However, none of this trick was necessary, for the door handle was already turning sweetly in her hand; the widening gap revealing her boss’ sanctuary inch by alarming inch. She could only think that his being in such a rush that morning could explain this carelessness.
She closed his door behind her and tiptoed towards a substantial oak desk – the battered variety that’s often left for firewood at the end of a country auction. On it, in surprising orderliness, stood a computer showing a Mountains-of-Mourne screensaver; a collection of pens and felt tips, plus a framed black and white photo of some leggy boy fishing from a boat. She guessed it was him by his gap-toothed smile, but not his hair, thick, wavy, almost white, blowing in the wind.
But where was his supposed library? His own published books? Unless hidden behind a false wall, there wasn’t one hardback or paperback to be seen. And what about a possible internet connection? No time to check. She had to focus on the desk’s six drawers, each bearing an empty keyhole and unidentifiable smells. It did cross her mind that perhaps The Rat had got here first and helped herself, but no. She soon found quantities of clear plastic wallets that slithered around in her hot hands. A quick perusal showed they contained a copy of her own contract and other stuff including handwritten notes on property law, particularly landlords’ and lessees’ rights. Because of the murky light, she had to carry these over to the small sash window at the front. Unlike Jason’s identical window, its frayed cords had broken, but there was no time to speculate why Mr Flynn hadn’t done a repair. Her own rapid breathing filled her ears as she passed his unmade bed whose mattress showed not the usual imprint of a sleeping body, but of turbulence.
At last.
The marginally better light revealed a stapled collection of papers headed HERON HOUSE. At the same time, her dull groin ache began to bite. Her throbbing head to return with a vengeance.
And what was this leaping at her from the page?
RENTAL AGREEMENT FOR HERON HOUSE.
Date: 12/2/07
BETWEEN MR. CHARLES PITT-ROSE,
owner, of 3, Sandhurst Mansion, Thornhill Avenue, Islington.
London N4 8TJ
AND MR. MONTGOMERY FLYNN
formerly of 10, Burnside Villas, Crosskelly. N.Ireland.
There were other shocks too, not least that someone much stronger was suddenly behind her, pinning her sore stomach against the window sill. One hand over her mouth, the other, pulling the pages from her hand. A man whose reek of sweat and cheap aftershave made her gag.
Only when the blue and yellow chequered police Range Rover swerved into the drive, did her assailant draw back and run from the room, but not before she’d registered his approximate age, the bald head, scruffy clothes and huge, muddy trainers. A complete stranger, who could, without this timely interruption, have probably killed her.
14.
Saturday 4th April 2009 – 2.50 p.m.
When Jason had left Hounslow, the municipal plane trees had been bursting into leaf, while the line of cherry blossom along Pinetree Road created a pale pink haze that went some way to soften the façades of its shops and offices. Here, however, at Heron House, it seemed the chestnut trees’ twisted old branches would never bud. Instead, they hung dripping over, what must have once been a handsome swimming pool, like so many malevolent, grasping arms, host to a colony of rooks whom he felt were keeping him under observation. He tried to identify the one who’d so brazenly commandeered his room last night, but none – as far as he could tell – had quite the same vivid white patch beneath the beak.
From his vantage point at the top of the overgrown bank, he then watched Idris Davies in his baggy boiler suit, wield a huge besom – bigger than anything Woolies had stocked – sweep every single dead leaf into that rectangle of black slime. With every small disturbance, it gave off an equally pungent whiff of organic decay as the nearby septic tank. The man must have lost all his sense of smell.
Whether or not the real ale was making him set caution aside, Jason called out to him. “Why are you doing that? It needs emptying, not filling in any more.”
But the gardener was either stone deaf or ignoring him deliberately, and Jason who’d endured enough of that kind of rudeness from his ex-manager, felt his blood heat up. He also noticed the guy’s unshaven neck. The way his lips moved as he brushed, allowing a wet, pink tongue to pop in and out.
“Hi? Mr Davies?” he tried again. Louder this time, but in a more reasonable tone. “I’m Jason Robbins.”
