The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Dilys and your mother had heart attacks, yes, but they were getting on and heart disease is the biggest killer by far each year in Wales – more than a quarter of all deaths are related to it. It’s heart, circulation, or cancer that usually gets the old ones.’

  Helen was surprised, and suspected her face portrayed as much, because Mair added, ‘I’ve had many years to learn all about pretty much everything that can kill a person – I’ve made it my business to find out. It’s why I gave up smoking when I was eighty; I reckoned if I’d made it that far I should at least give my old body a bit of a helping hand. That, and the fact it got so expensive, and I couldn’t smoke here in the pub any longer because of the ban.’ She leaned even closer and hissed, ‘I’d kill for one right this minute, to be honest with you, but I can just imagine what my doctor would say. I was lucky they didn’t want to keep me in hospital after they’d done all their tests.’ She cackled again, and Helen managed to squeeze out a smile.

  Helen was thinking it was time to take her leave and mingle a bit, but Mair put her hand on her arm and stopped her. ‘But you’ve got one thing wrong, Gwen didn’t have stroke, she had a bleed.’

  ‘But she was in the stroke unit, in hospital, and Mum said she’d had a stroke.’

  Mair put down her glass of stout, which was already half empty. ‘They need to do things to you much the same for a stroke as a bleed, see, so that’s why she was there. High blood pressure for years, a mini-stroke two years ago, and on warfarin ever since. The sister at the hospital told me her INR was 9.6 when they got her in there.’

  The letters and numbers meant nothing to Helen. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mair looked slightly shocked. ‘Oh, what it is to be young – well, under fifty, anyway. There are so many things you don’t need to know about at your age. The INR is the International Normalized Ratio and refers to blood clotting. Because Gwen had suffered a little stroke the doctor put her on warfarin to keep her blood a bit thinner – a reading between 2 and 3 is the usual thing. It is for me, anyway. I had my mini-stroke about five years ago. If she had an INR of 9.6 when they got her into hospital she must have taken a double dose of warfarin at least . . . or maybe she’d knocked back half a bottle of vodka, or something, I don’t know. But that’s what happened. She had a bleed, not a stroke. They’re difficult to come back from, even with the surgery they did.’

  Helen was surprised Mair knew so much about it all, but didn’t have time for a longer discussion. She turned her mind to the rest of the people she needed to talk to. ‘Can I come over to your cottage soon for a bit of a chat, Mair? I really should circulate a bit. I know Mum came to see you the morning she died; maybe we could catch up about that?’

  Mair finished her drink. ‘Of course. But could I bother you for another Mackeson before you go?’

  Helen writhed her way to the bar through the throng, and poured Mair’s drink herself. Her Mum had enjoyed a Mackeson, too. Helen thought it tasted like cough medicine, and said as much when she placed it on the table in front of Mair. ‘I don’t know how you stomach it,’ she quipped.

  ‘It’s something of a landlady’s favorite; it doesn’t matter if it’s warm or cold, it’s got a body that lasts, and one glass can get you through the whole night, if you need it to,’ said Mair. ‘I dare say it’s why Nan and I both learned to enjoy it.’

  Helen was puzzled. ‘I didn’t know you were ever a pub landlady, Mair. Where was that? When?’

  Mair smiled across the head of her beer. ‘That was my other life. I ran a place called The Cat and Whistle, down by the docks. Knocked it down now, they have. And good riddance. It was nearly the ruin of me, that place.’

  Helen was about to ask what she meant, exactly, when Hywel Evans touched her on the shoulder and mentioned they were running short of Welsh cakes. Helen apologized to Mair that she had to abandon her, then apologized to Hywel for her lack of attentiveness, and promised to tend to it right away.

  Before she turned toward the bar she happened to glance out through the window.

  Her stomach clenched; there was Bob, her bastard of an ex-husband standing with his arm around Sadie’s waist, who was hanging around his neck, kissing his cheek. And he was shaking hands with Aled.

