Slated for Death (14 page)

“Older person selective memory syndrome? What on earth is that?”

“Something I just made up. My gran used to do that. Ask her a question she didn't mind answering and her memory would be just fine. Ask her the wrong question, about something she didn't want to discuss, and it was, ‘Oh, when you get to my age your memory isn't what it used to be.'”

“That's practically word for word what Dylan said.”

“Well, maybe he was hiding something, then, but why would he?”

“Because he had something to do with the death of Gwillym Thomas himself or he was covering for someone else?”

“Did you talk to Jimmy about it?”

“No, I couldn't really and I'm not sure there was any point. I just got up and left.”

Victoria sighed. “Well, I'm sorry, but we've got more important things to think about here. If the power isn't restored by lunchtime, we'll lose all our afternoon clients, too. You don't realize how much you depend on electricity until it's gone. Every two seconds I want to check something on the computer and I can't. We can't even access our bookings to know who's scheduled to come in this afternoon so we can call them. That was one good thing about the old appointment book. At least you could read it during a power cut.”

“And we can't do hair without a hair dryer or give someone a manicure because we can't sterilize tools,” said Penny. “It's getting close to lunchtime now. Even when the power does come back, it'll take about an hour to get everything up and running and to get the staff in.”

“Well, look,” said Victoria, “There's no point in both of us hanging around here. If you've got other things to do, why don't you take off and Rhian and I will hold the fort. The minute the power comes back, we'll let you know.”

“That sounds sensible,” said Penny. “I'll come back as soon as you ring me.”

“I hope the power comes back soon,” said Victoria, “or all our phones will be dead. Mine's desperate for a charge.”

As Penny put her coat on, Rhian entered her office.

“Could I have a word, please, Penny?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. What is it? Is everything all right?” Rhian frowned and looked away.

“I'm sorry, but my Mum rang me. She said you'd been asking questions about something that happened down the mine a long time ago and it kind of upset my grandfather. So I just wanted to ask you to not speak to him again about that, whatever it was. He's old and he doesn't want to talk about those days.”

“Oh, of course. I'm so sorry, Rhian, I didn't realize it was a bad topic. I feel terrible.”

“It's all right. I know you didn't mean any harm by it.”

“No, of course I didn't.”

“Right, well…” The awkward, uncomfortable silence swallowed any unsaid words and a few moments later, Rhian left. Penny made a little grimace and picked up her handbag. Why, she wondered. Why did he find it so hard to talk about? What had happened down there?

*   *   *

Sgt. Bethan Morgan dropped a file on DCI Gareth Davies's desk. “There's some interesting reading in there,” she said, tapping the documentation on the old Gwillym Thomas case. “Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, nobody knew anything. The investigation went nowhere. You have to wonder why.

“But here's the really interesting thing. The victim had a head wound and it's described in practically the same way as the wound on Glenda Roberts's head. But this pathologist back in 1971,” she tapped the file, “was able to suggest what caused it.”

Davies looked up.

“Now you've really got my attention. What was it?”

“A slate splitter.”

 

Twenty-four

There's a saying in Wales that if you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes. By lunchtime, the mist had lifted from the hills and a pale but determined sun was peeking through scattered clouds. Although the powerful winds and lashing rain of the previous night had left violent destruction in their wake, the storm was definitely over and an eerie calm had descended on the valley.

Penny crossed the bridge that spans the River Conwy and spotting her friend Bronwyn Evans, the rector's wife, downstream gave her a wave. She couldn't see Robbie, Bronwyn's Cairn terrier, but had no doubt he was with her, nosing about in the long grass. You rarely saw Bronwyn without him. Bronwyn returned her wave enthusiastically. As Penny moved away, she thought she heard Bronwyn calling her name and turned around. Penny now realized Bronwyn wasn't giving her a friendly wave, but making a broad, come-here gesture with both hands that stopped Penny in her tracks and sent her hurrying along the path toward her friend.

