The Cold Light of Mourning (14 page)

“What is it with these girls today?” he asked grumpily. “Why do they all wear their hair hanging in their eyes like that? And why do they all have to look the same? Down at the station there must be ten of them, they’re all the same age, they all wear the same clothes, talk the same, and I swear I can’t tell them apart.”

Eighteen

T
he next morning, the rector replaced the telephone receiver and walked down the narrow hall to the kitchen where his wife was just starting to think about what to make for lunch and, after poking around in the refrigerator, was leaning toward quiche and salad.

Bronwyn closed the refrigerator door and turned to face her husband as he entered the room. Sensing something was wrong, she gave him the quizzical look that he immediately understood in the way long-married couples do.

“That was Emyr. His father’s life is drawing peacefully toward its close.”

“Peacefully toward its close? Why would you be talking like that?”

“I read it somewhere. It was said about a king, George V, I think. I’ve always liked the simplicity and dignity of it.” He shrugged, and added, “Oh, all right. I’ve probably always been looking for an excuse to use it.” He straightened his shoulders and moved closer to her.

“The doctor’s on her way, Emyr said, and I’ve been summoned to the Hall. I know I’m going there to attend to Rhys, but I can’t help but wonder how Emyr will possibly cope with all this. His burden of grief has to be overwhelming, what with his fiancée and now his father. It seems like too much to ask someone to deal with that. I’ll do what I can, but it won’t be enough.”

His wife nodded sympathetically.

“I’ll have your lunch waiting for you when you get back,” she said in her practical way. “You’ll probably want a little something now to tide you over.”

“Good idea,” her husband replied. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her gently toward him.

“You know, Bronwyn, I don’t tell you this nearly often enough, but I have been so blessed all these years, having you as my wife. I love you dearly and I’m grateful for every day we’ve had together.”

Bronwyn smiled at him and then, knowing he had to be feeling somewhat awkward because he, like most Welshmen of his generation, did not often put his feelings on display, put her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his chest. Tenderly, he placed his hand on her head.

“Get away with you, Thomas,” she laughed into his tie. “You’re just trying to get around me because you’re angling for a biscuit.”

“And that’s another thing I like about you,” he replied, kissing her hair. “How well you know me, my dear girl. I wouldn’t say no.”

A few minutes later, looking unusually solemn, he was on his way to the Hall.

At the Llanelen police station, Davies put the phone down. Morgan looked over at him across the small office and waited.

“That was the pathologist with the preliminary examination results. As the coroner told us, there were at least four strong blows to the head, at the back. Not enough to kill her, maybe, but certainly enough to bring her down. Apparently she put up a fierce fight—gave it everything she had. She died of strangulation. The killer used something like a stout cord with a very small braiding pattern on it. There were other, smaller injuries, like bruises on her arms.”

Morgan straightened the keyboard on the desk in front of her and then looked at her superior.

“And were there any signs of, well, anything of a sexual nature?” she asked, somewhat primly.

Davies shook his head. “No, thank God.” He looked out the window for a moment and then back at his sergeant.

“All this would have been so much easier if we’d known from the beginning what we were dealing with. We lost so much time during the first crucial hours when we thought she was just a runaway bride. Someone was very clever. In terms of distracting and delaying, it certainly worked against us.”

Morgan nodded and started gathering up her files that were strewn across the borrowed desk. When she was feeling overwhelmed or unsure, Davies had noticed, she tidied up her desk. He wondered if she thought clearing her workspace would free her up somehow for the tasks to come, or if she just found comfort in it. A bit of both, perhaps.

“All right, Bethan, here we go. We’ll get the full report and autopsy photos soon. We’re going to need an incident room, so you’ll have to find out if there’s a space here in Llanelen we can use. I don’t think there should be a problem with that.”

Oh very handy, she thought. Somebody might not have a problem with spending more time in Llanelen.

“We can start with the undertaker and the grave diggers—anyone who had any connection to the burial or gravesite. You’re also going to have to organize the fingerprints from the wedding party, go over the times again, check everybody’s story. Durham can get the parents’ prints and the Met can do the bridesmaids.”

He stood up and walked over to the coat stand beside the door and picked a lightweight windcheater off it.

“I’ve learned over the years that the answers are usually in the files, it’s just that we’re not reading them right. You might start with that,” he said as he slipped on his jacket and fiddled with the zipper. “But it can wait until morning. We’ve had a very long few days and we’ve got more coming up. I’m going home to get a few hours of sleep and I suggest you do the same. There’s going to be overtime this weekend, I’m afraid.”

And then, with a casual, “See you later,” he was gone.

Morgan looked after him for a few moments with a mildly puzzled look on her face and then returned to the straightened stack of files on her desk. A few minutes later she was deeply engrossed and making a few cross-references as she referred back to her notes.

