Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  “Witnesses? What for?” Now his heart was slowing down.

  “Just do as he says. You told me you liked solving problems, so please be there. For me as well. And could you check my room’s still locked?”

  But Jason’s mind was elsewhere.

  “Hello?” Helen said.

  “Course I will.”

  So that’s why no other bedrooms had been set aside for paying visitors and that grotty, black swimming pool not smartened up. He’d been stung.

  “One thing,” he said. “ Are you on pay-as-you-go with Nokia?”

  “Why? Are you checking up on me? Don’t you trust me and Mr Flynn?”

  “Do you?”

  ***

  The morning was coming alive with the peck-pecking of more rooks on the mossy roof above him; an early chainsaw screaming up in the forest, and all the while, snatches of one of Jason’s favourite videos sneaked into his mind. The Whicker Man, where the unsuspecting cop had been lured to some wacky Scottish island to investigate a non-existent crime. He’d found the ending unwatchable. The whole premise profoundly disturbing, and here he was, not acting, but for real, in a similar Land of the Zombies. Had brother and sister put the Irishman under pressure not to have anyone else here? If so, why? Why too had Charles Pitt-Rose died?

  Suddenly, helplessness and shame replaced the fear to still his whole body. Helplessness because normally by now he’d be down in the reception hall tearing through Yellow Pages for a cab to take him to Swansea. Shame because he’d not told Helen he thought he loved her.

  Just then, the tinny beat of ‘Paper Planes’ broke into his regrets. By some miracle DC Harris had got through. She’d bust a gut to get a trace off Helen’s phone, but no joy, at least he was able to say he’d spoken to both her and her boss.

  “That’s good.”

  And then came DC Harris’ news that made Jason prop himself against the old dressing table. “My colleague DC Prydderych at Llandovery wanted to tell you himself but he’s on his way to an accident on the M4 near Binfield, just east of Reading. A white van it is, rolled off the hard shoulder some time after midnight. No sign of the driver, mind, but he must be somewhere.”

  Ethan Woods?

  “Two things lead us to believe he could be a Llyr Davies from Beulah who picked up your friend Miss Jenkins late last night from Llandovery station.”

  “Beulah?” He remembered that name from the tourist guide. “That’s not so far from here.”

  “Exactly. He rents a room in the village. We’re trying to trace its absent owner.”

  Deep in his gut, Jason knew this was getting too close to home.

  “Interestingly, that same van’s tyre tracks exactly match those by Heron House’s grounds,” she went on.

  “And near Golwg y Mwyn?” His pronunciation of the bungalow’s name wasn’t perfect, but she understood.

  “Yes. There’d been a U-turn nearby. Rain usefully softens the ground.”

  “So that’s how he’d got away from that stile.”

  “Quite possibly. And secondly, a receipt from the Fforestfach Tesco store for 4.40 p.m. on Friday 2nd April, with Miss Jenkins’ name written on the back, was discovered deep inside the passenger side cubby hole. To me – and not because I’m also a woman – for her to have hidden it, showed great presence of mind.”

  A small, but fierce glow of pride seemed to swell Jason’s heart. “I’d say that’s typical. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Just now, yes. She’s fine. I advised her and Mr Flynn to be vigilant. You as well, Mr Robbins. Although, judging by what we know of this Llyr character, he goes to earth, often for ages. But we have a DNA sample from a source in that cab, and it’s being matched now with that from a cold case going back five years.”

  He took a punt. “From when he worked for Mr Price?”

  “Sorry. I can’t say.”

  The gigantic Dinas Hill had suddenly morphed into a sick shade of green while that detective’s attractive voice continued. “Sergeant Rees will be calling on you late morning to see Mr Llyr Davies’ parents,” she added. “I’d be grateful if his visit could be kept a surprise.”

  “Sure.”

  “And we know what Idris said to DC Prydderch about them being brother and sister, but remember, the old boy gets easily confused. They both do.”

  Jason shook his head. Why would Gwilym Price lie about the Davieses?

