A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  He switched on the car radio to Radio Cymru and the tail-end of the 7.30 a.m. news of a thirty-year-old woman and two small boys from Crossgates in Radnorshire, whose Bedford Rascal van had apparently plunged off the Black Mountain road above Brynamman in Carmarthenshire yesterday evening.

  Christ Almighty . . .

  The Maverick suddenly swerved, hitting one soft verge then the other. Nothing to do with me, he told himself, trying to right the off-roader and push a series of shock waves to the back of his mind. Yet he switched off the radio with one thought uppermost. Had she obeyed his instructions? No way could he show his face at the farm to find out, because Lucy Mitchell had been there too. And how much did she know? Was it only the librarian who’d given her the nod? Or was someone else trying to find out if he was around? Someone who wanted him dead?

  As he continued along the quiet B road trying not to dwell on his former girlfriend’s death and those of the kids who might at some point in future time, have been his, he felt as if a yawning hole had suddenly opened up in his life. The possibilities which he’d so carefully nurtured in his mind for his future suddenly gone and in their place, were problems with the present. Such as, where he’d be kipping tonight. And what to do about the Ford Maverick? It was a big black giveaway and he was now regretting his too-hasty purchase. Better to have gone for a tin-pot van like Rhiannon George’s which were ten-a-penny in this neck of the woods. Would have saved him some dough too. And thinking of her, he should have tailed her wherever she was going, persevered with his plan to ask her to marry him. Then who knows? But now he’d other fish to fry and time was running out.

  Out of Rhayader and up the Wye Valley on the road which sent a shiver of déjà vu through his whole frame. However, instead of heading directly for Aberystwyth and its resident hillbillies, he turned off left for Devil’s Bridge and the plundering all-consuming River Rheidol.

  Given the time of year, the place was strangely free of rubbernecks. Nice and shaded too, he thought, with plenty of din from the cascades and surf just like he remembered. Robert found an overgrown track leading off this minor road which ended further along the gorge. As he parked on the very edge he couldn’t resist murmuring some of Frost’s poem to himself . . .

  ‘The woods are lovely dark and deep

  And I have miles to go before I sleep . . .’

  One of his favourites, along with Arnold’s ‘The Scholar Gypsy’ and ‘Thyrsis’. And here they were, just for him, in all their damp green flesh.

  He emptied the vehicle of all his belongings, careful not to leave anything incriminating behind. He even checked both headrests for hairs, and not just his, because DNA testing was now the main problem facing all those trying to turn their lives around.

  It didn’t take him long to secrete all his camping gear away behind a nearby beech hedge. There was nothing here to betray his identity should the items be found and, thus reassured, he returned to the Maverick and slipped his arm inside the open front passenger window. Once he’d released the handbrake, he pushed his body against the off-roader’s boot until centimetre by centimetre its front wheels moved over the edge.

  With one final shove, the black steel hulk tumbled once, then twice, over and over down towards the swollen flow until it hit the water, gurgling air as it sank. He didn’t stay for the final echoing sounds of submersion and, having rubbed some earth into his sunstreaked hair to disguise the lighter bits, and made the decision to keep the new brown contacts in, he was off. Walking like any normal visitor to the area, heading for Aberystwyth and anywhere with white vans for sale.

  At Capel Gors, he was relieved to find a Murco garage wedged between the end of a line of run-down cottages and a sawmills, and noticed an overalled man he assumed was the owner, lugging blue gas cylinders over to a rack near the air pressure gauge. The drag of steel on concrete set his teeth on edge. He just wanted the fucker to stop and the moment he saw him, he did.

  ‘Sunday’s not Sunday any more,’ the man grumbled, wiping over his sweaty forehead with his oily cuff. ‘But it’s not down to me, is it? Murco’s my lord and bloody master . . .’

  Normally, he’d have indulged the cretin in his griping, but he had to get back to his gear. It was five miles, after all.