  Helen’s heart thumped in her chest. She felt dizzy. What did it mean? The man who’d made her life a complete misery was now standing just a few yards away, and seemed to be bonding with her daughter – the daughter she’d tried so hard to protect from him.

  Hywel whispered in her ear, ‘The sandwiches are getting a bit thin on the ground too – if you know what I mean.’

  Helen plastered a smile on her face, did her best to stop her hands trembling, and headed toward the refuge of the kitchen.

  Evan

  Having visited the pub after the funeral to express their condolences to Helen more fully than they’d been able to when they’d shaken her hand at the church door, the Glovers had decided it was too full for them to stay; Betty had popped to the loo, and they’d left. Standing beside the car Evan asked, ‘Do you think you can manage to get up there with those on your feet after all?’ He pointed to the hillside.

  ‘Is there a path?’

  ‘Most of the way . . . well, some of the way.’

  Betty wriggled her toes. ‘These shoes are old enough that I don’t mind them getting a bit messy. I’ll manage.’ Evan suspected she didn’t want to miss out on anything.

  The couple set out, Betty following her husband’s lead; the path was really only wide enough for one.

  Over his shoulder Evan asked, ‘What were you gabbing to the vicar about after the interment, by the way?’

  ‘Remember he said in court he’d been up at the place where they found the remains on October 31st and said there was nothing there then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was asking him why he went there at all. They didn’t ask in court.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d been past the RAF ruin on his way to the sites we’re about to visit, to bless them and protect them with holy water before Halloween. So what’s all that about, then?’

  ‘Tell you when we get there – not so easy to climb and shout over the wind,’ was just about all Evan could manage. He’d have to consider at least thinking about getting some regular exercise soon.

  Finally reaching the Concubine’s Pillow, Evan announced – somewhat breathlessly, ‘It won’t compromise the area if we approach the site.’

  ‘After all that, I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Betty with a cheeky grin.

  Evan reached out for her, and they both stood for a moment, hand in hand, taking in their surroundings.

  ‘If nothing else, cariad, it was worth the climb for the view alone,’ said Betty close to her husband’s ear.

  Although not quite at the top of the hilly moors – which offered the highest points of the entire Gower Peninsular – they were almost there. The semi-collapsed Concubine’s Pillow, and it’s still-erect mate, the Devil’s Table, which was about a hundred yards away, stood on what was almost a shelf – a wide, flattened plateau just beneath the steeper climb to the top. Both allowed a view across the beach below to the Dragon’s Back headland, and the Dragon’s Head itself far out in the sea. It was a magnificent sight which had never failed to stir Evan’s soul. He looked at his wife, knowing she would love it too; her expression told him he was right.

  Beneath his feet, the springy and much-chewed grass was dotted with sheep droppings and some native wildflowers. There were a few annoying signs of humanity, in the shape of the odd plastic water bottle and some snack bar wrappers, caught within tufts of spikey grass and rock outcroppings.

  Betty remained quite still, apparently soaking it all in, while Evan got on with a bit of rooting about. The Concubine’s Pillow offered no more than a semi-shelter from the elements, but he wanted a good look beneath the angled rock.

  He shouted, ‘There’s been a fire in here; the structural stones are significantly char
red. Might have been yesterday, or five years ago. Maybe one, or many over time. There’s also a plastic sandwich wrapper. Maybe dropped here, or possibly the wind drove it into the opening.’ Evan pulled out his phone. ‘I’m going to take some photos,’ he explained. ‘Have a wander, if you like, but please take care – the grass can be slippery, and we’re neither of us particularly well-shod for this expedition – you even less so than me. It’s a nasty drop.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Betty, saluting. He watched as she walked about twenty yards along the shelf, then returned his attention to the task at hand. He snapped furiously.

