Paddy sat clicking his finger bones one by one, like he’d done at the B&B. Lank, uncombed hair all over the place. Markham stayed standing too close; those corduroy legs like two brown pillars ending in a scowl. No offer of a coffee or beer, mind. Not even a glass of frigging tap water. “Mistake number one,” he focussed on Llyr. “Instead of contacting us for help, you abandoned our van on the M4. What a gift for the filth that was. We’ll be pushed to keep them off your tail now. You realise that? Especially as you were foolishly uninsured, untaxed.”
Paddy nodded.
“We agreed you keep Miss Ginger with you at all costs and bring her here first thing yesterday.”
“Why did Paddy choose skirt with such a gob on her in the first place?” Llyr retaliated while Markham made for his study. “I wouldn’t have.”
The Irishman flicked up a finger. An indecent gesture.
“Where’s she now?” the golfer addressed him on his way back into the lounge. “You never said, and my tracker’s just lost her signal.”
Paddy’s eyebrows shifted upwards as he turned on Llyr. “Is that what you did while she was asleep? Why wasn’t I told? Just like I had to discover by accident that the queer was dead…”
Markham cut him out.
“What exactly happened at Boyd’s B&B?”
“He let her go, didn’t he, sir?” Llyr said, seeing Paddy wince. “First thing this morning. Taking a leak he was, while I was still out of it. Couldn’t keep up with her, could he? Too much whisky in his veins.”
Markham came closer to the Irishman. His flecked eyes like an owl’s before the strike. “Not only that, you’ve been taking her to all the wrong places, too. Tut, tut, Paddy. So what’s to be done with you?”
Flynn was turning a promising shade of green.
“We don’t do business unilaterally. What did you feed Jobiah?”
“Nothing.”
“You were a traitor to even step through Tolpuddle Street’s portals.”
The Irishman shook his head as if in disbelief. “You used a tracker on me? That’s a pretty cheap stunt.”
“And an audio recorder. You can’t blame us.” Markham had had enough of him. Clear as day. “Were your prints taken? Your DNA? We can soon find out.”
“As if. Anyway, it was her fault. She dragged me in to report about him over there for picking her up Saturday night. Was I supposed to chuck her in the Thames? You wanted her here. I had to keep her on board.”
Nul points.
“And the chicken-choker’s flat? Anything useful for us?”
“Her idea again, not mine.”
“Very risky. Her phone please.” Markham held out his hand. “And your memory sticks.”
Paddy faltered, which wasn’t like him.
“Forgot, didn’t I? Too much on.”
Markham laughed. The suddenness of it made Llyr blink. “Move. I’ve a tournament to get to, plus funeral arrangements to finalise. At least my pa didn’t want any fuss. Cleaned up after himself too, if you get my meaning. Thoroughly I might add, unlike some not so very far away.” Again, he glowered down at Paddy. “I hope you deleted his rash and ridiculous final email?”
“Course I did.”
“When?”
Paddy was squirming. Llyr remembered flies and butterflies in their death throes at the sharp end of his mam’s dressmaking pins.
“Soon as I got it.”
“I said, when?”
“I’m thinking.”
The lounge’s stale air seemed to suddenly cool. This wasn’t going well.
“While you’re thinking, we’d also like the keys Mrs Pachela so kindly sold you.”
Paddy quickly emptied his coat pocket and when the Pullman Club card accidentally fell out onto the leather, the golfer was on it. Trouble was, Flynn couldn’t stop yapping. “Dee Salomon thought Charles was fright-ened,” he continued ploughing his own dangerous furrow. “And should his post-mortem suggest suicide, she’d elaborate.”
Markham pocketed the card.
“Also that any secret Inquest would be deeply worrying.”
Llyr saw the look on the golfer’s face. Knew he’d wanted to be Charles Pitt-Rose’s killer all along, hoisting the major obstacle to its death from the Bentley’s newly-valeted bonnet. It was only while turned towards Paddy to hint at him to belt up, that he noticed a certain picture hanging on the less well-lit wall behind him. Had it come all the way from Heron House or was it another reproduction? Whatever. Seeing that weird upside-down crucifixion had always scared him shitless. It still did, because this wasn’t only a biblical scene, but also an instructional manual.