The room was quiet and warm, but she could make out the gentle buzz of voices in the hallway as officers made their purposeful way through the building. Engines started up in the car park as station life went on around her.

It would help if I knew what I was looking for, she thought. I’ll start with a timeline.

As she flipped through her notebook to find what she had written hours and days ago, she was surprised to see Davies enter the room.

Looking mildly sheepish, he walked over to the desk where he had been sitting and picked up a set of keys.

“Won’t get far without these, will I?” he said as he lightly tossed them in the air.

“We’ve all done that, sir,” she said with a wan smile. As the smile faded, a thoughtful, slightly worried look replaced it. “Um, and I’m sorry, sir, but I wonder if you could just give me a bit of direction here. Tell me again exactly what I’m meant to be looking for.”

Davies stopped and looked at her. The edges of his mouth slackened and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re looking for someone who wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Or who was somewhere he had no reason to be. And who then went on to have a very dark and busy night.”

Morgan nodded and switched on the computer as her boss left. This time he did not return.

Penny, meanwhile, was feeling better for the extra sleep that Davies was now pursuing, and quietly enjoying the deferred mug of coffee in her small sitting room as Victoria filled her in on the morning’s events.

“The talk in the shops was nothing but the body,” she said. “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? But I’ve been thinking, Penny,” she said, leaning forward to make her point, “that you probably know more than you think you do. We could solve this. I know we could.”

Penny sat back in her chair and laughed.

“What, you mean like those dotty middle-aged amateur lady sleuths that you see in books? Tramping all over the evidence, touching things they shouldn’t, putting themselves in harm’s way, and just generally annoying the police?”

“That’s exactly it!” said Victoria as they both laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Penny. “Oh go on, then. When do we start? Or more to the point, how do we start? What should we do first? I’m new at this.”

Victoria looked at her blankly and the two broke into gales of laughter.

“I guess we haven’t got the sleuthing thing down, yet,” said Penny a few moments later. “But it’ll come to us, I’m sure. Although I think this would definitely be more in Mrs. Lloyd’s line!”

And then, realizing how much better she felt, added, “What’s for lunch, by the way? I’m starving.”

And then, in that instant, she started forward as she remembered the shop.

“It’s okay,” Victoria reassured her. “Your first customer isn’t until three. You’ll be working until seven tonight, though.”

Victoria nodded at her.

“Perhaps you should consider having regular evening hours. The ladies loved the idea and it would bring in women who have to work during the day.”

Penny looked at her thoughtfully.

“You’re probably right. I’ve been thinking about making some changes. But for now, let’s have lunch. And while we’re doing that, I think I know where we need to start. We need to find out who that woman was who took Meg Wynne’s manicure. She’s involved in this. She has to know something. Maybe a lot.”

Victoria thought this over for a moment.

“Unless, of course, somebody was using her and she didn’t know what she was part of. Maybe somebody told her it was a wedding prank. But you’re right. Let’s cherchez la femme.”

“Right,” said Penny, “That’s what we’ll do. But first, let’s cherchez my lunch. And after that, let’s get you sorted out.”

“Sorted out?” asked Victoria.

“Well, if you want to stay on a bit longer—and you’re welcome to—I thought it might be a good idea if we cleared out the box room and put you in there. We can even paint it and make it really nice. Decorate it up a bit. What do you think?”

Victoria smiled gratefully at her.

“That would be wonderful. My cousin has been very kind, but she does have three teenagers, and it gets a bit noisy. Also, my being there meant one of the kids had to give up her bed, and really I was just in the way. And I’m in no hurry to get back to London. In fact, I’ve been thinking I’d quite like to relocate here. In many ways, London’s for the young.” After a moment, she added, “In any event, it’s not for me anymore.”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Penny. “But while we’re having lunch, and before we get to the main mystery, why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Victoria. “I’m getting over a bad divorce. There’s a fair bit of money tied up in London real estate and I can’t move on with my life until it’s all settled.”

“A bad divorce,” mused Penny. “When you think about it, is there any other kind?”

Victoria shrugged.

“The scary thing is, it’s not easy starting over at my age.” Her eyes gave Penny a quick once-over and she smiled. “Our age.”

She thought for a moment, and then, making her decision, plunged in.

“I guess I’m a bit age sensitive because my husband left me for a younger woman, an American he met on a flight to New York. I can’t tell you how awful that made me feel.”

She covered her eyes with her hands for a moment and then continued.

“He had a good head for business and we did all right. More than all right, really. Beautiful home, wonderful vacations. It was all so perfect and then suddenly, it was over.”

“And you had no idea it was coming?” asked Penny gently.

