The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

It had been nice to talk. It dawned on her, in hindsight, that Betty hadn’t said much herself, though Helen could tell she and her husband were having a bit of a time of it coming to terms with his recent retirement, even though she said it was working out well. Helen wondered what it was he’d retired from; Betty was probably only in her mid-fifties, so maybe her husband was a good deal older than her, or had retired early.

  Helen took a moment to enjoy the fruits of her labor, noting how the glasses glistened with points of light reflected off the dozens of small lamps dotted about the whitewashed stone walls of the pub. No doubt her mother would soon be instructing her it was time for all the shades to have a good cleaning.

  Sighing aloud, Helen wondered if she should do as Betty had suggested, and think about going to her for some real sessions. It seemed Betty now used an office near the Senedd building in Cardiff Bay to see her clients. Helen hadn’t actually said she wouldn’t go, but she knew there was no way she was going to drive all that distance to talk to someone about problems she didn’t have any longer.

  If nothing else, she couldn’t possibly be away from the pub for so long without having to tell her mother what she was doing, and the last time she’d admitted to seeing a counsellor, her mother had blown her top, citing it as a damning sign of weakness on Helen’s part.

  But Betty had also mentioned she put in a few hours at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau in Swansea and Clydach now and again, and had given Helen the website address for the Suzy Lamplugh people, the ones who helped with information about what to do about stalkers. Helen hadn’t mentioned she already knew about them. Upon reflection, Helen reckoned she must have said more than she thought she had, or had meant to, about Bob.

  Stephen Wingfield wandered into the pub and stood absently at the bar; he was looking a bit lost and carrying a newspaper. Helen was surprised, because he didn’t usually drink in the pub in the evening, let alone in the middle of the afternoon.

  She served him with a pint, and watched as he seemed almost unable to choose which of the empty seats he wanted to take, then he sat staring at his paper, not reading it.

  She decided to engage him in conversation.

  Ten minutes later it was clear he’d left his wife at home to read the riot act to their son, Stew, afraid of what he might say or do if he’d stayed. It seemed that Aled Beynon being hauled away by the police was sending shock waves through the community, and people were beginning to question what sort of a boy he really was.

  It also appeared that Stew’s close friendship with him was now giving the Wingfields cause for concern; she noticed Stephen mentioned the recent police enquiries regarding local drug distribution three times in quick succession.

  Helen returned to the safety of her station behind the bar and looked at the clock. Stew Wingfield should have been at school, where Sadie was.

  Had she been wrong to force her daughter to go in that day? Should she have kept her at home and tried to find out more about the true nature of the relationship between her and Aled? She’d been sure Sadie had been telling the truth last night when they’d talked; Aled was Sadie’s friend, and he’d given her the Valentine’s card as a joke as much as anything, because she’d never had one before, from anyone.

  Sadie was just a kid, after all; Helen knew her daughter had never had a real boyfriend, and didn’t think that was odd because she knew what it was like to grow up in Rhosddraig – there weren’t that many boys in the first place, and it was hard to see a childhood friend as a romantic option.

  Of course, there were the boys at school with Sadie, who Helen supposed might offer the chance of a liaison, but she remembered what she’d thought of boys her own age when she was seventeen – all useless. Girls grew up so much faster than boys, it was natural they’d prefer someone they weren’t in school with. Maybe someone a little more mature. And she knew for a fact Sadie didn’t go out to meet anyone like that – she was almost always at home.

  No, Helen was sure there wasn’t anything she should be worried about with regard to her own daughter. But as for what a group of eighteen-year-old boys might get up to in their own time – especially now that Stew Wingfield had a car – well, that was anyone’s guess. Not for the first time, Helen was glad she’d had a daughter, not a son. She also had a suspicion that Stew wouldn’t be revving his engine late at night any time soon, because his father quite clearly saw taking his son’s car keys away from him as something he could do to control him, without resorting to more stringent measures. It looked as though things were going to be interesting around the village, for the foreseeable future.

