Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  Jason felt unsteady in the office swivel chair. His forefinger trembled on the mouse as he scrolled to earlier mail. The more he peered into these hidden lives, the more his own situation became clear, beginning with that enticing notice in The Lady.

  Flynn had jumped the gun, when the rest of The Order, as they call themselves, had suggested a few discreet yet adventurous women for the upgraded Heron House. That is, once Charles was out of the way and Llyr, aka Ethan Woods, his promised beneficiary, forced to comply.

  But Charles hadn’t quite read the script.

  As for gays and lesbians, they’d be recruited in the New Year to add variety. After all, Gwenno Davies wouldn’t be around. Nor Idris. No, judging by the minutes of recent virtual conferencing, anyone willing and skilled would be welcome. Even teens could be trained up, Flynn had argued. Plenty of them around in the sticks where other paid work didn’t exist. The new set-up could be a nice little earner.

  ‘Then I won’t say why you’re really there.’

  Jason kept scrolling, but when Helen’s name came up, his hand froze on the mouse. His throat too, as the words began to blur. With her colouring and temperament, she’d been another mistake for which the Irishman had been soundly reprimanded. Flynn, who for a while, had been her father substitute.

  He felt soiled all over again. And ashamed to be even seeing this stuff. But worse, scared stiff that at any moment, Flynn and both Prydderch and Rees would show up at the pub. The Davieses too had every reason to be worried, wherever they were. Things were changing fast. Even Jason’s breathing had speeded up. His mind on fire. No time for anything else except getting back to Heron House.

  Beyond the pub window, an overloaded section of guttering had slipped its moorings and swung against the window. Above this noise came another. An almost inhuman voice, shrill and harsh. The last thing he needed right now.

  Margiad. Dammit.

  “You promised you’d write my story. You promised!” she cried. “Why can’t we start now? Think of it, Jason. You and I, together, for however long it takes…”

  You and I?

  “Yes. I even put my name plate on my bedroom door specially for you to see,” she went on. “And showed you my bedspread, my foul bloody carpet. For you to understand the truth about me. To seek justice. Please...”

  “Truth? That’s rich, given you knew all along why Helen and I had been brought to Heron House.”

  “I was teasing.”

  “Liar.”

  Something suddenly hit the window glass and fell out of sight. The light overhead flickered and his bones felt cold. She was speaking again as if he’d not said a word.

  “I love prologues. Why not begin with one on that snowy Christmas Eve in 1946 with me waiting and waiting for my Robert. The only one who could help me escape danger. Think of it, Jason. Think of it…”

  Her demands hogged his mind as the screen of emails faded to a pale yellow-brown mass; the same colour as Llandeilo and Heron House’s pool. But this was no street scene, no silent gathering or attempt to drown him, but a young woman’s face in close-up. Identical to what he’d seen in the kitchen, except that her left eye bore a dark purple bruise and that devouring mouth had opened in a shriek so loud and piercing, he stumbled from his chair. “Do it!”

  “Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut the Hell up!”

  “Do you want me to stop making her suffer? Your Helen?”

  What?

  “Begin now, or I’ll see she never bears children, never…”

  He slammed the door behind him, yelled down to Judy to call a DCI Jobiah at Islington Police Station to urgently look at the emails. He gave her the password then as she began dialling, pushed open the back door into a changed world where although the rain still fell like steel rods, a once picturesque backwater had suddenly become a War Zone.

  ***

  Where on earth was Gwilym? An hour he’d said. If anyone was reliable, it was him. Jason turned off the main road and ran up the sodden track towards Heron House, his sweat mixed in with the rain. Last year’s straggly brown ferns brushing his legs. This was surely where Helen would be heading, with or without Monty Flynn. So this was where he must be. Having dodged the turbulent mini-rivers flowing down towards his boots, he quickened his pace again once the two iron herons on top of the gates came into view. Now not just birds but a malign presence. The gates were open, but from one hung the kind of padlock Woolies had never seen reason to stock. Protection for a castle, or a prison?

