Simeon's Bride (4 page)

Driving slowly down the main road of the council estate, Dewi Prys thought the weather might at last be improving. Winter, seemingly interminable, followed an autumn cold and damp enough to eat through bone. Vicious storms, driven in off the sea, had raged week after week since New Year, tearing slates from roofs, snapping telephone and power lines like so much rotted string. On Snidey Castle Estate, the huge bulk of castle keep, pale grey in morning sunshine, rose through trees clothed in bright new leaves. High fluffy clouds ran before a wind freshening out at sea, piling up towards the mountains behind him. Jamie Thief, dressed in a brown leather jacket and black jeans, ran across the road in front of Dewi’s car, on his way to the local shop.

Dewi drew into the kerb, and followed, waiting outside the shop until Jamie, tall, his fair hair lifting in the wind, emerged with a copy of the
Sun
tucked under his arm.

‘Hiya, Jamie,’ Dewi greeted him. ‘Where’s your car?’

Jamie glanced around as if to start running in autonomic reflex. Only four months out of prison after a long stretch for aggravated burglary, Jamie wore an aura of innocence unless you looked, Dewi once told McKenna, into his eyes; eyes as grey and cold and treacherous as the sea on a stormy day.

‘What car, Dewi?’

‘Oh, some posh new vehicle you’ve been seen in,’ Dewi said. ‘Where is it?’

Jamie grinned, exhaling breath as if in relief. ‘Oh, that!’ He smiled brilliantly. ‘You want to get yourselves some new snitches. Not mine, Dewi, old mate.’

‘Whose is it, then?’

Jamie tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger, still grinning. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. A kind person lent it to me. For services rendered, you might say.’

He began to walk away. Dewi caught his arm. ‘Don’t get too clever, Jamie,’ he warned. ‘You might find Mr McKenna wanting chapter and verse on this kind person.’

‘Why?’ The smile disappeared, leaving menace crawling the pale features. God alone knew what evils Jamie might eventually put his hands to, Dewi thought. Time-served already in juvenile custody and prison, Jamie began his criminal career, people said, literally the moment he learned to walk.

‘Well,’ Dewi said. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, isn’t it? See you around, Jamie.’

‘Something might turn up from the cottage, sir,’ Jack offered. ‘And Derbyshire police might have some information.’

‘They haven’t. They called back last night. The person living at that address bought the house three years ago from a bloke by the name of’ – McKenna rummaged under piles of folders and retrieved a notebook – ‘Robert Allsopp, and has no idea where Mr Allsopp might be now. Anyway, I’ve asked them to find him via building societies, solicitors and whatnot. Somebody must have a forwarding address.’

‘Could’ve been living with Ms Cheney.’

‘That occurred to me, too,’ McKenna said. ‘I was also struck by the time factor. Everything seems to have happened around three and a half years ago.’

‘Well,’ Jack hesitated. ‘I – er – daresay a lot of things happened around then. I mean, they don’t necessarily have to have anything to do with our body.’

‘You can be really pedantic at times.’ McKenna scowled. ‘Did you know that?’ He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. ‘I want you to go and have a chat with Special Branch this afternoon.’

‘Do I have to? I had a bellyful of that lot during the royal visit.’

‘They might know something about this woman.’

‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘And if they do, they won’t tell us.’

‘You know we have to ask. If we don’t, and Eifion Roberts is right about a terrorist connection, we’ll be in the shit.’

‘Amazing how the smooth progress of a police investigation might depend on the say-so of a bunch of spies, isn’t it?’ Jack remarked.

McKenna straightened the papers on his desk. ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

‘And what am I supposed to say?’

‘Oh, use your brains!’ McKenna snapped. ‘Just find out if they know anything useful.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jack considered. ‘Whose brilliant idea was this, then?’

McKenna glared at his deputy. ‘Mine,’ he said. ‘I thought it up all by myself.’

‘You surprise me. I thought it might be an order from on high.’

‘You should really have gone yourself, Michael.’ Superintendent
Griffiths lounged in McKenna’s office. ‘Jack doesn’t have the experience to deal with Special Branch.’

‘Do him good to get some, then, won’t it?’ McKenna said. ‘Look good on his service record when he comes up for promotion.’

‘Don’t you like Jack?’

McKenna shrugged. ‘He’s all right … gets on my nerves sometimes.’

‘Usually, you either hate somebody, or like them so much you’re blind to any faults. Like with young Dewi.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Owen,’ McKenna said.

