Slated for Death (11 page)

“Oh, I'd be very surprised if there is one,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “I've just checked and apparently the storm is expected to get worse, so I expect the game will be cancelled. We're all over fifty-five you know, the bridge gang, and we don't like going out at night when the weather is bad.”

“Sensible, that,” said Eirlys. “No one should go out when the weather is bad.”

“Really, Eirlys,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Sometimes I think you are wise beyond your years. Why can't more young people be like you?”

Penny left the room to the sound of laughter. A few minutes later Eirlys entered Penny's office.

“Mrs. Lloyd's gone but she left her phone here. I found it in the chair. I looked out the door hoping to catch her but I couldn't see her.”

Penny held out her hand and said, “Here, leave it with me. Ask Rhian to ring her home and let her know that we have it and that I'll drop it off on my way home. Mrs. Lloyd won't be home yet, but Rhian can leave a message with Florence. Miss Semble.”

“Okay. And Rhian says we've had a couple of cancellations for this afternoon because the weather is getting worse. The police are advising people to seek shelter and not go out unless they have to.”

“Okay, Eirlys. Thanks.”

A few minutes later the decision was taken, in light of the storm's projected severity, to close the Spa at noon. The few clients who hadn't cancelled their appointments for the afternoon were relieved to get a call from Rhian inviting them to reschedule.

Shortly after noon Penny waved good-bye to Victoria, who locked the Spa door behind her, and set off for Mrs. Lloyd's house. The wind was blowing harder now and a couple of times she had to clutch the top of a stone wall or lamppost to save herself from being blown over. The wind in her back pushed her forward as she lurched down the street, driving bits of litter and dead leaves ahead of her. She was relieved as she turned into Rosemary Lane to see Mrs. Lloyd's two-storey grey stone house with its slate roof loom into view.

As a strong gust buffeted her, she gripped the wrought iron gate, steadied herself, then raced up the path and knocked on the door. A moment later Florence opened it and reached out for Penny. “Oh, Penny, good, you made it. Do come in.”

She closed the door behind her and offered to take Penny's coat.

“No, I can't stay, Florence, thanks. I must get home. That wind is absolutely fierce. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. Just wanted to drop off Mrs. Lloyd's phone. The battery's low, so you might want to get it on the charger right away. They're saying we could lose power, so you'll want to make sure your phone's working.”

“Yes, you're right.” Florence took the phone from her. “Evelyn's just in the sitting room. She wanted a quick word with you. Go through. Don't worry about your boots.”

Mrs. Lloyd looked up from the worktable Florence had set up for her in front of the window. She stood as Penny entered and pointed to a towering pile of papers, newspaper cuttings, scrapbooks, and boxes. Stacks of documents teetered on the table and cardboard boxes were stacked two and three high against the wall.

“Just wanted you to have a look at this, Penny,” she said, holding out a yellowed newspaper cutting. “You never know what you'll find on these little side trips down memory lane.”

Penny took the cutting from her, read the caption, then held it closer so she could examine the photograph more closely. A slow smile spread across her face.

“Oh, it's Emma!” she said. “And with the schoolchildren. On prizes day, I expect.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Our Morwyn won the prize for best writing. Well, no wonder she went on to become a newspaper reporter. Anyway,” Mrs. Lloyd drew the curtain back slightly and peered out, “I thought now that you're here I'd show it to you. But you'd best take it with you. The weather is getting worse very quickly, so probably best if you set off now. Otherwise, you could end up stranded here with us. We wouldn't mind, of course, but if you want to see this storm out in your own home, you'd best be off. Take that with you and photocopy it if you wish. You can return it to me at my next appointment.”

“Yes, I think you're right. I'd better go.”

Penny tucked the cutting in her handbag, and after thanking her for taking the trouble to return the phone, Florence opened the door, then struggled against the wind to close it behind Penny.

