“If I’d known the Davieses had a son, do you think I’d have gone with him last night or anyone remotely like him? If you had told me half the stuff you should have.”
He turned as sharply as an eagle after prey.
“Where did that nonsense come from? There is no son. End of story.” He crashed the gears. Was suddenly driving too fast.
She mustn’t cry. Not now. Her job was to keep her eyes and ears open. For her and Jason’s sakes.
“As for that wretched couple, I’ve had to pretend everything’s normal, can’t you see? But they want a fight. A reason to...” he said overtaking a cyclist too quickly and getting a V-sign in reply.
You called them benign not so long ago…
“Go on,” Helen said.
“Do I really need to spell it out?”
“Yes.”
“Get rid of me. Mince me up. Burn me, bury me alive, whatever. I was never meant to be on their precious patch in the first place. Oh, no. And once I’ve seen the deceased’s solicitor later on, you’ll realise why.”
“She’s done me too much harm. Her and her mouth.”
“Could they have killed Betsan, do you think?”
He crashed the gears. The noise of it was hideous.
“Wouldn’t rule it out.”
“I want to tell you what Jason and me found at her bungalow yesterday morning.”
“Later, please. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Helen, but Charles Pitt-Rose – lying toad he was – insisted the Davies pair to be ‘harmless’ and ‘devoted.’ His exact words as I signed away my first three months’ rent on the dotted line. If it weren’t so tragic, I’d be splitting my sides laughing.”
Helen couldn’t envisage that, as another break in the murky cloud allowed a pale patch of sunlight to catch the end of his nose.
“And get this,” he was now in second gear, “after that three months was up, he was paying me. Hush money, it’s called.” He glanced at her, as if testing her reaction. “I should have said no. Bejesus, I should have told him where to stuff it.”
“He must have been desperate not to rock the boat.”
“That he was.”
And then another thought crossed her mind. If he found out she’d been snooping in his study, her P45 would be getting its first airing. “So why not simply leave?” she asked him, to push that unwelcome thought away.
“I would have done when the poisoning started. Remember my nosebleeds? Lasted for hours.”
She felt more than cold, and not just because the sun had disappeared. Everything was slotting into place. How the doctor had called round barely a week after she’d been at Heron House to ensure the Warfarin powder was left nowhere near breakfast cereals or dried milk in the pantry.
“And the welcome notes they both left for me. You never saw those.” Mr Flynn added with a sarcastic smile.
“No. But I don’t understand. When DC Prydderch turned up about Betsan yesterday afternoon, Jason and I had to write their statements for them. Idris Davies said neither he nor Gwenno could write.”
A dismissive snort caught her by surprise. “Don’t you believe it. Lying eejits.”
“Did you keep those notes as proof?”
A shake of that dishevelled head. “They beat me to it.”
“Perhaps DC Prydderch could catch them out.”
“Come on, Miss Jenkins. You’ve been there long enough. Charles Pitt-Rose knew full well about those two. They’re as deep and devious as the Liffey. You wait. Wouldn’t surprise me if they had him topped as well.”
“Is that why you wanted me and Jason as witnesses?”
His nearest hand left the wheel to clasp hers till it hurt. Really hurt.
“Just don’t judge me, Helen. That would break my heart. Promise?”
“OK.” Yet his clammy grip had left several red marks.
“May Mother Mary bless you,” he said.
But she hadn’t finished.
“Idris let slip he and Gwenno were siblings.”
Mr Flynn turned her way. “What?”
“You can imagine how she reacted to that. More like an angry rat.”
The Irishman crossed himself, muttering something under his breath before braking at yet another set of temporary lights. Islington was now grinding to a halt.
“To Hell with the lot of them.” He hit his wheel twice. “Him and all. Mr Fucking Pitts-Whatshisname.”
“He’s dead,” she said.
Silence.
“It’s not my place to say this,” Helen ventured, “but if you make out you hated him too much, the cops might think you killed him.”
