The way he looked, thinking probably hurt his head, thought Joe. He recalled the tablets he’d found in the Lady House loo, but the boy looked more just knackered than spaced out.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, fine. Can I have a word?’
‘Don’t normally talk to anyone till I’ve had breakfast, but that don’t seem likely round here,’ said Joe.
He didn’t mean it as a plea. Not much point in trying for an invite to the Lady House, not on last night’s evidence.
But God hears even the unspoken prayers of the pure in heart.
‘There’ll be a good refreshment tent down at the festival,’ said Wain. ‘I could give you a lift.’
It was such an obvious solution that even with Joe’s record, he didn’t know how he’d missed it.
‘Man, I’m so hungry I could run down there, but a lift would be great,’ he said.
He slightly revised his estimate a few moments later when he found himself looking at what seemed a very fast, very low, bright-red Mazda MX-5.
As he squeezed into the passenger seat with some difficulty, a voice called the boy’s name. Bronwen came running after them full pelt, her speed sufficient to pull the old dressing gown open and confirm Joe’s earlier conjecture.
Embarrassed, he found something intensely interesting in the car’s dashboard to occupy his attention.
Neither the girl nor the youth seemed to share his embarrassment.
‘Wain, not going anywhere near Caerlindys this morning, are you?’ said Bron.
‘Don’t know,’ said the young man ungraciously. ‘Why?’
‘I need a lift. My stupid dad promised me the pick-up but he’s taken off in it and God knows when he’ll be back and I’ve got a hair appointment …’
‘Real emergency, then,’ said Wain. ‘Listen, I’m not sure what I’m doing …’
‘Yeah, it is a real emergency, boyo, like yours the other night. And another thing, my ma says she doesn’t think my room’s cut out to be a chemist’s storehouse …’
‘OK, OK,’ said Wain, with an anxious glance at Joe. ‘I’ll take you. About an hour?’
‘That’ll be lovely. Thanks.’
She was gracious in triumph and gave him a kiss which Joe heard rather than saw. Then she turned and moved away and Joe was able to look up again.
‘Nice girl,’ he said, as Wain slid in beside him.
The youth gave him a sharp look.
‘Yeah? You fancy her?’
This was not the way a mere lad should talk to his elders.
‘No. Heard you did, though,’ retorted Joe.
‘Don’t be fooled by all that flesh, she’s just a kid,’ said Wain negligently. ‘Chucked herself my way a while back, but I had to chuck her back. You going to fasten your seat belt?’
An implied threat? wondered Joe nervously as he complied. It seemed a good idea to be on the best possible terms with his driver.
‘Nice wheels,’ he said.
‘Eighteenth birthday,’ said Wain.
‘Your parents?’ said Joe.
‘Mum.’
That figured. Joe couldn’t imagine Leon Lewis dipping into his pocket for this kind of toy.
‘She well-heeled then?’ he asked, thinking of last night’s frugal repast.
None of his business really, but the engine had started with a threatening roar and nervousness made him rude.
‘She inherited some money and stuff from her family and managed to keep my father’s hands off it.’
But not yours, thought Joe as the car began to move. Nothing too much for her beloved son, but she saw no reason to supplement her housekeeping allowance from her personal funds.
‘The furniture’s hers then?’ he said, recalling the contrast between the fabric of the Lady House and its contents.
‘Right.’
They reached about twenty m.p.h. and to Joe’s amazement and relief, showed every sign of sticking there.
‘Is it right you’re a detective?’ said Wain.
‘It’s right,’ said Joe.
‘Not police, though?’
‘Definitely not police.’
Silence. Time to enjoy the countryside moving slowly past. By now Joe had worked out that the boy wanted to ask something and this was the reason they were crawling along.
But even crawling didn’t give them for ever to cover the shortish distance to the village, and if they went any slower they’d stop.
He thought of the food awaiting him and said, ‘Wain, you got something you want to ask me?’
‘Could I hire you? Are you that kind of detective?’ said the boy at a rush.