  Once he felt satisfied, he stood upright and took in the miles of beach stretching below him; Evan felt soothed as he was buffeted by the ozone-laden winds. The tide was out, though he could spot dozens of tiny figures along the distant sea’s edge, and in the ocean itself; surfers, enjoying their time in the waves, without a thought of mangled remains, double funerals, or anything other than the way nature sometimes blessed them with her bounty.

  Evan wondered if he’d have enjoyed surfing. At fifty-eight, he knew he was unlikely to ever find out, and admitted to himself it had a certain appeal, but didn’t seem to be quite his thing; he didn’t really fancy the idea of having to be zipped into the suit.

  He looked over to where Betty was taking photos of the Devil’s Table with her phone; the flat stone on top of the four dolmen was level with her shoulders. He’d never been keen on the Devil’s Table – he’d heard such dreadfully frightening stories about it from his grandmother when he’d been a lad. He had words with his adult self as he strode off to join his wife.

  ‘It’s impressive,’ she said when he arrived. ‘I cannot imagine how ancient hands built this five or six thousand years ago, but it must have created awe in all who saw it.’

  ‘So much so that it is – of course – surrounded by many legends.’

  ‘Do tell – I know you love that stuff,’ encouraged Betty.

  ‘Well, the story goes that the dragon out there in the ocean had been captured by the devil and secured in place with chains, doomed to watch over all those who lived on its back, because their souls belonged to Old Nick himself. The devil would come up from hell through the opening beneath the table, and his concubine would do the same at hers, then they would sit here to watch his dragon breathe fire over the sea at the end of the day, creating the sunset. When he was happy that his “pet” was doing a good job, he and his consort would descend again to his realm through the gaping holes in the hillside.’

  ‘Interesting. So many psychologically significant motifs in that story. Human beings are truly fascinating creatures,’ noted Betty. Evan loved the way his wife’s mind worked. ‘So, are the residents of Rhosddraig all supposed to be blessed, or cursed, because they live where they do?’

  Evan chuckled. ‘Well, bearing in mind my gran came from Lower Middleford, the next village along, and that the residents of neighboring villages often have a healthy disrespect for each other, you won’t be surprised to hear that – in her mind at least – they were cursed. Those who live in Rhosddraig believe they are blessed, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Interesting. Listen, cariad, while you and I were snapping away, I began to give some serious thought to what we were discussing earlier about cairns. The idea of someone building a memorial atop sacred remains was niggling at my brain. Was James’s a natural death maybe being marked by someone? Was he being revered in some way? So, maybe not a murder at all . . . maybe a tragic accident, with the victim being memorialized? What if someone had found the corpse of James Powell, and they had chosen to set his body in a place of prominence? But why the burning, twice, and the smashing? That’s the problem with my ideas, the threads don’t mesh, psychologically speaking; the treatment of the remains before they were covered with stones suggests anything but respect, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Evan gave her words the consideration they deserved, staring out at the waves crashing against the ‘throat’ of the Dragon’s Head. ‘Maybe the cairn idea was just a step too far on our part, and the police really are seeking a brutal murderer who did what they did to hide evidence of their crime.’

  Evan was delighted when Betty countered with, ‘Then why place the remains where they’d be found? Surely it would have been better to hide them away somewhere – just a pile of charred, broken bones, buried under what is, after all, an abundance of moorland. Or even just scattered about the entire area. They might never have been found.’

  Evan grappled with the paradox for a few minutes, trying to balance the ideas of reverence and respect, with the maliciousness and mania of the cremation and mangling of the remains. Then there were the missing teeth.

  Finally he said, ‘On balance, I don’t believe anyone would do what was done to that corpse if they’d merely happened upon it. So – an accident or a murder at some point, then the burning, removal of teeth, smashing, then burning again, followed by the covering with stones.’

  ‘Stop it, Evan – you’re making another assumption . . . the teeth could have been removed at any point along the way there, you’re placing too much trust in what Rakel told you was her assumption of when they were removed.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Evan. ‘I’ll think on that. But, for now, why don’t we just enjoy what’s here, then we’ll pore over our photos tonight, and we’ll open a nice bottle of wine while we do it. How about that?’