  All at once the grunt of a car’s engine grew more distinct behind him. This was neither the Nissan, nor Helen’s Suzuki – more like that bashed-up Escort from earlier. He wasn’t going to hang around to find out. Instead, with a second wind filling his lungs, he followed the untrimmed boundary hedge until reaching the stile. From here, through the lifeless chestnuts, he realised he’d guessed correctly. The battered, blue Escort was creeping past the driveway’s rose island and stopped out of sight along by the lock-ups. Its punctured tyre mended.

  Had this same crock that had almost killed him taken Gwenno and Idris away?

  And then the familiar thread of terror passed through his veins. Had someone else seen him and her at it in the kitchen? Someone bent on revenge? Had there been a hidden camera? If so, was Heron House under surveillance or was he going bonkers?

  A man’s voice. Welsh. Angry.

  Prydderch?

  The first choice. Jason scrambled over the slimy stile and slithered down to the pool’s edge where the weather had erased the remains of his recent escape. He took cautious steps around its perimeter to the corner of the house and, with the saturated ivy camouflaging his body, craned forwards.

  Helen!

  He almost called out to her, but to do so could risk her life. She was gagged, soaked to the skin and cuffed to Sergeant Rees. Proud wearer of a jam-packed holster. She was also being manhandled indoors. Not only were the insides of her jeans’ legs stained red, but twin trails of blood followed her struggling steps. No sign of her pink rucksack.

  For a split second, she glanced his way. Her swollen eyes delivering a warning he didn’t need. Archie Tait was right. His brave best mate was urging him to jump ship. Because he’d be next.

  No way. He’d not come this far for nothing. He wished he had Gwilym’s rifle. Something to scare the shit out of this creep who probably knew way too much about him and Helen from their statements for a start. He dug out his mobile to check recent events and by some miracle, a DC Purvis from Islington Police Station immediately came on the line. “A Ms Judy Withers has just made contact with our team,” he began in what seemed like a faraway voice. “Why I’m calling. And DCI Jobiah plus a crack unit from Cardiff are already on their way to Rhandirmwyn by police helicopter.”

  “OK, but Sergeant Rees has just taken Helen into Heron House. He’s armed. She’s bleeding badly.”

  “You’re not to take any unnecessary risks, Mr Robbins. Understand? Leave everything to us.”

  Sod that. I’ll take every risk.

  “Monty Flynn’s armed too, and highly dangerous. Call us if you see him. Before going to London on Saturday, he killed Miss Griffiths, and just recently Llyr…”

  Call ended.

  ***

  Rage spiced by fear took Jason first to the Escort where he salvaged Helen’s filthy pink rucksack from the boot, then to the back of the house where he knew a rotting door lay half buried by years of grassy neglect. He’d seen the gardener use it to sneak in and out. The oddball who’d tried to kill him then save him.

  Ajar.

  The rain followed him in.

  Despite the large, dripping cellar’s deepening gloom, he checked out the rucksack. What he found made his eyes sting. No money in her purse and a basic model Nokia, with nothing stored on it at all.

  No time to waste.

  He threaded his way towards a distant door through all kinds of discarded junk. Old, stiff bridles, fishing gear, rotting croquet mallets, but more usefully, broken window g
lass, all shapes and sizes. With each step, the smell of death reached his marrow.

  He grabbed the piece to best fit his pocket and wrapped his unusable handkerchief around the end before slipping it deep out of sight. Then stopped to get his bearings. To listen. A repetitive banging noise coming, it seemed, from Nantymwyn Forest. Nothing like tree-felling, sawing or shooting. Now came footsteps overhead and the sagging ceiling groaned as they passed. Jason guessed he was under the kitchen and, if so, hadn’t he once seen Idris Davies appear from the larder?

  He climbed six stone steps to the door. Metal this time, with a section of fly-clogged mesh set in the top. He could hear his heart. Rees was leaning over the Belfast sink, ducking his head under the tap for a drink. Helen still attached to him by handcuffs.

  So near and yet so far. Her protests just a muffled blur. He mustn’t blow it. The coward might panic. Reach for his gun.

