by K. J. Rabane
“I will, Megan. I’ll be sure to tell her as soon as I get home.”
“Right then, I think Duncan and I might have some pressing business in the kitchen. Duncan, let’s give Owen and Bryn some privacy.”
Bryn Williams looked uncomfortable as he removed his pocket book from his pocket and opened it. “It’s about the fire up at your place, Mr Madoc. The Fire Department has let it be known that arson is suspected, so naturally we have to make some enquiries regarding the matter.”
Owen could see that the man felt awkward, no doubt partly because when they’d last met they’d spent an afternoon enjoying the hospitality in the Anchor to such an extent that they’d both become the best of friends for an hour or two.
“I understand, Constable.” Owen replied, taking his queue from Bryn, who’d addressed him formally.
“Can you provide us with an alibi for the night in question?”
It was a reasonable enough request but Owen didn’t have the first idea how to answer it.
Chapter 46
Chief Fire Officer Thomas’s investigating team had established that the fire had probably been started between five and six a.m. ruling out the necessity for Owen to produce an alibi. It hadn’t taken him long to confirm to the police that Mr Duncan Jones could verify that he’d rung him at his flat at a quarter to seven and that there would have been no possibility of him reaching Gareg Wen and travelling back to London within such a short time frame. And the details of the phone call could be traced via his phone record, if necessary.
After the Insurance Company had been advised of proceedings, a convenient appointment was arranged for one of their assessors to meet Owen at the remains of his cottage the following Friday. Duncan and Megan had insisted that he spend the rest of the week with them and he’d agreed grateful for their hospitality. There was nothing dragging him back to London and he welcomed the thought of putting as much distance as possible between himself and Sarah Lawson.
Walking along the beach one morning, when the tide had receded leaving behind a bank of hard sand drying in the sun, he considered who would have had a reason to start the fire. It wasn’t until he reached the cave that he realised that there was one person who definitely had a motive. He remembered seeing her emerging from the back of the cave on the morning after Megan’s party. There was something decidedly odd about her behaviour, something as tenuous as gossamer was slipping through his fingers and for the life of him he couldn’t catch it.
Her motive could have sprung from anger, jealousy and rage after his conversation with her during the meal at her flat and which was cut short by his speech about not having time to see her again, even as a friend. He could understand it; she’d gone out of her way to make a pleasant evening for him and he’d repaid her with a metaphorical slap in the face; but to start a fire?
The question remained, would she have been sufficiently annoyed to warrant a frantic dash down to Gareg Wen with the precise intention of torching his cottage. Then he remembered her saying that she would be busy that week. She must already have been planning to take the proofs down to Megan. It was therefore a feasible proposition that she could have travelled down in the early hours, started the fire and afterwards arrived at the Megan’s place mid-morning as if nothing had happened.
Watching the tide turn in the bay he became certain that it was she who was responsible; it made perfect sense. However, he lacked the necessary proof and knew that he couldn’t mention his suspicions to anyone. It was all too complicated and besides he had to admit that his feelings of guilt, at the way he’d treated her, made him feel partly responsible.
When Friday arrived, he met the Insurance assessor as planned. Alan Morris was a wiry man in his early forties with greying hair and ponderous manner. He made copious notes on a pad as he inspected the property then turned to Owen. “I’ll make my report and the company will advise you of the result.” He was a man a few words.
“Any idea how long it will take?” Owen asked, as the assessor walked towards his car.
He shrugged. “Two weeks approximately, it depends on the amount of work we have at present and the availability of the latest reports from the police and fire brigade - shouldn’t be much longer, in my opinion.”
Watching his car disappearing in the distance, Owen took a last look around the remains of his cottage before closing the garden gate, which had been left remarkably intact. He’d walked across the fields from Duncan’s house and was about to return the same way when something in the hedge caught his eye.
Devoid of its summer foliage it was now a thicket of intertwining twigs and brambles against which the wind had deposited a few plastic carrier bags and the odd scrap of paper. But lodged on the end of a sharp twig was a scrap of material, insignificant in itself but one, which Owen thought looked familiar. Removing it and placing it in his palm he examined it more closely. It was a tiny scrap of purple and pink patterned silky material torn from something much larger. Sarah Lawson had been wearing a scarf of the same material the night they’d dined at Luigi’s. At the time he’d commented that he’d thought the colour suited her. Now he was certain as to the identity of the arsonist and equally certain he could do nothing about it. Holding the scrap of material up to the wind he watched it float high into the air along with his conscience as a gust carried it over the fields to the coast.
Later, having thanked Duncan and Megan for their hospitality and promising not to leave it too long before returning to Gareg Wen, he drove back to London with the express purpose of putting the whole sorry incident behind him. He could hear Rowena’s voice telling him that he’d asked for it, a sentiment with which he wholeheartedly agreed.
