“Yes?”
It was him, but not him.
“Helen Jenkins here. I don’t mean to distur...”
“I said only phone in case of an emergency.”
She flinched inwardly. “This comes pretty close. Have the Llandovery police been in touch with you yet? Jason and me found Betsan Griffiths dead in her bungalow this morning. All her ornaments smashed up…”
Silence, save for the creak of nearby branches. The rush of more debris by the lock-ups. She wondered where exactly her boss might be. Whether inside or out was hard to tell. “Mr Flynn. Are you OK?
“I used to be.”
Was he in tears? This man who could charm grease from the bottom of a chip pan? Who’d charmed her and Jason into being here? It sounded like it. But why, and what could she do? “Look, I don’t want my credits to run out,” she said, then heard him swear under his breath. “Thing is,” she went on, “you left Heron House in a hurry this morning, and I had to warn you, that’s all.”
“Thank you, and I’m truly sorry to hear about the dear woman, and your own frightening experience. But warn me about what?”
“DC Prydderch wanted your mobile number, and I gave it. Do you mind?”
Pause.
“So I’m a suspect? Good God.”
“Of course not.”
“Ever my reliable Helen.”
Was this irony or something else entirely? She heard him sniff, blow his nose. “Now I need you more than ever,” he said.
“Are you upset as well because Charles Pitt-Rose is dead? I’m only guessing.”
A strange, short laugh. “You’re not stupid, are you?”
She gulped. “I put two and two together. That’s all.”
£8.20 left in credits.
It was now or never, she told herself as a sudden sliver of moon lit up the top of The Giant’s Shoulder. “You rent off him, don’t you? And the Davies couple have to be kept on here or else. Why?”
In the longer silence that followed, she sensed her meagre job slipping away.
“Who told you those downright lies?”
Quick, think...
“Someone I met by chance in Somerfields, the minute I mentioned where I worked. They also said Idris Davies and Gwenno were mad.”
A deep sigh insinuated itself into her ear. Come on, give us more blarney, she said to herself as he began to speak.
“Helen, my treasure. My right-hand person. If I’d listened to such gossip three years ago when I bought – yes bought – the place from Mr Pitt-Rose, I’d never have crossed the Irish Sea.”
Liar...
“So why are they there, despite everything?”
“Both are utterly benign, believe me. I know Gwenno’s tongue can be as sharp as a fish knife, and she’s sometimes upset you...”
Sometimes?
“But they keep out of my way. What a writer and a thinker needs. Peace and quiet, as our visitors on Friday will discover.”
“Are they brother and sister, or married?”
“Labels, labels… To me, they’ve always been close. Looking out for each other. What an odd question.”
“Nothing’s as odd as they are. I don’t think you’ve told me the full story.”
“I will. I swear on St. Patrick’s heart.”
“So why dash off to London? Why say you need me more than ever? What for? And which guy was it who managed to get into your house to scare me? Who knew his way around?”
“Hang on, hang on, you don’t unders...”
“And why,” she interrupted, seeing her phone credits shrink even further, “didn’t you tell the beloved Gwenno where you were going?”
Her questions were caught by the wind and blown away high into the brooding sky and, while she hung on for an answer, was suddenly aware she wasn’t alone. A trace of cheap perfume reached her nose. A hard hand in the small of her back was pushing her, forcing her forwards on the slippery, rough grass towards the boundary’s unfenced edge, below which, she knew the Doethie Valley waited like an open throat.
17.
Saturday 4th April 2009 – 9 p.m.
Jason knew he wouldn’t sleep that night, not just because the mighty blast hitting his room window threatened to break the glass, or that Dan Carver and the gangland perps who’d begun to sprout in his mind, like that cress he’d once grown in a margarine tub as a kid, were being shoved aside by stuff he couldn’t ignore. No, it was dreading that body-shaped stain on the carpet reappearing fibre by fibre, or another stray rook behaving as if his room was its territory. Worse, Evil Eyes again being torn from his very hands.