“Me string up a twenty-three stoner? I don’t think so.” He suddenly turned to her. “Do you trust Mrs Pachela to get the keys?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know any more.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s vital I check out the flat before leaving London.” He looked at her again in a way that made her realise their relationship had altered. Trust was a word fading fast. “I need more information on the Davieses for a start. And that’s in all our interests.”
She didn’t like the way he patted her right thigh. Stroked the same hand he’d marked earlier. She withdrew it, nudging further away from him as he finally took a left into Tolpuddle Street. Here, some way down from the Metropolitan Police HQ, a lucky parking place for one whole hour materialised as if by magic.
“This all sounds like the thriller Jason was planning to write,” Helen said. His disappointment had affected her too.
“No need to rub it in. My misleading him is for me to sort.” Mr Flynn switched off the ignition. “I’m sure he’ll understand my predicament. And when we’re in this Holy of Holies, please leave the chat to me. I’ve already spoken to one of the cops here on the phone. A retard called Purvis.”
Helen couldn’t keep the fresh hurt from her mind as his rant continued.
“They’re all bent as corkscrews,” he went on. “All thumb-squeezing, nipple-tweaking Masons, and don’t forget it.” He pulled a crumpled black tie out of his glove box, and added it to his open-necked shirt. Smoothed down his hair and both eyebrows.
“I’d better stop here, then,” she said. He turned to her, eyelids flickering as if with exhaustion.
“I’ve achieved nothing since I got here yesterday. One obstacle after the other. I was on the point of giving up when you phoned. You’re my right-hand man, remember?”
Now was the time to capitalise.
“So, who was Margiad?” Helen asked. “Or I’m not moving. She’s been haunting us.” Just to say that, made her period pain worse. Her skin to turn cold again.
“Us?” Her boss stared at the busy pavement.
“Me and Jason. He’ll fill you in. There’ve been really weird things happening in his room, for a start. And she’s been phoning him on his mobile several times where there’s been no normal reception, begging him to remember her. But no number’s ever come up.”
“Impossible.”
“Ask him. Then there’s me smelling sickly-sweet roses when there aren’t any, and while I was dreaming away in the cab this morning, up comes a young woman’s screaming face on my canvas when I was actually imagining painting a landscape for my mam. All this apart from the man in black who waits by the old adit up Pen Cerrigmwyn.”
Mr Flynn finally glanced her way. His eyes boring into her soul as he spoke. “Helen, I’ve always felt I could speak frankly to you. Now don’t take this the wrong way, but would you like me to contact your mother? Or a doctor friend of mine in Llandovery? Perhaps he can prescribe something…”
Don’t react. Stick to your guns.
“You were going to tell me about Margiad.”
Helen noticed the pulse in his neck. The subtle tightening of his fists.
“I’ve never heard of her so there’s nothing to tell. Now, for your own and Jason’s well-being, I’d be careful. You don’t wan
t to be accused of taking illegal substances, do you? Not with the jobs market being so tight. And remember, in this cop shop we’re going to, I’m doing the talking. Yes?”
She nodded, trying to conceal her fury.
“And as for your mishap last night, don’t mention it. We’ll leave that to the local cops, OK?”
Mishap?
“Why?” she asked.
“Just do as I say.”
***
Helen hadn’t been inside a police station since some old biker had caught up with her walking home from youth club to give his penis an airing. A purple thing that he’d waggled with both hands. Later that day, she’d been the centre of attention in a busy world of uniforms keen to catch him before another kiddie was traumatised. But here in this cool reception area with its unmanned front desk, it was as if she and the Irishman were invisible. Where were the yobs and muggers? Rapists and arsonists? Was everyone busy dealing with a catastrophe?
Still bottling up her anger, she and the Irishman trekked around in search of human life apart from those on the many Sapphire safety posters depicting lone women in scary urban car parks, on streets and the Tube. How to deter burglars and prevent credit card theft. Nothing for anyone like her holed up in the hills with a pair of lunatics. Or here in London, playing with fire.