***
Markham, meanwhile, was still dealing with Paddy. “For someone entrusted to set up new operations for us, you’ve caused too many problems. I won’t waste time spelling them out except the word ‘treason’ – and I don’t use that lightly – again comes to mind.”
The Irishman’s green complexion had turned to white. “Jesus and Mary help me.”
“They won’t.”
He tried to stand, but Markham pinned him down. Llyr wondered who’d have to sort it if Paddy dropped his gut.
“I’ve done my best,” Flynn whined.
“With freckles? White eyelashes and gynae problems?”
Llyr let out a nervous laugh. He couldn’t help it.
“And your other success story?” The golfer settled himself in the adjoining seat. Thighs touching. “Did you check with us first before littering the place with also-rans? Nosy also-rans at that?”
His target was now the colour of herons’ blood. Pinkly pale especially around the gills, while the grandfather clock in the darkest furthest corner suddenly chimed eight-thirty, making Llyr jump out of his skin.
“What was I supposed to do while that pair of crusts were trying to kill me? Remember you had to get the old Doc up there and pay him to keep quiet after the Warfarin incident? I should have gone straight to A&E, but that was the last thing you lot wanted,” Flynn sniffed. “I’ve not been right since. Still get the nosebleeds. See what I mean?”
“I most certainly do. But that’s because you’d poked the old bird too often.”
Llyr pressed a hand over his own mouth. Knowing was one thing. Hearing about it like this, another. From his trouser pocket Michael Markham whipped out an immaculate white handkerchief bordered by small, black crosses, and passed it over. He then picked up the remote that worked the smaller screen below the TV. The grainy snowstorm effect faded to reveal instead a scene that made Llyr’s eyes pop, and Paddy to gasp...
“What we’ve been waiting for,” smiled the golfer, sharpening the focus to where a veiny old hand was working someone’s cock into life against the backdrop of a double bed’s padded headboard. The riding crop’s tapered end was busy too. “You and Gwenno no less, Mr Flynn. Only last week. Clearly having too much fun. Just like Mr Robbins in the kitchen while you were away. But not for long. Only a few seconds unfortunately, till the film ran out.”
Mr Flynn, now. Definitely not good news…
“It’s against the law to have CCTV without everyone’s permission,” said Paddy.
“In our case, cameras are a necessity.”
Llyr dared himself to watch. This could be him all over again, at the farm now below the reservoir and at Heron House. He turned away from the screen.
“In case you ask,” Markham said to Llyr, “your mother and her brother are at this moment being dealt with. They’ve long overstayed their welcome. Let’s say, an unfortunate accident is unfolding as we speak. I’m sorry, Llyr, but I’m sure you’ll understand. They’ve had a good innings. Longer than most.” Markham glanced at the grandfather clock’s face and checked it against his own. “To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under Heaven.”
Llyr wondered precisely what ‘being dealt with’ meant, but couldn’t find it in his wrecked heart to care. Wondered too about the two grands’ worth to relocate them.
“Think of a lovely r
eservoir opened in 1972 by Princess Alexandra,” added Markham. “A very useful dumping ground indeed. Ed Rees was right about that.”
The Llyn Brianne reservoir.
Deep as Hell, but not such a bad place to end up in. And so what if his Welsh mamgu and tadci’s little farm also lay beneath its icy water? Best place, to be honest, strapped down for ever in their iron beds, unable to harm anyone any more. They’d raised both Gwenno and Idris to expose him to far worse than any smelting fumes they’d ingested. Stuff Llyr should never have seen. Was it any wonder he’d turned out the way he had? In and out of trouble like a terrier with too many rat holes. Except that right now, and before he got old himself, he’d reached the end of his tour of duty. If he played his cards right he could soon be sitting on a fortune. Not ruling the roost, like Paddy had said, choosing classy meat and even pink pants to make more dough. But a log cabin and thousands of grassy acres in Montana. Far, far away.
