by Thomas Brown
“I’ve just found this,” she said, having already extracted a stiff, cream-coloured card whose pinked edge was worn soft with use. Better to share it than be found out later. She was hiding enough already.
PULLMAN CLUB
3-6, Friar Lane,
W1
020743921
Full Member – C E Pitt-Rose & EW †
But it was those two initials and the cross in the bottom right-hand corner that had caught her eye. “Ethan Woods by any chance?” she asked, her tired brain on overtime.
A pause.
“Could be anyone.”
As I thought…
“And the cross?”
“A lot of clubs have their own symbols.”
But there was more.
Underneath it, attached by what looked like the remains of old glue, was a small, square photograph of a boy staring out from over a too-big collar and tie. His fair hair neatly parted. His big eyes wary. No more than eight years old, she guessed. On the back was the handwritten name Nancy Powell and the cryptic comment – ‘C. Our bachgen who will never come back’.
Helen slipped that down the side of her pants to join the diary, and took the card over to Mr Flynn. Surprise flickered in his washed-out eyes as he took it.
“If those initials do mean Ethan Woods, perhaps Charles Pitt-Rose didn’t know he’d turn out to be a half-brother,” she said.
He glanced over to the door leading to the hallway. He was on edge, big time.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I can’t. The Pullman’s one of London’s most exclusive clubs. Why bring a yokel like him along, whatever the pedigree? Unless it signifies something else entirely.”
At last.
“Gay?” ventured Helen.
A shrug that didn’t quite convince. “No. A leech. A sly leech.”
Helen blinked. This was a result.
“Shall I ring their number? Sound them out?” she said. “Might be someone there on a Sunday.”
“No,” he said too quickly. “There won’t be. Just keep looking here. Get a result and I’ll top up your pay.”
The desk lamp flickered, then lost half its power. She suddenly felt the weight of darkness, of unwanted possibilities mounting up by the second. Mr Flynn was busy again. The silver-tongued lizard who’d lured her and Jason into Heron House for reasons not yet adequately explained. “I think you do know all about Margiad,” she began. “And what went on at Heron House while she was alive.” She watched him close the drawer he’d been investigating and make his way towards her. His white surgical gloves glistening despite the dull, syrupy light. “I also think you arranged to have your computer and everything taken. You weren’t that bothered about losing it, were you? You must think I’m thick.”
Now she’d done it.
He turned to face her. “That’s outrageous.”
“So was admitting there was no internet connection there when you had it. You couldn’t have Jason and me prodding around, could you? So why advertise for us? I know plenty of people who’d like an answer. And as for your books. Another lie, is it? Let’s be honest.” Her flushed cheeks began to burn. The adversary was closer now, with not whisky on his breath but something else, rank and sour.
She was trapped with him in Charles Pitt-Rose’s shadowy world where the nearest door was too far away. So, what had she got to lose? “Perhaps you and that Llyr bastard are best mates after all. Maybe Heron House was left to Betsan to finally get rid of you and the Davieses.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I won’t. There’s two more things. You must have gone near her place on Wednesday morning to have seen Gwilym Price’s dead dog. I also noticed you weren’t smelling of your usual whisky and your boots were really filthy. And how come you knew Betsan had been expecting someone on Saturday? Neither I nor Jason told you that. And I wonder why the cops there haven’t so far contacted you?”
“I said, give it a rest.”
She was about to answer back, but an all-too-familiar bald-headed figure was limping through that half-open door, bringing with him that old meat smell again. But before she could move, a pair of rubbery hands slapped her eyes shut, then tightened over her throat.
“Got her,” Llyr said. “What now?”
“Yet another visit, eh? My, my, such devotion.”
“Do I help out or not?”
Pause. The Irishman said yes.
“Then get yourself spruced up,” Mr Flynn added. “Pronto. Michael Markham’s fussy. You may not care about your life, but I do about mine.”
33.
Sunday 5th April 2009 – 4.40 p.m.
