Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  At school she’d been in the year above Fabia. She’d always pushed the uniform to its limits, her skirts shorter and her blouses more revealing than anyone else’s. Her rather hard, strongly accented voice would rise above any other noise in the school grounds. And after school she was invariably the centre of a coterie of boys.

  Fabia had envied Gwen, but despised herself for doing so. She remembered that time all too clearly and, even though none of it really mattered any more, she could still conjure up the feelings, the heartache and insecurity.

  Looking at Gwen now she wondered how much effort she’d put into acquiring the deeper, softer voice and getting rid of the accent; how much work had gone into developing her present poise, and how much money was spent on her oh-so-different clothes. She also wondered who was the brains behind the Breverton success story. Neville was clever, and totally unscrupulous, as she’d good reason to know, but she couldn’t help thinking that the better brain was Gwen’s.

  Fabia gave herself a little shake. What stupid brooding at a time like this. Anyway, there was a job to do. Might as well get on with it and get it over. Dragging a bag forward she asked coolly, “Shall we start on these? I’ll unload, you hang up, okay?”

  “Fine.” Gwen’s tone was clipped. She’d obviously no liking for the situation either, which made Fabia feel a little better. Being a thorn in Gwen’s flesh was not altogether unpleasing.

  For a while they worked in polite, frosty silence, but it wasn’t long before Fabia rebelled. Sod this, she thought, why shouldn’t I do a bit of probing while I’m here. It’s nothing to do with the past. This is now and there’s one subject on all our minds, no point in pretending it’s not.

  “Your Vanessa was a friend of Amber Morgan’s, wasn’t she?” she said. Might as well come straight to the point.

  “Yes, she was.” Gwen’s voice was flat and noncommittal.

  “Such a dreadful thing to happen. I hope she’s coping okay.” She glanced at the other woman’s face as she spoke, but it gave nothing away.

  “She’s upset. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Absolutely. Has she any theories as to what’s behind this tragic business?”

  “No.” The word was snapped out. “No. Of course not.”

  “But you must have talked about it.”

  “No... yes... well, a bit.” Now she was beginning to sound rattled. Fabia’s curiosity was aroused and she probed further.

  “Has she been interviewed by the police yet?”

  “No. Why should she be?”

  “Routine mainly. They’ll want to speak to all of Amber’s friends. Vanessa could be very useful to them. She might know things she doesn’t even realise are relevant. It’s often the case with friends of the victim. For instance, any man Amber was involved with would almost certainly be known to her girlfriends.”

  “What makes you say that?” Gwen stood gazing at Fabia across the pile of clothes, a look of horror in her eyes.

  What on earth’s going on here? Fabia wondered and said, “Experience, really. Interview a teenager’s parents and you’ll usually find they know very little about their own child’s activities, but interview that teenager’s friends and you’ll get the information you need.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. Vanessa would have no idea...” There was a note of panic in Gwen’s voice. She took a deep breath. “Chief Inspector Lambert is coming to consult Neville tomorrow morning, but he mentioned nothing about interviewing Vanessa. Perhaps he realises it’s not necessary.” She was gradually recovering her poise.

  Consult, no less, thought Fabia. Let’s hope Matt realises that’s what’s expected of him.

  “Anyway,” Gwen went on. “I’d rather not talk about it. It feels so ghoulish to be dwelling on the poor girl’s death.” Now she had herself well in hand. “I don’t suppose this kind of thing affects you much, what with your having no children. I seem to remember you always were rather thick skinned. Police work must have suited you. Although I gather you’ve been on what’s euphemistically called sick leave. How long is it now? Two years? A long time.”

  Fabia looked straight at her, wondering how much she knew, and surprised such a look of loathing in Gwen’s eyes that, for a moment, she was taken aback. But a second later it was gone, the shutters had come down. What could cause such a reaction? Had she imagined it? After all, if damage had been done, it had been by Neville Breverton, and she’d been the victim, not the other way round. She pulled a coat out of the sack, but her mind wasn’t on what she was doing. She hung it on a hanger, not really noticing the tear under the arm and a grubby mark down one side, then pulled out a tartan skirt that had definitely seen better days and hung that up too.