“What's the matter, Bronwyn? Are you all right?” she called.

“No, I'm not. Look! Robbie's found an injured dog. I think its front leg is broken.” Lying at her feet was a wet, mangled, red-and-white Welsh collie. His eyes were closed.

“Is he alive?” Penny asked. “Oh, Lord! I think that's Ifan's dog. I heard the two of them went in the river last night. Ifan got out safely, but this has to be his dog. What a shame.”

She bent over and stroked the dog's cold, wet fur and then felt his chest. “His heart's beating, but we've got to hurry. He's probably been here all night.” She stood up, took off her coat and covered the dog. “I'll run back to the Spa and get some towels and a blanket and tell Victoria to get the car ready so we can take him to Jones the vet. You stay here with him. When I get back we'll try to carry him across the bridge together.”

Bronwyn crouched down to comfort the dog and as she turned to go, Penny spotted the outline of an approaching figure. He was some way off, but she could tell from the way he walked, slowly, poking the grass with a stick and turning his head from side to side, that he was looking for something. She touched Bronwyn's shoulder.

“That looks like Ifan. Call him over as soon as you can and if this is his dog, perhaps the two of you can carry him to the Spa. We'll meet you on the other side of the bridge. That'll save us some time.”

Moments later she burst through the door of the Spa and without noticing that the lights were on, raced down the hall to Victoria's office.

“Oh, you're back,” said Victoria, looking up from her computer. “Good. I was just about to ring you to tell you the power's back on.”

Penny glanced wildly around the room. “Oh, so it is. Well, never mind that right now. We've found an injured dog and we have to get him to the vet right away. Can you bring your car round to the door? Bronwyn should be arriving any moment with Ifan and the dog. I think he's pretty bad. He's been out all night and he's probably got hypothermia. And Bronwyn thinks his leg is broken.”

Victoria jumped up and grabbed her keys. A few moments later she drove into sight just as Ifan and Bronwyn crossed the bridge. Ifan was carrying the dog, wrapped in Penny's coat as Bronwyn walked beside him, leading Robbie.

Penny opened the back door of the car and Ifan laid Taff tenderly on the backseat, then rushed round the other side to get in beside him. He cradled the dog's head in his lap as Penny climbed into the front passenger seat. Victoria reversed, then drove away, leaving Brownyn and Robbie looking anxiously after them.

*   *   *

“A slate splitter?” Davies pronounced the words slowly, enunciating each syllable.

Bethan nodded. “Apparently it's a flat, sharp tool, used with a mallet, to split blocks of slate into thinner and thinner slices. The block would be halved, then halved again and again, until the pieces are the right thickness for a roofing slate or whatever it's going to be used for.”

“Right, well, let's get back to the mine and see what else we can learn about this slate splitter. And we'll need to gather up every one they've got for DNA testing. And to show the pathologist to see if that could be our murder weapon.”

*   *   *

Bethan parked the car and the two walked into the reception area and asked for the manager. A few minutes later, Bevan Jones appeared, his hand extended to Davies. He smiled at Bethan.

“How can I help you today?”

“We'd like to ask a few questions about slate splitting,” Davies said. “And then I'd like to see the tools that are used.”

“No problem,” Bevan said. “Follow me.” He led them out the door, past the caf
é
that Davies recognized from his previous visit, and through a large open door into a single-storey building. It consisted of one very large room with a high ceiling supported by exposed rafters. “Here we have the saw house and dressing shed combined.” He pointed to a fearsome machine in the corner, sitting idle. “That's the saw used to cut the big blocks of slate. And once the slate is a manageable size, they're given to the splitter who splits them up into smooth, flat plates.” He gestured at pieces of slate stacked up against a wall. “Bit of trivia for you. Although we consider slate to be the Welshest of industries because all the techniques and processes were devised here, there is no Welsh word for it. The word ‘slate' comes from the old French esclater, to splinter or break off. And that's how we do it.

