Slated for Death (13 page)

“I still think the murder had something to do with the mine,” she said over her shoulder.

“Why do you think that?” Bethan asked.

“It's a hunch. You're not allowed to have them. But I am. And I think it would be a good idea for you to revisit the mine and ask yourselves, ‘Why here?'”

Bethan raised the brush one last time and then slowly lowered her hand.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there must have been easier places. That mine is just so … challenging. I think the killer chose the mine to make a point.” Penny smiled. “And I think that's what the slate in the hands is telling us. But that's just my theory. You can take it or leave it.”

Bethan gave her boot one last smack with the brush, picked up its mate, and joined Penny inside the cottage. A few minutes later, with a cheery wave, she drove off.

With the power still out in her cottage, Penny called Victoria and was told that the power had not yet been restored to the Spa, either, but Rhian was coming in anyway. Today would be a good day to tidy things up and sort things out and she could do that in natural light without the distraction of the day-to-day running of the business.

 

Twenty-one

The massive extent of the storm damage was breathtaking. Downed trees, their branches broken and huge roots clotted with dark, wet soil, blocked main roads and country lanes. Fields lay under water and frightened, bleating sheep, many of them heavily pregnant, huddled together on the highest bit of land they could find. Upstream, a huge, ancient rock formation battered by ferocious storm-force wind and waves had been reduced to rubble and hundreds of homes had been flooded.

Her feet warm and dry in Wellies, Penny crossed the town's bridge, which had fortunately withstood the storm, but instead of going to the Spa, she turned down the road that ran along the swollen river and led to the nursing home.

After a few words with the receptionist, she walked to the lounge where the residents gathered after breakfast to chat, watch television, or just sit. This morning, the televison was silent and although the curtains on the north-facing windows had been fully opened, not much natural light got in. As an artist, Penny knew the impact light has on mood and was not surprised that the atmosphere in the dimly lit room was gloomy and dreary.

She spotted Jimmy in the corner, and as she had hoped, he was sitting with Dylan Phillips.

“There aren't many men in this place,” Jimmy had told her. “I get along fine with Dylan. He's good company.” He was also Rhian Phillips's grandfather, a retired miner, and the man Penny had really come to see.

“Morning,” she smiled at the two. “Well, look, I'll come right to the point. Mr. Phillips, I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about your days down the mine. It's about Gwillym Thomas. I don't know if you remember him, but I came across an old newspaper cutting and it mentioned that he'd been found dead down the mine. I wondered if you remembered that incident. Apparently he had a head wound. Was it an accident?”

“Well, let me see. That was a long time ago.” Dylan shifted in his chair. “I honestly don't remember too much about it.” He smiled. “When you get to our age, your memory isn't what it was.”

“Do you remember the man at all?” Penny asked. “Can you remember anything about him personally?” She thought for a moment and then answered the question herself. “The newspaper said he was married with two small children. The article gave his age as thirty-seven.”

“The thing is, see, so many of us worked down the mine back then,” Dylan said. “I vaguely remember him, I guess. Big fellow. Liked to sing.”

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that, surely,” said Jimmy. “Every Welshman likes to sing. This death must have been a big event in the mine. Everyone must have been talking about it.”

Dylan waited a few moments before responding.

“The work was organized so that you worked with the same few men in separate chambers. We arrived together, worked together, ate lunch down there together, and left together. Most of those groups were men who were related to one another. Brothers, uncles, cousins, fathers, and sons. We didn't really mix with the others or get to know them all that well.”

Dylan shook his head. “No, sorry, that's about all I can think of at the moment.”

Jimmy and Penny's eyes locked as he gave her a shrewd look. Then, Penny thanked Dylan for his time and got up to leave. Jimmy watched and waited. When Penny reached the receptionist's desk, nodded good-bye, and then disappeared out the front door he turned to his companion.

“Why'd you lie to her?”

“Who says I was lying?” Dylan shifted in his chair.

