Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  ***

  Mr Flynn led the way into the galley-style kitchen, lined by bright orange-laquered units and a smart Range-style cooker complete with an industrial-sized hood. A cork-backed notice board was bare save for several ragged holes, suggesting whatever had been on there had been hurriedly removed.

  She sniffed. Something and nothing...

  Llyr Pitt-Rose?

  “You start this end. I’ll go the other,” Mr Flynn, butted into her thoughts. “Five minutes max.”

  “What are we looking for? You said you’d tell me.”

  “Proof Charles Pitt-Rose was of unsound mind. Remember his solicitor’s observations? How agitated he’d seemed?”

  Bastard.

  Judging by the lack of booze and suitable glasses, the apartment’s dead owner must have been teetotal. Anorexic as well, given the almost empty store cupboards. As Helen trawled each shelf, as instructed, she wondered again why exactly their owner’s Inquest might be held in secret.

  A sense of that same danger made her stop and listen for the slightest sound. Her skin prickling with anxiety. This was someone’s private stuff and the tight gloves she wore made sure the embarrassing flush stayed on her face. As for their smell – they belonged to a hospital, not here.

  She replaced half a packet of rock-hard penne next to a shrivelled tomato purée tube sporting a green fur collar under its cap. Dented tins of this and that; a slice of birthday cake complete with a blackened candle. Whose? She wondered. And how come such a well-off businessman had existed like this? By comparison, the pantry at Heron House was well-stocked.

  “Eaten out, most likely.” Mr Flynn had found more drawers to rifle through. His long fingers raking amongst replacement light bulbs, batteries, boxes of screws, rawlplugs and other man stuff. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Busy city types with dough to spare?”

  Was that a small resentment in his voice? After all, if his books had stayed published with more commissioned, he’d surely be up in London too, not holed up in the back of beyond?

  “But no restaurant receipts so far.” Helen now examined a packet soup dated November 2003. “I’m not so sure about your theory.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He may have been the life and soul of the party in public but back here...”

  “Spare me the psychobabble,” Mr Flynn said. “Perhaps he was just a tight old git saving up for some last-minute dream.”

  “Paid you well enough, though,” she retorted. “Only guessing.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  ***

  While Helen’d just discovered a small, windowless bathroom, her ex-boss was striding from the kitchen into another room which seemed to double as a lounge and study. The noise of more drawers being opened and shut collided with the sudden peal of nearby church bells.

  Either the police or another visitor had made sure nothing useful had been left. Here, a hard facecloth, there, a selection of Superdrug shower gels and a half-finished bottle of cough mixture. The plug hole stuffed with grey hairs.

  She suddenly needed a window, anything for some air; and back in the kitchen, stared out over the communal garden hemmed in by high yellow-bricked walls. She wanted to run – bad period or not – to the nearest tube station and from there to Paddington. There were paintings to do. At least one to start with for her mam by Thursday. Then for the Coleridge Gallery. As for Jason, yes, she’d have to see him first.

  “There’ll be no hiding place. So don’t get cocky. And if you squeal to anyone else, you’ll end up in bin bags where no-one’ll find you. Got it, bitch?”

  With a cold sweat clinging to her skin, she realised that access to that garden was via a door in an adjoining lower storage area that Mr Flynn had overlooked.

  Locked, but no sign of any key nor of a forced entry.

  Meanwhile, still more banging sounds were coming from the lounge. He was in a strop. Excellent. She’d help make it worse in whatever way she could.

  ***

  The bedroom, just the one, was a complete surprise. More like a vice den, all done out in purple wallpaper with blood-coloured devoré curtains drawn close, blotting out most of the daylight beyond. The faint smell lingering in the stale air reminded her of something she couldn’t quite place and, with so little light, had to use her instinct and sense of touch to explore. In each corner, she could make out life-size bronze casts of lithe, naked athletes – all men – in the style of popular ancient Greek sculptors, while smaller contemporary figurines in shining steel, demonstrating the usual and not so usual homosexual positions with no detail spared, lined a shelf along the far wall. All this a world away from Betsan’s pretty, porcelain collection.