  Nothing more was said and when Cath returned, Fabia moved over to help her. Unfortunately, this brought her nearer to Rhona who looked round and saw her. Her eyes widened, and she licked at her top lip with the tip of the tongue, back and forth, back and forth, a mannerism Fabia had noticed before when Rhona was agitated. She decided she really ought to mention the letter. There was no point in pretending it didn’t exist, and since there was no-one else within earshot she said, “I’m sorry about that letter business, Rhona. Can I help at all? Horrid things. You’d best show it to the police.”

  “Be quiet,” Rhona said in a sibilant whisper, then added, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Exasperated, Fabia tried again. “I did see what that letter was, and I know it must have upset you. Would you like me to tell them what was in it? I really would advise you to tell Chief Inspector Lambert about it. You wouldn’t want him to think you were withholding evidence, would you?”

  Rhona’s protuberant eyes seemed to be in danger of popping out of her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean, evidence?”

  But Fabia knew she couldn’t tell Rhona about the diary. Annoyed with herself for saying too much already, she didn’t respond immediately to Rhona’s question. She stood there wondering what to say next, but Rhona saved her the trouble.

  “I know my duty. I told him everything I should. He was definitely most grateful, a very nice young man, I have to say. But I certainly won’t be telling you what I told him. You seem to forget, my dear Fabia,” she said with a spiteful little titter, “that you’re no longer an active member of the police force. Although it does seem rather strange, your situation. It does make one wonder what the full story is.”

  Fabia stood staring after her as she flounced off. Bloody woman. Gwen first, and then Rhona, was more than she’d bargained for. Definitely time to get out of here. If she didn’t escape soon she’d probably throttle somebody.

  “Cath, sorry love, but I must get going. If you want any more help I can give you some time early tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve nearly finished. Thanks for coming.”

  “Oh shit! Oh shit!” They both turned, startled, to see who’d spoken. It was one of the girls from the choir. She was standing holding up a pair of dark purple satin flares, gazing at them with a stricken look on her face. A moment later she let them drop, covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. Cath and Fabia hurried over.

  “What is it, Dionne?” Cath asked, putting an arm round her shaking shoulders. But the distraught girl shook her head, unable to speak. White in the face, her friend answered for her.

  “They were Amber’s. We both remember her wearing them. It just brings it home to you like. It got to Dionne a bit.”

  “Oh dear,” Cath said, her arm still round the girl’s shoulders. “That’s one of the bags I collected from Cecily. Let me do the rest. You two get off. You’ve done enough.”

  “Are you sure you can manage?” Fabia asked.

  “Yes, of course. There’s only half a bag to do.”

  Neither of them had noticed Rhona sidling up. “I’m afraid I really don’t think I could help, Catherine. I don’t think I could bring myself to touch that child’s clothing. I’d find it far too distressing. My dea
r Da always said I had such delicate sensibilities.”

  Before Cath could say anything, Fabia intervened. “Did he now, Rhona? Funny, it’s not something I’d ever have said of you. In fact, I’d say, deep down, you’re as tough as old boots. Strange how we all have different views of people.”

  She turned her back on a gaping Rhona and looked directly at Cath, surprised a wicked gleam of amusement in the vicar’s eyes, and said her goodbyes quickly. Best escape before she said any more.

  Shoulders hunched and walking as fast as she could, Fabia headed for home. Why did she let these blasted women get under her skin? Gwen with her venom and Rhona with her nosiness and malicious hinting. Poisonous pair. Thank God for people like Cath.

  But still she had to admit it hadn’t been an entirely unproductive hour. Maybe when she got home she’d give Matt a ring, find out how things were going. What reason could she give? Surely, he’d be interested in Gwen and Rhona’s behaviour this morning. But she knew she was grasping at straws.