“Looking back, of course there were signs but I suppose I was in denial. I didn’t really acknowledge that anything was wrong until it began to dawn on me that I couldn’t do anything right. Things that never bothered him before suddenly seemed to make him so upset and angry. Finally I realized that it wasn’t even about me, anymore.”

She sighed. “And then he left and well, here I am.”

“You’ve got your wonderful harp playing,” Penny said. “Tell me about that.”

The mention of music lifted Victoria’s mood instantly.

“I had a good business going there in London. Performed at upmarket events—embassy parties, fancy weddings, corporate do’s—that sort of thing. Even Clarence House a couple of times for the prince of Wales, I’ll have you know!

“But once I turned fifty most of the bookings dried up. I think they wanted someone younger to decorate the room, along with the music, if you see what I mean.”

“Well, we certainly don’t have any ageism here in Llanelen,” declared Penny. “If we did, we’d all be out of jobs. I’m sure once word gets around you’ll find yourself as busy as you want to be.”

Nineteen

O
n Saturday morning came the news that Rhys Gruffydd had died in his sleep. While the news was expected, his passing was met with sadness; he had been well liked and respected throughout the region, and people said he would be remembered as a fair employer who had done much over the years to help the poor. But as preparations began for his funeral, folks wondered how his son could possibly handle the deaths of the two persons dearest to him. It was nothing short of tragic for Emyr, they said, that his father and his fiancée had died so closely together.

But of course, it was the way his fiancée had died that held their attention, although not much was known about the details.

As Penny and Victoria set up shop for the day’s business, they eagerly discussed what they now considered their case.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Victoria. “I’ll sit in the chair where la femme we’re cherchez-ing sat, you sit where you sat, and we’ll go over everything just like it happened that morning. Maybe something will come to you. After all, this is where it all started.”

“Oh, good one,” said Penny as she dashed across the room and sat down on her stool. “Here,” she said, flapping her hand at the client’s chair across from her, “sit down. We’ve only got a few minutes.”

“Right,” said Victoria a few moments later, offering up her hand. “Here we are, then. You’re you and I’m the mystery woman. What happened next?”

Penny took up Victoria’s hand and looked at it critically.

“Well, it was the usual manicure, and we talked about the wedding, because there’s me thinking she’s the bride. Well, I wouldn’t have any reason to think otherwise, would I?” She put Victoria’s hand on the table and sat back and looked at her.

“But now that I think about it,” Penny said, wagging a finger, “she was very sure of herself, very confident. You wouldn’t have thought for a minute she was getting married that day, because usually brides are fluttery and nervous, if you know what I mean. In a state of heightened excitement. Can barely control themselves.”

Victoria nodded but said nothing, leaving Penny to follow silently where her train of thought was taking her. After a few moments Penny got up, slowly walked over to her supply cupboard, took a few items out, and returned to the table with three cotton balls in a small silver-coloured bowl and a bottle of nail varnish remover. She shook some varnish remover onto a cotton ball, picked up Victoria’s hand, and started removing the polish.

“Sorry,” she said. “Can’t help myself.” She wiped away at another nail and then set Victoria’s hand down and looked at her friend.

“But this one,” she went on thoughtfully, “this woman was businesslike. Professional. Well, yes, confident. That’s just the best word for it.”

She picked up the hand again, looked at all the nails, wagged her head left and right, set the hand down, and reached for the other one. Her face clouded over as she struggled to capture a fleeting thought.

“What is it?” Victoria said softly.

“It’s something she said that struck me at the time as being a bit, oh, I don’t know, not over the top but indicative of how self-important she was, how full of herself. She said something like she wasn’t having roses at her wedding. No, she was going for peonies and lily of the valley. Peonies, she said, would be the next big thing and she’d even designed a peony-based fragrance for herself … it almost made me laugh until I thought she might just be right. I’ve always thought peonies hugely underrated, as flowers go, not that I know that much about them but they’re beautiful to paint.”

Suddenly, a knock on the shop door snapped them back to the reality that Penny’s working day was about to begin.

“Oh God, it’s the first client, and we aren’t really ready yet,” yelped Penny. “You let her in, while I just finish up here.”

“You’d better give me the bottle of nail varnish remover, then,” said Victoria. “I’ve got one hand on and one hand off.”

“Oh, right. Well, we’ll take care of that at lunchtime. We’ve got to finish this conversation. I think it’s going somewhere, but I’m not sure where. The reenactment really helped bring it all back. It’s too bad we have to stop now.”

“Morning, sir. Feeling better?”

Davies gave his sergeant a small, tight smile, nodded in acknowledgement, and made his way to his desk.

