Murder in the Valleys

by Pippa McCathie

  “No, but it could have been a sudden falling out. The encounter Mrs Pritchard heard was on Monday morning, and she only heard the beginning of it. Amber was murdered some time during the night between Wednesday and Thursday. They could have ended up having a row on that Monday morning, he could have lost his temper, threatened her. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He stopped his pacing and threw himself back in the chair.

  They sat in silence for a while, both brooding on their own thoughts, then Fabia thought again of Mrs Pritchard. “Have you managed to retrieve the bits and pieces from Gwen Breverton’s fireplace?”

  “We have. There isn’t an awful lot there, just one smeared thumbprint – we don’t know whose – on a piece of the bright green paper, probably an envelope, and three scraps of lined paper with words printed in capitals.”

  “Just like Rhona’s. What words?”

  He half closed his eyes in an effort to remember. “One piece has the words ‘his women’ on it, followed by a full stop, and then the two words, ‘likes them’. Another has a few letters, barely distinguishable, and the last bit has ‘spill the’ on it, that’s all.”

  “As in ‘spill the beans’ perhaps?”

  “Possibly, but there’s no way of telling.”

  “Not an awful lot to go on,” Fabia said sympathetically.

  “No, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Not long afterwards Matt pushed himself up from his chair, saying that he’d better get going as he had a load of paperwork to do. Fabia didn’t press him to stay. He’d already told her much more than she thought he would, and discussed the case with her far more freely than she’d dared to hope.

  On the doorstep he turned back, a frown on his face. “Fabia, I want to talk to you about the–” but Fabia’s attention was distracted. Rhona’s front door had opened very slowly, her sharp face peered out and she looked down the road, away from them.

  “What on earth is she up to?” Fabia whispered to Matt. He followed her gaze. It was still the back of Rhona’s head presented to their curious gaze. A moment later the rest of Rhona slithered out. She shut the door with extreme care and crept down the path to the gate. It was obvious she’d taken great pains over her appearance. She wore a full skirted dress with a pattern of pale pink and yellow flowers, over this she’d added a short, white fake fur jacket, and a bright pink chiffon scarf kept her tight brown curls under control. On her feet were precariously high heeled sandals. In the dusk Fabia could have sworn they were pearlized candyfloss pink. If she’d been about to take part in a production of Grease, she couldn’t have been more suitably dressed.

  “What on earth?” Fabia exclaimed as they watched.

  “God knows, but she’s certainly put some effort into it,” Matt said.

  It was at this moment, just as she closed her garden gate, that Rhona turned and caught sight of them. She stumbled on the spindly heels and nearly fell, the expression on her face one of shocked consternation. “Well, I must say!” she exclaimed, and even in this light they could see the colour flood her cheeks. “The two of you standing there so quiet. What are you staring at me for?”

  “Matt was just saying how smart you look, Rhona,” Fabia gabbled, and added lamely, “Going to a party?”

  Rhona’s lips worked. “That’s none of your business. And a person doesn’t like to be spied upon.” A second later, a strangely disturbing little smile crept around the edges of her mouth. There was an air of barely suppressed excitement about her. “No, not a party. I’m meeting someone, someone special, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.” She nodded several times and then, with a quick smoothing down of her skirt and a pat to the chiffon scarf, she teetered off down the road.

  Fabia and Matt stood there in shocked silence, not quite knowing how to react. Fabia felt laughter rising up inside her, valiantly tried to suppress it, and lost the battle. A gale of slightly hysterical laughter bubbled out in spite of her efforts to suppress it. But it didn’t last long, a moment later, all desire to laugh suddenly left her. She turned to Matt, “I wouldn’t mind betting she’s meeting some man or other, which might well explain the contents of that letter, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 21

  Craig made his way up Morwydden Lane, glad of the lack of street lighting. Two of the lamps had been vandalised and the remaining one was up the church end, and that was nearly home. He should be okay. He tightened his arm across his chest and there was a rustle of plastic from the wrapped bundle hidden under his coat. Nice pair this evening, one five-pounder, one a bit heavier. Lovely fish, they were. Should bring in a tidy bit of dosh. The restaurant out past Cwmcoed Farm would pay good money for wild salmon, and ask no questions.

