Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  Matt found this hard to believe. He doubted very much that Amber’s mother would confide such things to this vicious little gossip. He tried to probe, framing and reframing more or less the same questions in an effort to find out which of Amber’s men friends Rhona had in mind, and how she’d found out about them – if, of course, she had. But it was no good. He could get nothing more out of her on that front. In the end, he changed tack.

  “I gather you were on Pontygwyn Bridge late on Wednesday afternoon and that you had a difference of opinion with Amber Morgan. Could you tell us exactly what happened?”

  Chapter 11

  Rhona’s sharply drawn eyebrows rose and her lips tightened into a straight line. Matt expected her to ask how he knew, but she didn’t. Unexpectedly she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Yes, I was. I’d been to visit a friend of mine who has a bungalow in that rather exclusive little estate on the other side of Cobett’s Field. She’s a member of the Mansel-Pryce family, they’re a very old and respected family in Gwent and she’s a distant connection of mine. As my father used to say, there’s no substitute for true class. Her mother was an Honourable, you know.”

  Her sharp eyes waited for him to respond to this. She obviously expected him to be impressed and to comment accordingly, but Matt said nothing. He wasn’t going to be distracted.

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened on the bridge?”

  At first, she just stared at him, said nothing, then she gave an almost imperceptible sniff and went on.

  “As I say, I was returning from my friend’s house when I happened to encounter Amber.” Suddenly she went off on a different tack, hitching herself forward in her chair in a conspiratorial fashion and dropping her voice to a sibilant whisper. “Do you know she even corrupted some of the other young girls in the neighbourhood? Our new member of parliament, Neville Breverton, such a dear man, just as he should be, they’re regular churchgoers, he and his wife, always attends Sunday service when he’s at home. So charismatic, so attentive. I think he’ll become a particular friend. He has a delightful young daughter, very well spoken, been to the best schools. Well, would you believe I saw her the other day with Amber and that young Evans boy? I do hope her parents realise what’s going on. Obviously, I shall have to speak to them. It’s my duty to do so, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Matt would have liked to be able to tell her precisely what he thought. Instead he murmured that it was up to her, but she wasn’t really listening.

  “It was a disgrace the way that girl behaved. So disrespectful, so... so vulgar. Her language was disgusting; disgusting, from the gutter...” Her voice had risen to a slightly hysterical squeak before she pulled herself up short and fell silent, her lips working and her fingers plucking incessantly at the neck of her blouse.

  “What happened when you encountered Amber?” Matt asked, trying to steer her back on course.

  “She was on the bridge, sitting there banging those beautiful ancient stones with her horrible boots. Of course, I had to remonstrate with her, it was my duty,” she said again. “I’m sure anyone who knows me will tell you that I never shirk my duty.”

  Okay, okay, thought Matt, in your book all this is down to duty, in my book it’s being an interfering old bag. But you could be useful to us, so keep going. He didn’t dare look at Dilys in case his thoughts were echoed in her face.

  “Heaven be praised,” Rhona went on, “when I telephoned the Coles’ to speak to Cecily, she was out and I was able to talk to Amber’s stepfather. A good man, very caring, but firm. He always knows just what’s needed, whereas Cecily, I have to say, was far too indulgent with her daughter. She’s always spoilt her most disgracefully, hence her behaviour. A weak mother breeds a wild child, as my dearest father used to say.”

  A second later, her expression changed. A strange little smile appeared round the edge of her mouth. Matt noticed her hands clasped together so hard in her lap that the skin shone tight over the knuckles. He wondered what on earth was coming next.

  “Amber’s stepfather is a very different matter. A most capable man, and devoted to Amber, in spite of her behaviour. I saw him later that evening. He drove past and gave me such a friendly wave. I thought at the time he must be returning from singing practice. He has a beautiful tenor voice, you know, you might almost think him a Welsh man born and bred. Such a busy man, and so very conscientious. A great asset to St Madoc’s. He’s their deputy head, you know.” Her cheeks were pink. “He always waves to me as he passes, and smiles, very friendly.”