The guy angled his head towards him like some old turtle eyeing him up and down. “Who?”
Jason repeated his name, adding, “I’m a writer.”
“Writer? What you doin’ here, then?”
“There’ll be more of us come Friday. Why I’m concerned about the state of this pool, and the septic tank. That it over there?” He pointed to the rusted, raised lid set in a hollow below the overgrown bank.
“What’s them to you?”
“To be honest, they stink.”
A pause, during which the old man’s body language took a turn for the worse. But Archie Tait wouldn’t have run. Nor the private investigator hero in his thriller, whom he’d now named Dan Carver.
“That’s your opinion,” snarled the gardener. “Mine is that wino’s got no business letting strangers in. Bad enough he hired that tart in the kitchen when my Gwenno could have made food much better.”
That tart?
Jason felt his cheeks seriously burn. This was well out of order, but the old man had started sweeping again, deliberately directing wet debris up on to Jason’s boots.
He’d paid a deposit for the course and good money for the time being. He wasn’t up for being humiliated. “I’ll pass your slander on to Miss Jenkins. See what she thinks.”
The obsessive sweeper turned his back, and Jason felt his warmed-up blood was now a cold snake uncoiling itself around his internal organs.
“Where’s the witness?” His adversary gestured towards the dead trees. “Them rooks there? I don’t think so.” He moved away, swinging his broom defiantly from side to side, muttering stuff Jason couldn’t quite hear. He noticed how the birds left their branches and, like some huge black flower, cast a mysterious, moving shadow over the whole scene.
“The Fuzz is coming at three o’clock,” Jason shouted after the man, his cheeks now red hot. “Wanting to know who topped Betsan Griffiths. Might be best to show your face.” Jason almost said ‘ugly mug’ instead,’ but restrained himself.
Idris Davies turned again to face him, jabbing two angry fingers in the air.
***
Naff off yourself.
Still angry and half-tempted to run after the prick, Jason slithered down the rest of the bank towards what had once been an expensively tiled poolside terrace, wide enough for any number of tables and chairs. And the more his eyes roamed from its moss-encrusted pattern to the rusted side-bars of invisible steps into what had once been water, other, more shadowy shapes began to materialise. He blinked twice to clear his vision, aware of a cold, rogue breeze stroking his skin as these shadows became solid, moving. However, unlike those three mysterious figures he’d seen on his arrival at Heron House, this quartet were all men of Colin’s age or thereabouts, kitted out in morning suits and cummerbunds that strained over their well-fed stomachs.
They grouped and regrouped as if in slow motion with easy familiarity, drinking from glasses of vivid, red wine. The only colour, made all the more startling in the monochrome silence.
Was this some after-dinner gathering with the women still indoors? Or the kind of secret meeting Monty Flynn said he’d dealt with in his books? Too late, Jason realised he’d forgotten to breathe and, having taken a sudden, deep gulp of the tainted air, hiccuped far too loudly. The phone, ready in video mode, fell to the ground.
When Jason straightened up, the four guys who’d stopped their mute conversation were appraising him in such a way, that although that nippy breeze had eased, he had to steady himsel
f with the help of a handy branch. It was as if those eyes – four icy knives – had suddenly pierced his heart.
***
Still shaken, still dwelling on Idris Davies, and the strange swimming pool gathering, Jason heard wheels rattling the gravel on the drive behind him. He turned to see that same chequered Range Rover he’d spotted at Golyg y Mwyn, complete with DC Prydderch looking fed up.
Join the club, he thought, not only because Helen’s recent kick had drawn blood on his shin, but his planned best seller featuring Dan Carver was receding from his brain by the second.
“You did tell the Davieses I’d be here?” the cop said through his open window. A whiff of cheese and pickle wafted Jason’s way. “Can’t stop long, see. We’ve an incident down the town.”
So much for his promised thorough investigation, thought Jason. Whereas Dan Carver, a man of principles, would leave no stone unturned in his quest for justice. “I did, just five minutes ago,” Jason said, “but he buggered off. As for his wife, when have I had a chance to see her?”
