Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  No Flynn. Nor any of the other bastards. So far so good.

  With the old crust in the next seat eyeballing him, he hunkered down as far as he could against the red velour, and took the first, calming gulp of his coffee.

  It had been a hairy morning alright, but he’d survived. Just.

  ***

  As the coach revved up before manoeuvring out of its bay, Llyr spotted a queue of three men all past their prime – all white – in uncool clothes, standing by the driver’s area, asking about toilet breaks, snacks and crap like that, when he’d paid to be over that Severn Bridge a.s.a.p.

  Only when they’d sat down could he breathe again, and the whole shebang left the heaving city behind.

  Sod this...

  He’d not bargained for his neighbour asking if he’d been in a fight. His frigging e-fit had been on the News, hadn’t it? Larger than life, thanks no doubt, to the gabbing schoolgirl at Abergwesyn and The Ginger he’d been ordered to deliver to her fate.

  Instead of freaking out, he just told the old git he’d made one or two mistakes while living in Brixton; then, still clutching his coffee, closed his eyes and let the past snake into his thoughts.

  Had there been any photos of him at Heron House? he wondered. Dream on. The Order had wanted him airbrushed out of sight, out of mind, and no-one went against them. Even his mam and the one he’d known as his da. People he’d not yet found the right words to describe. “Too much lead in their veins,” they’d said at his first assessment interview at Holmwood. “Just like their parents. Poor dabs.” But he was the ‘poor dab’ when his few toys had been taken away as well. The wooden-paged books showing colourful pictures of farm animals, nothing like what roamed around Rhandirmwyn.

  Once at the Special School, he’d done regular Bible Study but never seen the point of it, except that stuff from the Old Testament about Lot and his foxy, scheming daughters. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters. Nothing had changed since men and women had squatted in caves. So Geoffrey Powell spouted at The Order’s three-monthly virtual conferences, to enthusiastic applause, especially from his old aunt in her care home, who’d been Charlie’s governess. A woman he’d never wanted to see again in his life.

  ***

  Llyr blinked himself awake. Someone had switched on the video too loud as ‘Gladiator’ sprung to life and one of the latecomers stood up to survey the coach before sitting down again. He drained his tepid coffee while slanting rain from the leaden clouds outside, blurred his view. He wondered how quickly he could exit the crap that had smothered him since his surname had taken a turn for the worse. How Montague Flynn, the man he’d just shafted, parachuted in to Heron House from the Emerald Isle, was the one he feared most.

  ***

  “Membury Services,” announced the ear-shattering tannoy over the video’s din. “Twenty minutes for tea and a pee. Last stop before Cardiff and Swansea.”

  The aisle in front of him became jammed with bodies. Or more precisely, bums, and bags; one of which hit his left cheek. Normally, he’d have reacted, but not now. He had to get off this bus in west Wales with no strings attached.

  “You goin’ sometime before midnight, son?” said the crust next door, whose recent parp said he needed the break more than most.

  “When it’s calmed down, OK? Bit mad at the moment.”

  “I need the toot.”

  Llyr stood up, let him pass then sat down again. If only he still had his van with its comfortable cab. Now the uniformed driver was chivvying everyone off the bus and into the rain until just one other passenger remained. A man with brown hair and a creased trench-coat. One of the three who’d boarded late. The one who’d earlier stood up.

  “Out please, you two,” said the driver. “Me bladder’s burstin.”

  Llyr hesitated. He’d planned to stop where he was.

  Don’t raise your profile.

  So, reluctantly he passed them both and the litter-strewn seats until he reached the steps down. Trench-Coat’s aftershave stung his nose. He didn’t seem to have much sense of space either. On to tarmac spotted with rain. Llyr pulled up his donkey jacket around his ears and stepped up the pace even though his left leg was killing him. Over a mini zebra crossing, past an overflowing waste bin then towards revolving doors with pink balloons bobbing around on either side. Someone’s having a party, he thought, remembering the years when he’d had none.

  WELCOME

  Just then, something harder than a finger was pushing him into the spinning glass doors. Then he realised a silencer was lodged in the small of his back.