He sat himself down at the dressing table with that same book now weirdly intact; safely to one side, and a so-far unused refill pad in front of him. Its lined bulk had felt immediately inviting when he’d added it to his shopping basket an aeon ago. However, instead of plotting his main character’s life history up north until setting up as a flatfoot in Hoxton, he wrote OPERATION ROOK on the pad’s cover. Fact, not fiction. Truth, not guesswork about everything he’d so far discovered about this strange place. His thriller could wait until Tuesday, giving him a few clear days before the other writers arrived.
Having finished his ACTION PLAN list, he began searching for a suitable hiding place. Having his own key to the door meant nothing. Heron House was a snake pit. Even Helen, it seemed, wasn’t safe.
On impulse, having stuffed the writing pad under the mean arched space beneath his wardrobe, he locked his door, crept along the unlit corridor and down the faintly creaking stairs to the next floor. Helen’s door was locked. No reply to his knocking either.
Something was wrong and he wasn’t hanging about to find out what.
***
The sudden rush of air hit him first as the heavy front door swung open, rattling the trinkets on the reception hall’s mantelpiece, scattering ash from the dead fire. Then Gwenno Davies, her white hair wild around her head, her once neat dress torn, smeared by grass stains, burst into the room.
“Out of my way,” she pushed past him. Her earlier chat and obsequious attention long gone. “You and that little witch shouldn’t be here. And d’you know what?” She jabbed his shoulder. “There’ll be no writers coming. You’ll see.”
Jason gulped. “What d’you mean, no writers?”
“Like I said.”
Mad bird…
“So where’s Helen?”
“Pushed me over, she did. Out there. I was only looking for her. How’s that for gratitude? Vicious little madam, I’m telling you.” She pointed at a torn flap of fabric hanging by her hip. “Anyway, this is evidence that she’s not right in the head. Drugs it is, see. I know her sort.”
And before Jason could turn round and follow her, she’d reached the kitchen and slammed its door shut behind her.
Shit.
Should he track the woman down and squeeze that skinny throat for an answer, or focus on finding Helen?
A no-brainer, but then he realised he’d left his boots in his room. Too late to go back. He’d have to try the cloakroom for a replacement pair.
***
“There’ll be no writers coming. You’ll see.”
Was this no more than a spiteful wish on her part or the truth? Whatever, it stayed in his mind as once outside in the teeth of the wind, he ran first towards the stinking pool, shouting out Helen’s name. Then to the left. The stiff borrowed boots proving way too big; their laces trapped underfoot with every step. He wondered whose they were.
“Helen? You OK?” he yelled twice.
The gale answered by almost ripping his jacket from his body. His ears from his head. Christ, where on earth was she? One press of his thumb on his phone’s keypad and up came her number. A spark of hope. But when he pressed the little green icon to ring it, got nothing.
He tried again, his heart slowing down. Was it the wind hitting the perforations and rebounding back, or that strange breathing like before, this time without the words?
Just then, came the
faint sound of gravel being disturbed. Any number of possibilities occurred to him from hungry fox to the skinhead who’d legged it over the stile. He was about to crouch down behind some large and prickly shrub, when a brightening torch beam turned the rough ground yellow, followed by a familiar smell.
Stale blood.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” came a gruff Welsh voice, and the more Jason stared above that probing beam into the crazy darkness, the more he recognised Gwilym Price. As before, a rifle jutted from his left shoulder, his bushman’s hat was secured around his head and under his chin by a length of rag. “Been concerned about you and the girl since this morning,” he added. “Thought I’d just come by. See how you were, like. Always take myself off end of the day anyway. Helps me sleep, it does.”
Normally, in daylight with Helen safe and sound, Jason would have thanked him. But right now, he just needed to know she was safe. “Helen’s gone God knows where,” he said. “Must have left the house without me noticing. And that Gwenno Davies has just accused her of assault.”