The corpulent cop, perhaps anticipating a complaint, softened his tone.
“And Miss Jenkins, your partner? She around?”
“I’ve already explained to you. She’s not my partner. I left her near the pub. We’d had what you might call an altercation.” He liked that word, but not its reality. He wondered again where she was.
The Range Rover churned on past him, whereupon its driver climbed out, engine running. His bloodshot eyes glanced around until he pointed in the direction of the bare chestnuts. “Who’s that over there?”
Jason followed the fat forefinger to where a skinhead wearing jeans and a dark blue top was vaulting over an old stile and running up the hill beyond.
“God knows. Never seen him before. But the gardener might have.”
The cop pulled his two-way from its holder around his sizeable girth and spoke in Welsh to whoever had answered. The five words Jason recognised were “Heron House, suspicious,” and “Idris Davies.”
Prydderch ended the call and checked his watch. Had the Fuzz really somewhere to go that was more important than this? Jason urged himself to keep thinking like Dan Carver to make him even more real in his mind. Suspicious of everything and everyone. No holds barred.
“Was Betsan killed?” Jason asked.
“It’s beginning to look that way.”
Jason loped off in the direction of the stile, but soon realised that the effort was a waste of breath. Neither the running guy nor Idris Davies was anywhere to be seen. And what the Hell was Helen doing?
All he had for his trouble was waterlogged boots and a throbbing head. Back at the house, the cop was waiting for him, black briefcase in hand, unimpressed. The Range Rover’s engine now turned off.
“We should try and catch him,” Jason panted. “He could appear again. Nick stuff, whatever.”
“We will. Any stranger round here soon gets noticed and people talk. My God, how they talk.” DC Prydderch indicated the house’s porch. “Who’s that woman standing there?”
“Gwenno. Mrs Davies. The gardener’s wife. Got some pretty weird habits, too.”
A flicker of interest showed in those unhealthy eyes. “Such as?”
“I reckon you’ll soon be seeing for yourself.”
***
But no. Gone was the dowdy skirt and shoes, the apron and that weird riding crop. In their place, a neat, grey dress with prim white collar. Matching heels too, and pearly pink lipstick, applied in a hurry it would seem, spreading beyond her thin, dry mouth. Ignoring Jason, she curtsied and held out her hand to the uniform busy scraping his shoes on the iron heron.
Jason saw her smile, then cottoned on. She must be on the pull. She also must have somehow known this cop was coming.
“I’m so very, very sorry to hear about Miss Griffiths,” she pre-empted the visitor. “A lovely, lovely woman. Whoever would want to kill her? I do hope to goodness she didn’t suffer, that’s all I can say.”
She did me harm. Her and her mouth.
“How come you’ve heard about it?” quizzed the Fuzz.
A tiny pause which he didn’t seem to notice.
“My Idris was up the hill, see. Saw your blue and yellow car coming away from her bungalow. Then he met Gwilym Price. Likes to blab does that one. What living alone does to you.”
“We never saw Mr Davies, nor anyone else,” Jason countered, and was rewarded by a look of pure venom. “We – meaning myself and Miss Jenkins – were both at her home for quite a while.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit?” asked the visitor, snapping open his briefcase and pulling out a red file that reminded Jason too vividly of his last job. “With your husband too?”
Those flirty eyes immediately hardened. “Why him? I can help you much better. Anyway,” Gwenno spat, “where’s that Miss Jenkins?”
That tart.
“I’ve already spoken to her, and I’m sure she’ll be along shortly.” Prydderch’s look matched hers. “Mrs Davies, may I remind you, this is a murder investigation.”
That ‘m’ word and all its implications made Jason shudder. Gwenno, however, seemed to relish it.
“How was she murdered?” The old woman persisted.
“I’m not at liberty to say. But we must start by collecting statements from everyone who happened to be in the vicinity of Golwg y Mwyn this morning. Give your Idris a shout, eh? And while we’re at it, have you noticed a man in his early forties hanging around this house and grounds?”