  ‘I love you, Mr Glover.’

  21st April

  Betty

  After something less than four hours’ sleep, Evan had got out of bed and had gone into their ‘murder room’. Betty had heard him make his way downstairs a couple of hours later. She was worried about him, but was doing her best to offset that concern against having seen him blossom into the ‘old Evan’ since he’d got stuck into thinking about the Rhosddraig case for himself. She knew he was frustrated, but he was slightly less so because he was doing something about it.

  Lingering in the shower, Betty kept asking herself what she’d be saying to a client facing her situation – how she’d try to help them work through it. She was annoyed that she didn’t seem to have any useful advice for herself. She made her way downstairs before eight. Evan was snoring on the settee. She was relieved; he needed his sleep.

  Betty was filling the kettle when her mobile phone rang. Who on earth could it be, so early on an Easter Sunday? ‘Hello?’

  She was surprised to hear an anxious female voice. ‘Is that you, Betty?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’ The number on Betty’s screen meant nothing to her.

  ‘It’s Helen Jones. From Rhosddraig.’

  Betty was immediately on full alert. ‘Hello, Helen. To what do I owe the—’

  Betty all but held her breath as words tumbled out of Helen. ‘He’s back. Bob’s back. My ex-husband is back. He turned up after Mum’s funeral yesterday, and he spent some time with Sadie and Aled. He stayed in one of the rooms they rent out at the social club in Lower Middleford. He’s coming here today. I don’t know what to do. What should I do? What can I do?’

  ‘Well, I could—’ began Betty, but Helen hadn’t finished.

  ‘I should have got an injunction against him when I had the chance, but I didn’t. I thought it would all stop when we got divorced, and it really had. Sort of. Well, all except the phone calls. And him turning up everywhere I went. That was bad. Really bad. But then he did stop. Really. Absolutely. Until the card came. The Valentine’s card. Now he’s here. He wants to come into my home. I just buried my mother – how can he do this to me? What am I saying? He knows exactly how vulnerable I am, of course he’ll take advantage. I should have done something when he sent me that card, but I didn’t. Why didn’t I?’

  Betty took a deep breath, and expelled the air as quietly as she could. She didn’t want Helen to know how challenging she was finding the surprising situation.

  ‘Okay, Helen – he’s not there, in your home this minute, is he?’

  ‘N
o. Sadie said she invited him for lunch. My daughter invited him. What can I do?’

  Another deep breath.

  ‘So we have a few hours to come up with a suitable course of action, good.’ Betty used her calming voice, for her own sake as much as Helen’s.

  Helen continued. ‘What was Sadie thinking? I know I kept everything from her, but she must understand that her father’s not good for me. For us. Why would she invite him to our home?’

  Betty gathered her professionalism about her, and reacted without any further hesitation; she could tell Helen needed immediate help and support, and was pretty sure the woman had no friends. ‘I could be with you, at the pub, in just over an hour, how about that? I’ll bring Evan, too, alright?’

  Helen’s voiced cracked. ‘Oh would you? Oh, thank you Betty. You’re wonderful. I knew you were a true friend when we had that heart to heart in Swansea Market. It made ever such a difference to me, that chat did. Come to the side door, I’ll let you in there. Just knock.’

  Betty woke Evan and packed him off to get showered; she dressed, filled thermal mugs with coffee, and grabbed some chocolate biscuits. They were in the car within fifteen minutes, and heading to Rhosddraig once again.

  It was a lovely day for the drive, but Betty suspected an emotional storm would have to be weathered upon their arrival. She felt especially nervous because she was only too well aware that, as a therapist, she’d be out of her comfort zone. Helping people work through their problems in a neutrally furnished office was an entirely different kettle of fish than being, possibly literally, on the front line of a psychological and possibly physical battle between an abuser and his victim. She’d never had to face that sort of a situation before, so she was especially glad Evan was by her side.

  Sadie