  “Where was this?” Matt asked.

  “In the High Street. I was coming back from checking that the church silver had been cleaned. I’m in charge of the team who do the cleaning at St Mary’s. One must do one’s bit after all.” She gave a deprecating little smile, then sniffed. “Some people aren’t as particular as they should be, so I just popped in to make sure the job had been done properly. One can’t be too careful, particularly now we have to suffer this modern phenomenon, a female vicar, with no vicar’s wife to oversee the smooth running of things. Not as it should be, as I’m sure you agree. Such a pity, but there you are.” She gave a little shudder. “Ladies of the cloth, it just doesn’t sound right, does it?”

  She might as well have said ladies of the night, Matt thought. He ignored this digression and asked, “Do you remember the time?”

  “Yes I do, as a matter of fact. It was exactly half-past seven. I know that because I remember hearing the church clock chime the half hour. And when I got home, I telephoned to speak to Cecily again, and would you believe she was still out?” she said in shocked tones. “I would have thought she’d be at home to welcome her husband on his return. But no. I don’t think she gives him nearly as much support as she should, particularly not when it comes to Amber’s more outrageous behaviour. Once, when I remonstrated with her about it, she was quite sharp with me – but the least said about that the better perhaps.”

  Matt glanced at Dilys and she raised her eyebrows slightly but didn’t intervene. Time was pressing. They had to get to the poison pen letters, and he’d been hoping to lead Rhona gently towards the subject, or even better, that she’d mention it herself, but he now had a pretty shrewd idea she wouldn’t do so. He’d have to plunge in regardless.

  “One thing I would like to ask you, Miss Griffiths. Can you tell us about the letter, addressed to you, that was delivered to Miss Havard next door by mistake?”

  He watched as her already protuberant eyes widened, and the colour drained slowly from her cheeks. At first her lips moved and no sound came out, but then she said in a sibilant whisper, “What... what letter is that?”

  “The one in a bright green envelope. Miss Havard tells us she opened it thinking it was for her. She was disturbed at what she read and, on looking at the envelope again, realised it was addressed to you. I think she managed to catch up with you this morning to hand it over, hoping to be able to offer her help in dealing with it. Would you let us have a look at it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “But surely you remember?”

  She gave a high-pitched little giggle. “Remember? Remember what?”

  “That Miss Havard,” Matt said, slowly and patiently, “came round early this morning and gave you a letter, which was addressed to you, but had been delivered to her by mistake. She thought it looked like a poison pen letter. They’re very nasty and really ought to be reported to the police so that we can deal with the perpetrator.”

  “This is all such nonsense. I don’t know what Fabia Havard may have chosen to tell you, but it’s lies, all lies. I can’t imagine what’s got into her.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Griffiths, but I don’t think she had any reason to lie.”

  “Why not, may I ask? She’s a dreadful troublemaker that woman. And so... so coarse.” A glint of pure malice came into her small eyes. “I suppose it was from her that you heard about Amber being so rude to me. She c
ame upon us on the bridge but did nothing to help me in my predicament. Of course, she was always far too friendly with that girl.”

  “What was in this letter?” Matt asked, trying to drag her back to the matter in hand. But it was no good.

  “Of course, you stick together, you people. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll even stand by someone who’s been thrown out of the police force, for the Lord knows what kind of disgusting misconduct. Oh, I know they call it sick leave, but we all know what that means. I’ve read about it in the papers. No doubt she had affairs. These artists...” Spittle sprayed from her mouth with the force of the words as she stared at him malevolently, “they’re never to be trusted, particularly not with men. Do you know why she was sacked? Because that’s what it amounts to, isn’t it? Do you know what she got up to?”

  Matt felt a wave of anger rise up inside him and a desperate urge to get away from this poisonous little woman. He glanced at Dilys. There was a look of disgust on her face, though tinged with pity. But he couldn’t find it in himself to pity Rhona Griffiths, not at the moment.