  It wasn’t until she was nearly home that she realised something was niggling at the back of her mind, just out of reach. Something that slipped up from her subconscious for a second and disappeared again. Damn! What was it? But there was no point in worrying away at it. From experience, she knew she’d just have to wait for it to come to the surface again.

  Chapter 13

  Fabia was nearly home, head down and still walking fast, when she almost walked straight into someone coming the other way. Looking up, she saw it was Mrs Pritchard, a cleaner who worked for several people in the village, including Fabia occasionally.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Pritchard. I was miles away.”

  “Oh Miss Havard, oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs Pritchard said, a hand to her chest. “I’m so glad I bumped into you. I just don’t know what to do for the best.”

  Fabia put a hand on the woman’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just... well... after this awful business with Amber. I hardly know what to do. I wonder if, seeing as how you was in the police force, perhaps you’d advise me.”

  At mention of Amber, Fabia’s interest sharpened. “Of course, I’ll do my best. What’s the problem?” They were standing just by Fabia’s front gate. “Look, come in. You’re obviously upset. I’ll make a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.”

  * * *

  Matt got back to Newport mid-morning. The divers had found Amber’s bike in the river, not far from the bridge and stuck fast in the mud, and he’d been out to have a word with them. Forensics would now go over it with a fine-tooth comb, but he doubted they’d find anything useful. As he got out of the car, he was hailed by a thickset man in uniform and recognised Inspector Alun Richards from Traffic.

  “You on this case up to Pontygwyn?” Richards asked.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Bit of a coincidence. I saw Fabia Havard Wednesday evening, she lives in Pontygwyn. A few of us get together occasionally for old times’ sake, this time it was at hers. We were celebrating her resignation, if that’s what you call it. Nothing to celebrate in my opinion. Anyway, asking after you, she was.” There was more than a glint of mischief in the man’s eyes.

  “Was she?” Matt said shortly.

  “Didn’t know about your promotion, which surprised me, since you two used to be so close.” There was a lot more than mischief there now. Matt clenched his teeth, willing himself not to react as Alun went on, “Anyway, should be useful to you, having Fabia on the spot. One of the best officers ever, that woman. Tragedy what’s happened to her. Still, you’ll be able to pick her brains about the local scene, should be a help.”

  “You could call it that,” Matt said coolly. Alun fell into step beside him. Matt couldn’t resist asking, “So, you see a lot of Fabia, do you?”

  “Not that much, but we always enjoy it when we do. Got to make sure she realises some of us don’t believe the crap that’s been put about concerning her.”

  “What crap’s that?” Matt was determined not to rise to the bait.

  “Come on, butt, you can’t tell me you don’t know all about it. It must be difficult for her to have that bastard, Neville Breverton, living so close.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Alun stopped by the door of the station and glanced up at him, a curious look in his eyes. He frowned. “You telling me you really don’t know what went on?”

  “I try not to take much notice of gossip,” Matt said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It sounded like a snub, and he really wanted to hear more. “And, of course, I was away when she was put on sick leave.”

  “But you must have asked her, or at least asked around?” Alun’s tone was a mixture of incredulity and accusation.

  Matt knew he should be getting on, there was so much to do, and yet he desperately wanted to know what Richards had to say. “Look,” he said quickly, “could we have a drink at some point? I’d like to pick your brains. Pontygwyn’s part of your manor, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, if you think it’ll help,” Alun said, then with a hard look, he added. “And as for Fabia, I know she doesn’t like it talked about, but I wouldn’t like to think you’d got the wrong idea about her, see. She was a bloody good officer, one of the best, and she was shafted good and proper.”

  “Well, let me buy you a drink, this evening maybe, and you can put me in the picture.”

  “Okay. Make it the Cledwyn Arms, in Derwen Road, it’s my local. I should be there round nine.”