  Candles, too, from whose thick, twisted columns hung bulbous encrustations of surplus wax. She sniffed them and realised where she’d smelt incense before. On the top landing at Heron House by the Davieses’ bedroom.

  To her left, taking up most of the wall space, stood the biggest bed she’d ever seen. She ran her hand over its black leather headboard and matching bedspread, smooth and glossy as a wet runway, then moved towards a wide glass-fronted wardrobe reflecting her furtive form. Its parade of velvet jackets, silky suits and Ralph Lauren underwear, that had clearly been rifled through, hid nothing of interest.

  Hurry.

  A commode. Yes, but cleverly disguised as a normal chair. She lifted its black leather lid and caught her breath.

  Stale pee. An inch of it.

  Yuk.

  Yet something intrigued her enough to make her lift up the inner polyurethane container by its handle and let her free hand roam the remaining space.

  Yes…

  Her fingers touched something lying at the bottom. She withdrew the intriguingly thin oblong, and soon realised it was some kind of book.

  Quick.

  Mr Flynn was shouting for her. Where could she hide whatever had been so enterprisingly hidden?

  Her pants. They’d do, and within a few seconds she was back in the dead man’s kitchen and making the right noises.

  ***

  Helen joined the ratty Irishman in the lounge-cum-study, but stayed on the opposite side to him. Her discovery dug into her flesh. She thought he might at least ask if she’d found anything on the Davieses. But no. He was punishing her. Big surprise, especially after she’d suggested Jason get his money back tomorrow.

  Now, in the Arctic silence and even more curious about the dead man’s life, she clicked open an antique desk tucked inside a deep, arched alcove. Surely if its owner had killed himself, he’d have locked everything up beforehand?

  There was even a key that worked. Normally, she’d have asked permission to use it, but nothing would ever be normal again. She was only being seen to co-operate so they could be on the M4 before dark then back at Heron House to pack her things for the next morning. That word ‘encumbrances’ if true, could well include her.

  The room was losing light so Mr Flynn switched on an Art Deco desk lamp – its subdued glow casting him in ominous shadow as he pulled open drawer after drawer with renewed urgency. “Plenty of old rubbish about Oracle Services and cruises for gays.” He slammed the latest one shut. “Someone must have been here already. And I don’t just mean the police.”

  “I’ve just found this,” she said, having already extracted a stiff, cream-coloured card whose pinked edge was worn soft with use. Better to share it than be found out later. She was hiding enough already.

  PULLMAN CLUB

  3-6, Friar Lane,

  W1

  020743921

  Full Member – C E Pitt-Rose & EW †

  But it was those two initials and the cross in the bottom right-hand corner that had caught her eye. “Ethan Woods by any chance?” she asked, her tired brain on overtime.

  A pause.

  “Could be anyone.”

  As I thought…

  “And the cross?”

  “A lot of clubs have their own symbols.”

  But there was more.
r />   Underneath it, attached by what looked like the remains of old glue, was a small, square photograph of a boy staring out from over a too-big collar and tie. His fair hair neatly parted. His big eyes wary. No more than eight years old, she guessed. On the back was the handwritten name Nancy Powell and the cryptic comment – ‘C. Our bachgen who will never come back’.

  Helen slipped that down the side of her pants to join the diary, and took the card over to Mr Flynn. Surprise flickered in his washed-out eyes as he took it.

  “If those initials do mean Ethan Woods, perhaps Charles Pitt-Rose didn’t know he’d turn out to be a half-brother,” she said.

  He glanced over to the door leading to the hallway. He was on edge, big time.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I can’t. The Pullman’s one of London’s most exclusive clubs. Why bring a yokel like him along, whatever the pedigree? Unless it signifies something else entirely.”

  At last.

  “Gay?” ventured Helen.

  A shrug that didn’t quite convince. “No. A leech. A sly leech.”

  Helen blinked. This was a result.