  “There must be certificates somewhere,” he said. “Proof they’re married. Proof this Llyr really is Idris’ son.”

  “We’re looking. Meanwhile, just do as I ask. And may I add politely, that this matter is none of your business.”

  Silence, in which Jason wondered what Dan Carver would say now.

  “Can I ask when Miss Griffiths’ post-mortem’s being carried out?”

  A slight pause.

  “Tuedsay afternoon. Oh, and another reminder. Mr Flynn will need to fill in his statement as soon he’s back from London.”

  ***

  Jason got dressed without bothering to wash. Something he’d never done even in that crowded Penge squat when he’d first moved to London. But he couldn’t risk meeting the siblings from Hell or he’d probably have killed them. Now, like his almost vanished hero Dan Carver, he had to be prepared. Be on alert.

  The house felt too quiet. Too full of secrets brushing by him, filling the gloomy corridor as he headed for the windowless bathroom. By the time he’d zipped up his jeans, any indecision about what to do next had been replaced by a strategy. At least until Tuesday. Go on the charm offensive, he told himself. Butter up the Odd Squad, draw them out. Discover, if he could, who’d cleared out the study, and how come his OPERATION ROOK notepad was still missing. Finally, with a bit of luck, find out more about the son.

  ***

  The kitchen didn’t feel right without Helen. Even less so with the diminutive figure of Gwenno Davies silhouetted against the one window, scrubbing out the kitchen’s Belfast sink that was twice as big as Colin’s trendy version.

  “Bore da,” he smiled, even though she still kept her back to him. Even though it nearly choked him to say it. “Sorry I disturbed you both last night. Anxiety, that’s what it was. After you’d said there’d be no writing courses after all, I guess I panicked.”

  But would even she believe such a rubbish excuse? He wouldn’t be hanging around to find out. With the coffee machine empty and cold, he picked up the half-full electric kettle and switched it on. Spooned instant coffee and three sugars into a mug while the rain outside still fell on the sodden trees and she kept up the scrubbing – her pale, bony elbows pushing in and out like some featherless battery chicken trying to get off the ground. “Yer a bag of lies, Mr Robbins. Just like our useless sandwich maker. And like I said, we’ll be telling Mr Flynn about your invasion of our privacy in our bedroom. Because that’s what it was.”

  On the word ’privacy,’ she turned towards him. Her appearance the same as when he’d first clapped eyes on her. White hair in disarray. No make-up, the crossover apron in place and her scuffed black boots firmly placed on the stone flags. No sign of that weird riding crop. However, there was something different about her eyes. The direction of their gaze for a start. Their almost brazen focus. On his fly.

  Oh my God...

  He repositioned himself to press against the worktop as he poured boiling water into his mug. The aim now to grab a few biscuits from the nearby tin and hotfoot back to his room. But before he could do any of these things, she was there, next to him. One wet hand clenched over his like a dead weight. While the other...

  “I’ll tell you everything, Mr Robbins. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Everything?”

  That free hand was now on his zip. Tugging it against the denim fabric, moving it downwards. He felt dizzy, hot. Unable to break away. Coffee steam burning his nostrils. Before he knew it, she was in there. Shit. She was in there, inside his boxer shorts, stroking away, sliding her fist up and down, up and down his unplanned erection. She knew what
to do alright. Christ, she knew what to do...

  “There’s a nice big boy you are,” she cooed as she worked him, “and getting bigger. I could tell by the shape of yer nose, first time I saw you. Now then, Jason, what’s really bothering you. Why are you staying on here when there’s no need?”

  On his foreskin now. Easing it back and pressing an expert finger into the little eye beneath, making him gasp. There was too much blood down there. Too heavy, with nowhere to go except out in the open and out of her hand...

  Kneeling now, she took him in her crinkly mouth, back and fore, back and fore... “Ask, ask,” she murmured, suddenly pulling away, prolonging the moment of release. Jason glanced down, about to close his eyes and fall over an edge he’d never had any intention of visiting, when he saw not the face of an old, dried woman, but someone young and eager, whose large dark eyes rested on his. Whose soft, plump mouth expertly returned to the business. “I’ll tell you everything about being in Hell,” she said, as a different, darker room complete with that crucifixion print and a distinct smell of roses had suddenly enveloped them. “I’m Margiad Pitt-Rose who lived here too long. Who’s been trying to make you listen. So are you ready to listen?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yessss...”

