Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  Mr Flynn finally glanced her way. His eyes boring into her soul as he spoke. “Helen, I’ve always felt I could speak frankly to you. Now don’t take this the wrong way, but would you like me to contact your mother? Or a doctor friend of mine in Llandovery? Perhaps he can prescribe something…”

  Don’t react. Stick to your guns.

  “You were going to tell me about Margiad.”

  Helen noticed the pulse in his neck. The subtle tightening of his fists.

  “I’ve never heard of her so there’s nothing to tell. Now, for your own and Jason’s well-being, I’d be careful. You don’t want to be accused of taking illegal substances, do you? Not with the jobs market being so tight. And remember, in this cop shop we’re going to, I’m doing the talking. Yes?”

  She nodded, trying to conceal her fury.

  “And as for your mishap last night, don’t mention it. We’ll leave that to the local cops, OK?”

  Mishap?

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Just do as I say.”

  ***

  Helen’d not been inside a police station since some old biker had caught up with her walking home from youth club to give his penis an airing. A purple thing that he’d waggled with both hands. Later that day, she’d been the centre of attention in a busy world of uniforms keen to catch him before another kiddie was traumatised. But here in this cool reception area with its unmanned front desk, it was as if she and the Irishman were invisible. Where were the yobs and muggers? Rapists and arsonists? Was everyone busy dealing with a catastrophe?

  Still bottling up her anger, she and the Irishman trekked around in search of human life apart from those on the many Sapphire safety posters depicting lone women in scary, urban car parks, on streets and the Tube. How to deter burglars and prevent credit card theft. Nothing for anyone like her holed up in the hills with a pair of lunatics. Or here in London, playing with fire.

  Suddenly, her phone rang. Eluned Jenkins’ number flashed up. Helen hesitated. Yes, she’d wanted to hear her mam in the van last night, but now was different. Guilt with a capital G took over and, as her boss was turned the other way, she made for the exit.

  “My timetable’s been altered yet again,” her mam complained. Then added, “you’re not alright, are you? I can tell from the message you left me.”

  “I’m fine. In London on business with Mr Flynn. We’re back in Wales on Tuesday. I’ll call you then.”

  “What business? He’s not, you know… sharing some hotel room with you?”

  Always her first thought.

  “Oh, mam. He’s old.” And, in a forgiving mode which he wouldn’t be sharing, said, “by the way, I’ll try and get up to Aber on Thursday for your birthday. Should have a nice surprise for you.”

  “You’re not pregnant?” she asked as two strapping black guys in overcoats pushed past Helen and through the swing doors. “Can’t blame me for asking. Hefina’s at least six months gone. Did you know? Talk of the town, she is. Now there’s a loose sort.”

  So that’s why Heffy had wanted to see her. But why no mention of it during their Boxing Day chat? But then, hadn’t she been the same about Jason yesterday?

  Having brushed a sudden sense of longing away, Helen bristled at her mam’s judgemental tone. The efficient, armour-plated primary school teacher who’d not said a word about the parents’ split. That being rather too near the bone.

  “Like I said, I’ll be there Thursday.”

  Then came something else entirely. “You’ll never guess. Talk about a small world,” her mam went on. “I’d been to this St. David’s Day charity event in town. Help the Aged it was, seeing as it comes to us all. And when I told this old girl – something Powell I think – that you’d landed a job at Heron House, she let slip she’d lived there, too. Started to get tearful so I wasn’t going to push it.”

  Helen watched the world go by as that dark-bricked ivy-clad prison with its three pointy gables and the black heron weather vane slid into her mind.

  “When was she at the house?” Helen asked.

  “No idea, but she’s ninety-two would you believe it? A governess, so she said. Maths and science her main subjects. Fancy that. Nancy’s the name. That’s it. I remember now. No wedding ring, mind, but a tidy outfit from the Stroke Association shop. Fair play.”

  “Living in Aber?”

  “Sheltered housing it is, near the fire station. Fallen on hard times it seemed. She’s not local, you can tell by her accent. We exchanged addresses but perhaps you could say hello when you’re up here.”

