DCI Jobiah frowned. “You should have said.”
“I couldn’t.”
“And something else,” Jobiah gave her a knowing look. “A Maureen Chivers of Cosicabs has just made contact to say you’d hired her from Leigh Delamere Services at 0600 hours this morning. She’s been worried about you.”
Helen saw her boss straighten up and stare at her. Her blood cooled.
“I’m sorry, she must have mistaken me for someone else.”
But Jobiah wasn’t buying that. “I’m here all weekend, Miss Jenkins,” he said. “Call any time if you want to talk.”
***
The senior cop gave Helen’s arm an encouraging squeeze before escorting them both towards the lab where they were to have the spit scooped out of their mouths. Little did he know, or been allowed to know. The net around her was imperceptibly closing and, afterwards, while trailing in her boss’ slipstream of rage out into the capital’s Sunday morning, she couldn’t see any way of escape. Her shin still stung every time she put her weight on that leg. His sudden violence had unnerved her, and here he was again. Filling her head with his crap.
“I warned you about the Met. Terrorists would be treated better than us. What about our human rights? Do you realise in an hour’s time we’ll be on a national database of felons, perverts the lot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
Thanks.
“Your obsequiousness was quite unnecessary,” Mr Flynn said.
“I only shook his hand because I’m a well-brought-up Welsh girl.”
“And I tried not to look. As for that smile he flashed at you…”
“Some appreciation for my alibi would be good,” she said.
He didn’t slow down.
“Thank you.”
Bastard.
“So why couldn’t I tell him about my nightmare with Llyr Davies? Why am I less important than that waster? It doesn’t make sense.”
Her boss increased his pace. Lengthened the distance between them, so he couldn’t hear.
“Perceived risk, eh?” said the Irishman once she’d caught up with him, as if nothing was amiss. “Plot thickens. I’ve only heard of closed inquests for deaths of national significance. Something stinks.”
“Ask the solicitor,” Helen said.
“Mmm. A long shot, but if her office is in her house, she might be willing to see me today. Better than hanging about till Monday.”
“Why not phone first?” Helen said, thinking how a Sunday meeting might well cost him double. Good.
“You’re a genius,” he smarmed.
More of the blarney.
“No, Mr Flynn. That’s you.”
***
Dee Salomon had said yes, but only for fifteen minutes maximum as she had a choir practice at half past three. While bells on some nearby church pealed out ten o’clock, they rejoined the Volvo. More sun now, warming her face, making her tired eyes close up. Helen just wanted to stop; to feel its unfamiliar caress for a while longer, but Mr Flynn was already disabling the car alarm. It was then that a rush of panic seemed to also disable her heart. She suddenly needed Jason’s reassuring presence alongside. The smell of his leather jacket. The way he sometimes looked at her, as if she was the only girl left in the world.
“Mr Flynn, I’m scared,” she called out in a voice she barely recognised. “After what that Detective Chief Inspector implied about Charles Pitt-Rose’s connections, please don’t take us into any more danger. I think we should leave it all alone.”
The Irishman glanced over to her. Still pale. His eyes oddly blank.
“My dear, indefatigable Miss Jenkins, I regret to tell you, it’s too late.”
Too late? What could he mean? And then, with a deep shiver, she remembered that man in the phone booth near Sandhurst Mansion. Wondered where he was now.
24.
Sunday 5th April 2009 – 10.10 a.m.
For a good half hour, Jason let the shower’s unreliable flow provide some relief from that moment of total madness. How could he stay on here now? Writers or no writers? He’d let the old bird touch him up, bring him off, and yet... yet... That hadn’t been quite true, had it? She’d not been the only one.
He turned the dial to maximum, kept his eyes tight shut, pretending, he was back in Colin’s all-white wet room; remembering his brother’s call. What would he say if he knew? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Finally, he stepped out of the shabby cubicle and, having grabbed the grey threadbare towel, used it to further punish his body, especially down there, until everything hurt. But still he didn’t feel clean. Instead, marked as if by some malign presence. Or, rather, a malign, manipulating presence.
