She tucked her little notepad away and stared again at the painting. But as she stared at that strange mound of land, it began to soften. The vermilion, cadmium and chrome orange to fade. Pits and ridges were no longer of land but a distinct face. The one she’d dreamt of while in that van; distorted in terror. However, this was no dream. There were sound effects as well, so their screams met. Hers and hers. She reeled backwards, but someone with a shining bald head she recognised from the study at Heron House, caught her just in time. Hissed that same foul threat in her ear.
When she’d stopped screaming, she also realised that she’d seen those black leather gloves and duffle coat in the van, never mind smelt the same sweat and cheap aftershave. But this time, there’d been blood. His. Then her own, leaving her body with a vengeance.
***
“That man’s been here again!” she yelled after Mr Flynn’s black coat, as he strode away from her and the green mound of Primrose Hill. “I know it’s Llyr Davies, but I managed to kick him away and call the police.”
“You what?”
He’d spun round to glare at her as if she’d attacked him. “Look, I’m really losing patience with you. D’you realise the time? What’s at stake here? I need certain vital information now. Not the cops on my back. It’s actually a matter of life or death.”
Her pumping heart seemed to freeze. And now her boss, more a stranger than ever, was running like some ragged black rook – running out of her life, perhaps? And for a small moment, she imagined it.
Her phone was ringing. She slapped it against her cheek. DCI Jobiah? Spooky weirdo? No. It was Jason’s number and him sounding different. Nevertheless, she was relieved to hear his voice.
“Thank God,” he said. “I’ve been worried sick. Specially since finding out more about Llyr Davies. The Fuzz here are trying to find his birth certificate, so it was clever of you to leave proof you’d been in his van. I don’t mean to sound patronising.”
Her neck began to redden. Then her cheeks.
“You’re not. I’m knackered, that’s all. We’re on the way to this solicitor’s in Camden to check out Charles Pitt-Rose’s will. Talk about paranoia and secrets. Mr Flynn claims Pitt-Rose paid him to keep the Davieses under wraps. How about that?”
A roaring motorbike drowned his reply; then, as an open-topped tourist bus crawled by, she described the gallery’s crazy painting and how her bald abductor, injured and on the loose, had caught up with her.
“Be careful, Helen. He could be a psycho.”
“I’m doing my best, but Mr Flynn’s pretending Llyr doesn’t exist. Why?”
“Who knows. Even Gwenno’s frightened of him. She let that slip this morning in front of Sergeant Rees. Strange episode, that. Even spoke fondly of Monty Flynn.”
“That is odd.”
“But there’s something else. Margiad is a Pitt-Rose. She told me herself…”
“How?” A small flicker of jealousy touched Helen’s heart. He’d sounded almost proud.
“Usual method. Orange are still baffled.”
“So am I. When you say is a Pitt-Rose, you’re implying she’s still alive. If so, she must be in her late seventies, yet the images I’ve seen and the voice you’ve heard is of someone not even twenty.”
“Can you have a spook who’s still got a pulse? Still forever young?”
“I’m not into this stuff at all.” Helen stared at the normal world passing by. But what was normal anyway? “Nor Mr Flynn. He slaps me down every time I mention her as well. Either he’s frightened, or has genuinely never come across her. And look how those two nutters reacted when you spoke out.”
“Well, Gwilym’s just confirmed Margiad was, or is, Charles’ older sister. Only this morning she referred to the house as Hell. Should I believe her or is she just after attention?”
Helen felt sick. That horrible stain on Jason’s bedroom carpet seemed to be leaching into her own body, adding to her own bloody burden. She pressed her legs together to stop any excess from showing through her jeans; from making her look like a hospital case, like her attacker.
“I don’t know what to believe any more. My boss is such a liar.”
The man himself was now just a bobbing speck in the distance. A nasty little blot on the scene.
“What else has he got to hide, I wonder?” said Jason.
“Don’t ask. And how about you? Is The Rat leaving you alone?” A pertinent question as any.
“I wish.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She waited. Something was up. The silence was too long.
