by Wonny Lea
He waited for a response from Catherine but she couldn’t trust herself to speak and so there was only silence.
‘Mother, Mother, are you still there? Remember, it’s me you’re talking to so there’s no need to pretend you’re upset.’
The silence was broken by peals of laughter that even to Charles sounded distasteful. ‘You need to tell me where you are so that I can pick you up and take you to Cardiff. Did you hear what I said about the police treating Father’s death as suspicious?’
He suddenly remembered the Jaguar and asked about it.
‘You know what’s happened to that!’ she snapped. ‘I arranged to get it picked up before daylight this morning because of the business with Lizzie bringing that girl to train at the Hall. I assume it was gone before I left.’
‘You assume wrong! Those idiots you hang out with couldn’t organise a piss-up in a bloody brewery.’
Charles told her that Lizzie’s friend had photographed it in situ and had shown the photograph to the Cardiff police. ‘At this moment I’ve got some scene of crime expert from bloody Wales here and he’s enlisted the help of the local lot. That bastard DCI Mortimer was grinning like a Cheshire cat at the chance of setting foot inside our door.’
‘So the Jag’s still there and they’re looking at it? Fuck, you’re right, this is a bloody mess!’
‘The car has gone, so I guess your friends couldn’t get out of bed this morning and eventually picked it up after Lizzie had seen it. Do you know where they’ve taken it? It needs to be destroyed properly. We can’t risk these SOC people getting their hands on any part of it.’
‘But, darling, you love that car. Maybe when everything has settled down you’ll be able to use it again.’
‘Mother, have you completely taken leave of your senses? Part of the pleasure for me came from imagining I was using Father’s car for activities he would consider disgusting – that was a big turn-on. And knowing that if I’d been caught on camera anywhere, he would have taken the rap.’
Catherine listened to her son sharing his secrets with her, as he had always done. She would always protect him, but deep down she knew that one day he would press the self-destruct button and she would only be able to stand and watch. They shared one horrendous secret that for years neither had spoken about, but she knew that at this time of the year it wouldn’t be far from his mind. There was little about her son that Catherine wasn’t aware of and nothing she couldn’t forgive him for.
Catherine looked around the hotel room, and rather longingly at a fresh bottle of whisky, but any thoughts of opening it were dashed by her son’s next words.
‘Get your public face on and make yourself presentable. If you won’t tell me where you are then you’ll have to make your own way to the police station. It should take me an hour and a half tops to get there and I don’t want you getting there before me. We need a few minutes together before going to see Lizzie and viewing Father’s body. It’s important we present a united front. We don’t have to seem devastated, but we do have to show dignity and lend our support to grieving little Lizzie.’
After Charles had ended the call Catherine circled the bottle of whisky several times before deciding that one drop wouldn’t do any harm.
Much as he was curious to know what was going on, Charles decided against talking to Alex or DCI Mortimer and within seconds of leaving the house he was driving his gunmetal-grey Mercedes through the main gates and making for the motorway. He was a born politician and was mulling over ways to get some positive publicity off the back of his father’s murder. Maybe he would spearhead a campaign to increase the safety of public transport – that was always a vote winner.
He knew that in the past there had been some seriously dodgy activity going on in the grounds of Woodcanton. His luxurious flat in central London had been partly paid for out of the proceeds, but that was years ago and had all stopped when … Charles refused to let his mind conjure up the moment that still bound his mother and himself together in a conspiracy of silence.
He tried to imagine how his sister would be feeling about their father’s death. Lizzie had always been as thick as thieves with her dad, and Charles anticipated that she would be in pieces. He knew that Lizzie had her own little secret, but although it would prove an embarrassment to him if it came out, it wasn’t quite as potentially ruinous as his was.
Charles drove his car over the Severn Bridge into Wales. If he had been a fly on the wall in Goleudy at that moment he may have decided not to make the crossing.
Auntie Julie hadn’t found Ellie sitting in a pile of shredded wallpaper this time, but she could sense that her adoptive niece was in a similar state of uncertainty and she hugged her tightly.
‘Inspector Pryor’s told me everything that’s happened over the last couple of days: no wonder you look exhausted! Your mind must be on a rollercoaster ride. Try not to worry, Ellie, I’m a great believer in fate and from what I’ve heard I believe you were meant to be with that man when he died.’
She accepted a cup of coffee before sitting down and then depositing her cup on a low table she took both of Ellie’s hands in her own.
‘I’ve always respected my brother’s wishes that you should be brought up as his own daughter. He loved you so much – you know that, don’t you?’
Ellie nodded. She had no control over the tears that welled up in her eyes and escaped down her cheeks.
‘When Gwyn died I should have spent more time with you, but my life was complicated at the time and you lived too far away for me to just pop in. Not that Joanne would have taken kindly to my interference anyway – we never got on! But that’s no excuse and I should have made it my business to be there for you.’
‘I’ve always known you were there if I needed you.’
‘The thing that I feel most guilty about is not telling you that you were adopted. Before Gwyn died he told me that he was making efforts to find your birth mother and so I knew he was gearing up to talking to you about your real family. Knowing that, I should have given you the information he found, after he died, but it just never seemed like the right time and then life just took over. I’m so sorry, Ellie, you shouldn’t have found out the way you did.’
