Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  Jason felt cold all over. Blew warm breath on his hands and moved his freezing toes around inside his boots. Cysgod y Deri’s farm gate appeared ahead of them, but instead of feeling relief, he tensed up. He urgently needed an internet connection for research, plus a working phone to contact another CID unit. Preferably Islington. Until he discovered more, all this past misery would fester in limbo, polluting the present. And, as he unlocked the gate’s massive padlock, worked out how quickly Monty Flynn’s hard drive and his other material could be accessed.

  ***

  Eleven-thirty and the morning almost over. With the enemy liable to show up at any moment and Helen off the radar, these were his priorities. But Gwilym was still back in that winter of 1946, haunted by too many unexplained disappearances. “Thing was,” Gwilym continued once he’d parked and helped Jason unload the goods, “Beynon was sure these men you’ve just seen, was up to no good, but when he tried getting the local police round, no-one bothered. He was making up fairy stories or been drinking, they said. Even when he started getting written threats, like Peris Morgan’s son did, nothing was done.”

  Jason, however, was still preoccupied with his ever more pressing agenda. “Are you on broadband here? Do you go online?” Gwilym seemed genuinely puzzled. “What d’you mean, broadband and online?”

  Dammit.

  “Look, once we’ve checked this lot out, I need to get to that pub.”

  “After our ungodly session last night?” The old man smiled ten years off his grizzled, toothless face.

  “For research on the internet and whatever else. Then once we’ve got to the bottom of all this, your uncle’s remains may well be found and he’ll be properly buried.”

  But Gwilym’s smile hadn’t lasted long. “I’ve lost my wife, my best dog. I’ve had my life; whereas yours is in front of you.”

  “Look, you’re not stopping me.” Then Jason remembered yesterday. “Those photos you took back on the forest track when Robert was advancing toward you. Did any come out?” The other man shook his head.

  “I meant to say, but with everything else going on, I forgot. Like I do a lot these days. My camera’s gone bust. Totally. And it was almost new. All my recent snaps have vanished but losing the last ones of Bob is the worst.”

  38.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 11.45 a.m.

  “The Detective Chief Inspector’s not around till twelve,” said the brightly lipsticked Desk Sergeant at Tolpuddle Street’s police station, once Helen had given her only the briefest outline of her life since yesterday morning. Not a face she recognised from her previous visit with the man whose duplicity had almost destroyed her. “Do you want to wait?” asked the cop. “If so, can I get you a tea or coffee?”

  “Yes I will, and no thanks.” She still hurt. In fact, everything hurt, and not just her body. Eluned Jenkins, when she’d phoned a few minutes ago via a public call box, hadn’t just gone mental, but into the stratosphere. Being called ‘twpsin’ for accepting a lift from a dangerous stranger and trusting the Irishman when she shouldn’t have, was the least of it. But hadn’t she and mam also trusted her da?

  “At least you’re with the police,” her mam had said once she’d calmed down. “Get them to arrest those two. Find out what’s going on and why he got you involved. I can drive down tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t worry. I’ll be seeing you soon anyway.”

  “For my birthday? Like you said?”

  Then, almost missing the familiar reprimand for not having studied medicine, or gone for a job with the Welsh Assembly, Helen had judged the time to be right. After a deep breath she’d said, “Yes. But just wondering if… God, I hate asking but there’s no way I’m going back to Heron House... Can I come back to Borth? Won’t be for long. Only till I’m on my feet again.”

  “Would you want your old bedroom?”

  “If that’s OK with you.”

  Silence, followed by a sniff. Then another. Could this tough, capable woman, who’d tried being both parents for the past five years, be crying? By the time Helen had replaced the receiver, she knew that despite bad memories nipping at her heart, all would be well. Except for two problems. Why was her period delivering such an unusual surge of blood, when usually by day two it had eased off? And what would happen to her and Jason now?

  ***

  Sitting exactly where twenty-four hours ago, Helen and her traitor had waited, she added more items to her list for DCI Jobiah’s attention. She’d already felt a rapport with him. Why she’d come back here.

  But midday was too long in coming.