  Evan

  ‘Only me,’ called Betty as she came in through the front door. Evan loved that – he was finally starting to get used to being the sort of husband to whom his wife would return at the end of the day, instead of it being the other way around.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ he shouted.

  ‘So my nose tells me,’ replied Betty, joining her husband in the steamy room. She dumped her bags of shopping onto the table beside him. ‘And what wonders do we have for dinner tonight, cariad?’

  ‘It’s my version of Jamie Oliver’s turkey risotto. I got it off the Internet, and this is the last of the turkey we froze after Christmas. We didn’t have any thyme, nor Prosecco, so I used dried basil and red wine from the box instead. I reckon it’ll be fine.’ Evan felt rather pleased with himself. ‘It should be ready in about ten minutes, but I can’t stop stirring it. Thanks for phoning when you left the Post Office; it’s helped with my timing.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Betty, patting Evan on the bum. He liked it when she did that.

  He concentrated on not letting the rice stick in the corners of the saucepan as Betty bustled about, putting things into cupboards around him, then warned her that food would be on the table in two minutes, so she’d better change her clothes in double-quick time, unless she wanted to eat as she was.

  The risotto hadn’t turned out too badly at all, though its reddish hue was a bit unsettling; they were at least both satisfyingly full when they’d finished. It was while he was trying to get the gloopy mess out of the pan that Betty said, ‘They’ve picked up someone for questioning in connection with that business down in Rhosddraig, I hear.’

  Evan didn’t turn around, and tried to keep his voice from betraying his excitement. ‘Really? Who’s that then?’ he asked, as innocently as possible.

  ‘Some local youth. From what I gather they seem to think he’s connected, somehow. Liz and Ted took him in last evening, apparently.’

  Evan gave in, and turned. ‘Interesting, I suppose. Especially picking him up in the evening. That’ll cause problems for them – who knows how long they’ll have to wait for a solicitor, then they’ll have to let him sleep for eight hours. Yes, interesting.’

  Betty shook her head. ‘Oh Evan, how on earth did you interview people and hide what you were thinking from them? You’re useless at keeping a straight face. I didn’t mention it until now because I knew you’d be excited by the news. But I don’t know much – just that an Aled Beynon was picked up last night, and the village gossip is that it’s all to do with drugs somehow. Seems the kid’s mother overdosed some years ago and his grandmother’s raised him since then. He works as a part-time barman at the pub, apparently. Good cover for a dealer, if he is one, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ Evan sat down, disappointed, then realized this was an interesting situation – Betty knew something about an ongoing investigation that he didn’t. ‘How do you even know that much? Was it on the radio when you were driving home?’

  ‘No; I ran into an old client of mine when I was at that nice veg stall in Swansea Market. She’s the daughter of the woman who owns the pub in Rhosddraig, and was there when they hauled the kid off last night. That’s all she knew.’

  Evan’s thoughts raced. ‘I’ll phone Liz. She’ll know what’s going on.’

  ‘Evan, cariad, you can’t do that,’ said his wife calmly. ‘Y
ou know you can’t. Besides, you can imagine only too well what it’ll be like for her at the moment – that clock you were always going on about will be ticking, and they’ll have to decide if they’re going to release him, or charge him. She’ll be up to her ears in it. Now’s not the time.’

  Evan knew Betty was right, but hated it, nonetheless. ‘Maybe in a few days I’ll just check in with her,’ he said. He knew he sounded as deflated as he felt.

  ‘Good idea,’ replied his wife. ‘Anything for afters, by any chance?’

  ‘Tinned pears and Ideal milk?’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll get the tin opener.’

  ‘So who was it you saw in town, exactly?’ asked Evan, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Helen Jones.’

  ‘And she used to be one of your clients?’

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Problems, then?’

