Slated for Death (5 page)

“Hello, Penny.” He listened for a few moments. “She did? We'll need a statement from you, then. And can you ask Victoria to gather up everything for us. Envelope and all the contents.” He peered out the window. “We're just approaching Conwy, so we could be in Llanelen in about forty minutes. Are you still at work?” He exchanged a quick glance with Bethan, to see if she'd picked up that their plans were changing. She gave him a quick nod. “Right. We'll meet you there.”

He ended the call and replaced his phone in his coat pocket.

“Glenda Roberts dropped off a packet for Victoria at the Spa yesterday morning. It's probably nothing, but it'll fill in some gaps on the timeline. We'll talk to Penny at the Spa.”

“What was in the packet?”

“Sheet music.”

A light, misty drizzle was now falling so Bethan switched on the windscreen wipers and leaned forward to turn up the car's heater. A welcome warmth soon wrapped itself around their legs.

“Ever think about retirement, sir?” she asked.

“Retirement? Why, are you after my job?”

She laughed. “From DS to DCI? Not likely. No, I was just thinking how good it would be to go somewhere sunny. Get away from this awful wet weather. It's endless, this time of year.”

“I would like to see you sit the inspector exam, though,” said Davies. “You have a wonderful career ahead of you and you're ready for promotion.”

Bethan smiled her gratitude.

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence broken only by the soothing, rhythmic sound of the windscreen wipers.

As they entered the market town of Llanelen, Davies's chest constricted in a familiar tightening that was a pleasurable mix of anxiety and anticipation. He'd been in love with Penny almost since the moment they'd met a year and a half ago, and for a while, it had seemed that his feelings were reciprocated. But gradually he'd come to accept that the romantic feelings of the early relationship had run their course and given way to a deeper underlying friendship marked by respect and admiration on both sides. Although he knew that part of him would always love her in a gentle, undemanding way, he wished their relationship could be more.

Bethan parked the unmarked police car on a side street and they walked across the cobblestoned town square. The black wrought iron gate that separated the path leading to the Spa from the pavement squeaked in protest as Davies pushed it open. “Every time I come here I tell myself we need to put some oil on that thing,” he remarked as he held the gate open.

“Do Penny and Victoria not have a handyman to take care of things like this?” Bethan asked as she passed through.

“Only me as far as I know, and based on results I'm not really up to the job, am I?” He closed the gate behind them and they made their way up the path.

The door opened and Penny smiled as she held it open for them. And his heart felt a little lighter and fuller.

*   *   *

Penny was glad to see him. She'd always liked and respected this handsome police officer and for a brief time those feelings had teetered on the brink of becoming something more, something deeper. And then, as sometimes happens, the romance had stalled and on her part, flamed out. Whatever it takes to turn feelings of friendship into romantic love just wasn't there and she wasn't the kind of woman who could pretend to feel something she didn't. She'd agonized over her feelings, but in the end, stayed true to herself. You don't want to marry someone if you have to talk yourself into it, she told herself. She had been honest with him and hoped he didn't feel she'd messed him about.

She handed over the brown envelope Glenda had dropped off the day before. “There was just sheet music in it,” she said. “Victoria asked if you could return it to her as soon as possible because she needs it for the concert.”

Bethan tucked the envelope under her arm and took out her notebook.

“How did Glenda seem?” asked Bethan. “Agitated, upset?”

Penny gave a little shrug. “No, she seemed fine. Normal.”

Bethan asked her what time Glenda had left and if she'd said anything Penny found unusual or interesting.

“Not really. Said she had a couple more places to go and errands to run. I think she was dropping off those envelopes for other performers.”

“Right, well, get in touch if you think of anything else,” Davies said, with a knowing look. “Or if you hear anything else. Or think of anything else that might help us.”

“I will. What happens next?”

“We'll pursue the usual lines of inquiry. Talk to people, check out CCTV footage, look at her phone records—the usual things. I have a feeling that our killer was either very lucky or very clever.”

