Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  Her knees wouldn’t straighten, nor her elbows. She was as stiff as her ancient mamgu, still clinging to life in her Care Home up in Machynlleth. The bin man called for help, and as the rotting rubbish stench filled her nose, two more hands pulled her clear and helped her along to a wooden bench conveniently placed near the Travel Lodge’s main entrance.

  “Thank you,” was all Helen could say. Her eyes beginning to sting.

  “Got to get back,” explained the one in the baseball cap. “We’re on short time as it is. Fuckin’ stingy council.”

  With the men gone, big, fat tears fell on to her precious rucksack, until an inner voice told her all wasn’t lost. She’d got her Visa card, hadn’t she? And a working phone that only needed a top-up.

  “Come on,” she sniffed. “With a bit of luck, I could be with Mr Flynn in a few hours.”

  ***

  No sign of the Trouser Suit or the white van and its driver. Something else to be grateful for. With less stiffness now, Helen returned to the shop and its welcome loo, where a basinful of hot water and a nice-smelling hand wash, made her feel ready to face the day.

  Ten minutes later, with her phone topped up, she dialled the taxi firm’s number given to her by the Asian guy at the till. She was warned that the bill could exceed a hundred pounds. “Sod it,” she told herself. At least she’d be safer than here. At least Mr Flynn might put her in the picture.

  She waited by the counter until the shopkeeper had finished stacking a new delivery of cigarettes, then she said, “that man with the black beanie. Did he ever come back in here after I gave him the slip?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I’m often in the storeroom. But,” he indicated a small TV positioned discreetly near the till angled away from prying eyes, “he’ll be on this if he did.”

  “CCTV?”

  “Sure. Remind me of the time.”

  She tried thinking back through the blur of her recent nightmare. “Must have been half past midnight.”

  “OK.” He flicked a switch and swivelled the screen round until its monochrome duplicate of the shop itself and surroundings came up on the screen.

  “And he had this van. White it was,” she explained. “Newish, judging by the state of it.”

  But no lamb…

  “Take a look, but be quick,” said the guy. “We’re getting busy again.”

  And sure enough, the grainy sequences showed the odd motorist and biker filling up at the pumps, until he swiftly swivelled the screen away from new customers queuing up to pay. “All quiet,” he said once the shop was empty again, letting her look until suddenly, she spotted a shadowy, but nevertheless familiar figure running between the vacant pumps and round the corner where she’d been hiding.

  “That’s him.” Helen’s finger stabbed the screen. “Look!”

  “12.38,” the clock says. Off to the Travel Lodge by the looks of things. There’s nothing else out the back apart from our rubbish bay.”

  Her period pain kicked in again as the film ended and a new one began, showing Ethan Woods in his beanie and duffle coat pushing open the hotel’s outer door and not coming out again. So he could have seen her on that bench. Could still be there, with his wheels tucked out of sight.

  “Seen enough?” The guy was clearly busy with yet more boxes of stock arriving.

  “I have, thanks.” She then noticed the Cosicab taxi draw up alongside the shop’s front window. Its driver, a smart middle-aged woman wearing a maroon dress. “If he comes in here and starts asking about me, say you don’t know anything. Please.”

  “I’ll warn my brother. My shift ends in ten minutes.”

  His promise followed her outside where the silver Mondeo’s rear passenger door was already open.

  “Your firm said they’d take Visa,” Helen said, keeping a lookout for the black beanie.

  “That’s fine. You want Islington, right?”

  “Right.”

  ***

  No chat. No radio, or inquisitive glances. Just a professional called Maureen doing her job, cruising along the damp tarmac between the other Sunday morning early birds like her, a long journey to make. No sign of that white van either, and after signs for Swindon came and went, Helen gave up looking and closed her eyes...

  Her mam’s favourite scene of a sunny autumn day – with blues and greens of sky and water contrasting with the reds, oranges and browns of leaves about to fall, came into view. But gradually, the planned sky had become earth-coloured, dome-shaped. Nothing like the intended vista from Dan y Bryn, her mam’s chalet bungalow. And the more she tried to retrieve her original idea, the more the pressure on her brush increased until stroke by stroke, colours that had mysteriously appeared on her palette, were in place.