  “Miss Griffiths,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “we do need to see that letter. Please would you allow us to do so?”

  “No! No! There was no letter. It’s gone. I... I burnt–” A hand flew up to her mouth as she realised that she’d given herself away.

  “That is a great pity,” Matt said. He got to his feet, looked down at the spluttering woman before him, and said, “I’m sorry you don’t wish to co-operate with us. I realise it must be very difficult–”

  “Enough! I will not be subjected to any more of this... this–” She jumped up from her chair. “I would like you to leave now. You’re… you’re harassing me.” She looked as if any minute she’d burst into tears.

  “Very well, but if you change your mind I would like you to phone me on this number.” He held out a card with his name and phone number on it. She snatched it from his hand but didn’t look at it. “And do remember, Miss Griffiths, this is a murder enquiry and we have the power to subpoena evidence if we feel it is necessary.”

  As they walked rapidly down the path to the gate, with the echo of the slammed door ringing in their ears, Dilys muttered, “Shouldn’t we have insisted, sir, on seeing the letter or, well, the remains of it?”

  “Probably, but the likelihood is she flushed the remains down the loo or something. We’ll leave her to stew a bit, try again when she’s had time to think back on how revealing some of what she said actually was.” But in the back of his mind Matt felt he’d handled things badly. He’d wanted to get away from Rhona Griffiths as fast as possible, away from the stream of poison that had clouded his judgement. He should have pressed her, insisted she tell them what she’d done with the letter, or at least told them what it had said. Too late now.

  “God Almighty.” This was strong language for Dilys. Unconsciously she echoed his thoughts. “What a poisonous woman. And she’s certainly one for the men, isn’t she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First her eyes light up like beacons at the sight of you, then it’s the MP, Neville Breverton, and how charismatic he is, then it’s Mr Cole and what a marvellous teacher and father he is, and how his wife neglects him! I wouldn’t mind betting she was jealous as hell of Amber and all those boyfriends.”

  “You might be right. Remember what Fabia said about how attractive Amber was, loads of sexual chemistry. Who knows what contact with such a person does to a warped little woman like that? And Amber seemed to have delighted in winding her up, using language she knew would get her going, like suggesting she needed a good screw for a start.” Matt gave Dilys a twisted grin.

  “Ugh!” she said.

  Once again Matt glanced at Fabia’s door as they went down the path, but there was still no sign of life. He couldn’t help wondering if she was at home and what she was doing. Thinking about it, he decided she was probably as preoccupied with Amber’s murder as he was. He felt a wave of frustration at not being able to go over the case with her – how he would have loved to do so! In the past they’d spent many an evening sitting in his flat or her house, discussing their current case, takeaway cartons spread around, wine glasses gradually emptying. The way each of them worked had complemented the other, Matt thought, he with his analytical, precise dissecting of evidence, Fabia with her flair for going straight to the heart of a problem, and her famous hunches. They’d had many an argument about method, but had always been as one in their determination to get a result. And now, with this gulf of misunderstanding and anger between them, there was no way he could phone her when he came up against a problem, pick her brains and have her flair and intuition help him towards a solution.

  He asked Dilys to drive. He wanted time to think. Settling himself in the passenger seat, he put his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. Now he and Fabia had been thrown together again, surely they could sort out their differences – couldn’t they? But the yawning gulf between them couldn’t be crossed easily; it’s my fault we fell out, he thought, admitting that to himself for the first time since that last awful row. If this was going to be sorted, it had to come from him, he decided, but how? That was the problem. How on earth was he going to do it?

  Chapter 12

  Cath was struggling valiantly with a clothes rail when Fabia arrived at the church hall. “Bloody thing. This notch is meant to slip into there, but it just won’t.”

  “Nobody else here yet?” Fabia asked as she helped to put the rail together.

  “No. Gwen Breverton said she’d come, and Rhona too.”

  “Oh Lord.”