  23.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 9 a.m.

  After a Detective Constable Jane Harris had phoned Helen, to check if she was OK, there’d been no time for her to tell her boss how stressed Jason had sounded. No time either to call Heron House to say sorry to him, when he’d only tried his best. In order for herself and Mr Flynn to return to Rhandirmwyn on Tuesday as promised, there was a revised agenda to keep. All Mrs Pachela’s fault.

  However, Helen now knew from two respected sources that the creep who’d assaulted her at Heron House, and given her the lift, had been the Davieses’ son. As for the Irishman, his name should surely be Monty Con Merchant Flynn.

  ***

  Tolpuddle Street police Station was still more than a mile away in the heaviest traffic Helen’d ever seen. A deep tide of steel and glass jerking along in first gear between every impediment under the sun.

  Tension still crackled between them like a summer storm. Flynn’d been annoyed that she’d given DC Prydderch his mobile number, and angry that the Philippina had let him down.

  “Stupid cow,” Mr Flynn muttered. “Bloody foreigners. And why are you staring at me?”

  “I’m not. Just wondering what’s the matter with your finger?”

  “Nicked it on something in the boot, that’s all.”

  “Best give it some air.”

  “Not this air. Fucking dump,” the Irishman then swore again as the congestion zone announced itself. With deeper frown lines and an untrimmed shadow around his mouth, he looked ten years older and, although he seemed tense as a violin string, she had to speak out. Break her resolutions. Again.

  “If I’d known the Davieses had a son, do you think I’d have gone with him last night or anyone remotely like him? If you’d told me half the stuff you should have.”

  He turned as sharply as an eagle after prey.

  “Where did that nonsense come from? There is no son. End of story.” He crashed the gears. Was suddenly driving too fast.

  She mustn’t cry. Not now. Her job was to keep her eyes and ears open. For her and Jason’s sakes.

  “As for that wretched couple, I’ve had to pretend everything’s normal, can’t you see? But they want a fight. A reason to...” he said overtaking a cyclist too quickly and getting a V-sign in reply.

  You called them benign not so long ago…

  “Go on,” Helen said.

  “Do I really need to spell it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get rid of me. Mince me up. Burn me, bury me alive, whatever. I was never meant to be on their precious patch in the first place. Oh, no. And once I’ve seen the deceased’s solicitor later on, you’ll realise why.”

  “She’s done me too much harm. Her and her mouth.”

  “Could they have killed Betsan, do you think?”

  He crashed the gears. The noise of it was hideous.

  “Wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “I want to tell you what Jason and me found at her bungalow yesterday morning.”

  “Later, please. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Helen, but Charles Pitt-Rose – lying toad he was – insisted the Davies pair to be ‘harmless’ and ‘devoted.’ His exact words as I signed away my first three months’ rent on the dotted line. If it weren’t so tragic, I’d be splitting my sides laughing.”

  Helen couldn’t envisage that, as another break in the murky cloud allowed a pale patch of sunlight to catch the end of his nose.

  “And get this,” he was now in second gear, “after that three months was up, he was paying me. Hush money, it’s called.” He glanced at her, as if testing her reaction. “I should have said no. Bejesus, I should have told him where to stuff it.”

  “He must have been desperate not to rock the boat.”

  “That he was.”

  And then another thought crossed her mind. If he found out she’d been snooping in his study, her P45 would be getting its first airing. “So why not simply leave?” she asked him, to push that unwelcome thought away.

  “I would have done when the poisoning started. Remember my nosebleeds? Lasted for hours.”

  She felt more than cold, and not just because the sun had disappeared. Everything was slotting into place. How the doctor had called round barely a week after she’d been at Heron House to ensure the Warfarin powder was left nowhere near breakfast cereals or dried milk in the pantry.