The central heating in his flat having been switched to the timer, Owen anticipated a warmer welcome than he actually received. The rooms were chilly, partly due to the fact that the heating switch had been knocked to the off position and partly because two of the windows stood wide open. Owen shivered and leaned forward to close them. What was going on? He might have made an error with the heating switch but he was certain that he’d shut the windows before he left. In fact he hardly ever opened them during the winter months, preferring to keep the bitter winds firmly at bay. Bewildered and confused he picked up the telephone and rang the security warden’s desk on the ground floor. Jack Moorcraft kept a watch on the place at weekends; it wasn’t a permanent arrangement, the flats, not being ‘posh’ enough to warrant a permanent concierge. Nevertheless Jack was a reliable sort who took his work seriously and if he’d been on duty Owen was sure nothing unusual would have escaped his notice.
“Jack, yes hello; it’s Owen Madoc here, flat number 16. I wonder if you could help me?”
“What is it, Mr Madoc?”
“I’ve been away for the past week and I wondered if you’d noticed anyone hanging around my place.”
“No, sir, I’ve been at my desk most days this week as my old lady’s off visiting her sister in Glasgow and I had some spare time on my hands.”
“So nothing unusual then? It’s just that I felt someone had been in my flat when I was away. Some windows were left open.”
“Nothing unusual, sir, no. Your girlfriend called sometime midweek. She had some food for your freezer, she said.”
“My girlfriend?”
“Yes sir, the lady with the lovely blonde hair.”
Chapter 47
Owen put the phone down and sank into an armchair. How had she got in? She must have had a key cut. He closed his eyes then thumped his forehead with his palm. She could have made an impression of his keys anytime she chose. There had been more than one occasion when he’d drunk more than he should. Cursing himself for what an idiot he’d been, he vowed yet again to drink in moderation. It hadn’t escaped his notice that an over indulgence of alcohol had played more than a significant part in the events of the last couple of weeks. He switched on the kettle and made a mug of strong black coffee then rang a locksmith.
Later, he made a systematic
search of his flat. The thought of her opening drawers, examining photographs and delving into his private life gave him the creeps. Rowena’s last letter was on his bedside table, the rest were stored in the drawer underneath; he couldn’t be sure but he thought one or two of them might be missing. In the spare room, which he used as a small studio, three finished canvases stood on the floor against the wall, thankfully they looked intact but on the table where he kept his notebooks and sketchpad he was sure he’d left the last batch of sketches he’d made at Gareg Wen. They were missing. Owen walked around his flat in a daze. The mess he was in was of his own making and there was nothing he could do about it without having to admit his part in it to Rowena.
After the locksmith changed the locks and had given him the new key, Owen removed the old one from his key ring and replaced it. Whether the action prompted an association of ideas or not he suddenly remembered the duplicate keys to Rowena’s flat that he kept in his bedside table. He broke out in a cold sweat. He knew that Sarah had looked in that drawer and removed one, if not more, of Rowena’s letters; she must have seen the keys.
In the bedroom, he pulled open the drawer and threw it on the bed. The keys were missing. Owen sank to his knees at the side of the bed and pressed his face into the folds of the duvet. He knew the time had come to ring the police, but how could he – it was all supposition – he had no proof that Sarah had entered his flat, he couldn’t even be certain that the letters were missing – he could have mislaid them and as to the missing keys, there was nothing to prove that he hadn’t misplaced those either.
He stood up; what would she do to Rowena’s flat? He had to get over there right away. As he drove across the city, visions of Sarah cutting up Rowena’s clothes, destroying and generally trashing the place vied for supremacy. Pulling into the car park, he looked up at her window. Her flat was on the top floor of the block with an uninterrupted view of the park. At least flames weren’t leaping out of the upstairs window, he thought, entering the foyer.
“Too late, Mr Madoc, you’ve just missed her.” The concierge gave him a rueful smile. “In a bit of a hurry too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I beg your pardon,” Owen replied fearing the worst.
“Miss Shaw, I saw her leaving not ten minutes since. She didn’t even have time to stop for a chat, most unlike her.”
“I’ve forgotten my keys, Tom, Miss Shaw asked me pick something up for her and I wondered if you’d be able to let me in.”
“No problem, just give me a moment, and I’ll be with you.”
After Tom had opened the door with his master key, Owen waited until he heard the lift door close then entered the small hallway. The first thing he noticed was the smell – it was Rowena’s perfume and it was fresh. In the living room, everything looked the same as usual and nothing seemed to be out of place. His heart rate slowed to something approaching normal. In the bathroom he opened the cupboard above the sink, checked the bath, the shower, no damage in either. Then he opened the bedroom door. The smell of her perfume was stronger in here. He felt certain that Sarah wouldn’t have been able to avoid looking in the wardrobe. He opened the door.
The smell nearly knocked him backwards. Every item of clothing had been doused with her perfume; the empty bottle lay on the wardrobe floor. Owen covered his nose with his handkerchief, picked up the bottle, slipped it into his pocket and flung the doors wide. Rowena wasn’t expected home for a week or two, the smell should have dispersed by then and the emptied perfume bottle could easily be replaced. He’d take the suits to the cleaners, as the stench had impregnated every fibre. Next he rang the locksmith. He would explain to Rowena that he’d lost his keys and as a precaution had the locks replaced.
When the man arrived, he looked at Owen as if he was insane. “Make a habit of losing your keys do you, sir?”
