Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  From between gummed-up eyelids, Jason glimpsed Idris Davies running along the poolside towards him, wearing giant-sized Wellingtons. His besom’s handle jutting out so it was just within reach. He held on tight until a cloud of doubt made him let go. But what choice did he have? This sod was all he’d got.

  “I’m telling you, my son it is what shoved you in. I’m scared of him, see,” the old man went on, “he makes me do things. Bad things what I’d never dream of. Gwenno, too.”

  But something wasn’t right.

  “You’re lying. That wasn’t Llyr with you just now. No way.”

  “On my dead mam’s heart, it‘s true. Just grab the handle again.”

  Jason clung to it like he’d never clung to anything else before, as the gardener guided him through the fetid gunge towards what turned out to be hidden steps below the rusted handrails. However, the extra bulk accumulated on his body dragged him downwards, until his left foot felt the first step at the very bottom.

  “Wrong way. Up you come.”

  “Wait. There’s some kind of obstacle down here. Is it Prydderch by my feet?”

  Idris Davies stopped. Crossed himself with his free hand. “No. I lied. Can’t help it sometimes. Not my fault, see?”

  Yet there was definitely something preventing Jason’s right boot from finding a foothold. Whatever it was, felt long and bulky. Perhaps some old log or other.

  A third desperate shove moved it away, leaving him free to climb then stumble on to the silt-covered tiles. Having spat out the black muck from his mouth and wiped the same from his nose and eyes, he realised that Idris Davies, unlikely rescuer, had gone. But someone else had taken his place. Not outside, but in his head, via his cold, clammy ears. “Now you listen to me,” came that tense young woman’s voice again. “Seeing as you’ve no intention of writing any of my story down, we’ll try the other way.”

  “What other way?” When all he wanted was to strip out of his ruined gear, and get into the shower.

  “I know why you’re here. Do you want me to tell you or not?”

  “Just leave me alone!”

  He tried running but couldn’t. Each boot weighed a ton. Instead, he let the thick, persistent rain batter his head, delivering most of the slime down his neck. Icing his bones.

  ***

  No blue car and Heron House’s front door wide open, but not invitingly so. A whiff of perfume he recognised, then the dead fire and the answerphone’s green light flickering. No time to ditch his stinking boots or worry about the mess his every step was making. He had to reach it.

  There was one message and, as he pressed PLAY, prayed Gwenno Davies wasn’t nearby.

  “It’s Miss Sandwich, remember me?”

  Helen...

  He could barely hear her. “I can’t really talk,” she began, almost lost among a background of running water. “But you mustn’t worry, OK? Just hope that only you pick this up. Got some news. First off, that foul guy Llyr’s been hanging around here big time, but I am in control…”

  Thank you, Idris.

  “Next, Idris Davies isn’t his real da…”

  “Jesus.”

  “MF and I have been to C. P-R’s solicitor, then his Islington flat.” She lowered her voice so he could barely hear it. “Pin your ears back and delete once I’ve finished. I’ll also be wiping my phone…”

  Other equally incredible news unfolded until a sudden silence in which he realised that without her, this big old house was just a decrepit shell. Meanwhile, a noxious, black puddle around his boots had spread to the Persian rug’s fringed edge. Nothing he could do about it because all at once came an imperceptible darkening of the light from the still-open front door and the bedraggled, limping form of a man he barely recognised, staggering towards him.

  34.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 7.50 a.m.

  It was too early. Llyr could have done with at least another two hours’ kip. As it was, too much had gone wrong.

  “I never enquired after your finger,” Llyr said to his rival once they were seated in the Volvo, parked near the B&B they’d shared overnight with The Ginger who’d just managed to give her employer the slip. “Been careless somewhere? Want to tell me about it?”

  Paddy started the engine and pulled away from the gutter. “You upset my upholstery,” he warned.”You get the bill.”

  Llyr smiled despite feeling sick inside. The early sunshine warmed his face but made little difference to the rising tension between him and his driver since yesterday’s meet-up at the gay’s flat. While the trespassers had been busy, he’d managed to locate an internet café and, by removing the fake calculator’s micro SD card, played back their revelations following the Hurst Crescent visit. No wonder he, Llyr, had lain in his single bed going over everything, making plans while watching the wall clock’s hands nudge round until daylight.