With his head too full of everything he’d just seen and heard on Cerrigmwyn Hill, Jason ran up Heron House’s drive past the blue car and kept his fist on the doorbell. He was a coward in capital letters. Something alien to Dan Carver. Perhaps now he could make amends. “Come on... come on…” he swore at the unmoving door, before spotting Gwenno Davies peering out at him from the reception hall’s front window.
“You wait,” she mimed, relishing her control over him. “Scum.”
That same bright pink lipstick she’d worn yesterday now swamped her mouth. Just one glimpse was enough to make his minimal stomach contents rise up to under his ribs. He glanced back at the unfamiliar car. Who had driven it here? And why no response to the doorbell?
He was just about to investigate on the swimming pool side of the house when a familiar voice called out. “You. Got something to show you.”
Idris Davies.
Jason hesitated, then remembered how the man had admitted to fearing his own son. An Achilles heel that could pay him dividends. He pointed to the empty Escort. “Whose is that?”
“I said, got something to show you.”
The army of gunmetal clouds that had delivered a steady drizzle all day, now got serious. A brisk, diagonal rain slanted over the scene, wetting yet again his leather jacket, blurring the gardener with his territory. But not the expression on his haggard face.
Shit-scared was the word.
He was gripping his giant besom for dear life as Jason moved up to him, preparing what he had to say. If he played his cards right, Idris Davies could be very useful indeed. “Is DC Prydderch around?”
“Sssh. Over here. Quick.”
Jason followed him to the slippery outskirts of the once fine terrace. “I’ve just heard two shots coming from the forestry. Gwilym Price may be in danger.” By the time Jason had finished his story, ghost and all, they were standing in an overgrown corner between a chimney base and the kitchen wall where budding nettles reached almost waist-high. Too much out of sight, out of mind, he thought, tempted to make a run for it.
“The cop’s in there.” Idris Davies raised his free arm to point at the pool whose black sludge overflowed its boundaries. “But I never did it. Honest to God, I wouldn’t harm a fly. Ask Gwenno.”
Jason stared at the mess of neglect in front of him. There were no bubbles, no obvious sign of footprints or any recent disturbance. Was this oddball, like Monty Flynn, allergic to the truth? Was the fat Fuzz really beneath all that lot? If so, it was too terrible to imagine.
“When?”
“Just before you turned up.”
“What happened? Did he slip?”
“No. It was the maniac known as my son who pushed him. And,” he bent forwards to place his dry, tobacco-scented lips by Jason’s ear, “he’s in that frigging car an’ all, I’m telling you. Don’t go near it. It’s a trap, see.”
“You’re lying. He’s in London.” Careful not to mention Helen.
“He isn’t.”
Torn between giving the man a good shake-up and kneeing his bony butt, Jason moved towards the pool, half imagining those same black-suited men and their vivid red glasses of wine all over again. He wanted to check more closely for signs of a struggle, when a sudden poke between his shoulder blades made him topple forwards.
“What the Hell?”
&n
bsp; Too late to steady himself. Too late for anything except to meet the thick, stinking night head-on. His cries for help rewarded by a harder, more purposeful shove, and a laugh. No, two laughs. One old, one younger, as his mouth filled up and slowly, with nothing to cling to, he began to sink.
***
“Get rid of those wheels now.”
“Where?”
“Down the Towy. It’s in full spate. Perfect.”
Jason heard all this above the sloshing sound of his feet treading the sludge to keep afloat, but soon thoughts of Helen, his brother and his mother all too far away, took over. And that waiting room in Pinetree Road where this had begun.
Even though he could swim, he wouldn’t last long.
Take a chance...
With every last ounce of effort, he found an edge. Felt solid concrete beneath his hands. He shook his head for the stuff to slip from his eyes, so he could glimpse through sticking eyelids how the land lay.
So far so good, except he was sick. And as for raising his dead weight upwards, forget it. Then, a female voice eked through the slime to reach his blocked-up ears.
