‘It’s open,’ he said, then whistled to himself. ‘Du du. This isn’t like old ‘Simnai.’ He’s fussy about security, specially since his tools got nicked last year.’
She saw the sweep’s baseball cap hanging next to five red rugby caps on a mahogany wall unit alongside photos of him as a young player. There was also one of a bearded man in white whom she assumed must be the Bard brother he’d mentioned. She stared at the poet’s benign features which bore no resemblance to what she’d heard about Dagdans.
She held back as the fisherman went further inside, dripping the morning from his cape hem on to what looked like a new carpet. Normally she’d have accompanied him, but not now. Not after her visit to Bwlch Ddu. This guy could be anybody, and perhaps somewhere not so very far away, a white van was lurking . . .
He called out the sweep’s name then reached the kitchen. Here he stopped and seemed to falter.
‘Jesus Christ. My God, man,’ he burbled.
Her blood had chilled. Her pulse slowed up.
‘What’s the matter?’ she breathed, but she knew the question was futile. She only had to inhale that sickly sweet smell of death.
‘Call the police, Godammit. Christ Jesus. Hurry now. Call the police.’
She snatched up the receiver in the hall but it was dead. Just like its owner.
‘It’s kaput. I’ll use my mine.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In my car.’
‘He’s had it anyway. Tell them that.’
She heard him groan then lurch as she ran from the bungalow, her legs feeling like bendy rubber. Her head spinning. She punched 999 and her words which followed were almost incoherent. So was her promise to wait with the stranger until the police and an ambulance had arrived at the scene.
Chapter Thirty-Three
How come that blood on the point of your knife
My son come and tell to me?
Oh it is the blood of a whispering mouth
That would not silent be.
That would not silent be.
MJJ 27/8/01 After trad.
Rhayader was full of people come down from the hills braving the storm for their weekly supplies. The car park was also full but eventually Mark found a gap alongside some recycling bins and immediately began looking round for Lucy’s Rav.
His heart quickened as he suddenly spotted it between a camper van and a Jeep Cherokee and when he peered in saw her sunglasses case on the passenger seat. So, where the hell was she?
He loped out of the car park sensing he was being watched, but he too was watching the bustling pavements for a man of almost thirty who would surely be tanned and possess the unmistakeably grey eyes of his mother.
More drops from the sagging shop awnings found their way to his skin as he progressed past huddles of farmers clogging up the many doorways, still moaning like Bryn Evans about paltry compensation and how some had been forced to leave lambs in phone boxes. He understood enough to know that bitterness would blight their lives for a long time and a few he’d heard of had already topped themselves, leaving widows and children to face the coming year alone.
He dived into Siop y Dic and bought a copy of the local rag, without fully registering the banner headline on the front page. It was the middle ones he wanted. For jobs. Because if something better came up where he could still hang on at the Hall he’d go for it. But only if Richard wasn’t around. Today however, the Situations Vacant section made dismal reading.
Apart from a part-time butcher needed at Griffiths Meat Processing and a Betterware catalogue distributor, there was nothing. However, as he re-folded the paper in that busy damp-smelling newsagents, the headline now hit him between the eyes.
LOCAL FAMILY IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT
The body of Rhiannon George of Gellionnen, Crossgates, and those of her two four-year-old twin sons, Ben and Rhys, were discovered yesterday evening in their partially burnt-out vehicle at the foot of a ravine below a notorious bend on the A4069 to Brynamman, Carms. Although the remains of a loaded air rifle were found in the wreckage, a police spokesman said there were so far no suspicious circumstances. Meanwhile, further tests are being carried out and Rhiannon’s grieving parents Eira and Iwan who suffered badly in the foot-and-mouth crisis are already on their way back from a trip to France.
Mr MH Harries, Senior Partner in Tomkins & Harries Solicitors, and Mrs George’s brother, is quoted as saying, ‘This is a needless loss of three young lives and I will press for a full investigation as to why my niece and her family were ever in that area at all . . .’