  Craig trudged on, thinking about Amber, feeling the misery tighten its grip round his throat. That’s why he’d gone down to get the salmon – he thought it might take his mind off things, but it hadn’t. Stupid to think it would. Anger rose inside him again. Who’d done this? Taken his best mate away from him? If those bastard police ever found out, and he doubted it the way they fucked about asking questions of the wrong people most of the time, but if they did – well, whoever it was better watch out. Craig’s fists clenched and once more the tears rose, threatening to overwhelm him. He swallowed painfully. Amb would have laughed at him, told him not to be such a wimp. But the thought brought on a shuddering sob and the tears finally escaped to roll unheeded down his cheeks.

  He wiped an arm across his face and quickened his pace, wishing he’d risked bringing the bike, but the noise would have attracted attention. Nearly home now, just coming up to the church and the street lamp outside it. His heart thumped as he heard a burst of laughter from the pub, voices calling goodnight, footsteps retreating up towards the High Street. He ducked into the corner of the vicarage garden, crouched under a rhododendron bush. For a while he stayed there, hidden by the foliage, waiting. The footsteps and voices slowly died away and, at last, silence reigned once more. He was just about to emerge from his hiding place when he heard another set of footsteps, but it was only one person this time, coming from the direction of the church, quiet, urgent, hurrying.

  Craig heard the lychgate hinge creak and peered cautiously out through a gap in the branches. Just before the person disappeared round the corner, in the light from the pub windows, he recognised who it was. He frowned. What was this about? Not a regular churchgoer, Craig was pretty sure of that, and anyway – he glanced at his watch, the glowing numbers told him it was just after nine. What had been going on in the church at this time of night on a Sunday evening?

  After about five minutes he decided it would be safe to emerge. Quickly he dashed across the road and round the back of the pub, letting himself in as quietly as he possibly could. All was quiet back here, there was no-one around in the kitchen. Craig pushed his package right to the back of one of the large fridges in the pub kitchen, then made his way up the back stairs to his room, closed the door behind him, leant against it and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Tomorrow, early, before Mam and Dad were up, he’d retrieve the salmon and take them down to that poncy restaurant, then he’d go and order a wreath for Amber.

  * * *

  Cath had made a habit over the last few days of going into the church when she had a free moment and saying a few quiet prayers for Amber and her family. She made herself pray, too, for Amber’s killer, but this she found a little more difficult. Forgiveness, she told the Lord, was not one of her strong suits. But still she felt she must try to do what her faith and her training told her should be done.

  In the middle of Monday morning she’d finished a pile of paperwork, sent off a few e-mails, and found herself at a loose end. Her next appointment wasn’t until one o’clock. Knowing this would be the only quiet moment in her day, she decided to pop over to the church for fifteen minutes.

  Taking the keys from the hook in the hall reminded her she’d found the side door unlocked the evening before. She must mention it to Rhona. Maybe she, o
r one of her team, had left it open after cleaning up the day before. The insurance was crippling enough already, without having to confess to the insurers that the church had been left open.

  She walked across the vicarage garden and, looking around, decided she must ask Craig Evans to come and cut the lawn. He could probably do with a little extra cash to help with petrol for that bike of his, and it wasn’t just the grass that was looking shaggy after its winter rest – the flower beds could certainly do with tidying. She knew her concentration on mundane gardening matters was a reaction. If she made herself think about everyday things, it took her mind off the horrors surrounding them. But it didn’t last long. Soon thoughts of Amber intruded once again.

  Still she lingered a little as she let herself out of the gate and into the small graveyard. It was a quiet, gentle place and she loved its peaceful atmosphere, and the feeling it always gave her of reducing the small worries of life to manageable proportions. Sadly, her present preoccupation could hardly be called small. Sighing, she pressed on to the church door. No time to waste. She only had a few minutes to spare.