“Anything come in overnight that we need to look at?” he asked as he placed his morning cup of coffee on his desk and sat down heavily.

“There’s this, sir,” she said, offering him a large white envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL in large red letters. “It’s the autopsy report and photos. The strangulation and head bashing you know about.”

He nodded.

“But they found something else. Embedded in her upper right arm they found a needle from a syringe. It was broken off and twisted at an angle as if she’d wrenched her arm away from the person who was doing the injecting, like this.” She twisted around quickly to her left. “The toxicology tests are still in the works. They might pick up traces of something on the needle.”

They looked at each other and Morgan put into words what they were both starting to think.

“So, am I right in thinking that he tried to kill her
three
ways? Blows to the head, strangulation, and some kind of weird lethal injection? It doesn’t make sense. Does it? What kind of person would do that?”

Davies winced.

“It doesn’t seem to make sense, but that’s what our job is. We have to find the sense in it.”

After a moment’s silence Morgan continued.

“And there’s one other weird thing. They found a small piece of curved, red plastic, about two inches long, all tangled up in her hair, at the wound site. They can’t guess what it is or where it came from, but from the look of it,” she pulled a photo from the envelope and placed it on his desk, “it might be a handle of some sort. See how it’s curved? What do you think?”

Davies peered at the photo and shrugged.

“Oh, and forensics called. They’ve been through everything found in the grave including the two mobiles. One belonged to Meg Wynne, the other belonged to a—” She paused while she flipped over a couple of pages in her notebook. “To a Simon Redfern. Reported stolen or lost last month in Putney, apparently.”

Davies gave a small snort of disbelief.

“Putney!”

“Yes, sir, it’s located in the London borough of Wandsworth.”

“I know where Putney is, Bethan, I’m just staggered that something like that would turn up in our case. And who’s this Simon Redfern when he’s at home? How does he figure into all this?”

“Well, that’s just it, sir. He’s an eleven-year-old boy. His mum reckons the phone was nicked off him at the playground, or fell out of his coat on the bus or something like that.”

Davies put his chin in his hand and shook his head.

“Is it just me being old fashioned or is it normal for an eleven-year-old to have a mobile phone?”

Morgan snickered.

“With respect, sir, it’s you being old fashioned. Kids much younger than eleven have them. Come to that, everybody has one.”

Davies shook his head. Everybody already knew his views on mobile telephones, so there was no point in going into it.

“Anyway,” continued Morgan, “we know that one mobile belonged to Meg Wynne and the other one has two unidentified sets of fingerprints on it. Adult prints, not young Simon’s.”

“Well, look into it. Have they traced the calls on them yet? And we still need to interview the staff at the Hall.”

Morgan continued riffling through her notebook.

“About the second phone. I wondered if maybe a grave digger could have dropped it in. Might have found it or picked it up secondhand somewhere. I’ll ask them when I speak to them if they can shed some light.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

Davies set down his coffee mug and cleared his throat.

“Bethan. Sergeant.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going out for a bit. You carry on here.”

“Anywhere nice, sir?”

“Nowhere special. Llanelen.”

“Ah, right.”

“Yes, I’m going to have another word with her, you know, Ms. Brannigan.”

“That would be Penny Brannigan, would it sir?” asked Morgan.

“Don’t be cheeky, Sergeant.”

“No, sir. But if you don’t mind my saying, sir, you might want to get a haircut before you go.”

Davies patted the back of his neck.

“Really?”

“Well, yes, sir, she is in the grooming business after all, and well, women notice these things.”

“I’m due for one anyway, I guess,” he said as he prepared to leave. “Right, well, I’ll ring you later, let you know how I got on.”

Morgan watched him go and once he was safely out of the room, smiled to herself. She shook her head gently and her dark curls shone in the morning sun.

This is going to be good, she thought. He just doesn’t know it yet.

As lunchtime approached, Penny turned to Victoria and suggested that she pick up some salad and sandwiches from the local supermarket.

“I’ll just finish up here with Mrs. Lloyd, and then we can go upstairs, make some tea, and continue where we left off this morning,” Penny said.

A moment later Victoria caught her drift.

“Oh, right. Right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She was just pulling the door shut behind her as Davies made his way down Station Road. He watched her turn right and set off in the opposite direction before he approached the door to Penny’s shop. Peering in, he watched as she took a bottle of polish from the third row and showed it to her customer. When the customer nodded, Penny sat down and began to apply the varnish.

“Don’t look now, dear, but I think you have a peeping Tom,” said Mrs. Lloyd, who had returned to have her nails redone after her regular manicure had ended so abruptly with what she was now referring to as “that unfortunate business over my hat.”

“There’s someone watching you through the door.” Penny turned to look, and seeing who it was, smiled and waved at him to come in.