The House of Women

by Alison Taylor

  ‘Well, it’s all swings and roundabouts in the end, sir. You’re going from strength to strength, while the one-time Bard of Bala’s in a drawer in the morgue.’

  ‘Having died a bare stick, as the Chinese say.’

  ‘That’s another way of saying he had no offspring, is it?’

  ‘And no wife.’

  ‘That we know about.’

  McKenna closed the book and put it on the floor. ‘I think I might go to his funeral, and pay my last respects.’

  ‘Mrs Harris was wittering about that, as well. She asked if we’d let Ned’s sisters know when the body can be released.’

  ‘She can tell them herself. They’re her relatives.’

  ‘I got the impression they’re not on good terms.’

  ‘Then she can ask her solicitor, or bank manager, or whatever. It’s not our job.’ Noting the disappointment on Dewi’s face, McKenna said: ‘And you’re not doing favours on the quiet in your time off. You weren’t by any chance planning to ask the comely daughter to guide you through the wilds of Meirionydd to Penglogfa, were you?’

  Dewi blushed from his feet to the roots of his hair.

  McKenna sighed. ‘You should find yourself a steady girl. She’d neutralize some of that testosterone galloping through your veins.’

  The blush deepened.

  ‘There are times when it interferes with your judgement,’ McKenna went on. ‘You get side-tracked too easily, waylaid by a pretty smile or a buxom figure.’

  ‘I’m not promiscuous, sir.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘But I can’t find anyone who doesn’t disappoint me, sooner or later.’ He chewed his thumbnail, then added: ‘And I’ve probably disappointed a few, as well.’

  ‘It’s a matter of trial and error, but at some point, you might have to settle for a compromise. Most of us do.’

  Cheeks still pink, Dewi summoned a smile. ‘Maybe I’ll be another bare stick.’

  ‘I hope not. That would be rather a waste.’

  ‘There’s plenty about. You’ve only got to look at the lonely hearts columns in the papers. There’s even one in The Times.’ He grinned. ‘D’you think Janet reads it?’

  ‘I don’t know what she does. Why did you go to her flat? Is there something going on I don’t know about?’

  ‘I just called in because she didn’t seem very well earlier. In fact, she’s been pretty miserable since she came back from Italy.’

  ‘So perhaps she’s pining for the handsome Latin she dallied with for a while on the shores of the Mediterranean.’

  ‘D’you think so?’ Dewi pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t’ve thought a holiday fling with some dago was quite her scene.’

  MONDAY, 20 AUGUST

  1

  MCKENNA’S FRONT DOORBELL rang shortly after eight o’clock on Monday morning and, thinking it must be the postman, he padded upstairs in slippers and pyjamas.

  ‘Morning, Michael,’ the deputy chief constable said. ‘Can I come in?’ Reaching the foot of the staircase, he added: ‘Well, thank God the inside doesn’t match the outside. All the same, shouldn’t you be living somewhere a bit more salubrious?’

  ‘I like this house,’ McKenna said, his stomach churning with anxiety, ‘and I like the view.’

  Walking to the open back door, his visitor glanced over the garden fence, then to the wall on the right, where McKenna’s two cats basked in the morning sunshine. ‘These the strays I keep hearing about?’ Then, he sat carefully on the chesterfield, rearranging his uniform.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Black and no sugar.’

  McKenna hurried to the kitchen, poured coffee into his best china mug, and returned to the parlour. ‘I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘No rush, Michael. Let’s talk first, shall we?’

  ‘What about?’ Sitting in the armchair, McKenna lit his first cigarette of the day. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing drastic. Nothing to worry about, really.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ McKenna felt his temper rise. ‘And how often do I get an early-morning visit from someone of your rank all dressed up in his handing-out-the-bad-news gear?’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ The other man frowned. ‘I thought coming here was the least I could do in the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  The other man coughed. ‘We’ve been instructed to hold back your promotion for a while.’

  Drawing hard on the cigarette, McKenna stared at the floor.

