He sucked in his breath as he drew the object out into the morning’s gloomy light.
What on earth?
Whatever it was, was tiny. A dirty green bone, inlaid at both ends with what looked like brown moss. Whether human or not, he couldn’t tell. But he had his phone and its handy camera which he regretted not using at Golwg y Mwyn.
Everything ready.
Click.
Nothing.
Click again.
Zilch. Just a blank, white screen. The same wherever he pointed it.
***
With both items in his jacket pocket, Jason returned to the opening, thinking about magnetic fields and why the camera had been such a dud. Also aware that should he need outside help, Cerrigmwyn Hill would prevent the rest of his phone from working.
Both arms now, dangling downwards, scouring the shaft’s nearest, rubbly wall. There must be a ledge after all. Why? Because something unnaturally smooth and slippery lay under his fingertips. Just as he gained a better grip on what was clearly a package of some sort, he felt a weight lying along the whole length of his body. A dead, heavy weight, crushing him into the damp grass. All the while, that same rotting smell was enveloping him, creeping into his nostrils, his throat. Choking, choking… “Gerroff!” he managed to scream, trying with all his hung-over strength to force away whoever had landed on him. “What the Hell are you doing?”
“Give me her bone,” came a man’s voice. Welsh. Determined.
“Her bone? Whose d’you mean?”
“I’m not asking twice. Time’s running out.”
Was this Robert Price again? Dead all these years?
Think… Think… There must be a prayer I can say.
Jason closed his eyes.
“Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
“That won’t stop me, Jason. Nothing will. You’ll see. She wants you more than me. Like she wanted her father more than me. And I’ll see your bones will lie with hers and his child’s, unconsecrated, damned for ever in limbo unless...”
“Where? In this shaft?”
“The bone. Now.”
No…
Then the pushing started. Inch by inch, as if Jason’s own body was suddenly weak, weightless, colluding in his own end. He was back on those childhood marshes again with his puppy who’d run off and drowned; never to be seen again. He mustn’t give in. ‘Fight,’ said Archie. And he did, until all at once came the strange sounds of a grizzly voice singing “O’er these gloomy hills of darkness, O be still my soul and gaze…”
Immediately, Jason felt that killing presence lift away. In its place came a sense of something extraordinary. Beyond description. Beyond reason. And once the hymn had ended, and his heart stopped trying to burst from his chest, he and Gwilym both sat facing the shaft in total silence. It was too soon to speak about what had happened. Perhaps even unlucky, so they didn’t even try. Instead, both worked together to haul up the three bulky bin liners, using the trailer ropes still attached.
“Best get these shifted a.s.a.p,” said Jason whose unsteady hands, returned the debris to the adit’s entrance. “You never know who might be hanging around to reclaim them. I’ll take the heavy stuff. Feels like a computer. Obviously important.”
“I’ll bring the Nissan up as close as I can. Then hide the stuff at my place.”
***
“I swear Idris Davies and Sergeant Rees were planning to dump that Escort in the Towy,” Jason said, once Gwilym rejoined him. “Just before I’d been pushed in the pool. ‘Plenty of flow to carry it away,’ he’d said. But why bother doing that?”
“Fools. The tide’ll take it down Carmarthen way, where plenty will see it. Question is, man, who’ll be inside it?”
While they loaded the bags into the 4X4’s boot and covered them with an old rug, Jason suddenly realised important fingerprints might have been destroyed in the process. Perhaps too late now, he told himself, although an article he’d read claimed prints on plastic lasted the longest. Something to do with sweat. Having shared this reassuring nugget with his friend, they set off for Cysgod y Deri.
Once clear of the forestry and on a straight track, he showed Gwilym the bone. “Robert referred to it as hers, then her dad’s child. Whatever, I had to hand it over to him or else be pushed down the shaft where she is. Robert hates her. Said she prefers me to him. This is getting weirder and weirder.”