  This was no seascape or landscape. She was staring at a face.

  But not only that. A beautiful, screaming face...

  The taxi driver was eyeing her through her rear-view mirror. “Shall I pull over? Do you need to get out for a minute?”

  To Helen, the voice seemed to come from far, far away, while beyond the car’s windows a bleak, grey world sped by. She simply said, “can you please turn the heater up? I’m freezing.”

  The woman frowned. “Will do. But it’s already near max.”

  How could it be? With skin that felt shrunken over her bones? Fingertips numb, cheesy-pale? Even the inside of her mouth was like an ice-box; the nerves in her teeth dancing to a hurting tune. And all the while, the vision of that terrible, tortured face filled her mind.

  ***

  More traffic now near the eastern end of the M4, and the Mondeo slowed down alongside a solitary, static wind turbine whose white blades almost blended with the lightening sky. Normally, Helen would be envisaging this same aberration repeated hundreds of times on every beautiful Welsh hill and wondering yet again what she could do to stop it. But not now, with survival top of her agenda.

  Suddenly, Rhandirmwyn’s stifling beauty seemed like two massive hands gripping her throat until she couldn’t breathe. Those terrified eyes she’d seen on that canvas, boring into the far reaches of her mind.

  “I’ll stop if you like.” Maureen’s concern made her drop down another gear. “Just say when.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Helen wheezed. “I just need to get to Mr Flynn.”

  “Flynn, you say?” quizzed the driver, negotiating a big roundabout signed for Hammersmith and routes south. “Is he Irish?”

  “Yes. Apparently he’s written two novels.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “About the Freemasons.”

  “I love anything like that. Conspiracy theories, alien encounters. Dan Brown meets David Icke, I suppose. Odd I’ve not heard of him.”

  “I think the books were withdrawn early on. Their publishers had cold feet. So he said.”

  Maureen didn’t reply.

  ***

  At last Helen stepped out on to the damp, uneven pavement and waved the Mondeo away. Not for the first time did she feel suddenly stranded and alone, missing Jason.

  “There’ll be no hiding place. So don’t get cocky. And if you squeal to anyone else, you’ll end up in bin bags where no-one’ll find you. Got it, bitch?”

  She scoured her surroundings, listening hard for that van’s distinctive engine, and then, just as she was about to phone Jason and her mam again, heard a man’s voice calling out to her. First of all, she looked upwards at Sandhurst Mansion, but there on her right, three cars along the nearby kerb, was the familiar grey Volvo and its driver with a not-so-familiar expression in his eyes. Mr Flynn himself. Or rather, what seemed to be a dishevelled, older version. He looked worse than she did.

  Having unfolded himself from his seat and, with his driver’s door still open, Mr Flynn walked towards her, arms spread wide. That same sticking plaster attached to his right index finger. “I’ve been worried stiff about you, Helen Myfanwy Jenkins. How the Hell did you know I was here?”

  “That Metro notice gave me a useful start, then my cab
driver took a guess.”

  The hug that followed this lie took her by surprise, taking the air from her lungs until he spotted her taxi indicating to rejoin the traffic. “What did that cost? Please, I can’t let you pay.”

  “Mr Flynn, I’d actually prefer it if you told me the truth.”

  He rolled his eyes. A stray cloud covering the pale sun cast his face in shadow.

  “Not again, Helen. You’ve already given me the third degree.”

  “Some weirdo attacked me at Heron House yesterday, and then late last night must have followed me to Llandovery where I was dumb enough to cadge a lift from him. Ethan Woods he called himself. I recognised the same trainers. How he had the same build and smell… Is that his real name? Do you know of him?”

  “No, I’m sorry. You just have to be so careful these days. And as for Heron House, the Davieses are supposed to be on guard.” Her boss inclined his face towards her. In close up, his normally wavy hair was a greasy mess. “Why no mention of this when you left your message?”

