Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  “It feels as if whoever killed her has attacked us all in a way. Maybe it was some lunatic, someone passing through.”

  “Part of me hopes so. But, whoever it was, like a pebble in a pool, the repercussions will reach out through the whole community. Youngsters will find their parents wanting to know exactly where they are all the time, and women will be warier of going out alone, and if it does turn out to be someone we all know, that’ll make it even more difficult for the community to recover. It’s awful, Cath, just awful.”

  Cath was looking at her, horror in her eyes. “You’re right. I hate thinking about it but can’t avoid doing so.”

  Cath didn’t say anything for a moment, just sat frowning down at the kitchen table, tracing a finger slowly up and down on the surface. Fabia watched her hand, not really seeing it until it nearly touched a bright green envelope.

  “Oh Lord!” Fabia said aloud, putting a hand up to her forehead.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve just remembered something.”

  “About Amber?”

  “No, Rhona. Look, you might be able to advise me,” she said, feeling relieved at having someone to share the problem with. “I’m not at all sure what I should do about it.” She picked up the envelope, and quickly told Cath how it came to be on her kitchen table. “What with everything that’s happened, it’d gone right out of my mind – until now.”

  “What does it say?” asked Cath.

  Reluctantly Fabia took the piece of paper from the envelope and, with a grimace at Cath, began to read. “‘I saw you slobbering over him. Told you to bugger off, didn’t he? Whatever made you think he’d want to screw a shrivelled old heap like you? Better watch out or I’ll tell what I saw.’ Awful isn’t it?”

  “Oh Lord,” said Cath, “that’s pretty nasty.”

  “I know, and what the hell am I going to do about it?”

  Cath didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes moved from Fabia’s face to the envelope and back again, and a spurt of slightly hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat but was quickly suppressed.

  “God, Cath,” Fabia said, “it’s not funny.” But she couldn’t prevent a grin twitching at her lips.

  “No, it certainly isn’t. Sorry. I suppose you could just bung it through the letterbox,” Cath said doubtfully.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. She’ll need help dealing with it. I think I’ll have to give it to her.”

  “Yes, you’re right. You can offer to ring the police on her behalf or take it to them.”

  “Yes. That’s what I’ll do. But it’s too late now. I’ll take it round tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s best, I think,” said Cath.

  Chapter 8

  Fabia did not sleep well, but she hadn’t expected to. The events of the day crowded into her head the moment she closed her eyes and, as she floated in that half-world between waking and sleeping, the image of Amber’s dead body thrust itself back in. Instantly she was wide awake again and her thoughts started their repetitive round once more.

  However hard she tried, she couldn’t keep Matt out of her mind either. That last horrific row they’d had. She hadn’t thought about it for months, hadn’t let herself. Now the memories wouldn’t be denied.

  “What the hell do you mean, extended sick leave?” He’d been so angry, but there’d been more to it than that, she’d sensed deep disappointment as well. “You’re never sick.”

  “Well, this time I am. Anyway, that’s what they want me to call it for now. Sorry, Matt, but I’ve had enough. In a couple of years, they’ll accept my resignation, quietly, and I may keep some of my pension.”

  “But that’s tantamount to admitting you were involved.”

  “What the hell’s the difference? Nobody believes my side of the story anyway. All that whispering in the canteen, picking away like a bunch of vultures. They’ve done too good a job.” She’d seen straight through the facade he’d tried to hide behind. “Come on, Matt, admit it, you’ve got your doubts.”

  Desperate for him to deny it, she’d held her breath as she’d waited for his response. He’d said nothing.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she’d cried despairingly. “You could at least do me the courtesy of being honest with me, you of all people.”

  He’d stood there, looking sick and resentful, and she knew she’d put into words what he’d hardly admitted to himself.

  “I’ve been given to understand that this way,” she went on bitterly, “if I go quietly, I suppose you’d call it, I won’t lose all my pension, and they’ll keep me on full pay for now. What really happened, the truth,” she spat the word out, “has no currency in these circumstances. And when friends like you have doubts–” Ignoring his protests, she’d ploughed on, “Oh, shut up, Matt. Even you have this sneaking feeling I just might have been involved. In these circumstances, I don’t think I want to stick around anymore.”