  “Shall I ring their number? Sound them out?” she said. “Might be someone there on a Sunday.”

  “No,” he said too quickly. “There won’t be. Just keep looking here. Get a result and I’ll top up your pay.”

  The desk lamp flickered, then lost half its power. She suddenly felt the weight of darkness, of unwanted possibilities mounting up by the second. Mr Flynn was busy again. The silver-tongued lizard who’d lured her and Jason into Heron House for reasons not yet adequately explained. “I think you do know all about Margiad,” she began, “and what went on at Heron House while she was alive.” She watched him close the drawer he’d been investigating and make his way towards her. His white surgical gloves glistening despite the dull, syrupy light. “I also think you arranged to have your computer and everything taken. You weren’t that bothered about losing it, were you? You must think I’m thick.”

  Now she’d done it.

  He turned to face her. “That’s outrageous.”

  “So was admitting there was no internet connection there when you had it. You couldn’t have Jason and me prodding around, could you? So why advertise for us? I know plenty of people who’d like an answer. And as for your books. Another lie, is it? Let’s be honest.” Her flushed cheeks began to burn. The adversary was closer now, with not whisky on his breath but something else, rank and sour.

  She was trapped with him in Charles Pitt-Rose’s shadowy world where the nearest door was too far away. So, what had she got to lose? “Perhaps you and that Llyr bastard are best mates after all. Maybe Heron House was left to Betsan to finally get rid of you and the Davieses.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, I won’t. There’s two more things. You must have gone near her place on Wednesday morning to have seen Gwilym Price’s dead dog. I also noticed you weren’t smelling of your usual whisky and your boots were really filthy. And how come you knew Betsan had been expecting someone on Saturday? Neither I nor Jason told you that. And I wonder why the cops there haven’t so far contacted you?”

  “I said, give it a rest.”

  She was about to answer back, but an all-too-familiar bald-headed figure was limping through that half-open door, bringing with him that old meat smell again. But before she could move, a pair of rubbery hands slapped her eyes shut, then tightened over her throat.

  “Got her,” Llyr said. “What now?”

  “Yet another visit, eh? My, my, such devotion.”

  “Do I help out or not?”

  Pause. The Irishman said yes.

  “Then get yourself spruced up,” Mr Flynn added. “Pronto. Michael Markham’s fussy. You may not care about your life, but I do about mine.”

  33.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 4.40 p.m.

  With his head too full of everything he’d just seen and heard on Cerrigmwyn Hill, Jason ran up Heron House’s drive past the blue car and kept his fist on the doorbell. He was a coward in capital letters. Something alien to Dan Carver. Perhaps now he could make amends. “Come on... come on…” he swore at the unmoving door, before spotting Gwenno Davies peering out at him from the reception hall’s front window.

  “You wait,” she mimed, relishing her control over him. “Scum.”

  That same bright pink lipstick she’d worn yesterday now swamped her mouth. Just one glimpse was enough to make his minimal stomach contents rise up to under his ribs. He glanced back at the unfamiliar car. Who had driven it here? And why no response to the doorbell?

  He was just about to investigate on the swimming pool side of the house when a familiar voice called out. “You. Got something to show you.”

  Idris Davies.

  Jason hesitated, then remembered how the man had admitted to fearing his own son. An Achilles heel that could pay him dividends. He pointed to the empty Escort. “Whose is that?”

  “I said, got something to show you.”

  The army of gunmetal clouds that had delivered a steady drizzle all day, now got serious. A brisk, diagonal rain slanted over the scene, wetting yet again his leather jacket, blurring the gardener with his territory. But not the expression on his haggard face.

  Shit-scared was the word.

  He was gripping his giant besom for dear life as Jason moved up to him, preparing what he had to say. If he played his cards right, Idris Davies could be very useful indeed. “Is DC Prydderch around?”

  “Sssh. Over here. Quick.”

  Jason followed him to the slippery outskirts of the once fine terrace. “I’ve just heard two shots coming from the forestry. Gwilym Price may be in danger.” By the time Jason had finished his story, ghost and all, they were standing in an overgrown corner between a chimney base and the kitchen wall where budding nettles reached almost waist-high. Too much out of sight, out of mind, he thought, tempted to make a run for it.