“You’ve no idea what happened here last night, and Helen,” he paused, his voice breaking up, “I don’t know where to start…”
***
That weak sun was suddenly too hot. The other pedestrians too close. Helen moved along to the cool iron railings bordering Primrose Hill’s crowded green hump. She steadied herself and closed her eyes tight, tighter to shift that revolting, perverted scene Jason had just described. But easier said than done. This was now Technicolor plus grunts and groans. On maximum.
“Again, do it again...” came an older man’s breathless voice, from where Helen couldn‘t tell. “Faster, faster...”
“I can’t.”
“You damned well will. Marky’s next. Been hanging on long enough for you to put him out of his misery.”
Marky?
Helen’s eyes snapped open. For a moment she’d lost her bearings. What had that been all about? Some sick game or other? A dare?
“Are you OK?” A Chinese girl with black, spiky hair was offering her a half-finished bottle of Evian water. But it was a darker, thicker water that seemed to be sliding below her feet.
“Thanks, but I’m in a rush. Time of the month, that’s all.” And as Helen spoke, she felt a huge clot of blood leave her body and not only overload her already saturated pad, but trickle down inside the right leg of her jeans. Was there a public loo in sight? Course not.
Dammit.
In punishing mode, she wondered if, despite Jason’s protestations, his former loathing for the old woman had been replaced by some kind of sick desire. No, she wouldn’t be phoning him back or sending a text. She didn’t want to know. Men were a mystery. Right now, Mr Flynn the biggest of all. With that revolting encounter still embedded in her mind, she actually walked past 72 Hurst Crescent and Mr Flynn hovering in the shadow of its colonnaded porch. “We’re here!” he shouted at her. “What the Hell’s up with you?”
Jason for a start...
The dark blue front door was already opening behind him. Helen paused. Took a breath big enough to blow up a party balloon, except this was no party. “Mr Flynn,” she said in her hardest, shiniest voice. I’m giving you one month’s notice as from today. And no, I don’t want to discuss it. I’ve had enough.”
“You can’t!”
“Yes, I can.”
A woman’s face peered round the door. Plenty of slap, thought Helen ungenerously. And an expensive haircut. Was this the solicitor? It appeared so, with Mr Flynn working his tarnished charm on her, enough for that door to open further to let him in, then close.
“Wait!” Helen shouted.
Having reached the top step she pressed her palm on the cold bell sited next to an impressive brass plaque bearing Dee Salomon‘s name. The Pink Suit almost reluctantly, it seemed, let her in, locked the front door behind her and left her to it. “Given what’s been going on at Heron House, I’ve a right to be here,” Helen called after her, but only the echoing hallway heard. “And please may I use the loo?”
“First left,” came the answer.
Millionaires’ Row, Helen had thought when first entering Hurst Crescent, and those first impressions were proved right. Inside this tall town house, steel, glass and the palest, smoothest wood had transformed the original Victorian shell. While under her scuffed trainers, that still bore traces of that crowded wheelie bin, lay the most awesome stone tiles she’d ever seen. Heffy’s paren
ts’ hotel, lush as it was, didn’t come close. There were white lilies, too. Real ones, fully opened, giving off that funereal smell that always made her sneeze. Like now. At least her jeans weren’t ruined.
Afterwards, as she squeezed out a blob of something exotic from a hand wash dispenser on to her palms, they were still trembling.
“We’re in here,” called out Mr Flynn from a doorway lower down the hall. “I’m keeping it brief. Every second costs. “No comments from you. Understood?”
Helen nodded, sensing more than a physical distance between them now. He’d knowingly hooked her and Jason into a secret, dangerous world for his own purpose. The kudos of the Heron House address had come at a price. A very hidden price.
She stared at him as she took her place in the office overlooking a rectangular garden where not a blade of grass grew. Only palms and more palms whose spiky, brown-tipped leaves seemed to sum up her mood. She looked across at him again. A barefaced liar, yes. But above all a fool.
“By the way, someone’s cleared out your study,” Helen announced as Dee Salomon, who had so far ignored her, now looked up from an unopened dark-green box file. “Jason discovered it yesterday. I’ve not had time to tell you.”
Mr Flynn’s eagerly-clenched fists tightened.