  As she stepped into the cool gloom she trod on something slippery and nearly fell. She flung a hand out to steady herself against the heavy oak door and, heart beating fast, glanced down. In this light she could see nothing. Frowning, she turned to flick on two of the lights and looked down again to see what it was. A bright silky scarf lay at her feet. Cath bent and picked it up but didn’t recognise it. She stuffed it in her pocket.

  An uneasy feeling of being watched crept over her. She dismissed it, telling herself not to be fanciful, or that maybe the owner of the scarf was still around.

  “Hallo?” Cath called tentatively, but her voice simply echoed back at her from the ancient stones. St Cybi’s was a very old church, some of the building going back as far as the eleventh century. There had probably been plenty of potential for the creation of restless spirits in its history. Maybe that was the answer. Cath gave herself a little shake and told herself firmly that she didn’t believe in such things.

  The main entrance, with its thick wooden double doors, was at the opposite end to the altar and tucked back below the organ loft. It was almost always kept locked, except when there was a big wedding. The door which was used most of the time was the one in the side porch through which she’d just entered. To Cath’s right was an alcove with a small library of books to borrow, and some to buy. Opposite were shelves stacked with hymn and prayer books, above them a notice board, and next to it a small cupboard where extra hymn sheets and stacks of baptism cards were kept. It was all so very familiar to her, everything was exactly as it should be. But Cath still felt uneasy as she walked along behind the pews, looking around as she did so, her footsteps echoing in the gloom. The door had been locked so there couldn’t be anyone else here and that was that. But in spite of herself, she turned and went back to check the two collection boxes by the door. They were both untouched. That put paid to that idea. Back she went along to the centre aisle and looked down towards the altar. On it the brass candlesticks gleamed in a shaft of sunlight full of dancing dust motes streaming in from a high window. Nothing was out of place. She sighed with relief and turned to look towards the dark doors below the organ loft. The two lights she’d turned on hardly penetrated the gloom here so, at first, she couldn’t quite work out what it was that seemed out of place.

  Her heart began to beat faster again as she made her way towards the back door, past the carved stone font which stood to one side. She’d only taken a couple of steps when she realised there was a pile of clothing spread out on the stone flags below the organ loft. Quickly she went round the font and flicked two switches on the wall. Light flooded the area and, as it did so, shock hit her like a punch in the stomach. For a second, she stood rigid, staring at what her eyes recognised but her mind tried desperately to shy away from.

  Sticking out from the pile of clothes were two thin, white legs, the feet thrust into pink stiletto sandals. To one side an arm, covered in some furry material, stuck out at a strange angle, palm uppermost. At the other end, in deeper shadow, was a head of brown curls, stained now a darker colour, and a pool of the same dark colour lay across the cold stone flags of the floor.

  * * *

  “There you are, sir!” Dilys exclaimed as Matt walked into the office. “I’ve tried half a dozen times to get you on your mobile. “

  “Sorry. It’s been playing up. What’s going on?”

  “There’s been another one,” she said cryptically.

  “What?”

  “Another death. Reverend Temple phoned. She’s found a body in the church, says it looks as if she fell from the organ loft. It’s that woman from down Morwydden Avenue.”

  Matt stopped dead. For an unbelieving second, an icy chill of fear gripped him. It wasn’t possible. Surely? “Which woman?” he snapped so sharply that Dilys blinked.

  “Rhona Griffiths.” Then understanding dawned. “Oh Lord! I’m sorry sir. I’d forgotten Miss Havard lives next door.”

  She was gazing at him in open-mouthed consternation, but Matt, guilty relief surging through him, waved a dismissive hand. “Come on, you can give me the details in the car. Is the team on its way?”

  “Yes. I’ve contacted Dr Curtis, and the SOCOs left fifteen minutes ago. Same team. Could be suicide but in the circumstances–”

  “Absolutely. Well done Dilys.”

