Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  Outside, while the first fat raindrops from the darkening sky hit the window glass, an unstoppable tear fell on to his young cheek. She tried wiping it away, but only succeeded in bleaching out even more of that pale skin. And why had the governess taken the photo in the first place? As a souvenir before he was sent away for the last time? Or for a less honourable reason?

  ***

  More rain. What else?

  She was a living wreck as she finally stepped from the Swansea-Shrewsbury link train at Llandovery station. She also felt like a stranger, as if this small market town whose shops were already closed, had changed. The short stay in that overloaded capital had clasped her to its amorphous spirit. The Coleridge Gallery was another lifetime away, but nevertheless still beckoning.

  Helen scoured the car park for her car. Apart from a fruiterer’s van and a few chained up bikes, there was nothing.

  Damn. Damn.

  Hadn’t Jason offered to get hers locked? Perhaps he’d somehow driven her to Rhandirmwyn thinking he was being helpful. She couldn’t go to the cop shop in case Prydderch had somehow got himself back from London, so now what? No umbrella, no shelter and drenched already. Stay calm, she told herself. Think. No way was she hitching again. Nor would she attempt to walk it. Her groin, compressed for all those hours on the train, was delivering a deep agonising pain. She thought of the local library where she’d met one of the staff while looking for cookery books. Ffion. That was her name and she had a car.

  She’d just turned into the main High Street, when a blue Escort pulled up alongside. Despite the mad rain, the nearside passenger window was sliding downwards. Ignoring her instinct to keep moving, she looked in. Sergeant Rees, out of uniform. “Miss Jenkins. Can I help?” he asked. “You look all in.”

  “I am. My Suzuki’s not over there where I left it.” She indicated the station, aware of rainwater trickling down to her bra. “Do you know if she’s been moved somewhere?”

  “She?” he smiled.

  “Please…”

  “Mr Robbins took her up Heron House.”

  So she was right.

  “When?”

  “Now you’re asking. Look, I’m off out to the cinema in Brecon, but can run you back to Rhandirmwyn if you like. Really no bother.”

  “Where’s DC Prydderch?”

  He blinked in surprise. “At home. Why you asking?”

  Because he stole that diary.

  “I’m used to seeing him around, that’s all.”

  The Sergeant seemed to believe her. “Keeps dogs, he does. And dogs need walking. “Now, you ready? You’re getting soaked.”

  She couldn’t imagine Prydderch walking anywhere, yet he’d come at her quick enough back in Islington. “OK. Cheers.” She edged towards the saloon whose dents above its sills and its wheels were caked in mud, aware that the passenger door had already been pushed open from inside, bringing with it a distinct whiff of poo. But, so what? She had to get back. She’d just taken hold of its handle when suddenly, her replacement phone sprang to life. So busy was she stepping back onto the wet pavement, she only grasped the first part of DCI Jobiah’s call. “Helen? You back in Wales yet?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Some important news just in. No time to spell out the contents of Mr Pitt-Rose’s diary except to say that if true, it’s extremely revealing. There’s more to his death than meets the eye, and a lot ties up with what you told me. Can’t say more at this stage.”

  ‘There are suicides and suicides…’

  “But you do need to know there’s a perfect match between the sample of Mr Flynn’s DNA taken here, and from one of Miss Griffiths’ broken figurines.”

  My God.

  She’d noticed his cut finger but as he’d been in his dressing gown, had thought nothing of it. Could he already have been over to the bungalow on Saturday morning and changed out of his clothes?

  “We also found proof he’d visited her the previous Wednesday morning. But Helen, listen carefully,” the DCI continued, as she suddenly remembered Mr Flynn’s return to Heron House that lunchtime with not a trace of whisky on his breath. “Do not, I repeat, do not, be on your own with either him or DC Prydderch whose late night call to me actually came from the Mayflower Hotel in Islington. Understood?”

  Sergeant Rees was conveniently flicking through his radio stations, until he looked up just as she was stuffing the phone away in her fleece pocket. “My film starts at eight,” he reminded her. “Need to shift, see. Hop in.”

  39.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 11 a.m.

