Chapter 16
The silence that greeted this remark was tangible. Each of the Brevertons shifted under the weight of it. Matt waited, satisfied that he’d been right about interviewing the three of them together. Neville Breverton had gone very still, his face utterly expressionless. His wife showed no sign of what she was thinking, but every vestige of colour had drained from her face causing the blusher on her cheeks to stand out unpleasantly, and their daughter leant closer to her mother as if for protection, but her eyes never left her father’s face.
Matt looked at the MP, eyebrows raised in query, but Breverton still had himself well in hand. He was obviously used to thinking on his feet.
“Ah, yes. Stupid to forget.” He gave Matt a practised smile. “In a life as busy as mine these things just go out of the mind. But Vanessa’s right. I took the girl home, and on the way back developed a puncture. Damned nuisance, but there it is. These things happen.” He was well under control now, gazing blandly at Matt, almost defying him to probe further.
Matt took up the challenge. “Whereabouts was this?”
“The puncture? Good Lord man, hardly relevant, is it?”
Matt waited.
“Church Road,” Breverton snapped, “towards the top, just outside the vicarage. That vicar woman came out and asked if I wanted any help.”
Matt made an effort to hide his disappointment. “And the time?”
“Half nine, ten, something like that,” Breverton said, waving an impatient hand as if the question was unnecessary in the first place. “It was extremely inconvenient because there was a programme on Channel 4 about strengthening the laws on domestic violence I particularly wanted to see. You probably know I’m a junior minister in the Home Office now.”
Matt would have liked to have said, “if you think that’s going to impress me you can think again,” but he didn’t, he simply ignored the statement. “Thank you, sir. And you, Mrs Breverton, have you seen Amber recently?”
“Well obviously I see quite a lot of my daughter’s friends since I’m at home more. Amber was here last Saturday, before the young all went off to Newport, but I haven’t seen her since then.”
“Were you happy with the friendship between Amber and your daughter?”
Gwen Breverton didn’t answer immediately. With great concentration she picked at a thread on the cuff of her cardigan and Matt noticed that her hands were trembling. Finally, she took a deep breath and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Earlier you said they weren’t that close,” he said, his tone expressionless. “I got the impression you were glad about that; that you didn’t want them to be.”
“Mu-um–” Vanessa’s protest was cut off by a sharp movement of her mother’s hand.
“I may have thought Amber a little wild, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean I disapproved of the girl exactly. And surely, now the poor child is dead, we needn’t dwell on the negative aspects of her character.”
Very smooth, thought Matt, but not good enough. “So,” he persisted, “you had no strong objections to this friendship?”
“What is all this, Chief Inspector?” Neville Breverton intervened sharply. “My wife’s relationship with... opinion of the girl is hardly relevant, is it?”
Matt turned to give him a straight look, a look that clearly said, don’t give me that. “All Amber’s relationships are relevant in the circumstances,” he said, “of paramount importance, in fact.” He held the man’s gaze for a second and, just before Breverton looked away, Matt knew the man was afraid. Interesting, and a distinct advantage. It meant he might make mistakes.
“Oh, very well. I suppose you’re only doing your job.” He turned to his wife. “Didn’t you tell me, darling, that you thought Amber... sorry sweetheart.” He cast a charming smile to his daughter and then continued, “might be a bad influence on Nessa? Or was that another of the youngsters that seem to have the run of the house?”
Clever, Matt thought, very clever. He waited for Gwen Breverton’s reaction to this.
“Well, I might have said something of the sort,” she said, as if admitting a fault for which she felt no guilt at all. “Poor girl, she’d had a hard time one way and another. I believe her father died when she was very young, that’s bound to be damaging. And Cecily has never been the strongest of mothers.”
But Matt wasn’t taken in. There was no sympathy in this statement, just a demonstration of feelings she felt her audience expected her to have.
