The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  That would sort him out.

  Aled’s saying something with his hands I can’t make out. I’ve been trying to listen to DCI Jenkins giving testimony – Olivia gets a go at him now, which is good. Even though he’s whiny, I can tell the jury hasn’t taken as much of a dislike to him as I’d hoped they would.

  It’s Olivia’s job to make them go off him – pronto.

  I wish Aled would make his signs more slowly. I’ve seen I. L. U. a few times. But now it’s what? He’s not making shapes anymore, he’s beating a rhythm. I don’t understand it. No, wait, we did that back when I was in Girl Guides, it’s Morse code. Short, short, short, long, long, long, short, short, short, long, long . . . oh, it’s an SOS.

  He’s asking for help. What’s wrong? What’s happened?

  Hang on – he’s got a bruise on his face. That’s not right. Who’s done that to him? Olivia is saying to the jury that he’s been victimized. Oh God, no! They mustn’t hurt him. I can’t imagine what sort of people he’s mixing with in those cells where they’re keeping him. Aled’s just a boy – oh good, that’s what she’s saying.

  Maybe the jury will feel even sorrier for him because of it.

  Jenkins is being obnoxious now, saying Aled’s a young man who had the motive, the means, the opportunity, and he’s in no doubt he destroyed James Powell’s body. Now he’s saying he believes that Aled also killed James.

  Go on, Olivia – push back. Hard. That’s right, he can’t say that. Aled’s not on trial for murder.

  There, even the judge said that, and she’s warning Jenkins. Good.

  But why isn’t Olivia doing more? She should be telling the jury Aled didn’t have the opportunity to even burn the body. But maybe she can’t, because Aled hasn’t said anything.

  But now they all think he could have done it, even though he didn’t. He’s looking around now . . . oh no, he’s actually crying.

  My Aled, crying?

  I can’t imagine him coming to that. He must be lower than low.

  Maybe he’s on the edge of losing it. Maybe he’ll say or do something stupid.

  I have to do something.

  I have to stop this.

  I can’t stand it any longer . . .

  Evan

  ‘Well now, that’s one for the books.’ Evan was as shaken as the rest of the people in the courtroom.

  ‘This isn’t normal, is it, cariad, I can tell,’ said Betty.

  ‘It’s about as far from normal as you can get. The judge couldn’t do anything but call an adjournment. Who knows how long this will take.’

  ‘That look on Helen’s face when they took Sadie away. Did you see it, Evan?’

  ‘I did. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head at the moment.’

  He loved the feeling of Betty’s hand on his arm.

  ‘What’s going through your head at the moment – that’s what I’m interested in hearing about,’ she said.

  Evan put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his roll of strong peppermints. He popped one into his mouth and crunched into it. He saw his wife wince, but carried on.

  By the time it was decimated, he was ready to speak.

  ‘If Sadie Jones is telling the truth, and she and Aled really were together, having sex – in that very specific manner she announced – down on Rhosddraig Beach from eleven on 5th November until gone two in the morning on the 6th, then it can’t have been Aled Beynon that John Watkins saw that night, making off on his bicycle from the scene of the fire. And if – as Sadie claimed – she spilled a few bottles of lamp oil in the church vestry when she volunteered to do the church cleaning on behalf of her grandmother, but was too frightened to tell anyone about it, then he had neither the opportunity nor the means. Add the fact the motive’s always been shaky, and you have a Crown case in tatters, I’d say. Might be a pretty straightforward dismissal.’

  ‘No wonder they’re all scurrying about down there,’ said Betty, peering over the balcony. ‘Look, there’s Liz. She’s staring up at us. Should we go down to her?’

  Evan weighed his decision. ‘I’m not sure this is the time or the place to be seen with her. Could you text her? Use girl-code.’

  ‘Give me a minute, I’ll have to turn on my phone.’

  As Evan waited, he ran the case through his mind for the thousandth time. If Aled and Sadie were together during the critical period down on the beach – had they at least seen something?

  Might Sadie be able to give a statement that would allow the police to open a fresh line of inquiry?

