Slated for Death (17 page)

“How glad?”

“Not that glad. I didn't kill her, if that's what you're thinking, although I'm sure the police think I did.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they've been around twice asking me the same questions. As if they think I did it and they're just looking for the answers to prove their theory right.”

“I can tell you that's not true,” said Penny. “See, there's this thing called confirmation bias, and, oh, well never mind. Just take it from me they're letting the facts, not theories, drive the investigation.

“But Ifan, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Glenda?”

“The police asked me that. I told them there were folk round here who didn't much care for her, including me. She was given to taunting people and with her demanding, bossy ways she wasn't popular with everyone, but I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt her. Not really. And certainly not to that extent.”

“Well, someone didn't like her. Not one little bit.”

Ifan shifted in his chair and took a sip of tea.

“I did hear something about her…”

“What did you hear?”

“Well—and I told this to the police—I heard that she was supplying counterfeit goods to traders to sell in the local markets. You know those stalls they set up once a week in the various towns. There's one here in Llanelen on Tuesdays, I think it is. Her sister operates the stall. Anyway, I heard there'd been complaints about the products. So maybe one of the traders who bought some stuff from her had it in for her. Maybe it was some kind of business dealing gone wrong.”

A wave of heat flushed through Penny's body as her heart began beating faster. She remembered what Bethan had told her about the police looking into Glenda's source of income.

“Are you saying that Glenda Roberts was behind the fake goods showing up at the markets?”

“Well, that's what I heard,” said Ifan. “I don't know if it's true or not. That's for the police to find out.”

“Who did you hear that from?” Penny asked.

“I don't know his name. Just someone in the pub one night telling another fellow that if you want good quality knockoffs, talk to Glenda. Apparently she could get big quantities of what was supposed to pass for high-end stuff. Sunglasses, electrical goods, handbags, fancy trainers … all sorts. You know the expensive kind of fake goods with the big names.”

“Oh, I know all right,” said Penny. “And it wasn't all just big names, either. There were some local names, too. Knockoffs of our beautiful hand cream have been sold in the market and if I'd known Glenda was behind it, I'd have cheerfully killed her myself.”

“Well, maybe that's it, then,” said Ifan. “Maybe a business owner whose product had been counterfeited found out what she's been up to and killed her.” He shrugged. “Or had her killed. From what I see on telly it's better if someone else does the job. And then you make sure you have a good alibi. Having dinner with your wife in a crowded restaurant, or something like that.”

“Well, it could be somebody like a disgruntled business owner, I suppose,” said Penny. “Or maybe someone who bought a counterfeit product and it didn't do what it said on the tin. Electrical goods, you say. I wonder what kind.”

“I don't know,” said Ifan. Penny stewed in silence for a moment while Ifan gathered up the tea mugs. He offered Penny the last biscuit and when she shook her head, he carried the plate and mugs to the sink.

“Well, about the concert,” he said when he returned. “Glenda and I came up with what I think is a good program. I'll tell you about it, and if you want to make any changes, now's the time, while we've still got time to rehearse.”

“I doubt very much I'll want to,” said Penny.

“Right, so here's what we have. The concert has to be fairly short as there's no place for the audience to go for an interval.”

“So one act, as it were,” said Penny.

“Yes. No break. The choir sings three songs with light accompaniment of harp and keyboard, the guest performer does three songs, and the choir does three more. Nine songs. And then the guest performer sings one last song as a kind of encore. I don't think people are there for a full-blown concert. They're there to get a flavour of the music, see the mine, and have something nice to eat.”

“Sounds good,” said Penny. “And speaking of eats, when the music is over, we bring everyone back to the surface as quickly and efficiently as we can for a reception in the caf
é
. So tell me about the program. What songs will the choir sing?”

“We'll open with ‘
Rhyfelgyrch Gw
Å·
r Harlech
.'”

“Sorry, Ifan, my Welsh isn't as good as it should be. English, please.”

