by David Barry
‘Please sit down.’
As Lambert sat he stared at the tight round curve of her bottom. She wore clinging faded blue denims with a pale green T-shirt tucked inside. She didn’t look like a stereo-typical librarian. There was something of the hippy about her, and he pictured her as she might have been in the Seventies, a swinging teenage flower child. And her figure was beautifully trim for someone in a sedentary job.
As she turned to hand him the letters, she caught him staring at her, felt his eyes undressing her, appraising her figure. She hesitated, clutching the ribbon-bound package in both hands, and smiled tantalisingly.
‘You must have communicated regularly.’ Lambert indicated with a nod at the bundle of letters. ‘That’s quite a lot of letters for less than two months.’
‘Only six or seven. About one a week on average.’ She placed the bundle on the table in front of him. ‘Excuse the mess. Would you like a tea or coffee?’
‘Cup of tea would be welcome after that drive.’
‘Sugar?
‘No thanks.’
She went out past the staircase, through a door leading to the kitchen. Before reading the letters, he looked round the room quickly. Two rooms had been knocked into one and a large beam ran across the centre of the low ceiling; attached to the beam were several love spoons, a corn dolly and some blue and white china plates. Above a polished slate fireplace hung a black-framed reproduction painting of an old lady inside a chapel, wearing a paisley-patterned shawl. Tacked to the surrounding walls were pictures in gaudy colours, the school efforts of her daughters. The carpet was threadbare in places and there were ethnic rugs that looked as if they had been randomly laid but were probably concealing the most worn parts of the carpet. A Celtic cross stood on the dresser, next to a pottery vase of dried flowers. A tower of paperback books, stacked near the leg of an easy chair, gave the impression of someone who dips into books, reading little and often. Home-made jams, neatly labelled, stood in a row on the narrow windowsill, next to a thin, smoked-glass vase with a half-burnt incense stick leaning out of its neck. The room was vaguely bohemian, giving the impression that the untidiness was deliberate, to make it homely and informal.
‘Where have you come from?’ she called out.
‘Swansea.’
He heard her filling the kettle as he started to undo the letters.
‘Now I remember,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
She lit the gas, then appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe, a hand placed on her thigh, the fingers splayed.
‘That farmer who was shot. About six months ago wasn’t it?’
Finding her pose and body language distracting, he nodded seriously and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Almost to the day. Why?’
‘He came from Tregaron, didn’t he?’
Something inside Lambert alerted him. He kept any expression out of his face and took his time as he asked her, ‘He hadn’t lived there for thirty odd years. How did you know he was from Tregaron?’
‘It was on the news.’
‘But why would you remember a detail like that after a gap of many months?’
She laughed and shook her head. ‘Because at the time I remember thinking: I’ll bet that farmer was paying the price for something he’d done in the past.’
‘I don’t follow you, Mrs Chandler.’
‘You must have heard the legend of old Tregaron. The people were very wicked. It was the Sodom and Gomorrah of Wales. And the people were punished for it. Old Tregaron was destroyed by fire and flood. But some of the inhabitants survived. And now their descendants behave as their ancestors did.’
‘Which would explain the high crime rate of the area.’
She beamed at him, pleased they were on the same wavelength. ‘Exactly.’
‘And,’ added Lambert, ‘the sheep shagging and incest.’
Her smile changed to a scowl. ‘Look, I know you think I’m being stupid, but there could be something in it.’
‘You mean the farmer deserved to die for something that happened long ago, and Evans was the unwitting instrument of execution.’
‘Well,’ she replied defensively, her hand moving to her hip. ‘Why not?’
‘Because there are no such things as dragons, that’s why.’ He smiled condescendingly. ‘There never were. They look pretty on a flag, but they never existed.’
She glared at him with a mixture of irritation and frustration before disappearing to make the tea. Irrelevantly, he wondered why she wore the lipstick out here in the country, miles away from anywhere. He returned to the letters.
