Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  ***

  1.30 p.m.

  Lionel was late. More than late. By fifteen minutes in fact and, hearing the din coming from the playground, ran back to school to find a fight in full swing. Girls against boys – a feature of most play times and hard to eradicate. This time, because his quiz winner wasn’t there, they were one less.

  “What’s wrong with your face, sir?” asked Aled. “You been in a fight, too?”

  To reply that he’d stumbled into a hedge would have cost his credibility dear, yet invention wasn’t his forte. “Of course not,” he panted. “Some dog jumped up at me out of the blue.”

  The children dropped their fists to listen. “Must have been a stray, judging by its condition.” Lionel drew his whistle out of his coat pocket. A whistle that had seen action at Ypres. His short, shrill blast always did the trick. “Five seconds to get to your desks,” he said. “One… two...”

  “You were late, sir,” Kyffin Morgan reminded him on his way in. “I’m telling my da.”

  Without replying or removing his coat, Lionel ushered the unruly little mob into the schoolroom where that ailing fire was now completely spent.

  “Where’s Betsan?” he asked, arriving at her name in the register. “Was she unwell?”

  “No sir,” piped up Aled. “It bothered her to win.”

  ***

  With conflicting images and emotions crowding his brain, Lionel trudged home after school, still wearing wet shoes and hiding a heavy heart. Tonight, instead of Mahler, he’d play something light on the gramophone to block out the echo of what he’d heard at Heron House, and the weight of that hostile hand on his shoulder. So, the witty Franz Léhar it would be.

  By six o’clock, with the Land of Smiles finished, and a piece of ham plus half a small swede boiling on top of the stove, he drew the curtains across and poured himself a glass of sherry. Despite the welcome sweetness on his tongue, he knew he’d have to see his apparently unhappy pupil before tomorrow. Her home wasn’t so far from Heron House. Kill two birds with one stone, he told himself, settling back into what had once been his father’s favourite chair and waiting for dinner to cook. Just then came a tapping on his front window, followed by a deep Welsh voice.

  “Mr Hargreaves? You there?”

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Didn’t wish to move, until the tapping became knuckle on glass to match the shouting. “Peris Morgan, it is. Heard you went up to Heron House today. Well, sir, I got things to tell you, if you value your life.”

  Ignore him. Remember Gwilym’s description?

  “And by the way, sir,” the stranger persisted, “our Kyffin thinks you’re a right good teacher. Too good to lose, say I.”

  At that last, unsettling compliment, Lionel set down his glass, turned the stove to low before parting the curtains inch by inch. Dusk wasn’t too far advanced for him to see a man at least in his seventies, so protected against the cold by a greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, he could barely make out his face. “I have to warn you before it’s too late. Part of my job, Homeland Security it is, and I take it very seriously.”

  “I can see that,” Lionel muttered crossly to himself. However, it wasn’t the promise of more news, but the look of real fear on the old warrior’s face, that made him unbolt the door and invite the man in.

  16.

  Saturday 4th April 2009 – 8 p.m.

  “She’ll be more than sick if she keeps on the way she is. Keeps upsetting things…” Helen imitated that friendly forecast as she and Jason sneaked past the dining room where The Rat was angrily polishing the best cutlery. “Charming.”

  “Don’t keep torturing yourself. She’s not worth it,” Jason said.

  He was following her upstairs to the first floor only to discover that someone had locked Mr Flynn’s room and scrubbed the corridor carpet outside it. The bleached patch on its floral pattern and the nostril-fluttering scent were surely proof the old cleaner was responsible. Had she also a full set of keys after all? If so, who else but she had tried to cover up the stranger’s intrusion?

  “You were right about those Davieses after all,” Helen said, keeping a lookout while Jason explored the worn woollen pile on his hands and knees. She tried not to focus on the way his taut thigh muscles pushed against the backs of his jeans as he moved from spot to spot. “The brother and sister bit may just be the start. God, I wish I’d been able to spend longer in that study, but there was something I’ve not told anybody.”