  “I want my rucksack now. And my purse,” she mumbled.

  “You won’t be needing them. Upstairs we go,” said the animal. “No need either to clear your mess. We’ll be private up there, and no tricks either, not like those them two fuckers who wouldn’t drown. ’Sides, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.”

  “Wait till Jason Robbins finds out about me. And your bosses.”

  Hearing his name was the trigger.

  He tested the metal door. It was almost too easy. With her rucksack snug against his back, he crept past shelves of boot polish, silver polish, old floor cloths and sagging cartons of Daz – everything except something edible – into the kitchen where he trawled its walls and ceiling for any sign of a hidden camera. No joy, and he couldn’t hang around.

  With his right hand feeling the cloth-bound edge of his makeshift weapon, Jason followed the blood up the stairs. They were going to the very top of the house.

  ***

  She was screaming. Must have pulled off the gag. Jason soon reached that darker world of the second floor where a trail of gas and roses led to his room. Margiad’s nameplate, luminous in the gloom, was back in place over the half-open door. A complete bunch of keys hanging from the keyhole.

  He covered his nose, pushed his way in and almost passed out.

  Chloroform.

  This was no bedroom but a morgue, judging by what lay outstretched on the carpet. A man he barely recognised. Monty Flynn. Naked and yellowing just like St. Peter. His startled eyes scrolled upwards.

  And then, with a jolt, Jason noticed the man was still breathing.

  Jesus.

  Nothing he could do. Helen was still handcuffed to Rees, standing in her own pulsing blood thicker than the adjoining darker stain. Her eyes red and swollen from the effects of the gas. She was priority.

  While the Sergeant was busy checking Flynn’s pulse, Jason charged. “Undo these,” he kneed him in the groin, making the cop double up in agony. “Now!”

  With his glass weapon hovering close by, those silky hands soon got busy on the cuffs and once unlocked, Helen collapsed into Jason’s arms. Her blue fleece still wet, her whole body shaking, but his at last. The Fuzz tried to stand, but the sharp, glass point prodded him back. “What’s going on?” shouted Jason, “Flynn’s still alive.”

  “Leave him be or you’ll be next for the cross.”

  “The cross?”

  “Careless waste of skin, him.”

  Jason felt bile burn the back of his throat. “You sicko. You tried to top me as well with that car.” He kicked again and felt better, but Helen was trying to reach her ex-boss. He pulled her away. “Let’s go while we’ve a chance.”

  Together they somehow made it down to Flynn’s empty study. Having slammed the door behind them, Jason heaved open the sash window opposite. Seconds later, Rees was advancing into the room like a crazed buffalo. His Glock’s muzzle pointing their way.

  “You first,” Jason hissed to Helen. “I’ll hold you. Come on! He might shoot.”

  “I can’t. Look at how much blood I’ve lost. It’s no good. I’ll never make it. She’s killing me. Maybe Betsan meant her when she said Gwenno’s mouth wasn’t the only one who’d done her harm.”

  “If you start writing it, I’ll stop making her suffer. Your Helen. If not… If not...”

  “Ssshh.”

  He didn’t need to ask who she meant and, holding Helen tight, felt her lightness against him. Saw her lifeblood covering his boots as he lifted her out into the ivy’s wet embrace and slammed the window shut behind him.

  On their way through the ivy, Helen’s ‘Curse’-word crept into his mind like a death watch beetle emerging from a crack in some old piece of wood. He clung to her cold hands even more firmly as she managed to find footholds and made progress downwards. He wanted to tell her he’d never let her go. To say so much, but Sergeant Rees was very much alive and, judging by those continual banging sounds coming from behind the house, Prydderch was probably somewhere out there, too.

  “Just tell that freak you’ll write her sodding story,” Helen begged. “Tell her you’ll spend every minute of every day of your life doing it. That’s what she wants, isn’t it? Margiad Pitt-Rose and you, with me off the scene.”

  ‘Begin now, or I’ll see she never bears children, never…’

  ***

  Helen needed a hospital. Fast. Nothing else would do. How could he explain to her how he’d not had time to appease that terrible voice? How Helen’s possessions had all gone from her room? They could come later. If there was a later.

