by Thomas Brown
They grouped and regrouped as if in slow motion with easy familiarity, drinking from glasses of vivid, red wine. The only colour, made all the more startling in the monochrome silence.
Was this some after-dinner gathering with the women still indoors? Or the kind of secret meeting Monty Flynn said he’d dealt with in his books? Too late, Jason realised he’d forgotten to breathe and, having taken a sudden, deep gulp of the tainted air, hiccuped far too loudly. The phone, ready in video mode, fell to the ground.
When he’d straightened up, the four guys who’d stopped their mute conversation were appraising him in such a way, that although that nippy breeze had eased, he had to steady himself with the help of a handy branch. It was as if those eyes – four icy knives – had suddenly pierced his heart.
***
Still shaken, still dwelling on Idris Davies, and the strange swimming pool gathering, Jason heard wheels rattling the gravel on the drive behind him. He turned to see that same chequered Range Rover he’d spotted at Golyg y Mwyn, complete with DC Prydderch looking fed up.
Join the club, he thought, not only because Helen’s recent kick had drawn blood on his shin, but his planned best seller featuring Dan Carver was receding from his brain by the second.
“You did tell the Davieses I’d be here?” the cop said through his open window. A whiff of cheese and pickle wafted Jason’s way. “Can’t stop long, see. We’ve an incident down the town.”
So much for his promised thorough investigation, thought Jason. Whereas Dan Carver, a man of principles, would leave no stone unturned in his quest for justice. “I did, just five minutes ago,” Jason said, “but he buggered off. As for his wife, when have I had a chance to see her?”
The corpulent cop, perhaps anticipating a complaint, softened his tone.
“And Miss Jenkins, your partner? She around?”
“I’ve already explained to you. She’s not my partner. I left her near the pub. We’d had what you might call an altercation.” He liked that word, but not its reality. He wondered again where she was.
The Range Rover churned on past him, whereupon its driver baled out, engine running. His bloodshot eyes glanced around until he pointed in the direction of the bare chestnuts. “Who’s that over there?”
Jason followed the fat forefinger to where a skinhead wearing jeans and a dark blue top was vaulting over an old stile and running up the hill beyond.
“God knows. Never seen him before. But the gardener might have.”
The cop pulled his two-way from its holder around his sizeable girth and spoke in Welsh to whoever had answered. The five words Jason recognised were “Heron House, suspicious,” and “Idris Davies.”
Prydderch ended the call and checked his watch. Had the Fuzz really somewhere to go that was more important than this? Jason urged himself to keep thinking like Dan Carver to make him even more real in his mind. Suspicious of everything and everyone. No holds barred.
“Was Betsan killed?” Jason asked.
“It’s beginning to look that way.”
Jason loped off in the direction of the stile, but soon realised that the effort was a waste of breath. Neither the running guy nor Idris Davies was anywhere to be seen. And what the Hell was Helen doing?
All he had for his trouble was waterlogged boots and a throbbing head. Back at the house, the cop was waiting for him, black briefcase in hand, unimpressed. The Range Rover’s engine now turned off.
“We should try and catch him,” Jason panted. “He could appear again. Nick stuff, whatever.”
“We will. Any stranger round here soon gets noticed and people talk. My God, how they talk.” DC Prydderch indicated the house’s porch. “Who’s that woman standing there?”
“Gwenno. Mrs Davies. The gardener’s wife. Got some pretty weird habits, too.”
A flicker of interest showed in those unhealthy eyes. “Such as?”
“I reckon you’ll soon be seeing for yourself.”
***
But no. Gone was the dowdy skirt and shoes, the apron and that weird riding crop. In their place, a neat, grey dress with prim white collar. Matching heels too, and pearly pink lipstick, applied in a hurry it would seem, spreading beyond her thin, dry mouth. Ignoring Jason, she curtsied and held out her hand to the uniform busy scraping his shoes on the iron heron.
Jason saw her smile, then cottoned on. She must be on the pull. She also must have somehow known this cop was coming.
