Slated for Death

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Sylvia and Peter Jones

 

Acknowledgments

There's an old saying in Wales that you're born under a slate roof, spend your life walking on slate floors, and are finally laid to rest under a slate tombstone.

Slated for Death
is set against the backdrop of what remains of the great Welsh slate industry, which played a huge role in the country's way of life for two centuries, especially in the north. (Coal mining was more predominant in the south.)

Many of the old slate mines and quarries are now worked out and the few that remain are used primarily for tourist and teaching purposes. The mine described in this book is Llechwedd Slate Caverns, in Blaenau Ffestiniog, and although I have taken liberties with its layout and operations, I hope I captured its mysterious black beauty and majesty of scope. It is well worth a visit, as is the National Slate Museum in Llanberis, North Wales.

Thank you to Sylvia and Peter Jones of Conwy, North Wales, whose e-mail with stunning photographs of abandoned, overgrown slate quarries suggested the slate theme. My time in Wales is always enriched by our excursions, picnics, and dog walks.

I am grateful to Eirlys Owen, of Llanrwst, for accompanying me down the mine—twice!—and for her excellent suggestions that moved the plot forward. Sean Copsey, Customer Services Manager, Llechwedd Slate Caverns, and his team provided much behind-the-scenes information, and I thank them for their warm hospitality.

Thanks, as always, to PC Chris Jones, North Wales Police Service, for advice on police procedural. Any errors or assumptions are mine.

To Bob and Christina Sykes, for getting me out of an accommodation predicament and making available their Summer Hill flat in Llandudno, thank you.

Grateful thanks to my agent, Dominick Abel, St. Martin's Press editor Toni Kirkpatrick, and her assistant, Jennifer Letwack, for bringing this book to life. And bouquets of appreciation to Toronto artist Doug Martin, whose whimsical, stylish paintings have graced the covers of all the books in this series.

I appreciate the contributions and corrections of Madeleine Matte and Hannah Dennison, who helped improve the manuscript when it was a work in progress.

And finally love to Riley Wallbank, for her support during an especially violent storm, and to Lucas Walker for a memorable visit in beautiful North Wales.

 

Abandoned slate quarries are dangerous. Rock is slippery, tips can move, falls can and do occur, portions of structures can collapse. There may be hidden and unguarded precipices and shafts.

—Alun John Richards,
Slate Quarrying in Wales

 

One

Glenda Roberts was having a good day, but that was about to change; things would soon take a definite turn for the worse. She had about six hours left to live. But right now, she had some errands to run.

“Hello, Penny,” she said with a broad, practiced smile as she pushed open the door to the Llanelen Spa, letting in a frosty blast of January air. “Just dropping something off for Victoria. Is she in?” Glenda brushed a few stray silver wisps from her forehead. She had always thought her hair her best feature and now, although she'd gone grey, it was as sleek and glossy as it was when it had been the colour of a burnished chestnut. A lengthy session with stylist Alberto every six weeks in the hair salon of the Llanelen Spa saw to that. A meticulous trim kept her one-length bob sleek and deceptively simple while an artful silvery tint gave her the distinctive look of a young person with premature grey hair.

Penny Brannigan shook her head. “No, sorry, she's away for the day. Not expecting her in until tomorrow.”

“Oh, well, no problem. I'll just leave this with you, if I may.” She held out a large brown envelope. “It's her sheet music for the concert.”

“Right,” said Penny, taking it from her. “The concert.”

“Yes,” said Glenda. “The St. David's Day concert. March first. We're holding it down the Llyn Du mine this year. It's going to be brilliant, and you won't want to miss it, I can tell you.” She waved her arm in a sweeping, circular motion above her head. “The acoustics! You've never heard anything like it. Why, Pavarotti himself performed there a few years ago.” She smiled again and took a step back. “I'll drop by in a few days with the posters. Victoria said you'd put up a couple in the Spa.”

“Oh, right. Posters. Well, we'll make sure Victoria gets this.” Penny handed the envelope to receptionist Rhian Phillips and turned her attention back to Glenda. “How's your mother, by the way? I haven't seen her in ages.”

“Oh, you know Mum. Just keeps ticking along. I keep telling her she'll outlive us all.” She shrugged. “Mum says when you get to her age, all your friends are either in care homes themselves or they're no longer with us. She misses them all terribly and it does get a bit lonely. She doesn't get many visitors outside the family. If you get the chance, do pop in and see her. She'd like that.”