  Betty put down her spoon. ‘Because she was a client back then, I shouldn’t really talk about her situation – back then. But, since she and I had an informal chat over coffee today, I suppose I can at least tell you what she’s facing at the moment. I’ll tell you one thing first, though – I liked her back then, and I like her now. She’s a woman who’s been through a lot, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s more about tomorrow than yesterday. But today? She wasn’t good today.’

  Evan grunted.

  ‘Her ex-husband sent her a Valentine’s card, and it’s thrown her into an immediate tailspin.’

  Evan admitted he was puzzled. ‘I don’t see why a card should do that.’

  Betty sighed, and scratched her hand through her hair the way Evan knew he did when he was thinking hard; totally focused on something knotty.

  Finally his wife replied, ‘If a person’s been the victim of unwanted attention, like stalking for example, the slightest communication from – or sight of – the person who victimized them can return them to a high state of alarm and agitation almost immediately. It’s a characteristic of the form of post-traumatic stress those who’ve been stalked can often experience. That’s where she is today. Infer what you will from it. I encouraged her to come back to me as a client. I don’t believe she will, though; she said she’d think about it, but her eyes told me she wouldn’t do it. It’s so sad; I think I could help her now. You see, when I was first involved with her she was still in denial about her ex; she appears to have got past that, but now there’s this.’

  Evan decided he’d wade into his wife’s world for once. ‘Do you find it difficult to let go of past clients’ problems? I’ll admit I’m having a hard time forgetting about this Rhosddraig case, and that worries me. I know it worries you, too. But you are the one who brought it up this time, aren’t you?’ He tried a winning smile, and was heartened when he saw his wife’s worried expression melt into one of warmth and understanding.

  Betty sat back in her chair. ‘Yes, I did. And I told you because I understand something of how you feel about the case. You ask if it’s hard for me to let go? Yes, sometimes, though these days I’m better at being able to grasp the fact I can’t help everyone I work with; some don’t really want to take the advice I give them, or aren’t willing to believe they need it, while others aren’t even able to get to the root of their problems in the first place.’

  ‘Isn’t that why they come to a professional, like you?’

  ‘True, but sometimes – like it was with this Helen Jones – it’s just a question of me not being involved at the right time in that person’s life. I was pleased to at least discover she’d managed to extricate herself from her marriage and move on with her life with what I gather has, until now, been something of a sense of security and comfort. She dotes on her daughter; I recall her attachment to the child.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘Well yes, and maybe no. Helen stuck it out with the father as long as she did because she thought the girl needed a dad about the place; she’d rather idolized on her own late father, you see. But then Helen’s child became a repository for all her mother’s love, and need to be loved. Which can sometimes turn out to be quite unhealthy for both the parent and the child. Apparently the daughter’s off to university soon. She was just a toddler when I knew her mum; time certainly flies. And I’ve said far too much.’

  ‘And is the kid connected to this bloke they’ve brought in for murder?’

  Betty smiled. ‘“The kid” – Sadie – helps out in the family pub; Aled also works there, and they’re in school together.’

  Evan wondered what to make of it. He knew Helen was right – he couldn’t beg for information from Liz, and he certainly hadn’t got along well enough with Ted Jenkins to play the ‘old mate’ card with him; they’d been colleagues, never mates, and Evan had always been keenly aware of their difference in rank in any case.

  Oh to be working on this one, he thought. Could this Aled be the culprit? He was desperate to get inside the head of someone who could burn a body twice and smash it to pieces. Why would anyone do that to another human being? And what about the dealer Dean Hughes? What could he possibly have done to Aled Beynon to receive such treatment?

  ‘How old is he, this Beynon bloke?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is he over eighteen? They’ll be dealing with him as an adult if he is.’

  ‘I don’t know. Though if he was working behind a bar in a pub, surely he’d have to be over eighteen? But, there, I’m not the one in this house who was a detective for umpteen years, so what would I know?’

  Evan chuckled. ‘Touché. Good point. I must be slipping.’