“But I locked it. Are you serious?”
Before she could reply, the pink-suited woman was clicking open the file and her matching pink fingernails were pulling out a collection of papers bound by a thin, black ribbon.
“It was unlocked. And I am,” Helen replied.
“Did you call the police?”
“Like I said, there’s been no time.”
With a cavernous sigh, he slumped back in his chair.
“Was anything incriminating or potentially damaging in there?” asked Ms Salomon.
Was his answer too quick?
“No. Of course not. Why should there be?”
“It should definitely be looked into. In my experience, theft can lead to other more serious activity. And I don’t just mean blackmail.” She glanced at her discreet gold watch. “As I explained earlier when you telephoned, as a settled tenant of the deceased, and modest beneficiary…”
“Modest?” he interrupted, sitting on the edge of his chair.
“… you are of course entitled to see me. However, my time is limited. I’m obliged to tell you that I’ve received six telephone calls already, enquiring after Mr Pitt-Rose’s will.”
Mr Flynn perked up. “Really? Who?”
“All anonymous. All male. Five on Friday morning and one in the evening while I was working late. I’ll be asking the police for a trace. I won’t tolerate harassment because that’s what it was.”
“Quite right.” Yet he was frowning. Something was wrong.
“So, we’ll make a start.” She angled a beige sheet of paper towards him. “Mr Charles Pitt-Rose’s last Will and Testament. Dated 10th March 2009, witnessed by my part-time colleague, Simon Catterall, and Ellie Peterson, my secretary.”
“That’s not even a month ago,” interrupted Mr Flynn peering at it. “Any reason why?”
She paused. “Between ourselves, I confess I’d had the feeling something wasn’t quite right when Mr Pitt-Rose last called in here. Agitated would best describe his state of mind. As if he was frightened. When I asked if he lived alone, he hesitated before saying yes. So should any Inquest verdict suggest suicide, I’ll speak out against it. Why any hint of a secret enquiry is deeply worrying. Did you know the Justice Minister’s proposal for such an abuse of liberty’s just been dropped?”
Mr Flynn shook his head. He didn’t look normal.
“Dodgy contacts. That’s what DCI Jobiah at Islington police station implied earlier today,” said Helen. “What did he mean?”
Her boss placed a forefinger over his lips. Gave her a death stare.
“That’s for them to find out,” said the solicitor. “But as I’ve said, I feel my client was living under some kind of malevolent cloud and I hope whatever or whoever it was, soon comes to light. And now the will.” She returned to that green box file. “Given my time constraints, I’ll keep to the point.”
At this, Mr Flynn loosened his crumpled tie, fiddled with his cuff buttons while Helen wondered if some mysterious group or other might have caused Charles Pitt-Rose’s death and if they’d ever be unmasked. For example, many Welsh people claimed Wales was run by Masons, and according to her mam, her da had even tried joining his local Lodge but had been turned down.
Now Mr Flynn was perched forwards on his seat as far as he could go. His eyes solely on Dee Salomon’s painted lips. Clearly, news of extreme importance was about to follow.
Helen was right.
“...being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds to Mr Montague Flynn, c/o Heron House, Rhandirmwyn, Carmarthenshire, for supervising its affairs for the past three years…”
His fists immediately clenched again. Spittle bubbled in the corners of his mouth. “Is that all? Two hundred pounds?”
Dee Salomon, having glanced at him with the utmost disdain, kept reading.
“… and the rest of my estate passes to Miss Betsan Anwen Griffiths, spinster of Golwg y Mwyn, Rhandirmwyn, Carmarthenshire in grateful appreciation of her loyalty and care towards my sister Margiad Pitt-Rose of Heron House…”
My God. Margiad.
Just then, Helen’s period ache intensified, bringing a release of blood that made her press her thighs tight together. The Irishman had slumped back in his chair. Now was her chance. “There you go. How can you not say sorry?”
A sneaky, sideways glance.
“You’ll be the one saying sorry.”