Dear Gwyneth
Thank you for writing to me and sending me details of our ancient culture. You can’t think how much it means to me being stuck in here maybe for life. I have always been interested in myths and legends and I really appreciate you going to all this trouble for me.
I have always been fascinated by all these ancient sites and monuments and how they are linked as if by some magic force. I am talking of course about ley lines. Because ancient warriors were more sympathetic to the earth forces and had instinctive intelligence which modern human beings seem to have lost, their traditions live on. We were never conquered, not by the Romans, not by anyone. It just seems that way. We, the true believers in the earth forces, have kept the flame alive for thousands of years, since long before Christianity.
I would like to trace these magnetic forces and link up all the ancient sites. If you could send me any diagrams or maps of ley lines I would be very grateful and
Lambert stopped reading. The impression he got was that Evans seemed to be stringing her along with his interest in Celtic mysticism purely to obtain maps of ancient sites. Either that or he was barking mad. Or perhaps he was trying to show her that he was a little bit unhinged but harmless. The letter seemed to have been written with great effort, each character meticulously scribed as if by a child who has recently discovered the knack of joined-up writing. It was a schoolkid’s effort, grammatically correct, but stilted and formal.
His mobile bleeped. Ellis.
‘It’s Tony,’ he announced. ‘They discovered a break-in at a camping shop twenty-six miles from the hospital.’
‘Definitely him, was it?’ Lambert asked.
‘No doubt about it, sir. He left his hospital clothes lying in a heap on the floor.’
Lambert laughed. ‘Cocky, arrogant bastard. Go on.’
‘It looks like he may be heading west, further into Wales. And I’ve got some more news.’ Ellis paused dramatically, enjoying himself. ‘Are you ready for this? Gary Evans’s mother came from a village just outside Tregaron. She was a pretty tasty young girl apparently, and was crowned Tregaron Carnival Queen one year. Not long after, she leaves the district for good. Never goes back.’
‘Afraid she might be turned into a pillar of salt? You know, Sergeant, as in the Old Testament. Sodom and Gomorrah.’ Ellis hadn’t questioned his statement about Lot’s wife. It was said purely for Gwyneth Chandler’s benefit, and directed towards the kitchen, where he knew she was listening. ‘Go on,’ he said after a brief pause.
‘Well, not long after, she leaves Tregaron, moves to Swansea and meets Ben Evans. They marry within two months. And that’s about it. But the interesting bit is the fact that she was a beauty queen. Remember the coronet we found at Wilson’s farm?’
‘How could I forget it? It kept me awake for quite a few nights. OK, Tony. Well done. Go home and get some rest. Tonight we go hunting.’
As soon as he had hung up, Gwyneth Chandler entered with two mugs of tea, as if she had been listening behind the kitchen door, waiting for him to finish. He was lost in his own thoughts and barely noticed the steaming mug of tea she placed in front of him. Her own she put on the dresser, then stood leaning back, her elbows on the wood
en top, and her hips thrust suggestively outwards. Without thinking, he found himself staring just below her waist, to the tight V of her crotch.
‘See anything that interests you, inspector?’
He was thrown slightly. He knew she was talking about the letters but had she deliberately imbued it with a double meaning? He coughed lightly before speaking.
‘You think he believed all this guff he wrote?’
‘Why not?’ She nodded towards the chapel painting of the old woman. ‘See anything else in the painting? An intruder who shouldn’t be there?’
‘It’s been pointed out to me before. The devil in the old woman’s shawl.’
‘The point is,’ she insisted, ‘did the artist deliberately put the devil in the shawl? And if he didn’t, how did evil manage to creep into the depiction of a religious scene?’
‘Or how the devil did he get there?’ he quipped.
She scowled, her eyes glinting fiercely. He found himself thinking how attractive she was. Then her eyes softened and her face relaxed as she realised she was being serious and uptight.