“Try again, Jason... For my sake. Please… please…”
“Who’s that? Helen?”
“No. Not her. Me. Margiad, remember? I need you to stay alive...”
Jesus...
The steady rain did its work. For once, he thanked it for clearing his hands so they could get a purchase.
“Now. Up you get,” she urged in a sickly-sweet voice. “One, two, three...” Then came the strangest sensation as if someone was actually pushing him. Someone determined, possessing almost superhuman strength…
Hell, no.
An invisible weight was also trapping his fingers against the pool edge. Too heavy for them to move.
He screamed then imagined he could hear laughter before another prod connected with his forehead, and another. He squinted up into the kind of yellow-brown light he’d seen before, and shook his head again to clear his view. But that made no difference. Then came footsteps, voices. All men.
“Poke him again, Marky. Harder this time.”
Marky? Where’d he heard that name before. Think...
“You try, Jimmy. He’s a determined blighter alright.”
“Who the Hell are you?” yelled Jason, before more black slime invaded his mouth. “Get off!”
Another thrust, this time just missing an eye, while that rigid pressure on his fingers ratched up until they were numb. With the next blow, he saw four pairs of black shoes. Four pairs of black-trousered legs. Blood red cummerbunds, bow ties, then faces. All smiling.
“Please don’t die like my Robert,” begged the one who’d called herself Margiad. “Like all the others…”
He didn’t hear the rest. How could he, drifting away as her voice faded, to be replaced by what could only be described as the purest peace?
***
“Mr Robbins!” came another man’s frantic shout. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, d’you believe me? It’s not my fault, d’you hear? Honest to God, I was made to do it. Look, grab hold of this.”
From between gummed-up eyelids, Jason glimpsed Idris Davies running along the poolside towards him, wearing giant-sized Wellingtons. His besom’s handle jutting out so it was just within reach. He held on tight until a cloud of doubt made him let go. But what choice did he have? This sod was all he’d got.
“I’m telling you, my son it is what shoved you in. I’m scared of him, see,” the old man went on, “he makes me do things. Bad things what I’d never dream of. Gwenno, too.”
But something wasn’t right.
“You’re lying. That wasn’t Llyr with you just now. No way.”
“On my dead mam’s heart, it‘s true. Just grab the handle again.”
Jason clung to it like he’d never clung to anything else before, as the gardener guided him through the fetid gunge towards what turned out to be hidden steps below the rusted handrails. However, the extra bulk accumulated on his body dragged him downwards, until his left foot felt the first step at the very bottom.
“Wrong way. Up you come.”
“Wait. There’s some kind of obstacle down here. Is it Pydderch by my feet?”
Idris Davies stopped. Crossed himself with his free hand. “No. I lied. Can’t help it sometimes. Not my fault, see?”
Yet there was definitely something preventing Jason’s right boot from finding a foothold. Whatever it was, felt long and bulky. Perhaps some old log or other.
A third desperate shove moved it away, leaving him free to climb then stumble on to the silt-covered tiles. Having spat out the black muck from his mouth and wiped the same from his nose and eyes, he realised that Idris Davies, unlikely rescuer, had gone. But someone else had taken his place. Not outside, but in his head, via his cold, clammy ears. “Now you listen to me,” came that tense young woman’s voice again. “Seeing as you’ve no intention of writing any of my story down, we’ll try the other way.”
“What other way?” When all he wanted was to strip out of his ruined gear, and get into the shower.
“I know why you’re here. Do you want me to tell you or not?”
“Just leave me alone!”
He tried running but couldn’t. Each boot weighed a ton. Instead, he let the thick, persistent rain batter his head, delivering most of the slime down his neck. Icing his bones.
***
No blue car and Heron House’s front door wide open, but not invitingly so. A whiff of perfume he recognised, then the dead fire and the answerphone’s green light flickering. No time to ditch his stinking boots or worry about the mess his every step was making. He had to reach it.