  “I’d never put you down as a coward before.”

  She could hardly believe what he’d said. The blaze of anger that swept over her was like a physical blow. For a second, she thought she might lash out at him.

  He’d reached a hand out to her, said, “Fabia, I’m sorry–” but she’d shaken him off, and the worst thing had been the tears crowding up in her throat and threatening to overflow. She never cried.

  “Well, now you know.” She’d said on a long, shuddering breath, making a supreme effort to pull herself together. “Enough’s enough,” she’d said. “I’m going.” And that was the last time she’d seen him until two days ago.

  Misery swept over her. What a bloody awful mess. But nothing to do about it. She turned her pillow over yet again, straightened the duvet and, in an effort to distract herself from the painful memories, went through what she knew so far about Amber’s death, going over and over the sequence of events as she knew them, and desperately trying to delve into the mind of the unknown killer.

  In the grey early hours, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be woken, she was sure mere minutes later, by the ringing of her mobile. She scrabbled around on her bedside table, picked it up and, as she did so, looked at the clock. It was just after nine.

  “Hallo?” she muttered.

  “It’s me, Matt.”

  Her heart gave a lurch at the sound of his voice and immediately she was wide awake. Throwing back the duvet, she swung her legs out of bed, searched for her slippers. “Good morning,” she said, her voice as neutral as she could get it. “What can I do for you?”

  “Look – um – we’ve got a bit of a problem and Dilys suggested you might be able to help.”

  “Did she, now?” And why didn’t you think of that? Fabia thought. She could imagine how much this was costing him, but she dug her heels in, determined not to make it any easier for him, not yet.

  “Yes, well, it’s Amber’s diary, the one you mentioned yesterday. One of my chaps found it when he was going over her bedroom. Our problem is, she’s used some kind of code for people’s names and, well, we can’t work them out. We were wondering if you’d be able to help us decipher it.”

  “You haven’t spoken to her parents about it?”

  “No, not yet.” His voice was clipped. “Obviously I will be doing so, but I’d rather get a handle on it first, so that I’ve got a better idea of what to look for when I talk to them. And anyway, Mrs Cole had been sedated by her doctor and wasn’t fit to be interviewed last night, still isn’t this morning, and by the time we got her husband back from the mortuary last night, he’d had about as much as he could take.”

  “He did the ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor man,” Fabia said, then added, “Where are you now?”

  “In my office. I can be with you in, say, forty minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then,” Fabia said and put the phone down, unable to suppress a grin of satisfaction as she did so. A moment later the phone rang again.

  “It’s Cath. I thought I’d better
let you know we’re going ahead Saturday morning in spite of everything.”

  “What with?”

  “Sorting the nearly new stuff for the women’s refuge fundraiser. You said you’d be able to give us a hand. Had you forgotten?”

  Fabia sighed. “Oh Lord, yes. It’d gone right out of my mind. What time did we say?”

  “Half past ten in the church hall. It shouldn’t take too long. I hate to nag, but we’re a bit down on helpers, what with Cecily ... well, you can see what I mean.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  She showered and dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen, in desperate need of some strong coffee, but as she walked in she saw the green envelope on the table. There was no getting away from it. Best to get this over with now, not knowing when she’d get another opportunity. She picked up the envelope and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, made her way next door.

  Rhona opened the door to her knock. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her pointed face unsmiling. It was obvious she’d not forgiven Fabia for her teasing the day before. Oh Lord, Fabia thought, and the bloody letter is going to make things so much worse. She conjured up what she hoped was a friendly smile and plunged in.

  “Hallo Rhona. I’m sorry about this, but I’ve been trying to catch up with you since yesterday. This was delivered to me by mistake yesterday and I opened it without thinking. I really am sorry, I–”

  The small eyes glanced quickly down at the envelope Fabia was holding out. Before she could say another word, Rhona snatched it from her hand, snapped, “Thank you,” and closed the door in her face.