  ‘Has that ever seemed right to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That the minute you turn eighteen you’re an adult in the eyes of the law. You know, aged seventeen and eleven twelfths: you’re a boy; aged eighteen: you’re a man. It’s not as though everyone develops psychologically, or even physiologically, at the same rate. This eighteen-year-old might have the moral compass of a child, and the development of his prefrontal cortex might be slightly less advanced than others of his age. If the part of your brain that deals with decision making and judgement is still undergoing changes until you’re in your mid-twenties, why on earth do we insist upon treating eighteen-year-olds as though they are the same as someone in their forties when it comes to committing a crime?’

  Evan had finished his dessert, and sat back in his chair. ‘I know you’re looking at it from your professional point of view, love, but we have to draw a line somewhere. Do you think we should treat everyone as though they’re a child until they’re thirty? If we did, then should we also stop them having the right to vote, drink, join the armed forces, or have sex until then? All those things need good judgement applied to them. You can’t have it one way for some things, and another way for others.’

  Betty stood and cleared the table. ‘But we already do, Evan. There are different ages at which society deems it acceptable for young people to be able to make a decision about different aspects of their lives. Couldn’t it be the same for crimes?’

  Evan sighed. ‘They’ll make an assessment of the individual in question; but if this youth killed someone, and then did what we know had been done to the body, then – frankly – he should be treated as an adult. If you’d seen it, you’d agree with me, I’m sure; it was a scene that told me whoever did it was trying to get as close as possible to completely erasing a human being from the face of this earth. It would have taken a certain sort of person to do it. That’s all I’m saying.’

  Betty grunted, her back turned toward her husband as she stood at the kitchen sink.

  Evan added, ‘And may I just say how pleased I am that we’re able to discuss this sort of thing like the two loving adults we are?’

  Betty spun around, and grinned. ‘It’s good, isn’t it, cariad?’

  16th February

  Sadie

  Nan says I have to go to church in the morning. I really hate her. She has to be the least Christian person I know. Wasn’t
Jesus all about forgiving people? ‘Do unto others . . .’ and all that stuff. Even I remember all that guff from Sunday school, but she doesn’t act that way at all.

  I even remember the same stuff in The Water Babies, which is a lot about forgiveness and saving people you don’t like, even though it’s one of the most horrible books ever written.

  I remember I liked Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby in it; Nan used to read it to me in bed when I was little. Mam didn’t like that, but Nan did it anyway.

  Nowadays, Nan’s like Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid. Horrible. Cruel. It’s funny, I haven’t thought about that book for years.

  I liked Tom in it, the poor little chimney sweep who drowned; Aled’s like Tom, and I’m like Ellie – we belong together.

  What if they don’t let him out? People around here are saying the police can only keep Aled in for questioning for such a long time because they think he’s killed someone. That Dean Hughes person. But no one really knows for sure. No one’s telling us anything.

  So I Googled it, and that’s what it says online too.

  That’s serious, that is. Really bad. I don’t understand; why would they think he’d do that? What if he never comes back to me? But that can’t happen. They wouldn’t lock him away forever. I wish I could help him, somehow. Maybe Mam could help me to help him, somehow?

  No, Mam wouldn’t be any use at all – especially the way she’s been the past day or so; I’ve no idea what’s got into her, she’s all jumpy, and she keeps snapping at me.

  She’s been like it since they took Aled. Maybe she feels the injustice of it too?

  Maybe if she knew how much Aled and I mean to each other, she’d help me. Should I tell her about us? I don’t know . . . she’s not right in the head at the moment. Not like her at all. Nearly had a fit when the phone rang in the kitchen last night.

  And Nan’s being so hateful about Aled’s poor Grannie Gwen. The way she’s talking to everyone who’ll listen – and some who obviously don’t want to – it sounds like she’s always thought prison is where Aled belongs, and his gran with him. I’ve no idea why; she didn’t seem to mind having him working here in the pub. What’s changed? I don’t get it. How can she do this to me? To Aled and me.