  ‘It’s a political decision, and it was taken without any reference to us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why d’you think? Good God, man, you’ve just come back from the Irish Republic!’

  ‘And what does that have to do with me, or my promotion?’

  ‘Because as superintendent, you’d be involved with Special Branch supervision at times, for royal visits and other sensitive security matters, and the civil servants who tell us what to do don’t think, apparently, that someone with your background and connections is quite the best person to have in that office at this present moment in time, because they reckon the Irish Republic’s a bloody tinder-box, and always will be, and all the peace initiatives and cease-fires in the world won’t make the slightest bit of difference.’ Pausing to draw breath, he added: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. I think it’s a very bad show, and so does the chief.’

  McKenna ground his cigarette to pulp in the ashtray, hands shaking. ‘You knew I was going to Ireland before I went, so why didn’t you say crossing the water for my great aunt’s funeral would turn me into a security risk?’

  ‘Because we’ve only just found out she was cousin once removed to the one who got topped in 1916.’

  ‘And she wasn’t born until 1920, because her father was in the trenches with his English comrades up to the end of the Great War, so don’t you think it’s rather academic, as well as ancient history?’

  ‘Nobody’s got longer memories than the Irish.’

  McKenna lit another cigarette, and stared at his visitor. ‘Who checked up on me? Who took the trouble to uproot my family tree?’

  ‘It wasn’t us.’ The deputy chief smiled tentatively. ‘But you know we’re sometimes forced to abide by other people’s decisions.’

  ‘When it’s convenient!’ McKenna snapped.

  His visitor rose, again rearranging the uniform. ‘D’you want to extend your leave for a few days?’

  ‘No, I don’t!’

  ‘Suit yourself, but I just thought it might be easier if you gave Griffiths’s replacement chance to settle in.’

  2

  Finding McKenna’s office still empty at nine thirty, Dewi strolled along the corridor to Griffiths’s old room, rapped on the door, and walked in, but instead of McKenna, glorying in his new seat of power, he was shocked to see a woman behind the desk, a smartly uniformed and sharply coiffed creature, talking to a uniformed inspector who was another total stranger.

  ‘Yes?’ She raised one finely pencilled eyebrow. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Constable Prys, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m Superintendent Bradshaw, and this is Inspector Rowlands. He’s standing in for Inspector Tuttle.’ She gave Dewi a rather feline smile. ‘And just so you know, I’m replacing Superintendent Griffiths. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was looking for DCI McKenna, ma’am.’

  ‘How strange! I’ve been doing exactly the same. He seems to have gone AWOL.’

  *

  Janet had disappeared too by the time Dewi returned to the CID office, but her bag still hung from the back of her chair. He waited for five minutes, staring at the clock, then went downstairs to the canteen, to find her sitting alone at one of the tables, drinking black coffee and looking very miserable. ‘Have you seen her?’ she demanded, taking a cigarette from the pack on the table. ‘And the other one? Mr McKenna’s apparently absolutely livid. He came in quite early, then went straight out aga
in. The gossip is that he’s gone to HQ.’ She blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘One of the sergeants said Bradshaw’s got an awful reputation.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Mowing down anyone who gets in her way. She’s one of the fast-track breed, and she’s been with the fraud squad until now, so she won’t have clue about real policing.’ Sipping her coffee, she added: ‘What on earth could’ve stopped Mr McKenna’s promotion? I think it’s awful!’

  ‘I expect he does, as well.’

  3

  McKenna’s meeting with the chief constable brought no comfort, and although assured that he remained the virtually autonomous head of divisional criminal investigation, he realized that what had sufficed for so long was no longer enough. Persuaded that Griffiths’s post was his for the asking, he had let himself anticipate what it would bring, only to find the prize wrenched from his hands at the last moment by something emerging from the shadows, as Ned Jones had done so many years before.

  Driving along the road travelled with such optimism only three days earlier, he thought of Friday’s little adventure with the two people he regarded as his closest friends, and drew into a lay-by, to sit with his hands on the wheel and his head on his hands, and to think of what else he had lost, apart from a friend, when Griffiths decided to put himself out to grass.