“Or,” said Penny, “maybe a bit of both.”

 

Eight

“Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd the next afternoon, “these biscuits are absolutely delicious. What are they called? And where did you get them?” She held up the little shell-shaped shortbread biscuit. “And more importantly, can you get some more?”

“They're called Aberffraw.” Florence spelled it out. “I'm probably not pronouncing it correctly. Anyway, they're made on Anglesey. They're a little dearer than our usual biscuits, but as we like to support local businesses I thought we'd give them a try. Thought they'd be just the thing with your afternoon cup of tea.”

“Indeed they are! Where did you get them in case I want to pick some up when I'm out?”

“I got them a few days ago when I was in Llandudno at that fancy food place. The shop where they have all the special jams and strange cooking utensils you'd use once a year, if at all.”

“Oh, right. Well, maybe I'll pick up some more the next time I'm in town. That'll be tomorrow, I expect.”

Mrs. Lloyd popped the rest of the biscuit into her mouth and then looked thoughtfully at her friend. The two had been living together for over a year. Although Florence was technically a lodger, Mrs. Lloyd thought of her as a lady's companion and Florence, who had been eking out a mean retirement in a Liverpool bedsit, was grateful to live in a large, comfortable house. The two rubbed along together well enough, with Mrs. Lloyd's waistline enjoying all the benefits of Florence's cooking and baking skills.

“I've been thinking, Florence,” Mrs. Lloyd said thoughtfully. “Someone said to me the other day that I must have seen a lot of change in the town over the years. And I have. I've heard lots of interesting things, too. When you're stood behind the counter in the post office you hear the most amazing things. People either forget you're there or don't realize you have ears. They take no notice. And that's just while they're talking in the queue. You also talk to people while you're handling the post. Of course, in those days there was lots more of it. Post, that is.”

Florence said nothing, but stood there with her arms folded.

“Yes, well, anyway, I always used to think of the stories I could tell! The married man sending a St. Dwynwen's card to his mistress. The lady keeping up appearances when she's actually getting bills with
FINAL NOTICE
splashed across the envelope. The mother sending a letter to her daughter who's gone to live with an aunt for a few months. Of course we all knew why she'd had to leave town. Anyway, what would you say if I told you I'm going to write my memoirs?”

“Your memoir,” Florence corrected.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lloyd, her voice eager and excited. “I've been thinking about this for some little while and now seems like the right time. I've no doubt there'll be a real market for my book. After all, if the memoirs of a midwife in the 1950s can be so popular on television, why not a post office clerk in the 1960s?”

“I'm sure the film producers will be falling all over themselves to snap up the memoir of a post office clerk in a small Welsh village,” said Florence with her usual dour expression.

“Exactly!” enthused Mrs. Lloyd. Irony and sarcasm had no place in her world. “I knew you'd love the idea. And the 1960s were such an interesting decade, weren't they? A great time to be young, Florence.”

“Young?”

“Well, youngish. ‘Never trust anyone over thirty!' Remember that, Florence? Thirty! Imagine. How foolish that sounds to us now.” She cast a critical writer's eye around the room.

“Now, we'll need to sort out a workspace for me. Might be best if I work on the dining room table so I'll have lots of room to spread out my bits and pieces. And the morning light is very good there, too. Now it's important that when I'm working, Florence, when I'm in the zone so to speak, that I mustn't be disturbed. Of course, you could bring me a cup of tea and a little something every now and then, if you felt so inclined. I wouldn't say no to that.”

“When are you going to start?”

“Tomorrow. It's getting a bit late for today. I'll just start thinking about it whilst I have another one of those delicious biscuits. What did you say they were called? My memory isn't what it used to be, sometimes.”

“They're called Aberffraw. I might try baking them myself. And how will you write your memoir, then, if your memory isn't what it used to be?”

“Oh, that won't be a problem. I've got tons of scrapbooks. Letters. Photographs. That sort of thing. Remember when girls used to keep scrapbooks, Florence? You'd get a big book from the stationery shop and cut out things and glue them into it. And anyway, I remember all the important things. Just not little details. That's why we have to make lists as we get older, Florence.”

