lot of people in this town had fallen down those steps.
'Kierkegaard or Heidegger, Mr Knight?'
'Sorry, you've got me there, Sospan.'
'It's Existentialist week; my latest promotion.'
'Give me a mint choc chip with a wafer of the Absurd.'
'Coming up.'
A Sospan Special: the only over-the-counter preparation effective against the sarcasm of an Aberystwyth cop.
Sospan pushed my money back across the counter.
'Already paid for; gentleman over there.' He motioned with the ice-cream scoop towards one of the benches near the railings. A man in a white Crimplene safari suit was seated there, incandescent in the early morning sun. It was Valentine from the boutique, the 'fixer' for the Druids. I walked over.
'Nice suit.'
He looked at the material on his arm as if surprised to see it there.
'Quality stuff thith,' he lisped. 'You should come down the thop, I'll do you a nice price.'
'If I ever go on safari, I will.'
'Thit down.'
'I'm OK standing, thanks. What do you want?' He paused for a moment as if weighing each word carefully.
'You have a ... a ... shall we thay an "item" in your possession which is of interest to my organisation.'
I took another lick. 'Is that so?'
'You know what I'm referring to?'
'Maybe.' I had no idea.
'It was given to you by Myfanwy.'
'Oh that!' I still had no idea.
'We'd like to buy it.'
'That's nice.'
'We're nice people, Mr Knight.'
'Is that why you smashed up my office?'
He raised an apologetic hand.
'A mithtake, very regrettable. We'll be more than happy to compenthate you in return, of course, for the item in question.'
I pursed my lips thoughtfully.
'How much?'
Valentine smiled, revealing a gap between the front two teeth.
'We're reasonable men; we wouldn't want to fall out over a few pounds. Thay two grand?'
I considered. 'That won't pay for the broken furniture.'
He laughed and slapped his knees in the action of standing up.
'From what I hear, 50p would be more than enough to pay for the furniture in your office. Two is very generous.'
'Let's say five.'
'I'm afraid not. There are also hidden costs to be taken into account; costs which you would have to bear if we found we could no longer afford to be nice.'
My gaze followed him as he walked briskly up the Prom towards the Bandstand. When I turned round there was a Labrador sitting at my feet, staring up and politely licking his muzzle. I looked at the ice cream.
'You sure? Paid for by the Druids, you know.'
He gave a lick of affirmation and I threw the ice into the air. The dog leaped up and caught it while it was still rising.
* * *
When I got back to the office Calamity Jane was sitting in the client's chair.
'Tough break about the Bronzini kid,' she said nonchalantly.
'So you heard?'
'Was it you?'
'Was it me what?'
'Was it you that killed him? The word is, the police took you in. That makes you a suspect doesn't it?'
I choked for a second. 'Why you little — scallywag!'
'Nothing personal, I just deal in facts.'
'Yeah? Well perhaps you'd like to explain the fact that they found that card I gave you on his body?'
She looked puzzled for a second, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out my card.
'Been with me the whole time; you mention my name to the police?'
'No.'
She gave me a look of deep scrutiny.
'Sure?
'Scout's honour.'
'Hmmm. OK. So who do you reckon did it?'
'I've no idea.'
'It shouldn't take us long to find out.'
'Hang on, kiddo, what's all this "we" business?'
'I thought I'd help you out on this one.'
'Did you now!'
'As a partner.'
'Do I look like I need a partner?'
'From where I'm sitting you do.'
'Oh really!'
'Yep.'
'Shouldn't you be in school?'
She ignored that and slid off the chair; then started pacing around the room.
'I won't ask for much. 50p a day.'
I laughed. 'That's 50p more than I earn most days.'
She walked over to the map of the town.
'We'll need some red pins.'
'What for?'
'To plot all the murders. We'll need bus timetables, witness statements, a computer database and some fresh coffee. Oh yeah,' she said turning from the map, 'if it's OK with you I might need to use your sofa, there's going to be some late nights on this one.'
'What happens if there aren't any more murders?'
She stared at me. 'What are you talking about?'
'Bronzini dead, that's one red pin — I reckon I could find one in the drawer somewhere. No need to waste money on a box. Does it have to be red?'
She took out a pack of cigarettes and said matter-of-factly, 'Boy, you're really good; you've almost got me fooled.'
'Did anyone say you could smoke in here?'
'Don't worry, I'll open a window.'
'I mean you're too young to smoke.'
'How can you be a private dick if you don't smoke?' She rolled her eyes and made a big deal of petulantly putting away the cigarettes. Then she sat down.
For a while neither of us spoke; a mild air of antagonism growing in the silence. We both knew whoever spoke first would lose. She started drumming her fingers on the table-top. I was damned if I was going to speak. I shifted in my seat and rested my elbow on the back of the chair. She copied me, the little minx.
'I mean, come on, kid . . .' I said finally.
She started counting off names on her fingers with exaggerated childishness. 'Bronzini, Brainbocs, Llewellyn and Evans the Boot.'
I stared at her suspiciously. 'What?'
'That's four pins, wouldn't you say?'
'W . . . what's that you're saying?'
'OK I'll admit Evans isn't officially dead. Maybe half a pin, but I'm only saying that to be kind to you. Won't be long before he's a whole pin.'
'Evans the Boot?'
'Probably trying to jemmy open them pearly gates as we speak.'
'Calamity!' I said sharply.
'St Peter better get himself an Alsatian.'
I banged my fist on the table. 'Calamity, stop it! What are you talking about? Who are these other people?'
'I'm sure you must have them on file. The police are keeping a blanket on it, but you being a private dick would have your own sources, wouldn't you?'
She gave me a
look of crushing superiority.
Aberystwyth was a great place for a connoisseur of irony. The most underworked man in town was Meirion, the crime reporter on the Gazette: he worked fewer hours in a year than Father Christmas. Not because of a lack of material. There was enough going on to keep an entire department on overtime, but the money that owned the newspaper also owned the seafront hotels and the ghost train and the putting green and various other bits of tourist infrastructure. To read the Gazette you'd think we were a town full of Tibetan monks. We were sitting now on the terrace of the Seaside Rock Cafe, overlooking the crazy golf course.
'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 A 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 old-timers 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".'
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