‘I know nothing about your friend.’
‘My friend Carla.’
‘Your friend Carla died on the Saturday night,’ I almost whispered.
‘She was killed. Everybody knows. Killed by a hit-and-run driver, who didn’t stop, didn’t phone, didn’t do anything. Otherwise she’d be alive now.’
Everybody knew...except me. Everybody included Sergeant Timmis. If I’d had him there I’d have strangled him. Nobody had said a thing about two deaths. Her friend Carla had died on the Saturday, her friend and employer Gledwyn Griffiths on the following Friday.
‘If you want to know,’ she said from behind me, a weak, childish voice now, ‘it wasn’t a date. Not on the Friday that I fetched him back. That was the day of the inquest on Carla. It was why I couldn’t go to fetch him until the afternoon.’
She spoke almost as though Neville Green was awake, and it was him she was reassuring. But he did not stir.
I said: ‘He looks safe to leave.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll drive you back. I’d better spend the night here with him.’ That answered a question in my mind. She ruined the impression of a loving twosome by adding: ‘I suppose.’
We left him sprawled amongst the garish evidence of his professional success. She had become silent. As we climbed into her Fiesta, I asked: ‘I got the impression you live elsewhere.’
‘The other side of town.’
‘Towards Viewlands?’ I wanted to get it straight.
‘No.’ She dismissed it with a grated gear-change. ‘Out on the Whitchurch road. I can get there from here without touching the town. If I want to. North a bit, then east. The same from Viewlands, if I want to. Miss the town, I mean.’
She was giving me unnecessary information, empty words to mask her feelings. But her driving betrayed her. No one should drive a car under emotional stress. Fortunately the traffic was sparse, and my concern was for her.
‘I found her,’ she said into the night ahead. ‘Me. Going home from Viewlands. It was late. After ten, and dark. This was the Saturday, the day before I was due to drive Gledwyn to Blackpool, and I’d stayed on to type up the paper he was going to read there. Stayed on in case he wanted to alter it again. But he was late. He’d been to see his son, and he was late back. So I waited. I knew Carla was going to my place, on a visit, but I didn’t worry because she’d got her own key. But I was driving fast, and suddenly there was her little Fiat, parked at the side of the road. I came round a bend, and there it was, with the rear lights almost dead and no more than a glow from the dipped headlights when I walked round. I’d shouted her name, you see, and didn’t hear a sound. This was half a mile from my place, and she could’ve walked, but why would she walk away and leave her headlights on and run down the battery? She’d know better than that. You see what I mean?’
She wasn’t really asking. I said nothing. The police station was ahead and she was slowing, determined to drop me exactly where she’d picked me up. She’d stayed very late at Viewlands, the evening her friend died. It indicated a great devotion to duty, or to Gledwyn Griffiths. I had to listen out this distress of hers or maybe I’d never get to the one that interested me.
‘And there she was,’ she said, drawing to a halt. ‘They said she’d been thrown over the bonnet, because there she was, lying at the front, and there was blood everywhere. She’d have lived if I’d got to her earlier. I could have done something. But I was so late.’
We were parked outside the station, and Sergeant Timmis was standing in the doorway, feet apart, smoking a cigarette. He was looking beyond us, as though we were not there. Lynne took her hands from the steering wheel and stared at her palms. Then she went on to explain why she’d been so late.
‘And when,’ she said dully, ‘Gledwyn did get back from visiting his son, he said not a word to me, just walked across the yard from the house with his face like stone, walked through the lab to the office, and threw his keys at the wall. Not a word. I gave him the typing I’d done and he barely glanced at it. Just tore it across and across and tossed it on the floor in a temper, so of course I had to type it all again for him, otherwise he wouldn’t have had it for the morning. And otherwise I wouldn’t have been so late, and perhaps Carla would have been alive...’
She said it simply. There was no bitterness in her voice, no blame for Gledwyn Griffiths and his strange mood. But how could there be, when a week later he’d died himself? His death was the deeper grief, and she now used Carla’s death only as a screen to shield her from contemplating his.