  And then, while negotiating the last of the ivy’s wet embrace, he spotted a pair of black cars parked side by side along near The Drop. A Porsche Boxster and a VW Passat. Two slugs glistening under the Devil’s rain. That was when the first gunshot from above stirred up a gravel dervish, sending up grit into their eyes.

  ***

  Rees was glaring down from the open window, hurling abuse and firing off target as Jason and Helen finally reached the ground and, with a last, desperate effort, reached the first car.

  Not only was the Passat’s alarm disabled but, by another miracle, its ignition key still lay in the lock. Both front tyres stood skewed away from the edge of land as if ready for a swift getaway. But, who owned it? And the Porsche? Surely the Fuzz hadn’t done that much overtime? His phone was ready. He punched in 999. Would God grant him a third miracle? No.

  In disgust, he chucked the piece of glass awa;y then, hidden by the Passat’s far side, made Helen comfortable on its beige leather rear seat. The plaid rug he’d found in the boot staunched her blood loss as he started the engine and with a sinking heart felt the rear near tyre deflate.

  “Fucking 999.”

  Out of the drive now, the car was listing badly, but still driveable as, with terror in her eyes, Helen relayed DCI Jobiah’s latest message received in Llandovery. How the suddenly determined Sergeant Rees had driven here like a maniac and once they’d stopped, had fondled her breasts before adding his restraints.

  “There’s nothing to worry about any more,” Jason lied to her, feeling ill. Neither he nor DCI Jobiah had warned her about Sergeant Rees. “Try and chill. Shut your eyes.”

  “I can’t. I know Mr Flynn killed Betsan but I keep thinking of his horrible colour, his curled-up feet and what they’ll do to him…”

  “He betrayed you, remember?” Jason finally found the right wiper speed and reached back between the front seats to touch her hand. “Both of us. But we have to move on. Together.” Through the rear view mirror, he saw her faint smile. He slipped into first gear and the car lurched in the direction of the drive. As it did so, the air inside seemed to cool to a sudden chill. His hands felt as cold as when he’d been digging around in that Angred shaft. He blew on his fingertips. Turned the car’s heating to maximum.

  “I thought you weren’t interested in me,” she announced. “Why I gave up trying to reach you. Your phone was dead every time.”

  “When?”

  “Once I’d reached Bristol.”

  “That’s weird.”

&n
bsp; Like Gwilym’s camera stopped working.

  “It’s her again.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “You must have thought I’d not forgiven you for that stunt in the kitchen.”

  A knot of grief and fear seemed to tighten beneath his belt. In just four days they’d not only been to Hell but upon reaching the still open iron gates, he knew they were unlikely ever to leave it.

  He kept the VW in second gear along the downhill track, praying his driving skills were still OK. He’d not been behind a wheel for years – never needed to in London. The half-full tank would easily get them to Llandovery’s Cottage Hospital, but what about the blown tyre, splat-splatting with every rotation of the wheel? Even more disturbing was that despite the blasting heater, the cold inside the car seemed to be getting worse.

  “They took my best phone,” she added, out of the blue. “While I was asleep.”

  He glanced round at her. “Who did? Where?”

  And by the time they’d passed the pub where Flynn’s computer was now under lock and key, he’d learnt more of her fraught weekend. Realised too, that his normally robust heart had slowed down. Would they both freeze to death in this luxury car? Why else was a growing crust of ice lining the windscreen? And where the Hell was that promised police helicopter?

  With one hand he rubbed away just enough to see through the glass, then leant over to open the glove box. Beneath a packet of Murray mints, travel tissues, some loose cigarettes, lay a small, white envelope already torn open. The details on the front made him swerve too close to the overgrown verge.

  R. D. Prydderch,

  Hafod Wen

  Cilycwm, Carms.

  “What’s the matter?” Helen mumbled.

  “Nothing. We’ll soon be there.”

  “It’s so… o… cold.”

  “I’m doing my best. The heating’s kaput.”