  “What?” Jason looked up at Helen.

  “That bald guy didn’t just try to stop me looking around, he was… you know…”

  Heffy would have had no problem describing his arousal. The pumping motion of his hips against hers, the heavy breathing… Just thinking of it, made Helen’s period pain re-announce itself. It was getting worse.

  “All the more reason to find the bastard.”

  He finally stood up, brushing carpet fibres off his knees. “We can try this study again via the window.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Not half. A broken sash is very handy.”

  She then shook her head. “I ought to be rustling something decent up for supper, or The Rat will snitch that I’ve not earned my pittance.”

  To reassure her, he patted her shoulder. “Bacon and egg would be great, if you’ve got them. But I’m well used to seeing to myself. Had to, or else I’d have faded away.”

  “Like that strange man in black up the hill?” She looked him up and down. “I don’t think so.”

  ***

  Just to see those fried eggs’ phlegm-like whites in the frying pan, turned her grumbling yet aching stomach. However, Helen persevered with their cooking until Jason’s plate was full. She then tackled the washing up while he finished his meal overseen by a creepily solicitous Gwenno Davies so obviously trying to win him over after the earlier surprises. But how that smiling mask changed when Helen brought him over a mug of coffee. Not that he noticed, being too absorbed in his library book.

  “Don’t rush him,” The Rat snapped at her. “Can’t you see he’s busy reading?”

  At that, Helen cast aside her apron and went upstairs to her own room where the first thing she did once inside was turn the key in the lock behind her.

  And soon here he was, wanting to come in. She hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons of him invading her space. He’d not exactly told The Rat to bog off; besides, his stunts in the pub still rankled. But with Mr Flynn away, he was all she’d got. And who was to say that pervert who’d already manhandled her wouldn’t re-appear?

  “Helen?” he said again. “Please...”

  She unlocked the door. Jason stood with a sheepish look on his face, holding two wine glasses in one hand and half a full bottle of Sicilian red in the other, left over from yesterday’s spag bol. The omens weren’t good. Nevertheless, she could do with a drink.

  “Nice pad, except for the view,” he observed, scanning the dark, swaying trees beyond the window then the room’s pale pink walls, a 1970s’ paper lampshade too big for the room and the newish but useless TV with its digi-box. “Can we swop?” He looked as though he meant it.

  “I’d consider it if you’d not been flirting.”

  “Hello?”

  “With The Rat. I don’t like you even smiling at her, if that’s OK. Gives her the wrong impression and makes things harder for me.”

  “She’s old enough to be my Grannie.”

  Helen eyed the door. “I don’t care.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They then sat on opposite sides of the bed while he unscrewed the bottle top, poured out her share and handed it over. “To the fibbing Mr Flynn, that he soon gets back here.” And when his glass was also full, “To Betsan. That we find her killer.”

  “We?” The wine was cool on her tongue. This bottle wasn’t going to last long, she thought.

  “You don’t think that uniformed porker’s going to deliver, do you?”

  Helen shook her head. He was ri
ght again. Even though this room hadn’t been the yob’s scene of crime, DC Prydderch’s evidence-gathering technique had been risible. For a start, he’d neither been able to bend down to check for footprints, nor ask any meaningful questions. And as for mentioning a proper forensic examination... But did she really want that? No. Her lie could get her into trouble and in a recession a good reference was like gold dust.

  “Hey, who’s this?” Jason stretched out a free hand towards the bedside table to pick up the photo of her mam – a singleton all over again – then one of Heffy. Her usual stunning self, making everyone else at the BA Degree ceremony seem ten years older. And poorer. He read the names on the back of each before replacing it. “You look just like her.” he said, and Helen blushed, flattered.

  “Who? Heffy?”

  “Your mum.”

  Great.

  Then she remembered something from Mr Flynn’s office. Took another gulp of wine. “Apparently, The Rat collars the post the moment it arrives. Mr Flynn wrote a memo to himself to tackle her about it, but he won’t. Even though he suspects her of keeping stuff back. Seems he has to put up with her agenda. But why?”

