Die Like a Dog (15 page)

Williams was checked by Pryce's hand on his arm. He felt himself relieved of the heavy torch and pushed aside. With his toe, Pryce kicked open the door and it crashed against a wall. The beam showed them a passage, then swung sideways to reveal a room where another door hit plaster, and two chintzy, over-stuffed chairs leapt into prominence with that air of disapproval implicit in some inanimate objects discovered in extraordinary circumstances. Trying to peer round Pryce's bulk, Williams found himself shoved back as the superintendent turned to the other room. For the third time Pryce kicked and Williams winced in anticipation of the impact of a door against a wall.

It didn't come. There was merely the thud of Pryce's shoe on wood.

Williams was the slower of the two. In amazement he saw gross old Pryce, outlined against the light – but the torch held high – saw him fling himself forward, crouching, the torch directed momentarily at the eye level of a standing man, and then the beam dropped.

‘Ah!' Pryce said – not with satisfaction or relief but as a signal. There was no strain in the sound, rather, it indicated the end of tension. Williams stepped into the room and as he moved he caught an unpleasant smell, compounded of sweat and warmth and grubby nylon: the smell of his own fear.

The first thing he saw in the pool of light on the floor was the sole of a shoe.

‘Yes,' said Pryce. ‘Here it is.'

The man lay on his back, his legs somewhat bent, both arms outflung as if welcoming them. By his side, the stock close to his hip, the barrel pointing to the back of the door, was a shotgun. On a low table in front of an empty grate stood a glass with about three ounces of pale brown liquid in the bottom, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker, two-thirds empty.

‘Did you know him?' Williams asked, as they stood taking it in.

‘I knew
Judson;
his own mother wouldn't recognise this fellow. Who's going to identify him, I'd like to know?'

‘His missis. She doesn't have to see his face.'

‘Man! He hasn't got a face!'

‘He put the barrel in his mouth?'

‘Either that or someone put it pretty close.'

‘If he'd worked through two-thirds of that bottle he could be in the right mood; it could have been suicide. He hasn't drunk much though, not for a drinking man. What about accident? You know: handling the gun, thinking about suicide, and it goes off?'

Pryce said wistfully: ‘I'd give a month's pay to know whose prints are on that gun.'

Williams started to disencumber himself of camera straps.

‘Not you,' Pryce said. ‘That thumb latch was different; we couldn't get in without it, but this gun is for the experts.' His voice dropped. ‘What's the use? It'll have been wiped.'

‘Why couldn't it have been like I said: suicide or accident, or a bit of both – like the chap had the death wish?'

‘You're tired.' Pryce was full of solicitude, but feigned. He went on brightly: ‘Who stole the bloody car? Get on the radio for the mob. Walk clear of the walls and that path. We're not touching a thing in this place until it's been printed, every inch of it.'

‘How d'you know there's not another stiff upstairs?' Pryce hesitated. ‘He used the place for women,' Williams pressed.

‘Give me that torch. And don't move!'

He went up the carpeted stairs and shone the beam into a room containing a double bed, neatly made up, a wardrobe, a smart wicker chair that looked new, and a small chest of drawers. He eyed the wardrobe thoughtfully, then turned and looked in the other room. It held nothing more than a bare mattress on a single bed.

For their own satisfaction they looked in the scullery and pantry at the back, and the cupboard under the stairs. There was no lavatory.

‘That's that,' Pryce said. ‘Unless there's a corpse in that wardrobe upstairs, we've got just one – and I'm not looking in the wardrobe. It'll be covered with prints ... And probably not one of them any use to us.'

IN DINAS VILLAGE
at least one person was sleeping well. Exhausted by the events of the day Miss Pink was blissfully unaware that more dark things were being uncovered, that others lay awake into the small hours after long and unsatisfactory discussions and recriminations. When the sun rose to burn off the river mists, resistance was a little higher than it had been a short time ago, but it was still low, and faces betrayed the fruitless speculations of that restless night.

In the Post Office Noreen Owen's cheeks looked pasty and her eyes were uneasy as she returned her customer's greeting.