  With five minutes to go before her appointment, she went over to the main desk before two veiled women could beat her to it. “I’m worried about my friend Jason Robbins,” she began, aware of being overheard, “as every time I tried to phone him at Heron House, the landline’s dead. I mean dead. Something’s going on. I just know it is.”

  “You used the mobile that was later stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you made contact with his?”

  “I did, but all I got was :‘This service is not available.’ For texts as well.”

  “Contact his provider,” suggested one of the women who’d not heard the full story. “They’ll tell you what’s the matter. It’s free.”

  Helen gave her a weak smile and returned to her seat, but a growing powerlessness and isolation soon overcame her. She returned to the Desk Sergeant as the women were leaving.

  “I realise you’re based in London, but please get someone to go round to Heron House,” she urged. So her voice was raised a few notches? Who cared? “I’ve got really bad vibes.”

  “Funny you should ask. DC Prydderch – from Llandovery Police Station – made contact with me last night. On his way to Heron House, he said. And he’ll be in touch again soon.”

  Helen frowned. “When did he contact you? It’s important.”

  “I’ll check.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Sergeant was gone a few minutes.

  “23.04 hours,” she said, upon her return.

  Helen’s frown deepened. “From where?”

  “His patch, I assumed. Why?”

  “He could easily have made Islington by mid-morning today.”

  “I don’t understand,” the Sergeant really did look perplexed.

  “I do.”

  Just then, DCI Jobiah appeared in the background, looking well pissed off. For half a second, Helen hesitated. Could she bear to risk being fingered for having been in Charles Pitt-Rose’s flat, or run for it?

  He glanced her way and immediately his expression changed for the better.

  “I was told you were here again. Please,” he indicated a plain door marked PRIVATE, “follow me. Your B&B owner’s already been in touch with us, and very helpful he’s been, too. As has a Mr Gwilym Price with some useful names. Your friend Mr Robbins had told him you’d already met me. I just wish at the time, you’d been able to speak more frankly.”

  ***

  At twelve-thirty, Helen emerged from the Detective Chief Inspector’s office feeling as if she’d undergone an exorcism. Halfway through their conversation, he’d summoned DC Purvis in to help take the inquiry forward. First would be a fresh and thorough probe into Betsan Griffiths’ death and that of a leading circuit judge in Cardiff with interesting connections. Next, an address in Dulwich, then a certain DC Rhydian Prydderch who’d almost certainly assaulted and robbed her on the pavement that very morning.

  Helen’s phone, traced to a west Dulwich location, would be returned to her as soon as it was found. Meanwhile, she’d left the police Jason’s and her mam’s numbers, together with Colin’s, and the name and address of the former governess at Heron House. All just in case. As for that small photograph of Charles Pitt-Rose still safely tucked against her hip, it would stay there till she’d left that vile Heron House behind.

  “If you see anything of Mr Flynn or Llyr Pitt-Rose, tell us.” DCI Jobiah patted her warmly on the s
houlder. “Your conjectures about your boss – in fact, both men – are very useful indeed. We’ll set you up with a new phone until you get sorted. Call us from Paddington before you board the train. We must know you’re safe.”

  “Thank you. But could you also please check on Dee Salomon – she’s Mr Pitt-Rose’s solicitor in Hurst Crescent, Camden?” she’d added before picking up her rucksack. “I saw how Mr Flynn looked at her. She’d also had six anonymous phone calls hassling about her dead client’s will. Someone also wanted Llyr Davies’ original birth certificate. She said she’d be calling the police but...”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch with her. Now please think, Helen. “Is or was there anything at Heron House to suggest what Charles Pitt-Rose might have been up against?”

  “In what way?”

  Her stomach rumbled long and loud as mentally, she trawled from the ground floor up those worn, shallow stairs to the first landing and her room. Then a sharp stab attacked her groin. And another, before she felt the biggest lurch of blood ever, begin to leak from her body.

  Blood, pain. Think…

  “Yes, there is.”