  “Their agenda, you mean. The delightful brother, don’t forget. It was like pulling teeth getting him to meet the Fuzz.”

  “You did seem pretty pissed off,” she said.

  “I was. Like you say, makes you wonder why they’re so special. I mean, look at them.” He got to his feet to peer at a small framed print of St. Peter’s crucifixion that had pride of place on the wall behind her single bed.

  “The original fresco’s by Michaelangelo,” she said. “Sixteenth century.”

  He seemed impressed. She watched him crane towards each sorrowful detail, waiting for him to ask why, out of all the art available, she’d picked this for such an important position.

  He did ask.

  “It was already here when I moved in. Hidden away in that wardrobe.” She indicated a large walnut affair dominating the opposite wall. “And I couldn’t be bothered banging in a new nail when one was already in place.”

  “Why not put something up of yours?”

  “Maybe soon.”

  Jason returned to the print. A grimace spoiling his otherwise OK mouth. “This is hideous. What a way to go.”

  “Apparently St. Peter didn’t feel worthy of being crucified in the same way as Jesus. Besides, to crucify someone upside down was actually more compassionate. The victims suffocated instead.”

  He touched St. Peter’s eyes. “Well, he doesn’t seem to be appreciating it much.” He turned to her. “Dare I bring this kind of punishment into my book? Hey, think of it. Gross.”

  “Up to you.”

  Silence, as the former breeze now a vigorous wind, batted the nearest chestnut trees’ bare branches against the window’s glass, and a low moaning sound entered the room through an unrepaired crack above the sill. Jason tilted up the picture frame’s lower edge as if looking for something.

  “What are you doing?” She was aware of her mother’s eyes following her every move.

  “Just playing detective. I’ve got mine sorted now, by the way. Dan Carver. Ex-DI from Sunderland. A misfit and poker addict but straight as a die. What do you think?”

  Helen stared at him. How could he be so unfocussed when so much had happened? “Please can we leave it?” she said.

  “You mean my hero?”

  “The picture.” She wished she had the courage to phone or text Mr Flynn to update him and find out more of his deal with his landlord. “All I can think of is what’ll happen if Charles Pitt-Rose really is dead. If you want to play detective, why not find out why the Davieses are so important they must be kept on here? Did he leave a will? And why did Betsan refer to Heron House as the asylum?”

  “There’s a name on the back here,” he announced, still fixed on his own agenda. “Margiad, would you believe? And a date. October 1st 1946. Was it a present, or had she bought it herself I wonder? And could she have once lived here?”

  But Helen’s train of thought had already taken her way beyond this room; this house of too many shadows and the choking hills. Like a runner fleeing some evil force whose breath was burning her heels, she must make the break. But where to go? Not back to her mam – that wouldn’t last a week. They were just too different. To Cardiff and some dump in Bute Town, or even a hostel in Penge? She shivered just to think of it and then, like a sly ray of sunshine, recalled what her Final Year tutor had said about her work at the Degree ceremony where she’d picked up one of only three Distinctions. “Never mind the Brit Art pack, Helen. With your Gothic take on landscape – especially the Welsh landscape – you could be the next Edward Hopper.”

  As if.

  She finished her wine and glanced over to that old lightweight picnic table, home to an array of paintbrushes including squirrel hair, pony hair and the more robust synthetics best for laying in big areas of paint. Then to a roll of cotton duck canvas tied with sparkly pink ribbon, which Heffy had bought her as a leaving present, defying her to use it. As did a folded-up easel and two already stretched blanks, primed and waiting. Tomorrow she’d dust off her best mahogany palette, assemble the easel and set out her oils and acrylics from hot to cool to zinc white. In readiness.

  “The writing on the back of this matches that plaque on my room door.” Jason carried the framed print closer to the paper-shaded light bulb. “It’s a pretty weird picture to have in a bedroom.”