“Please, both of you,” said Dee Salomon. “Let me continue …during her prolonged times of trouble. Should Betsan Anwen Griffiths pre-decease the signatory, this estate will be dispersed amongst any of her remaining family.” Her words seemed to well up and swirl around like a winter storm on Llyn Brianne reservoir, while Mr Flynn stayed wordless, grey.
“But poor Betsan’s dead!” Helen cried. “Jason Robbins and I found her when Mr Flynn had left for London yesterday morning. She’d been murdered, and it looked like she’d been expecting someone. Hasn’t anyone let you know?”
Before the shocked lawyer could reply, the Irishman broke in. All trace of that recent threat gone. Steel now so easily replaced by honey. “Helen here, did give me the terrible news. She was a wonderful person who never harmed a soul. A real treasure. Let’s hope her killer’s brought to justice.”
The solicitor got up, filled three Styrofoam beakers from the water cooler in the corner, and passed them round. She then eyed Helen before jotting down this information. “This changes everything. She may or may not have known about her good fortune. She may or may not have any family left.” She paused. “Her death is being investigated, of course?”
“Yes,” said Helen. “But she’s not the only one the police are interested in…”
“Let Ms Salomon finish,” Mr Flynn butted in again, fidgeting with his nails and his reading glasses, suddenly looking twice his age.
Dee Salomon meanwhile, sipped from her beaker, still focussing on the first sheet of paper. “Two things,” she continued. “Firstly, and irrespective of whether any of Betsan’s family decides to keep the house or sell it on, the executor – myself – must ensure Idris and Gwenno Davies are removed from the property forthwith. They are to receive the sum of one thousand pounds sterling apiece to relocate out of the area.” She glanced up, giving no space for any reaction. “Secondly, and this is a surprise, we have Llyr who is in fact named on his birth certificate as Edmund Pitt-Rose’s second son, born on July 3rd 1967, shortly after his father’s death. His mother, being Gwenno Davies, may well force him to contest this will.” She fixed her gaze on Mr Flynn. “Especially if being evicted and with no other living connections to Heron House, she’d have a strong case for a Deed of Variation.”
The air in that office seemed as thick as
wool. Thick and sickly. Mr Flynn seemed about to keel over but gripped the arms of his chair in time.
“Llyr Davies, eh? Well, well,” said Helen feeling liberated. “There’s another one who’s not supposed to exist. Whatever his name, he’s a criminal on the run.” How this possible inheritor to a fortune had been following her just minutes ago. “He tried abducting me last night,” she said. “I nearly died, and this was his threat to me.” When she’d finished, Mr Flynn was staring at his hands. Still in denial. And then she realised with a judder he might be protecting the thug. But, why?
“Where’s proof it was him?” he said.
“Just you wait, and as for the mother, she’s nuts, like her brother. You’ve said the same.”
Dee Salomon’s eyebrows had hit her fringe. “Have either or both ever been assessed, or indeed, sectioned?”
“No,” said the Irishman having pulled himself together. “But they’re a menace. Why C. P-R wants them out. By the way, do you have a copy of this Llyr’s birth certificate? Did Edmund Pitt-Rose actually sign it?”
“He did, and a copy’s on its way.”
“Where’s the original?”
Dee Salomon, for the first time, seemed uneasy. “It’s already been requested by a third party. Confidential, I’m afraid.”
“How much of the lease is left on the Sandhurst Mansion flat?” Flynn asked.
“That’s also a private matter, I’m afraid.”
“And I’m afraid I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look it, and as for The Pink Suit, Helen could tell she was weakening. Especially after the birth certificate grilling.
“Entre nous, Charles Pitt-Rose bought its freehold last year, which considerably adds value. Given the location, I’d say it’s worth one and a half million pounds at least, plus what Oracle Shipping Services made when he sold the firm back in 1989. But he never returned to Heron House after 1945, and certainly never mentioned any half-brother to me. After his father’s death, all maintenance work was done by Londoners. No-one local. That’s how much he disliked the place.”
Silence, in which the scene beyond the window seemed to drain of colour: the palms, the Mediterranean blue tubs, the orange gravel, even the promising spring sky. Helen tried imagining Gwenno and Edmund Pitt-Rose at it, but couldn’t. This must be some huge mistake.
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