by Cathy Ace
‘Wetsuits and surfboards, I’d say,’ replied Betty. ‘Look at those photos of him on social media – the kit he’s wearing would have set him back a bit, I’d say – though I admit I know nothing about how much all that stuff really costs. Maybe he would buy second-hand gear? I don’t know. Anyway, I bet a state pension wouldn’t cover that sort of outlay. I’m saying he works so he can play.’
‘Good psychology,’ said Evan with a grin.
‘I thank you,’ mugged Betty, using her best Arthur Askey impersonation. ‘Would it help if I Googled the stuff he’s wearing and so forth in these photos? I could get some idea of the money involved.’
‘Thanks, love,’ replied her husband softly, ‘that would be useful input.’
Ten minutes later Betty was feeling quite gleeful. ‘In just this couple of dozen photos, taken over the past year, he’s wearing – or holding – at least two and a half thousand pounds’ worth of surfy stuff. That’s without all the clothing he’s wearing, and the bicycle he’s got. If you look closely, you’ll notice he’s rarely in the same outfit twice, and all the brands he’s wearing are top of the line, despite the fact they look as though he’s slept in them.’
Evan looked at Betty’s figures and the photos she’d highlighted from Aled’s social media accounts; he began working out some numbers on his notepad. ‘So if he’s getting a fiver an hour, he could get that money together in a year – allowing for ten hours’ work a week. Doable.’
Betty sighed, grudgingly accepting his point. ‘Yes, just, but I still think I’m onto something; everything he’s holding and wearing is the newest design, or the latest pattern. Taking everything into account, it all comes in at not far short of about ten grand in the past year or so. That’s a lot of money, Evan.’
‘Maybe he worked more hours in the summer holidays last year, and the year before. He could have saved up, I suppose.’
‘But he doesn’t work more in the summer, does he? He’s always out on his beloved boards,’ replied Betty, her eyes sparkling. She hoped she’d done something truly useful.
‘Maybe you really are onto something. Let’s come back to that,’ said her husband, downing his tea in two gulps. ‘Now, back to the timeline.’
‘Right,’ said Betty, focusing her attention on the papers stuck to the wardrobe doors. Her husband had marked known points in time on a continuous line, with queries and facts, evidence and witnesses noted above and below the critical points. In the voids he’d attached various colors of sticky notes with key words and questions.
Betty was enjoying seeing her husband work; she wondered if this was a true representation of how he’d been during his career, albeit now on a smaller stage and with just her as both workforce and audience. With one hand stuffed into his back pocket, the other raking through his hair, Evan had a pen poking out of the corner of his mouth which he chewed – giving her cause for concern. She didn’t mention it.
Evan’s voice resonated within the small space, and Betty noted how weird the whole set-up was, in a room where the wallpaper was covered with yellow roses, originally selected because they were her now-late mother’s favorite flowers.
Evan paced, to the extent he could. ‘A credible witness saw a fire at the spot where the remains were discovered at some time around midnight, on November 5th. This is now the accepted time of the burning, though we cannot be certain the victim hadn’t been possibly dead for some time before that, the body secreted, then burned and left where it was found.’
Betty said, ‘But how would you get the body from A to B without being seen? And just how? A body is heavy. Could Aled have managed it alone? Or could anyone manage it alone, come to that?’
Evan swung around. ‘Hang on.’
Betty nodded, and clamped her lips together.
Evan continued, ‘There was an unusually high level of coming and going in the village on the night of the 5th November due to the Guy Fawkes celebrations at The Dragon’s Head pub. That might have allowed for some unusual activities to have gone unnoticed – okay?’ He winked. ‘Remains were discovered on November 7th, but the initial ID wasn’t given until January 30th. Aled Beynon is brought in for questioning under caution. Reason – the link with the supposed victim. He’s released, due to lack of any concrete evidence. Witness statement comes in March 1st identifying Aled as being seen on his bicycle, fleeing the scene of the fire, and Liz identifies the source of the accelerant, to which he had access; he’s charged and held. Cock-up in ID is discovered March 31st. New ID of remains as being those of James Powell, half-brother of Dean Hughes, publicly confirmed today; seems there’s no sign of him anywhere, and they finally tracked down Iolo Rees alive – so the remains definitely aren’t his. I should imagine Iolo’s been questioned about having any other male offspring, and has said he hasn’t any, or else they wouldn’t have made this ID public. Aled Beynon is still Jenkins’s prime suspect, according to the DCI’s remarks in the press today.’
‘Why?’ asked Betty.
‘Why what?’
‘Why is Aled still the prime suspect? I know Ted said it, but I don’t understand why he said it. Or even believes it.’
Evan answered immediately. ‘One: the brotherly link to the drug dealer Aled believes killed his mother. Two: the eyewitness. Three: lamp oil from the church.’
Betty decided to give as good as she’d got. ‘One: even Dean Hughes didn’t know James Powell was his brother, so how on earth would Aled know? Two: Aled could have been out on his bicycle that night for any number of other reasons we don’t know about. Three: I bet there are loads of people who could have got their hands on the lamp oil in that vestry. Vestries are like that.’