Red, sore and befuddled, he ran back to his room, clutching his clothes. Here he pulled his dad’s empty, battered suitcase from under the bed. Never mind OPERATION ROOK or his deposit cheque. They were history. The thing was now, to get out; preferably without bumping into She Of The Nifty Fingers.
Breathless, he hauled the case to the door and lifted it down the next two flights of stairs to the unlit reception hall and its dead fire. He was alone. So far, so good. He’d be back in London by the evening and could meet up with Helen. Persuade her to leave Heron House, just like him, and then, back in Hounslow, he’d go for any kind of work he could. Shelf stacking, street sweeping, whatever. And start his book. Dan Carver, like himself, had been suppressed for too long. His feet and socks felt damp inside his boots; his shirt and sweatshirt rucked up under his jacket. A mess, in other words. Inside and out. But better a mess free of this snare, than trapped within it.
Shit.
The front door was not only bolted, but locked.
Don’t panic.
And then, from inside his jacket came that familiar ring tone. He was on it, backing into the cloakroom as he did so, forgetting about the suitcase. He pressed the phone’s cold casing next to his ear, thinking Helen, even though her number hadn’t shown up. Just the blank, green screen.
“I’ve something to tell you,” he hissed. “I’m getting out of Heron House. Just wait for me. I’ll be there.”
“You can’t! I need you. Remember me, Jason. I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever...”
Jason?
Freaky or what? That wasn’t Helen, but that same needy voice, harder, sharper than before, like a razor cutting into his head. “Didn’t you enjoy what you let me do yesterday? Say yes… yesss for me, just like you did then.”
No…
“Margiad, please leave me alone. That was a crazy mistake.”
“What you think doesn’t matter. Nor will leaving, because I won’t leave you alone until you’ve helped me. It’s my story you‘ll be writing, not yours. There’s no-one else who can do it. I’ve waited so long. Me and my...” Here, the voice faded, only to rise up again like a surfer’s wave. “Just promise you’ll free us. Promise me...”
Us?
“I can’t.”
“Then I won’t say why you’re really there.”
***
He rammed the phone deep inside his jeans’ back pocket alongside the battered cutting from The Lady that had started this. Out of sight, but not out of mind. This unseen creature was clinging like a limpet. Besides, supposing Margiad’s so-called story he had to tell was a bag of lies? How would he know? And what had she meant by ‘us’ and then that last strange threat?
‘He wanted witnesses, and me and you seemed the best of the bunch.’
He pushed his way out of the cloakroom only to find Gwenno Davies sitting on his suitcase, smiling in triumph, while both hands and their painted nails rhythmically stroked the length of the riding crop lying across her lap. “And where do you think you’re going, Mr Robbins?” she challenged him. “Not leaving us, are you? Not now.”
“Get off my property, and let me out of here. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“I’ll phone the police.” It sounded pathetic, like
he was a kid all over again in the school playground, up against someone more cunning. More determined. He knew what might shift her, though. Not for nothing had he learnt poker during tea breaks at Woolies.
Don’t show your hand.
Hadn’t Betsan Griffiths complained about her harmful mouth? And this woman she’d clearly feared, had almost pushed Helen into The Drop.
Ammo for later, he told himself.
“I can actually save you the bother,” she said, getting up with surprising agility and depositing her toy on his suitcase. “There’s one of them here already. Why, I’m about to welcome him in.”
***
Sergeant Edward Rees had indeed arrived, complete with the same muddy Range Rover parked just beyond the one window.
The old woman primped her hair and from her apron pocket produced her bunch of keys. All types, all sizes. She dangled them provocatively under Jason’s nose.
Don’t lose it.
One false move and he’d land up in the same boat as her elusive son. Being fingered. That thought led to another as the front door bell’s melancholy chime kicked in. She could claim Jason had made her commit an indecent act and, with several recent stories of elderly women raped in care homes lurking in the media, she’d have the upper hand. No, rephrase that, he told himself, feeling sick. But then, what was worse? That, or revealing how a septuagenarian and a ghost had brought him off?
