by Cathy Ace
Mavis noted the pride and wonder in the man’s voice. She silently admitted to herself she’d never envisaged a personal future where she would be sharing a home with a dowager. Dismissing such thoughts she said, ‘It’s nice to chat, of course, Bryn, but I’m sure we all need to get on. I propose we prepare a written quote. Carol can email it to you, along with a contract, and you can read them at your leisure. Would that suit?’
‘Admirable plan,’ said Bryn with gusto.
THREE
Carol Hill wished Albert would nap for more than twenty minutes at a time. It was something she felt guilty about wishing, but she wished it nonetheless. She hated to admit it, but her mother had been right when she’d warned her pregnant daughter she’d only understand the true nature of exhaustion when she became a mother herself.
Albert was, by all standards, a ‘good’ baby, but Carol needed more sleep than she was getting. She was cross with herself that she’d agreed to go to Bryn Jenkins’s shop in Hay-on-Wye that afternoon to come up with a surveillance plan for his premises, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Her ‘it’ll be good for Albert and me to get out and about for a bit,’ comment to Mavis rang in her ears, along with Albert’s bawling from the back of the car.
‘Not long now,’ she cooed over her shoulder at her son, then she pressed the ‘play’ button on the CD unit and Tom Jones’s Greatest Hits began. Again. She’d discovered to her delight – at first – that the voice she’d grown up loving also soothed her infant son. She was relieved to hear happy gurgling replace distressed squealing behind her as the now overly-familiar introduction to ‘It’s Not Unusual’ struck up. She settled herself to another twenty minutes of listening to Jones the Voice as she and Albert followed a caravan being pulled along at a snail’s pace by a driver who seemed partial to unexpectedly using his brakes. The school holidays hadn’t even begun, but Carol got the impression everyone in Britain who owned a caravan had decided to tow it along the narrow roads of Powys that day.
Finally arriving at the large car park in Hay, Carol attached Albert to the front of her body in his carrying-sling, and set off to find the bookshop where she hoped she’d be able to come up with a plan of action pretty quickly. The sunny day had encouraged hundreds of holidaymakers to visit the pretty market town and its internationally-renowned selection of bookshops, so Carol took her time negotiating the pavements which were hardly wide enough for two people to pass each other.
Her progress was further slowed by the interactions she had to bear with complete strangers; a surprising discovery she’d made since Albert had arrived was how transfixed with babies many people were. They’d comment on the device she used to transport him, his clothes, his unusually thick, curly, blonde hair – just like her own – and his vivid blue eyes. It felt to Carol as though she’d disappeared. She’d become no more than an adjunct to her son; his means of transportation, rather than a person in her own right. ‘I’m more than a feeding, cleaning and carrying unit,’ she wanted to say. Instead, she gazed at her beautiful son looking up at her from her bosom, in awe of the power he seemed to possess to draw the attention and delight of all ages and types of passers-by. Eventually she found the Crooks and Cooks Bookshop, and allowed herself a few moments to stand opposite it to study the place.
It was on a corner where a steeply descending road intersected a more level one at right angles. It was a good location; those simply wandering all the little streets of Hay would not be able to avoid it, whereas those with more purpose would be easily able to locate it. A red-painted door stood open between two large bay windows, which also had red-painted woodwork. A massive sign above the door bore the word ‘CROOKS’, with a painting of a mackintoshed sleuth holding a magnifying glass to its left, and a masked bandit wearing a striped jersey and carrying a bag marked ‘SWAG’ on his shoulder to its right. Below that – beneath a friendly-looking, fat ‘&’ – the word ‘COOKS’ had a man in chef-whites wielding a giant whisk to the left, and a woman in a flowery apron bearing a mixing bowl and spoon to the right. Carol felt it was just the sort of place she’d be happy to browse for hours, her two favorite occupations of investigating and baking being equally represented.
Carol waited for a gap in the traffic then carefully stepped down from the kerb to cross the road.