‘And the following morning you drove him to Blackpool?’
‘Yes.’
‘He knew nothing about your friend’s death?’
‘How could he?’
‘I thought perhaps you’d have phoned him.’
‘I didn’t get a spare minute. The police were questioning me.’ She nodded sideways. I hadn’t realised she’d noticed the sergeant. ‘That great lump. He was there. I got hardly any sleep.’
I’d been playing with my pipe, not wanting to light it in somebody else’s car. I wondered whether to close down the discussion right there. Her voice had been too even, too restrained.
‘It was Sunday morning,’ I said gently. ‘Neville wouldn’t have to go to work. You could have phoned him, and he’d have driven your boss to Blackpool.’
‘I tried.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘But he didn’t answer. I suppose he deserved all the sleep he could get, that drive he’d done the night before.’
‘Drive?’ I murmured. ‘What drive?’
‘I said.’ She was impatient. ‘Oh, you just don’t listen! I told you — that Saturday, Gledwyn’d been to visit his son. Who d’you think drove him? I couldn’t, because of the typing. It had to be Neville. Of course.’
Any driving Neville had done, I decided, I’d discuss with Neville himself. I contented myself with one remark. ‘For once, then, he wasn’t drunk.’
‘He didn’t get the chance. Oh...I don’t know what’s the matter with him,’ she whispered. ‘For months now...and he never used to drink.’
‘You’d better get back to him,’ I suggested, hunting for the door catch.
‘I’ve half a mind to drive straight home, and let him rot.’
I got out. She didn’t look at me again and she didn’t drive home, but did a U-turn over the opposite pavement and headed back to Neville Green. I hoped he’d realise what he’d got there, and walked up the steps to say goodnight to the sergeant.
‘You’re a very unnerving man to know, Sergeant Timmis,’ I told him.
‘I thought you’d better hear it from her.’ No hint of a smile.
I nodded. ‘She’d got it all neatly laid out. Did you ever get anybody for the hit-and-run?’
‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ he offered, falling into his patrol stride, which he hadn’t lost from his youth. ‘Hit-and-runs are difficult. You know that. No connections with the victim, except the damage to their own vehicle. Oh, we put out calls, all garages and body repair shops, over a radius of fifty miles. But there was nothing came back.’
‘You know there was damage, then?’
‘Must have been. The forensic lot said he must’ve been going at a fair speed from the damage he did to her, and traces of headlamp glass were found. No skid marks. That was strange. Her Fiat had broken down. The petrol pump. She was obviously standing beside her door, waiting to wave somebody down. This was a clear eighty yards from the bend. We decided the other driver came up from behind her car, and couldn’t help but have seen her. You wouldn’t drive around there at night without at least dipped heads. So she’d have been seen. But there were no skid marks. He must have driven straight at her. And left her. The battery was flat when Lynne Fairfax found her, which might or might not mean she was lying there a long while. Take your choice. Nobody would spot her lying beneath headlights, though.’
He stopped beside my new Rover and slapped the roof. ‘Like your car,’ he said.
‘I wanted something
that’d tow a large caravan.’
‘It’s up at Viewlands, is it?’
‘I’m staying there.’
‘Ah well...any more help I can give you, Mr Kyle — I’ll be around.’
I slid in behind the wheel. ‘Your help’s more in the line of diversions, isn’t it! All the same, I might take you up on that.’
I drove back to Viewlands. The single lane stretch was more tricky in the uphill direction, but I met no other traffic.
There were no lights on in the house. Suited me. An early night, I thought, but the gelding peered at me suspiciously over his half door and whinnied, and before I got safely inside the caravan Angie was at my shoulder.
‘The water’s hot, if you want a bath.’
‘Not just now, thanks.’
‘I heated it specially for you.’
‘In the morning, huh?’
I had gas and mantles in the caravan. I got a match to my lamp, and turned. She was peering in from the door, her eyes hopeful, disappointed. Hell, she must’ve been lonely. There was nothing sexual in it. But you have to be firm.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a big day.’