‘You must admit,’ she said, ‘that strange, irrational things can happen. Things which defy explanation.’
‘I’m a detective. I deal in hard evidence. Not sword-and-sorcery myths. I’ll leave that to geeks, anoraks and computer nerds.’
She laughed, showing him a row of perfectly straight white teeth. He felt a sudden urge to hold and kiss her passionately and dismissed the image from his mind.
‘Virtual reality,’ she said, jokingly.
‘The bullet that ended Wilson’s life was real enough.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant.’
He smiled understandingly. Relieving the tension.
‘D’you mind if I hang on to the letters for a while?’
‘What if I said I did?’
‘In that case, I’m afraid...’
‘No, of course I don’t mind. So long as you can let me have them back.’
He rose and began to gather the letters together. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure you get them back.’ Smiling at her. ‘Even if I have to bring them myself.’
She returned his smile. ‘That’s what I meant,’ she said.
He held her look for a moment, and felt as if there was a taut wire running between them, live and vibrant, pulling them together. He broke the spell by glancing at his watch and muttering, ‘I have to get back.’
Although he tended to believe her when she said she hadn’t known Evans until he corresponded with her after he’d been banged up, he still couldn’t completely rule her out as his co-conspirator. And allowing his feelings towards her to show in such an obvious way was nothing short of collusion with a suspect.
He let himself out, and when he glanced back at her, he caught the amused, knowing expression on her face.
‘Drive carefully,’ she said.
He risked another look deep into her eyes, one of those sexually promising exchanges. After all, he convinced himself, it was highly unlikely she was Evans’s accomplice. And if ever there was promiscuity in an expression, this was as close as it could come.
‘Be seeing you,’ he said, as he walked down the slope to the car.
‘Yes, don’t forget the letters.’
As he drove off, he gave her a wave. She was standing at the cottage door holding her cat, which had appeared from nowhere and was now enfolded in her arms, being lovingly fondled and stroked. Lambert thought about the sensuality of her touch. And he thought about the looks that had passed between them and wondered if she was like a Siren, luring passing detectives onto the rocks like gullible sailors. After all, she was a Lone Danger; a single parent on the lookout for a bloke. Perhaps searching for a relationship. Like himself. Or perhaps she was just looking for an adventure. Also like himself.
He looked in his rear view mirror. She was still standing at the cottage door watching as he drove over the brow of the hill.
Chapter 19
When he arrived back at his office, Lambert found Ellis and DC Wallace leaning over his desk, studying pages of ley lines.
‘Any luck?’
Ellis demonstrated the futility of their search by puffing out his cheeks and blowing.
‘No, sir. Without knowing his intentions, it’s bloody impossible. Your wife’s outlined in red some of the possibilities, but there are dozens of ancient sites at all points of the compass.’
‘Wales is a mysterious country,’ said Wallace.
Lambert glared at him. ‘Don’t you start. I’ve had dungeons and dragons up to here.’ He turned to Ellis. ‘So she wasn’t much help then.’
Ellis felt awkward. ‘Well, you have to admit, sir, if we can’t work it out, why should we expect...’
Lambert interrupted him. ‘Then why the bloody hell has she outlined some of the lines in red?’
‘Because I told her of the possibility that he might have concealed a gun somewhere following the murder. She’s just guessing, but there seems to be a pattern from the asylum to where the shop was broken into, then south-west across the Beacons to Pontardawe - the spot where he shot the farmer. If he did conceal a weapon, it can’t have been that far from Swansea. Somewhere in this region, say. Now have a look at this pattern of ley lines.’
His eyes glued to one of the pages on the desk, Lambert said, ‘He could either be heading north along this track...’
‘But it doesn’t seem to go anywhere,’ said Wallace.
‘Do any of them? Other than to a load of ancient stones.’
‘No,’ persisted Wallace. ‘I mean, there don’t seem to be so many sites north of Tregaron, up here in the Aberystwyth region.’