  Jenkins had disappeared.

  Evan could imagine the flurry of activity going on behind the scenes; hurried arrangements for meetings in private rooms, organizing legal representation, and so forth. But, however frenzied it might all feel, nothing would happen quickly. Experience told him that much at least. He didn’t think it likely there’d be any significant developments that day. Unless . . .

  ‘Liz says it looks like she’ll have to cancel our plans to have coffee tomorrow morning. Duty calls.’

  ‘I thought as much. She’ll be up to her neck in it. Never mind. I think we should leave, and get back to that “decorating” we’ve been working on in the spare room.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Helen

  Hoping to find somewhere to sit and wait, Helen felt as though she were trying to navigate an unknown landscape hidden by treacherous swirls of dragon’s breath. She took the coffee offered by a police constable, and suddenly realized her hands were trembling, almost uncontrollably.

  Since Sadie had stood up on that balcony and had screamed that Aled couldn’t have burned anyone’s body on the night of November 5th because she and he had been involved in some very particular sexual undertakings on the beach at the time, and that she was the one who had made the lamp oil ‘disappear’ from the church by spilling it, she’d said nothing – other than to tell Helen she’d better organize a solicitor to sit with her when she made her official statement.

  Sadie’s passion had blazed in the courtroom, but her voice had been chilling when she’d spoken directly to her mother. Helen recognized neither person as her daughter.

  Helen sipped the coffee, aware only of its temperature.

  She felt dazed. Numb. The reality surrounding her hidden by a fog of confusion.

  ‘It shouldn’t be too long now,’ said the constable. He had a surprisingly deep voice for such a young, slight man.

  Even as she thought this, Helen wondered why that one detail had impacted her.

  Given they were in Cardiff Crown Court – which seemed to be awash with legal and policing types of all sorts – Helen couldn’t imagine why it would take so long to get an appropriate solicitor to represent her daughter’s interests; it had already been a couple of hours, and Sadie had refused to say anything until she had one. Helen wondered if it wasn’t a bit late for her daughter to shut up, given the pretty comprehensive nature of her outburst. She also wondered if the news had broken beyond the walls of the court yet.

  At that thought, her chest tightened. Oh my God, what if it’s on the news already! What if Mum sees it?

  The crushing panic shattered Helen’s troubled train of thought. It hadn’t occurred to her to get in touch with her mother. She balanced the coffee on the wide wooden arm of the bench seat, pulled out her phone and speed-dialed the pub – that was where her mother was bound to be at this time of day.

  There was no answer, which was odd. She phoned their private number.

  Still nothing. Just the answerphone.

  In desperation, she phoned Agata’s mobile, knowing she was working to cover her own absence.

  ‘Thank God you answered, Agata. I’m trying to reach Mum. Can you put her on, please? It’s important.’

  Agata was gabbling. Usually Helen could understand everything she said – her Polish accent was negligible, because she’d been raised in Wales – but now she couldn’t make sense of anything she was saying.

  Helen took a deep breath.
‘Slow down, Agata. It’s all okay. Just let me talk to Mum.’

  Agata spoke more slowly. ‘She’s in the ambulance, outside. She had just returned from Mrs Bevan’s house. She was there a long time. She saw the news on TV here about Sadie and Aled – the reporter said the two of them had been having sex the night Aled was supposed to have burned that body, and they also spoke about Sadie cleaning the church and spilling oil. The reporter said all this, standing outside court in Cardiff. Mrs Jones shouted at the TV, shouting “No, no, no, it can’t be true!” She looked at me, her face very angry, then she fell onto the floor. Grey. Not moving. Genowefa called the ambulance; my little sister is good in a crisis. I made people leave the pub. The ambulance arrived . . . but not so fast, and . . . Mrs Jones is in there now. But . . . I don’t know how to tell you . . . she is gone. Just like that. In a minute. Before they ever got here. I could tell. Gone. I am so sorry. We did everything . . . they did everything . . . but the Lord took her.’

