‘Where else would they be?’ Griffiths demanded. ‘Locked in a last passionate embrace, empty bottles of sleeping pills strewn about their unlovely bodies? That would be out of character. Anyway, you said the car’s missing.’
McKenna replaced the cigarette. ‘It could’ve been stolen. They could be robbed, beaten, badly injured. Who knows?’
‘And who cares? The dog wouldn’t starve for a while, would it? We’ve got no sodding choice, have we? Tell Dewi Prys not to do more damage than necessary, and to make sure the house is secured after. And don’t phone me again unless you’ve got really exciting news.’
‘There’s no sign of the gaudy gear Doris favours, or the sharp suits he preens in, and no passports, chequebooks, bank statements or credit cards.’ Dewi consulted his list. ‘One tatty old travel bag, lots of fat furniture and fluffy carpets, scores of videos I’ve told uniform to confiscate in case Ronnie’s version of Brief Encounter isn’t the one we know and love, hundreds of romantic novels likewise, and a sunbed in the back bedroom big enough to fry an elephant. And the dog. That’s in the kennels outside, waiting for the RSPCA, if mummy and daddy don’t come back.’
‘Anything else?’ McKenna opened the cigarettes Dewi bought at the all-night garage on Beach Road, and wondered if he would ever be allowed to sleep again.
‘A really dirty kitchen.’ Janet shuddered. ‘That nasty sort of dirt the roaches love. Even the microwave was filthy.’
‘And the horrible smell that got up your nose at Blodwel, before the fire,’ Dewi said.
‘It’s a real sloven’s kitchen,’ Janet added. ‘But I’ve always had Doris down as a slattern.’
‘Mr and Mrs Hogg have taken a few days’ leave, according to the director,’ McKenna said. ‘To recover from their recent ordeals, particularly the one by fire.’
‘If they’ve gone away legit, why didn’t they tell us?’ Dewi riffled the stacks of papers on McKenna’s desk. ‘When we faxed the director about Hogg going to the funeral, he faxed back that Hogg had his wholehearted support in any decision he chose to make. He wouldn’t plan a grand arrival at the cemetery if he was going away.’
‘He’s had time to change his mind,’ McKenna pointed out.
Dewi shook his head. ‘They’ve done a runner, and left the dog to starve. It was already tearing up the house, and there was a pile of shit by the back door.’
McKenna sighed. ‘First thing in the morning, Dilys or another disciple will turn up with key, dog-food, and poopa-scoopa.’
Dewi shrugged. ‘If she does, she does.’
‘And where will that leave us?’ Janet asked.
Dewi shrugged again. ‘With egg on our faces instead of all the shit chucked at us lately.’ He frowned. ‘Why can’t we accept they’ve legged it? Why’s Hogg so good at making people doubt the obvious?’
‘Maybe he’s taken her to Lourdes.’ Owen Griffiths glanced through his office window, at a sky tumbling with cloud, rosy pink in the rising sun. ‘It should stay fine for the funeral, but it’s bitter cold. Did you get any sleep? You look like death warmed up.’
‘Why should Hogg take Doris to Lourdes?’
‘Well, maybe Treffynnon. But the passports are gone, aren’t they?’ Griffiths sat down, and cradled a mug of tea. ‘She probably cracked up. First the sin-eating, then the fire, and in between, what you said to her. She needs healing.’
‘There’s no healing for them if they comb the ends of the earth.’
‘Your Christian charity’s deserting you.’
McKenna rose, joints loose with weariness, like a marionette flopping at the end of its strings. ‘I don’t have an inexhaustible supply, so it’s expended wisely.’
‘You don’t have an inexhaustible supply of energy, either. Take tomorrow off, I can hold the fort.’ Griffiths sipped his tea. ‘Given any more thought to taking over when I retire?’
‘Your job comes with too much politicking.’
‘It’s a game. I listen a lot, but I never heed much. I’ve heard all the reasons for not investigating what’s really gone on in the children’s homes since Hogg set foot over the county border, which boil down to one bad lot bad-mouthing another bad lot, and the huge difficulty of prosecuting child abuse allegations,’ Griffiths said. ‘We’d be lucky if Crown Prosecutions took up one case in fifty, and for every paedophile or child-batterer sent down for a few years on Rule 43, another’s waiting in the wings, because abuse of the helpless is part of human nature.’
