Simeon's Bride

by Alison G. Taylor

  ‘Will he live?’ McKenna’s face was gaunt.

  ‘Oh, he’ll live. Well, God willing, as we always say, although I’ve seen a lot worse than him get up and walk out of here.’

  ‘Can I see him? Just for a few minutes?’

  ‘Not at the moment. We’re getting him ready for theatre. Ring us back later. Leave it for a few hours, eh? Give us chance to patch him up.’

  McKenna scratched away with his pen, filling sheets of paper with looping untidy script, and lit another cigarette, the fifth by the superintendent’s counting since he had begun writing his report of the accident.

  ‘There shouldn’t be any comeback,’ Owen Griffiths commented. ‘Prosser’s clearly guilty and we’re being put to a lot of trouble over him. It’s his own stupid fault he’s lying in that hospital.’

  McKenna put down his pen. ‘Guilty of what? You can’t make assumptions because he ran off. He was scared. And’ – McKenna picked up his pen and began writing again – ‘all those hayfever drugs probably screwed up his thinking.’

  ‘He’s guilty of something, Michael,’ Griffiths said. ‘As we’ve lost so much time already on this investigation, I called the sorting office instead of waiting for a court order. Margaret Bailey’s post has been redirected to the estate office for over three years.’

  ‘Well then, as soon as Mr Prosser can string two words together, we’ll ask him what he does with it,’ McKenna said. ‘Who’s sending in the redirection notices?’

  ‘Margaret Bailey, of course.’

  ‘Who else?’ McKenna said. ‘Who else?’

  Chapter 21

  ‘The insurance company won’t pay out a penny,’ Jack said.

  ‘What insurance company?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘Your wits addled or something?’ Jack’s voice was tetchy. ‘Prosser’s, of course. Serve the fool right! He’ll have to fork out himself to get his fancy car back on the road. Are we going to charge him?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Dangerous driving, of course. Driving under the influence of drugs. And not fastening his seat belt.’

  ‘No, Jack, we are not.’ McKenna sounded depressed. ‘Don’t you think we’ve done him enough harm?’

  ‘Us? Done him harm? If you think I’m taking the rap for that little crook getting his head bashed in, you’ve another think coming!’

  ‘We don’t know he is a crook. I wish you’d stop jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Somebody’s got to, haven’t they?’ Jack said acidly. ‘While you’re wallowing in guilt, he’s getting off scot free. He’s in this up to his fat little neck. He might even have murdered Romy Cheney himself.’

  ‘Why should he want to do away with her?’

  Jack paced the office. ‘I don’t know, do I? I don’t know why anyone should want to bump her off, but somebody did.’ He threw himself into a chair. ‘God, am I fed up!’

  ‘Prosser’s accident made everything worse. I blame myself because I should’ve seen it coming.’

  ‘How? Suddenly acquired psychic powers, have you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be facetious! I should know enough about people to know what they’re likely to do.’ McKenna stared at Jack without, Jack thought, seeing anything but the accident scene in his mind’s eye.

  ‘What do we do next?’ Jack interrupted the reverie.

  ‘Nothing much we can do until Prosser comes round, which, according to the hospital, might not be for days…. Weeks, knowing our luck.’

  ‘Why can’t we get a search warrant to go through his house?’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘What grounds? The letters, of course.’

  ‘Can’t you stop repeating everything I say? It’s very irritating!’ McKenna looked savagely at his deputy. ‘Anyway, why are you here? It’s supposed to be your day off.’

  ‘If you must know,’ Jack said sulkily, ‘it’s the twins’ birthday, and I’d rather keep out of the way as long as I can. I take it that’s all right with you?’

  ‘How old are they? Fifteen? What presents are they having?’

  ‘Whatever teenage girls want these days. CDs, clothes, more CDs….’

  ‘Are they having a party?’

  ‘They’re too old for parties. Girls of fifteen don’t have parties. Or, at least, not the sort parents don’t mind them having. We’re taking them out for a meal instead.’

  ‘That’ll be nice for you all,’ McKenna observed.

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Jack bridled. ‘Because if you are, it’s uncalled for. They had a party last year, and there was nothing but trouble from start to finish. They were still bloody fighting at midnight!’