“Of course you bloody were. You think I can't tell when someone's lying? I worked with liars all my life and they were a damn sight better at it than you, mate. So I'm asking again. Why'd you lie to her?”

“Because sometimes the truth does more harm than good.” Dylan made a small pleading gesture with an upturned hand. “Look, all that happened a long time ago. What's the point in raking it all up again? Stirring up all those buried hatreds now won't do any good. It won't bring anyone back. Thousands of men worked down that mine over the years and they're all gone. Including the ones I worked with. For God's sake, let them rest in peace.”

“Well, I think you'll find this isn't going to go away. This won't be the end of it.”

Dylan shrugged. “It is as far as I'm concerned.”

“No, Dylan, it isn't. See, here's the thing. When people are lied to, it just makes them more curious—more determined to ferret out the truth. And I know her. She's not going to let this go.”

“And what business is it of hers, I'd like to know.” The two sat in silence for a moment.

“I've got one more thing to say,” said Jimmy, “and then I'm going to leave it alone. Those men who died down there, including the one Penny was on about. How do you know they're resting in peace? If there's unfinished business that needs sorting, maybe now's the time for you to…”

“I wish they'd let us smoke in here,” Dylan interrupted.

“Why? What do you care? You don't smoke.”

“Gave it up must be forty years ago,” agreed Dylan. “But I'd like one now.”

Jimmy said nothing and the two sat for a few minutes, each with his own thoughts. And then Jimmy spoke.

“I hear it's your birthday in a few days. How old will you be?”

“Eighty-three. But I'm not looking forward to it.”

“No?”

“After what happened to poor Doreen? Of course I'm not.”

 

Twenty-two

“Penny thinks we need to take a closer look at the Llyn Du mine.” Bethan set a mug of tea on Davies's desk. He took a sip, squared the papers on his desk, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

“Does she now.”

“I explained the confirmation bias theory to her and said we couldn't look at the mine just to make a theory fit the facts. I think she thought it was all a load of tosh.”

“It is a load of tosh, if it prevents us from investigating something that may prove relevant. It could very well be that we do need to look deeper into the mine.”

“After I'd had a chance to think about what she said, I was leaning toward agreeing with her,” Bethan said. “She said we should be asking ourselves why Glenda was murdered in the mine because there must have been easier places for the killer. And she was on about the slate in Glenda's hand.”

She flipped open her notebook. “Penny found a cutting about an incident that happened in 1971. The body of a Gwillym Thomas was found dead in a side tunnel. Head injuries. Police at the time described the situation as suspicious.”

“Right. Well, look into it. Find out what happened there. And see if there's anything we can learn from it that will help us with the Roberts case. Sometimes revisiting an old case sheds a brighter light on a new case.”

As Bethan got up to go, he added, “It happened so long ago you might need a trip to the archives. I doubt the reports going back that far will have been computerized. If you do find the files, sign them out and bring them here. I wouldn't mind a look at them myself.”

Bethan had mixed feelings about old files and evidence boxes. On one hand, she liked the idea that they were complete and she liked seeing the artifacts for themselves, but on the other, there were always a lot of things in those plastic bags you didn't really want to see, never mind touch, even wearing gloves.

“Oh, and we need to reinterview the choir leader, what was his name again?” Davies asked.

“Ifan Williams,” replied Bethan.

“Right. I'm not satisfied he's telling us the whole truth. Let's see if we can get him to tell us what he's been leaving out.”

*   *   *

At first light, Ifan Williams had pulled on his anorak and Wellies and headed for the river. Where last night the water had been high and churning, in the still greyness just after dawn it was calmer, but still much higher than it should be and fast flowing. The water level had receded somewhat, leaving the banks muddy and slippery. He walked downstream, picking his way along the top of the bank, looking down at the river and stopping every few feet to check the tall grass and call for his lost dog.

“Taff! Taff!”