The farmer didn’t reply instead his jaw tightened as he examined the tiny specimen. “It’s a human metatarsal alright.” He glanced sideways at Jason. The shadow from his black hat turning his bruises the same colour. “But not from an adult.”
“What then?”
“Foetal, most likely. Are you thinking the same as me?”
“I’m thinking how you saved my life,” Jason said.
“I meant that to keep it might bring bad luck.” Yet nonetheless, the old man automatically slipped the little relic into his raincoat pocket.
Another silence while the 4X4 descended away from Heron House and joined the potholed track to the farm. Gwilym was speaking again. “Uncle Robert loved William Williams’ hymns. I just took a chance with his favourite. There’s no telling what might have happened otherwise.”
“I’ll never forget what you did.”
“Wherever his remains are, Robert’s at peace now. God rest his unhappy soul,” said Gwilym.
“And Margiad? Could you do the same for her?” What he really meant was, get her off my case.
Gwilym Price suddenly crossed himself. A gesture that made Jason’s blood turn even colder. “No bach. I’m sure she led the killers to him. Deliberately. I’ve just remembered Beynon ‘The Shop’ saying how he saw these four well-built men hanging around up the lane from St. Barnabas’. Christmas Eve it was, just after the carol service. Maybe the same criminals as tried pushing you under in the pool.”
“We’re talking ghosts, Gwilym. They came then vanished into thin air.”
“These didn’t. Snow’d been down a week. Thick it was. Everything muffled. Very handy. Perhaps Robert was going to the Towy and a boat. Why we both saw his spectre carrying that old oar. As for Margiad, it looked like she’d been waiting for him. But not in the way you might think.”
“You mean a decoy?”
“That’s my feeling. Beynon’s, too. Beyond heartless I call it. I mean, look what she did to you...”
As if he could ever forget.
“So when and how did she and her baby die?”
“No-one knows. The adit was cleared just recently, for safety reasons, but nothing human was found. I made a point of asking.”
Jason felt cold all over. Blew warm breath on his hands and moved his freezing toes around inside his boots. Cysgod y Deri’s farm gate appeared ahead of them, but instead of feeling relief, he tensed up. He urgently needed an internet connection for research, plus a working phone to contact another CID unit. Preferably Islington. Until he discovered more, all this past misery would fester in limbo, polluting the present. And, as he unlocked the gate’s massive padlock, worked out how quickly Monty Flynn’s hard drive and his other material could be accessed.
***
Eleven-thirty and the morning almost over. With the enemy liable to show up at any moment and Helen off the radar, these were his priorities. But Gwilym was still back in that winter of 1946, haunted by too many unexplained disappearances. “Thing was,” Gwilym continued once he’d parked and helped Jason unload the goods, “Beynon was sure these men you’ve just seen was up to no good, but when he tried getting the local police round, no-one bothered. He was making up fairy stories or been drinking, they said. Even when he started getting written threats, like Peris Morgan’s son did, nothing was done.”
Jason, however, was still preoccupied with his ever more pressing agenda. “Are you on broadband here? Do you go online?” Gwilym seemed genuinely puzzled. “What d’you mean, broadband and online?”
Dammit.
“Look, once we’ve c
hecked this lot out, I need to get to that pub.”
“After our ungodly session last night?” The old man smiled ten years off his grizzled, toothless face.
“For research on the internet and whatever else. Then once we’ve got to the bottom of all this, your uncle’s remains may well be found and he’ll be properly buried.”
But Gwilym’s smile hadn’t lasted long. “I’ve lost my wife, my best dog. I’ve had my life; whereas yours is in front of you.”
“Look, you’re not stopping me.” Then Jason remembered yesterday. “Those photos you took back on the forest track when Robert was advancing toward you. Did any come out?” The other man shook his head.
“I meant to say, but with everything else going on, I forgot. Like I do a lot these days. My camera’s gone bust. Totally. And it was almost new. All my recent snaps have vanished but losing the last ones of Bob is the worst.”
38.
Monday 6th April 2009 – 11.45 a.m.