  ***

  Tolpuddle Street had paid upfront for a taxi plus woman driver to take her to Paddington and, once Helen reached the station’s crowded concourse, she immediately used the bog-standard Nokia to touch base and say so far so good. She then chose a ham panini and a hot chocolate drink before finding a rare empty seat near the carriage’s loo. A WPC at the police station had helpfully provided a fresh supply of night-time pads and suggested she see her GP about possible fibroids and anaemia. But Helen knew stress was her problem, and that a break at Heffy’s hotel by the Irish Sea, her answer. Where tea would be at six every evening, shopping every Saturday morning, and Heffy – lovely, pregnant Heffy – would still be up for a laugh.

  While the train finally drew away from the platform to the cacophany of too many ringtones and news of a serious earthquake in L’Aquila in Italy, London’s western suburbs thinned to the almost rural, letting Margiad snake into her thoughts.

  “I’ve been protecting you. But no more. From now on, you’re on your own, and if you think Jason will be putting your interests over mine, you’re wrong. You’ve had your chance, Helen Myfanwy Jenkins. So let’s see how you get on…”

  “I’m going to get on fine,” she announced, causing her neighbour – an Indian guy in a suit – to sneak her a worried look. “So go away and pester someone else. You’re nothing to do with me. I never knew you, and wouldn’t want to know you. And as for Jason, who the Hell do you think you are?”

  Once she’d finished her snack and tidied away its litter, she dug down her jeans into her pants and pulled out Charles Pitt-Rose’s small photograph. At Art College, before beginning a portrait whether from life or a photograph such as this, she’d been trained to search for the subject’s ‘soul.’ Her tutor – a Rembrandt fanatic – had shown the artist’s last self-portraits as examples. Immediately, she’d realised he was right. And now in front of her, on a busy train taking her further and further away from where this once six-year-old now lay dead, she realised Charlie’s early life had been shaped by suffering. Although his fair hair lay neatly combed and his shirt collar stood up crisp and white, his eyes – large, clear and piercing – seemed to haunt her heart.

  Outside, while the first fat raindrops from the darkening sky hit the window glass, an unstoppable tear fell on to his young cheek. She tried wiping it away, but only succeeded in bleaching out even more of that pale skin. And why had the governess taken the photo in the first place? As a souvenir before he was sent away for the last time? Or for a less honourable reason?

  ***

  More rain. What else?

  She was a living wreck as she finally stepped from the Swansea-Shrewsbury link train at Llandovery station. She also felt like a stranger, as if this small market town whose shops were already closed, had changed. The short stay in that overloaded capital had clasped her to its amorphous spirit. The Coleridge Gallery was another lifetime away, but nevertheless still beckoning.

  Helen scoured the car park for her car. Apart from a fruiterer’s van and a few chained up bikes, there was nothing.

  Damn. Damn.

  Hadn’t Jason offered to get hers locked? Perhaps he’d somehow driven her to Rhandirmwyn thinking he was being helpful. She couldn’t go to the cop shop in case Prydderch had somehow got himself back from London, so now what? No umbrella, no shelter and drenched already. Stay calm, she told herself. Think. No way was she hitching again. Nor would she attempt to walk it. Her groin, compressed for all those hours on the train, was delivering a deep, agonising pain. She thought of the local library where she’d met one of the staff while looking for cookery books. Ffion. That was her name and she had a car.

  She’d just turned into the main High Street, when a blue Escort pulled up alongside. Despite the mad rain, the nearside passenger window was sliding downwards. Ignoring her instinct to keep moving, she looked in. Sergeant Rees, out of uniform. “Miss Jenkins. Can I help?” he asked. “You look all in.”

  “I am. My Suzuki’s not over there where I left it.” She indicated the station, aware of rainwater trickling down to her bra. “Do you know if she’s been moved somewhere?”

  “She?” he smiled.

  “Please…”

  “Mr Robbins took her up Heron House.”

  So she was right.

  “When?”

  “Now you’re asking. Look, I’m off out to the cinema in Brecon, but can run you back to Rhandirmwyn if you like. Really no bother.”

  “Where’s DC Prydderch?”

  He blinked in surprise. “At home. Why you asking?”

  Because he stole that diary.