  ‘I was not being sarcastic! Why must you be so bloody sensitive? Eifion Roberts told me yesterday not to bring home problems to work.’

  ‘All right for him to talk, isn’t it? Kids flown the nest, and a wife still thinking the sun shines out of his backside!’ Jack glared at McKenna. ‘Where else am I supposed to take my home problems, then?’

  ‘I’m only telling you what he said. I don’t mind if you have a grouse now and then.’

  ‘That’s decent of you.’

  ‘Now you’re being sarcastic’ McKenna ground out a half-smoked cigarette. ‘Where’s Dewi Prys?’

  ‘Hijacked by uniform for the football match. Bangor versus Caernarfon.’

  ‘Then if you’ve any sense, you’ll go home before the cells start filling up.’ McKenna grinned. ‘Even the twins can’t be as bad as footie fans on the rampage.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ Jack said gloomily. ‘Tell me why we can’t get a warrant on Prosser.’

  ‘There’s no evidence he’s taking letters addressed to Gallows Cottage for Margaret Bailey. We only know the letters are going to the estate office.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. What about a court order to view her bank account?’

  ‘It wouldn’t tell us anything we don’t already know, and it may alert whoever’s using it. Can’t trust everybody in a bank to keep quiet….’ McKenna twisted a paper clip into a ravaged shape. ‘At this present moment in time, as they say, we’re going to wait and see what happens.’

  ‘What happens when?’

  ‘When we get those ledgers back from the estate office, and have another chat with that gossipy lady there. Dewi can talk to her. He’s good at extracting information from women…. Would you and Emma mind if I bought something for the girls?’

  ‘Er – no. Of course not.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you all later.’

  * * *

  ‘Can’t do right for doing wrong, can I?’ Jack fumed.

  ‘Oh, stop moaning!’ Emma snapped, kicking his outstretched legs to make her way past. ‘Maybe you should’ve thought of asking him to dinner.’

  ‘And how was I to know the twins would want him there?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘You could’ve asked, couldn’t you?’ Emma pointed out. ‘Used your imagination for once. You know they like him.’

  ‘Well, hard luck! They’ll have to be content with having presents from him.’

  ‘And he might have enjoyed the company. He doesn’t look at all well, and he’s lost an awful lot of weight lately. Not,’ she added caustically, ‘that I expect you’ve noticed…. I think he’s depressed.’

  ‘He’s always depressed or something. He’s the moodiest person I’ve ever come across.’

  Emma stared at her husband, eyes glittering with anger. ‘You can be so stupid! Don’t you realize what I’m saying? I think he might try to kill himself! And you wouldn’t know a thing, would you, until you found his body somewhere?’

  ‘Eifion Roberts doesn’t think so. He said as much not long ago, and he should know.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Emma sat down, shoulders drooping. ‘I see … Eifion Roberts must’ve thought about it, mustn’t he? Why else should he say anything?’

  McKenna fidgeted sleepless in his bed, the cat by his feet, her new fluorescent collar shining now and then as she too fidgeted herself into a comfort
able position. He smiled a little as he recalled the twins’ lavish greeting, the warm scented kisses placed gently on his cheeks as he handed bouquets of flowers to each. Emma watched, face alight with some emotion, her eyes sparkly, and his own smile died into the night at the memory of the frisson cutting through his body as he looked into those eyes. He turned on his side, drawing a mewling protest from the cat, and heard the rising wind flute through the broken downspout on the wall outside his bedroom and pluck with idle repetitive malice at the open sash of the window.

  A civilian typist brought the letter to McKenna’s office early on Monday morning. Slitting open the envelope, he took out a sheet of paper and a photograph.

  I know I said I didn’t have a photo of Madge, the letter related, and went on: but I found this the other day when I was sorting a few things and thought you might be interested. Don’t bother sending it back. Robert Allsopp’s signature was an extravagant scrawl across the bottom of thick expensive paper.