The person sitting behind the high counter just inside the door of the bookshop was reading. Pallid skin, less-than-clean, obviously-dyed, blue-black hair scraped up in a topknot – or was it one of those man-buns? Carol wondered – and a long-sleeved charcoal hoodie all looked out of place on a summer’s day among the shelves bearing thousands of brightly-colored spines and eye-catching enlarged book jackets. Carol couldn’t immediately decide if the person was male or female, but guessed the assistant’s age to be somewhere in their thirties. She decided to begin on a positive note.
‘How lucky you are to be able to read all these books whenever you want,’ she said, feeling a little jealous. She hadn’t so much as picked up a book since Albert’s arrival.
The bored-sounding response of ‘I s’pose’, could have been uttered by either a man with a high voice or a woman with a low one, Carol just couldn’t tell, which annoyed her, because she reckoned any professional enquirer worth their salt should be able to tell a man from a woman.
‘I’m looking for Mr Jenkins,’ said Carol affably. ‘My name’s Carol Hill.’
‘Need him especially, do you?’
Carol nodded.
‘Upstairs.’
Carol suspected she wouldn’t get much more out of the assistant, whatever its gender, so headed to the top floor of the shop where Bryn and a woman of about forty were huddled over a box on the floor.
At that very moment, Albert decided to bawl his head off for no apparent reason, so all three adults gave him their attention, and, when he had settled, Carol greeted the couple properly. Both Bryn and the woman who turned out to be Val, his daughter, were tall, for Welsh people; Carol’s five feet three inches and considerable girth and bosom were pretty much the norm among her fellow country-women, but both Jenkinses were at least five-eleven and they were thin to the point of emaciation. Carol felt her baby-weight dragging her down.
Having clarified she would only need to be shown around the premises once, and then she’d be able to come up with a costed plan for the installation of equipment and the reviewing of recordings, Bryn descended to his realm downstairs leaving his daughter to deal with the investigator. Once he’d gone, Carol took the chance to sit down and adjust her son in his harness, and tried to work out why the woman looked so familiar. She was sure she’d seen her somewhere before, but couldn’t put her finger on it. Carol struggled with a recollection on the edge of her memory as she fussed with the straps of her baby-sling. Expecting the conversation with Val to open with some sort of discussion about Albert – something she’d noted was now invariably the case – she was surprised when the woman did no such thing. Instead, she went right to business.
‘I know Dad’s had books turn up unannounced downstairs, but I haven’t had anything like that happen up here. Of course, you’re welcome to put up some cameras, or whatever, but I already have one up there.’ She pointed at a sign that said ‘Smile please – you’re on camera’ beside a small, obvious-looking unit fitted to the wall just below the ceiling. ‘There’s only one spot where it can’t see what’s going on, and I have mirrors up here—’ she pointed toward the ceiling above her – ‘so I can watch the reflection from the counter. It’s the same sort of set-up Dad has downstairs. To be honest, we don’t have a lot of stuff go missing. There’s bound to be some, and I don’t think we’ll ever stop it all. But I keep the high-priced stuff here beside the counter where I can see it, so there are only very low-cost items over there. If they get lifted, I’m not losing more than a few pence each time.’
Carol glanced around the shop, taking in the array of items on offer and spotted a prominent display of books with Val’s face on the cover. Turning to face t
he woman she said, ‘Of course, you’re “The Curious Cook” from BBC Wales. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, but you look a little different in real life. I really enjoyed that series.’
Val’s cheeks colored. ‘Yes, that was me, but quite a few years back, now. The connection helps with the business, but I can’t use the name to promote the shop, because the BBC owns the rights to it. Like you, when people get up here and put two and two together, they often remember me. The recipe book helps, and it still sells pretty well, I’m pleased to say.’
‘So it should,’ replied Carol, beaming. ‘I gave copies to my mam and all my aunties for Christmas the year it came out. Loved it, they did. The TV series too. It was such a good premise – travelling Wales, hunting down ingredients, recipes and the traditions behind them, then cooking all the food and serving it to deserving groups. You did a lot for the reputation of Welsh cooking. Didn’t you used to have a restaurant too?’