***
“We’re a bit slow off the mark this morning, Sergeant.” The cleaner put on the same sickly-sweet voice she’d used while busy with Jason’s fly. “All this drizzle it is, see. If we’d had some nice sunshine to wake us up, you’d be seeing quite a different situation.”
“What’s sunshine when it’s at home?” Sergeant Rees, complete with hair hosting droplets of rain, chose to stand next to her. But none of this mattered. What did, was Helen.
“Can I fetch you a tea, coffee?” Gwenno wheedled. “Or whatever else you fancy?”
“Great. Tea, ta.” His gaze flicked from her disappearing form to the suitcase and the crop. But Jason got in first.
“Any news of her son?” he asked. “Been picked up yet?”
“Nothing so far.” The cop eyed the suitcase again. “Those yours?”
“Only the case. I’m off back to London. Things aren’t working out here, that’s all. No-one’s fault. I need to see for myself that Miss Jenkins is OK.” Helen would have kicked him again for that lie, and rightly so.
“Playing hard to get, is she?” The Sergeant’s man-to-man wink didn’t work. He’d already witnessed Jason’s anxiety about her and her unlocked car. It wasn’t worth an answer.
“You wanted to see both Mr and Miss Davies about their son,” Jason reminded him.
“So I did.”
“Mrs Davies to you,” shouted Gwenno, but Jason hadn’t finished.
“And perhaps to ask how come his van’s tyres match those prints up by the stile, not far from Miss Griffiths’ bungalow, and why he’s been making his presence felt, like some long-lost termite.”
“Shut that filthy mouth of yours before I... I...”
“Just one more,” Jason persevered. “Won’t take long. Why would Idris Davies lie about seeing Gwilym Price passing by with his rooks, and getting news of Betsan’s death from him, if it wasn’t for protection?”
At this, the old girl slammed down the tray she’d been carrying from the kitchen, picked up the heavy teapot and advanced towards him. With each enraged step, Jason saw his future at risk of slipping away. But just then, he didn’t care. “And what did you mean by threatening me with friends who could get me into trouble?”
“That’s enough, Mr Robbins.” The Sergeant, unexpectedly quick, placed himself between the two of them, cupping the teapot in his soft hands. Took the heat. Positioned it out of play in the cold grate and escorted her to the nearest chair. “Calm yourself down, Gwenno. We don’t want to be calling the Cottage Hospital, do we now?”
“Who does this Saes think he is? I want to hear him say sorry.”
“No.” Jason was on a reckless roll, forgetting how much he had to lose. “Isn’t it odd too, that your Llyr’s started putting in an appearance now that Charles Pitt-Rose is dead?”
“What?”
In slow motion, she slumped from her seat to the floor, her legs and arms sticking out in four directions. What little light there was, seemed to suddenly fade as if that black, gaping cave of a fireplace had begun to spread beyond its old-fashioned tiled surround, and turn the already gloomy hall into the inside of a tomb. And inside that tomb lay a stricken figure whose black suspenders pulled at her stocking tops, puckering the bands of pale dry flesh beyond.
***
“Up you get.” The cop knelt beside Gwenno Davies, trying to move her to a more decorous sitting position. “Gently does it.” But she resisted, keeping her eyes tight shut.
“Shall I call an ambulance?” Jason felt his stomach on the move. This was more than he’d planned for. Her condition looked serious, but why such a drastic reaction to his news? OK, Monty Flynn had been paid to keep her and her brother on. Helen had learnt that much. Was it fear of possibly being turfed out into a whole new world, or something else altogether? Not for the first time did he wonder who now inherited this miserable pile. Perhaps Helen and the Irishman would let him know before they got back.
But hey, there was his dad’s ancient suitcase, packed and ready to go. What was he waiting for? The longer he stayed, the bigger the risk of Llyr Davies spilling to the cops that Helen had been in Monty Flynn’s study. Next step, she’d be suspected of clearing it out. There was also the risk of him being done for indecent exposure.
He shivered as small noises erupted from Gwenno Davies’ throat. Small, scared noises. The cop glanced up at him. “Best you’d not mentioned the death, son,” he said.