‘That’s no reason for ignoring it.’
‘Indeed no.’ Griffiths smiled. ‘And even those of rank blessed with the ability to see all sides of everything all the time have agreed that Hogg and his behaviour are as palatable as a rat butty.’
‘Somebody up there must love you,’ McKenna said.
‘Me and my judgement are held in high regard, so I’m told. So don’t fret. We’ll track them down eventually, and dish out just desserts.’
‘I do hope so.’ McKenna gathered up papers and files from Griffiths’ desk. ‘I’d hate them to feel safe in their bed. People say memory amounts to eyes staring and fingers pointing with the likes of him and Doris. D’you think they know that?’
At noon, McKenna went home to change his clothes and feed the cats. His own waited behind the front door, pirate face pressed to the reeded glass, watching for him to round the corner of the little street. She retreated as he opened the door, leaving dusty paw prints on Denise’s note.
Waiting for the kettle to boil and his egg to poach, he sat in the kitchen, shivering with fatigue, and the bitter air sidling under the back door. Denise was taking a holiday, he read, unable to bear the misery of another Welsh winter. He put her note beneath a pile of unopened letters, and dragged himself upright. The cats looked up briefly from their feeding, then turned away.
‘You look very pretty,’ Mandy’s grandmother said. ‘The black really sets off your hair.’
Preening before her reflection in the hall mirror, Mandy thought how smart she was in her new garments. She fluffed her hair and smiled, because the hair looked beautiful, with life of its own, then remembered why she looked so startlingly different today, and that dreadful churning feeling turned her innards to water yet again.
‘They won’t be there.’ Her grandmother was insistent. ‘Even that Hogg and his wife wouldn’t have the face to go to Arwel’s funeral.’
‘What if they are?’ Mandy whispered.
‘Then I’ll see to them. You just keep your mouth shut tight.’
Mandy nodded, staring again at her pale face and glistening red hair, while her grandmother wondered, for the thousandth time, how this child came by such terrible teeth.
‘If they do go, Nain, what will you do?’ Mandy persisted.
The older woman laughed. ‘Wait behind Carol Thomas for the left-overs. We all know what happened Saturday, don’t we?’
Jack coughed, and rubbed his chest, wheezing.
‘Why on earth did you go out yesterday?’ Emma demanded.
‘I’ve hardly seen daylight this week. I’m getting claustrophobic.’
‘There’s little daylight to see at this time of year.’
‘All the more reason to be out in what there is.’ Jack hesitated over a white shirt and a grey one. ‘Which goes better with the suit?’
Emma sighed. ‘The white one, not that anyone’ll care. They’ll all be looking at Rhiannon, and Carol Thomas.’
‘I care.’ Jack regarded his wife, mysterious in black, and wondered how anyone could keep their hands from her, let alone their eyes. ‘You don’t look a day older than the girls.’ He smiled, the skin around his eyes and mouth crêpey and lined, and Emma thought this brief sickness had stolen what little youth remained to him.
Elias ab Elis stood motionless in Rhiannon’s bedroom while she checked his suit, brushing a speck of fluff from the fine dark weave.
‘You’re losing weight.’ She stared critically at the tall still figure. ‘The jacket used to hang perfectly, and
now it’s creasing across the back of the neck.’
‘No one will notice. I’ll wear a coat.’
Rhiannon sat on the windowseat, looking out on the drive. ‘What time is it?’ She fidgeted with her watch. ‘The cars will arrive soon. I do hope Mari’s ready.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t lend her your clothes. She’s paid more than enough to buy her own.’
‘She couldn’t afford clothes like mine.’
‘Most girls of her age can’t. Most girls of her age wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like yours.’ Elis smiled bleakly. ‘There’s no street cred in couture. At least, not in this neck of the woods.’
‘I’m her role model. Who else does she have?’
He touched her hair, and let his hand linger on her cheek. ‘I pray she finds a better husband than you did.’
Rhiannon jerked her head away. ‘And I pray she won’t have to pay debts she didn’t incur!’
On Sunday, Peggy Thomas had wedged the bundle of fifty-pound notes in a biscuit tin under the kitchen sink, and there most of the money remained. ‘We don’t need charity, and we don’t want it. Not off Rhiannon Elis, not off anyone.’