‘And here’s me thinking Wales was a high unemployment area,’ said Joe.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing,’ said Joe, who knew his jokes rarely survived explanation, which in this case he couldn’t give anyway. ‘Hire me to do what?’
‘Find out about the fire in the cottage. Copa Cottage. Where the girl got burnt,’ said Wain.
‘Oh, that cottage,’ said Joe. ‘Police are trying to do that, Wain. And they come better equipped than me.’
‘Police! ‘ He spat the word out like a worm in an apple.
Was this the conventional reaction of a student who hid funny pills in the lavvy or something more personal?
‘I’d have thought with the DCC being a close family friend …’ he probed.
‘Oh yes, my father’s so close to old Pantyhose, they could crack each other’s lice,’ snapped Wain.
Definitely personal. Could it be his motive was similar to Franny Haggard’s and he suspected his father of putting his fancy woman into the cottage? OK, it was right on his doorstep, but arrogant bastards often reckoned they were clever enough to ignore obvious risks.
‘Don’t like the police much, then?’ he asked.
‘What’s to like?’
‘They come in all shapes and sizes. I take them as I find them. Like DI Ursell. Seems to be a conscientious kind of cop.’
‘And that makes him man’s best friend, does it?’
Oh dear. Try again, Joe.
‘What about Sergeant Prince? You know him?’
‘No. Heard of him, though. Sounds like a fully paid up member of GM. Look, you want this job or not?’
‘Depends. Why are you so keen to find out what happened, Wain?’ he asked.
Suddenly the boy was sensitive.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Are you always so nosy when someone offers you work?’
‘Being nosy is usually what they’re paying me for,’ said Joe mildly. Talking of which, how you going to pay? I don’t take no student vouchers.’
This was mere prevarication, in the hope of finding out more about the boy’s motives before turning him down. It had the effect of causing Wain to bang his foot down hard on the accelerator, flinging Joe back into his seat. After their sedate progress along the narrow road, they now passed down the village street at fifty and rising, and turned into the festival field with no sign of slowing till Wain stood on the brake and brought them to a grass-burning halt a couple of yards in front a large marquee marked Refreshments.
‘Not that hungry,’ gasped Joe.
Wain was paying no attention. Out of his back pocket, he pulled a roll of notes.
‘You want cash, cash it is. What do you want as a retainer? Fifty, a hundred? Let’s make it a hundred. Takes more, there’ll be more, don’t worry.’
He pushed the notes into Joe’s hand
At the same time a figure appeared at the driver’s side of the car and Joe instinctively, though not without some painful contortion, thrust the money into his back pocket.
‘Owain, long time no see. How are things with you?’
It was Glyn Matthias, his tone friendly without being effusive, a faint smile on his lips. Elegantly dressed in pale-blue slacks and a lemon shirt, his slim figure and pale face looked positively robust against Wain Lewis’s anorexic pallor.
‘Fine,
I’m fine. Mr Sixsmith, we’ll talk later, OK?’
The engine revved. It sounded like a firm promise that sometime in the next couple of seconds, the Mazda was out of here, and Joe shot out of his seat like he’d hit an ejector button.
‘What it is to be young, eh?’ said Matthias, watching the car vanish from the field at the same speed it had entered it.
‘Good way of staying young, driving like that,’ said Joe.
He looked around. The festival fields were a fine sight, tents gleaming white in the morning sun, flags and pennants of all kinds and nationalities fluttering in the gentlest of breezes, and already lots of cars in the car park and plenty of punters wandering round in that semi-deshabille with which the Brits signal their distrust of even the brightest weather.
A signpost in Welsh, English, French and German pointed the way to the competition field. That was for later. Just now, with the good smell of bacon drifting from the refreshment tent, Joe needed no signpost.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Missed my breakfast.’
‘Mind if I join you?’ said Matthias.