  ‘You got any vans for sale?’ he asked in the best Scottish accent he could muster. There was a wired-off area alongside the shop which, from where he stood, seemed to house some promising-looking crates. ‘I’m cash. Can give top whack.’

  ‘There’s vans and vans . . .’

  ‘Just a runabout will do me.’

  ‘Got one. Came in yesterday. Gone round the clock twice and I can’t offer no guarantees on it.’ He waddled over to the compound, unlocked the huge padlock on the wire door and held it open for him to follow.

  If only he himself could adopt that neat little homily, Robert thought, eyeing up the possibilities in front of him and beginning to lose heart as the man singled out a maroon Transit for his inspection.

  ‘Nothing in white then?’ he asked, glancing at the ranks of wrecks by the far fence. ‘Say a five hundredweight?’

  The man scratched his dirty chin and moved away towards the junk on wheels.

  ‘Try this one,’ he suggested. ‘My son wanted something a bit more classy to pull in the birds, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Yeah, course.’ He eyed the van’s dented offside wheel hub, its general decrepitude. Whatever its faults, it would certainly fit in. It was also a Renault. And that was key.

  ‘Taxed till November. MOT due end of October. Tyres will do another month and all.’

  ‘Great.’

  The other man drew closer then looked round furtively. Robert recoiled. He smelt like those Abos back at Redfern.

  ‘As far as insurance goes, just stick to the back roads, eh?’

  Robert didn’t respond. Hadn’t he been doing the very same with the Maverick? And no tax disc either?

  ‘Say thirty. Cash, remember?’ he said.

  The man hesitated and Robert began to move off. Always a good ploy.

  ‘You’re on. I’ll get the keys and you’ll need fuel. Unleaded, remember.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘So, where you from then?’ The man tucked the money deep in his overalls as if he’d just sold a wad of crack.

  ‘Chester. I’m a Scot in this play we’re doing. Practice makes perfect, eh?’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’ The man replaced the petrol nozzle against the pump and screwed up the van’s tank cap. ‘On holiday, then?’

  ‘Kind of, yeah.’

  ‘Well,’ he patted the bird-shit bonnet. ‘She’s sure to get you where you want to go.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He steered the heap out into the road and returned without incident to where his stuff still lay intact. Once the van was packed up, he peered down at where the Maverick had once been. It had totally gone. There were no bits of bodywork showing, no chrome, not one piece of the chassis’ skeleton and, as if to celebrate his latest achievement, he pulled out a snazzy silver mobile from his jeans pocket.

  He’d heard the last two voicemail messages to the tart on it enough times and now, while overhead, the rain clouds also swelled until they could swell no more, turning the vale below to night before releasing their own burdens, he threw the thing high into the air over the water.

  The final voicemail was still running as it dropped down down down . . .

  ‘Jade, it’s Cass again. Sunday. 2 p.m. I’m getting worried now. Are you okay? For God’s sake just buzz me when you’ve got a mo. Promise?’

  Whoever Cass was, she had every reason to be worried.

  Giant raindrops hit his head as he climbed back into the van. But he was smiling. And why not? He felt good. Ready for anything in fact. Just now had been the business, but only by filling the old granny’s cauldron earlier on, he’d finally brought himself, the one true Dagda, from the unjust darkness into perpetual light.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine />
  Hi you, I really dig this. No more for a while now.

  x

  I am the captain of my soul

  The Master of my fate.

  WE Henley 1849-1903

  Mark had gone to work, and Hector to New Radnor. In their absence, Ravenstone Hall was eerily quiet as Lucy sat in front of the old-fashioned dressing table in her room, repeatedly brushing out her hair and thinking about what style to wear it in on Thursday. She also thought about the sawyer’s childish outburst over her and Hector, and how he’d spent the previous evening in a sulk on his own. However she should be the one taking umbrage. Hadn’t she lost her nerve to even step into Wern Goch to look at the cauldron? Hadn’t those ravens there been just too attentive as she’d hovered outside? Even now she kept her eye on the landing through her open door. The words on that cryptic note which Hector had taken to scrutinise further had seeped into her psyche, making her forever watchful and wary. Shortening her sleep.