The superintendent rubbed his finger along the edge of McKenna’s desk. ‘How are things at home?’ he asked quietly.

‘I don’t want to discuss Denise.’

‘I’m not one to pry into things which aren’t my concern, Michael, but I don’t want it said your personal life is interfering with your job.’

‘It won’t.’

‘We’ve got enough on our plate without that sort of thing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ Griffiths said. ‘Complaints about this, that and the other…. Poor performance, poor clear-up rates, and a sodding awful public image. And,’ he added bitterly, ‘instructions from the top to put it all right.’

‘I see.’ McKenna lit a cigarette. ‘And how d’you propose to do that?’

‘I thought you might have some ideas.’

‘Me?’ McKenna looked amused.

‘You’re the one with the university degree. Education’s supposed to teach you how to deal with problems.’

McKenna grinned. ‘Some problems, Owen, are beyond solving.’

The superintendent sighed. ‘You might be right,’ he said. ‘I blame it on the miners’ strike. That’s when the rot set in. We should never’ve got involved. That wasn’t police business, and somebody should’ve had the guts to tell the government to get somebody else to do their dirty work. And then, of course,’ he went on, ‘the bad apples you get in any police force saw what they could get away with at the pit heads, and others’ve just followed suit. I reckon policing’s taken on a different colour since then.’

After lunch, McKenna returned to Gallows Cottage, finding it no less desolate in bright sunshine than under dismal cloud and rain. The builder, knee deep in the beginnings of the drainage trench, waved, and scrambled out.

‘Your lot are tearing the cottage apart, so we’re making ourselves useful out here.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Nice day, for a change, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed.’ McKenna smiled at him. ‘What’s your name? I forgot to ask yesterday.’

‘Wil Jones. You can call me Wil. You Irish, are you?’

‘A long way back,’ McKenna said.

‘I’m from the noble Jones family of Wales.’ Wil grinned. ‘I’ve been asking around, but nobody seems to know who worked here before.’

Inside the cottage, three forensic specialists foraged for information, white overalls rustling and crackling in the still air. ‘This is a bit of a waste of time, Mr McKenna,’ their senior said. ‘If there was anything here to find, dust and damp’s got at it.’

‘What about the carpet?’

The man scuffed his feet on the tiled floor. ‘I’ve done a patch test on the stain, but it definitely isn’t blood. We’re taking the carpet away to have a proper look, but it’ll probably be a waste of time.’

‘You sure?’ McKenna asked. ‘Yes, of course you are…. What is it?’

‘Dunno … could be anything. Probably red wine, by the feel of it.’

McKenna called on Mary Ann before returning to Bangor. Having afternoon tea, she offered him a drink and a wedge of fresh cream cake. ‘Beti got me the cake in town this morning. A body needs a little treat now and then.’

‘D’you know Jamie Wright?’ McKenna asked.

‘Jamie Thief?’ she frowned. ‘Everybody knows him! The little bugger robbed Mair’s electric meter when he was barely out of nappies. He used to come to the school here, ’til Social Services put him in care. Didn’t stop him thieving, did they?’

‘Have you seen him around the village recently?’

‘Well, not recent. He’s careful where he shows his face these days. Why?’

‘Somebody told us he’s driving a fancy new car,’ McKenna said, wiping cream off his fingers. ‘Jamie reckons someone lent it to him. I just wondered if you might know who.’

‘What kind of car is it?’

‘Dunno, Mary Ann, and Jamie isn’t volunteering any information.’

‘I’ll ask Beti. I don’t get out much except when my son comes of a Sunday with his car. My legs, you know.’ She smiled. ‘And old age. Beti might know something. Not much gets past her, for all she can’t see straight.’

McKenna sent Dewi to search for the buckle missing from the belt around the dead woman’s wrists. ‘You’ve got about five hours of daylight left’

‘Couldn’t somebody else go, sir?’ Dewi ventured. ‘I’ve not finished ringing the builders in Yellow Pages.’

‘They’ll keep. You’re to look for a buckle to fit a three and a half inch wide belt. Probably something fancy and expensive. And bring back anything else that looks interesting.’

Already formless, the investigation lacked any focus, and until the
woman was identified, much expensive police time would be frittered away. Checking on the search of the estate ledgers, McKenna found only that Ms Cheney had paid six months’ rent in advance on Gallows Cottage:
£
1820.
£
70 a week for what must have been little more than a derelict hovel. He looked at the little notation beside the record for some moments before realizing it indicated a cash payment, unusual for such a large sum.