“Of course. ‘The March of the Men of Harlech,' then a folk tune, then we'll wrap that section with a sing-along, ‘
Calon L
â
n
' that is, ‘A Pure Heart.' Everyone in the audience will know it.”

“Yes, they will. Even I know it. Everyone will enjoy singing it.”

“Then the guest performer. Karis Edwards. Although why Glenda chose her, I have no idea. She'll need her own rehearsal time, then she'll need to be present for the final run-through the night before the concert. This should be held down the mine, with everyone present, so we can make sure the sound system is right and get a clear idea of the timing.” Penny scribbled a few words in her notebook.

“Do I really need to know all this?” she asked.

“Of course you do. As the organizer, you need to know everything, no matter how trivial it might seem and you need to be there for all of it. You need the complete big picture and all the little pictures.”

Taff whimpered and stirred in his basket so Ifan got up to see to him.

“I'm going to have to take him outside,” he said. “If you'd be so kind as to open the door.” Penny jumped up and opened the door while Ifan lifted the injured dog out of his bed being careful not to move the splinted front leg wrapped in a neon pink bandage. A few minutes later Ifan returned to the kitchen and tenderly placed Taff back in his bed. Penny put her coat on, said good-bye, and set off for home.

As soon as she turned the corner into the next street, she pulled out her phone and called Davies. She left him a voice mail about Glenda and the knockoffs and asked him to call her.

 

Twenty-nine

In his office in Colwyn Bay, DCI Davies shifted in his chair and frowned. Before him was the file on the investigation into the death of Gwillym Thomas, the mine worker who was killed in 1971 with a slate splitter.

Davies had read the report thoroughly and been struck by how unhelpful the miners had been. No one had seen or heard anything. No one wanted to help with the investigation. But someone must have heard or seen something. Conspiracies of silence troubled him on many levels. There was always an element of fear and intimidation. Good people, who wanted to do the right thing and come forward to help, were sometimes coerced and threatened into doing nothing so they became part of a cover-up, which allowed the guilty to remain free. Sometimes a hard, killing glare was all it took. You say anything, and we'll hurt you. Or even more powerful and persuasive, you say anything and we'll hurt someone you love.

As he was about to close the file, the name of one of the investigating officers caught his eye: PC Tim Crawford. He'd known that name for some time, but although he'd been very curious about him, for ethical reasons had resisted the temptation to use police records to learn more about him because his interest was purely personal. Now, he felt he could just about justify it. He logged into the securest of police personnel databases and entered the name. A moment later, the file came up and he scanned the early details—the date PC Tim Crawford had joined the force, glowing performance reviews—until he found what he was looking for.

July 29, 1995. The day PC Crawford died. Written in the stilted, curiously bland language of police reports that describe events of great emotional significance in detached, flat detail, the report had been written by the officer who'd responded to the call for assistance when PC Crawford was reported in trouble in the River Conwy.

At that time I observed PC Crawford on the far side (west) of the riverbank, struggling to get out of the water. He had a young girl in his arms and with some apparent difficulty was able to push her against the steep side of the bank near the Ivy teahouse where a group of people reached down and pulled her up to safety. The girl was able to breathe on her own and did not require medical intervention except to treat a few scrapes and small cuts.

Unfortunately the group was unable to assist PC Crawford out of the water. The River Conwy at this place is fast flowing, made up of the convergence of three rivers just a short way upstream. At the time of the incident the tide was coming in, so the water was high and with the opposing forces of the tide and the normal flow of the river downstream, the water was turbulent.

PC Crawford was swept away and despite the best efforts of attending police and fire officers and citizens, we were unable to rescue him. His body was recovered downstream later that afternoon.