  Helen inwardly counted to three to calm herself down. He was wrong-footing her. The sod.

  “Do the police know?” Mr Flynn asked.

  “Yes. DC Prydderch went looking for clues, but he’s rubbish. Shall I tell you about this freak’s vile threat to me? Shall I? It’s still in my phone. There’ll be no hiding place…” she began, hearing her voice tremble. When she’d finished, she noticed how those same eyes had closed. That mouth a tight, unmoving line.

  ***

  She followed him towards the apartment block, unsettled by this sudden change of mood. Reminding herself from now on to watch and listen. To not give too much away because with every passing second, the man now in front of her was becoming more of a stranger.

  A police cordon had been stretched across the entrance to what she assumed was the underground garage. The sight of it adding to a growing sense of danger. Nevertheless, she kept her distance, even when her boss introduced himself and shook hands with a short, anxious-looking Philippina dressed in a belted camel coat already waiting by the gateless path. He then turned to Helen. “Mrs Pachela used to clean for Mr Pitt-Rose. And this is Helen Jenkins, my cook at Heron House.” He gestured for Helen to come closer, but she held back. Something about this obviously prearranged encounter felt very wrong indeed.

  “You know what I’ve come for,” he returned to Mrs Pachela whose red-rimmed eyes were welling up. “Keys, as agreed.”

  His wallet was already out and open, revealing a wad of new notes inside.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman. “They won’t be ready until four o’clock. I did try...”

  Disappointment slackened his shoulders. “Not good enough,” he tutted while shoving the wallet back in its place. The sun slid out from behind another hanging cloud, revealing the cleaner’s perspiring olive skin.

  “Four on the dot it is,” he barked and, judging by her expression, didn’t need to add ‘or else.’

  “On my heart, sir.”

  “Good.” But there was no smile.

  “Fifteen years I worked for Mr Charles after he moved from Fulham.” Mrs Pachela added, sniffing into a paper tissue. “I can’t believe what’s happened here. It must be the work of the Devil.”

  “Did he have any lady friends?” Helen ventured, despite her boss’ impatience to be off. “Or boyfriends?”

  But the upset woman didn’t have a chance to reply because the Irishman had taken Helen’s arm and forcefully steered her away up the street. “Out of order, Helen. Remember. It’s me who asks the questions.”

  As they reached the Volvo, Helen, still smarting from his rough handling, found herself studying a not-so distant phone booth whose glass sides reflected the surrounding chaos. And the longer she looked, the more she realised who the thick-set, shadowy figure inside may be..

  22.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 7.30 a.m.

  Colin’s late-night call had caught Jason by surprise, interrupting a dream where he and Helen had been strolling hand in hand along some empty, unfamiliar beach. His normally predictable brother had urged him back to Hounslow.

  “Why? What’s up?” Jason had said.

  “She’s dumped me, right?”

  “The Girlfriend?”

  “Fancies her boss instead. Has done all along, apparently. Look, it’s pretty weird here on my own.”

  Not as weird as here.

  Jason had known what was coming next and jumped in.

  “I can’t. Sorry, mate,” he’d said. “I really am.”

  “C’mon, Jaz. You can have my room. Borrow the Merc whenever.”

  Jaz? Colin hadn’t called him that since they’d been kids at school together. Before one got lucky and the other not.

  He’d watched raindrops racing down the pane. He’d not gloated, knowing what being ditched was like, but no way would he take the bait. He was needed here. Helen needed him, never mind the dead Betsan Griffiths and the demanding, invisible enigma with as yet no name.

  “So that’s it?” Colin again, sounding half the guy he’d been last Friday.

  “’Fraid so, but thanks anyway. Hope you get something sorted.”

  ***

  Jason reached out to the bedside table and, like last night, took his Orange handset over to the window, beyond which the ugly lump of Dinas Hill seemed to have grown in every way. He dialled DC Jane Harris, then prayed this time she’d pick up and stay on board. She did. “I’m calling about Miss Jenkins again,” he began. “She may have reached London, but I need to be sure.”