  “This may not always have been a bedroom,” said Helen, testing that the cap on a tube of Hooker’s Green wasn’t too tight. It was one of her favourite colours, and should she start painting again, ideal for forestry and those shadowed, lower slopes.

  “That’s a point. Was there anything about her in Monty Flynn’s den?”

  “Nothing I could see. I’m sorry but I was more interested in The Rat and its brother.”

  Her voice sounded thin, bloodless. She suddenly wanted her space to herself again. To sort out her head. Make some decisions.

  ***

  An hour later, with Jason back in his room to read some more and catch an early night, Helen slung her pink suede rucksack over her blue, hooded fleece and slipped outside into the windy darkness. Her right hand lay clamped over her mobile inside her pocket, as if it was her lifeline, even though she only had nine pounds left in credit and there’d be no reception for a few miles at least. No way was she going that far. Not after that bald pervert had pressed his sweaty body against hers.

  With loose strands of hair whipping her left cheek, she made her way past the three lock-ups to a clearing which in daylight gave a view of the Doethie Valley and its pretty, tumbling stream far below. Too late to worry that the house’s main security light at the front hadn’t come on, or that suddenly she felt a different fear slow her heart and her feet. Just as she was about to access Mr Flynn’s number, another came up on screen. Heffy.

  Dammit.

  Two rings of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ and a voice not heard since Christmas, filled her ear. “That you, Hellraiser?” said her best friend. “I don’t believe it. You still gotta pulse?”

  Normally, Helen would have laughed. “Just about. Where are you? Still in the lap of luxury at Bates’ Motel?”

  A pause. Helen knew something was up, but seconds and money were ticking away.

  “Not for long. The crusts are splitting just like yours did. It’s pants, to be honest.”

  Heffy’s parents owned and ran one of the biggest and priciest hotels in Aberystwyth’s town centre. Boutique, she called it. All glass and chrome, plasma screens and Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count in treble figures.

  “I’m sorry, Hef. Try and hang on in there. Perhaps it’s just a blip.” Yet in her heart she knew that staying together for life was the hardest thing. People change just like the landscape through different seasons. Besides, as her da had argued with her mam before she’d kicked him out, humans aren’t biologically programmed to last the course. They needed variety
. Different experiences. In short, monogamy was an unnatural state of affairs.

  “You too,” Heffy broke in, now sounding much further away. “Why not come up tomorrow for a few days? You could have a king-size all to yourself. I’m sure Mr Sex-on-Legs can spare you.”

  Not funny, and the faintest whiff of fag smoke made her turn round. “I’ll see what I can do. Trouble is...”

  “Yes?”

  “Some pretty funny stuff’s happening here. I’ve got to be careful.”

  “All the more reason to chill out. Oh, come on. Catch-up time, eh?”

  Helen peered at the invisible wildness around her. It seemed as if the whole place was at war with the wind. Perhaps a trip up to Ceredigion would do her good. After all, the other writers weren’t due here for a while. She might even start that painting for her mam.

  “Are you sure?”

  “You know me.”

  She did, but there was Mr Flynn as well as Jason to consider. Annoying though he was, the newcomer was different from the needy, self-regarding guys she’d known at Uni. He’d paid his deposit, even though money was tight. He had a book to write, and he needed to get off those happy pills.

  “You’ve pulled, haven’t you?” her friend probed. “Come on, you can tell Aunty Heffy.”

  The trouble was, she couldn’t; and way overhead as the biggest, blackest cloud parted to reveal a single, throbbing star, it was time to be straight.

  “I’ll call you back tomorrow. Promise.”

  “You said that last Boxing Day.”

  “There’s been a murder. I’ve been groped. I’m trying to cope. OK?”

  The line went dead. The force of air slapped her hood up against the back of her head. That earlier fear had solidified. Supposing that ghostly figure from up Pen Cerrigmwyn should reappear, or that skinhead whose erection had jutted against her buttocks. “Come on, Mr Flynn, come on...” she pleaded to the phone, having seen his number up.