  “I know,” said Cath, smiling ruefully, “but she is very good at offering to help, not that she doesn’t always give herself a pat on the back for doing so. What did you do about that letter in the end?”

  “I knocked and handed it over, offered to help but she wouldn’t have it, just slammed the door in my face.”

  “Ah well. It’s up to her I suppose.”

  “Who else do you think will turn up?” Fabia asked.

  “Mary Page, you know, Dr Page’s wife, and some of the girls from the choir. I do hope they come. It’ll take us ages otherwise, and I’ve still got a sermon to write.” Cath ran a hand through her curls. “What can I say, Fabia? I’ve been going over and over it, trying to think of an appropriate text, I even looked up the words murder and suicide in my Complete Concordance, but that wasn’t really any help. I suppose I could use ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone’, or should I make it more practical? ‘Don’t let your kids do drugs’ and stuff, that’s assuming Amber was. But when it comes down to it, I’m going to be standing in that pulpit not knowing if Amber’s murderer is one of the faces looking up at me. It’s a nightmare.”

  “It is, indeed,” Fabia said, and put an arm round Cath’s shoulders. “But I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You always do. You’ve an instinct for saying the right thing at the right time.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do,” Fabia said firmly.

  “Thank you. Ah well, we’d better get on with this. We’ve got to go through all the clothes and hang up the ones that are suitable. They’re in the black sacks over there. Those that aren’t good enough can go back into the sacks for the next jumble sale. Let’s get going.”

  “Might as well.”

  But still Cath didn’t move. “Awful to think that when I was collecting the bags from Cecily on Friday morning, Amber was already dead. It seems like aeons ago now.”

  “That’s the way of these things,” Fabia sympathised. “One minute, life’s pottering along just as normal, the next, everything’s turned upside down.”

  “All I can think about is that poor child and her parents. I called on Cecily, but Murray said she’d been sedated by the doctor, which is just as well, I suppose, but it won’t bring Amber back, will it? I’ll try again tomorrow, she’ll need an awful lot of support.”

  “She will indeed,�
� Fabia said bleakly.

  “Do you know anything more about what happened?”

  “Not much. It definitely wasn’t suicide. If it’s any comfort she was probably unconscious when she went into the water, so she wouldn’t have known much about it.”

  “She drowned then?”

  “It’s not been confirmed yet.”

  “Oh God! It’s awful. Only eighteen. She had so much to live for.” Her round, normally smiling face was drawn down and sombre. “Heaven knows when the body will be released for burial. And then there’ll be the funeral. I don’t think I’ve ever held one for a murder victim before.”

  Fabia could think of no response to this and was relieved when there was a rattle at the main door of the hall and it was pushed open.

  “Coo-ee,” Rhona said as she peered round the door, and her feeling of relief died. She bustled into the room, glanced at Fabia then cut her dead. Obviously, she still hadn’t been forgiven. What with the letter and all, it was hardly surprising.

  Rhona was talking to Cath, sounding friendlier towards her than Fabia had ever heard before. “So sorry I’m late. I’ve been so busy. Forgot the time, silly me.” She was followed by three teenage girls, all of whom Fabia recognised as members of Cath’s church choir, and a moment later by Gwen Breverton and Mary Page.

  Cath explained what had to be done. The three girls took two black bags and started to sort through them, talking in rapid but inaudible whispers as they did so. The doctor’s wife and Rhona took two more.

  “Damn,” Cath said, after doing a rapid count. “I’ve left a couple of bags at the vicarage. I’ll just go and fetch them. Won’t be long.”

  With a sinking heart Fabia realised this meant she was lumbered with Gwen. There was really no way she could avoid it, much as she’d dearly love to do so.

  For Fabia one of the enduring memories of her school life had been the unfulfilled desire to be popular. She’d always been streets ahead of her peers academically, but popular she was not. And when it came to boys it was even worse. Too sharp, too defensive and, she’d comforted herself, too damned intelligent. But Gwen, née Jenkins, now Breverton, had been an altogether different kettle of fish.