  “Never mind the upholstery,” he said, “I’ll soon be able to buy you a new car and the rest.”

  Paddy flicked on his right indicator too early before leaving Nantwich Grove, to follow signs for Sydenham. Immediately that welcome sun slipped behind a cloud. And another. “I need to concentrate,” was all he said.

  Llyr let it go, thinking what if the now-tagged Helen Jenkins was trotting off to the pigs at this very moment? Her carer would be punished for that and for his excursions with her, while the other mistake he’d encouraged from Hounslow into Heron House, took his score to six. His own so far, just one.

  Michael Markham, The Order’s paymaster, swinging singleton and property developer extraordinaire had summoned them to his crib in Dulwich for some explanations. Best play it safe, Llyr reminded himself. Even though, hand on heart, he’d done his best as Ethan Woods and not got the expected result, there was still a future. Also for Markham’s da, the biggest shagger of all, who’d now reached the Great Whorehouse in the sky.

  “Heard the latest?” he said to the Irishman. “Mr Markham senior’s just passed on. Prostate, it was. Very nasty. I’m sure our boss’ll welcome some company right now.”

  “You’re taking the piss. And why Mr Markham all of a sudden? You always call him…”

  “Give it a rest. OK?” The bug he’d used was indiscriminate. Every voice important.

  “I read the group email midday Saturday,” Llyr boasted. “You must have been on your way to the big smoke at the time. For your investigations.”

  “Is my computer and all the gear in the right place?” Paddy’s bony knees pressed against the fabric of his black shiny trousers. Two sharp blows on them, thought Llyr, and he’d be in a squatter for life.

  “No-one bosses me around. I had enough of that at Holmwood.”

  “Second time of asking. Is my gear in the right place?”

  “Angred shaft. OK?” Geoffrey Powell’s idea seeing you’d already been down there. In some interesting company, apparently.” He glanced again at Flynn. Time for more pressure. “What about your memory sticks? I couldn’t find them.”

  “With her phone.” Paddy patted his coat’s inner pocket. The unflattering sun on him once again. “She’d deleted everything on it, damn her. By the way, your threat to her like that wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Mr Markham’ll decide what’s helpful and what isn’t,” said Llyr.

  “He can get stuffed.”

  Llyr grinned. This was going well. Time therefore for more straight talking.

  “Wait till he finds out what you and The Ginger did. You got a death wish?”

  “If you’d not messed up on the M4 on Saturday night, I wouldn’t have had to babysit for the rest of the bloody weekend. And bloody it’s been, too.”

  Llyr looked at him. “What d’you mean?”

  “Wimmin’s problems. Fibroids, whatever. Damn nuisance. Slowed us down good and proper. She’d never mentioned it before. So no good blaming me.”

  “I never said a thing.”

  “Anyway, not everyone’s fussy in the servicing department. Look at Margiad. Didn’t stop her. Th
at’s what I’ll say in my defence when the grilling starts,” said Flynn.

  That Welsh name took Llyr by surprise. Well, almost.

  “Who’s she?”

  “Damn.”

  Llyr studied that pock-marked face. Holmwood had been full of fuck ups like him. He should know.

  “A local pro with the same medical issues, but who knew the ropes. Knew when to open her legs and the rest. Get my meaning? A hard act to follow, but I seriously thought Miss Ginger could be licked into shape. That’s all,” said Flynn.

  Licked into shape.

  Llyr himself had done enough of that in his time for no purpose. Paddy was rabbiting on again. Digging his own grave. Every word a shovelful of earth.

  “Whenever the camera showed her undressing or in the shower, I’d thought, yes. You’ll do very nicely. Trouble is, I never bargained for that Robbins twat answering my advert. Fancying her. Protecting her.”

  “You should’ve got rid of her straight off. Mr Markham and Geoffrey Powell wanted me to choose the new talent. Not you. The Swansea clubs were a much better idea than The Lady, for God’s sake. Cardiff and Newport as well. I’d even have gone sniffing round the Rhondda if I’d had to.”

