THE SILENCE OF THE STONES: Will the secrets written in the stones destroy a young woman's world? The runes are cast. Who will die?

by Rebecca Bryn

  ‘He’ll stand by you, Alana, when he gets his head around it. And if he won’t, he doesn’t deserve you.’

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. ‘I love you, Greg Anderson.’

  He smiled and held her close. His lips caressed her hair. ‘I love you, too, Alana. And thank you... for not being an idiot.’

  ‘This didn’t happen, right?’

  ‘What didn’t happen?’ Greg’s voice was innocent.

  She smiled and pulled away. ‘I guess this means one of us has to sleep on the sofa.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rhiannon watched anxiously. What was the girl up to, now? She and the man, who’d arrived yesterday, seemed to be playing on the green. They’d spent yesterday evening half-burying lumps of something heavily-wrapped into holes, and now appeared to be digging another. They heaved a tall shape upright into the hole and firmed it in. Alana pointed and said something, appearing to remonstrate with the man and, within seconds, they were laughing and throwing lumps of turf at one another. The way they were acting suggested they were a couple.

  She scratched Pryderi beneath his chin. ‘You see the shape she’s formed, Pryderi? It’s a circle. I have a bad feeling about this.’ She grabbed the rune bag and delved quickly, drawing out Othala. The transliteration was O. O for... She couldn’t think of anything or anybody who began with an O. It’s meaning concerned ancestral property… And freedom and independence through releasing ideas that were blocking her path. She’d inherit something?

  Maybe Nerys was right all along, and it was poppycock. The loss of Nerys and Lowrie caught at her breath: part of herself had died with them. She stroked Pryderi’s head and he nuzzled into her hand. ‘I need to see what she’s doing.’

  Stuart Davis also watched the youngsters from his door, his expression dour. She’d go and see how he was coping with Elin’s death. She opened her front door and hurried across the green, Pryderi running after her. Closer to, the young man seemed familiar: of course, he’d visited Alana before, with the girl with purple and green hair.

  She walked past Alana towards Stuart. The girl waved. ‘Nice morning, Rhiannon.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ There had been warmth in Alana’s greeting: a small pang of remorse hit her. She straightened and walked on: she’d done nothing to harm the girl, yet. ‘Stuart.’ How are you was a stupid question. She nodded towards the couple, now chasing each other across the grass. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Being young and carefree.’ His face attempted a smile and failed. ‘I hope they make the most of it.’

  She nodded. ‘But why are they digging up the green?

  ‘Elin says…’ He tried again. ‘Alana’s a sculptor. She’s been chipping away at something for months. Judging by the way those two were faffing about earlier, I think whatever she’s erected is pretty weighty.’

  Suppose it had been a sketch of a rune she’d seen in Alana’s living room. Her worst fears jumped to the fore. ‘A stone circle?’

  ‘No idea, though it certainly seems to be circular. I asked but she said she’s keeping it under wraps until Monday afternoon. Grand unveiling at three o’clock, she says. Photographers and all, maybe even TV.’

  She chewed her lip. Photographers almost certainly meant media interest, and there would be plenty of that with the village’s past and recent history. Apparently finished with their task, the young man was now giving Alana a piggyback. ‘I don’t know where they get their energy.’

  A taxi stopped outside The Haggard and the young woman with purple and green hair got out. She’d thought she and the young man were a couple, and the young woman obviously thought so too, judging by her expression. She shook her head, glad she didn’t have to bother with all that relationship stuff. Fireworks were about to explode, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  ***

  Alana’s breath came in ragged gasps from too much laughing.

  Greg dumped her unceremoniously in a heap on the grass. ‘Maddy!’

  She waved, smiling, but Maddy stalked towards them, her face like thunder.

  Greg read the situation instantly. ‘This isn’t what it looks like, Maddy.’

  ‘So tell me what it is like.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got room to accuse me of anything.’

  ‘You promised to love me no matter what. The first tiny smidgen of angst…’

  ‘Tiny smidgen? Is that what you call it?’

  She parted them with a shove. ‘Now then, children. I didn’t phone Maddy to have you tear lumps out of each other.’