As soon she reached the pavement, Penny pulled the hood of her anorak up over her head, tucked her chin into her coat, and pushed off for home. The afternoon was now very dark as heavy sheets of rain, driven by a howling wind, assaulted her. Rivulets of water found their way into her hood and ran down her neck. Her thin trousers were soon soaked and her legs were cold and wet. She ploughed on, splashing through puddles in squelching shoes, grateful when there was not much further to go and comforting herself with the thought that she would be out of these wet things in a few minutes.

As her cottage welcomed her through the lashing rain, she sped up her pace, reaching into her coat pocket for her key as she did so. A moment later the key was in the lock, the door was open, and she was standing in her front hall, dripping, cold, but home and soon she would be dry.

She took off her coat and dropped it on the mat, then stepped out of her wet trousers and let them fall on top of the coat. She raced upstairs, pulling off the rest of her clothes as she went, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and rubbed down her wet legs. She put on a cozy terry towel bathrobe and slippers and went downstairs where her cat, Harrison, wrapped himself around her legs while she put the kettle on.

She'd inherited her cottage from Emma Teasdale, a retired schoolteacher, a couple of years earlier and had had it modernized during an extensive renovation. The bright, modern kitchen was new, but Penny had insisted that the coal-burning Rayburn cooker and the original slate floor be incorporated into the design plans. She'd never really taken any particular notice of slate before; it had just seemed to blend into the greyness of the environment: grey stone buildings; grey slate roofs; grey, misty weather.

Central heating had been installed. When Emma had lived here, rooms had been heated by small heaters. Penny could not remember ever being truly warm when she visited in the winter, but Emma, even in her older years, seemed to cope with it. Or maybe she was just used to it, after living through a lifetime of British winters in wooly cardigans. The cottage was now snug and stylish, although as a tribute to its previous owner, Penny had had an attractive, efficient gas fireplace installed. She used it occasionally to provide atmosphere and comfort. She switched it on now, settled in her wing chair, took out the cutting Mrs. Lloyd had given her, and lifted Harrison onto her lap.

She stroked him as she read the article, holding the photo of Emma closer to the light so she could see it better and sitting for several minutes thinking about her. Her kindness. Her love of music. How she had taken young backpacker Penny under her wing all those years ago, cared for her, and in a final loving act, given her the security her own family never had. She blinked as her eyes began to fill with tears. While it had been kind of Mrs. Lloyd to think of her, she had many photos of Emma, and one beautiful painting, and didn't think she needed a photocopy of this article. She folded the cutting. As she did so, a headline on the back of the article caught her attention.
MINER FOUND DEAD
. She turned the cutting over and started to read.

When she had finished reading the story, she ran her hands down Harrison's soft, fluffy head and tufted his ears. “Well, well, Harrison,” she said. “Do you think this death has any relevance to Glenda's? I'll bet you a tin of your favourite salmon it does. We just have to work out what the connection is.” She turned the cutting over again to see the date. September 15, 1971.

Setting it to one side, she turned on the television to watch the news updates on the storm. The announcer, sounding serious, repeated police warnings to stay off the roads unless travel was absolutely necessary. Describing the storm as one of the worst to hit British coastal areas in decades, he provided updates on flooded low-lying areas, disruptions to railway service, and downed trees and power lines.

Thankful she was safely home, Penny opened the freezer and took out a ready meal to microwave for dinner.

As she set it on the worktop, her phone rang.

“Hello.”

She listened while Sgt. Bethan Morgan explained that she had been asked to stay in the area overnight. As the storm was expected to intensify, she might get called out again and wondered if she could come to Penny for a cup of coffee and possibly, a little sleep.

“Of course,” Penny said. “Come whenever suits you. I'm here.”

There's just one thing, Bethan warned her. She was under strict orders not to discuss the Glenda Roberts case.

Penny laughed. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to telling you what I've just discovered, but I guess I won't be able to now. Since we're not allowed to discuss the case.”

 

Nineteen

It took every bit of Penny's strength to hold the door open against the force of the wind so Bethan Morgan could slip past her and enter the cottage.