  That image of his randy mam seeing to the Irishman was still haunting Llyr’s head as he dumped what he’d nicked from Sandhurst Mansion in an empty litter bin and limped away from the only chemist in miles. The hardest bit so far, finding somewhere to buy bandages for his wounds. The poshies who lived round here didn’t seem to need anything except banks and, even then, most, like Michael Markham, were into offshore trading. As for Geoffrey Powell – Jimmy’s greedy sprog down in Dinas Powys – who now ran the whole game; God, he hated him. Hated the lot of them, truth be told. And he, Llyr Pitt-Fucking-Rose had been the fall-guy. He’d failed with the gay and it had been his Transit picked up. Who else would it lead to, thanks to the Brecon dealership sticker still on the rear plate?

  As for the dough he’d earned, it was safe in the Co-op Bank for the short-term. He wasn’t that dumb. Not with the recession in full swing and whispers of plans to tax what lay hidden in ‘safe’ havens. Yes, he’d kept up with all that financial stuff despite nothing on paper to prove he’d got brain cells. Despite Geoffrey Powell’s recent neck-grip warning not to put The Order at risk in any way.

  But the worm had turned and now he was asking himself how had he got himself into this heap of manure? Wrong place, wrong time, wasn’t it? Persuaded by Flynn he could make it big, just like another fool with an ear stud not a million miles away. Someone he had to see, before heading for Cardiff Airport.

  Whatever Jason Robbins was, he didn’t deserve to die like that poor disciple. But Gwilym Price did. The man had a downer on him from the day he’d showed up for work at Cysgod y Deri. Him and his frisky, older wife who’d actually helped deliver him. How cooky was that?

  Reason enough to get cracking.

  ***

  He made Victoria Coach Station in twenty minutes, but the National Express service had been delayed by Somali illegals found half dead inside the luggage holds of two earlier departures. Now, at five o’clock, the next bus to Swansea was due to leave at any moment with four seats spare. Lucky or what? He’d opted for road rather than rail. Slower but more secure.

  Clutching his still-hot coffee carton with one hand, his Superdrug carrier bag, containing a coagulant spray plus box of tissues in the other, he chose the furthest free seat away from the door. Just in case.

  No Flynn. Nor any of the other bastards. So far so good.

  With the old crust in the next seat eyeballing him, he hunkered down as far as he could against the red velour, and took the first calming gulp of his coffee.

  It had been a hairy morning alright, but he’d survived. Just.

  ***

  As the coach revved up before manoeuvring out of its bay, Llyr spotted a queue of three men all past their prime – all white – in uncool clothes, standing by the driver’s area, asking about toilet breaks, snacks and crap like that, when he’d paid to be over that Severn Bridge a.s.a.p.

  Only when they’d sat down could he breathe again, and the whole shebang left the heaving city behind.

  Sod this...

  He’d not bargained for his neighbour asking if he’d been in a fight. His frigging e-fit had been on the News, hadn’t it? Larger than life, thanks no doubt, to the gabbing schoolgirl at Abergwesyn and The Ginger he’d been ordered to deliver to her fate.

  Instead of freaking out, he just told the old git he’d made one or two mistakes while living in Brixton; then, still clutching his coffee, closed his eyes and let the past sna
ke into his thoughts.

  Had there been any photos of him at Heron House? he wondered. Dream on. The Order had wanted him airbrushed out of sight, out of mind, and no-one went against them. Even his mam and the one he’d known as his da. People he’d not yet found the right words to describe. “Too much lead in their veins,” they’d said at his first assessment interview at Holmwood. “Just like their parents. Poor dabs.” But he was the ‘poor dab’ when his few toys had been taken away as well. The wooden-paged books showing colourful pictures of farm animals, nothing like what roamed around Rhandirmwyn.

  Once at the special school, he’d done regular Bible Study but never seen the point of it, except that stuff from the Old Testament about Lot and his foxy scheming daughters. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters. Nothing had changed since men and women had squatted in caves. So Geoffrey Powell spouted at The Order’s three-monthly virtual conferences, to enthusiastic applause, especially from his old aunt in her care home, who’d been Charlie’s governess. A woman he’d never wanted to see again in his life.