Carol noted a shift in Val’s demeanor. Shrugging, the cook-turned-shop-owner spoke quietly. ‘Mam was diagnosed with cancer, and Dad couldn’t cope. First of all I packed in the restaurant, and kept going with the TV recordings, but even that was too much. I was away such a lot, and I found I really needed to be here, in Hay, with Mam and Dad, so I told the show’s director I’d have to take a break. To be fair to them, the BBC people were very nice about it, but it wasn’t easy, in so many ways.’ She looked down at Carol with sad eyes. ‘Everyone who worked on that series was out of a job, essentially, because of me. They decided to not recast it with another person doing the research and cooking, so they all had to find work on other projects. Mam needed a lot of support for a couple of years, until she died, and by then the opportunity had passed. Like Mam.’ She shook her head with a wry smile.
Carol’s heart went out to the woman. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said quietly. She smoothed Albert’s head to comfort him, and herself. Attempting to lighten the mood she added, ‘This seems like a great way for you to still be connected with what was obviously your passion. Your love of cooking came through loud and clear on TV.’
Carol judged her changing of the topic had worked when Val perked up and replied, ‘Yes, it’s not a bad way to make a living. I can stay connected with recipes, food and cooking, without any of the deadlines or stresses. And I still cook at home, of course. Dad’s pretty understanding when I try out recipes on him. Sometimes it can take a few attempts before it all turns out alright.’ The women shared a grin, then Carol decided it was time to get back to business.
She stood and wandered the shoulder-level book- and cooking accessory-laden shelf units in the empty store. ‘What’s it like when it gets busy in here? Bodies would create more blind spots, I’d have thought.’
Val nodded. ‘It can get full. When coach trips come to town people tend to walk about in groups. I get dozens of women in here at a time, sometimes. It is mainly women up here, because of the cooking theme. Dad gets more of a mixture down below – though, as I’m sure he’ll tell you, a lot of his customers are also women. About sixty percent, for him he reckons. For me up here it’s about ninety-five percent. It’s why this is a good pairing, see? Crooks and cooks together.’
‘Two of my favorite things,’ said Carol with a smile.
‘Are you a baker?’ asked Val with enthusiasm.
‘That’s my passion. I enjoy the precision of it. Of course, I also cook our main meals, but my husband helps a good deal with that. He likes to sling things together and you can’t do that with baking.’
‘True, that’s why getting baking recipes correct takes such a lot of trial and error.’
‘Mind if I take some photos?’
‘Help yourself,’ replied Val pleasantly enough, and turned her attention to sticking price labels on the little boxes she was pulling from a package beside the till.
Carol took in her surroundings from a professional point of view. Clicking photographs around the place she smiled as she thought of her own mother holding items for which she hadn’t paid above her head in an effort to dissuade people in shops from getting the idea she was about to pocket them. Rubbing Albert’s head she told herself to get on with what she was doing, and to stop missing her mother.
‘I think that’s enough for now, thanks,’ said Carol heading for the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll see your dad down below, then get back to him with a quote. OK?’
Carol could tell Val was hovering on the edge of saying something. She waited.
‘There is something else,’ said Val, her head disappearing beneath the counter. She reemerged holding two large volumes. ‘These are a couple of the books Dad found downstairs. I’ve hung onto them because I like some of the photos. Look.’
Carol leafed through the books which were modern publications showing photographs of Swansea through the years.
‘My mam has some of those. There are quite a lot of them, aren’t there?’ said Carol. Val nodded. ‘She likes them. The chap who puts them together uses photos from the city archives, the old Swansea Evening Post and people send him stuff, I believe.’
Val nodded again. ‘I went to Swansea University and they’ve got some shots of when they were building bits of it. That’s why I kept them. But then I saw these …’ She turned to pages marked with sticky notes. ‘These miniatures.’
Carol peered as best she could with Albert attached to her front.
‘Try this,’ said Val, handing Carol a large, round magnifying glass. She grinned wickedly and added, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got one of those in your handbag, what with you being a detective.’