“Something like that. Is it a problem?” Owen asked.
“Nah. All in a day’s work to me, mate.”
Driving back to his place, he sighed with relief, perhaps this would be the end of it. The locks on both flats had been changed. He’d broken all ties with Sarah Lawson; he could thank his lucky stars that nothing worse had happened. Rowena would be home in two weeks time and he couldn’t wait.
At six o’clock that evening he received a telephone call from an art dealer in New York who wanted to know if he had any completed work for sale. Owen thought of the three finished canvases in his studio and confirmed that he did.
“Well, that’s just fine. I don’t suppose you’d like to bring them over. I’d make it worth your while.”
“Certainly.” He felt his spirits begin to lift. “I’ll make the arrangements and get back to you.” At last he felt he could forget the whole sorry mess of the past few days. He was on his way to New York. He’d see Rowena sooner that he’d expected and he couldn’t wait.
Chapter 48
She met him at J.F.K International airport and as he kissed her he smelled her perfume. Bile rose up in his throat.
“What is it, darling?” Rowena took a step backwards.
“Nothing, just a bit tired. Give me a moment to recover, I’ve been dozing on and off throughout the flight.”
She slid her arm through his. “This is such a great surprise. I can’t believe that you’re here. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too. I’ve spent weeks counting down the hours and now I can relax at last.” Owen handed her a small package.
“What’s this?”
“I picked it up on the plane. One of the air hostesses was wearing it and I thought you might like a change from your usual brand.”
Rowena opened the paper bag and exclaimed, “Perfume, how lovely.”
“I hope you like it. Of course you don’t have to wear it. I just thought ….” He hesitated not wanting to appear too eager for her to accept the change.
“No, that’s fine. It will be nice to try something different. I’ll wear it tonight.”
Owen was more relieved than he could imagine. He believed that he would never again inhale the scent of Mischief without thinking of Sarah Lawson. He shuddered at the thought.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Rowena asked.
“I soon will be. Once we’re alone.” Owen kissed her cheek as they stepped into a taxi.
Two days later, the New York art critics were calling Owen the brightest talent to emerge from the UK. in recent years. Buyers, wanting to own an original, besieged the Gallery where his paintings were being shown and the television news reporters descended on him like vultures picking over every scrap of information they could find. A young woman reporter from Sky News was the last of the flock to interview him, insisting that his fiancée join him so they could film the two of them together, while they discussed their forthcoming marriage. “It’s an angle; our viewers love romance. Celebrity loves a good wedding,” she explained as she asked Owen to slide his arm around Rowena’s waist.
The interview began with the usual questions about his work and his future plans regarding his next showing. Would he be spending his time working exclusively in the UK or had he thought about setting up a studio in the US. Then the questions changed emphasis to their forthcoming wedding and Rowena’s ideas on the subject.
“We hope to marry as soon as possible,” she said, looking at Owen for confirmation.
“The sooner the better,” he added, smiling into the camera lens.
“Cut, that’s great. This will go out on the late evening news stateside and in your country at breakfast time. Thank you both for your time; oh and good luck with the wedding.”
At the end of the week following the interview Owen and Rowena were on a plane heading home. The scent of Mischief no longer in his nostrils Owen began to hope that their new life together would be free from the ghost of Sarah Lawson. Surely she’d get the message when she saw the news of their wedding, which apparently had made the headlines in most of the tabloids. His phone hadn’t stopped ringing since and he was uncomfortably aware that t
here might be more reporters waiting for them once they landed.
Making their way through the arrivals gate at Heathrow they were soon met by a small group of reporters. “I wonder how long we’ll have to suffer this before they get fed up and move on to another poor soul,” Owen said, pasting on a smile for the cameras.
“Just grin and bear it, my love. Think of it as money rolling into your bank account. No publicity is bad publicity remember.”
How could he know then that those words were to come back to haunt him?
Rowena insisted that the taxi drop her off at her flat. “I need to unpack, tidy up, etc. Give me a day or two then we’ll get together and think about where we’d like to live and which property we should put on the market first. I’ll ring you tomorrow, after we’ve caught up with the jet lag.” She kissed him and waved as she stepped into the foyer.
Owen could see Tom, the concierge, rushing forward to pick up her bags as his suggestion to see her inside had been met with the words –‘You look done in, I’m a big girl now remember, go home and get to bed.’
His flat was reassuringly much as he’d left it. His answer phone bleeped, the red light flashing 16. He groaned and pressed the button. The first call was from the London Gazette requesting an appointment. A few similar calls followed, a hospital radio station, the local television news, Mark Furnish and a couple of well-wishers. By now the red light flashed 9. The rest of the calls were from her, although she left no message. It was beginning to look as if his worst fears were about to be realised. Once he’d cleared his head and resurfaced after a good sleep, he’d change his telephone number, something he should have done weeks ago.
Surprisingly, he slept without interruption until eight o’clock the following evening when he heard his mobile ringing on his bedside table. It was Rowena. “I thought I’d ring your mobile then you could see it was me. No doubt reporters have been pestering you? Did you sleep well, my darling?”