“I’m so very, very sorry to hear about Miss Griffiths,” she pre-empted the visitor. “A lovely, lovely woman. Whoever would want to kill her? I do hope to goodness she didn’t suffer, that’s all I can say.”
She did me harm. Her and her mouth.
“How come you’ve heard about it?” quizzed the Fuzz.
A tiny pause which he didn’t seem to notice.
“My Idris was up the hill, see. Saw your blue and yellow car coming away from her bungalow. Then he met Gwilym Price. Likes to blab does that one. What living alone does to you.”
“We never saw Mr Davies, nor anyone else,” Jason countered, and was rewarded by a look of pure venom. “We – meaning myself and Miss Jenkins – were both at her home for quite a while.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit?” asked the visitor, snapping open his briefcase and pulling out a red file that reminded Jason too vividly of his last job. “With your husband too?”
Those flirty eyes immediately hardened. “Why him? I can help you much better. Anyway,” she spat, “where’s that Miss Jenkins?”
That tart.
“I’ve already spoken to her, and I’m sure she’ll be along shortly.” Prydderch’s look matched hers. “Mrs Davies, may I remind you, this is a murder investigation.”
That ‘m’ word and all its implications made Jason shudder. Gwenno, however, seemed to relish it.
“How was she murdered?” The old woman persisted.
“I’m not at liberty to say. But we must start by collecting statements from everyone who happened to be in the vicinity of Golwg y Mwyn this morning. Give your Idris a shout, eh? And while we’re at it, have you noticed a man in his early forties hanging around this house and grounds?”
He added the guy’s description and all the while, the cleaner’s piercing little eyes fixed on Jason, who was miffed he’d not provided the details considering he’d done all the running. Now his beery head was paying for it.
Gwenno shook her white curls. “Honest to God, sir; I can’t think who that might be. Now then,” she smiled at DC Prydderch again, “I’ll bring some tea through.”
“No time for that, ta,” said the visitor as he and Jason followed her into the reception hall where a log fire was beginning to fade, making little difference to the big room’s overall chill.
Once seated, the cop reopened his briefcase and lifted out a thick notebook. The kind Jason had ready for his thriller’s notes. “Where’s Mr Flynn?” he asked no-one in particular, as if to test the water.
The old woman seemed genuinely confused. “Isn’t he back from the Fox and Feathers yet? That’s where he is most mornings.”
“He never went there,” said a younger, female voice from the stairs beyond the hall. “He’s gone to London, and I’ve just had some thug upstairs attack me.”
Helen.
Pale yet defiant. Oddly beautiful, even in her damp Barbour.
“That’s an extremely serious allegation, Miss Jenkins,” the Fuzz snapped, clearly unsettled.
Jason immediately went over to stand next to her “Are you OK?” he whispered.
“Sort of. No thanks to him over there.”
“I thought you’d gone back down the pub.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” She was now staring in disbelief at the lipsticked cleaner whose hands were gripping the fabric of her dress. Then Helen turned to the detective constable, at the same time, lifting up her jumper to reveal a reddened strip of skin just above her navel. “Did this myself, did I?”
Jesus.
“Do I have to call Llandovery?” Jason had put on his Dan Carver voice.
It worked.
DC Prydderch reddened before turning to the old couple. “Best if you wait here. You too, Mr Robbins.”
“But...”
“The less distraction the better. We’ve statements to write then I got to get back, remember? Now then, young lady, show me exactly where this supposed incident happened.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Jason, under instruction from DC Prydderch to find the missing gardener, returned to Heron House with Idris Davies plus his clogged-up besom, stop-starting in front of him. The man was obviously reluctant to see anyone, never mind the Fuzz. He’d been urinating by a former pig pen up near the far fence when Jason had found him. Not a pretty sight.
“DC Prydderch’s in a rush,” he’d explained to the man. “Won’t take long. Besides, we’re all in this together.”
“All in what?”
“Murder.”