‘Except the social,’ Tom observed. ‘You’ll take every penny you can scrounge off them. And what’s the funeral, if it isn’t bloody charity?’
‘That’s for Arwel,’ Peggy said.
‘She gave us hundreds,’ Tom persisted. ‘You could’ve had a new coat. And why couldn’t I have a new suit?’
‘You’ll wear what you’ve got, like me.’
‘No sodding choice, have I?’ Tom snarled, and slammed from the room.
Standing beside Peggy before the mirror in the back parlour, Carol felt grudging admiration for her mother’s bloody-mindedness. Twitching the brim of an old felt hat, Peggy said, ‘I wore this coat and hat for my mam’s funeral, and that was a long time ago.’
‘You’ve not put on a bit of weight, have you?’ Carol said, smoothing down the collar.
‘It still looks quite nice.’ Peggy fastened the big black buttons. ‘It’s a nice bit of cloth. Don’t put that over your head.’ She took the scarf from Carol’s hands, and tucked it around her neck. ‘You’re too young to cover your hair.’ Stroking the beautiful hair, she whispered, ‘My God! Where did you and Arwel get it from?’
‘Nobody knows that but you, Mam.’ She smiled briefly, then frowned. ‘I’ll have to take my coat off at Bedd y Cor, won’t I? We are going, aren’t we? Mrs Elis is doing a special meal. Will this dress look all right?’
‘You look lovely.’ Peggy smiled through the tears in her eyes. ‘And if your dad asks about your new clothes, tell him you got maternity money off the social.’
‘Are you giving the rest of the cash back to her?’ Carol asked.
‘Only if she asks.’ Peggy took her gloves and handbag from the table. ‘D’you think she will?’
McKenna ate lunch, washed the few dishes, put fresh food and water out for the cats, and crawled up the two steep staircases to his bedroom. He sat on the bed, trying to decide what clothes to wear, and found the dilemma too enormous to resolve.
Hammering on the front door at ten minutes past two, Dewi woke him from the sleep of the dead.
Behind the tower of St Mihangel’s church, the last light of the westering sun coloured the sky, gilding the straggle of mourners meandering up the cemetery path, their shadows lengthening before them, McKenna in their wake. A cruel east wind reddened pallid cheeks and scoured salty tears, and set the branches of the yew trees threshing like mad women flailing their limbs around the procession behind parson and corpse, which added its own whisperings to the sigh of the wind.
Listening to the quiet chatter of two reporters and the television cameraman who dogged his footsteps, McKenna rested for a moment, then walked on, barking a shin on the great stone anchor athwart the body of Josiah Clayton, through the small necropolis of leaning obelisks and lichen-stained monuments, and towards the old granite chapel at the top of the path, and the new grave in the lee of the cemetery wall. Standing beside the dark narrow hole in the earth, next to Elias ab Elis, he wondered if this elegant man might return under the shroud of night, and with bloody fingers and desperate strength, search for the truth beyond the hope of sure and certain resurrection.
At St Mihangel’s altar, his body dignified by wealth, and the perfume of incense and flowers, Arwel received the last respects to the plaintive notes of a psalm. Looking on the boy whom he last saw in squalor, debased by Carol’s grief and the odours of soot and poverty, McKenna thought of another, whose skin was also perhaps as pale as alabaster from Penmon Quarry, said to have left the world in an aura of beauty, after a brief fright, a quick pain. But, he thought, turning away to let Owen Griffiths look for the first and last time on the dead boy, Death never kept such kind company.
The light of the dying day softened faces stony with grief and bitterness, and the wind abandoned the wild trees to tease Elis’s glossy hair, taunting McKenna’s senses with scents of cologne and flowers, newly turned earth and damp turf.
At the head of the grave, the parson swung the silver censer, his words coming to McKenna in wind-torn snatches, like a faulty broadcast.
‘I had no prescience,’ Elis whined, like the questing wind. ‘Yet even a horse senses the presence of death. Why didn’t I feel his terror? Why didn’t I know when he died?’
‘You wept when you knew,’ McKenna said.
‘Bitter tears! So much weeping and anguish! So much more than I ever spared for my own.’