“Look, this is the pits,” Vanessa suddenly burst out. “Amber was my mate, my best mate. You knew that, Mum, and you’re talking about her as if she was some intruder. Have you all forgotten? She’s dead!” Her voice rose, but she was quelled by her mother’s hand gripping her arm.
“Nessa darling, we know how difficult this is for you. I’m sure the chief inspector will let you go upstairs now.” She turned her eyes on Matt with a look of loathing strangely mixed with entreaty. “Perhaps my daughter could be allowed to go?”
Before he had the chance to answer, the girl did so herself. “No! I want to stay. I want to know what’s going on.”
“But sweetheart–” Her father got no further.
“Dad. She was my friend.” The emphasis was not lost on Matt. “And I want to be involved. I care about her, I want to know who killed her even if you don’t.”
There was a loaded silence during which Matt could just hear the scrape of Dilys’s pen on paper. He decided to change tack, concentrate on the daughter. But it didn’t work. Perhaps she was too frightened of her parents, her mother’s arm round her shoulder controlling her, her father’s hard look. For the next half hour Matt did his damnedest to break down their barriers, create a chink in the family armour, but it was no good. He felt he might have come close with the daughter, but she turned sullen and monosyllabic after her outburst. Maybe an interview with the girl on her own would be useful, trouble is he’d have to get her parents’ permission, and he doubted that would be forthcoming. He decided to let them stew for a while and brought the interview to a close.
“Thank you all very much for your time,” he said as Breverton ushered him and Dilys towards the front door. “If anything occurs to you that you think might be helpful or relevant, however insignificant, perhaps you’d contact my office?”
“Of course,” Gwen Breverton said, her relief at their departure making her more gracious now. “My husband will be in London tomorrow, but Vanessa and I will be here.”
Her husband frowned at this but soon recovered. Affable now he was about to see the back of them, he said, “Dreadful tragedy. Dreadful. Anything we can do to help – of course, of course.”
As Matt stood for a second on the doorstep, he looked back across the hall to where Vanessa Breverton stood in the lounge doorway. But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on her father and in them was a strange look, part fear, part triumph, part something else indefinable. Matt wondered what it meant and decided it’d be a good idea to arrange that talk with Vanessa sooner rather than later.
* * *
Matt glanced at his watch as they drove away from Pontygwyn House. It was nearly twelve thirty.
“Why don’t we stop at The Oaks and have an early lunch? I could do with a pint and a sandwich. Might be useful if there are any locals in there,” he said. “Then we can go on up and talk to Paul Vaughan. What time did you fix to see him?”
“Half one.”
“That gives us about an hour.”
Directly they walked into the pub they attracted the curious, covert glances that police men and women are so used to. He and Dilys weren’t in uniform, but the news of their presence in Pontygwyn had obviously travelled to every corner of the town. There was no doubt they were recognised. Two men leaning on the bar looked round over their shoulders, raised eyebrows to each other, then turned their backs. A couple sitting in the window looked up, mouth agape in mid-sentence, then hastily returned to their lunch. Conversation throughout the room stopped for a second, t
hen resumed slightly louder.
George Evans, behind the bar, polished a glass over and over and watched them out of the corner of his eye. Maggie came in, took one glaring look at them, and left the room. There was no sign of Craig. Perhaps his mother had gone off to warn him to keep out of the way.
When they went up to the bar George ceased his polishing, gave them a meaningless professional smile, and said, “Good morning, Chief Inspector, Sergeant, what can I get for you?” So now anyone who hadn’t known who they were would be warned.
They ordered drinks and asked for the menu, George pointed out the specials board. “Very nice is my Maggie’s steak and kidney, and I’ve got some salmon in if you fancy it.”
Matt wondered idly if it was legally caught, said he thought they just wanted sandwiches, and once they’d chosen, the landlord suggested they find a table and promised to bring their food over as soon as it was ready.