  “Take a left,” said a man’s voice before he could react. “No messing.”

  GENTS

  Where three guys pissing into their pots were too busy to notice.

  “This’ll do,” said the voice behind him. “Number four. My lucky number.”

  The metal was pressing closer now. Against bone.

  Click.

  The cubicle door was secured behind them. Normally, Llyr would have leapt on to the toilet seat and kick-boxed his way out of trouble. Not now though, with everything to lose. At least know who’s going to take you out, he told himself, dropping his carrier bag. Turning round.

  Flynn.

  The one from Crosskelly who enjoyed old muff. Alive or dead. Even Betsan on Saturday morning after her knock-out drops. Llyr had known all this. He wasn’t a dickhead. But all the same, he should have told Markham. Earned some Brownie points.

  “I saw you at her bungalow,” Llyr said. “What you did to her and her things. You turd. You nothing.”

  He was rewarded by the kind of smile you don’t forget.

  “There’s gratitude.”

  “What for?”

  “My keeping your real name out of lights. Even your mam’s when I’d refused her offer of help that morning, I’d insisted your future was more important than…”

  Llyr covered his ears. He never wanted to hear about her again. Or her brother. He wanted America.

  “Just think, I’ll have everything when you’ve gone,” Flynn crooned. “I’m already a beneficiary, in a strong position. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Rot in Hell.”

  The brown wig had slipped sideways, but those cold grey eyes were unchanged. As was the dark nosebleed filling each nostril, the ragged teeth behind that smile. But this time Michael Markham’s blaster was in his enemy’s hands. Its black eye on his.

  ***

  Llyr was a kid again, back in his tadci and mamgu Davies’ farm, being made to watch while his mam using that crop of hers, showed off her sexy skills on her da and her brother. Skills she’d passed on… And on… And for what? To hear the scream when they’d struck her for not trying hard enough. Yes, even the scream as his eyes disappeared and ice cold laughter began.

  40.

  Monday 6th April 2009 – 5.15 p.m.

  With his dad’s world-weary suitcase safe in Cysgod y Deri’s spare bedroom wardrobe, Jason waved his old friend goodbye and stood in the downpour until the Nissan had rounded the bend past the pub and vanished out of sight.

  Keen to reach Llandovery before six, to buy a new oar for the patched-up coracle his grandfather had once used on the Towy, Gwilym would only be an hour at the most. Then, under cover of dusk, they could both investigate the swimming pool.

  Jason gathered up Monty Flynn’s computer – now encased in a fresh bin liner – and entered the Fox and Feathers by its back door where Judy Withers was waiting, no questions asked. He’d made that plain when, having spoken to DCI Jobiah at Islington Police Station about his find, he’d phoned her from the farm.

  She led him upstairs to a boxroom-cum-office overlooking the Doethie Valley. ‘The Drop,’ as Helen had called it. “How’s your girlfriend, by the way?” she asked, opening the door. “She seemed quite pale on Saturday.”

  Jason fought the blush creeping up his neck.

  “OK as far as I know. Still in London with her boss. Should be back here with him tomorrow.”

&n
bsp; “By the way, and it’s no big deal, but he never came in the pub on Wednesday morning. Just that I’d told her Saturday had been his exception.”

  “Right.” But he wasn’t really listening. Just wanted to make a start.

  “Hope to see her soon, anyway.” Then, while the deluge hammered on the roof overhead, Judy showed him where the internet connection lay beneath the worktop. “Take your time,” she added. “And if you want a coffee or something to eat, just shout.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Good luck.”

  On his own, he soon had the Packard Bell up and running. The start-up buzz sending a charge of dangerous excitement to his heart.

  Windows XP 2009. The same as Colin’s. Something at least. Also the fact that the Irishman had conveniently left his password inside one of his many unused notebooks. PENDU. How weird was that? But even more weird was evidence there had been an internet connection at Heron House after all.