  “I should have a result some time this evening,” DC Harris said.

  “Evening?” She might as well have said next year.

  “Mr Robbins, traces normally take two or three days. I’ll do my best.”

  He thanked her then rang Helen.

  “Yes?” came a man’s voice. Irish. “Who’s that?”

  Jason heard his own sigh of relief. “Monty Flynn?”

  “I think so. Just about. You want Helen?”

  I did in my dream.

  “Yes, please,” said Jason. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “She’s fine. She’s with me. I’ll pass you over.”

  Archie Tait had sworn he’d been fine too, with both legs off and half his face. The word should be banned. Then, at last, Helen was speaking. “I’ve been to Hell and back if you must know,” she said, barely audible. “I managed to do a bunk from that lift of mine at the Leigh Delamere Services near Swindon. A white Ford Transit van it was, with no tax disc.” She then described the driver who’d briefly tried the Travel Lodge. Even down to his stubble and black leather gloves.

  “Dark blue top? Like the one you’d seen…”

  “I couldn’t tell.” Then she repeated the man’s threat.

  Never had Jason felt so helpless.

  “Are you OK?”

  She let out a brief, grim laugh.

  “Where’s this freak now?”

  “God knows. I had to hide in a wheelie bin all night. But I now know his trainers were the same as that skinhead wore yesterday in Mr Flynn’s study.”

  Jason realised then that should anything happen to her, the life he’d so determinedly envisaged for himself, would crack open. “Listen,” he said, as a posse of ragged rooks fanned out from the roof of the house and diminished like sooty specks against the pale sky. “This is important. I’m putting two and two together, right? According to Gwilym Price, the Davieses had a son, Llyr. Early forties by now. No hair since birth. Nasty bit of work. Used to race around in some green truck he nicked from the Forestry Commission. The cops know about him, too. He’s got form...”

  All he could hear was the murmur of traffic.

  She’s gone.

  “Helen? You there?”

  “Stop it!” she snapped. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  “Who picked you up in Llandovery? Tell me.”

  Another pause. Would she or wouldn’t she cut him off?

  “Et
han Woods, so he said. Brings Welsh lamb to butchers in Surrey, but I swear his van was empty.”

  “He could have killed you.”

  “I coped, didn’t I? I’m here now and I don’t need a minder, thank you. I am twenty-two.”

  Now came another voice in the background. The guy who’d so far not made much effort at being Monty Flynn. “Was he a skinhead beneath that beanie?” Jason pressed on. “Did he have a Welsh accent? Is there anything else you’d recognise?”

  She wasn’t bothering to answer, and Jason’s neck was beginning to burn as it always did when he faced a brick wall. Time was also against him. She was too far away. “Look, I don’t want you getting hurt. That’s all.”

  Another pause. Then Helen again.

  “Look, we’re back on Tuesday. Meanwhile, there’s loads to sort here, like looking round Charles Pitt-Rose’s flat.”

  “Why? It must still be a crime scene. And the garage.”

  “Mr Flynn wants to find out more about the Davieses.”

  Jason felt that inhospitable morning touch his still-warm skin. Thoughts of danger and death refusing to budge. “Well, tell him this. Someone’s totally cleared out his study. I checked in there late last night. He needs to know.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I am not.”

  Pause.

  “Don’t tell the police,” she sounded breathless. “You mustn’t. He’ll deal with it.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  “I know him. Right?” But she didn’t sound very convincing.

  “I can get a train. Be with you by five o’clock. Just give me the address.”

  “No.” Then she dropped her voice right down. “Mr Flynn wants you to stay at Heron House. He’s scared, OK? He’s just confessed the whole writers thing was a lie. It’s not happening.”

  “What?”

  Clever Gwenno…

  Yet he felt as if a cold, black shadow had crept from the corner of the bedroom to envelop him, suck air from his lungs while the floor beneath his feet began to shift. His more pressing dream of writing his thriller, slipping away…

  “He wanted witnesses, and me and you seemed the best of the bunch,” she continued.