  As they left the station, into Matt’s mind came a picture of Rhona in her pink dress and fur jacket walking jauntily off the evening before, heels clicking on the pavement as she went. Surely, given her mood then, she wouldn’t have done away with herself, she’d seemed positively elated. Had she had a date with a murderer? But why should this be murder? It was more likely an accident. Dilys echoed his thoughts.

  “It looks like an accident, or I suppose it could have been suicide. Reverend Temple said Miss Griffiths had a key to the church because she was in charge of all the cleaning. The vicar thinks she must have fallen from the organ loft while she was dusting yesterday. But she’d have had to be leaning right out to overbalance. More likely she jumped. Let’s face it, she was a bit doolally tap.”

  But she was very religious, thought Matt, surely committing suicide would, in her eyes, have been a great sin. And to do so in a church would have been even worse for someone like Rhona? On the other hand, Dilys was right, she had been a bit touched, as his mother would have called it; definitely an interesting study for a psychologist. But there was no point in speculating. He’d just have to wait and see what they found at the scene.

  It took them a good deal longer than expected to get to St Cybi’s church as they were delayed by an accident between Newport and Pontygwyn. By the time they parked behind the two police cars already outside the church, it was nearly three-quarters of an hour since they’d left the station. Matt, irritated by the delay, glared at the small crowd of people who’d gathered on the opposite pavement, murmuring to each other and stretching for a better look. There was a constable standing by the lychgate, also glaring at them.

  “They’ve been collecting over by there since I arrived, sir,” he complained to Matt as he and Dilys came up the path. “Don’t know what attracts them, I really don’t.”

  “The ghoul mentality. You’ll find it in every community, I’m afraid. Are the rest of the team inside?”

  “Yes, sir. And the vicar wants to speak to you, urgent like.”

  “All in good time. Come on, Sergeant,” he said to Dilys, “let’s get on with it.”

  For Matt, old churches always had the same smell and atmosphere. As he stepped through the porch he was pushed straight back into his childhood. A familiar feeling welled up in him, a mixture of resentment and apprehension. He stopped for a second in the doorway, reluctant to go further. This case had so many unpleasant resonances for him. Amber’s death with its disturbing connections, and now this taking him back to childhood Sundays. Week after week, they’d trailed reluctantly into ch
urch in his mother’s wake to hear his father preach sermons few people could understand, to have their every move watched by parishioners all too ready to criticise the vicar’s children, and to feel the burden of knowing he didn’t believe as the rest of his family did, but was unable to admit it. With an effort, he thrust these thoughts aside. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by personal problems. There was a job to do.

  Following in Dilys’s wake, he joined the group at the back of the church where, just below the organ loft, Dr Curtis was crouched down on the tiled floor by the pathetic bundle that had been Rhona Griffiths.

  “Afternoon,” she said curtly.

  He watched as, with infinite delicacy so much at odds with her brusque manner, she lifted the matted hair from the face. Only one of Rhona’s half-open eyes was visible. It stared out at him. Her cheek was spattered with blood and her tight brown curls were soaked in it. He felt a wave of pity shudder through him, followed by sharp anger at the waste of it all. Face grim, he ran his eyes slowly over what could be seen of the rest of the body, and finally came back to her right hand. He bent down to look more closely. It lay palm up, the fingers curved inwards. The nails were torn and there were flakes of some brownish substance under them. He bent forward to get a closer look. Yes, it was a dark mahogany brown. He got up and went round to look at her other hand, but there was nothing like it here, no flakes of anything, no tearing. The forensic team would, no doubt, find out what this substance was and tell him in due course, but it didn’t stop him speculating.

  “Chief Inspector,” a voice called from immediately above him. He raised his head to see one of the SOCO team gazing at him from above. “Could you come up a moment, sir? There’s something I think you should see.”

  “Get me some gloves, Dilys, would you?” Matt said as he searched round for the stairs. There was a narrow door behind the font which was ajar. He walked towards it, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as he did so. Here, a narrow flight of stairs curved upwards, cold stone on one side, wooden panelling on the other. A young woman in a disposable white suit was studying the treads carefully.