Interviewed at the scene was Penny Brannigan, 34, the woman in charge of the little girl. Miss Brannigan stated that she was the fianc
é
of PC Tim Crawford and that she had been charged with looking after the girl, Morwyn Lloyd, 11. Miss Brannigan, a watercolour artist, said she had been momentarily distracted by her sketching at the time the girl went into the water and that PC Crawford, who had accompanied the two to the riverbank, was off getting ice creams. When he heard the commotion at the bank he rushed over. The life ring, which should have been secured on the bank for such an emergency had been removed by vandals and not replaced. Witnesses said the girl was caught in the current and seeing no alternative, PC Crawford entered the water and reached the girl a few moments later. Miss Brannigan was understandably distraught and was offered medical assistance, which she declined. The child and Miss Brannigan were driven in a police car to the home of the child's aunt, Evelyn Lloyd, of Rosemary Lane.

The report was followed by details of PC Crawford's funeral and recommendations for a bravery medal.

With a pounding heart, Davies closed the file. Penny had told him about Tim Crawford early in their relationship—that they'd been engaged and that Tim had drowned in the River Conwy saving a child's life—but she hadn't told him that she'd been there. She'd left out a few other details, too: that she'd been in charge of the child and been distracted with her painting when the child had fallen in the river. He thought he knew Penny in ways that she didn't know herself. She must have spent every day since buried under a landslide of guilt and self-blame, berating herself to hell and back. He'd thought for some time that something was holding her back emotionally, preventing her from opening up to him. Had he found the reason why she was unavailable? Because she hadn't forgiven herself for what had happened on that riverbank so long ago? And now what? What should he do with this knowledge? Bide his time? Mention it during a quiet, gentle chat over lunch. He was about to reach for his phone when it rang. He listened to Bethan for a moment and then stood up as he pressed the button to end the call.

Bevan Jones had called to report that a third slate splitter had turned up in the depths of the mine. And if Bethan was right, there was a good chance that this one was the murder weapon.

 

Thirty

“I suppose I'd better sort out Karis Edwards today,” said Penny. “She sent me an e-mail with her performance requirements.”

“Oh, let me see it,” said Victoria, picking up the document on Penny's desk. “It's called a rider. These showbiz people can be very demanding and the riders can be quite entertaining. Does she want a huge dressing room filled with white orchids?”

“Not quite,” said Penny. “Her demands seem reasonable. Fresh, clean white towels, preferably from Marks and Spencer, new but laundered once.”

Victoria looked up from the paper. “We can provide good quality towels from the Spa. We don't need to buy any.”

“I understand the request,” Penny continued. “I'm sure if not spelled out some venues would provide threadbare, dingy old things. There's a few details on the technical requirements—amplifier and microphone and such. I'll make sure Bevan at the mine sees that. But I was interested that she sent it to me herself. Doesn't an agent usually handle that sort of thing? And I thought you paid the agent, not the performer.” She pointed at the document. “Or, as she's called there, the artiste.”

“‘Artiste,'” laughed Victoria. “Sounds like someone about to do a turn at an Edwardian music hall, doesn't it?”

“Anyway, I told her we would do hair, makeup, and manicure for the concert, so I'll make sure Rhian schedules that with Alberto. We'll take care of her hair before the dress rehearsal and then he can just do a comb-out before the performance. Manicure the day before as well, I think.”

Victoria scanned the rider, running her finger down the short list of items Karis Edwards was requesting. “Wait a minute, there's something missing here. It doesn't mention a runner, but artists usually like to have a local person assigned to them to fetch and carry. Someone who knows the area who can make sure all their needs are met. ‘My zipper broke. I need a copy of
Hello!
magazine. Where's my gin and tonic? My phone's dead. I dropped my lipstick.' Whatever. And you'd be amazed at some of the demands. The whole day is one long, ‘I've got a problem. What are you going to do about it?' But the thing is, I'll be busy with the concert. You'll be busy with everything. So we need to find someone who will look after Miss Edwards. And that's probably what she'll expect to be called, by the way. Someone who's tactful and good at dealing with complaints.”