‘You’ve let everything get out of all proportion. The twins are a credit to you and Emma. And themselves.’
‘You think?’ Jack frowned. ‘I’ve been reading that social work literature you dumped on us. In the chapter on family dynamics, it says the rules of social engagement in some households resemble those of battle, and I thought, tell me about it! But the writer’s describing the classic dysfunctional family and its interactions.’
McKenna lit a cigarette. His arm and shoulder ached bitingly. ‘Writers write for their audience. Young women are fed nonsense about life being a bed of roses when they find the right bloke, and social workers are fed similar nonsense about what happens when the thorns on the same roses draw a bit of blood every so often. Your family’s functioned smoothly for years, so a glitch now and then doesn’t necessarily presage total disintegration.’
Eifion Roberts walked in, sat in the vacant chair beside Jack’s, and tilted its front legs from the floor. ‘Found those missing children yet?’
‘Weather permitting, Mountain Rescue will look for Gary, and we made contact with a friend of Mandy’s, so fingers crossed we’ll hear if she turns up.’
Dr Roberts grunted. ‘I’ve got contacts. I’m told things other folk haven’t heard as yet.’ His voice, weary and wearying, began to drone. ‘I’m told what some’ll be glad to hear, and what’ll make others despair.’ He let the chair fall back on all four legs, and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘Don’t waste any more time or money looking for Tony Jones. I know exactly where he is.’
‘Where?’ Jack asked.
‘He was taken to Manchester Royal late last night from a secure unit outside the city.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Not a thing. He solved all his problems with the help of a broken bathroom tile, but he’s left a bit of a mess for others.’
McKenna sat in Owen Griffiths’ office, looking out on another aspect of the city, at slate roofs greasy with rain, litter dropped in bare trees by an untidy wind, and an old woman, clothing unkempt and ragged, struggling up the narrow street past the Three Crowns public house. Griffiths spoke into the telephone, his voice urgent, sharp with anger.
What happened, McKenna thought, to the life energy seeping from that old woman like water from a rusty vessel, and so violently expelled from Tony’s body? Where did it go? Her weariness and decrepitude visible to the most casual eye, the old woman’s life-force seemed fit only to sustain a rickety baby in the Third World. What driving urgency compelled Tony to incur his own extinction? And why did Arwel Thomas die? While McKenna knew neither boy, he could grieve for Arwel, the perceptions and memories of Elis and the ethereal Carol telling something of the boy’s essential quality, a service yet to be performed for the other. Glancing at Owen Griffiths, who talked now in muted heavy tones, he thought of Goethe, who suggested Mozart died not because his destiny was fulfilled, but to leave something for others to do in the long-destined duration of the world’s existence. Arwel’s death gave McKenna something to do, at least for a while.
Griffiths put the telephone receiver in its cradle. ‘Tony’s the second suicide in that secure unit in the past six months. They take kids from all over that nobody else wants, and charge the earth.’
‘Offenders and inadequates support a huge and very profitable industry,’ McKenna commented. ‘Manchester and South Wales police will report back to us, I hope.’
Griffiths nodded, rubbing his hand over his jaw. ‘And HQ say we can ask Social Service to explain how Tony came by the same kind of anal injuries as Arwel.’
‘As Jack said about Arwel, obviously not from sitting too long on the top of Snowdon.’
‘Don’t joke, Michael. Some things never have a funny side of any description. Dear God! Is there no joy left in the world? You switch on the TV, pick up a newspaper, and it’s nothing but war and disaster, poverty and cruelty, filth and perversion.’
‘One aspect of mankind’s natural state. The few grains of gold can still be found in the blood and dirt.’
‘Can they?’ Griffiths asked. ‘Where d’you find your joy, with no children, and not even a woman to your name any longer? Jack always said the girls were his pride and joy, after his lovely wife.’
‘They’re not at the moment, but Jack’s too concerned with the temporal to find compensation elsewhere.’
Mari Williamson, clad in tight black pants and rich black chenille sweater, admitted McKenna to Bedd y Cor’s discreetly sumptuous hall. The garments emphasized her pallor, gauntness taking an ugly toll on her youth.
‘Are you not well, Mari? You look pale.’