Joe shrugged. He bore no grudge, or very little, against this guy for putting Bron up to the trick which had made him look so stupid at the Lady House dinner, and he thought that folk who objected to gays for the sake of it were as daft as women who objected to men for the sake of it. But child molestation was something else, and till he got the true ins-and-outs of the Sillcroft story, he was withholding judgement on Matthias.
At least the guy knew when to hold his peace. He sat opposite Joe, nursing a mug of coffee and saying nothing till Joe had made huge inroads into a plate crammed with a very satisfying Welsh variant of the Great British Breakfast.
The Welsh bit he cautiously left till the end.
‘Not going to eat your lava bread?’ asked Matthias.
‘Depends what it is.’
‘Only what it says, more or less.’
‘That right? I don’t speak Welsh. As you know.’
Matthias frowned as if puzzled how Joe should have worked this out, then said, ‘It’s not Welsh, actually. English. Laver’s seaweed. It’s boiled, rolled in oatmeal and fried. Hence laver or lava bread. Try it.’
Joe tried it. It was OK.
His plate empty, he gave the Welshman his full attention and said, ‘OK, so what do you want, Mr Matthias? Not going to offer me a job, are you?’
‘No. I just wanted to apologize if anything in the Goat last night gave you offence. We are an emotional people, and sometimes misunderstood because of it.’
‘You an official spokesman or something?’ said Joe.
‘That makes us sound like a corporate body,’ said Matthias with a smile.
‘When really you’re just a bunch of regular guys who get together for a drink?’ said Joe. ‘Well, not speaking the language, I can’t say anything different, can I?’
‘I suppose not. I’m looking forward to hearing your choir sing. I’ve heard very good reports of them.’
Change of subject, thought Joe. But from what?
‘Yeah, well, lots of good choirs here,’ he said. ‘The Guttenbergers, the French. And singing in Wales is a bit like playing Man United at Old Trafford. But I didn’t think you’d be taking an interest.’
This was hardly diplomatic, but Joe liked things out on the table.
To his credit, Matthias didn’t play dumb.
‘Because of my uneasy relationship with Branddreth, you mean? What have you heard, I wonder? Of course, it depends who you heard it from, and even then I doubt if anyone will have said anything direct enough to be slanderous, though I’d be interested to hear if they had.’
He spoke lightly, but Joe detected a strong current of feeling beneath his words.
‘No, nothing slanderous, or even close. In fact they thought you had a raw deal.’
‘They, in that case, being the lovely Bronwen rather than anyone you met at the Lady House,’ said Matthias. ‘But you were clearly not convinced.’
‘Don’t know enough about it,’ said Joe. ‘All I know is where there’s kids concerned, adult feelings don’t rate.’
He spoke with some vigour.
Matthias nodded and said, ‘You’re right, of course. But, forgive me, you sound almost as if you had a personal concern here, rather than just stating a general principle.’
‘Not really. Except, something I saw in the sickbay. The kids who were in there scratched their names on a locker, plus what they were in there for, flu and sprains and stuff. Only this kid Simon Sillcroft all the fuss was about, I saw his name, three times. And after it he’d scratched sadness. Yes, I felt that personal when I saw it, and when I heard what had happened, I felt it even more personal.’
He’d got the man’s full attention and every trace of that faint private smile which had hovered round his lips up till now had vanished.
‘Sadness,’ he echoed. ‘Oh, the poor little devil. Sadness all the way for him.’
‘You knew him well, did you?’ challenged Joe.
‘I knew him. He had a good treble, not strong but very pure. And he played the violin well. He didn’t have music paid for in his fees – it’s an extra at Branddreth – but I fitted him into lessons when I could.’
‘Mr Lewis didn’t object?’
‘Oh, no. Said he was pleased I had a special interest in the boy, they were all a little worried about him, he was so quiet and unforthcoming, almost repressed.’ The smile flickered. ‘Special interest. That phrase came back to haunt me. Funny how different it sounds when there’s unspoken accusations hovering in the air.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Joe.