She pouted, nodded. ‘The bathroom’s to the left at the top of the stairs. I’ll be out of there by seven-thirty. All right?’
‘Thank you.’
She closed the door gently. I felt like a louse. Coffee, a bit of a chat, a smoke — what would’ve been the harm in that? I nearly went after her, but had my shoes off while I was thinking about it, and it was too much effort to put them back on.
As I said, I’d had a big day. I fell onto the bunk bed, and slept.
Chapter Five
With the morning emerged the full beauty of the valley, and the reason for the location of the house on that exact spot.
At seven-thirty there’d been no sign of Angie in the house. I’d soaked a while and felt great. On the landing, there was still no sound, so I ventured on a little exploration. The second door opened into the bedroom I’d already taken a look at. It was not hers. The set-up was masculine. The spaciousness — three windows on one wall — suggested it was the master bedroom. Gledwyn’s. I ventured to the windows, fumbled for my pipe, gripped it, and failed to light it.
Green, grey and purple ran out into the distance, and though the mountains were not clear the aerial mist hinted at their weight, and shadows chased behind it along the far horizon. To the right the hill continued to climb, clothed in the mauve of heather and cut across by grey outcrops of slate. Cream specks of sheep clung to the slope. To my left the valley leaned away into swaying patterns of multi-toned green and the far golden shades of wheat stubble. The stream flashed silver and blue, narrow and restless, and russet Guernsey cows paddled in it. Closer, the orchard Angie had mentioned was red and green with apples waiting to be plucked, green and gold with pears, purple with plums, and between it and the acre of Angie’s paddock someone, who could not have been Gledwyn Griffiths, had planted a row of maples, just for this moment in autumn when the leaves flared into red and the morning sun set them alight.
In the paddock, she was gently cantering her chestnut gelding, working the fear from him on the firm turf.
I sucked the empty pipe.
Gledwyn Griffiths must have gazed through that window onto a thousand beautiful mornings, and suddenly my heart went out to him that he could not have seen this blaze of colour. Yet he must have loved the house. He’d never lived away, always making the long journey to wherever he happened to be lecturing.
But how was I to know the intensity of his enjoyment of the scene? My musical ear is poor, but I can still thrill to Tosca. If I’d had perfect pitch, would my appreciation have increased ten-fold? A hundred-fold? Or not at all? No one can imagine the intensity of another’s pleasure. Cries of delight might seem brash to someone caught dumb by ecstasy.
Reluctantly, I turned away. With Angie safely out of the way, it was a chance to look over the rest of the house. It would perhaps tell me something about Gledwyn.
Perhaps on a grey day the interior would have seemed dark, but I knew from the previous evening that it would be a cheerful darkness. There was a tendency towards heavy, black mahogany and high Welsh dressers, solid furniture with maroon velvet upholstery and tall velvet drapes. The pictures on the walls were of Welsh landscapes and were originals.
Perhaps not valuable — there’d been an artist in the family maybe. But any gloom was denied by the high and wide windows, and everywhere there was oak parquet and soft, oatmeal carpeting.
I went out into the stable yard and leaned over the white rails at the rear. Angie saw me and waved, so I went back in and set bacon to frying, then went out and watched her. She rode over, and this morning it was a happy Angie, erect in the saddle and laughing down at me while the gelding reached his yellow teeth for my hair.
‘I learned to ride in this paddock,’ she told me. ‘Daddy bought me my first pony when I was nine.’
‘You’ll need to get your fruit picked.’
‘Morgan Rees buys my fruit. He sends his men over. No worry.’
Her words had all the contented practicality of a woman who’d settled in to stay. What had Phil Rollason to offer, I wondered, one half so attractive?
She swung down and led the gelding into the yard. The sun caught her hair, and there was auburn in there as the wind stirred it.
‘Evan’s driving over today,’ she said. ‘I phoned him this morning to tell him I had a visitor. He said he’d like to meet you.’
‘Evan?’ I asked. ‘Over from where?’
‘Evan Rees. Surely I mentioned him.’