  Helen’s period kicked in again. She winced. Wished she was fifty and in the menopause.

  ***

  Detective Chief Inspector Jobiah was clearly in a rush, but having checked both hers and her boss’ IDs, and reasons for being there, switched on the laptop he’d brought in with him. He confirmed the general details of what he and his team had discovered in the dead businessman’s garage then, with restrained civility, addressed the Irishman.

  “On the phone yesterday morning, my colleague DC Purvis let slip to you that Mr Pitt-Rose’s death was suspicious. He was out of order. So far we’ve had no reason to change our view that a well-prepared suicide is the most likely cause. However, a painful and protracted one at that.” His tone sharpened. “My man felt pressured by your questions. Your assumptions that another party might have been involved. I admit one could assume the deceased had an interest in homosexuality, but so far there’s no real evidence.”

  Helen stared at Mr Flynn, bristling like an angry terrier. “I was merely trying to establish what had happened to a man I liked. Got on well with and never crossed swords which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is rare between landlord and tenant,” Mr Flynn said.

  The word ‘tenant’ was like a bone dug up and brought to light.

  “Indeed,” said the cop.

  Helen also sensed the tension ratchet up in this too-small room with its dismal, energy-saving bulb and she longed for the one barred window to be flung wide open. The clash of rutting stags came to mind. A familiar sound in early autumn in the forests around Llangurig.

  “So I reiterate, this appears to be a tragedy of Mr Pitt-Rose’s own choosing, and if you have any useful information as to why, we’d be glad to hear it,” DCI Jobiah said.

  Mr Flynn’s cheeks had turned bright pink. He’d met his match. Was he actually climbing down? Yes. The coward.

  “From my regular dealings with the deceased for the past three years, I admit I had noticed a gradual personality change. I’d argue that for several reasons, owning Heron House weighed on his mind, and being such a distant landlord must have been doubly tricky,” Mr Flynn said.

  “So where were you last Thursday afternoon from, say, 14.00 hours onwards?”

  Her boss’ chilling glance caught her on the hop.

  Do it. Fool him…

  “With me,” Helen returned the glance. “In your study, remember? Later on, I made you a plate of cold beef sandwiches for supper. That’s what I do, see. Sandwiches.”

  Jobiah allowed a smile to creep along his mouth. “Can anyone else vouch for you, sir?”

  “If it’s suicide, why ask me this?”

  “As I’m sure you know, sir; there are suicides and suicides.”

  “Mr Flynn wouldn’t help anyone to die,” she insisted. “He’d more likely give his own life to save them.”

  “Thank you, Helen.” Her boss’ left hand rested on her knee but she managed to wriggle away.

  “Quite some cook you have, sir.” The Detective Chief Inspector was scrolling down his screen before checking his watch. He knew how to keep you on the boil, she thought, wanting to be out of there fast. “I wish our nanny at home was as loyal. However, another witness to your being at Heron House would help. Is anyone else living there?” He looked up expectantly from one to the other.

  “Yes, Idris Davies,” said Mr Flynn. “Gardener, and younger sister Gwenno who’s the cleaner.”

  “Well there’s
a coincidence. We happen to be co-ordinating data on a certain forty-one-year-old Llyr Davies missing from the M4 near Reading after an accident there first thing this morning. He may be heading for London. Any relation, I wonder?”

  Mr Flynn’s cheeks had turned a peculiar colour. Helen knew that the close, stuffy room wasn’t the reason.

  “Most of Wales is made up of Davies, Evans, or Williams.”

  “He could be their son,” Helen said spontaneously, not looking at Mr Flynn at all. “I saw Gwenno Davies’ stretch marks once, when she was walking around naked on the top floor.”

  Her boss’ pursed lips had almost disappeared.

  “Brother and sister, you say?” Jobiah began typing as if news of incest was a daily occurrence. “We’ll check that out.”

  Fear pricked at Helen’s skin as another question came her way. This cop hadn’t needed her story at all. “Son or not,” Jobiah began, “did DC Harris tell you he’s got form? How you, Miss Jenkins, had a lucky escape?” He smiled at her again. “Leaving your receipt in the van could be very useful evidence indeed.”