There was one message and, as he pressed PLAY, prayed Gwenno Davies wasn’t nearby.
“It’s Miss Sandwich, remember me?”
Helen...
He could barely hear her. “I can’t really talk,” she began, almost lost among a background of running water. “But you mustn’t worry, OK? Just hope that only you pick this up. Got some news. First off, that foul guy Llyr’s been hanging around here big time, but I am in control…”
Thank you, Idris.
“Next, Idris Davies isn’t his real da…”
“Jesus.”
“MF and I have been to C P-R’s solicitor, then his Islington flat.” She lowered her voice so he could barely hear it. “Pin your ears back and delete once I’ve finished. I’ll also be wiping my phone…”
Other equally incredible news unfolded until a sudden silence in which he realised that without her, this big old house was just a decrepit shell. Meanwhile, a noxious, black puddle around his boots had spread to the Persian rug’s fringed edge. Nothing he could do about it because all at once came an imperceptible darkening of the light from the still-open front door and the bedraggled, limping form of a man he barely recognised, staggering towards him.
34.
Monday 6th April 2009 – 7.50 a.m.
It was too early. Llyr could have done with at least another two hours’ kip. As it was, too much had gone wrong.
“I never enquired after your finger,” Llyr said to his rival once they were seated in the Volvo, parked near the B&B they’d shared overnight with The Ginger who’d just managed to give her employer the slip. “Been careless somewhere? Want to tell me about it?”
Paddy started the engine and pulled away from the gutter. “You upset my upholstery,” he warned.”You get the bill.”
Llyr smiled despite feeling sick inside. The early sunshine warmed his face but made little difference to the rising tension between him and his driver since yesterday’s meet-up at the gay’s flat. While the trespassers had been busy, he’d managed to locate an internet café and, by removing the fake calculator’s micro SD card, played back their revelations following the Hurst Crescent visit. No wonder he, Llyr, had lain in his single bed going over everything, making plans while watching the wall clock’s hands nudge round until daylight.
“Never mind the upholstery,�
�� he said, “I’ll soon be able to buy you a new car and the rest.”
Paddy flicked on his right indicator too early before leaving Nantwich Grove, to follow signs for Sydenham. Immediately that welcome sun slipped behind a cloud. And another. “I need to concentrate,” was all he said.
Llyr let it go, thinking what if the now-tagged Helen Jenkins was trotting off to the pigs at this very moment? Her carer would be punished for that and for his excursions with her, while the other mistake he’d encouraged from Hounslow into Heron House, took his score to six. His own so far, just one.
Michael Markham, The Order’s paymaster, swinging singleton and property developer extraordinaire had summoned them to his crib in Dulwich for some explanations. Best play it safe, Llyr reminded himself. Even though, hand on heart, he’d done his best as Ethan Woods and not got the expected result, there was still a future. Also for Markham’s da, the biggest shagger of all, who’d now reached the Great Whorehouse in the sky.
“Heard the latest?” he said to the Irishman. “Mr Markham senior’s just passed on. Prostate, it was. Very nasty. I’m sure our boss’ll welcome some company right now.”
“You’re taking the piss. And why Mr Markham all of a sudden? You always call him…”
“Give it a rest. OK?” The bug he’d used was indiscriminate. Every voice important.
“I read the group email midday Saturday,” Llyr boasted. “You must have been on your way to the big smoke at the time. For your investigations.”
“Is my computer and all the gear in the right place?” Paddy’s bony knees pressed against the fabric of his black, shiny trousers. Two sharp blows on them, thought Llyr, and he’d be in a squatter for life.
“No-one bosses me around. I had enough of that at Holmwood.”
“Second time of asking. Is my gear in the right place?”
“Angred shaft. OK?” Geoffrey Powell’s idea seeing you’d already been down there. In some interesting company, apparently.” He glanced again at Flynn. Time for more pressure. “What about your memory sticks? I couldn’t find them.”