Ellie smiled at her. ‘That’s all in the past now, and to be honest it’s only very recently that I’ve really thought about it. I’ve always been happy to think of myself as Gwyn Bevan’s daughter and I just wish he was here now.’
Julie smiled back and handed her a large brown envelope. Inside was a set of typed sheets, clipped together, plus a letter.
In the letter, written when she was nine, Gwyn explained to Ellie how he had been suffering from the same symptoms that had preceded his own father’s death from a coronary thrombosis, and so, worried that he wouldn’t be around to watch her grow up, he had found out all he could about her birth family.
The envelope also contained the reports from Porter Investigation Services, the private investigators he’d employed. Michael Porter’s last report was dated on Ellie’s ninth birthday, and she suddenly remembered going to a block of offices with her dad and waiting in the lobby while he picked something up on their way to her birthday trip to the cinema.
Ellie began to shed fresh tears as she read the reports. Porter had discovered that her birth mother had been raped by her tennis coach when she was just fifteen, but had kept the rape and her subsequent pregnancy a secret from her family until well past the time when termination was an option. The name of her mother had a series of exclamation marks written after it – as well it might, for Elizabeth Ferguson, better known as Lizzie, was one of the top British tennis players of the 1990s. Ellie gasped as she realised she knew exactly what her mother looked like, having seen her many times in the newspapers. She looked very much like Ellie herself.
Other members of the Ferguson family were in the spotlight, with Lizzie’s brother being one of the youngest Conservative MPs and her mother a respected fundraiser for Third World charities. Porter ha
d produced his trump card in the form of a photograph. A photocopy was clipped to the file – an exact copy of the photograph Ellie had discovered inside her dad’s book. It had come from Edward Ferguson. He’d been the only member of the family prepared to speak to Porter and to even acknowledge the possible existence of a child. He’d said that his family was in no position to have the ghosts of the past brought back to life, but that his own hope was that one day his granddaughter would have the courage to come looking for her mother.
Gwyn’s letter finished with, ‘ Although you were registered as Harriet Elizabeth Ferguson, to me you will always be Ellie Bevan, my daughter, and I love you. I hope that one day you will be able to meet your birth mother and to feel as happy with her as I always have with you. ’
Ellie placed the envelope down on the table and sat quietly for a while. Julie sat with her, her arm around her niece’s shoulders. After a few minutes Ellie said, ‘I’m ready. I want to meet her.’
Matt suggested that one of the small seminar rooms in Shelley’s training department would be a suitable place for everyone to meet.
‘There are easy chairs, tea-making facilities, and most importantly, peace and quiet. I’ve checked and there’s nothing going on today so you can take all the time you want. I’ll just ask DS Shaw if Elizabeth Ferguson is already there.’
‘I’m really scared,’ said Ellie.
‘You don’t have to do this now,’ emphasised Matt. ‘If you need more time, then take more time. I’m sure everyone would understand.’
‘I want more time and I don’t want more time and to be honest I don’t really know what I want! What if she doesn’t like me? What am I supposed to call her?’ Ellie started to get up from her chair and the sat down again.
To Matt’s relief Julie came to the rescue.
‘I can’t even begin to think how you feel, Ellie, but I know for sure that it was your father’s wish that you get to know your real mother someday, and if he was here now I think he’d be thrilled for you.’
A very different reunion was taking place on the other side of the Bay. Charles Ferguson had arranged to meet his mother in the car park behind the Techniquest science museum. It was an area both had visited in the past, when Catherine had hosted charity events at the prestigious St David’s Hotel. He arrived first and picked up a pay and display ticket from the machine.
After waiting ten minutes he started to dial his mother’s mobile number when he saw her car approaching. He got another ticket and took it over to where she’d parked – rather badly. The familiar scent of Jean Patou’s Joy, heavily applied, together with a strong smell of peppermint, failed to completely cover the whisky fumes. Charles turned purple with rage.
‘What kind of bloody idiot are you? We are supposed to be going to the police station and you turn up half-cut! You can’t even park properly so God only knows how you drove here. What would have happened if you’d been stopped and breathalysed?’
‘Darling! I wasn’t, was I? So don’t get your knickers in a twist. You wouldn’t have wanted me here sober, believe me. All my demons are coming home to roost at the moment and I need a bit of help to deal with them.’
Charles knew from experience that it was no good trying to reason with his mother when she was in this state, and after locking her car and putting her keys into his own pocket he led her towards the nearest coffee shop in Mermaid Quay. He ordered two flat whites, one with a double shot of espresso, and two triple chocolate muffins.
‘Don’t even think about saying you’re on some sort of stupid diet, because I’m not in the mood to listen. You need some food and some strong coffee to soak up the booze.’
Catherine didn’t argue but she did wince as she took her first mouthful.’
‘Shit! This is much too strong.’
She pushed the cup towards Charles and he pushed it back. His mother’s language had already caught the attention of a young woman with a couple of kids.