Soon Paddy’s handkerchief matched the colour of the red cummerbund Llyr had been given to wear on special occasions. Michael Markham stood up, helped the nosebleed to his feet, then, having slapped out his own trouser creases, indicated the cloakroom. “But before you go and spoil my newly-cleaned washbasin, you both should hear some other news. Last Monday, we, meaning myself and Geoffrey, finally located some very important remains. Felt it was time for a spring clean, so to speak.”
“Remains?” queried Paddy through the borrowed handkerchief.
“A whole skeleton, in fact, of Robert Price, a Welsh conchie. A nobody, who could have ruined a lot of careers including mine.”
“Whereabouts?” Llyr asked while the Irishman made for the cloakroom.
A pause. But pride won over caution.
“Buried in a small cave off the River Towy. Below the road out of Rhandirmwyn.” The way he pronounced the name of that village, made Llyr wince. Typical Saes who hadn’t got a clue. “Lured there on Christmas Eve by the ever-loyal Margiad. A real daddy’s girl. Oh, and we also have the headmaster’s notebook. So kind of him to think of us as well.”
Markham then joined the bleeder where, from the open door, Llyr heard tap water gushing into the sink. He tried jogging his own memory. Before he’d been sent to the special school, there’d been talk of a Robert Price having a pregnant lover. He could not remember any more.
“Who was this Margiad?” Llyr called out.
The cloakroom cold tap was turned off.
“Seeing as Heron House will soon be yours, best you know.”
Llyr felt sick again. And thanks to his mam putting herself about, he’d also be Margiad’s step-brother, with even less claim to Heron House should she still be alive somewhere with greedy great-grand kids.
As Llyr crept over to St. Peter and raised the frame’s lower edge to see the handwritten name on the other side, he realised Charlie hadn’t breathed a single word about her. His only sister.
And here was her name on the same print that had hung in his bedroom.
***
The cloakroom tap must have been turned off again. Llyr stood by the doorway filled by Markham’s toned physique. The other man just a sniffing, snivelling shadow.
“Is Margiad dead, too?” Llyr queried. “If not, where’s her grave?”
His boss back kicked the door to close it on him, but didn’t quite succeed.
Llyr stayed put. Ears on alert. Just then, from somewhere a phone began ringing until its answering machine took over. Tempted to investigate, he stopped when raised voices reached him from the cloakroom. Markham sounding even meaner. “And as for the chief beneficiary, Mr Flynn, any problems with her?”
“No.”
“If I’d known Charles was going to top himself when he did, we’d have waited a bit. But there we go. Had to be done. Specially since that cosy chat old Betsan had with you last Wednesday morning, threatening to spill her happy memories to the media.” Markham’s voice then sharpened. “And no-one saw you pop in on Saturday either to firm up that cosy lunch à deux?”
“Give me a break.”
“Main thing is, did you tidy up afterwards? Leave no prints of any kind? All curtains left open as you’d said they normally were?”
“I’m telling you, there was no mess. She was easy, as if she wanted to go to Heaven and I was doing her a favour,” Flynn said.
Another lie.
“I’m not talking mess. I’m talking smell. Chloroform.”
“Not a trace.”
“Is this the truth?”
The question was then repeated in such a way that Llyr’s breakfast burger turned over. Before The Ginger and the Saes had shown up, he’d glimpsed the old girl’s broken ornaments from her kitchen. The result of a rage usually so well hidden, like some of them at Holmwood. Honey on the tongue one minute. Poison the next.
“What d’you think I am?”
“I actually don’t have the words, Mr Flynn.”
But Markham was still playing games. “Did you clear away your place setting at her table?”
“Naturally.”
“How can I believe you when you’d left such a shambles at our future base? Even the St. Peter print which Prydderch’s just delivered here?”
“Who’s been telling tales?”
“Guess. And a good job, too.”
Llyr flinched.
“He’s a bastard,” gurgled Paddy.
“Well, that’s accurate enough, but your track record doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. And if you think we’re refunding your session with Dee Salomon, who incidentally declined to deal with our prompt calls on Friday morning, you’ve another thing coming. In fact, you owe us. And your pathetic little bequest.”