  ***

  Llyr blinked himself awake. Someone had switched on the video too loud as ‘Gladiator’ sprung to life and one of the latecomers stood up to survey the coach before sitting down again. He drained his tepid coffee while slanting rain from the leaden clouds outside, blurred his view. He wondered how quickly he could exit the crap that had smothered him since his surname had taken a turn for the worse. How Montague Flynn, the man he’d just shafted, parachuted in to Heron House from the Emerald Isle, was the one he feared most.

  ***

  “Membury Services,” announced the ear-shattering tannoy over the video’s din. “Twenty minutes for tea and a pee. Last stop before Cardiff and Swansea.”

  The aisle in front of him became jammed with bodies. Or more precisely, bums, and bags; one of which hit his left cheek. Normally, he’d have reacted, but not now. He had to get off this bus in west Wales with no strings attached.

  “You goin’ sometime before midnight, son?” said the crust next door, whose recent parp said he needed the break more than most.

  “When it’s calmed down, OK? Bit mad at the moment.”

  “I need the toot.”

  Llyr stood up, let him pass then sat down again. If only he still had his van with its comfortable cab. Now the uniformed driver was chivvying everyone off the bus and into the rain until just one other passenger remained. A man with brown hair and a creased trench-coat. One of the three who’d boarded late. The one who’d earlier stood up.

  “Out please, you two,” said the driver. “Me bladder’s burstin.”

  Llyr hesitated. He’d planned to stop where he was.

  Don’t raise your profile.

  So, reluctantly he passed them both and the litter-strewn seats until he reached the steps down. Trench-Coat’s aftershave stung his nose. He didn’t seem to have much sense of space either. On to tarmac spotted with rain. Llyr pulled up his donkey jacket around his ears and stepped up the pace even though his left leg was killing him. Over a mini zebra crossing, past an overflowing waste bin then towards revolving doors with pink balloons bobbing around on either side. Someone’s having a party, he thought, remembering the years when he’d had none.

  WELCOME

  Just then, something harder than a finger was pushing him into the spinning glass doors. Then he realised a silencer was lodged in the small of his back.

  “Take a left,” said a man’s voice before he could react. “No messing.”

  GENTS

  Where three guys pissing into their pots were too busy to notice.

  “This’ll do,” said the voice behind him. “Number four. My lucky number.”

  The metal was pressing closer now. Against bone.

  Click.

  The cubicle door was secured behind them. Normally, Llyr would have leapt on to the toilet seat and kick-boxed his way out of trouble. Not now though, with everything to lose. At least know who’s going to take you out, he told himself, dropping his carrier bag. Turning round.

  Flynn.

  The one from Crosskelly who enjoyed old muff. Alive or dead. Even Betsan on Saturday morning after her knock-out drops. Llyr had known all this. He wasn’t a dickhead. But all the same, he should have told Markham. Earned some Brownie points.

  “I saw you at her bungalow,” Llyr said. “What you did to her and her things. You turd. You nothing.”

  He was rewarded by the kind of smile you don’t forget.

  “There’s gratitude.”

  “What for?”

  “My keeping your real name out of lights. Even your mam’s when I’d refused her offer of help that morning, I’d insisted your future was more important than…”

  Llyr covered his ears. He never wanted to hear about her again. Or her brother. He wanted America.

  “Just think, I’ll have everything when you’ve gone,” Flynn crooned. “I’m already a beneficiary, in a strong position. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Rot in Hell.”

  The brown wig had slipped sideways, but those cold grey eyes were unchanged. As was the dark nosebleed filling each nostril, the ragged teeth behind that smile. But this time Michael Markham’s blaster was in his enemy’s hands. Its black eye on his.

  ***

  Llyr was a kid again, back in his tadci and mamgu Davies’ farm, being made to watch while his mam using that crop of hers, showed off her sexy skills on her da and her brother. Skills she’d passed on… And on… And for what? To hear the scream when they’d struck her for not trying hard enough. Yes, even the scream as his eyes disappeared and ice cold laughter began.