He ran from the shop, slipping the rolled-up paper inside his parka as he went. When he reached the local police station, his head began to throb again. He didn’t want to see another active copper as long as he lived, and yet here he was, even thinking of brown-nosing a fucking uniform. Putting them off the scent . . .
He was just about to cross the road towards the stone-built Victorian building when he spotted a familiar figure wearing a pink fleece and carrying a Spar bag emerge from its double doors. Her face, paler than usual, with eyes fixed straight ahead. Her wet hair scooped up into a ponytail. His heart began thudding against his ribs. What the hell had she been doing in there?
‘Lucy, please,’ he begged her. ‘Don’t walk off. I’ve got to talk to you.’
‘You’ve had your chance,’ she turned to him, her blue eyes fierce in a way he’d not seen before. ‘I’ve got things to do, if you don’t mind and I’m certainly not wasting any more of my time with liars.’
‘Liars?’ His stomach took a dive.
‘Yes. You and that father of yours.’ She increased her distance between them and when he tried to pull her back towards him, she elbowed him away. ‘Making out that Bryn Evans and Sion Hughes were one of those weirdos. Blaming the cult for killing your mother. Dagdans do not wear blue shirts, okay? And the rest.’
‘What do mean, the rest?’
‘You know damned well.’
He stared at her as if the intervening years had suddenly unfurled and she was Sonia Jones all over again with that beautiful white neck and those tiny blue veins like strands of cobalt oxide he’d once seen on pebbles in Cardigan Bay . . . And when he looked again he saw a crimson line below her chin. A line which seemed to widen in a mocking hideous smile . . . Then he remembered the bread knife still under the passenger mat in his van.
‘We only wanted to protect you.’
‘To protect yourselves, you mean. You’re despicable. Anyway,’ she checked her watch and began to move off again, ‘I’ve given myself until Friday to find out who left me that threat and who killed your mother in the house which I had hoped to buy. Now, leave me alone.’
‘Had hoped?’ His voice barely more than a whisper.
‘You heard.’
Nothing to lose, then.
‘What made you go in there?’ he gestured at the police station, at the same time attracting the locals’ usual curious stares. She looked around as if unsure where to start and while he waited, felt his blood run cold.
‘I’d been to see that poor sweep, if you must know,’ she began. ‘To apologise for what your ravens did to him last Thursday. After all, if I’m to go ahead with Wern Goch, I’ll need the chimney swept regularly . . .’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ he tried to keep anger out of his voice. ‘The man’s a trouble-maker. A number one shit-stirrer. I wasn’t going to let him get away with what he’d been implying. I was concerned for you. Anyway,’ he pulled his Parka hood off his head and swept stray hair from his eyes, ‘why the cops?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh my God.’ He looked away at the shuffling shoppers moving up and down East street, his stomach playing tricks, his mind on fire.
‘I must have just turned up after it had happened. It’s terrible. Whoever did it,’ she fixed her blue eyes on his, ‘must be truly, deeply evil.’
He put a comforting hand on her wet arm.
‘It’s OK.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Someone hated him big time, then?’
‘That’s what the police assumed. Apparently he’d fallen out with people in town last Thursday morning. They’d accused him of overcharging and it got nasty. Came to blows, they said.’
‘That would explain his foul mood when he turned up at our place,’ he suggested, disguising the freezing fear which had griped his vocal chords. ‘By the way, you didn’t mention the ravens business, did you?’ He watched like a hawk as she shook her head. ‘Good, because I don’t fancy another stint in Parc-y-Nant just yet.’
‘Another?’ her eyebrows raised. ‘What do you mean?’
Shit.
‘Sorry. Was thinking about Enid Evans.’
She threw him such an odd glance that to swiftly change the subject he pulled out his rolled-up newspaper and pointed to the headline.
‘Have you seen this?’
‘Yes. It’s awful.’ Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment as if holding back tears. His hand moved to her shoulder and he drew her closer, smelling a trace of his mother’s scent.