  There was no date or inscription on the back of the photograph. Margaret Bailey regarded McKenna as if she still lived and breathed and loved and sorrowed, a rueful half smile to her lips, her short fair hair ruffled by winds coursing the moorlands behind her. He could not see the colour of her eyes, only fitful sunlight highlighting angular planes of cheek and jawbone. She had not been a pretty woman, but striking and tall, with shadows in her face, traces of sadness and harsh lessons learned. She looked older in the photograph than when she met her death, and tired, as if vitality had been beaten out of her. Where light caught the fullness of her cheek, fine translucent skin seemed veined with a thousand tiny wrinkles, like crazed glaze on old china. Just visible in the bottom left-hand corner of the photograph was the front end of a car, colour darkened by its own shadow. McKenna stared at woman and car, thoughts miles away on that bleak moorland. Walking in after receiving no response to his knock, Jack found him with hands spread on the desk top, eyes mesmerized.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Romy Cheney.’ McKenna turned the photograph so that she now looked up at Jack. ‘Aka Margaret Bailey. Allsopp sent it.’ His voice was flat, expressionless.

  Jack eyed McKenna surreptitiously, Emma’s concerns refusing to relinquish their hold. ‘What shall I do with it?’

  ‘Get colour copies and send people out asking questions.’

  ‘Right. What else d’you want us to do?’ he asked into the lengthening silence.

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘Well, maybe Beti Gloff’ll be able to say this was the woman she saw in the car.’

  ‘Maybe.’ McKenna’s tone was listless. ‘Even if she can, I can’t see any court taking much notice of her.’

  ‘Why not? She saw the driver, she identified the car.’

  ‘And how does Dewi’s nain describe her? One eye pointing to Bethesda, one to Caernarfon! D’you think a judge and jury are likely to believe she can see anything properly?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Ill at ease, Jack took a deep breath and plunged into the deep and murky waters of McKenna’s personal life, out of obligation to Emma, and because he could see for himself how turbulent those waters had become. ‘Is everything all right, sir? With you, I mean?’

  McKenna sat very still, arms on the desk. ‘Everything is all wrong, Jack, and I have neither the will nor the knowledge to right it.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Do you? You’re cleverer than me, then.’

  ‘Emma says,’ Jack ventured, ‘it’s normal for people to get despondent after a personal crisis … then you get better, like getting your strength together again when you’ve been ill. That is, I suppose, unless you’ve put yourself in it, so to speak…. D’you think you might’ve made a mistake leaving Denise?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ McKenna rummaged in his pockets for cigarettes and lighter. ‘I wasn’t happy with her, and I’m no happier without her. And what makes it worse,’ he went on, drawing hungrily on the cigarette, ‘is the selfishness of it. It’s all what I want and don’t want, isn’t it? Never a thought for Denise.’

  ‘But you could say—’ Jack struggled to find words to express the vagrant thought. ‘You could say if your marriage was OK, you’d never have needed to think about it. And if you hadn’t needed to think about you and Denise, you wouldn’t need to make any decisions about staying or leaving … if you understand what I mean.’ He fell silent, then added, ‘I mean, there’s no call to ask myself if I’m happy with Em. It’s all sort of there … ever since you left Denise I’ve been thinking about marriages and Emma and me, and I can’t imagine life without her.’

  McKenna felt an envy so powerful he expected Jack to smell its stink on the air, foul and greedy and suffocating. Despair flowed in its wake, telling him he would never know such simple contentment, because he lacked the sense to recognize its worth.

  Trefor Prosser lay inert in his hospital bed, bandages swathing his skull, tubes taped into his nostrils and the back of his hand. McKenna was permitted to look at him, and told he would be called as soon as consciousness returned, however fleetingly.

  ‘Should we put a constable to sit by him?’ Jack asked, as they drove away from the hospital complex. ‘In case he comes round suddenly?’

  ‘Couldn’t justify the man-hours,’ McKenna said. ‘Prosser won’t be going anywhere, even when he is conscious.’ He waited by the pedestrian crossing on Beach Road for an old woman with a shopping trolley to trundle her way from one side to the other. ‘There’s no forwarding address for Margaret Bailey in the estate ledgers. Did Dewi tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack watched a dredger anchored in the old port unloading more sand on to a huge sand pyramid at the end of the dock, its motor thumping, conveyor chains rattling. ‘That’s why I asked about Prosser, because there’s nobody else likely to tell us anything, is there?’