  4

  Diana Bradshaw preened herself when the two young detectives leaped to attention. She perched on Dewi’s desk, displaying elegant legs and well-shod feet, her perfume heavy in the still air. ‘I thought you might like an opportunity to bring me up to date.’

  ‘There’s not much on at the moment, ma’am,’ Dewi offered. ‘August is usually fairly quiet.’

  ‘Don’t tempt fate!’ She smiled. ‘Especially with Inspector Tuttle and several others on leave.’

  ‘The division’s always got a good CID complement. We’re just spread over a large area unless something big crops up.’

  ‘With DCI McKenna in charge.’ She rose. ‘Yes, I do know, Constable Prys, and I know exactly how many officers I have at my disposal, uniformed and otherwise.’ Gazing at him thoughtfully, she said: ‘I’m told a car fraud of rather massive proportions has outwitted you for several months, so Inspector Rowlands is now in charge of that, and I expect some real progress very quickly.’ Making for the door, she added: ‘Please come to my office in ten minutes, Miss Evans.’

  ‘Shit!’ Dewi muttered. ‘How to cross a new broom!’

  ‘Why does she want to see me?’ Janet’s voice squeaked.

  ‘Perhaps she fancies you. Play your cards right, and you’ll be well in.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Janet seethed. ‘Don’t you think of anything but sex?’

  5

  By the time McKenna could bring himself to face his foreseeable future, Rowlands had given himself a crash course in the current state of divisional activity, and was waiting to meet the chief inspector of whom he had heard so much. When McKenna eventually walked into the office, he rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Ian Rowlands, sir. Inspector from central area on CID secondment.’

  McKenna took the other man’s hand, then gestured him to a seat. ‘I’m told you’re here while Inspector Tuttle’s on holiday.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lighting a cigarette, McKenna said: ‘Is this your first stint as a detective?’

  ‘At this rank, yes.’

  ‘Then we must make sure it’s a worthwhile experience.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I hope so, anyway.’ Eyeing McKenna, he said: ‘May I smoke? I’ve spent rather a long time in Superintendent Bradshaw’s smoke-free zone.’

  ‘Feel free.’ McKenna pushed the pack across the desk. ‘She tells me she’s put you in charge of the vehicle fraud.’

  ‘I’ve mugged up on it, but thought I’d ask you before I start anything.’ Savouring the cigarette, he added: ‘Janet and Dewi Prys told me about this Ned Jones who died last Friday. The autopsy report’s just arrived, and things don’t look very straightforward.’

  ‘Do they not? Why’s that?’

  ‘Cause of death was asphyxiation by acute inflammation of the trachea, due to an allergic reaction, but the pathologist can’t say to what.’

  Fiddling with paperclips, McKenna suggested: ‘A bee sting in the mouth, perhaps? Fatal reactions aren’t uncommon.’

  ‘There’s no sign of a sting. It was probably a drug, even though he was known to have high sensitivities. His GP was prescribing nothing but nitrazepam for insomnia, and antihistamines for the allergies, so I wondered if it could be an assisted suicide. He was quite poorly and in a lot of pain, so he may have wanted out.’

  ‘Then what’s wrong with unassisted suicide? And Ned’s illnesses were said to be all in the mind, so he was quite capable of killing himself. He wouldn’t need help.’

  ‘With respect, sir, Phoebe Harris said he must have been murdered.’

  ‘While I can’t discount unlawful killing,’ McKenna said, ‘provoking a fatal allergic reaction is a very uncertain way of doing it. It was more likely sheer carelessness or a simple accident.’

  ‘Why? It’s a very subtle way of poisoning someone. You can keep at it until it works, and it’ll still look more like accident or suicide than murder.’

  *

  Dewi leaned against McKenna’s door. ‘If you’re looking for Janet, sir, Ms Bradshaw had her in the office, then she came out, went to the bogs, and disappeared.’

  ‘And is there a connection, other than the one in your head?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. It’s not my place to ask.’ He paused. ‘Will you be very offended if I ask why you weren’t promoted? Everybody expected it, and they don’t like what’s happened. It doesn’t seem honest.’