“Speak for yourself.” The gardener turned that reptilian eye on him again. They’d almost reached the porch. Time was running out.
“Did you happen to see Gwilym Price today?” Jason pressed his casual button. Under-used of late.
“Should I have done?”
“Or a bald-headed guy running away from the house?”
“When?”
“Just after I’d seen you.”
“After you insulted me, more like.”
Jason let it go. The man, like his wife, was a downright liar, but he wouldn’t be counting on PC Plod to pursue it. Nor move his bulk to check for footprints by that stile before they got messed up by wildlife, or even this man himself if he’d something to hide.
As he held the front door open for the gardener and his broom to go in first, he told himself that if Betsan Griffith’s puzzling death was ever to be solved, he’d do it. And then, as if a black rose had suddenly bloomed in his mind, remembered the name Margiad.
***
“Ah, Mr Idris Davies, I believe. We don’t have much time, but we need your help.” DC Prydderch waved the surly looking man towards the one vacant armchair and passed both him and Jason a blue Lottery biro and statement form apiece. Gwenno glared at her husband as if his being indoors was a crime in itself, while Helen, drawing a small picture of Betsan sitting upright in her Captain’s chair, was still avoiding Jason’s eyes. He wondered what else she’d said about her recent ordeal. Obviously not enough to divert the Fuzz from Miss Griffiths. Being dead was the only way to get attention, it seemed.
“Accuracy, remember?” the Fuzz with bad breath reminded everyone. “Accurate movements. Accurate times. To fabricate, or leave out crucial information is a criminal offence.”
With his first sentence down in black and white, Jason’s words seemed to fly from the one decent Woolies’ ballpoint he’d kept. In fact, he had a job to keep to the facts and not exaggerate. ‘This isn’t your book,’ he’d warned himself. ‘Stick to the facts.’
Suddenly, Idris Davies crumpled up his sheet and threw it on the fire whereupon a twisted, green flame spasmed into life. “Can’t read nor write, see,” said the man whose grizzled head seemed even smaller than ever for his body. “Never bin to school. My sister here neither. Too busy working, we was.” He pointed to the woman whose paper also lay untouched. Whose shocked surprise was a picture. She tried to leave her seat, but the Fuzz, sitting alongside her on a worn settee, restrained her. He handed Jason and Helen a spare sheet each.
And then the penny dropped.
Sister? Jesus.
Helen stared from one Davies to the other. “But I thought...”
“He means wife,” barked the cleaner. “Too much fresh air it is. Affects the brain. His brain. I keep telling him, mind.”
Meanwhile Idris Davies had lowered his head, muttering, while the cop drummed his fingers on the top of his file. “Are you married or not?”
“Never,” insisted the gardener. “She made a mistake, didn’t she? Likes to call herself Mrs for some reason, but it’s not true. ‘Sides, if we was a couple, where’s her ring?”
At this, the old woman seemed to stiffen, except for her right hand fiddling with that empty wedding finger. Jason could imagine the air between them in private would be not just blue but navy blue. “Where were you married, then?” he asked her as if he really cared. “Locally or outside the area?”
“Can we please move on?” the Fuzz cut in. “Perhaps you, Mr Robbins, could write down what Mr Davies says; and you, Miss Jenkins, do likewise for Ms Davies. I want dates and places of birth. Relationship to one another and the deceased; current residence and lastly, but vitally, where you were between 5 a.m. and 11 a.m. this morning. Also, if you’ve any thoughts on who Miss Griffiths might have been expecting for lunch.” He glanced at his watch then the cleaner. “You go first. And by the way, please remember, this is a legal document. Mr Price of Troed y Rhiw has already been very helpful.”
A lie. The farmer had given him short shrift.
“What about my boss?” asked Helen. “He was in his dressing gown till nine.”
“Mr Flynn will need to call into Llandovery police station immediately upon his return. By the way, has anyone any news of him?”
“He’s OK,” said Helen almost too quickly. “I can give you his mobile number afterwards.”