“The Detective Chief Inspector’s not around till twelve,” said the brightly lipsticked Desk Sergeant at Tolpuddle Street’s police station, once Helen had given her only the briefest outline of her life since yesterday morning. Not a face she recognised from her previous visit with the man whose duplicity had almost destroyed her. “Do you want to wait?” asked the cop. “If so, can I get you a tea or coffee?”
“Yes I will, and no thanks.” She still hurt. In fact, everything hurt, and not just her body. Eluned Jenkins, when she’d phoned a few minutes ago via a public call box, hadn’t just gone mental, but into the stratosphere. Being called ‘twpsin’ for accepting a lift from a dangerous stranger and trusting the Irishman, when she shouldn’t have, was the least of it. But hadn’t she and mam also trusted her da?
“At least you’re with the police,” her mam had said once she’d calmed down. “Get them to arrest those two. Find out what’s going on and why he got you involved. I can drive down tomorrow.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll be seeing you soon anyway.”
“For my birthday? Like you said?”
Then, almost missing the familiar reprimand for not having studied medicine, or gone for a job with the Welsh Assembly, Helen had judged the time to be right. After a deep breath she’d said, “Yes. But just wondering if… God, I hate asking but there’s no way I’m going back to Heron House... Can I come back to Borth? Won’t be for long. Only till I’m on my feet again.”
“Would you want your old bedroom?”
“If that’s OK with you.”
Silence, followed by a sniff. Then another. Could this tough, capable woman, who’d tried being both parents for the past five years, be crying? By the time Helen had replaced the receiver, she knew that despite bad memories nipping at her heart, all would be well. Except for two problems. Why was her period delivering such an unusual surge of blood, when usually by day two it had eased off? And what would happen to her and Jason now?
***
Sitting exactly where twenty-four hours ago, Helen and her traitor had waited, she added more items to her list for DCI Jobiah’s attention. She’d already felt a rapport with him. Why she’d come back here.
But midday was too long in coming.
With five minutes to go before her appointment, she went over to the main desk before two veiled women could beat her to it. “I’m worried about my friend Jason Robbins,” she began, aware of being overheard, “as every time I tried to phone him at Heron House, the landline’s dead. I mean dead. Something’s going on. I just know it is.”
“You used the mobile that was later stolen?”
“Yes.”
“And have you made contact with his?”
“I did, but all I got was :‘This service is not available.’ For texts as well.”
“Contact his provider,” suggested one of the women who’d not heard the full story. “They’ll tell you what’s the matter. It’s free.”
Helen gave her a weak smile and returned to her seat, but a growing powerlessness and isolation soon overcame her. She returned to the Desk Sergeant as the women were leaving.
“I realise you’re based in London, but please get someone to go round to Heron House,” she urged. So her voice was raised a few notches? Who cared? “I’ve got really bad vibes.”
“Funny you should ask. DC Prydderch – from Llandovery Police Station – made contact with me last night. On his way to Heron House, he said. And he’ll be in touch again soon.”
Helen frowned. “When did he contact you? It’s important.”
“I’ll check.”
“Thanks.”
The Sergeant was gone a few minutes.
“23.04 hours,” she said, upon her return.
Helen’s frown deepened. “From where?”
“His patch, I assumed. Why?”
“He could easily have made Islington by mid-morning today.”
“I don’t understand,” the Sergeant really did look perplexed.
“I do.”
Just then, DCI Jobiah appeared in the background, looking well pissed off. For half a second, Helen hesitated. Could she bear to risk being fingered for having been in Charles Pitt-Rose’s flat, or run for it?
He glanced her way and immediately his expression changed for the better.
“I was told you were here again. Please,” he indicated a plain door marked PRIVATE, “follow me. Your B&B owner’s already been in touch with us, and very helpful he’s been, too. As has a Mr Gwilym Price with some useful names. Your friend Mr Robbins had told him you’d already met me. I just wish at the time, you’d been able to speak more frankly.”