  Flynn was no longhand writer like he’d said. This was his medium and to scroll through page after page of retained emails was proof. Proof too, of a sinister, secretive world only someone like author Max Byers could make up. Further searches showed that Monty Flynn hadn’t written a word of fiction in his life.

  ***

  Now, where to start? he asked himself. Last Saturday might be useful. It was. He found the latest email dated Saturday April 3rd at 08.00 hours:

  To all,

  Some news. My prostate’s finally bidding me farewell. My bladder and colon too. Hardly surprising given the wear and tear. Days, not weeks they tell me, so rather than advise you in the traditional way, I hope this will suffice.

  Ni fleurs, ni courronnes, as they say in France. No death notice, no funeral, nor mourning. And MM will co-ordinate The Order’s renaissance now that The Gay is dead. Please give our Cause all the support you can. Life is for living. The future’s bright. HH will be back in our hands. We blazed a trail. Thanks for the memories,

  Ever yours,

  Philip Markham. (Marky) †

  URGENT DELETE

  The Order...

  Jason stared at the screen. Those recipients’ names had already fired arrows into his eyes, now it was the turn of those two ominous words: The Order. And was that strange cross its special symbol? If so, why? The missing Headmaster had been right. The stone was rolled back.

  He wondered if Flynn had picked up this email before rushing off to London and forgotten to delete it. Or if the sender popped his clogs soon after to join his mates by the pool? If so, it seemed any raving weirdo could have eternal life. And what did ‘back in our hands’ mean? And who on earth were MM and GP?

  Jason rescanned the list of email addresses. As he did so, the warm room became oddly cold. Detective Chief Inspector Jobiah must access all this as soon as possible but, first, he wanted Philip Markham’s mugshot. And quick.

  Dogpile came up trumps. Three clicks of the mouse and there he was. Circuit Judge for Penarth, Cardiff, plus a load of letters after his name, facing him in be-wigged splendour. But no fancy wool could disguise that overfed face. The boozer’s strawberry nose. Those eyes. Edmund Pitt-Rose was the same, and Jimmy Powell. Pillars of justice, like the two police officers, without a smear to their revered names.

  Jason felt unsteady in the office swivel chair. His forefinger trembled on the mouse as he scrolled to earlier mail. The more he peered into these hidden lives, the more his own situation became clear, beginning with that enticing notice in The Lady.

  Flynn had jumped the gun, when the rest of The Order, as they call themselves, had suggested a few discreet yet adventurous women for the upgraded Heron House. That is, once Charles was out of the way and Llyr, aka Ethan Woods, his promised beneficiary, forced to comply.

  But Charles hadn’t quite read the script.

  As for gays and lesbians, they’d be recruited in the New Year to add variety. After all, Gwenno Davies wouldn’t be around. Nor Idris. No, judging by the minutes of recent virtual conferencing, anyone willing and skilled would be welcome. Even teens could be trained up, Flynn had argued. Plenty of them around in the sticks where other paid work didn’t exist. The new set-up could be a nice little earner.

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

  Jason kept scrolling, but when Helen’s name came up, his hand froze on the mouse. His throat too, as the words began to blur. With her colouring and temperament, she’d been another mistake for which the Irishman had been soundly reprimanded. Flynn, who for a while, had been her father substitute.

  He felt soiled all over again. And ashamed to be even seeing this stuff. But worse, scared stiff that at any moment, Flynn and both Prydderch and Rees would show up at the pub. The Davieses too had every reason to be worried, wherever they were. Things were changing fast. Even Jason’s breathing had speeded up. His mind on fire. No time for anything else except getting back to Heron House.

  Beyond the pub window, an overloaded section of guttering had slipped its moorings and swung against the window. Above this noise came another. An almost inhuman voice, shrill and harsh. The last thing he needed right now.

  Margiad. Dammit.

  “You promised you’d write my story. You promised!” she cried. “Why can’t we start now? Think of it, Jason. You and I, together, for however long it takes…”

  You and I?

  “Yes. I even put my name plate on my bedroom door specially for you to see,” she went on. “And showed you my bedspread, my foul, bloody carpet. For you to understand the truth about me. To seek justice. Please...”