She pulled out her mobile and checked the time. “Oh, where did the morning go? Must get on. These concerts don't organize themselves, unfortunately, and I've got a few more stops to make before lunch. Thanks, and we'll see you later. And don't forget to buy your tickets for the concert. Seating is limited—only about a hundred tickets available. Seriously, don't miss out. There's going to be a special guest singer and a ticket will get you into the reception afterward. Or the after-party, as I like to call it. You can rub shoulders with all the VIPs.”

A moment later, with a swish of her mid-length tailored red coat with its smart row of double-breasted black buttons, Glenda was gone.

“A St. David's Day concert down the mine,” said Rhian. “Whoever heard of such a thing? My grandfather used to work there.” She nodded at the door. “He'll be gobsmacked to say the least, when I tell him they're holding a concert in that miserable place. ‘What the hell are they playing at?' is how he'll put it.”

“I'd heard that people actually get married down there, which really amazes me. But the concert thing is new to me. I hadn't heard that before. And who are these VIPs she's expecting?” said Penny. “And Pavarotti? Really?”

“If she says so.” Rhian shrugged. “I wonder how much the tickets cost.”

“And think about the logistics. How on earth will they get all the instruments and performers down there, never mind the audience?”

“Oh, and about the posters, Penny. I'd be very surprised if Victoria said we'd put them up here in the Spa. Put them up where? We don't clutter the place up with advertising.”

*   *   *

Glenda dropped off a couple more packets to other musicians, ducked into a couple of shops and then decided to treat herself to a coffee and maybe a slice of walnut cake at the local caf
é
. The air was fragrant with the distinctive, welcoming aroma of freshly ground coffee as she settled into a corner table to enjoy her brew and check her e-mail. She pulled out her phone and a slow, troubled frown spread across her face as she read the first message. She massaged her arm gently as she deleted it and then moved on to the next one.

The shipment she'd been expecting would be delivered that afternoon. Great!

She replaced the phone in her bag and pulled out the spreadsheet that recorded all the details of the concert. It was going to be wonderful and so was the reception afterward. A special musical guest had signed a performance contract and although this singer would take careful handling, she should prove worth it. Tickets were selling well, even though they were priced beyond the budget of most citizens of Llanelen, and all in all, the St. David's Day concert promised to be a night to remember.

She leaned back in her chair and cupping her mug in both hands, took a warm, comforting sip. She might have taken a bit more comfort in it had she known she had about five hours left to live.

 

Two

A dozen or so people stood motionless in the semidarkness, reflecting on what they had just seen and heard. And then, as the recorded music faded away leaving only the ambient sound of trickling water, a few bright lights came up a few metres away, lighting the path to the next stop on the self-guided tour of the Llyn Du mine. As the unofficial leaders of the group shuffled forward, ducking their heads as they entered the low, narrow tunnel that led to the next stop on the tour, treading carefully and slowly along the damp, uneven ground, the lights behind them where the group had just been dimmed and died.

A few minutes later the group emerged into a cavernous room, a cathedral of slate. They gazed up in wonder at the vast, soaring ceiling, many metres above them, and marvelled at the men and boys who had created this space, by candlelight, using only manual tools, over a century ago. And then their attention was drawn to the small lake, lit in alternating red and green lights, the national colours of Wales, and fed by a waterfall that cascaded down the rear of the chamber. The surface of the lake was still and the lake itself surprisingly deep and clear. The group stood in awed silence that bordered on reverence, taking it all in. It was this lake that the mine was named after.
Llyn Du.
“Black Lake.”

After a few more minutes they walked on, and found themselves back at the starting point of the tour where the little yellow train was waiting to return them to the surface. With happy anticipation that they were only moments away from being deposited safely aboveground, they clambered into the train. The doors clanged shut and a few minutes later, after a noisy ascent, the train juddered to a stop in the winch house. The passengers disembarked, and exchanging smiles of relief, spilled out into the reassuring, cold brightness of a late January afternoon. They dropped the red, green, or yellow hard hats mine visitors were required to wear in the large box, and chattering as they went, made their way toward the exit.

As the last visitors of the day filed past him, Bevan Jones turned to his colleague stationed beside the box of hard hats and raised an eyebrow. “All right?” he asked.