He added the guy’s description and all the while, the cleaner’s piercing little eyes fixed on Jason, who was miffed he’d not provided the details considering he’d done all the running. Now his beery head was paying for it.
Gwenno shook her white curls. “Honest to God, sir; I can’t think who that might be. Now then,” she smiled at DC Prydderch again, “I’ll bring some tea through.”
“No time for that, ta,” said the visitor as he and Jason followed her into the reception hall where a log fire was beginning to fade, making little difference to the big room’s overall chill.
Once seated, the cop reopened his briefcase and lifted out a thick notebook. The kind Jason had ready for his thriller’s notes. “Where’s Mr Flynn?” he asked no-one in particular, as if to test the water.
The old woman seemed genuinely confused. “Isn’t he back from the Fox and Feathers yet? That’s where he is most mornings.”
“He never went there,” said a younger, female voice from the stairs beyond the hall. “He’s gone to London, and I’ve just had some thug upstairs attack me.”
Helen.
Pale yet defiant. Oddly beautiful, even in her damp Barbour.
“That’s an extremely serious allegation, Miss Jenkins,” the Fuzz snapped, clearly unsettled.
Jason immediately went over to stand next to her. “Are you OK?” he whispered.
“Sort of. No thanks to him over there.”
“I thought you’d gone back down the pub.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” She was now staring in disbelief at the lipsticked cleaner whose hands were gripping the fabric of her dress. Then Helen turned to the detective constable, at the same time, lifting up her jumper to reveal a reddened strip of skin just above her navel. “Did this myself, did I?”
Jesus.
“Do I have to call Llandovery?” Jason had put on his Dan Carver voice.
It worked.
DC Prydderch reddened before turning to the old couple. “Best if you wait here. You too, Mr Robbins.”
“But...”
“The less distraction the better. We’ve statements to write then I got to get back, remember? Now then, young lady, show me exactly where this supposed incident happened.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Jason, under instruction from DC Prydderch to find the missing gardener, returned to Heron House with Idris Davies plus his clogged-up besom, stop-starting in front of him. The man was obviously reluctant to see anyone, neve
r mind the Fuzz. He’d been urinating by a former pig pen up near the far fence when Jason had found him. Not a pretty sight.
“DC Prydderch’s in a rush,” Jason explained to Davies. “Won’t take long. Besides, we’re all in this together.”
“All in what?”
“Murder.”
“Speak for yourself.” The gardener turned that reptilian eye on him again. They’d almost reached the porch. Time was running out.
“Did you happen to see Gwilym Price today?” Jason pressed his casual button. Under-used of late.
“Should I have done?”
“Or a bald-headed guy running away from the house?”
“When?”
“Just after I’d seen you.”
“After you insulted me, more like.”
Jason let it go. The man, like his wife, was a downright liar, but he wouldn’t be counting on PC Plod to pursue it. Nor move his bulk to check for footprints by that stile before they got messed up by wildlife, or even this man himself if he’d something to hide.
As he held the front door open for the gardener and his broom to go in first, he told himself that if Betsan Griffith’s puzzling death was ever to be solved, he’d do it. And then, as if a black rose had suddenly bloomed in his mind, he remembered the name Margiad.
***
“Ah, Mr Idris Davies, I believe. We don’t have much time, but we need your help.” DC Prydderch waved the surly looking man towards the one vacant armchair and passed both him and Jason a blue Lottery biro and statement form apiece. Gwenno glared at her husband as if his being indoors was a crime in itself, while Helen, drawing a small picture of Betsan sitting upright in her Captain’s chair, was still avoiding Jason’s eyes. He wondered what else she’d said about her recent ordeal. Obviously not enough to divert the Fuzz from Miss Griffiths. Being dead was the only way to get attention, it seemed.
“Accuracy, remember?” the Fuzz with bad breath reminded everyone. “Accurate movements. Accurate times. To fabricate, or leave out crucial information is a criminal offence.”
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