‘You’ll drink it whether you like it or not. We won’t be leaving here until you’re full of coffee and cake and smell a bit less like a bloody distillery.’
Charles drank his own coffee and as he watched his mother sipping hers he realised that she really was becoming a liability. She’d had a drink problem for many years but never allowed it to show publicly. Just lately she didn’t seem to care how she behaved and he knew that a whisky-soaked Catherine wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut.
Three-quarters of an hour later she looked and sounded more like the Catherine Ferguson that her public would recognise and Charles was able to agree a few things with her.
‘We’ll say as little as possible and as she’s already there Lizzie will have identified Father and so we don’t even need to see him – unless you want to.’
‘Good God, no! I wasn’t keen on seeing him alive and I sure as hell don’t want to see him dead.’
‘Well, as long as you don’t express those thoughts to the police. Just say you can’t bear the thought of seeing him dead and they’ll assume it’s grief. You could try giving Lizzie a hug – it’s what most mothers would do in the circumstances.’
Catherine raised one of her perfectly outlined eyebrows but made no reply.
‘They’re bound to ask about the Jaguar so we both need to say the same thing. The detective who came to the Hall showed me a photograph of the Jaguar and said it had been taken this morning outside the garages. I didn’t say too much, just indicated that the existence of two identical cars was ridiculous.’
‘And that’s exactly what I’ll say. I could swear on a stack of Bibles that there aren’t two cars.’ She gave a girlish giggle. ‘At least, there aren’t any more!’
Despite her poor attempt at humour, Charles was satisfied that his mother was as near to sober as she would ever be, and escorted her down a side road. He knew exactly where he was, and Catherine couldn’t help suggesting that he had used the car in question on those very streets.
Charles gave his mother a look of disgust though didn’t deny the allegation. He pointed out the unusually shaped building that looked out onto the Bay and was the home of the Welsh Assembly Government.
‘I’ve been there several times when we’ve been looking at joint policies, so that’s how I know the area, and
not in the way your warped mind is suggesting. I’ve even been to the police headquarters we’re going to. There was an official function there some years ago and I have to admit it’s very impressive. It’s just around the next corner, so get your grieving widow’s expression in place and keep your mouth
shut .’
Chapter Fifteen
Matt walked with Ellie, Julie, and Helen Cook-Watts to the seminar room where Lizzie and her friends were waiting with Maggie Shaw. What was about to take place wasn’t a police matter and he had decided not to be a participant. He was satisfied that from his side Helen and Maggie would give all the support that was needed. They would also be his eyes and ears in the unlikely event that something of relevance to the investigation came up.
He was suddenly exhausted and put it down to the strain of this being the first time he had taken the lead in a murder investigation. The killer was still at large, but at least there were a few names to consider under the heading of motive and his team were working really hard with interviewing potential witnesses. There was plenty to do and he recognised being at the point of a case that Martin frequently referred to as peddling. He could see why because activity was ongoing and the scene was constantly changing but progress was just that bit too slow.
‘Penny for them,’ called out a familiar voice from the end of the corridor. Matt smiled broadly.
‘Well, to be honest, guv, I was thinking about you!’
Martin caught up with his colleague and laughed. ‘Nothing too romantic, I hope! How’s it going? I take it Alex is still in Wiltshire?’
‘I’m not really sure – it seems we may have opened a real can of worms, starting with that Jonathan Creek situation: the sa
me car magically in two different parts of the country at the same time.’
Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘As I remember it, Jonathan Creek always found a logical explanation in the end.’
‘Yes, and the logic is that there are definitely two different cars of the same make, colour, and model, with the same number plates. What I don’t know is why and what, if anything, they had to do with the murder!’
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Martin.
‘I’m just going to find a quiet spot to think. Everyone working on the case is fully occupied and for the moment I’m just waiting for things to come together.’
‘If you want to think aloud I’m happy to be a sounding board. Don’t worry, I don’t want to steal your case, and you could return the favour as I’d like to bounce some thoughts on the case I’m looking at.’
Getting the agreement he was looking for Martin led the way to his end of the top floor and put the kettle on while Matt admired the new setup. He got to the place where Martin’s famous columns were boldly displayed on a large screen that he could see was linked to a nearby computer. He laughed out loud.
‘Well I never thought I’d ever see the day – you’ve been allowed into the twenty-first century!’
‘Less of the bloody cheek, DI Pryor, but putting my columns aside what do you think of the new facilities?’
‘Brilliant. I’m not sure I’d know how to operate everything but I’d love to be shown the ropes.’
‘Charlie’s the woman to ask for a demonstration and she’s determined that we are all going to use everything to its maximum potential.’
Matt latched on to one of Martin’s comments.
‘You said “all”. Does that mean these facilities are going to be opened up? I heard that the chief super wants to use them for high-profile cold cases.’
‘The jungle drums are spot on. If he got funding on that premise then good for him, but I want to persuade him that they shouldn’t just be kept for that purpose. I’ve been working on one of those cases, and whereas I’ve benefitted immensely from some of this new technology it would be even more useful in current cases. A sophisticated programme like this one here will sort out all the new data faster than we can. Anyway, want to do that thinking out loud we spoke about?’