“Here, I'll just get Bryn to show you how it's done.” He motioned to a man smoking outside. “Bryn, would you please show these two police officers how you do the slate splitting.” He turned to the officers. “What Bryn Thomas here doesn't know about slate splitting isn't worth knowing.”

Bryn dropped the cigarette and ground it out under the toe of his work boot. His boots were covered in a thin layer of fine grey dust as was the left leg of his denim work jeans. He wore a friendly, open expression but his dark blue eyes were guarded. A few grey curls framed his face on each side of a navy blue watchman's cap.

He sat on a low stool, stretched out his left leg, placed a rough piece of brown cloth over his thigh, and leaned a block of slate against it. He then picked up a tool that looked like a broad chisel with a short handle and a wooden mallet. He positioned the splitter on top of the slate, tapped it a few times, and then moved the splitter along. After four or five taps in different places, he was able to force the splitter deeper into the block of slate.

“Here it comes now,” he said. “Almost there.” A moment later, with a loud crack, the slate split in two. Each piece was the same size as the other, and half the thickness of the original piece.

“That's first-class roofing slate, that is,” he said, holding up the two pieces of slate he had just split.

“Do you use your own tools?” Davies asked. “Or do they belong to the mine?”

“Oh, these belong to me,” said Bryn. “They've been in my family for three generations. Handed down to me, they were. Slate splitting often runs in families, see. Some say it's more than a craft, that you need to have an instinctive feel for it. The father teaches the son, and so on.”

“Did your father teach you?” Bethan asked.

“He did.”

“Mr. Thomas, we're looking into the death of a Gwillym Thomas, who died at this mine in the early 1970s. Relative of yours, was he?”

Bryn bowed his head as he set the splitter and mallet on the ground. “My uncle, he was. I were just a nipper when he died. I don't remember him.” He straightened up. “My father never spoke of him. People didn't talk much about things like that back in those days. Or at least that generation of Welshmen didn't. Kept it all in here.” He tapped his left chest.

“Mr. Thomas, where do you keep your tools?” Bethan asked. “When you're not using them.”

He shrugged. “Well, I just leave them here in this room.” He frowned. “Why? Do you think someone would want to steal them?” The guarded look returned to his eyes.

“Mr. Thomas, we're going to have to take them away for some testing. We'll try to return them to you as soon as we can.”

“But what about the demonstrations?”

“Well, you'll have to discuss that with your manager,” Bethan said.

“Thank you very much for your time this morning,” said Davies. “We may need to talk to you again.”

Bethan closed her notebook. “I was interested in what you said about fathers teaching this skill to their sons. Do you have a son you'll be teaching?”

Bryn shook his head. “I have a son, but I probably won't be teaching him slate splitting or anything else to do with the mine. He's only just young, but I expect he'll want to make his own way in life and that'll likely mean moving away. And breaking his mother's heart.”

“Of course. They do that, don't they? Well, thanks again and we'll be in touch.”

Bethan pulled two large evidence bags from her jacket pocket and dropped in the slate splitter and mallet. She and Davies exchanged a quick glance and Bethan nodded.

They found Bevan Jones waiting for them in the reception area a few minutes later.

“We need to know if there are any other slate splitters and mallets on the property,” Bethan said. “If there are, we're going to need to take them away for forensic testing.”

“There's a display slate splitter,” said Bevan. “It's kept locked in the case in the education centre. You're welcome to take it. If you'll give me a moment, I'll get the key.”

“And are there any others that you know of?” asked Davies. “We'll need them all.”

“Any reported missing?” Bethan asked.

Bevan thought for a moment. “These old tools are hard to come by these days. Each splitter bought his own set of tools when he started the job, he used them all his working life, and took them with him when he retired. Or a man might use his father's or grandfather's tools. Most men took very good care of their tools because they had to last their working life or else they were inherited tools so had obvious sentimental value. And I think, too, there was a lot of pride wrapped up in them.”