‘You mourned the lost promise.’ McKenna started like an animal as the muffled bells in the tower began to peal. ‘Knowing the difference is no betrayal.’ Throbbing on the air, seven bells weaved a dancing dirge and the great tenor tolled time, their clappers wrapped in leather. ‘What’s your son’s name? I’ve never known.’ He raised his voice, and wanted to put his hands over his ears.
‘We called him Pryderi, but he’s an accident of nature, salvaged by money and skill and shortsighted ambition. We should have let him die.’ A bleak smile touched Elis’s lips. ‘In her heart, Rhiannon believes she was given the evil eye, by a crippled hag called Beti Gloff who cleaned for us. Rhiannon called her a witch.’
‘Beti’s simply a sad old woman, Mr Elis, but people see only her ugliness and usefulness.’
The group around the grave undulated, changing its contours, as the parson reached out, censer swinging from his left arm, fingers holding down the fluttering pages of the Book of Common Prayer, his right hand clasping the hands of Peggy Thomas, whose old black clothes lent her figure an archaic dignity. He touched Tom Thomas’s shaking arm, and made tears flow from the man’s rheumy eyes past a nose painted red by the wind, then squeezed Carol’s thin fingers with his own.
Everyone watched her, McKenna thought. Had her own kind also come to know the extravagance of her mercilessness? He caught the eye of Mandy Minx, who stood behind Carol, sheltered by her grandmother’s arm. Mandy smiled at him across the wounded earth, displaying the teeth which heralded her own slow dissolution. Jack Tuttle smiled too, his feverish face swaddled by a thick scarf. Emma stared at the ground, holding her husband’s arm, while her daughters clung to each other, hair tangled about their faces, looking through McKenna to a bleak landscape of their own. He watched Mari lean forwards to brush earth from the heel of her shoes, then frown with displeasure because her fine leather glove was soiled instead. She moved restlessly, and Rhiannon caught her hand, pulling her close, as Mandy’s grandmother held her own kin.
‘They’ll shovel earth on him,’ Elis mourned. ‘They’ll put out his light for ever.’
‘Pridd i bridd,’ the parson intoned. ‘Llwch i lwch. Lludw i ludw.’
Earth and gravel rattled down on the coffin, tossed by Peggy Thomas. Carol gathered an armful of white roses, threw them in the air, and let them fall to earth like a shower of snowflakes, melting into darkness. The contours of the group shifted again, as people moved back to let the gravediggers finish
what they began in the long darkness before the winter dawn. McKenna turned as a movement caught his eye, but instead of seeing the evil spirit of Doris Hogg, come to curse the quick and the dead, he saw Eifion Roberts, a darker shadow beneath the yew trees.
The gravediggers worked like demons, spades clanging dissonantly as the bells hunted each other up and down the scale. Watched in silence by the parson, whose Book of Common Prayer still fluttered its pages in the wind, sweat froze on their backs as night dragged long heavy shapes across earth and sky. Soil began to show above the lip of the grave, tamped down with spade backs before more was heaped upon it, until only a few black crumbs littered the trampled grass, and dappled flower petals here and there amid the bank of wreaths and crosses laid out along the wall.
Coaxing Arwel’s parents to her side, holding Mari close, Rhiannon walked carefully around the grave, the heels of her shoes spiking the ground, and nodded to her husband, before starting down the path, Elis stumbling in her wake with a last despairing glance at McKenna. Mandy’s grandmother was the first to follow, others drifting behind, treading with care on the darkening path, pursued by the parson, who touched Carol’s hair as he went on his way, the wind pasting his cassock to his portly body. McKenna looked at the girl, luminous as the heaped blossoms in the gloaming, and wondered if this man of God also wished his shroud fashioned from that miraculous hair.
Picking up the wreath from which she had torn the white roses, Carol placed it precisely at the head of the grave, rubbing the small of her back as she stood upright. Her face was pinched with cold, her thin body disfigured by the weight of her child, and McKenna feared the browbeating wind and punishing bells might shatter her before his eyes.
She smiled gravely at him. ‘It’s a kind place, isn’t it?’ She leaned against the wall, hands deep in her coat pockets. ‘I shan’t mind leaving Arwel here. He won’t mind, either.’
In Guilty Night Page 30