Evan sucked the end of his thumb, then said, ‘If Aled was out and about that night on his bicycle for a perfectly innocent reason, we don’t know about it because he’s not saying – which, trust me – is incredibly unusual. I accept he might have now come up with an alibi, and that information hasn’t made it into the media yet, but I’m going with him keeping up the silent act. As for the brother thing . . . yes, I agree with you. It’s a problem. Do you have any ideas?’
Betty smiled. ‘Well, maybe we should look at this the other way around.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We’re looking at it as though the victim is Dean’s half-brother – which he is, of course – but what if the link with Dean is just happenstance? What if James being dead is because he was the intended victim? Because he was who he was, not because he was Dean’s brother.’
Evan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Good point. What do we know about James Powell? There’s very little in the media about him yet. Though it’s early days, I suppose, his name having only just been released.’
Betty’s mind sorted through the issues. ‘What life did James live? Where did he go? What did he do? With whom did he mix? The answer might be in there somewhere. We need to know more about the victim.’
Evan plopped down onto the chair at the dressing table. ‘You’re right on all points, and all your questions are good. Unfortunately, I don’t know any of the answers. If only you were an eager team of subordinates, we’d get a lot more done around here. How about we both spend a bit of time finding out all we can about James Powell, online?’
Betty liked that idea. ‘Agreed. I’ll get my laptop fired up down in the front room, you stay here. I’ll be back in half an hour.’
Thirty minutes later Betty rejoined her husband, feeling a little disappointed.
‘I’ll go first,’ she said, ‘not that it will take me long. It seems James wasn’t overly active online, not in terms of social media, in any case. The photos of him I found show him as a beefy boy, usually smiling, but always a little apart from any group he’s with; selfies with other people some way off, in the distance.’
‘I saw that too,’ said Evan. ‘It’s hard to tell if he’s actually with the people in the background, isn’t it?’
Betty nodded and continued, ‘He went to school in Townhill, then to Myny
ddbach Comprehensive when his mother moved to Clase, and didn’t do too well academically – which isn’t unusual for those with Down’s Syndrome. Though it appears he did have a specific talent at which he excelled; most of his social media posts are of photographs he took. I don’t mean the selfies, but “real” photos . . . which I would suggest is unusual, as I know that those with Down’s Syndrome usually have less acute eyesight than those without it. I wondered if he possibly found telescopic lenses helped him see what he might have otherwise missed.’
‘I saw those photos too,’ said Evan. ‘He was talented. They’re good. Slightly odd subjects, though.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Betty, ‘gritty urban shots, some beauties of nature, many of the people and places he saw every day – all well framed and lit. I enjoyed those more than his photos of the moon. He seemed to be a bit obsessive about that, don’t you think? I mean, it looked as though he had shots of every phase of it. And I mean every percentage phase of visibility. All in very high resolution – maybe to accommodate his eyesight issues? He was rather detail-orientated, wasn’t he?’
Evan smiled. ‘See, I preferred those photos of the moon rather than the ones he took of rubbish piled in the gutters near drains, or of the detritus poking out of skips on the side of the road. The photos of the moon were true studies. Wonderful. He must have had some exceptionally good lenses to capture them. And you’re right, there weren’t many missing from his “collection” from one percent to one hundred. Maybe he had a local spot where he went every day of the month to take a picture. Mynyddbach Common’s good and high, and dark, for that sort of thing. He might not have had to go too far from home to be able to do it.’
‘I don’t think you could do that, though, could you? I mean every shot showed a perfectly formed moon, without a single cloud in the frame. Imagine how long it would take to achieve that, around here. We don’t have many days a month without some cloud cover at night. Maybe it was the work of many months, or even years.’
‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. A true passion on his part. But he was good. Poor dab.’
‘Yes, a promising life, snuffed out. Gone. All that talent.’ Silence. ‘Anyway, did I do well? Up to standard?’ Betty felt anxious. She wanted to contribute all she could – this was now a shared enterprise.
‘I wish I’d had a team full of yous,’ said Evan, grasping her hand.
‘Your turn.’
‘I discovered James Powell was a good runner, apparently; involved with a Swansea group that’s part of Disability Sports Wales. Won a gold medal for the 1500 meters in his age group when he was eighteen. Photos in the Evening Post. Hints at possible Olympic aspirations. Nothing since then. They mentioned his school in that article too, so it seems he stayed on there until he was at least that age. And there was a bit about a part time job he had at a garden center out past Fforestfach – how he caught the bus under his own steam to work there, and so forth. But no mention of him anywhere after he’d have left school.’
Evan paused and asked, ‘It’s not something I’ve ever had to research for myself, at work; do you know what happens to people who need an extra bit of help when they’re no longer in school? Especially if they’re “blessed” with the sort of mother James seems to have had.’
‘It’s where the safety net of Social Services is supposed to come into its own,’ replied Betty, knowing from experience this often didn’t prove as effective as the lawmakers, and even the social workers themselves, hoped.
The couple shared a moment of silence. Betty knew they were both thinking of the tragedy of a challenging, but promising, life having been cut short.