  ‘I’m told it was a political decision taken outside the force, and to do with my ancestry, but not necessarily irreversible, even though my family tree can’t be uprooted and regrown into a more conventional shape.’

  ‘Really?’ Dewi wandered over to the window, to look out over the bus shelters. ‘I’d say that’s a load of bollocks, and I’m sure Mr Griffiths and Mr Tuttle’ll agree with me when they find out.’

  ‘Unfortunately, other people’s aspirations will have to go on hold for a while.’

  ‘Only if they stay in this division, sir.’ He drifted over to the desk, and sat down. ‘And only if Ms Bradshaw doesn’t decide to move on.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘Shall I go in pursuit of the vehicle bandits with Mr Rowlands, find out what’s ailing Janet, or go and see Mrs Harris?’

  ‘Show Rowlands the lie of the land, but get me an appointment with Ned’s GP first.’

  6

  ‘Ms Bradshaw tells me she gave you the rest of the day off,’ McKenna said, as Janet stood at the door of her flat, red-eyed and pale-faced. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t think so.’

  ‘And Dewi tells me you legged it after you were called to her office. Did she upset you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Janet hung against the door jamb, wilted and weary-looking, her shirt damp with sweat.

  ‘This isn’t an easy day for me,’ McKenna said, ‘and you’re not helping.’

  She raised her eyes, and her face crumpled like a child’s as tears welled out and ran down her face, then she stumbled into the flat, sobbing raucously.

  McKenna followed, to find her sprawled on the sofa, still weeping bitterly. ‘For God’s sake, girl! What’s wrong with you?’

  She gulped and wailed. ‘I’ve been sick!’

  ‘So? It’s probably a tummy bug.’

  ‘I was sick yesterday, and the day before.’ Her voice rose. ‘And the day before that, and I’m terribly late, and my father’s going to kill me!’ Face ashen, she began to gasp, staring at McKenna with huge, bloodshot eyes, before launching herself into his arms.

  7

  ‘Did you call on Janet?’ Diana Bradshaw asked, sauntering unannounced into McKenna’s office. ‘Is she any better? I was quite worried about her.’ Sitting on the edge of the desk, she wen
t on: ‘I had a chat with her this morning about her prospects, because she’s a bright, well-educated girl, and she could go right to the top. She doesn’t have a bad sickness record, does she? That would be such a shame.’

  ‘No.’ McKenna pulled a cigarette from the pack, and flicked his lighter. ‘She’s usually bursting with rude health.’

  ‘Oh, well, I expect it’s a hangover from holiday tummy.’ As smoke began to curl towards the ceiling, she placed her hand to her lips, coughing delicately.

  McKenna nodded. ‘I expect so.’ As she coughed again, he said: ‘DC Prys is helping Rowlands with the car investigation, and I have an appointment to see Ned Jones’s doctor after lunch.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘You don’t need to report to me all the time, you know. You’re in charge of criminal investigation.’

  ‘Superintendent Griffiths liked to have his finger on every pulse,’ McKenna said, smiling too. ‘His input was often invaluable.’

  8

  Like McKenna, Gabriel Ansoni was of immigrant stock, the grandson of ice-cream makers from northern Italy, but unlike McKenna, he remained a good Catholic.

  ‘How’s the family?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘Sufficient to keep His Holiness quiet for the time being.’ The dark eyes smiled at him. ‘And more than enough to tempt me to leave them with the relatives in Cremona!’ The smile faded, and he sighed. ‘Poor Ned won’t ever know that feeling, for all he was so close to Phoebe Harris.’

  ‘I sort of knew him.’ Relating the long ago Eisteddfod contest, in his mind’s eye he saw Ned again, a thin figure stooping even in youth, mounting the stage to receive his accolade. ‘So if I’d taken it into my head to dispatch him after all these years, I’d be famous at last, wouldn’t I?’ He smiled briefly. ‘But his flame burned itself out without my help. What was wrong with him?’