  Yet she had to take the initiative. To find out what was really going on, and that would mean not just a busy morning but however long it took . . .

  She used both hands to create a smooth French pleat at the back of her head. A more formal style for her imminent visit to her bank and her solicitor. The kind she’d used at the London Book Fair or signings she’d been graciously allowed to attend. And, as she set the amber-coloured comb in place, felt a lump form in her throat. The world of books – who was writing what, auctions and advances – all seemed to have drifted away, to be replaced by something utterly different; as if some ancient carapace of land and water now sealed in her world, excluding her past, the person she’d once been, the people she’d loved and trusted, bringing only death and drownings into this guide-book paradise.

  She shivered and closed the window on the strange two-tone sky outside, wondering briefly about calling Anna again. But another predictably optimistic response wasn’t the answer. It would be going too much against the gloomy grain. In short, it was too easy.

  Before going downstairs, however, Lucy tried the handle of the adjoining room with the rose on the door. The raven’s head handle felt like ice, but to her surprise, it moved then turned, allowing her a glimpse of what lay beyond, because if this had once been Sonia Jones’s room, then there might be more of that same rose-printed cotton which had fallen from Wern Goch’s chimney. Other clues as well, maybe, but first impressions weren’t promising. For a start, it seemed as if everything to do with her had been airbrushed away. As if the woman had never even existed.

  She held her breath as she tiptoed across the bare floorboards to the two utility-style wardrobes. Her own aunt still kept hers from just after the war – as plain and functional as the name suggested. Unlike in Mark’s room, both were jammed with coats, macs and dresses of every description. One for each day of the week it seemed, and as she probed without success for anything which resembled that striking rose pattern a familiar smell met her nose. She sniffed, then stifled a sneeze on the perfume and dust. Nothing but death and decay . . .

  She made her way down into Hector’s study again and having left fifty pence on the bar for her call, dug out her little address book and found the number she wanted. She glanced out at the surreal sky as she dialled 141 first then waited for someone to answer.

  ‘Yes? Who’s there?’ The sharpness of the man’s voice caught her by surprise. He also sounded wary, on his guard.

  ‘Mr Williams?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Lucy Mitchell here. Ravenstone Hall. Sorry to disturb you, and I’m also sorry those birds went for you the other day, but I wondered if you could help me. Could we possibly meet up sometime? This afternoon, perhaps? We really need to talk.’

  The silence which followed loomed into her ear.

  ‘Mr Williams?’ she prodded.

  ‘Look, Missy. I got a good job, my own place . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘I’ve no wish to be next. That’s all. Bore da to you . . .’

  YOU’RE NEXT.

  She looked at the receiver and shivered. Never had a dialling tone sounded so bleak, so ominous and even though the study was the stuffiest room at the Hall, it felt as if that dark slab of sky outside had somehow invaded the thick stone walls and drawn her into its very heart. As if she’d entered another realm beyond this one. A cold and bitter place where all things living wither and die. And as she left the room, having checked his address in Yellow Pages, it took all of her resolve to stick to her agenda. In other words, the appropriately titled TRUTH STRATEGY.

  Mark’s van was there by the Hall after all. Lucy frowned to herself as she drove away, still puzzled not only by the sweep’s reaction, but also by the fact that if Mark had been indoors all along, he’d not made the slightest sound. Maybe he was out in the fields doing something or other.

  And although she couldn’t actually see him anywhere, it was more reassuring to think that was the reason for his silence.

  Having first checked at Barclays that her father’s money was indeed now in her current savings account, she added her mother’s cheque, sent her one in turn for £500, then repaid the loan.