The farmer whistled through his absent teeth. “Well, don’t believe a word of what that woman says. Them two’s been known for a long time. Get my meaning?”
“On Wednesday afternoon, apparently, Miss Griffiths told Helen that Gwenno’s mouth had done her harm.”
“I can believe it. Jealous of her schooling, I expect. Betsan was bright, to be sure. Went on to College in Swansea and all. Became a qualified chef.”
“Did she use your birds to make rook pies? Does Helen?”
“Who said?” asked Gwilym.
“Monty Flynn.”
“Bloody liar. Only starving miners and other poor folk like my mam ate them. Free food when times was hard.”
The following silence didn’t last long.
“So what will you do with all those you shot?” Jason queried.
“Bury ’em of course. Bad omens, see. Some say it’s just folklore, but I know otherwise. When they all leave their nests together, that’s the time to kill. Stops a curse, see?”
“On who?”
“Whoever’s owner or tenant of the land.”
A pause, filled by the wind driven upwards from the valley on their left. A stinging cold blast biting Jason’s ears. “Did you know the Davieses were brother and sister, not a married couple?” Jason said.
The guy’s torch beam moved away.
“Let’s help you find your girl, eh? We can talk some more as we go. She’s either in these grounds somewhere, or over near The Drop.”
“What the Hell’s that?”
“Follow me.”
They took it in turns to holler out her name, but as before, only air replied. Moments later, the farmer suddenly held Jason back. “Any further, son, and you won’t see morning. You think there’d be a fence here. Health and safety for a start. But not at Heron House. Not at the asylum.”
That word again.
Jason shivered.
“Had a visit from the Council last year,” the man went on. “Was told to fence off my septic tank and pump house, if you please. And find eight hundred quid to get the spring water tested. Stuff the EU, say I. If my mam and da could see what our men died for in both wars, they’d be leaving their graves, never mind turning in them.”
But before the man finished, Jason’s brain clicked into gear. Helen’s car. Of course. It hadn’t been out the front or by the lock-ups. He was losing it big time. Just twenty-seven hours in this place had messed up his head. “Her Suzuki’s gone,” he said, retracing his steps.
“Well I never saw no car on my way up. Unless she took the short cut.” His companion trained his torch’s beam towards the house. “My Nissan’s not far. Can take a look round with me if you like.”
“Thanks. But she might be heading for London to see her boss.”
“How’ll she get there this time of night?” Gwilym Price pulled his hat further down over his face as the moaning wind powered towards them, bringing with it more of that stale-blood smell from the morning. “And why?”
“I’m afraid that’s private. At least for the moment.”
The farmer glanced at him. “Boyfriend trouble, then?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. Look, I hardly know her.”
Silence.
“We could try Llandovery Station,” the older man volunteered again. “Check if her car’s there. Call into the cop shop if you like. No love lost between them and me, mind. But tough.”
***
Jason relegated Dan Carver and his imminent abduction on page 3 to the back of his mind. Helen was missing, and he had the chance of wheels. So why the hesitation? Who really was this rook-killing guy? This owner of a dog possibly killed on purpose? More to the point, why after just one minute was he, a total stranger, opening the green 4X4’s passenger side door and settling in its comfortable seat and belting up? Because he had to trust the man. End of story. Helen was out there somewhere and possibly in danger.
***
For a farmer, the 4X4’s interior was pretty neat, with no sign of blood, fur or feathers. Nothing would be as valeted and dust-free as Colin’s Merc, nevertheless it was a damned sight cleaner than Helen’s. A pile of empty wooden crates in the back section crashed together as his driver took the bends way too fast, but this was his road. Probably known it for years. Nevertheless, Jason was still glad to see the Fox and Feathers’ welcome glow light up the way ahead and he asked if they could stop. “Helen and I had lunch there earlier,” he explained, hoping her little red car was parked in the unlit lane alongside. “Perhaps she went back.”
However, it didn’t take long to realise that Helen was neither part of the rugby club nor the group of local quilt-makers having a last drink. The same blonde behind the bar, who was all smiles, hadn’t seen her since the afternoon.