  Damn…

  Mr Flynn’s left shoe connected with her leg. It hurt.

  “Look, Detective Chief Inspector,” he said, “just find this Ethan Woods and bang him up. Then I’ll go along with the suicide theory. When’s the post-mortem, by the way?”

  “Wednesday. And I don’t do bribery.”

  “What about the Inquest?”

  The DCI paused. “Undecided. But intra mura’s a possibility.”

  The Irishman seemed to freeze in his chair. “Holy Mary. Why’s that?”

  Another short pause. The big guy was stalling.

  “We’re talking of perceived risk.” He switched off his laptop, closed the lid and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

  Although he held open the door for them to leave, he hadn’t finished. “By the way, and, just as a formality, we’d like a swab from you both for our temporary records only. Prints too. Won’t take long. And please, Mr Flynn, leave us your landline phone number so we can call these Davieses for confirmation of your status.”

  Her employer bristled again. “DC Prydderch’s already got my mobile number, thanks to Miss Jenkins here.”

  “I said landline.” The cop held out a remarkably long, brown hand, but only Helen took it, while her boss hung back. She expected him to fight, but no. It was as if too many ill winds had demolished his fake sails.

  “I’d like to see Mr Pitt-Rose’s body,” Flynn said.

  At this, the DCI’s tone darkened. “And Llandovery would like a statement from you, regarding a Betsan Griffiths the moment you arrive back in Wales. Not my remit, you understand, but I did say I’d pass it on.”

  The Irishman’s pallor intensified. He paused to check his pockets and retie a shoelace. While he did so, Helen whispered to the senior policeman what Gwilym and DC Harris had told Jason about Llyr Davies. How his birth certificate was being searched for.

  DCI Jobiah frowned. “You should have said.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “And something else,” Jobiah gave her a knowing look. “A Maureen Chivers of Cosicabs has just made contact to say you’d hired her from Leigh Delamere Services at 0600 hours this morning. She’s been worried about you.”

  Helen saw her boss straighten up and stare at her. Her blood cooled.

  “I’m sorry, she must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  But Jobiah wasn’t buying that. “I’m here all weekend, Miss Jenkins,” he said. “Call any time if you want to talk.”

  ***

  The senior cop gave Helen’s arm an encouraging squeeze before escorting them both towards the lab where they were to have the spit scooped out of their mouths. Little did he know, or been allowed to know. The net around her was imperceptibly closing, and afterwards, while trailing in her boss’ slipstream of rage out into the capital’s Sunday morning, she couldn’t see any way of escape. Her shin still stung every time she put her weight on that leg. His sudden violence had unnerved her, and here he was again. Filling her head with his crap.

  “I warned you about the Met. Terrorists would be treated better than us. What about our human rights? Do you realise in an hour’s time we’ll be on a national database of felons, perverts the lot.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said.

  Thanks.

  “Your obsequiousness was quite unnecessary,” Mr Flynn said.

  “I only shook his hand because I’m a well-brought-up Welsh girl.”

  “And I tried not to look. As for that smile he flashed at you…”

  “Some appreciation for my alibi would be good,” she said.

  He didn’t slow down.

  “Thank you.”

  Bastard.

  “So why couldn’t I tell him about my nightmare with Llyr Davies? Why am I less important than that waster? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Her boss increased his pace. Lengthened the distance between them, so he couldn’t hear.

  ***

  “Perceived risk, eh?” said the Irishman once she’d caught up with him, as if nothing was amiss. “Plot thickens. I’ve only heard of closed inquests for deaths of national significance. Something stinks.”

  “Ask the solicitor,” Helen said

  “Mmm. A long shot, but if her office is in her house, she might be willing to see me today. Better than hanging about till Monday.”

  “Why not phone first?” Helen said thinking how a Sunday meeting might well cost him double. Good.

  “You’re a genius,” he smarmed.

  More of the blarney.

  “No, Mr Flynn. That’s you.”