Sounds of a scuffle. Of more water running. More commands. One that made Llyr swallow hard. “If you want to keep breathing, get rid of Robbins by the 7th. Deep in the forest, away from any felling. Understood? Plus irrefutable proof you’ve succeeded. We want to see four, used, six-inch nails. Nothing less, and no mistakes.”
Just then, a high-pitched alarm sound issued from his study.
Tracker alert.
Markham stepped from the cloakroom, hands wet, face flushed, to take a look. “The Ginger’s heading back to base. I’ve already made arrangements there and, by the way, if her mother calls her on the phone I’ve got, there’ll be no reply.”
Llyr picked up more gurgling and spluttering noises. More protests. Paddy certainly had stamina when he needed it, but Markham had a Glock 9 milli.
Suddenly, on the TV screen, came a larger than life image of his white Transit in some yard or other. All wound round with police tape while his old surname came over like a whisper on the breeze. “The police are warning the public that Llyr Davies, who also calls himself Ethan Woods, is highly dangerous, could be armed, and on no account to be approached.”
The door to the rear lobby was still ajar. What did he owe the Irishman? Anybody? He’d failed in all departments and now was his chance. If he missed it, he’d be sampling a metal table next to his step-brother. He thought about his birth certificate with Edmund Pitt-Rose named on it as father. It would have been good to see it, but he could always get a copy. Having cleared his mobile’s Address Book and Inbox, he dropped it together with the calculator and Charles Pitt-Rose’s keys on to the nearest settee, then made his move.
35.
Monday 6th April 2009 – 9.15 a.m.
Now what?
Although Helen had managed to kick and bite her way out of that grungy B&B they’d all holed up in for the night, it was kneeing her betrayer in the balls that had finally seen him off. He’d then chased her with surprising speed along Nantwich Grove as its orange street lights had faded.
No point dwelling on how they’d all shared that so-called ‘family’ room on the first floor; how she’d forced herself to stay awake until she could flee both men, who were clearly operating under instruction. The younger thug had accused her and Flynn of knowing about the will, so he must have followed them to Hurst Crescent. Her
instincts about him had been right. Wrong about the other. She must call the police and Jason, then hotfoot back to Heron House to collect her stuff.
Once and for all.
She wished she could have spoken to him directly while her captors had used what had passed for a bathroom. But perhaps he’d call her. Soon.
Her purse’s innermost fold held £5.35 pence exactly. All in coins, their worth incompatible with their weight. At least she still had her Visa. But where was DCI Jobiah’s card that she’d kept there, too?
Damn.
Her body was too full of bad blood, rising, falling, into her head, into her unchanged pad. She’d shelled out enough money to be by her boss’ side and for what? The man from Crosskelly had betrayed her. The empty pork scratchings packet suddenly blown against her ankles, said it all. No wonder he’d been so eager to check out the will on a Sunday, then the flat. He had to outwit the cut-up roughneck.
Feeling invisible to the purposeful throng around her, she glanced up and down the busy street. Where were they both now?
***
Despite the morning rush hour’s exhaust fumes, Helen could smell herself as old, dead meat. Her manky hair stuck to her head. Her imagination now working faster than her legs, letting in a deadly thread of paranoia that made her quicken. What if the grey Volvo should pass by? What if Flynn and his co-pilot had guns? London was full of them. And knives. What difference would one small ‘pop’ make in this crazy hubbub?
She must get away from this place while that little boy’s photograph and his diary were still safe in her pants. While she still had a pulse. Jason’s advice before he’d put the phone down. But first things first. She needed simply to stop and investigate properly what she’d discovered at the dead man’s flat. Her toilet visits in the B&B had been listened in to. How sick was that? No way could she have studied the little book there or risked being heard turning its battered pages.
Soon the crowds and shops thinned out until she reached railings and a large open gate leading into a children’s play area where the second bench along was thankfully unoccupied. She opened up her rucksack and withdrew a slender, dark green book which bore the embossed word DIARY along its leather spine. Although the tiny brass clasp yielded to her fingers, the even more minute key, attached by sellotape, wouldn’t budge in the lock.
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