‘We’re all under a strain.’ Her voice was curt, her eyes wary. ‘When—’ The words stuck in her throat, and she coughed raspingly. ‘When will Arwel be buried?’
‘I don’t know. His body can’t be released yet. The inquest was adjourned.’
‘He’s dead. You’ve cut him up. What else is there?’
‘The matter of finding out who killed him, and where.’
‘He was in the tunnel.’
‘He was dumped there. He died somewhere else.’
‘Everybody wants him buried. They’d feel better. It’s not natural not to have a proper funeral.’
McKenna sat down on an ancient settle pushed against one wall, the long-case clock ticking softly. Mari sat beside him, hands clasped between her knees, eyes huge and dark in the pallid face. ‘It’s like he’s not properly dead. You know he is, but you can’t believe it.’ She shivered. ‘I’m afraid I’ll see him, wandering round the house and yard, wrapped in a sheet and all bluey-white and horrible like the undead in a vampire film.’
‘He’d be no threat to those who loved him.’
‘You don’t know who he’d blame!’
‘He’d blame the person responsible for his death,’ McKenna said. ‘I worry that putting him in the ground will stop people caring. Grieving is a process of forgetting, but while Arwel’s in that mortuary drawer, everyone’s uncomfortable, like you.’
‘Why don’t you know who killed him? It’s days and days since you found him. Haven’t you got any clues? When will you know?’
‘It’s not a matter of when, it’s not a story where clues are laid out to be picked up one after another, it’s not a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces simply jumbled in a mess.’ He lit a cigarette, and leaned back, feeling old wood unyielding against his bones. ‘Something happens, but you don’t know why. If you know why, you don’t know who, and even if you know who, you can’t prove it. Murder tears holes in the neat orderly fabric we weave about life, exposing the chaos underneath.’
‘Are you making excuses for doing nothing?’
‘I’m being honest with you.’ He dropped ash in the fireplace.
‘You’ll never find out, will you?’ She stood, smoothing the sweater over her narrow hips. ‘Maybe you don’t really want to.’ Her voice was challenging.
McKenna too rose to his feet. ‘If people would tell me what they know, I might be able to put the pieces together, but nobody will. Not even you.’
‘Mari spends a great deal of time in tears these days,’ Elis commented. ‘Hard to believe there’s so much emotion under that cool exterior.’ He sat opposite McKenna, on a grey leather sofa in the cool grey room, a tray of coffee on the table.
‘I upset her.’ Since their last meeting, subtle changes had come over Elis’s face, disturbing the contours, scoring lines and painting shadows. ‘Was your visit to Germany successful? Your wife said you went to look at a horse.’
‘I looked at a number of horses, none of which took my fancy.’ Elis leaned forward to offer cigarettes. ‘How’s your shoulder?’
‘Healing slowly. A friend says I’m an uncomfortable reminder of human frailty, accident and sickness prone.’
‘So was he.’ Elis nodded towards the Beethoven portrait, and rose, taking a silver casket from the shelf beside the fireplace. Unlocking the clasp, he said, ‘I went mainly to colle
ct this. Rhiannon wouldn’t tell you because she deplores my spending thousands of pounds on an old letter.’
McKenna took the stained and yellowed paper, its fabric rough to his fingers, its edges frail and crumbly, the script fading and blotched with damp and age and careless spatters of ink. Elis sat beside him, the scent of fresh cold air and horses about his hair and clothing. ‘Utterly atrocious handwriting, isn’t it? Almost illegible.’
‘A lock of Beethoven’s hair was sold at auction recently.’
Elis nodded. ‘I had first refusal. People in the right places know my interests.’ He retrieved his precious relic, and placed it carefully in the casket. ‘The hair’s gone to an American university. Modern science will soon be able to tell the world if he was treated for syphilis.’
‘Would it matter? Even Geothe didn’t escape what he called the “phantom spawned in poisonous slime”. Rather as we regard AIDS, I suppose.’ McKenna watched the other man. ‘We don’t yet know if Arwel was HIV positive, but someone perhaps thought he was, and killed him out of fear or rage. Perhaps the other boy couldn’t bear waiting to know if his life would be haunted by a poisonous phantom.’