  “The cop’s in there.” Idris Davies raised his free arm to point at the pool whose black sludge overflowed its boundaries. “But I never did it. Honest to God, I wouldn’t harm a fly. Ask Gwenno.”

  Jason stared at the mess of neglect in front of him. There were no bubbles, no obvious sign of footprints or any recent disturbance. Was this oddball, like Monty Flynn, allergic to the truth? Was the fat Fuzz really beneath all that lot? If so, it was too terrible to imagine.

  “When?”

  “Just before you turned up.”

  “What happened? Did he slip?”

  “No. It was the maniac known as my son who pushed him. And,” he bent forwards to place his dry, tobacco-scented lips by Jason’s ear, “he’s in that frigging car an’ all, I’m telling you. Don’t go near it. It’s a trap, see.”

  “You’re lying. He’s in London.” Careful not to mention Helen.

  “He isn’t.”

  Torn between giving the man a good shake-up and kneeing his bony butt, Jason moved towards the pool, half imagining those same black-suited men and their vivid red glasses of wine all over again. He wanted to check more closely for signs of a struggle, when a sudden poke between his shoulder blades made him topple forwards.

  “What the Hell?”

  Too late to steady himself. Too late for anything except to meet the thick, stinking night head-on. His cries for help rewarded by a harder, more purposeful shove, and a laugh. No, two laughs. One old, one younger, as his mouth filled up and slowly, with nothing to cling to, he began to sink.

  ***

  “Get rid of those wheels now.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the Towy. It’s in full spate. Perfect.”

  Jason heard all this above the sloshing sound of his feet treading the sludge to keep afloat, but soon thoughts of Helen, his brother and his mother all too far away, took over. And that waiting room in Pinetree Road where this had begun.

  Even though he could swim, he wouldn’t last long.

  Take a chance...


  With every last ounce of effort, he found an edge. Felt solid concrete beneath his hands. He shook his head for the stuff to slip from his eyes, so he could glimpse through sticking eyelids how the land lay.

  So far so good, except he was sick. And as for raising his dead weight upwards, forget it. Then, a female voice eked through the slime to reach his blocked-up ears.

  “Try again, Jason... For my sake. Please… please…”

  “Who’s that? Helen?”

  “No. Not her. Me. Margiad, remember? I need you to stay alive...”

  Jesus...

  The steady rain did its work. For once, he thanked it for clearing his hands so they could get a purchase.

  “Now. Up you get,” she urged in a sickly-sweet voice. “One, two, three...” Then came the strangest sensation as if someone was actually pushing him. Someone determined, possessing almost superhuman strength…

  Hell, no.

  An invisible weight was also trapping his fingers against the pool edge. Too heavy for them to move.

  He screamed then imagined he could hear laughter before another prod connected with his forehead, and another. He squinted up into the kind of yellow-brown light he’d seen before, and shook his head again to clear his view. But that made no difference. Then came footsteps, voices. All men.

  “Poke him again, Marky. Harder this time.”

  Marky? Where’d he heard that name before. Think...

  “You try, Jimmy. He’s a determined blighter alright.”

  “Who the Hell are you?” yelled Jason, before more black slime invaded his mouth. “Get off!”

  Another thrust, this time just missing an eye, while that rigid pressure on his fingers ratched up until they were numb. With the next blow, he saw four pairs of black shoes. Four pairs of black-trousered legs. Blood red cummerbunds, bow ties, then faces. All smiling.

  “Please don’t die like my Robert,” begged the one who’d called herself Margiad. “Like all the others…”

  He didn’t hear the rest. How could he, drifting away as her voice faded, to be replaced by what could only be described as the purest peace?

  ***

  “Mr Robbins!” came another man’s frantic shout. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, d’you believe me? It’s not my fault, d’you hear? Honest to God, I was made to do it. Look, grab hold of this.”