They chose an out-of-the-way corner where they wouldn’t be overheard. Once settled, Matt turned to Dilys, his expression questioning. “I get the idea you weren’t particularly impressed with the Breverton family.”
Dilys’s lips twisted in scorn. “Too right. Quite apart from what we know about him and Amber, he’s not what I’d call a good Labour man, not living in that mansion. My Da would swivel in his grave at the very thought.”
Matt smiled. Dilys’s father had been a convenor for the Miners’ Union at the last pit in the Rhondda valley. In his day, it would have been more than a Labour member’s seat in the House was worth to flaunt such wealth in the face of his electorate.
“Ah, but times have changed, although perhaps they’re moving back again now.”
“I don’t know, all seems pretty fishy to me; sod the lot of them, I say.”
Matt smiled, “Trouble is we’re stuck with them, well, with Breverton, for now.”
There was an interruption as George appeared, two large plates overflowing with sandwiches and salad garnish in his enormous fists. Once he’d gone back to the bar, having established they had all they needed, Dilys went on. “It’s not just Breverton that’s hiding something. Did you notice the look his daughter gave him as we left?”
“I did.”
“Looked scared of him somehow, but there was more to it than that. And he’s certainly a cool customer, I’ll give him that. So’s his wife. But that daughter, she might be useful.”
“We’re going to have to be careful, though. I want him lulled into a false sense of security while we do some delving into his past. Hopefully Daniels will come up with something useful.”
“But shouldn’t we press on now we’ve got Mrs Pritchard’s information?”
“I deliberately didn’t ask him about that, nor his wife about what she’d been burning. I don’t want them knowing she’s spoken to us, yet.” Matt took a gulp of his beer. It was good, not the usual characterless fizz. He wondered idly if The Oaks was a free house, then came back to the matter in hand.
“And that bit about the car breaking down, for goodness sake, who does he think he’s kidding?”
“I know,” said Matt, “but there is the vicar. We’ll be having a word with her. She might throw some light on it.”
For a while they ate in silence, thinking their own thoughts, until Dilys said, her tone tentative, “Sir? I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what exactly is it you want to get out of this research Chloe’s doing?”
Matt didn’t answer immediately, not sure how much to tell her. “For a start I want to find out more about Breverton’s activities on Cardiff City Council and whether he was involved in the development at Cwmberis three years ago.”
“But what does that have to do with this business?”
“We know now about his relationship with Amber, and there’s such a thing as pillow talk. He might have said something which, later on, he realised was incriminating. Maybe she went further than those letters, tried a bit of blackmail on him. He’s an ambitious man, he might think getting rid of her was a better option than risking her talking to the wrong people. I know it’s a long shot, but quite apart from that–” He paused, not sure how to go on.
Dilys sat patiently waiting, her eyes wide and honest. He smiled at her, thinking how glad he was to be working with her, with her straightforward attitude to life. There were never any hidden agendas with Dilys. “To be truthful I’m trawling for as much information as I can get about what happened two years ago, with Fabia I mean,” he told her. “I want to find out exactly what went on with that fraud case Fabia was on just before she took the damn sick leave. I think there’s a slim chance it could have something to do with this case, but, even if it hasn’t, I still want to know, and this is a good excuse to put someone onto doing that research.”
“Good idea.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. I like Fabia Havard, and now I’ve met her I really can’t believe half the gossip I’ve heard. I think she was probably treated very badly, I wonder if the same would have happened if she’d been a man. It’s about time someone set the record straight if there was any funny business going on.”
Matt could think of no response to this. He felt a mixture of guilt and shame surge up inside him. Even Dilys, having known Fabia for a matter of days, seemed to be on her side. Were there sides in this? Yes, he thought there were, and he now knew which one he should be on. The problem was how to convince Fabia of that after all this time.