  “For goodness sake!” Fabia said aloud, almost laughing, but also perturbed by the whole business. She lifted her hand to knock again, then stopped. There was no doubt she’d have to talk to Rhona about the letter some time, having read it she could hardly just leave it, but now wasn’t the time. Matt would be here soon, and that had to take priority. With a shrug of resignation, she went back inside to wait for him to arrive.

  * * *

  Fabia was shocked at how exhausted Matt looked when she saw him – sunken cheeks, inky shadows under his eyes and his dark hair in a tangled mess. It was obvious, just as she’d feared, that this case was getting to him. She wanted to ask him if he’d slept or give him an opportunity to talk about Bethan. In the past, it would have been the most natural thing to do, but not now. But she was a good deal gentler with him as a consequence, insisting he have a cup of coffee and putting a plate of biscuits on the table.

  Better get the worst over first. He had every right to be angry she’d not told him about Amber and Rhona’s quarrel yet. As he gulped at the steaming mug and helped himself, absent-mindedly, to the biscuits, she plunged in.

  “There’s something I really should have told you yesterday,” Fabia began. Matt’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t give him the chance to respond. Quickly she told him all about the encounter on the bridge. He frowned as she spoke, but the expected explosion didn’t come.

  “That could be useful,” his voice was cool but not angry.

  “I know. I’m sorry I forgot about it yesterday.”

  He gave her a slightly twisted smile. “Even you slip up sometimes, Fabia.” Then, obviously realising this wasn’t the most tactful thing to say, he went on quickly. “Amber seems to have been a bright kid. She’d got the hang of hiding things so that they’re seen but not recognised. Pryce finally found the diary in a bookcase they’d already been through. She’d wrapped it very neatly in the dust cover from an old children’s picture book of exactly the same size.”

  “She was bright.” Yet again Fabia felt the deep-down regret at the waste of so much potential. “Anyway,” she said, deciding the best way was to keep things as businesslike as possible, “let’s have a look at this diary.”

  He handed her a sheaf of photocopy paper. Someone had flattened the diary out on the machine and copied two pages at a time. The actual size of the book must be A5, Fabia thought, with faint lines and a margin. An ordinary notebook. On the left, in a flowing hand, was the name Amber Jane Morgan, with the word PRIVATE beneath it. Around her name and the word, she’d drawn an intricate border of twisted, thorn filled vines. On the right, the much more closely written script began. 29th October was the first date.

  Silence reigned as Fabia sat reading, turning a page occasionally. There weren’t that many. Amber hadn’t written in her diary every day. There were gaps here and there of several days at a time. Fabia flipped through to see what the last date was. It was the day before she died.

  “I can guess at the identity of some of the people she mentions. CJ, for instance, is probably the Evans boy from The Oaks. His second name’s John – can’t remember why I know that – he and Amber were close. But Viz, no, don’t know that one, but wait a minute–” Fabia pressed a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes in concentration. “Viz, could be Vanessa Breverton, she was a friend of Amber’s too. The three of them went around a lot together, much to Gwen Breverton’s disgust. I don’t think she approved of Amber one little bit. They do seem to pop up quite a few times in here as a threesome, see this here, and on the next page.” Matt leant forward to look at the pages, then leant back to continue taking notes as he’d been doing since she started.

  Fabia pointed to another passage. “And this bit here, ‘Mouse gave me a pile of dosh for my birthday, just between the two of us she said’ – Amber told me her mother had given her money for her birthday, much more than usual which is probably why she mentioned it, so maybe Mouse is Cecily.” She looked up at Matt. “It would fit perfectly. Cecily is a very timid person, quite apart from having mousey brown hair. Colours mattered to Amber.”

  Matt nodded. “Go on.”