Betty sighed. ‘Not much, but it’s a start. I think we’re about to see a fair bit of press coverage about James in the coming days; stories about a boy who actually did exceptionally well, considering his family background and developmental challenges. They’ll have loads of people digging into what we’ve just begun to unearth; I expect to read lots of interviews with those who knew him, and those who’ll speak well of his abilities. A sympathetic victim. Deservedly so.’
Evan poured another cup of tea. ‘I agree. I wonder how that will play with those who’ve painted Aled Beynon as the most angelic murder suspect since . . . well, there hasn’t been anything like this before. He’s been portrayed as clean-cut, academically bright, and a regular churchgoer. If we believe everything that’s been written about him he lived a blameless, hardworking, grandmother-supporting lifestyle that’s been hailed as almost Christ-like by some. Millennials have put him up on a pedestal as some sort of iconic figure.’
Betty mused, ‘Maybe they need someone to whom they can aspire?’
‘I think it’s more about them illustrating how wonderful they all are, too,’ said Evan grumpily. ‘How can they put anyone on a jury who’s seen that photo of him in his altar-boy surplice? And who hasn’t, the way it’s been doing the rounds? Who would convict him of this crime?’ He shrugged. ‘Mind you, there is one thing youngsters – and the media – like better than setting someone up to be worshipped . . .’
‘Showing they have feet of clay, and then kicking them when they’re down?’ said Betty.
‘Exactly. It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out in the press.’ Her husband sounded glum.
Betty stared at the wallpaper, and realized how dreadfully grubby it looked. ‘By way of a distraction – when this is all over, we’re going to redecorate this room. It’s an embarrassment.’
Evan looked around, as if assessing his surroundings for the first time. ‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Besides – who sees it? No one’s stayed over since your mum, and if anyone had, they couldn’t have slept in here – the bed was piled high with years’ worth of accumulated junk and clutter.’
‘It’s the roses – Mum loved them, but she’s gone now, and it’s time to make a change.’ Betty kissed her husband. ‘Given the changes we’ve already been through the past few months, I think we’re up to one more.’
3rd April
Sadie
I’m glad Mam said I could stay home from school today. I couldn’t have faced everyone.
The papers are full of it again.
The police are sure – now – that the thing on the hill was James Powell, Dean Hughes’s half-brother. It’s weird they were brothers, yet somehow poetic.
There was loads of stuff online about how James was a talented photographer – as opposed to some snap-happy crank, I suppose – despite the fact he had Down’s Syndrome.
We’ve got a couple of kids in our school who’ve got that. They’re okay; not necessarily nicer or more horrible than anyone else. Always bloody smiling, though. I don’t get that. I mean, what have they got to be so sodding happy about?
One of them’s quite good at gymnastics, I suppose. I never was any good at that balance beam thing; she puts most other girls to shame, she’s so sure of herself when she’s on it.
My most urgent problem is that @wrongboy10 is getting hit with lots of negative stuff.
At least I’ve had an hour or so all on my own to scroll and read, and Retweet a few good ones. But the famous people who were all for Aled to start with, like Wandralee Wonder, have shut up now.
And that’s not good.
I have to do something to get them supporting him again.
Nan was crowing about this James Powell thing, and I bet everyone at church will hate Aled again by the time they’ve finished singing the second hymn.
I don’t know what to do. I wish I could talk to Aled. I miss him so much it hurts. Not like it hurt when he held me tight by my arms, but it hurts in my soul. I wonder if souls bruise, like my arms did that time? I’m wearing the bracelet he gave me after that incident; it’s got hares dancing around it. It’s so pretty, the way it glints in the sunlight coming through the window. I can’t wear it when anyone can see it, because even Mam would know it would have cost a lot, but I wear it when I’m alone here, and when I go to my place on the hil
lside, and know I’m safe.
He was so sorry he’d been so nasty to me. He knew I was right; that’s why he gave me this. He’s given me lots of pretty things this past school year. It’s wonderful, though sometimes our text arguments are a bit upsetting.
Some things I use – like my phone cover, and my backpack – and I tell Mam I swapped them at school, or got them dirt cheap online. She’s easy to fool. She hasn’t got a clue how much my perfume costs, for example. No idea at all. He only gives me the best of things. Exactly what I want. And I always forgive him for the nasty things he’s said. Or done. Eventually. Oh, it’ll be wonderful when we’re married. It’ll be the biggest and best wedding this pathetic village has ever seen.
But first, I have to get him out of prison. Mam’s not too keen on helping me anymore. I’ve arranged to see Dad this afternoon; she has no idea, of course. I’m thinking of asking him if he can help. He understands modern technology much better than Mam does, and he travels a lot. He might set up some new Twitter accounts, then he could post to them as he travels and they’d be totally anonymous.
But I can’t let on to him about me and Aled. He saw a couple of boys from school pointing at me and laughing when we were having coffee once, and he got really angry with them.
Thinking about it, that was Guy Fawkes Day. A lot happened on Guy Fawkes Day. I always used to enjoy it, because sometimes we’d go up to Swansea for the big bonfire and fireworks display at St Helen’s in the evening – when I was younger. That was fun.
I had no idea it would end up becoming such a significant night for me, all these years later.