  “I’m used to seeing him around, that’s all.”

  The Sergeant seemed to believe her. “Keeps dogs, he does. And dogs need walking. “Now, you ready? You’re getting soaked.”

  She couldn’t imagine Prydderch walking anywhere, yet he’d come at her quick enough back in Islington. “OK. Cheers.” She edged towards the saloon whose dents above its sills and its wheels were caked in mud, aware that the passenger door had already been pushed open from inside, bringing with it a distinct whiff of poo. But, so what? She had to get back. She’d just taken hold of its handle when suddenly, her replacement phone sprang to life. So busy was she stepping back onto the wet pavement, she only grasped the first part of DCI Jobiah’s call. “Helen? You back in Wales yet?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Some important news just in. No time to spell out the contents of Mr Pitt-Rose’s diary except to say that if true, it’s extremely revealing. There’s more to his death than meets the eye, and a lot ties up with what you told me. Can’t say more at this stage.”

  ‘There are suicides and suicides…’

  “But you do need to know there’s a perfect match between the sample of Mr Flynn’s DNA taken here, and from one of Miss Griffiths’ broken figurines.”

  My God.

  She’d noticed his cut finger but as he’d been in his dressing gown, had thought nothing of it. Could he already have been over to the bungalow on Saturday morning and changed out of his clothes?

  “We also found proof he’d visited her the previous Wednesday morning. But Helen, listen carefully,” the DCI continued, as she suddenly remembered Mr Flynn’s return to Heron House that lunchtime with not a trace of whisky on his breath. “Do not, I repeat, do not, be on your own with either him or DC Prydderch whose late night call to me actually came from the Mayflower Hotel in Islington. Understood?”

  Sergeant Rees was conveniently flicking through his radio stations, until he looked up just as she was stuffing the phone away in her fleece pocket. “My film starts at eight,” he reminded her. “Need to shift, see. Hop in.”

  39.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 11 a.m.

  That image of his randy mam seeing to Irishman was still haunting Llyr’s head as he dumped what he’d ni
cked from Sandhurst Mansion in an empty litter bin and limped away from the only chemist in miles. The hardest bit so far, finding somewhere to buy bandages for his wounds. The poshies who lived round here didn’t seem to need anything except banks and, even then, most, like Michael Markham, were into offshore trading. As for Geoffrey Powell – Jimmy’s greedy sprog down in Dinas Powys – who now ran the whole game; God, he hated him. Hated the lot of them, truth be told. And he, Llyr Pitt-Fucking-Rose had been the fall-guy. He’d failed with he gay and it had been his Transit picked up. Who else would it lead to, thanks to the Brecon dealership sticker still on the rear plate?

  As for the dough he’d earned, it was safe in the Co-op Bank for the short-term. He wasn’t that dumb. Not with the recession in full swing and whispers of plans to tax what lay hidden in ‘safe’ havens. Yes, he’d kept up with all that financial stuff despite nothing on paper to prove he’d got brain cells. Despite Geoffrey Powell’s recent neck-grip warning not to put The Order at risk in any way.

  But the worm had turned and now he was asking himself how had he got himself into this heap of manure? Wrong place, wrong time, wasn’t it? Persuaded by Flynn he could make it big, just like another fool with an ear stud not a million miles away. Someone he had to see, before heading for Cardiff Airport.

  Whatever Jason Robbins was, he didn’t deserve to die like that poor disciple. But Gwilym Price did. The man had a downer on him from the day he’d showed up for work at Cysgod y Deri. Him and his frisky, older wife who’d actually helped deliver him. How cooky was that?

  Reason enough to get cracking.

  ***

  He made Victoria Coach Station in twenty minutes, but the National Express service had been delayed by Somali illegals found half dead inside the luggage holds of two earlier departures. Now, at five o’clock, the next bus to Swansea was due to leave at any moment with four seats spare. Lucky or what? He’d opted for road rather than rail. Slower but more secure.

  Clutching his still-hot coffee carton with one hand, his Superdrug carrier bag, containing a coagulant spray plus box of tissues in the other, he chose the furthest free seat away from the door. Just in case.