Suddenly, her phone rang. Eluned Jenkins’ number flashed up. Helen hesitated. Yes, she’d wanted to hear her mam in the van last night, but now was different. Guilt with a capital G took over and, as her boss was turned the other way, she made for the exit.
“My timetable’s been altered yet again,” her mam complained. Then added, “you’re not alright, are you? I can tell from the message you left me.”
“I’m fine. In London on business with Mr Flynn. We’re back in Wales on Tuesday. I’ll call you then.”
“What business? He’s not, you know… sharing some hotel room with you?”
Always her first thought.
“Oh, mam. He’s old.” And, in a forgiving mode said, “By the way, I’ll try and get up to Aber on Thursday for your birthday. Should have a nice surprise for you.”
“You’re not pregnant?” she asked as two strapping black guys in overcoats pushed past Helen and through the swing doors. “Can’t blame me for asking. Hefina’s at least six months gone. Did you know? Talk of the town, she is. Now there’s a loose sort.”
So that’s why Heffy had wanted to see her. But why no mention of it during their Boxing Day chat? But then, hadn’t she been the same about Jason yesterday?
Having brushed a sudden sense of longing away, Helen bristled at her mam’s judgemental tone. The efficient, armour-plated primary school teacher who’d not said a word about the parents’ split. That being rather too near the bone.
“Like I said, I’ll be there Thursday.”
Then came something else entirely. “You’ll never guess. Talk about a small world,” her mam went on. “I went to this St. David’s Day charity event in town. Help the Aged it was, seeing as it comes to us all. And when I told this old girl – something Powell I think – that you’d landed a job at Heron House, she let slip she’d lived there, too. Started to get tearful so I wasn’t going to push it.”
Helen watched the world go by as that dark-bricked ivy-clad prison with its three pointy gables and the black heron weather vane slid into her mind.
“When was she at the house?” Helen asked.
“No idea, but she’s ninety-two, would you believe it? A governess, so she said. Maths and science her main subjects. Fancy that. Nancy’s the name. That’s it. I remember now. No wedding ring, mind, but a tidy outfit from the Stroke Association shop. Fair play.”
“Living in Aber?”
“Sheltered housing it is, near the fire station. Fallen on hard times it seemed. She’s not local, you can tell by her accent. We exchanged addresses but perhaps you could say hello when you’re up here.”
Helen’s period kicked in again. She winced. Wished she was fifty and in the menopause.
***
Detective Chief Inspector Jobiah was clearly in a rush, but having checked both hers and her boss’ IDs, and reasons for being there, switched on the laptop he’d brought in with him. He confirmed the general details of what he and his team had discovered in the dead businessman’s garage then, with restrained civility, addressed the Irishman.
“On the phone yesterday morning, my colleague DC Purvis let slip to you that Mr Pitt-Rose’s death was suspicious. He was out of order. So far we’ve had no reason to change our view that a well-prepared suicide is the most likely cause. However, a painful and protracted one at that.” His tone sharpened. “My man felt pressured by your questions. Your assumptions that another party might have been involved. I admit one could assume the deceased had an interest in homosexuality, but so far there’s no real evidence.”
Helen stared at Mr Flynn, bristling like an angry terrier. “I was merely trying to establish what had happened to a man I liked. Got on well with and never crossed swords which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is rare between landlord and tenant,” Mr Flynn said.
The word ‘tenant’ was like a bone dug up and brought to light.
“Indeed,” said the cop.
Helen also sensed the tension ratchet up in this too-small room with its dismal, energy-saving bulb and she longed for the one barred window to be flung wide open. The clash of rutting stags came to mind. A familiar sound in early autumn in the forests around Llangurig.
“So I reiterate, this appears to be a tragedy of Mr Pitt-Rose’s own choosing, and if you have any useful information as to why, we’d be glad to hear it,” DCI Jobiah said.
Mr Flynn’s cheeks had turned bright pink. He’d met his match. Was he actually climbing down? Yes. The coward.