Back in the Nissan, neither man spoke as one unrecognisable road kill after another passed under its chassis. Not so a perfectly whole dead badger whose big, padded paw stuck up as if in defiance. Gwilym Price tried to skew the car around it, but missed. Jason heard the faint sound of crushing bone beneath the wheels before the boxes rattled together again and his seatbelt tightened under his heart.
“Did my best, poor sod. But you wait till I catch who ran over my Bob.” The farmer then turned to Jason. “Did that Detective Constable Prydderch ever make it to Heron House?” In any other situation, the way he said Detective Constable would have been funny.
“He did. And Idris Davies swore he saw you up by Miss Griffiths’ this morning. Is that true?”
“When exactly?” The farmer frowned, giving a stiff wave to an even older man leading a goat along the grass verge.
“After Helen and I had left there.”
“There’s another liar. I never saw him,” Gwilym said.
“That’s how he knew she was dead. So he says.”
Again the Nissan lurched again to one side, this time to avoid a large pothole brimming with water. The driver’s face set hard, while the road gradually widened between more closely grouped cottages and smallholdings. Jason peered out yet again, hoping to catch a glimpse of a red Ignis. Instead, saw armies of small, lighted windows. Lives dwarfed by those vast, lumpy hills on either side. He was beginning to miss Hounslow already. Even his pint-sized bedroom in Colin’s house that overlooked a bus stop and busy pavements.
He was also missing Helen.
“Idris Davies certainly didn’t want to see the Fuzz,” Jason added.
“Doesn’t surprise me, mind. Not clapped eyes on him for years since I first started at Nantybai school. Not that either of them ever attended. Too busy with each other, so it was said. Get my meaning?”
Jason stared at him.
“Incest?”
“I’m not saying. Talk was, mind, and you won’t believe this; he got his sister pregnant. My late wife Carol had to help with the birth. Heard all this screaming while she was delivering milk up there. Day of our local show it was. July 3rd 1967. Plenty of gossip, m
ind. You can imagine. Small place like this.”
Jason felt more than cold. “Boy or girl?”
“A boy, Llyr. A right dosser, he was. Friggin’ useless. But worse than that, to be honest. Worked for me once after he’d left the special school in Cilycwm and the wife was still alive. Never again. Didn’t like his ways, see.” He glanced at Jason. “Nor did she.”
“Why?”
“Cruel he was. Caught him at it, taking too long to kill the pigs. Laughing, he was, as he cut their throats. Said if that method was good enough for Jews and Muslims, it was good enough for him. Liked to hear them squeal, he did. Gave him a real buzz. I reckon he ran over me Bob on Wednesday. He’d have enjoyed doing that.”
“The Davieses told DC Prydderch they had no living relatives in the area.”
“I know better,” Gwilym said.
Jason shivered. His jacket that had cost him two months’ pay, felt more like ice than leather as the road passed between settlements and houses. Street lights too, and a bridge through which he saw the beginnings of Llandovery. “Where’s he holed up now?”
“No idea. Moved away east, some said, but not before nicking some old Forestry Commission truck.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Going back years, mind.” The driver paused to give Jason another glance. “Same height as you, but more thick-set.”
“And his hair?”
“Bald as a coot. Since the day he was born.”
***
By the time they reached the small, deserted railway station Jason trusted Gwilym Price enough to fill him in about the escaping stranger witnessed by both himself and the fat cop. The same guy most likely to have accosted and threatened Helen in Monty Flynn’s study.
“Who knows? May be keen to come back. After all,” the driver added, pulling into an unlit car park and circling its perimeter, “he was born here. P’raps he’s got rights.”
“To what?” Jason pressed his nose against the window glass, looking for two cars. A grey Volvo and a red Suzuki Ignis.
“Heron House, of course. After all, them two idiots have been kept on there since the year dot. There may even be something in writing.”
Cold Remains Page 13