After an hour, he reluctantly headed back the way he had come. He'd go home, change his socks, check his home phone in case someone had spotted Taff, and then come back to search the bank on the other side of the river.

His eyes raked the path that led to his bungalow and as he hurried up the path that led to his home, his heart pounding, he whispered, “Let him be there, let him be there.” He imagined Taff waiting for him on the steps, tail wagging, eyes bright, and his lips pulled back in what Ifan thought of as a smile. But he wasn't. Ifan pushed open the door. His heart lurched at the sight of Taff's half-empty water bowl.

He threw his keys on the table, tossed his coat on the back of a chair, and slouched into his sitting room where he picked up an almost empty bottle of Scotch whisky and tipped the last of it into a used glass. He drained it in one large gulp and wiped his eyes. He feared the worst, dread clawing at his heart, but was still holding out hope for the best. His eyes, raw and stinging from lack of sleep, made him look like a warehouse rat. He'd been awake all night wondering where Taff was and praying he'd somehow made it out of the river and safely to shore. Maybe someone had found him and taken him in and was looking after him. Maybe he was injured and lying on the bank waiting for Ifan to find him and take him home. If he hadn't made it out alive, Ifan prayed the end had been quick and that poor Taff hadn't suffered. Ifan was buried under a mudslide of fear and guilt. All the bad choices he'd made. The decisions, one after another, that had led to this. To take Taff out in that weather. To walk so close to the river. To let him off his lead. He hadn't realized just how bad conditions were and that the daft dog would head for the river. He couldn't turn off the horrific images that played out in an endless loop in his mind of Taff's heroic struggles in the water. The thought of how frightened he must have been brought instant tears to his eyes.

He picked up the empty bottle. He'd have to get more whisky. But first, there was something else to sort. A choir practice was scheduled for tonight and feeling the way he was, he couldn't possibly take it. Maybe, in light of yesterday's weather, it would be cancelled anyway, but he doubted that. If it had been last night, then, yes, it would have been cancelled for sure, but there was no reason why it shouldn't go ahead tonight. The concert was in three weeks and the choir and musicians were nowhere near ready.

A flush of anger spread through him. That cow Glenda Roberts. All that misery she'd caused during the Jubilee event, blaming him for everything that went wrong when none of it had been his fault. And now, she'd gone and got herself killed. He wouldn't go as far as to say she deserved it, because no one deserved to be murdered, but still. All the disruption and upheaval her death had caused to the concert organizing, not to mention the personal cost. Bloody typical of the selfish bitch.

The police questioning him. Telling him he was free to go but he must not leave the area as they would likely want to speak to him again.

Of course he'd been down the mine that morning. The whole point was to go over the arrangements. He'd need to see for himself where the choir would be placed, try out the acoustics, and work out how to organize everybody.

It was bad enough trying to herd everybody at a local church, never mind down a mine. Which had been Glenda's idea. For that alone, some people might think she deserved what she got. He'd better ring Victoria and let her know he couldn't make it tonight.

And then he'd get back to what really mattered. Where his heart was.

 

Twenty-three

“He lied to me.”

Penny pulled a white towel from the stack in the linen cupboard and placed it on a tray. “Who lied to you?” asked Victoria, leaning against the wall.

“Dylan Phillips. Rhian's grandfather. I asked him if he could remember anything about Gwillym Thomas, the miner who was found dead down the mine in 1971. He was evasive. He didn't answer my questions.”

“Well, maybe he couldn't.”

“Oh, I'm sure he could. He's sharp enough on everything else. He lied by omission.”

“Or perhaps he just chose not to answer your questions, for reasons best known to him. Like, maybe, he thought it was none of your business. And anyway, what makes you so sure he lied to you?”

“I could tell by the look on Jimmy's face. Jimmy's really good at reading people and he knew he was lying. He even tried to give him a bit of a prod.”

“Maybe Dylan was exhibiting older person selective memory syndrome.”