‘Which other boy?’
‘Don’t you know? Mrs Elis has probably been told. Last night, Tony Jones had what one might call a noble Roman death in a bath of hot water. He opened the arteries behind his knees with a splinter of tile, and the staff on watch noticed nothing until they saw the water turn red.’
‘Oh, God!’ Elis slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. ‘Oh, God!’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Arwel was pally with him.’
‘Did he ever come here?’
‘No. Rhiannon flatly refused. She said Tony was such a blabbermouth he should be called Papageno, and made to wear a padlock on his mouth.’
‘And what might he blabber about?’
‘I don’t know! She said he was the biggest troublemaker at Blodwel.’
‘I’d better ask her.’ McKenna ground out his cigarette. ‘Is she in?’
‘I think so.’
McKenna rose. ‘By the way, you were stopped for speeding recently. Who was the passenger?’
‘Eh?’ Elis looked up, his face grey.
‘Who was the young fair-haired passenger in the Range Rover?’
‘Carol. I was taking her home.’
Rhiannon flushed. ‘I didn’t know!’
‘Shouldn’t you know when a child in the council’s care commits suicide?’ McKenna asked.
‘Rhiannon will be told when she’s needed to provide an acceptable explanation for the unacceptable,’ Elis said acidly. ‘I’ve told her that people use her and their associations with her.’
‘Why did you believe Tony Jones was a troublemaker?’ McKenna asked her.
‘Ronald Hogg said so, and she believes everything he says.’
‘I asked your wife.’
‘Can you call me a liar, Rhiannon?’ Elis sighed. ‘But you won’t learn until Hogg and his cronies use your trust against you like a knife.’
‘Why d’you dislike him so much?’ Rhiannon demanded. ‘He does a horribly difficult and thankless job to the best of his abilities. It’s not his fault when wilful stupid children come to more grief. They wouldn’t be in care if they were normal.’
‘What’s normal?’ Elis asked. ‘My instincts revolt against Hogg, and those same instincts have always held good with horses.’ He lit a cigarette, then tossed the packet to McKenna. ‘If you’d taken the trouble to get to know Arwel properly, you’d know he was a very normal teenager, underneath all the damage inflicted by Hogg and a lifetime without love.’
‘You think your love and your money solve everything, don’t you?’ Rhiannon asked.
‘They can both help.’
‘They didn’t help Arwel very much, did they? Especially not the love.’
Colour drained from Elis’s face, leaving dark stains under the eyes.
‘I am not here to referee your fighting,’ McKenna said.
‘My husband wanted to adopt Arwel Thomas,’ Rhiannon said. ‘He couldn’t understand my objections; my perfectly normal objections!’
‘Did Arwel know?’ McKenna asked. ‘Did the Social Services department? Did Hogg?’
‘There’s been no formal application,’ Elis said. ‘Rhiannon and I were still discussing the matter.’
‘Did you tell anyone, Mrs Elis? Did you discuss the proposal?’
Her voice held defiance. ‘I did not, because I would never agree, and my husband knew that. He just wouldn’t accept it.’
‘They’re not real, are they?’ Jack said. ‘They take on these kids like other people get a cat or a hamster.’
‘Money turns their brain,’ Dewi said. ‘They think they can buy folk like you or me buys a newspaper.’
‘It’s a pity nobody bought you a grammar book,’ Janet commented.
‘It’s an even bigger pity nobody bought your pa a book on decent Christian compassion,’ Dewi countered.
‘What’s my father done to you?’ Janet demanded.
‘Nothing, ’cos I wouldn’t give him the chance.’ Dewi turned to McKenna. ‘I’m not causing trouble, sir, but some things stick in your craw.’
‘What things?’ Janet’s voice grated on McKenna’s ears.
‘You dodged chapel last Sunday morning, didn’t you?’ Dewi asked her. ‘Missed your pa handing out blessings to the new mums and their offspring, and he does a nice line in blessings when the mum flashes a wedding ring in his face. But if she can’t, the sanctimonious Pastor Evans lets her walk out front with the rest, then pretends she doesn’t exist. He did that to Sian from our street. Can you imagine how she felt?’