Chapter 17
Up St Madoc’s Road, past Well House where the Coles lived, and a few hundred yards beyond St Madoc’s school grounds was a pair of ornate wrought iron gates. Carved into the granite wall and picked out in gold were the words, Bryn-y-Mor Lodge. Tall, neatly clipped conifers shaded it from the road, and rose bushes lined either side of the drive, with lawns and neat flower beds beyond. It was obvious Paul Vaughan could afford a full-time gardener.
The house itself was an attractive building, modern, long and low, built in a style reminiscent of a Spanish hacienda. But, in spite of this, it didn’t look entirely out of place in this Welsh rural setting, in fact it had a smugly permanent air as it crouched, gazing out over the fields and hills beyond.
They parked the car and mounted two shallow semi-circular steps to the heavy oak front door and, when Dilys pressed the bell, they could hear a peel of music echoing through the house. She grimaced up at Matt. “Common as muck, my Nan would have said. I ask you, what kind of a doorbell does he think that is?”
The door was opened by a bald man with a broken nose and a damaged ear. If it hadn’t been for his neat pinstripe trousers and black jacket, he would have been the epitome of a retired bare-knuckle fighter. His small eyes looked them up and down and, from the expression on his face, Matt gathered he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. Matt took out his ID card and showed it to the man.
“Chief Inspector Lambert and Sergeant Bevan. We’d like to see Mr Vaughan, please.”
The man barely glanced at the card and didn’t give him a direct answer. “You can stay here,” he said, and stepped aside to let them in. “I’ll check with his nibs.”
“Thank you,” said Matt to his retreating back as the man disappeared through a door on the right.
“A Londoner, I think,” commented Dilys dryly.
“And used to be a boxer, I wouldn’t mind betting.”
A moment later the door opened again and a man came striding out. He had show business printed all over him. From his slightly long, swept-back brown hair, his cream shirt and black leather waistcoat, striped loose-fitting trousers, to his Gucci shoes, he yelled it. But when he opened his mouth, just like his henchman, it was straightforward London backstreet boy that you heard, so much so that it almost sounded artificial.
“Afternoon. What can I do you for?”
Matt introduced them both again and explained why they were there.
“Ah yea, poor little cow.” In spite of the phraseology, he sounded genuinely sorry. “She was a good kid. It was what’s called fo
ul play, was it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Matt said.
“Can’t get me brain round the kind of bastard that’d do a thing like that. Come in, come in. Anything I can do to help find the bugger, you only have to say.”
They followed him across the black and white tiled hall to an enormous sitting room. The deep pile carpet had a pattern of beige and white swirls, and the white leather chairs and sofas and all the chrome and glass gave an impression of limitless money. In contrast to these pale shades, above the fireplace hung a vast and garishly coloured oil painting of a nude woman in a rather suggestive pose.
“Siddown, siddown,” Vaughan waved a casual hand in invitation. “So, shoot.”
Dilys perched primly on the edge of a massive armchair and Matt tried not to smile. Her Welsh chapel upbringing caught up with her at times, and he could feel the disapproval oozing from her every pore. That painting definitely wasn’t her style. Never mind. Do her good to see how the other half lives occasionally.
“When did you last see Amber, Mr Vaughan?” Matt asked.
“About three weeks ago I think,” he said, frowning in an effort to remember. “Yes, that was it. It was before I went away. Haven’t been around for a while. Me and my woman have been to the States for a couple of weeks, only got back yesterday.”
Matt glanced at Dilys, remembering Craig had suggested Amber might have been with Vaughan on Friday night. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. She’d noticed and would check with the airlines.
“That was it,” Vaughan went on, clasping his knees with powerful but well-manicured hands. “Last time I saw her was to give her some tickets I’d got for her and her pals for the Death’s Head gig in Cardiff. I look after the group’s publicity and all that. She came to collect them, the tickets I mean.”
“Did you know her well?”
Matt watched as the man’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious he was considering how much to say. After a moment, he got up and began to pace up and down in front of the fireplace, then he laid an arm along the mantelpiece and turned to stare down at them.
Murder in the Valleys Page 14