Carol returned Val’s smile, and focused on the tiny drawing. ‘It’s a butcher shop,’ she said sounding as surprised as she was. ‘That’s an odd thing for an artist to draw, isn’t it?’
‘Flick through some more,’ urged Val.
Carol did so and became more puzzled by the moment. ‘I know I sound like an old fuddy duddy, but these just aren’t the sorts of things I’d expect someone, who’s clearly talented, to take the time to depict,’ she said, finally raising her head. ‘There are a few of grand vistas and buildings, but a lot of them are of pubs and even construction sites. Even this one of Swansea Bay is full of oil tankers. Surely there are more picturesque views an artist could recreate? What are those big round things rolling down this hill beside a castle in this one, for example? I get why an artist would want to portray a castle but are those supposed to be something?’
Val grinned. ‘I wondered that too. They’re “zorbing” balls; giant inflatable balls into which a person is harnessed and then they roll and bounce down a hill inside them. Goodness knows how they come up with the names for these things. My fifteen-year-old niece informs me they are great fun. They look like deathtraps to me, but she says they’re all the rage. Seems we have a lot of what they need to work out well in Wales.’
Carol gave the matter some thought. ‘People with strong stomachs, and hills?’ Val nodded. ‘I can only imagine how many people have been sick inside them, which even for a mother of an infant who has to deal with all sorts isn’t a pleasant thought.’ The women shared a grimace, and a laugh. ‘A bit of an odd thing for a miniaturist to depict, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It’s what she’s known for,’ said Val quietly, ‘well, not the zorbing things, but portraying what’s going on in everyday modern life. That’s why I think she did them.’
‘Who?’
‘Lizzie Llewellyn.’
‘The Lizzie Llewellyn? The one who was murdered?’
Val nodded. ‘I’m not an expert, but they look very much like her work to me. I wondered if … well, I wondered if you WISE women could do a bit of digging about to see if they really are by her. If they were …’
‘They’d be worth a fortune,’ said Carol in awe. ‘There was a bit on the news on the telly a few weeks ago about how much her work increased in value after she went missing, and how it’s just gone up again now they’ve found her brother guilty of her murder.’
/> Both women allowed a moment of silence to pass.
‘It’s terrible, I know,’ said Val shaking her head. ‘So sad.’
Carol suspected Val was trying to not look excited. ‘How many are there?’
‘Twenty-seven,’ said Val quickly, then she blushed. ‘About that many,’ she added sheepishly.
Carol gave the matter some thought. ‘Any of them signed?’ Val shook her head. ‘So we’d need to dig up an expert or two to authenticate them. What about provenance?’ She flicked to the front of the books. ‘Both of these say Daisy Dickens, in pencil. Any idea who that is?’
‘I’ve Googled it and I can’t find anyone with that name. They’re not very old books, one was published ten years ago, the other seven.’
‘And these were among the books that have just appeared on your father’s shelves, downstairs?’
Val nodded. ‘I’ve been storing some of the offending volumes up here in that cupboard over there, and I spotted these.’
Carol dared a raised eyebrow as she looked again at the tiny little people in balls rolling around what appeared to be the grounds of a castle. ‘And your niece says this is “zorbing”?’ She pointed at the balls.
‘Yes, “zorbing.” Kids these days, eh? But there, I expect I sound ancient now. It’s like me having to ask Sam downstairs to not wear rings in all those piercings. They can be so off-putting.’
Drat! thought Carol, the person downstairs might as well be called Pat or Chris. I still don’t know if it’s male or female.
Carol ventured, ‘Does Sam ever manage to sell anything for you?’
Val grinned. ‘Yes, surprisingly, she does. She’s quite knowledgeable about crime fiction, which you might not think, to look at her. When she arrived I was the one who spoke up for her. Dad didn’t think she’d go down well with the customers because of how she presents herself, but I think most people accept her as some sort of curiosity. Which probably isn’t how she wants to be thought of, but there you go. But the rings in her piercings? Even I thought they had to go.’