‘I can’t fucking believe this either. What is going on, eh?’
‘I don’t know, but I had to tell the police I thought Rhiannon was being stalked. That’s why she got out . . . Those dear little boys. Oh Jesus . . .’
His stomach felt worse than hollow. Was more proof needed that his brother was around? Back to rock the fucking boat. Fucking great . . . And here she was jumping in with both feet as well . . .
‘It’s all my fault.’ She interrupted his thoughts. ‘I did think about bringing the three of them back to the Hall for the time being, at least until her parents got back. I should have trusted my instincts. What’s the bloody matter with me?’ She came to a halt, her wet shoulders beginning to heave. He took her hand again and this time it felt as cold as winter. Then he noticed his wrist and withdrew it, to rub it clean against his Parka.
‘What’s the matter?’
She’d noticed it too. Christ, she didn’t miss a trick.
‘Nothing. Come on, we’ll find somewhere warm and dry and I’ll get you a drink.’ He guided her over the road to the crowded Coffee Bean Café and a table at the back of the shop away from possible prying eyes. He ordered two mugs of coffee at the counter and carried them over to where she sat as if in a daze. It was time to find out more about her trip to the can because as always, forewarned is forearmed. ‘By the way,’ as he set both mugs down then helped lift her fleece from her shoulders. ‘Did you tell the plods she used to fancy my brother?’
‘Yes, but they were far more interested in the boys’ father. Apparently he’s a real loose canon. Wanted for burglary and intimidation. Drugs money, they reckon.’
‘Sounds like a good dad.’ He tried not to let his relief show, because if they came sniffing round Ravenstone again it wouldn’t just be the ravens croaking. ‘Let’s hope the plods will re-invent themselves and snap him up pretty quickly.’
‘But he’s got a red Sierra and the latest news is that someone herding sheep for a cull saw two white vans on that mountain road. One seemed to be chasing the other.’
His coffee tilted in his mug as he lifted it to his lips. ‘Plenty of white vans around,’ he said. ‘Probably yobs up from the valleys.’
‘And the hills . . .’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just thinking of some RS Thomas poem. Anyway, I told them that as far as everyone was concerned, your Richard was over the other side of the world in Darwin.’
My Richard . . .
‘How did you know that?’
‘Mr Harries mentioned it.’ She pulled out her hair clasp then gathered up the damp strands of her original pleat into a ponytail. ‘No wonder he seemed so upset this morning. I’d got no idea till I’d seen the newspapers.’ He noticed her eyes glaze over again. He didn’t want to overdo the interrogation, for fear of her clamming up, but he had to find out what she knew.
‘You have been a busy bee. What else did Mr Perfect have to say?’
She didn’t like that one bit. Bad move, he thought, inwardly cursing his stupidity.
‘At least he’s straight,’ she glared at him
‘Unlike me, eh?’
She sighed. A signal if ever there was for him to watch his step.
‘I was about to say that according to Mr Harries, the three of you were completely cleared of any involvement in your mother’s death, and in his opinion, it was either some left-over cult weirdo or someone totally infatuated with her.’
‘Clever man.’ He gulped down the last of his coffee. It was time to change the subject again, and he was on just poised to quiz her about her planned meeting with this other guy next Thursday when suddenly his mouth fell open, empty of words, because there outside the misted-up window was a figure he’d know anywhere. A figure whose name wasn’t only Richard Ferris Jones, but Certain Death.
He leapt from his chair and hurtled towards the door, almost toppling an elderly woman and her companion as he went. His heart seemed on fire, his fists coiled, bloodless as he searched from left to right. Right to left, at strangers who eyed him with alarm and edged away.
‘Mark?’ Lucy was calling him. He glanced back into the café.
‘What’s up?’ she asked as he rejoined her. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Thought it was the foreman from work, that’s all. Shall we go?’
He waited while she gathered up her bags and slipped her arms back into her fleece.