  Greg turned on her. ‘Alana, I can fight my own battles.’

  ‘That’s what I call gratitude.’ Maddy stood hands on hips and glared at Greg.

  They really did belong together. A giggle started deep inside her, rose despite her best effort and exploded. They both turned and glared at her. ‘Sorry.’ She bent double with helpless mirth. ‘You two… deserve each other. You’re both as stubborn as mules. Greg, Maddy loves you. Maddy, Greg loves you. You’re both sorry and you’re both forgiven. Get a room and sort yourselves out, for God’s sake.’

  Greg scuffed the grass with his shoe. Maddy took hold of his hand. ‘I am sorry, Greg…’

  She couldn’t suppress an envious sigh: in another life she and Greg could have been happy together. She left them to it, three being a multitude, and went back to the house with the spade and pick.

  The sculptures were all in place, Mr John and the woman from the Arts Council were coming on Monday. With Greg’s help, she was ready… two weeks ahead of schedule.

  Maddy and Greg walked through the open doorway, hand in hand. Maddy hugged her. ‘Thank you, Alana.’

  Greg looked embarrassed. She smiled and hoped he wouldn’t feel the need to confess all to Maddy. She wound a strand of hair around her fingers. ‘I don’t know what I shall do if the stone circle is a flop, if I don’t get funding. Mr John won’t wait forever for his money.’

  ‘It’ll be in the Sunday arts’ sections. It’s generated quite a bit of interest from editors, given the village’s present notoriety.’

  Greg bit his bottom lip. ‘It’s an ill wind.’

  More ill than he knew, given who she was. ‘Not one I’m particularly happy to take advantage of.’

  ‘Not your fault, Alana.’ Maddy paused, as if uncomfortable. ‘I’ve written another article. I wanted to run it by you both.’ She proffered her i-pad.

  Ex-Police Chief under Investigation Thirty Years after Village of Death Inquiry.

  She devoured the words. Maddy hadn’t named the police officer involved, but her criticism of the way the case had been handled left no doubt of her feelings for Greg, or her conviction that his mother had been innocent then, no matter what she suspected she’d done since.

  Here was another victim of Siân’s duplicity… and the officer’s own selfish desire for Brownie points in the force. He’d been sure Nerys was guilty of something and had over-emphasised, even lied about, the relevance of the testimonies of the women who’d sided with Siân against Nerys: as keen as they were to get her sent down.

  Maddy waited for her to digest the article. ‘You haven’t heard any more about who that poor child is, buried at Cerrig o’ Tyr?’

  ‘No, not yet. I suppose DNA tests on the families of likely children will take time. Do you really think Nerys didn’t have anything to do with it?’

  ‘There’s no actual proof that she had anything to do with any of the disappearances, Alana. As far as I can make out, it was the tragedy of the cot deaths, misunderstood, that sparked the whole debacle. The abductions and the death of the third child, could be down to… well, anybody... a local, a stray tourist, opportunist abductors. As for these latest deaths, who knows? The police seem satisfied they’re accidental.’

  ‘Apart from Elin Davis. And they’re not sure about the fire, still.’

  Maddy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Elin was due to her marital infidelity, not Nerys. As for the fire…’

  She chang
ed the subject, acutely aware of her part in Elin’s death. ‘Have you managed to trace Nerys’ sister?’

  Maddy shook her head. ‘We did find her birth record, eventually, but no trace of her after she left home as a teenager. No marriage records or death records. Greg thinks she must have emigrated.’

  Greg had remained silent. Eyes like moorland pools… lost, puppy-dog eyes. Tony would never look at her like that, again. She handed back Maddy’s i-pad and looked out of the window to the circle of stones, wrapped like mummies against prying eyes. She had just the forms left to fill in ready for the Monday unveiling. She was keeping all fingers crossed. She’d invested a huge amount of time and effort into her chosen career, and her and Saffy’s futures in Coed-y-Cwm depended on the funding to carve the full-size stone circle.