“I'll leave you to it, then.” Florence slipped from the room as a slight grin began to form at the corners of her mouth. Mrs. Lloyd's new project should keep her happily occupied for the next few days, until she either lost interest or realized how much work was involved.

 

Nine

“I'm cold and I don't want to be here.”

“I know, Peris, love, but tell you what. Just give me a hand setting this lot up and then you can be off. I can manage on my own for today but I need your help to get up and running.”

Rebeccah Roberts smiled at her nephew, then took a long drag on her cigarette, let it drop to the pavement, and stamped it out under the toe of her boot. She wore a beige woolen hat with a ribbed knit pattern pulled down over brown hair just starting to turn grey and a green anorak that looked as if it had seen better winters. If her sister, Glenda, had taken good care of herself, Rebeccah had let herself go. Her lined face had a worn, leathery look, perhaps from a combination of outdoor work and smoking; a casual observer might think she looked older than she was. She pointed at a cardboard box sitting on the frozen ground and the boy lifted it onto the wooden display area of her stall. He reached in his pocket for a box cutter and quickly and expertly slashed the box open. He pulled the flaps apart and then reached down for another box.

“What's in these, anyway?” he asked.

“Lavender sachets.” Rebeccah began arranging the sachets into neat rows. “Your mother got this shipment in, just before she…” her voice trailed off.

“Do you think we should even be here today?” the boy asked. “It doesn't seem right, somehow what with Mum only just…”

“Well, I think she'd want us here,” Rebeccah replied. “She'd want us to carry on as usual, surely. She went to a lot of trouble to get this stuff made and delivered and it can't sit around. We've got to shift this fast, you know that. We don't want the trading standards people getting wind and snooping round, asking nosy questions.” She glanced at the sky and then looked back at the boy. “It looks as if the rain's going to hold off so we could do a good trade today. Let's hope so, anyway.”

Peris Roberts, who looked about eighteen, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat, sighed, and opened another box. Rebeccah placed a hand, encased in a fingerless glove, on his coat sleeve. “And maybe, love, it'll take your mind off things for a bit.” He pulled his arm away with a light but clear gesture and carried on with his work, his head down so she couldn't see his face.

“All right, I reckon that's enough for now,” said Rebeccah when the contents of two boxes had been displayed. She pointed at the two boxes at her feet. “Leave these and I'll put out more sachets myself when I've sold off some of this lot. You get off now, and unless you've got something better to do, drop in on your
nain
and see how she's doing.”

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around in a dull, uninterested way. Most of the market traders had finished setting up their stalls and the regular crowd of early morning bargain hunters was starting to wander into the square, not looking for anything in particular, but hoping to find something they wanted at a hard-to-resist low price.

The market was held every Tuesday and Saturday and attracted a good crowd no matter the weather. Traders rigged up awnings and tarpaulins over their stalls to protect themselves and their goods; it was the customers who had to face the wind, rain, and sometimes even snow. Stalls featured every kind of product from cushions to clothing and jams, bagged sweets, small electrical appliances and pet food, household products and underwear.

“Well, if you're going, off with you, then,” Rebeccah said when Peris did not move. She was about to say something else but stopped when a woman with permed grey hair in a burgundy coat caught sight of the stall and made a beeline for it with a bit of hustle in her step.

“Oh, Rebeccah,” said Mrs. Lloyd as she approached. “Fancy seeing you here today. I was so sorry to hear about your sister. Awful shock, that was.” She acknowledged Peris and then asked, “Have there been any developments? Have the police told you anything more about what might have happened?” Rebeccah shook her head and Peris shifted his weight from one foot to the other, never taking his eyes off his aunt. Mrs. Lloyd inquired about funeral arrangements, and then, as if realizing how awkward it would be to leave without buying something, turned her attention to the products on display. She picked up an item with a manicured hand and peered at it.