“Diolch.”
Again the cleaner tried to stand. A look of disbelief tightening her bitter face.
“She never said he’d gone to London. I mean, how come it’s incomers knowing more than us?”
“Ask Mr Flynn,” said Helen. “And by the way, I’m as Welsh as you are.”
The cop coughed. “Now, Ms Davies. And please speak clearly so Miss Jenkins can understand.”
“Mrs, if you don’t mind.”
As Jason watched her begin, he resisted asking how long they’d lived at the house in case she’d volunteer it. She didn’t, and the minutes ticked by until both bland accounts had been signed by two wobbly initials apiece. Idris Davies claimed he’d woken at 7 a.m. and not left the grounds at all after that. He’d seen Gwilym Price passing by with his rooks mid-morning when the farmer had given him the sad news about Betsan. As for her having any living relatives in the region, the answer had been an emphatic no. In unison. Something about the Davieses’ manner was more defiance than denial. “Were you both here at Heron House a long time before Monty Flynn bought it?” Jason finally ventured.
“Not relevant at this stage, Mr Robbins,” the Fuzz manoeuvred himself out of the settee to gather in the four statements. His bulk blocked out the meagre light from the front window as he locked the statement file in his case and snapped it shut. “Go on for ever, otherwise.”
“Quite right,” added Gwenno. “None of his business.”
“Just one thing, while everyone’s together,” persisted Jason. “Have any of you heard of someone called Margiad? She may have lived here. Even died here. The reason I’m asking is I saw a sign bearing her name, outside my room door. Then it vanished. Other things happened last night, too. Things you wouldn’t believe.” He felt his cheeks colouring up as he spoke. Aware of Helen looking at him in a way he couldn’t fathom.
The mantelpiece clock chimed half past three.
He wished he’d never asked the question, nor volunteered the rest. It had just happened, almost without his control, and at the end he felt as if he’d stepped into his own grave to be buried alive by silence.
***
Half an hour had passed. The cloakroom sanctuary reeked not only of discarded coats, macs and mud-encrusted boots, but bad drains. Jason stood wedged against the old-fashioned washbasin while Helen sat on the toilet lid, head in hands. They’d not only accompanied the lumbering Fuzz back to his wheels during which he’d promised to find her attacker, but trekked up to that old stile again to search for clues. Now, free of the Davieses’ hostile stares on their return, it was catch-up time. To discover what had turned the girl in front of him into a living
ghost. But she beat him to it. “Weirder and weirder, don’t you think? Hard to know who to believe.”
“That Fuzz certainly didn’t want me digging stuff on the so-called brother and sister. And didn’t you think the earth around that stile had been conveniently raked over?”
“Possibly.” As if she was dwelling on something else.
“Describe this guy who put the frighteners on you,” Jason whispered.
“Tallish, strong, bald. Cheap jeans and serious b.o...”
“Dark blue top?”
She nodded.
“Got to be the same guy I saw. Is this what you told Prydderch upstairs?”
“Yes. And there’s to be a chopper search of the area by four o’clock.”
“In half an hour? I’ll believe that when I see it.”
She looked up at him. Her eyes misted by tears. “To be honest, Jason, I’ve never really felt at home here. Now I’m frightened.”
In certain films he’d seen, now would be the moment to step forward and get physical. “You’ve got me,” he reassured her instead, but needn’t have bothered. As before, she wasn’t listening. Something had indeed changed. Heron House was neither a safe workplace for her, nor the inspiring retreat he’d hoped for. In less than twenty-four hours, it had become somewhere to retreat from. Yet why had she been targeted like that in her own space? It didn’t add up. He took a chance.
“You weren’t in your room, were you?”
The look Helen gave him said it all.
“You can tell me.”
She lowered her voice. “I was in Mr Flynn’s office. Its door was unlocked. I found stuff he’d hidden away in a Private and Personal box file. Can’t you see? I had to find out what’s really going on here. Why he dashed off like that.”