  “Good, I’ll be there.”

  Matt took the steps two at a time, pleased that he’d made what he thought of as the first move towards sorting out the Fabia situation. He threw his coat over a chair and sat down at his desk. He was just about to start on a mountain of messages, but barely had time to look at the first one when he was summoned to his chief’s office.

  * * *

  Chief Superintendent Rees-Jones glared up at him as he walked in, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting above his flat boxer’s nose. He was a big man, running a little to fat now with a somewhat unhealthy flush to his skin. Ripe for a heart attack, Matt thought, if he doesn’t get more exercise and cut down on the rich food and booze. Rees-Jones’s love of the table was legendary within the force, although some of the stories about his capacity were almost certainly exaggerated. He sat back in his chair and Matt could hear it protest as he took a seat opposite.

  “I’ve had a call from Neville Breverton,” Rees-Jones said. “He’s doesn’t want this drowning case dragging on and the tabloids getting hold of it. He lives in Pontygwyn.”

  As if I didn’t know that, Matt thought, irritated. It’s only a week since you sent me to waste my time talking about his bloody security system, remember? And as to the tabloids, best of luck to them when it comes to the Neville Brevertons of this world. But all he said was, “I know, sir.”

  “Well, unpleasant for him, all this happening on his doorstep. What’s worse is his daughter was a friend of the dead girl.”

  “It’s pretty unpleasant for everybody I think,” Matt said, “particularly the victim’s family.”

  The scowl on Rees-Jones ruddy, humourless face became more pronounced. “No need to use that tone with me, Chief Inspector.”

  “No, sir.” But Matt didn’t apologise.

  “Have you made any progress at all?” he snapped.

  “It’s early days yet. I’ve got the incident room set up and my team’s hard at work. Dr Curtis fast-tracked the PM for us and it’s confirmed now that we’ve a murder investigation on our hands.”

  “Sure of that?”

  “As I said, it’s confirmed. I’ve spoken to the step-father, but I’ve yet to have a word with the girl’s mother. At the moment her doctor’s got her heavily sedated. I’ve also spoken to Fabia Havard, who found the body.” Matt tensed, waiting for a reaction to Fabia’s name. His boss’s head jerked up and he stared at Matt, eyes cold, the line of his jaw tensing as if he’d clenched his teeth, but he didn’t actuall
y say a word. Matt would have expected him to make some kind of comment, probably derogatory, but he didn’t. Strange. After a moment Rees-Jones looked down at his desk, straightened a file, adjusted the position of two pens, then said shortly, “Go on.”

  Matt went on to tell him about the search for and discovery of the bicycle, about the diary, missing out the help he’d received from Fabia, and then touched on his interviews with Craig and Rhona Griffiths, ending up with his plans for the rest of the day.

  When he’d finished, the Chief Superintendent glared across the desk at him. Matt got the distinct impression he was trying to pick on some area with which he could find fault. He was obviously unsuccessful. “Just put your back into it and make sure you show Breverton the respect due to his position,” he said, and followed that up by growling, “I want a quick result on this one, Lambert. Understand?”

  Matt said nothing.

  “Do you need any more men?”

  “I could always do with more help, particularly with the house to house,” Matt said, finding it hard to believe his luck. Maybe having an MP involved wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Well, you’ve got my say so if you need to call in extra. And for God’s sake, get this sorted.”

  Feeling rebellious, Matt went back to his office and told Dilys to organise a visit to the Brevertons. “I want to interview all three of them, understand? And the sooner the better.”

  It took her some time, but in the end, she arranged it for early the following day. “Mrs Breverton says she’ll be there at eleven tomorrow morning, after church. She’s not sure about her husband, he’s going up to London at some point. Says he’s got an important meeting at the Treasury first thing Monday. She made a point of telling me all about it. Obviously, the small matter of a murdered teenager comes a poor second. Oh, and we’re not to be late.” And she left the room quickly before he could throw something at her.