  Finally, she made her way to Church Street and her solicitor’s newly-rendered premises. There were two other clients in the equally immaculate waiting room, whispering about MAFF, DEFRA and a road accident somewhere, but as she’d not made an appointment, she was prepared to stick it out.

  At last, at ten o’clock, having re-read the single copy of Horse and Hound six times, she was shown into Martyn Harries’s office and was immediately struck by the difference in his whole demeanor from their last meeting. A week ago this man in his mid-fifties had been the helpful professional that she’d needed. Now he looked like the one needing help and she, rather than wishing to tax him further, retreated to the door.

  ‘No, please,’ he said, indicating a chair in front of his desk, still warm from the last occupant. ‘Let’s hope you’ve some pleasant news, Miss Mitchell, because I’ve had enough of the other kind to last till the good Lord finally takes me.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘If I did any other kind of job, I could tell you.’ His tired eyes rested briefly on a black and white wedding photograph which she vaguely recognised, propped up in one of his bookcases.

  ‘It’s not news, Mr Harries but questions I need to ask you. I know I should have made an appointment but . . .’

  ‘We’re hardly Lincoln’s Inn here,’ a weak smile appeared on his lips. ‘So, how can I help?’

  She focused again on that wedding couple.

  ‘As you know, I’m hoping to exchange contracts with Mr Jones on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Everything’s in order. The Deeds to Wern Goch are now with me and you’ll be receiving a copy of my search tomorrow. I can assure you there are neither proposed or pending plans for development on any adjoining land or ancient or current Rights-of-Way affecting the property. I’ve also . . .’

  ‘Look,’ she interrupted him. ‘That’s not the reason I’m here. I want you to tell me the truth, if you can, about Mrs Jones’s murder.’

  She was aware of the lawyer’s unblinking stillness as she spoke.

  ‘I know it was a vile business, but if I’m to go ahead with buying, I need to feel, you know . . .’ she faltered for a moment. ‘Safe.’

  Martyn Harries leaned forwards.

  ‘My dear Lucy. May I call you that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘If I had any information about Wern Goch which I felt might affect your future well-being there, believe me, I would have passed it on to you.’ He spread both white hands out on his papers and looked at her with a determined expression in his pale blue eyes. ‘It would not be in my interests to do otherwise. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I do. But I’ve heard so many conflicting stories, innuendos, I honestly don’t know who or what to believe. And, until I get the truth, I’m afraid the sale might be off. Even though we’ve started fen
cing, and I’ve already got new locks fitted and new windows ready, it just feels like my dream’s ebbing away.’

  ‘I quite understand your feelings, believe me. But, as you can imagine, the Radnorshire Constabulary left no stone unturned in their hunt for Mrs Jones’s killer. They even fingerprinted and interrogated her remaining family for days . . .’

  ‘But no DNA testing then, of course?’

  ‘No. And I’m afraid the CID team which was brought in from Hereford may have been somewhat over-zealous. Mind you, nothing incriminating was ever found.’

  She thought of what lay in her fleece pocket, the burnt fragments, the bits of boiled flesh in Mark’s shoe, and decided, against her better judgement, to honour her pledge to him. But not for much longer, she told herself. Friday was the deadline.

  ‘I’ve heard about the older son Richard not coping very well,’ she said instead.

  ‘I fear that’s an understatement. He went totally off the rails after the tragedy. I remember seeing Mr Jones, or Detective Inspector Jones as he’d once been, in utter despair over it. Apparently Richard also said some pretty harsh things to his father at the time. Things he just couldn’t live with.’

  So the present tensions at Ravenstone were probably minute compared to those days, thought Lucy to herself without much comfort.

  ‘In the end,’ said Martyn Harries, ‘and this is something you shouldn’t know, so please bear this in mind . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ Wondering what was coming next.

  ‘In the end because he couldn’t forgive him, his father changed his Will and banished the lad to distant relatives somewhere.’