Miss Pink bought stamps and then, first idly, then with apparent interest, twirled the revolving stand of local views, choosing cards carefully and taking her time about it. A few cars went by on the main road, otherwise there was no sound but the squeak of the stand. When she had paid for her purchases, she looked towards the doorway at the end of the counter. She could see one wall of a room and a sideboard bearing framed photographs and a bowl of fruit.

‘I'd like a word with Dewi,' she said firmly.

‘He's not here.'

‘He hasn't gone out; I heard his voice.'

Mrs Owen winced and her eyes were shifty. Everyone waited. There was a stir in the back room and Sydney Owen appeared in the doorway, blocking it.

Miss Pink raised her voice.

‘Don't go, Dewi; it concerns Joss Lloyd and Miss Seale.'

Owen asked threateningly; ‘What have you got to say to the lad?' He didn't move.

‘Can I come in?' she asked. ‘It would be better to talk where there's no fear of interruption.'

Mrs Owen looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She heaved a sigh that would have been ostentatious but for her anguished eyes.

‘You go in,' she said. ‘I'll close the street door. We'll hear the bell if anyone comes.'

Owen stood aside reluctantly and Miss Pink walked into a cosy family room where Dewi sat at a polished table, his face a mask of stupidity. As she entered, he got to his feet clumsily, kicking his chair, and went to stand by the window.

‘Please sit down,' Mrs Owen said, dredging up the remnants of her manners. ‘I'll make a pot of tea.'

‘No,' Owen growled. ‘Stay where you are. We don't give her no tea.'

Miss Pink sat down. She looked both concerned and kind.

‘The police have taken Lloyd and Seale to the Station for questioning,' she told Dewi. ‘They found Mr Judson's body, you see.'

‘Where?' Owen barked.

‘Oh, no!'

The exclamation from the mother sounded resigned, as if she had been waiting for, and dreading, this very information. Her eyes were on her son.

‘And Lloyd has admitted shooting the black Alsatian,' Miss Pink went on. ‘You weren't on Craig yr Ysfa on Sunday, Dewi,' she added calmly.

‘I were!' The denial was glib.

She shook her head. ‘You got the position of the sun wrong on the top pitch of Pinnacle Wall.'

‘What's she talking about?' Owen shouted. ‘On Sunday you were climbing.'

‘It weren't the only route we done,' Dewi said tightly, ignoring his father. ‘We done – another.'

‘Which one?' He didn't reply. ‘Grimmett? Sodom? Gomorrah?'

‘No, them's too hard for us.'

‘Amphitheatre Buttress.'

‘We'd have romped up that in no time. It were Great Gully.'

She fixed him with a stern eye. ‘Who was shooting up at the head of the combe on Friday afternoon?'

Owen moved suddenly. ‘I told you –'

‘No!' cried his wife.

‘Shut
up,
' Dewi shouted, appalled at his parents' panic, himself throwing an amazed glance at Miss Pink who was watching with interest. The older Owens froze at their son's shout, and then carefully unfroze, scarcely breathing, silent.

‘Shall I tell you what happened?' Miss Pink asked.

‘When?' Dewi's tone was cold.

‘On the Friday. One person kept watch on Mr Judson's movements. Seale said there was someone in the woods that morning. That person saw Judson drive away. So only Evans and Mrs Judson were left at Parc. Then someone started shooting at the head of the combe and that drew Evans away from Parc. Mrs Judson left to go shopping and almost immediately the black Alsatian was released from the stable. He followed a trail – a bitch's trail – up through the woods to the ruined cottage where the bitch was tied by a hole already dug, and there the Alsatian was shot and buried. The bitch was released and she ran back to her home – from where she'd been taken earlier that morning. There were three people involved: one to fire the decoy shots at the head of the combe, a second to release the Alsatian, the third to shoot it.'

‘Christ!' Owen exclaimed. ‘Did Bart tell you?' He rounded on his son. ‘You see! Your mate shot his big mouth off when he saw trouble –'

‘It was Lloyd who talked,' Miss Pink said.

‘But Lloyd –' Dewi stopped.

His father said viciously: ‘So Lloyd was in it. You didn't tell me that. I thought you two were playing around on your own. That's what you said.'

‘Dewi hasn't done anything wrong,' Mrs Owen said. ‘All he did was let that dog out: just a boy's prank, that's what it was. Did Lloyd put you up to it?' she asked her son fiercely.