“Sorry,” Jason lied, objecting to such familiarity. “I assumed she already knew about Mr Pitt-Rose. I wonder if Idris does.”
“You leave him alone,” she mumbled, raising herself on to both elbows with the help of the cop. His muscled buttocks below the edge of his jacket presented a terrifying sight.
“Could you pour her a cup of tea?” he suggested. “Plenty of sugar.”
While Jason fiddled with the dainty cup and saucer and a pair of stiff sugar tongs, Sergeant Rees managed to lift Gwenno Davies back into her chair. “Does Mr Davies carry a mobile phone or some way I could contact him?”
“No. And there’s no signal round here neither.” Came rather too quickly. “Says they rot the brain, he does. Anyway, why all these questions? I thought you’d come about Miss Griffiths. Like your friend DC Prydderch.”
She waved the tea away, but not before Jason noticed her hand shaking. Her bottom lip, too.
“It’s about your son, Llyr,” said the Fuzz, shooting Jason a glance. “We’re wondering if you knew his whereabouts last night?”
Her fingers gripped the arms of her chair. “What about him? He’s dead too? That it?”
“No, and not in any serious trouble either, but it would help if...”
“Not in any serious trouble?” Her voice grew shrill as a gull’s. Eyes sharper, harder. “But oh, he’s given it. Since the day he ruined my womb. He knows what we both think. No love lost despite what he might say.”
Jason stared at her, unable to connect this outburst with her earlier remarks when Helen had complained about him. Precious time was slipping away. His detachment from Heron House and its incumbents growing stronger with every second. Yes, he’d promised Betsan he’d fight her corner and find her killer, but things had changed.
This old woman with too many secrets was either mad or bad or both. Also scared. “What do you think’ll happen now?” She focussed on the navy blue giant who’d helped himself to a sugar lump and was dissolving it in his mouth. “Why am I so nervous? Why can’t me nor Idris sleep at nights?”
“Tell me, Gwenno,” Jason said.
“Because Heron House might no
w be ours. And Mr Flynn, who’s protected us from our own flesh and blood, might leave.”
25.
Sunday 5th April 2009 – 12.15 p.m.
Half an hour to spare, and to Helen’s relief, The Coffee Bean Café, just a couple of streets away from D. H. Salomon & Co in Camden, had an immaculate loo. Although she’d lost way too much blood, the fresh pad from the dispenser and fragrant hand cream helped make her feel more up to the challenge of keeping tabs on the wily Irishman and learning the real truth behind his busy agenda.
The café’s whole ambience, unlike its counterparts in Aberystwyth, was slick and efficient. Mr Flynn was clearly still as tense as when he’d ignored the affable proprietor and bagged the one spare table which looked out on to a trendily paved street just off Primrose Hill. Here, he scoured their surroundings with the watchful eye of some animal in the wild. Was he, too, on Black Beanie watch? If so, on her behalf or some other reason?
She couldn’t tell, and dared not ask. Instead, sat opposite him and noticed how sunlight caught the ends of his chaotic hair. Cast his bad skin in an even more unflattering light. Here was a man who’d toyed too much with her emotions and, despite his touchy-feely ways, his often syrupy tongue, had treated her with callous disregard. His recent threat when she’d asked about Margiad had been one threat too many, and represented the end of the road. She too could act and lie. And now rehearsals were over.
She was also aware of how, although this area was less busy than Islington, cranes of impossible height and reach, still loomed high above the rows of fine, pastel-coloured buildings whose Doric columned porches and Georgian-style windows, reminded her of parts of Aberaeron. But there any similarities ended, for these were mostly occupied by accountants, insurers and the like, and instead of the smell of the sea, a sly pervasive dust hung in the air.
She felt scruffy and looked it, not that Mr Flynn seemed to have noticed. She stared out at the weekend strollers decked out in the latest gear. Young women her age in thigh-length boots, sporting Vuitton and Gucci handbags. Some pushed giant-sized buggies, others were draped around men who could easily have stepped out of Hello! Ogling the celebs was one of her weekly sins which only made her situation in Heron House seem risible.
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