“What a night!” said Bethan, removing her wet overcoat and handing it to Penny. “Honestly, this is the worst gale I've seen since I started the job. Just awful. Worst weather in decades, apparently. And we're getting so many reports of flooded roads. Really dangerous, filthy conditions out there. I just hope people will take our advice and stay home.”

“Well, let's get you sorted. We'll hang your coat up by the Rayburn to dry out. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Something to eat? Soup?” Penny asked as she closed the curtains against the storm. The wind rattled the windowpane as pelting raindrops hurled themselves against it.

“What I'd really like is scrambled eggs, if you've got them in. They're my favourite comfort food.”

“Not a problem. I've actually got a few eggs on hand and a bit of cheese, too. And we'll get the kettle on.”

“Perfect. I could murder a cup of tea.”

Penny pulled eggs out of the refrigerator and set them on the counter. “I've never been able to get into the British habit of keeping eggs at room temperature,” she remarked. “To me, they belong in the fridge.”

Bethan shrugged. “Doesn't bother me. They taste great either way.”

Twenty minutes later Bethan was seated at the table tucking into a plate of creamy scrambled eggs with slices of buttered toast. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Really hitting the spot.”

She took a sip of tea. “Right. I know you've been dying to tell me what you've found out.” She took a bite of toast.

“Well, first of all, is there any news on Doreen? Did the autopsy…?”

“Nothing unusual there,” Bethan said. “That is, nothing out of the ordinary. There was a slight mark on her neck but the pathologist didn't think it was anything to be concerned about. Could have been caused by something as simple as a tight collar.”

“So her death was just an unfortunate follow-up to Glenda? Poor Rebeccah. Losing her mother and her sister so closely together.”

“It happens,” said Bethan. “Look at the Queen. She lost her sister and her mother really close together. About six weeks apart, I think. Something like that.”

Penny nodded. “I guess. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence.”

“Oh, we're thinking along those lines, too,” said Bethan. “The slate that was found in the hands of each of the victims seems to tie the two deaths together.” She pushed some egg onto her fork. “We're looking into that.”

Before Penny could respond, Bethan went on. “You know that the DCI really values your input, but he has to follow procedures. And if someone like you got overinvolved in a case and corrupted evidence, say, the whole case could be lost, and a guilty person could walk free. We really don't want that.”

“I understand,” said Penny. “And of course both of you are always professional in every way.”

“Right, well now that we got that out of the way, tell me what you found out.”

“It's not directly related to Glenda's murder,” Penny began, “but there might be something here that's of interest to you.” She handed Bethan the newspaper cutting and pointed to the small article.

“There.
MINER FOUND DEAD
. Read that and see what you think.”

“‘The body of a thirty-seven-year-old miner was found in a side tunnel of the Llyn Du mine this morning. Gwillym Thomas, who was pronounced dead at the scene, leaves behind a wife and two small children. North Wales Police are treating the death as suspicious.'

“And what's the date on this?” Bethan asked turning the cutting over. “Oh, here it is. September 1971.” She thought for a moment. “Not sure if this ties in with our case, but I'll make a note of it and we can look into it.” She put her fork down and looked at Penny.

“Why do you think this might be important? Have you heard of this man? Penny, this happened a long time ago.”

“No, I haven't heard of this man,” said Penny. “And I don't know for sure if this is important. But the mine setting may be significant in some way.”

“It may be,” agreed Bethan, “but I'm sure a lot of people have died down there over the years.”

“Oh, they have. In mining accidents. But why was Glenda murdered there I ask myself?” She gave a little shrug. “Well, I just thought I'd pass it on for what it's worth, that's all.”

“I've noted it,” said Bethan. “I'll mention it to the DCI, and if he thinks it warrants a closer look, then we'll look into it.”

She sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “Is there any more tea in the pot?”

Penny lifted the lid and peered in. “Just about. I'll get more hot water.”