  Despite the fact her head was swimming, Helen leaped to her feet. She felt cold. Hot. Sick. Her ears were roaring. She managed to squeak out, ‘Help me’ before she felt the heat of spilled coffee on her leg.

  10th April

  Betty

  ‘Who on earth is ringing before eight in the morning?’ Evan sounded groggy as he flapped his hands along the kitchen counter, trying to locate his mobile.

  He growled, ‘If this is one of those bloody silly people trying to sell me double glazing, I’ll make sure I report them.’

  Betty looked up from buttering toast. ‘Your mobile’s plugged in here.’ She poked at it with her elbow.

  She couldn’t help but notice the screen said PRIVATE.

  A blocked number.

  Her heart sank a little.

  Evan answered the call. ‘Hello,’ he snapped.

  He paused, and Betty noticed his eyes widen. ‘Yes, sir. Glover speaking, sir.’

  As he listened, Betty watched her husband closely.

  His face betrayed a shifting range of emotions. He stood taller, his body straightening from the slight stoop he’d recently developed. She noticed that although his brow was furrowed, his eyes sparkled. She didn’t think they’d ever looked as blue to her as they did in that instant.

  Betty’s mouth felt dry.

  She slathered twice as much Marmite onto her toast as usual, then sat quietly at the kitchen table, and crunched.

  What would he say?

  What would he tell her, or ask her?

  She believed she knew.

  Finally, it was over. ‘I understand, sir. First thing tomorrow morning, sir,’ said Evan.

  He placed the phone on the table, and sat. ‘Aled’s been released. Jenkins is off the case. They need a fresh pair of eyes.’

  Betty dreaded what was coming.

  ‘I was first on the scene. They’re calling me in. Re-interviewing me.’

  Betty was awash with relief. ‘They aren’t pulling you back in?’

  Evan looked surprised. ‘Me? Back in, to work on the case? No. I’m just a witness.’

  Betty could have wept. ‘I’ll go up and get something sorted for you to wear. Most of your work clothes have been relegated to the wardrobe in the spare room. I’ll dig something out. You could wear that tie I bought for your leaving do.’

  The irony was lost on neither of them.

  20th April

  Evan

  ‘Put your foot down, the funeral’s in half an hour.’ Evan knew he should have driven – he was much more familiar than Betty was with the winding roads of the Gower Peninsular, but he’d lost the toss.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Betty. Evan could tell she was smiling, even without looking at her.

  Taking a sharp curve at the ruined Penrice Estate gatehouse, Evan braced himself as Betty added nonchalantly, ‘I’ve never heard of a double funeral before. Have you? It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is,’ chuckled Evan. ‘Two separate funerals would mean two opportunities for a get-together, which would usually be preferable, I should imagine . . . starting with sandwiches and shared memories, and ending up with beer and singing, no doubt. However, given the people in question, it seems to make sense that they’d do it as a double booking, I suppose.’

  ‘I can’t imagine there’ll be many coming from beyond the local villages.’

  Evan had to put her right on that one. ‘I don’t know about that. Nan Jones managed to make herself quite a well-known figure – and not just in the press over the past few months. She was a landlady reputed to be so rude, you had to meet her to believe it. I know people who went to The Dragon’s Head just to be insulted by her.’

  Betty dared a sideways glance on a straight – if perilously narrow – stretch of road. ‘I know we haven’t been in that pub for quite some years, but I didn’t recall her being that bad. But, if it brought in the business, she’d play it up, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh no, she didn’t play it up at all; she had no idea she was being offensive, she honestly thought she was a cheery type. Which was what made it so entertaining. My mother said she was always the same way – absolutely tone deaf to every situation.’

  ‘Your mother knew her? Of course, she was from that area. Your dad was from Gorseinon, wasn’t he? Given the distances involved, how did your parents even meet up?’

  ‘He had a bike.’

  ‘A bike?’