‘You did not.’
‘Dr Evan Rees. He’s Morgan’s son, and he’s doing research at Aberystwyth University. He was a research student when daddy lectured there, that’s why he studied the same subject. I knew you’d want an expert on it, to understand what daddy was doing. Then you’ll agree he couldn’t possibly have killed himself.’
We’d been crossing the yard towards the kitchen. Suddenly she stopped dead, raising her head, and clutched my arm.
‘No...wait. A moment, please,’ she appealed. ‘Do you know how many years it’s been since I’ve had this pleasure? Walking across from the stables after an early morning ride, and my mother cooking bacon and eggs. It’s not the same doing it yourself. You need to come to it with a head full of fresh air.’
I turned my face to blow smoke away from her. ‘Many years?’
‘Eight or so.’ She moved ahead, her voice suddenly brisk and dismissive. ‘My mother was ill for a long while. It was why daddy had to give up research at the University. He’d had to go every day, and he was always kept late. It’s why he switched to lecturing. Just once a week, that became.’
‘Until the pedestrian crossing incident?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly.
Clearly he’d wanted her to take his place. She had wanted it too, for herself and for her father. But Rollason had come along, flashing those teeth of his, and with that smooth charm that he uses when he’s trying to sell you a car. Whatever had she seen in him?
‘Eggs and bacon!’ cried Angie, bursting into the kitchen.
‘Bacon, anyway. If it’s not done to a crisp.’
‘I like it crisp.’ She glanced at me. ‘But I’ll need to do some shopping, afterwards.’ She whipped off the pan.
The implication was obvious. She had no car in that garage at the end of the yard. But Rollason could easily have brought her something, towed it in if necessary with his breakdown pickup. The mean bastard. He’d been deliberately making her life awkward. I supposed that Morgan Rees had been helping her out with the shopping. I supposed I’d have to step in.
‘No difficulty there,’ I said, trying not to sound too obliging.
‘If we go straight afterwards,’ she said happily, ‘it will be all right. Evan won’t be here till after lunch.’
She said nothing when I stopped at the same lay-by, to examine the same scene of death by dayligh
t. I wondered whether I should do it with Angie at my side, but she nodded when I asked her, and sat grim-faced when I got out of the car and walked away.
It was not really safe to walk along the narrow single-lane in daytime, now with more traffic. I jumped down onto the new surface before it became too much of a drop and walked until I found the crash marks, which were still clear enough. Scars ran along the surface, crossing and impacting until I reached an area still black from the heat of the fire. Cars drove past, eight feet above, beyond an almost solid rank of plastic cones. There was nothing to see except in the imagination, which I didn’t want to encourage. The car had been found on its roof, with Gledwyn Griffiths still dangling from the remnants of his seat belt. Only his special spectacles had been thrown clear, unless the small, half-melted lump of plastic at my feet had belonged to him.
I bent and picked it up. The thumb wheel and valve were still identifiable as the remains of a plastic zip lighter.
As I returned to the Rover I wondered where they’d taken the wreck. We drove on, Angie averting her face.
‘Did your father smoke?’ I asked her.
‘No.’ She said it on an indrawn breath.
We drove for half a mile before I asked: ‘Is there another way into Llanmawr?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s longer.’
‘We should have taken it.’
‘I wanted you to see.’
To see how far the gouging had run, and estimate how fast he’d been moving? She wasn’t going to miss a trick.
‘I’ve seen now. We’ll drive back the other way.’ I was a little short with her.
The town was alive that morning. Parking was no longer simple, but they hadn’t progressed to meters. I left the car nose-in to the kerb, with barely room to open the doors. Angie said she’d wait in the café she pointed out — if I had business I needed to do.
This was rather pointed, but in fact I had none. I’d have liked a chat with Neville Green, but he’d be at work, sorry for himself but persistent, no doubt. I wanted to speak to Lynne again, but I hadn’t got her address, and anyway she lived some miles distant. There’d been mention of a brother, Paul, but I had no idea where he might be.
Seeing Red Page 5