‘I need to buy a lock for my bedroom window, at least for the time being,’ she announced, and once they’d left the crush of wet coats behind, she set off towards the Brynberth industrial estate and its DIY retailer which was some half a mile away. As she walked on ahead, he realised how in just two days she seemed to have imperceptibly changed. The extra-glowing skin, the subtle touches of make-up, and now, in close-up he saw wayward tendrils of dark blonde hair curled against her neck. He thought of that Smartie Tart birthday card her friend had sent and maybe now he knew why.
‘This guy you’re seeing,’ he began as the crowds thinned out along the pavement. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Why?’ She didn’t turn round.
‘Just curious.’
Nevertheless he felt he might elicit more if he lightened up a bit. The question was painful enough for him as it was, and he braced himself for the answer.
‘Where to start. That’s the trouble . . .’
‘OK. His voice. How does he speak?’
‘Sort of West Country I suppose. He’s from Bristol.’
‘We went there once,’ he said. His mother had done a gig near the Arnolfini one Saturday night and Hector had taken them all in the car. He also remembered the harbour. The way she walked along the quayside with her arm round Richard. The lapping oily water . . .
‘He’s a research Fellow at the University there.’
‘Researching what?’
‘Minerals.’
‘So why’s he in this neck of the woods?’
‘Looking at rocks. More research, I suppose.’
‘Another clever man, then,’ he couldn’t resist. ‘You seem to go for those.’
‘For God’s sake, Mark. He’s just good company.’
But he’d detected a blush rising above her fleece collar and in that moment, emptiness seemed to spread its tentacles around his heart.
‘And I’m not?’
‘That’s really childish.’ She turned round, glass-bead raindrops on her skin. ‘He’s a bloke I met quite by accident. Is having coffee together a deadly sin? Look,’ she stuck out her left hand. ‘See. Nothing on that fourth finger, okay? I’ve got to compare, haven’t I?’ she added.
‘So how am I doing so far?’
‘I’ll tell you on Thursday evening.’
‘I can’t wait.’ And he also told himself that if secretly being with her at the rendezvous meant him taking another day off work, so be it. ‘Look, I know what y
ou’re thinking,’ he said. ‘I’m thirty. I’ve got my own life. I can please myself, yeah, yeah, yeah . . . Right?’ This passable imitation brought a rare smile to her face and she playfully smacked his outstretched hand. He kept it there, as if in a trance, all the while scouring his surroundings for the man who’d just changed the blood in his veins to ice.
‘I’ve also a confession to make,’ he added.
‘Now what?’
‘I’ve got rid of all your Nocturne stuff.’
‘You went into my room?’ That same glare again.
‘I had to. You mustn’t use it any more, okay?’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘It reminds me too much of my mam. One sniff and everything comes back. I mean, everything. I just had a mad moment, that’s all . . .’ His pleading look seemed to work. She was softening.
‘Seems like it. They weren’t off the back of a lorry you know. It’s the coolest perfume around in London at the moment, revived from the seventies. The spray was actually a present from Anna. It’s her favourite.’
‘Sorry. Look, I’ll get you something else just as nice once we’ve sorted out a window lock.’
‘That’s not the point. They were mine.’
They proceeded in silence, turning off the main road until Parry & Sons DIY store came into view. Its glazed entrance doors offering an inviting glimpse into the man-made world of lighting, furniture and bathroom ware, contrasting with the dark wet hills which reared up behind the building and its busy forecourt.
He soon located what was needed and noticed that for the first time she wasn’t peering at taps, or showing any interest in those artefacts which would make Wern Goch a home. She was keeping to her word, then. Keeping her project on hold until Friday 1st September. Calling all the shots.
As she rummaged in her shoulder bag for her purse at the checkout, he noticed a small brown book slide from it on to the moving rubber belt. He turned it over in his rough hands then smelt the pages.
‘Hey, this is pretty ancient,’ he said as she handed over a clutch of coins. ‘Celtic Deities, eh?’
‘Mr Harries gave it to me, would you believe. Recommended reading, he said.’
A Night With No Stars Page 27