Dewi looked sullen. ‘He didn't know nothing about it.'

‘Just Bart and you?' Miss Pink pondered. ‘But there had to be three people.'

There was a strained silence broken by Mrs Owen.

‘If you won't speak,' she told her husband, ‘then I will.' She turned to her son. ‘Look at the trouble you've got your dad in now! Yes,' she told Miss Pink defiantly, ‘this lad did help shoot that dog – but it was a vicious brute and it deserved to be shot. But he shouldn't have suggested to his dad that he go up the combe shooting, while him and Bart were shooting down the bottom end: just pretending it was a game to keep Evans running up and down the lane. That's what Sydney thought they were up to: playing tricks with Evans.' She rounded on her husband. ‘You're as bad as them: you a grown man, playing silly games. Now look at you! You should be ashamed of yourself.' She appealed to Miss Pink. ‘He couldn't say anything when the dog's body was found, you see. He was certain they'd done it – Bart and this one – but if he'd said anything he'd be in it too, and it would be telling on his own son. Oh, we've had a fair time here, I can tell you.'

She was fiercely angry now and Owen glared sulkily, but Dewi's eyes were full of intelligence, watching Miss Pink. A bell rang.

‘See who that is,' Mrs Owen ordered, and Owen made his escape. She shut the door behind him. There was a bright, hard look about her.

‘That's it,' she said with finality. ‘So they shot the dog between them, and a good thing too. All that Barty Banks has done that's criminal is to use a gun when he's under age. Dewi's done nothing they can get him for. And may I ask where you stand in this matter?'

‘Certainly,' Miss Pink said. ‘I like Seale and I don't believe she's a murderer, but she and Lloyd are being questioned about Evans's death. The post mortem showed water in the lungs which means he drowned but there's a bad bruise on the back of his head – not a fracture but enough to stun him.'

Mrs Owen's eyes widened fractionally but her expression didn't change.

‘He went in with the cooker. He'd have bumped his head on it when he went down. He did away with himself.'

Miss Pink did not deny this but she did say: ‘He suspected Lloyd of having shot the dog and he was following up his suspicions, one way and another. So the police are suspicious of Lloyd and, to make it worse for himself, he said he killed the dog. His spade had been used recently, you see, and he hadn't done any normal spade-work for some time. It had been used and cleaned. Obviously he guessed Bart and Dewi killed the dog and he decided to protect them. Of course, you realise why he feels he has to protect them.'

Mrs Owen shook her head. Dewi appeared bored. Miss Pink was undeceived but as she hesitated, searching for a crack in their armour, the door opened and Sydney Owen returned scowling. She addressed him.

‘Which of the residents in the combe is on the telephone?'

He was so surprised at the question that he answered without thinking.

‘Parc, Lloyd ... They're all on the phone. No, Lucy Banks isn't.'

‘I've taken enough of your time,' she told them, standing up. ‘I must go and see if there's anything else I can do for Lloyd and Seale.'

Mrs Owen accompanied her into the shop and took up her stance behind the counter. For a moment the two women regarded each other and it was Miss Pink who looked away first. She walked out of the store and got into her car. Mrs Owen went back to the living room and faced her menfolk.

‘Get out,' she said, ‘separately. They'll be here soon enough. Make yourselves scarce. I'll deal with the police.'

The Reserve appeared to be empty but Bart was taking no chances. He slipped through the upper fringe of the oaks like a deer, pausing every so often to listen, his mouth open, relying more on his ears than his eyes. This morning he wore an old green sweat shirt and at a distance he was virtually indistinguishable from the vegetation. He contoured the slope well below Lloyd's cottage and came to the cart track. He looked up and down its dusty length then trotted across and took the path that the marten had used when Miss Pink encountered it. The boy saw nothing untoward, he heard no movement of big animals; only the birds flitted unconcerned about the canopy and a cow lowed on the river flats. He avoided the old ruin and passed above Parc. By the time he reached the slopes north of the bridge he felt safe and he started to angle down the hill towards the river. He was moving fast now, running lightly between the tree trunks towards a dense patch of brambles. As he swung out to avoid the stolons a voice said: ‘Just a moment!'