  ‘Won’t know until we ask, will we? Did you bring the photo to show Stott’s neighbour?’

  ‘I did. What about Jamie?’

  ‘All in good time, Jack. Shut the window, will you? That stink off the sea’s turning my stomach.’

  * * *

  Christopher Stott’s neighbour was home for lunch, at table in a dingy unaired kitchen, eating fish and chips, swilling lager from a can, expressing only truculence. He was alone in the house, wife out, any children they might have spawned, elsewhere. ‘I told that Dewi Prys all there was to tell.’ He pushed chips into his mouth. ‘So why don’t you two bugger off?’

  McKenna breathed in smells of greasy chips, a dirty kitchen, and the drink, nausea welling in his throat. ‘I want to know why you lend the car to Jamie Thief.’ He opened the back door. The man took a huge bite from the fish, and crammed more chips into his mouth. ‘Jamie helps out,’ he said, words slopping out through the food. ‘He borrows the car instead of being paid.’

  Staring out at an unkempt garden, the debris of bicycles and sheets of corrugated plastic from some long collapsed shed or greenhouse, McKenna said, ‘He doesn’t do much gardening. What does he do?’

  ‘This and that.’ The man wiped his fingers on chip wrapping, and drank more lager.

  ‘Jamie can’t do anything except cause trouble,’ Jack said. ‘He can’t do plumbing or building or anything useful. There’s nothing he could do you’d need to pay him for.’

  ‘Know it all, do you?’

  McKenna leaned against the back door frame, wanting to light a cigarette to kill the smells pushing themselves into his face, sure he would vomit if he put flame to tobacco. ‘We know Jamie is involved with drugs. Might he be helping you out that way?’

  The man leapt from his chair. ‘Don’t try pulling a stunt like that!’ Looking from Jack to McKenna, he backed towards the door into the hall, and McKenna wondered if he would run to the front door, leap into that big shiny car, the object of so much mystery, drive into a wall and smash in his head. He thought he should move to stop him, but had no strength, legs heavy and torpid as if he waded in water, or tried to fl
ee danger in a dream.

  Glancing at McKenna, seeing the yellowish pallor on his skin, Jack went for the owner of the Scorpio, grabbing his arm. ‘I reckon a night in the cells might loosen your tongue.’

  The man slumped against the wall. ‘Leave me be!’ he whined. ‘I was doing Stott a favour, that’s all. Keeping him out of the shit.’ He sniggered. ‘Queered his own pitch, Stott has, without any help from anybody!’

  Jack drove McKenna home and listened to sounds of retching from the bathroom while he telephoned the surgery. When the doctor arrived, McKenna was crouched on the sofa, clutching his stomach and gasping with pain. Stripped to his undershorts, he suffered the prodding fingers of the doctor, palpating his gut.

  ‘He’s in pain,’ Jack said defensively, staring with ill-concealed curiosity at McKenna’s near-emaciated frame, ribs pale and bony protuberances, belly muscles clenched tight.

  ‘Pain is the body’s way of telling us all is not right,’ the doctor observed.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Don’t know yet, do I?’ The doctor pulled down McKenna’s lower eye lid, staring at the red-veined inner flesh. He picked up each hand, pressed the nails, and examined the thin skin. ‘D’you drink?’ he asked McKenna.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘What’s “not much”?’

  ‘What he says!’ Jack insisted. ‘He hardly ever drinks.’

  ‘Just wondered. Could be cirrhosis of the liver. There’s a lot of it about.’ He turned to McKenna. ‘Been passing any blood or mucus?’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Either end.’

  McKenna flushed. ‘I don’t know. Not when I was sick.’

  The doctor sighed. ‘And I suppose you’re too polite to look in the lavvy. Animal droppings are great barometers of health, you know.’ He returned his stethoscope to his bag. ‘I think we’d better be on the safe side and have you in hospital. Got to observe Nature’s etiquette, you know.’

  McKenna struggled upright. ‘No!’

  The doctor sat down beside him. ‘You haven’t been near the surgery since you had ’flu a couple of years back. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, and there’s nothing in your medical history to give me any clues.’