  “Truth? That’s rich, given you knew all along why Helen and I had been brought to Heron House.”

  “I was teasing.”

  “Liar.”

  Something suddenly hit the window glass and fell out of sight. The light overhead flickered and his bones felt cold. She was speaking again as if he’d not said a word.

  “I love prologues. Why not begin with one on that snowy Christmas Eve in 1946 with me waiting and waiting for my Robert. The only one who could help me escape danger. Think of it, Jason. Think of it…”

  Her demands hogged his mind as the screen of emails faded to a pale yellow-brown mass; the same colour as Llandeilo and Heron House’s pool. But this was no street scene, no silent gathering or attempt to drown him, but a young woman’s face in close-up. Identical to what he’d seen in the kitchen, except that her left eye bore a dark purple bruise and that devouring mouth had opened in a shriek so loud and piercing, he stumbled from his chair. “Do it!”

  “Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut the Hell up!”

  “Do you want me to stop making her suffer? Your Helen?”

  What?

  “Begin now, or I’ll see she never bears children, never…”

  He slammed the door behind him, yelled down to Judy to call a DCI Jobiah at Islington Police Station to urgently look at the emails. He gave her the password then as she began dialling, pushed open the back door into a changed world where although the rain still fell like steel rods, a once picturesque backwater had suddenly become a War Zone.

  ***

  Where on earth was Gwilym? An hour he’d said. If anyone was reliable, it was him. Jason turned off the main road and ran up the sodden track towards Heron House, his sweat mixed in with the rain. Last year’s straggly brown ferns brushing his legs. This was surely where Helen would be heading, with or without Monty Flynn. So this was where he must be. Having dodged the turbulent mini-rivers flowing down towards his boots, he quickened his pace again once the two iron herons on top of the gates came into view. Now not just birds but a malign presence. The gates were open, but from one hung the kind of padlock Woolies had never seen reason to stock. Protection for a castle, or a prison?

  All at once the grunt of a car’s engine grew more distinct behind him. This was neither the Nissan, nor Helen’s Suzuki – more like that bashed-up Escort from earlier. He wasn’t going to hang arou
nd to find out. Instead, with a second wind filling his lungs, he followed the untrimmed boundary hedge until reaching the stile. From here, through the lifeless chestnuts, he realised he’d guessed correctly. The battered, blue Escort was creeping past the driveway’s rose island and stopped out of sight along by the lock-ups. Its punctured tyre mended.

  Had this same crock that had almost killed him taken Gwenno and Idris away?

  And then the familiar thread of terror passed through his veins. Had someone else seen him and her at it in the kitchen? Someone bent on revenge? Had there been a hidden camera? If so, was Heron House under surveillance or was he going bonkers?

  A man’s voice. Welsh. Angry.

  Prydderch?

  The first choice. Jason scrambled over the slimy stile and slithered down to the pool’s edge where the weather had erased the remains of his recent escape. He took cautious steps around its perimeter to the corner of the house and, with the saturated ivy camouflaging his body, craned forwards.

  Helen!

  He almost called out to her, but to do so could risk her life. She was gagged, soaked to the skin and cuffed to Sergeant Rees. Proud wearer of a jam-packed holster. She was also being manhandled indoors. Not only were the insides of her jeans’ legs stained red, but twin trails of blood followed her struggling steps. No sign of her pink rucksack.

  For a split second, she glanced his way. Her swollen eyes delivering a warning he didn’t need. Archie Tait was right. His brave best mate was urging him to jump ship. Because he’d be next.

  No way. He’d not come this far for nothing. He wished he had Gwilym’s rifle. Something to scare the shit out of this creep who probably knew way too much about him and Helen from their statements for a start. He dug out his mobile to check recent events and by some miracle, a DC Purvis from Islington Police Station immediately came on the line. “A Ms Judy Withers has just made contact with our team,” he began in what seemed like a faraway voice. “Why I’m calling. And DCI Jobiah plus a crack unit from Cardiff are already on their way to Rhandirmwyn by police helicopter.”