  “And the welcome notes they both left for me. You never saw those.” Mr Flynn added with a sarcastic smile.

  “No. But I don’t understand. When DC Prydderch turned up about Betsan yesterday afternoon, Jason and I had to write their statements for them. Idris Davies said neither he nor Gwenno could write.”

  A dismissive snort caught her by surprise. “Don’t you believe it. Lying eejits.”

  “Did you keep those notes as proof?”

  A shake of that dishevelled head. “They beat me to it.”

  “Perhaps DC Prydderch could catch them out.”

  “Come on, Miss Jenkins. You’ve been there long enough. Charles Pitt-Rose knew full well about those two. They’re as deep and devious as the Liffey. You wait. Wouldn’t surprise me if they had him topped as well.”

  “Is that why you wanted me and Jason as witnesses?”

  His nearest hand left the wheel to clasp hers till it hurt. Really hurt.

  “Just don’t judge me, Helen. That would break my heart. Promise?”

  “OK.” Yet his clammy grip had left several red marks.

  “May Mother Mary bless you,” he said.

  But she hadn’t finished.

  “Idris let slip he and Gwenno were siblings.”

  Mr Flynn turned her way. “What?”

  “You can imagine how she reacted to that. More like an angry rat.”

  The Irishman crossed himself, muttering something under his breath before braking at yet another set of temporary lights. Islington was now grinding to a halt.

  “To Hell with the lot of them.” He hit his wheel twice. “Him and all. Mr Fucking Pitts-Whatshisname.”

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  Silence.

  “It’s not my place to say this,” Helen ventured, “but if you make out you hated him too much, the cops might think you killed him.”

  “Me string up a twenty-three stoner? I don’t think so.” He suddenly turned to her. “Do you trust Mrs Pachela to get the keys?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know any more.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s vital I check out the flat before leaving London.” He looked at her again in a way that made her realise their relationship had altered. Trust was a word fading fast. “I need more information on the Davieses for
a start. And that’s in all our interests.”

  She didn’t like the way he patted her right thigh. Stroked the same hand he’d marked earlier. She withdrew it, nudging further away from him as he finally took a left into Tolpuddle Street. Here, some way down from the Metropolitan Police HQ, a lucky parking place for one whole hour materialised as if by magic.

  “This all sounds like the thriller Jason was planning to write,” Helen said. His disappointment had affected her too.

  “No need to rub it in. My misleading him is for me to sort.” Mr Flynn switched off the ignition. “I’m sure he’ll understand my predicament. And when we’re in this Holy of Holies, please leave the chat to me. I’ve already spoken to one of the cops here on the phone. A retard called Purvis.”

  Helen couldn’t keep the fresh hurt from her mind as his rant continued. “They’re all bent as corkscrews,” he went on. “All thumb-squeezing, nipple-tweaking Masons, and don’t forget it.” He pulled a crumpled black tie out of his glove box, and added it to his open-necked shirt. Smoothed down his hair and both eyebrows.

  “I’d better stop here, then,” she said. He turned to her, eyelids flickering as if with exhaustion.

  “I’ve achieved nothing since I got here yesterday. One obstacle after the other. I was on the point of giving up when you phoned. You’re my right-hand man, remember?”

  Now was the time to capitalise.

  “So, who was Margiad?” Helen asked. “Or I’m not moving. She’s been haunting us.” Just to say that, made her period pain worse. Her skin to turn cold again.

  “Us?” Her boss stared at the busy pavement.

  “Me and Jason. He’ll fill you in. There’s been really weird things happening in his room, for a start. And she’s been phoning him on his mobile several times where there’s been no normal reception, begging him to remember her. But no number’s ever come up.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Ask him. Then there’s me smelling sickly-sweet roses when there aren’t any, and while I was dreaming away in the cab this morning, up comes a young woman’s screaming face on my canvas when I was actually imagining painting a landscape for my mam. All this apart from the man in black who waits by the old adit up Pen Cerrigmwyn.”