  Margiad’s name had just uncoiled like a dark spring in the back of Llyr’s mind.

  “And talking of mistakes, remember Abergwesyn?” The Irishman gloated before suddenly stopping at traffic lights. “Let’s see what happens there, eh?”

  “Below the belt, that.”

  “Just up your street, then,” said Flynn.

  Llyr noticed a fly struggling inside the heating vent, pulled it free and let it go. Time was when he’d have watched it suffer. Picked off its wings. And here he was, like a kid again, metal-detecting for approval. Even from someone he despised.

  “When you referred to me as ‘a leech. A sly leech’ at Charlie’s flat, did you mean it?” Llyr asked.

  Paddy lost concentration. Swerved into the kerb and out again. He’d not known about the bugs placed in each room. Nevertheless, in his usual cunning way, played along. “Course. Honesty’s my middle name.”

  Llyr restrained himself from rearranging those unusual teeth, waiting for the big question. Up it came. Paddy coughed. No phlegm. Another tease, like the rest of him. “So what are your plans should Heron House fall into your lap?”

  Talk the talk, boyo. I can lie too, you know…

  “Going with the flow, of course. Once our boss has sorted any planning permissions and the refurbishments are done, we could be up and running by the summer. You’ll see. Long live The Order!” He patted Flynn’s nearest bony knee. Nothing too familiar, mind. He’d had enough of that. Getting the old queen in Sandhurst Mansion to play ball in the hope he’d leave everything to him in his will.

  “Wednesday’s post-mortem had better find you squeaky clean, then,” Flynn said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You been squealing that I strung him up?”

  “Never. You know me.”

  ***

  As the Volvo turned into familiar territory, Llyr felt his stomach drop as it always did when remembering being alone in Heron House’s cellar with the one he’d thought was his da. Why afterwards, he’d gone out and shot the herons one by one, so the pervert would get the blame. But did anyone listen to this cry for help? He was the invisible kid. Kept in the dark in more ways than one, wondering why he looked so different from his molester. The man with the besom. The bully’s hands and the rest.

  He pulled out his cheap Nokia – his tenth so far – and found Michael Markham’s number.

  Langland Road was exactly as Llyr had remembered from his first recruitment visit two years ago, except now, unlike those chestnut trees he’d poisoned in Rhandirmwyn, the ones lining the road were beginning to bud. The boss would be ready and waiting. Best to warn him they were close. Ease in gradually.

  “Just need reminding of the last leg, sir,” said Llyr. “We’re almost there.”

  “Count six white art deco houses with dark green railings to your left,” said the posh voice after a sly chuckle. “Continue past the Trattoria and park well down St. Mary’s Road. And I mean, well down.”

  Llyr lowered his voice. “Sir, I got the company you asked for.”

  “I’ve heard him. Whose car?”

  “His. He’s driving.”

  “Avoiding cameras I hope or the plate’ll end up on the Met’s recognition database. What we don’t need. And remember, back door, if you don’t mind. You cleaned up?”

  “Yes, sir,” Llyr lied. Markham would have to take him as he found him. Last night in Boyd’s B&B had done him no favours. Camp beds for a start. One basin, one towel and stained bog between the three of them.

  “And I’m sorry about your dad, sir,” he added at the end.

  An unappreciative silence.

  Call ended.

  Llyr checked his phone’s inbox and with one click, dead lover boy’s sweet, useless nothings were deleted for good.

  ***

  Llyr, with the calculator bug safe in his duffle coat pocket, set off round the corner rehearsing his spiel, keeping an eye out for every kind of camera and other prying eyes. Although the blood on his cuts had dried, he’d botched washing his jeans and each leg still weighed a wet ton. Michael Markham wouldn’t be best pleased. But all wasn’t lost. Not yet.

  “I’ll do the talking,” said the keen Irishman, catching up. “After all, I was first to get news of the will.”

  But he’d not had the call about Charlie.