  ***

  Alana sipped coffee. Greg and Maddy had booked into a local B&B, and were planning on pulling sickies so they could be here for the unveiling. She stretched tired muscles: two days of hauling stones and digging had left them stiff and sore. She hoped Greg wasn’t too stiff… well, she hoped most of him wasn’t stiff, since he and Maddy had booked a double room.

  She ran through Maddy’s article in her mind. Her allegations against the investigating officer had been virulent, if inconclusive. Was there anything in Siân’s past that would back Maddy’s attack? There had been bills from a private investigator. She hadn’t questioned the paradox before, but now… why, if Siân knew where her daughter was, did she employ a P.I?

  She fetched the box file into which she’d sorted Siân’s life and took out the album of photographs and cuttings. She fingered a photo of Siân and Dafydd’s wedding. She couldn’t yet think of herself as Cadi or them as her parents. A folder beneath was labelled Guy Pritchard, P.I. The first few months’ bills dated from shortly after Cadi had disappeared, even before the police investigation had begun to wind down. Siân had conspired with Mum and the others to hide her from Dafydd, so maybe the P.I. was simply a red-herring to put him and the police off the scent.

  The bills Siân had paid to Guy Pritchard covered a number of years and amounted to thousands of pounds.

  The last receipt was dated four years ago. That was odd: Dafydd had died sixteen years ago. Maybe Siân had been investigating something else. What reason would she have to employ a detective other than looking for Cadi? Was Dafydd having an affair? Given that he was a drunkard, anything was possible. Surely, Siân wouldn’t have stood by him all these years if that had been the case.

  The telephone number was local and the receipt header boasted a seven day, twenty-four hour service. The clock on the wall said seven-thirty. She reached for the phone that sat on the narrow table under the window and punched in the number. What exactly had he discovered to earn his money?

  ‘Mr Guy Pritchard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t know me. I’m Siân Ap Dafydd’s niece. You…’

  ‘I remember her well. How is your aunt?’

  ‘She died recently.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How can I help you?’

  ‘I wondered if you could tell me what you were investigating.’

  ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, but… I found all these receipts… She paid you a lot of money over the years. Can you at least tell me if it concerned her daughter, Cadi?’

  ‘I suppose that’s common knowledge.’

  ‘And you failed to find her.’

  ‘Not for lack of trying.’

  She needed to know more. ‘Mr Pritchard. Cadi is my cousin. I want to find her. Maybe, if you bring me up to date, we can carry on where my aunt left off?’

  ‘I could take your money, but the child’s dead. She has to be. I followed every lead. Nothing. I approached the witnesses, not that they were very co-operative. They all stuck to the same story and clammed up when I tried to probe further.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘I always thought the police were a bit too keen to get a conviction. Something didn’t quite sit right with me. Nothing I could put a finger on… but something bloody odd went on in that village. I wouldn’t want to live there if I had a young kiddy.’

  ‘It was thirty years ago.’

  ‘Still leaves a bad taste. After Bethan went missing… some of the houses had weird signs painted on their doors. Odd things started to happen… Blood was found on the stone slab at Cerrig Y Týr.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard about any blood.’

  ‘It wasn’t human blood… a chicken’s, I think, or a dog’s but it felt like a warning. Then little Cadi disappeared and the strange happenings stopped.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Witnesses came forward and Nerys Reece was put behind bars. Sometimes, I wonder if they were intimidated into making those statements… I don’t know, but like I said, something didn’t sit right with me…’

  ‘You didn’t investigate anything else for my aunt, later?’

  ‘I’ve said far too much already.’ The phone line went dead.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, and with it came a sick, sinking feeling. She put down the phone. If the later bills referred to his search for Cadi, if Siân didn’t know where Cadi was… then Mum was still lying. Nothing rang true anymore. Meet Cadi Alana Ap Dafydd. I wanted to tear her out of her arms, punch Siân in the face. Had Mum snatched her from Siân? The best lies hold a grain of truth.

  But the e-mails mentioning a kitten, suggested Siân did know. She tried to recall what Mum had actually said about them. She’d signed herself Alana when she’d replied, not Kitten. Mum had responded that they needed to talk. They hadn’t actually spoken about the e-mails or kittens after that, and the more she thought about it, the less certain she was that there had never been a cat around when she was small, though whether it was theirs or a neighbour’s she had no idea.