“From my regular dealings with the deceased for the past three years, I admit I had noticed a gradual personality change. I’d argue that for several reasons, owning Heron House weighed on his mind, and being such a distant landlord must have been doubly tricky,” Mr Flynn said.
“So where were you last Thursday afternoon from, say, 14.00 hours onwards?”
Her boss’ chilling glance caught her on the hop.
Do it. Fool him…
“With me,” Helen returned the glance. “In your study, remember? Later on, I made you a plate of cold beef sandwiches for supper. That’s what I do, see. Sandwiches.”
Jobiah allowed a smile to creep along his mouth. “Can anyone else vouch for you, sir?”
“If it’s suicide, why ask me this?”
“As I’m sure you know, sir; there are suicides and suicides.”
“Mr Flynn wouldn’t help anyone to die,” she insisted. “He’d more likely give his own life to save them.”
“Thank you, Helen.” Her boss’ left hand rested on her knee but she managed to wriggle away.
“Quite some cook you have, sir.” The Detective Chief Inspector was scrolling down his screen before checking his watch. He knew how to keep you on the boil, she thought, wanting to be out of there fast. “I wish our nanny at home was as loyal. However, another witness to your being at Heron House would help. Is anyone else living there?” He looked up expectantly from one to the other.
“Yes, Idris Davies,” said Mr Flynn. “Gardener, and younger sister, Gwenno, who’s the cleaner.”
“Well there’s a coincidence. We happen to be co-ordinating data on a certain forty-one-year-old Llyr Davies missing from the M4 near Reading after an accident there first thing this morning. He may be heading for London. Any relation, I wonder?”
Mr Flynn’s cheeks had turned a peculiar colour. Helen knew that the close, stuffy room wasn’t the reason.
“Most of Wales is made up of Davies, Evans, or Williams.”
“He could be their son,” Helen said spontaneously, not looking at Mr Flynn at all. “I saw Gwenno Davies’ stretch marks once, when she was walking around naked on the top floor.”
Her boss’ pursed lips had almost disappeared.
>
“Brother and sister, you say?” Jobiah began typing as if news of incest was a daily occurrence. “We’ll check that out.”
Fear pricked at Helen’s skin as another question came her way. This cop hadn’t needed her story at all. “Son or not,” Jobiah began, “did DC Harris tell you he’s got form? How you, Miss Jenkins, had a lucky escape?” He smiled at her again. “Leaving your receipt in the van could be very useful evidence indeed.”
Damn…
Mr Flynn’s left shoe connected with her leg. It hurt.
“Look, Detective Chief Inspector,” he said, “just find this Ethan Woods and bang him up. Then I’ll go along with the suicide theory. When’s the post-mortem, by the way?”
“Wednesday. And I don’t do bribery.”
“What about the Inquest?”
The DCI paused. “Undecided. But intra mura’s a possibility.”
The Irishman seemed to freeze in his chair. “Holy Mary. Why’s that?”
Another short pause. The big guy was stalling.
“We’re talking of perceived risk.” He switched off his laptop, closed the lid and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
Although he held open the door for them to leave, he hadn’t finished. “By the way, and, just as a formality, we’d like a swab from you both for our temporary records only. Prints too. Won’t take long. And please, Mr Flynn, leave us your landline phone number so we can call these Davieses for confirmation of your status.”
Her employer bristled again. “DC Prydderch’s already got my mobile number, thanks to Miss Jenkins here.”
“I said landline.” The cop held out a remarkably long brown hand, but only Helen shook it, while her boss hung back. She expected him to fight, but no. It was as if too many ill winds had demolished his fake sails.
“I’d like to see Mr Pitt-Rose’s body,” Flynn said.
At this, the DCI’s tone darkened. “And Llandovery would like a statement from you, regarding a Betsan Griffiths the moment you arrive back in Wales. Not my remit, you understand, but I did say I’d pass it on.”
The Irishman’s pallor intensified. He paused to check his pockets and retie a shoelace. While he did so, Helen whispered to the senior policeman what Gwilym and DC Harris had told Jason about Llyr Davies. How his birth certificate was being searched for.
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