  ***

  Dee Salomon had said yes, but only for fifteen minutes max as she had a choir practise at half past three. While bells on some nearby church pealed out ten o’clock, they rejoined the Volvo. More sun now, warming her face, making her tired eyes close up. Helen just wanted to stop; to feel its unfamiliar caress for a while longer, but Mr Flynn was already disabling the car alarm. It was then that a rush of panic seemed to also disable her heart. She suddenly needed Jason’s reassuring presence alongside. The smell of his leather jacket. The way he sometimes looked at her, as if she was the only girl left in the world.

  “Mr Flynn, I’m scared,” she called out in a voice she barely recognised. “After what that Detective Chief Inspector implied about Charles Pitt-Rose’s connections, please don’t take us into any more danger. I think we should leave it all alone.”

  The Irishman glanced over to her. Still pale. His eyes oddly blank.

  “My dear, indefatigable Miss Jenkins, I regret to tell you, it’s too late.”

  Too late? What could he mean? And then, with a deep shiver, she remembered that man in the phone booth near Sandhurst Mansion. Wondered where he was now.

  24.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 10.10 a.m.

  For a good half hour, Jason let the shower’s unreliable flow provide some relief from that moment of total madness. How could he stay on here now? Writers or no writers? He’d let the old bird touch him up, bring him off, and yet... yet... That hadn’t been quite true, had it? She’d not been the only one.

  He turned the dial to max, kept his eyes tight shut, pretending, he was back in Colin’s all-white wet room; remembering his brother’s call. What would he say if he knew? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Finally, he stepped out of the shabby cubicle and, having grabbed the grey, threadbare towel, used it to further punish his body, especially down there, until everything hurt. But still he didn’t feel clean. Instead, marked as if by some malign presence. Or, rather, a malign, manipulating presence.

  Red, sore and befuddled, he ran back to his room, clutching his clothes. Here he pulled his dad’s empty, battered suitcase from under the bed. Never mind OPERATION ROOK or his deposit cheque. They were history. The thing was now, to get out; preferably without bumping into She Of The Nifty Fi
ngers.

  Breathless, he hauled the case to the door and lifted it down the next two flights of stairs to the unlit Reception Hall and its dead fire. He was alone. So far, so good. He’d be back in London by the evening and could meet up with Helen. Persuade her to leave Heron House, just like him, and then, back in Hounslow, he’d go for any kind of work he could. Shelf stacking, street sweeping, whatever. And start his book. Dan Carver, like himself, had been suppressed for too long. His feet and socks felt damp inside his boots; his shirt and sweatshirt rucked up under his jacket. A mess, in other words. Inside and out. But better a mess free of this snare, than trapped within it.

  Shit.

  The front door was not only bolted, but locked.

  Don’t panic.

  And then, from inside his jacket came that familiar ring tone. He was on it, backing into the cloakroom as he did so, forgetting about the suitcase. He pressed the phone’s cold casing next to his ear, thinking Helen, even though her number hadn’t shown up. Just the blank, green screen.

  “I’ve something to tell you,” he hissed. “I’m getting out of Heron House. Just wait for me. I’ll be there.”

  “You can’t! I need you. Remember me, Jason. I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever...”

  Jason?

  Freaky or what? That wasn’t Helen, but that same needy voice, harder, sharper than before, like a razor cutting into his head. “Didn’t you enjoy what you let me do yesterday? Say yes… yesss for me, just like you did then.”

  No…

  “Margiad, please leave me alone. That was a crazy mistake.”

  “What you think doesn’t matter. Nor will leaving, because I won’t leave you alone until you’ve helped me. It’s my story you‘ll be writing, not yours. There’s no-one else who can do it. I’ve waited so long. Me and my...” Here, the voice faded, only to rise up again like a surfer’s wave. “Just promise you’ll free us. Promise me...”

  Us?

  “I can’t.”

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

  ***

  He rammed the phone deep inside his jeans’ back pocket alongside the battered cutting from The Lady that had started this. Out of sight, but not out of mind. This unseen creature was clinging like a limpet. Besides, supposing Margiad’s so-called story he had to tell was a bag of lies? How would he know? And what had she meant by ‘us’ and then that last strange threat?