  Mum had told her she and Cadi were twins, another lie. She rubbed her forehead in confusion. The only thing that had sparked the idea of her being Kitten, had been Mum having a kitten that said something. Kitten’s kitten… she’d assumed that meant Saffy. Lots of people treated their pets like babies and reckoned they could almost talk. Mum’s neighbour had cats.

  If only she could remember what the kitten had said, it would help, but she’d deleted everything not art associated from Siân’s in-box: she only remembered that the messages from Momacat were ambiguous. Had she read too much into them and the letters, trying to flush out the ogres in her childhood memories?

  Nothing made sense. Siân had left her The Haggard, and Mum could have told Siân she’d had a daughter but then why the deed poll? Unless Mum had stolen her birth certificate as well. Sweat rimed her hands. If Mum was capable of abduction, a little theft and forgery wouldn’t present a problem.

  Siân would have noticed her daughter’s birth certificate was missing, surely. She rummaged deeper into the box-file. Marriage certificate, birth certificates. Here it was. Cadi Alana Ap Dafydd: a certified copy.

  Her head thumped. Siân could have a copy for any number of reasons, but suppose Mum had had that copy made, hoping Siân wouldn’t notice. Suppose she’d planned the whole thing, biding her time and getting more and more jealous as time went by and she failed to conceive. Suppose Bethan going missing had provided her with the perfect moment to snatch her sister’s child and make sure it was blamed on Nerys.

  She could have told Dad the Dafydd-being-violent lie… which could be the truth, or at least the truth as Mum saw it. It could be that she and Mair and Non and the others had thought they were saving her from Dafydd because Siân refused to leave him. Mum had communicated with Siân but, being a consummate liar, could have fabricated any number of excuses for not seeing her: she’d said they hadn’t seen each other for years. Siân wouldn’t have suspected Mum, wouldn’t have questioned the fact that Katherine Alana was her niece.

  Had Mum stolen Siân’s only daughter? It was pretty far-fetched but no more impossible than any other
of Mum’s spurious scenarios. Like Guy Pritchard had said, something bloody odd had happened in Coed-y-Cwm thirty years ago.

  One thing was certain… going on past experience, Mum couldn’t tell the truth if it was sign-written on a placard and nailed to her forehead.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Minnie’s headlights bored holes through the fog as she neared Leicester. Night swirled around Alana, unwilling to let her pass. She pressed her foot on the accelerator: she had to be back in Coed-y-Cwm for Monday’s unveiling.

  She swung into Mum’s drive. One o’clock, Sunday morning. She doused the headlights and hammered on Mum’s front door.

  A bedroom window opened. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Me. Open the door.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Mum…’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The truth. Let me in or I’ll shout my questions in the street.’

  ‘Okay, I’m coming. Keep your hair on.’ Mum framed herself in the doorway, a dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. ‘God, my head. What’s so important it couldn’t wait till morning? It’s not your dad…’

  ‘No, he’s fine as far as I know. I have to talk to you.’

  Mum rubbed a hand across her eyes and swayed. Her speech was slightly slurred. ‘Don’t shout.’

  Mum was drunk? She made coffee and took it through to the lounge. Mum was lying on the sofa, snoring. She shook her shoulder. ‘Mum? Mum… wake up.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  She helped her sit up and pushed a mug into her hand. ‘Drink. Saffy’s upstairs. Sober up.’

  Mum took a sip and groaned. ‘I need a gin. Takes the edge off.’

  ‘Mum, I understand, honestly I do, but alcohol doesn’t make things any better. Dad’s not coming back. You have to accept that and get on with your life.’

  ‘I wish I was dead.’

  ‘Mum. I’m going to ask you one question, and I want an honest answer. I found bills from a private investigator, dated after Dafydd’s death. I don’t know what he was investigating, unless it was my disappearance. My question is this...’ She took hold of bony shoulders. ‘Mum, listen to me. Did you take me from Siân and Dafydd without them knowing? Did you take my birth certificate and forge the deed-poll letter? Did Mair and Non lie to frame Nerys for my abduction?’