‘I wondered why I hadn’t spotted any cromlechs or burial chambers,’ Lambert said, deadpan.
Wallace smiled dutifully.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Ellis. He rushed over to the wall map, tapped his finger on a spot on the west coast and said, ‘This is the last ancient site on this particular line.’
It took a moment for it to register with Lambert. ‘That site’s near Fishguard.’
‘Probably overlooks the harbour,’ Wallace said.
‘You said it, Kevin. Harbour. The Irish ferry. I still haven’t ruled out an Irish connection in all this. It could be a complete waste of time, but you never know.’ He grabbed the phone and started dialling. ‘I’ll get onto Phillips.’ While he waited for an answer, he said to Ellis, ‘Incidentally, Tony, she’s not my wife anymore. Decree absolute came through last week.’
Ellis was uncertain how to respond to this.
‘Oh. Er - congratulations?’ he said.
***
The house was on the market, several prospective buyers had shown an interest, and still Helen hadn’t made any progress in finding another property. She sat on the sofa in the living room, the coffee table piled high with papers and leaflets. She found it difficult to concentrate. Her attention was divided between deciphering estate agents’ euphemisms and mind-numbing arguments about the Euro on the television news.
She sighed discontentedly and absently picked up a photocopy of the map of Welsh ley lines Tony Ellis had left her. There was something nagging away at the back of her mind, something to do with the map. But she couldn’t work it out. Every time she returned to it, she stared at it helplessly, and felt something tugging, pulling her towards something that was just out of reach. It started to get on her nerves. Half of her wanted to help with the police investigation, then she wondered why on earth she should put herself out for her husband. Especially as he was now her ex-husband. Signed, sealed and settled. Let him sort out his own investigation. Let him overlook vital evidence and take the consequences. Serve him right for being such a narrow-minded pragmatist with no interest in his own culture, denying his atavistic sense of being and d
eep-rooted traditions. And yet, she had to admit, she was intrigued by the case. She was now involved and found it challenging, and realised solving mysteries was both annoying and stimulating.
She sighed deeply, irritated at being unable to find a solution to the problem, and also annoyed with herself for becoming so involved with her husband’s problems. Soon to be ex-husband, she reminded herself as she slammed the photocopy on top of the estate agents’ details. She was relieved by the distraction of a change of news item on television. Shots of police. Dog handlers with obedient German shepherds at their side. The camera panned over the darkening hills and came to rest on a male reporter, windswept and wearing a safari jacket better suited to an assignment in a war-torn desert than the cold, sun-shrinking autumn in the Welsh mountains. He stood slightly hunched to emphasise how cold he felt, and stressed almost every word in his delivery.
‘And as the large-scale manhunt gets under way to track down Gary Evans, the ex-SAS mercenary and killer, who last night escaped from Claywell Hospital for the criminally insane, an investigation is being carried out concerning the security of this and other such hospitals. Meanwhile, the killer remains at large, and a police spokesman has indicated that it seems likely, due to Evans’s army training, that he may wait for the cover of darkness before he makes his move. But just where he is heading is anybody’s guess. This is Vernon Collins for BBC Wales.’
The camera panned away from the reporter and picked up a helicopter as it soared dramatically upwards, bang on cue, as if these events had been contrived. Then the picture cut back to the studio. The newsreader turned over a page and began reading from the autocue a story about sextuplets born to a woman in Edinburgh.
Helen picked up the remote and switched the TV off. That same unsettled feeling nagged at her. She found it difficult to concentrate on anything for very long. She began to dwell on the past, remembering the good times. And, inevitably, her thoughts turned slowly to the what-might-have-been of their lives in the future. If only he could have been more like his sergeant. Tony Ellis seemed the loyal type. A bit dull, perhaps. But loyal. And, given the benefit of hindsight, she would gladly have traded charismatic charm and compulsive infidelity for good solid and honest dullness.