‘No, Chief Inspector.’ Mr Prosser was adamant. ‘I did not take up references. I didn’t ask for any.’

‘D’you do all your business that way?’

‘Really, Chief Inspector, I don’t think you have any call to ask such questions about the estate’s business.’

‘Do you know, Mr Prosser,’ McKenna said, ‘I’m beginning to think the estate’s business might bear a little scrutiny. All this strikes me as being somewhat irregular, to say the least. How could Ms Cheney, or anyone else come to that, know the cottage was for rent?’

There was a silence at the end of the telephone line. McKenna waited patiently. ‘Well,’ Prosser volunteered eventually, ‘she probably saw an advertisement.’

‘Where do you advertise?’

‘I don’t advertise anywhere.’ Smug satisfaction coloured Prosser’s voice.

‘Mr Prosser, are you aware I could arrest you now for obstruction? How d’you fancy swapping your cosy office for a cell?’

Prosser’s laugh tinkled over the line. ‘Oh, Chief Inspector, no need to be like that. Indeed, no … always willing to help. Why not call the trust headquarters? They deal with all the advertising. A lot of properties are let out during the summer months, and again from autumn until Easter. Quite normal procedure, I do assure you.’

‘Why did Ms Cheney pay in cash?’

‘Did she?’ Prosser asked. ‘I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector. Why don’t you ask her?’ McKenna heard Prosser put down the receiver very gently.

Clearly implying errands for other forces were of minimal importance, Derbyshire police grudgingly promised a response on Robert Allsopp’s current whereabouts by the end of the week, by which time, McKenna thought, the investigation would have lost what little impetus remained. Curiosity about the dead woman nudged at him, posing questions to which he had no answers: why had no one missed her, how could she be so solitary that her disappearance had gone totally unremarked. If she was indeed the erstwhile tenant of that haunted cottage, she had spent thousands of pounds on a place she would never own simply to live in comfort for a few months.

Jack returned empty handed from his visit to Special Branch. ‘They weren’t exactly helpful.’

‘They never are,’ McKenna said. ‘Unless they want something. What did they say?’

Jack’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Well, apart from implying we should go forth and multiply instead of bothering them, nothing! Who the bloody hell,’ he added, jaw muscles bunching, ‘do they think they are?’

‘Special Branch.’ McKenna said. ‘With the emphasis on the special bit. We’re just old PC Plod….’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Rude, were they?’ he asked.

‘Rude?’ Jack almost shouted. ‘Bloody insulting!’

‘Oh, well,’ McKenna said. ‘Our turn will come.’ He grinned at Jack. ‘I’d like you to fax the package about our body to the police in Ireland. On both sides of the border.’

‘Why?’

‘She doesn’t seem to be missing in Britain, so she might be missing from Ireland, mightn’t she?’ McKenna said. ‘It’s but a short hop over the Irish Sea.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jack frowned. ‘D’you think the body’s this woman from Gallows Cottage?’

‘I hope so,’ McKenna said. ‘If she isn’t, we may as well stop bothering now.’ He eyed Jack speculatively. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Ms Cheney at Gallows Cottage doesn’t appear on any missing list, does she?’ Jack said. ‘Ms Cheney’s most probably happily going about her usual business somewhere, in total ignorance anybody’s looking for her. She rents that dump for a while, spends pots of money on it ’cos she’s not short of a bob or two … and who’s to say it was her money anyway? She might’ve rented it for the specific purpose of having a nice little place in the middle of nowhere for her dirty weekends … her and a married boyfriend … both of them married. Having it off when they got the chance down in the woods and nobody any the wiser. Beats the back seat of a car any day.’ Jack grinned. ‘Then, back home on a Monday morning, all respectable. That’s probably why she paid the rent in cash. No records that way, no cheques to be explained to her husband or his wife.’

Disgust with Jack’s graphic analysis of Ms Cheney’s weekend sport pulled at McKenna’s face. ‘We’ve still got a body,’ he said. ‘And unless we can put a name to it, we’ll never find out who killed her.’

Dr Roberts telephoned, excitement sparkling in his voice. ‘I removed various organs, Michael, and tried to reconstitute them for section,’ he said. ‘With some success, I might add, even though I do say so myself!’