***
At twelve-thirty, Helen emerged from the Detective Chief Inspector’s office feeling as if she’d undergone an exorcism. Halfway through their conversation, he’d summoned DC Purvis in to help take the inquiry forward. First would be a fresh and thorough probe into Betsan Griffiths’ death and that of a leading circuit judge in Cardiff with interesting connections. Next, an address in Dulwich, then a certain DC Rhydian Prydderch who’d almost certainly assaulted and robbed her on the pavement that very morning.
Helen’s phone, traced to a west Dulwich location, would be returned to her as soon as it was found. Meanwhile, she’d left the police Jason’s and her mam’s numbers, together with Colin’s, and the name and address of the former governess at Heron House. All just in case. As for that small photograph of Charles Pitt-Rose still safely tucked against her hip, it would stay there till she’d left that vile Heron House behind.
“If you see anything of Mr Flynn or Llyr Pitt-Rose, tell us.” DCI Jobiah patted her warmly on the shoulder. “Your conjectures about your boss – in fact, both men – are very useful indeed. We’ll set you up with a new phone until you get sorted. Call us from Paddington before you board the train. We must know you’re safe.”
“Thank you. But could you also please check on Dee Salomon – she’s Mr Pitt-Rose’s solicitor in Hurst Crescent, Camden?” she’d added before picking up her rucksack. “I saw how Mr Flynn looked at her. She’d also had six anonymous phone calls hassling about her dead client’s will. Someone also wanted Llyr Davies’ original birth certificate. She said she’d be calling the police but...”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch with her. Now please think, Helen. “Is or was there anything at Heron House to suggest what Charles Pitt-Rose might have been up against?”
“In what way?”
Her stomach rumbled long and loud as mentally, she trawled from the ground floor up those worn, shallow stairs to the first landing and her room. Then a sharp stab attacked her groin. And another, before she felt the biggest lurch of blood ever, begin to leak from her body.
Blood, pain. Think…
“Yes, there is.”
***
Tolpuddle Street had paid upfront for a taxi plus woman driver to take her to Paddington and, once Helen reached the station’s crowded concourse, she immediately used the bog-standard Nokia to touch base and say so far so g
ood. She then chose a ham panini and a hot chocolate drink before finding a rare empty seat near the carriage’s loo. A WPC at the police station had helpfully provided a fresh supply of night-time pads and suggested she see her GP about possible fibroids and anaemia. But Helen knew stress was her problem, and that a break at Heffy’s hotel by the Irish Sea, her answer. Where tea would be at six every evening, shopping every Saturday morning, and Heffy – lovely, pregnant Heffy – would still be up for a laugh.
While the train finally drew away from the platform to the cacophany of too many ringtones and news of a serious earthquake in L’Aquila in Italy, London’s western suburbs thinned to the almost rural, letting Margiad snake into her thoughts.
“I’ve been protecting you. But no more. From now on, you’re on your own, and if you think Jason will be putting your interests over mine, you’re wrong. You’ve had your chance, Helen Myfanwy Jenkins. So let’s see how you get on…”
“I’m going to get on fine,” she announced, causing her neighbour – an Indian guy in a suit – to sneak her a worried look. “So go away and pester someone else. You’re nothing to do with me. I never knew you, and wouldn’t want to know you. And as for Jason, who the Hell do you think you are?”
Once she’d finished her snack and tidied away its litter, she dug down her jeans into her pants and pulled out Charles Pitt-Rose’s small photograph. At Art College, before beginning a portrait whether from life or a photograph such as this, she’d been trained to search for the subject’s ‘soul.’ Her tutor – a Rembrandt fanatic – had shown the artist’s last self-portraits as examples. Immediately, she’d realised he was right. And now in front of her, on a busy train taking her further and further away from where this once six-year-old now lay dead, she realised Charlie’s early life had been shaped by suffering. Although his fair hair lay neatly combed and his shirt collar stood up crisp and white, his eyes – large, clear and piercing – seemed to haunt her heart.
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