  “As to Lecter, I’ve no idea. Presumably a man, and certainly someone she didn’t like if she gave him a nickname like that.” She paused then said triumphantly, “Yes, I definitely think Viz is Vanessa, because she mentions a big party at her house on the 2nd of December, and there was one up at the Breverton’s house that day, a couple of hundred people according to Cath – our vicar, Cath Temple, she was invited, and I went with her to buy something to wear. And this bit here, about Drummer, I think that might be Paul Vaughan up at Bryn-y-Mor Lodge. In his early days in the music business he was a drummer in a group, what was it called? Coffee House? No, Coffee Club.”

  She glanced across the table at Matt and noticed the ghost of a smile on his face. “Your memory always did amaze me,” he said.

  Fabia didn’t want to risk commenting. Any kind of reminiscing would entail trying to cross the yawning chasm of misunderstanding and pain that stretched between them. Not a good idea. Not now. Quickly she went back to the diary. “I know Paul Vaughan owns a studio and I think he’s also a music promoter of some kind, so that’s probably how he got her tickets for the Death’s Head gig.” She turned the paper towards Matt, indicating a point halfway down the page. “I wonder what she means by this bit here. ‘Just as well he’ – that’s CJ she’s talking about – ‘doesn’t know why Drummer got them for me!’, and here she says, ‘Wonder what his tart would think if she knew’. If Drummer is Paul, I suppose she’d be referring to Mel Franklin, Paul’s partner. Then a little later she says, ‘Naomi found out about Drummer and me. I certainly know now where his priorities lie, the bastard’. Now Mel is a fashion model so Naomi, as in Naomi Campbell, could be a predictable nickname for her. Looks to me as if Amber and Paul knew each other rather well.”

  “In the biblical sense,” Matt said sardonically.

  “How delicately you put it. This bit’s about the Breverton’s party.” She read on for a while then suddenly exclaimed, “Shit! The poor child.”

  Matt leant forward to check how far Fabia had got. “Oh yes,” he said, his voice expressionless. “It seems she was on the game, more or less, well, sex for favours as much as for money. Trouble is, with the number of people at that party, this Bulldog person she says she ‘gave it to’ c
ould be any one of dozens of …”

  “But in the next entry,” Fabia interrupted, “she mentions meeting him in the High Street. Surely that means he must be local?”

  “Could be, but not necessarily. Maybe just visiting. Anyway, does the word ‘Bulldog’ mean anything to you?”

  “Not immediately. Perhaps his name is actually Churchill, although I can’t think of anyone of that name round here, not offhand. And I wouldn’t have thought that’d be a connection a seventeen-year-old would come up with, although that advert on television might have prompted her to use it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “And who’s this Ferret person?” went on Fabia. “She mentioned her – it seems to be a her – earlier on, said she found out about Drummer, alias Paul, and told Mouse, alias Cecily. God this is complicated. It’s hard to keep up.” She frowned. “I can’t work out who Lecter is yet. Here she seems to have overheard something between him and this Ferret person. ‘Overheard her coming on to him – gross!’ But that could be just Amber’s imagination, she certainly had a lively one, not to say lurid at times. It could have been a completely innocent encounter. She finishes that entry, ‘That’ll teach her to blab about me and Drummer’. You know what, I think The Ferret might be Rhona Griffiths, my next-door neighbour.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she is awfully nosey, always spying on people, and she does look a bit like a ferret. But no, perhaps it’s just that she’s on my mind at the moment.”

  Fabia was nearing the end. Just one more page to go. She went on and finished without further comment, then exclaimed suddenly. “Stupid woman, I missed this earlier on.”

  “What?”

  “This bit about posting the letters.”

  “Oh yes. It wasn’t just the diary we found,” Matt said. “There was some other rather interesting stuff well hidden in some CD box sets beside the girl’s TV.”

  “What was it?” asked Fabia.

  “There was one of those old-fashioned John Bull printing sets, do you remember them? You know, little rubber letters, tweezers to pick them up with and an ink pad. All the kit was there, and some pieces of paper which she appears to have been practising on, together with some notes in her own writing. It all looked like drafts of a poison pen letter, or perhaps more than one.”