  ‘My dad did a fair bit of cycling when he was younger – clocked up the miles on his old bike, he did. No car; couldn’t afford one back in the 1950s, so his bike got him back and forth between Lower Middleford and Gorseinon. He went there on a daytrip once, met her, and kept going back. It’s the best part of twenty miles each way, so he’d spend a good few hours in the saddle to be able to court my mum. They often talked about that. I’d almost forgotten. Then they’d go out and “canoodle amidst the cairns and tombs” – that’s what they used to say.’ Evan sighed at the recollection. ‘They had a good, long marriage.’

  Betty focused on the road as she asked, ‘I can’t recall any cairns or tombs down that way. Where are they?’

  ‘Up on the hillside above Rhossdraig Beach. Two Neolithic burial mounds, dating back about five or six thousand years, depending on which books you read.’

  ‘Where exactly? I can’t picture them at all.’

  ‘They’re a good way around the hillside – out above the sweep of the beach. The one in the best shape is the entrance to what is now a collapsed long barrow; there’s a capstone standing on top of four dolmen stones, like a tabletop on four legs. The Devil’s Table – so called because it looks just like a massive table, and – well, it’s the sort of thing they must have looked at hundreds of years ago and they couldn’t come up with a reason for its existence, other than for it to have been somehow conjured up by the devil himself.’

  ‘I’ve never noticed it.’ Betty sounded annoyed with herself.

  ‘They’re not that big if you’re looking at them from the side of the bay where the car park is, but they’re easy to spot once you know where they are. There’s another one not far away from the Devil’s Table, called the Concubine’s Pillow, where two of the uprights have given way, and the capstone has slipped, so it’s like a giant pillow you can lie back against. There’s still a sort of triangular covered area, and the stone kerb and steps leading down into the long barrow – the burial chamber itself – are still intact. It wouldn’t give much shelter in a storm, but . . .’ Evan paused.

  Betty smiled. ‘I think I just heard a lightbulb switch on above your head, like in a cartoon.’

  Evan’s mind was racing. ‘You might have done. It would provide a great place to keep a body out of sight for a few days. As you recall, in our conversations, you and I have now agreed the assumption that James Powell was killed as well as burned on November 5th to 6th is not necessarily a sound one, because DCI Jenkins admitted in court they showed only James’s photo to people who claimed to have seen him at the Guy Fawkes event. I should imagine
they’re re-interviewing everyone who said they’d seen him there, this time with a six-pack. I can’t believe Jenkins didn’t do that in the first place. That was a poor decision on his part.’

  ‘A six-pack? I’m assuming that’s not the promise of a few cans of beer.’

  ‘A photo array of six similar-looking people, from which the potential witness chooses one face. Of course, the team will have a heck of a time of it now, with all those photos there’ve been of James in the press, and on TV. But it’s worth them trying, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re the professional.’

  Evan continued to think aloud. ‘They’ve put out public calls for sightings of James up until November 7th, the date the remains were found. Now, I think that’s the new chap displaying an abundance of caution, because it sounded to me at the trial as though John Watkins in Australia was pretty sure of his facts – at least about his sighting of the fire being on the night of November 5th, even if he’s only sure he believed the person he saw was Aled Beynon.’

  He paused, then added, ‘If James Powell was killed some time before the night of the 5th, his body would need to have been secreted from view until then. The cairns, the stones marking the ancient tombs, offer a possibility, with the Concubine’s Pillow being my first pick.’

  ‘Trust you to pick a concubine,’ said Betty. Evan wondered if she was trying especially hard to keep the conversation light.

  Evan raked his hands through his hair. ‘Goodness knows the weather’s been through the sites for months now – the sheep too – but they’re worth checking. We could pop up there for a bit of a stroll after the funeral.’

  He noticed Betty squirm a little in the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’m not really wearing the right shoes for going yomping up hills to look at ancient ruins, cariad. I came dressed for a funeral. Haven’t you noticed? Marks and Sparks, head to toe.’

  As they reached the bend just past Lower Middleford which allowed a view of the Dragon’s Head and Rhosddraig itself, Evan felt a strange sense of foreboding; usually, the view lit up his soul, but today it seemed as though he were approaching . . . he didn’t know what, he just knew it wasn’t pleasant.