  ***

  Kitted out in a beige Pringle sweater and brown corduroy slacks, the tall, middle-aged paymaster, complete with a black armband and matching tie, bearing The Order’s symbol of a discreet black cross, was already by his back door. Straightaway his eyes alighted on Paddy’s index finger and its fresh plaster, then Llyr. All his efforts in that choking boudoir, the Bentley’s back seat, his own sofa bed and wherever else, had been in vain. The Order had invested in Llyr big time. His room in Beulah, the Euston studio, the van, not to mention travelling expenses… Would he now have to pay it all back?

  You twat, Charlie. Flynn, too.

  “All I can say,” began Markham in a fake reasonable voice that made Llyr’s gut go walkabout, “it’s a good job Miss Griffiths has no kin lurking amongst the sheep droppings, and that Geoffrey Powell helped acquire your original birth certificate from the old queen’s solicitor. Could have well and truly scuppered our future plans otherwise.” He gestured to Llyr to come nearer. “You obviously didn’t pleasure your half-brother hard enough or enterprisingly enough. How else can this unexpected result be explained? Three out of ten for that. Nil for your appearance, except,” his cool hand followed Llyr’s shaved jaw line, “you’re much better smooth.”

  The words half-brother had made Llyr’s throat fill up. He gripped the door frame to steady himself.

  “Mind you,” his boss went on, “if he’d realised your true identity, he’d never have let you through the door and into his bed.”

  “I never was a bummer, OK?” Llyr protested, “I’m straight.”

  He recalled their first clinch after a meal at a French restaurant. Then the rest… “And you try taking the size of him. A wonder I didn’t need stitches and new tonsils. Sir, you really should’ve picked someone else to do your dirty work.”

  Paddy was clearly still enjoying himself.

  “Ah, but who else possessed such a beautiful body?” Markham’s new acrylic teeth were too big for his mouth. “Such skill?” He bent closer to the jeans, sniffed then straightened up. “But you still stink to high Heaven. Who cut you?”

  Llyr also noticed how stray grains of muesli had lodged in the man’s trimmed beard.

  “Anyone we should deal with?”

  “Some ape after his crack,” Paddy said, trying to sound cool. “Llyr’s done well to get here. Fair play, as they say in Wales.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a fan club, and I’m not taking your coats. Get in.” Their host indi
cated a gloomy passageway lined with a range of expensive outdoor gear, leading into the less showy end of the house. “Even wisteria can’t be trusted.”

  Just as in January for the New Year’s planning meeting, an impressive array of golf bags and gleaming golf clubs stood at the ready. Llyr had never been tempted to pick one up. Shaved grass, like shaved balls, wasn’t his scene. As for where Markham played, he thought it was somewhere near South Norwood. An overcrowded cesspit like the rest of London.

  They were ushered into the oppressively beamed lounge whose subdued lighting reminded Llyr of the Pullman Club. Through the open door to the adjoining study, he spotted not only the man’s Black Knights Templar gauntlets and triangular apron hanging up, but also his pc’s screen’s tracking map. A shivering blur. Rhandirmwyn was rubbish in that department with too many trees and everything. Not his fault. He’d done his best. So go easy, he told himself. He was a Pitt-Rose now and, with a decent lawyer and that original birth certificate safe in his, not Markham’s, hands, he wouldn’t ever have to come here again. Nor endure any more of Geoffrey Powell’s unwelcome attentions.

  For the first time, Llyr felt a shred of gratitude to his sexed-up old mother.

  His boss meanwhile, had switched on a gigantic flat screen TV where news of more bombings in Iraq came rolling in on the dust. Where the silent, treacherous Paddy was suddenly too close behind him. “How about a picture show?” Flynn suggested, way too confidently. “See if our Mr Robbins is behaving himself at last?”

  “Take a pew both,” said their host, ignoring Flynn, opening out the Financial Times and laying it down in a very obvious way on one of the black leather settees. Their seats dimpled by frequent use. “For you, Taffy,” he said to Llyr. “Expensive leather needs protecting while we discuss your recent cock-ups – excuse the pun. I mean disastrous errors.”

  “Him and all, remember?” Llyr pointed to Paddy who cast him a Method School stare of pure hate.

  “Yes. Him and all.”