‘The boy’s state of mind got worse. He really seemed to have retreated right into himself. I was only at the school a couple of times a week, but I noticed, and I said something. That came out as more evidence of my special interest, I believe.’
‘What about his parents, weren’t they told?’ asked Joe.
‘Eventually, though, to be fair, it was difficult,’ said Matthias. ‘The mother is dead, the father’s an engineer working mainly in Argentina, the boy spent the holidays in the care of an aunt in Bexhill, on the south coast, who wasn’t herself in the best of health. Eventually a doctor was sent on behalf of the family to examine Simon. That’s when things were said, accusations hinted …’
‘We’re talking abuse?’ said Joe.
‘Yes, we are. But whether the boy was depressed because of abuse, or whether the idea of abuse came up because of things the boy’s depressed state of mind made him say, I’m not expert enough to say and unlike some people I’ll wait till I have firm evidence before I start making accusations …’
He was speaking with great force till, suddenly becoming aware of it, he visibly reined himself in and went on in his earlier laid-back mode, ‘Well, it makes no difference now, does it? In a better place, isn’t that what they say, the professional comforters, the ones who are born knowing everything?’
Seemed an odd thing for a comforter to have said, Bexhill a better place than Branddreth Hall, but Joe wasn’t going to argue with it, though he was a Brighton man himself. He examined Matthias closely, which was easy as the man seemed to have fallen into a fit of melancholy introspection. If his concern for young Sillcroft’s wellbeing was an act, it was a good one. But Joe knew that in this field the craft of deception – perhaps because in many cases it was grounded in self-deception – had been refined to high art.
‘Was there an enquiry?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh yes,’ said Matthias, returning with a visible effort to the here and now. ‘Our wonderful police went through the motions …’
‘Why do you say that? Didn’t get the impression someone like DI Ursell was a motions man,’ said Joe.
‘Ursell? Yes, I recollect he was involved at an early stage. His attitude to people like myself seemed just as prejudiced and illiberal as most of his colleagues and he vanished from the scene fairly quickly, meaning, I presumed, he didn’t think the
enquiry was worth his attention. Social services showed their face, but it was all very low key, very GM, if you know what I mean?’
He looked at Joe to see if he needed explanation, saw he didn’t, and went on, ‘It ended with the boy being withdrawn, on medical grounds, and with me being sent down the road at about the same time, because there wasn’t the demand for a specialist music teacher any more. I had no formal contract so no formal ground for complaint. Nothing was ever said openly to link my departure and young Simon’s, but there was no one round here who didn’t make the connection, and I’m sure that whenever parents got a whiff of what had happened and rang up to make enquiries, they were assured that there was nothing to worry about as the only possible source of the problem, if there were a problem, had been rooted out.’
He sat back and examined Joe. For approval? Why should he be bothered?
Joe said, ‘You seem to be OK.’
This surprised the Welshman.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Something like this … back home it would be bad enough … the rumours, I mean … I’d have thought round here …’
‘That me being gay and living here in wild Wales, I run the risk of getting tarred and feathered every Sabbath night? Not so, Mr Sixsmith. Narrow-minded many of my compatriots may be, but having a narrow mind doesn’t stop you having a broad heart, and they judge by what they feel not by what they’re told, not even when it’s the police and so-called leaders of our community doing the telling.’
‘Yeah, well, I heard you had a job at the comp., and I thought, yeah, well, that’s good, that shows something …’
There he went again, starting down a thought road without looking to where it led.
‘You thought that maybe I was allowed to retain it out of sympathy? Or perhaps to make a point in the local battle against the High Master?’ Matthias shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, Mr Sixsmith, what kind of people has your prejudiced English press led you to believe inhabit this beautiful land of ours? The kind who out of pity or politics would put their own children at risk?’
‘Sorry,’ said Joe, who was beginning to feel that if he’d got himself insured against being abashed, he’d be a rich man. ‘Didn’t really think that. Didn’t really think at all.’
Singing the Sadness Page 12