Janet flushed. ‘She should’ve thought of that before she stood up in chapel, or, better still, before she opened her legs to half Bangor!’
‘Daddy wouldn’t like to hear you talk like that,’ Dewi said.
Janet jumped up, and rushed to the door. ‘Daddy can go to hell! And so can you!’ The door slammed, and her footsteps rattled along the corridor.
‘Why d’you do it?’ McKenna asked. ‘Why d’you wind her up?’
‘She needs sorting,’ Jack said. ‘She’s got ideas above herself, which isn’t surprising, her being the only child of a posh minister. She’s very judgmental, and very prone to moralizing, which is probably why Carol Thomas won’t give her the time of day.’
‘Has anyone seen Thomas senior yet?’ McKenna asked.
‘I’ll try again later, sir,’ Dewi said. ‘I missed him yesterday. Shall I ask Carol what she was doing in Elis’s car at midnight?’
‘No.’ McKenna fidgeted with his lighter. ‘I’ll talk to her again. We’re going to Blodwel later. That’s more urgent.’
‘To hear another load of hogwash?’ Jack asked. ‘Has anybody told us the truth about anything yet?’ He coughed, rubbing his throat. ‘D’you think Rhiannon killed Arwel to scupper the adoption idea?’
‘She doesn’t need to resort to murder,’ Dewi commented. ‘She’s enough clout to scupper anything. Maybe she’s the reason the Blodwel kids won’t talk to us.’
McKenna sighed. ‘We scare those kids. We’re just another face to the authority making their life a misery, and not their salvation, so don’t judge Janet too harshly.’
‘Shall I send her out with Mountain Rescue when she’s cooled down?’ Jack asked. ‘They’re concentrating on the Betws Garmon area, on the assumption Gary’s responsible for that garage break-in last night.’
Beyond the cottage window, rain swept through the valley, lashing trees cowed by the weight of wind and water. Empty soft drinks cans littered the mantelshelf, biscuit and sandwich wrappings overflowed the waste bin, and Gary, smoking a stolen cigarette, fretted again with the problem of ridding himself of his leavings without revealing his presence. Colicky pains from too many fizzy drinks wrenched at his stomach, his gut was leaded with constipation, and, too long without a bath or clean clothes, he found his flesh a
nd odour offensive. The cold unventilated air inside the cottage held each and every smell, accentuating the sourness of his body, the staleness of food wrappings, the acrid scent of tobacco.
Holding the cigarette behind his back, he stood by the window, looking at an unchanged scene of empty lane, tumbledown walls, and mountains ghosted with streamers of mist. Rumps turned to the wind, scores of sheep grazed the fields below, fleeces dripping.
Time, he thought, had reached a dead-end, all urgency and energy evaporated, perhaps like his own journeying, terminating in this dark little cottage at the top of this steep little lane. He leaned against the window, breath condensing on the grass, roaming an inner landscape infinitely more bleak, reflecting on the company he had kept, Arwel’s ghost beside him. Their experiences were the same, yet each experienced the terror and confusion and black despair uniquely, Gary debased by the same men Arwel pitied for their miserable pleasures, dictated by pain and sin. Arwel kept some life-sustaining joy flaming in the crucible of his imagination, whispering to Gary in the long dark nights when neither could sleep that even though Fate’s malign daughters savaged them now, their kinder sisters must be waiting in the shadows. The cigarette burned itself out in his fingers while he stirred these other thoughts, smouldering now in his own imagination.
He had let those malign harpies invade his mother’s life, simply because his childhood journeying ran out of magic and into the real world. She wanted only the peace of knowing her son was happy, but the son became an affliction and, in despair and ignorance, she handed him over to the other woman, who sent him rocketing out of innocence and into a world where everything he believed himself to be was called into question. Dropping the burnt-out stub in the wastebin, Gary wondered about the woman who dwelt behind the sour face and plain name, and for whom even Arwel could find no pity. She took him riding in her car to places his mother would not imagine in her wildest nightmares, singing to the radio, clicking her nails on the steering-wheel in time to the music, wearing black shoes with pointed toes, the back of the thin high heels scuff-white from driving.
In Guilty Night Page 19