  40.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 5.15 p.m.

  With his dad’s world-weary suitcase safe in Cysgod y Deri’s spare bedroom wardrobe, Jason waved his old friend goodbye and stood in the downpour until the Nissan had rounded the bend past the pub and vanished out of sight.

  Keen to reach Llandovery before six, to buy a new oar for the patched-up coracle his grandfather had once used on the Towy, Gwilym would only be an hour at the most. Then, under cover of dusk, they could both investigate the swimming pool.

  Jason gathered up Monty Flynn’s computer – now encased in a fresh bin liner – and entered the Fox and Feathers by its back door where Judy Withers was waiting, no questions asked. He’d made that plain when, having spoken to DCI Jobiah at Islington Police Station about his find, he’d phoned her from the farm.

  She led him upstairs to a boxroom-cum-office overlooking the Doethie Valley. ‘The Drop,’ as Helen had called it. “How’s your girlfriend, by the way?” she asked, opening the door. “She seemed quite pale on Saturday.”

  Jason fought the blush creeping up his neck.

  “OK as far as I know. Still in London with her boss. Should be back here with him tomorrow.”

  “By the way, and it’s no big deal, but he never came in the pub on Wednesday morning. Just that I’d told her Saturday had been his exception.”

  “Right.” But he wasn’t really listening. Just wanted to make a start.

  “Hope to see her soon, anyway.” Then, while the deluge hammered on the roof overhead, Judy showed him where the internet connection lay beneath the worktop. “Take your time,” she added. “And if you want a coffee or something to eat, just shout.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Good luck.”

  On his own, he soon had the Packard Bell up and running. The start-up buzz sending a charge of dangerous excitement to his heart.

  Windows XP 2009. The same as Colin’s. Something at least. Also the fact that the Irishman had conveniently left his password inside one of his many unused notebooks. PENDU. How weird was that? But even more weird was evidence there had been an internet connection at Heron House after all.

  Flynn was no longhand writer like he’d said. This was his medium and to scroll through page after page of retained emails was proof. Proof too, of a sinister, s
ecretive world only someone like author Max Byers could make up. Further searches showed that Monty Flynn hadn’t written a word of fiction in his life.

  ***

  Now, where to start? he asked himself. Last Saturday might be useful. It was. He found the latest email dated Saturday April 3rd at 08.00 hours:

  To all,

  Some news. My prostate’s finally bidding me farewell. My bladder and colon too. Hardly surprising given the wear and tear. Days, not weeks they tell me, so rather than advise you in the traditional way, I hope this will suffice.

  Ni fleurs, ni courronnes, as they say in France. No death notice, no funeral, nor mourning. And MM will co-ordinate The Order’s renaissance now that The Gay is dead. Please give our Cause all the support you can. Life is for living. The future’s bright. HH will be back in our hands. We blazed a trail. Thanks for the memories,

  Ever yours,

  Philip Markham. (Marky) †

  URGENT DELETE

  The Order...

  Jason stared at the screen. Those recipients’ names had already fired arrows into his eyes, now it was the turn of those two ominous words: The Order. And was that strange cross its special symbol? If so, why? The missing Headmaster had been right. The stone was rolled back.

  He wondered if Flynn had picked up this email before rushing off to London and forgotten to delete it. Or if the sender popped his clogs soon after to join his mates by the pool? If so, it seemed any raving weirdo could have eternal life. And what did ‘back in our hands’ mean? And who on earth was MM ?

  Jason rescanned the list of email addresses. As he did so, the warm room became oddly cold. Detective Chief Inspector Jobiah must access all this as soon as possible but, first, he wanted Philip Markham’s mugshot. And quick.

  Dogpile came up trumps. Three clicks of the mouse and there he was. Circuit Judge for Penarth, Cardiff, plus a load of letters after his name, facing him in be-wigged splendour. But no fancy wool could disguise that overfed face. The boozer’s strawberry nose. Those eyes. Edmund Pitt-Rose was the same, and Jimmy Powell. Pillars of justice, like the two police officers, without a smear to their revered names.