Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  ‘I’m here because I care about your sister,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Really?’ Rhodri asked pointedly. ‘So do I.’

  Jamie allowed his silence to confirm that he understood. The businessman invited him to sit, and he chose a wing-chair next to the bay window. He said, ‘Mr Jones, I don’t know how much Sara has spoken to you about your parents’ deaths –’

  ‘Recently?’ Rhodri interrupted. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Well, it’s been troubling her more than usual. I’m trying to help her make sense of it.’

  Rhodri sat opposite Jamie, and furrowed his brow in concern. ‘Why has it been bothering her so much?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose it’s the effect of the murder investigation she’s helping with.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Rhodri agreed. ‘The investigation you got her involved in.’ He peered at Jamie and spoke in a low, accusatory voice: ‘Do you think that was wise?’

  ‘It was necessary,’ Jamie said. ‘Sara has a special gift.’

  Rhodri grunted unhappily. They continued to discuss Sara in vague terms, encircling each other with words. After several minutes, during which they agreed once again a common concern for Sara’s well-being, Jamie said, ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your past?’

  Rhodri, who had downed half his tumbler of rye and soda, had relaxed noticeably. ‘Go on, then,’ he replied breezily.

  Jamie withdrew a notebook from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Do you believe Glyn Thomas murdered your parents?’

  Rhodri raised an eyebrow at the notebook, and puckered his face into a concentrated frown. ‘The police are almost certain of it.’

  Jamie nodded slowly and scribbled a note. ‘On the day your parents died, you told police you’d been riding your motor scooter ...’

  ‘I did that quite often,’ Rhodri replied.

  ‘Where did you ride to? Were you with Glyn at any time?’

  Rhodri shook his head.

  ‘What about Artists Valley? Did you go there?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Rhodri snapped. ‘I had very little interest in those people, to be honest. Glyn was rather smitten with them, that’s true, and he did take me there on occasion. But frankly, I found Duncan Kraig rather unsettling. Ravers were never my cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ Jamie said, ‘that the papers didn’t make anything of your involvement with that group, however small it was.’

  Rhodri shrugged, and rose to pour himself a second drink. This time, he omitted the soda. ‘They didn’t know. My social workers shielded me from press intrusion. My acquaintance with Glyn Thomas was kept quiet by all concerned, and for that I am grateful.’

  He sank back into his seat, and took a large gulp of straight rye, wiping his mouth with the rolled cuff of his shirt. He gazed into the middle distance of the room, and his voice quietened: ‘To this day, I am suffused with guilt over the whole horrible thing. Had I not befriended Glyn, none of this would ever have happened.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Still, that terrible time could have left Sara and me two of life’s emotional casualties ... but I’d say it strengthened us.’

  The faraway look in his eyes vanished. ‘Once the shock was over, we threw ourselves into schoolwork. Eventually, Sara studied Medicine and I read Economics. It’s odd to think that was because of Glyn Thomas and Duncan Kraig.’

  Rhodri stared at Jamie. ‘What do you plan to do with this information, Inspector?’ he asked. Before Jamie could reply, he went on, ‘I wouldn’t want to read this in a newspaper, or even a police report. Sara mustn’t have her past opened to scrutiny again.’

  Jamie inclined his head deferentially. ‘Of course not.’

  Rhodri nodded guardedly. ‘Just so long as we understand that.’ His gaze grew more intense. ‘I will do anything necessary to protect my sister,’ he said gravely.

  Jamie glanced at him impassively. Was the man threatening him?

  Rhodri looked at his watch. ‘My car is picking me up in forty minutes, I’m afraid. I was hoping to manage a shower before then.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jamie said, standing. ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rhodri said, his voice lightening, ‘there’s little more I can offer, except advice. Sara is headstrong. She gets ideas and won’t let them go, even when they do her harm. I believe her obsession with our past is doing her harm. If you want to help her, concentrate on your job and encourage Sara to get on with life.’

  He led Jamie into the foyer, where Jamie noticed a decoration he had missed before: an antique umbrella stand, holding several riding crops. Rhodri turned the deadbolt, and pulled open the door.

  ‘After twenty years,’ Rhodri added, ‘I think it’s time we allowed some scar tissue to form over these old wounds, don’t you?’

  As she drove home through the storm, the street person’s anguished words had rung in her mind: I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t want to die. You’re on his side. I’ll never tell anyone. Clearly, the poor man thought Sara had some leverage with the killer. But why did he need that leverage – and how did he know she had met him?

  It wasn’t until she got home that she noticed a message on her phone to call Rhoddo. She rang him right away.

  ‘Your boyfriend’s rather obsessed with your history, isn’t he?’ he drawled.

  ‘My boyfriend?’ Sara replied. ‘You mean Jamie?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone else with the temerity to demand a meeting so he can grill me about our parents’ murder.’

  A hollow cavity swelled in Sara’s chest. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘He interviewed you?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’ asked Rhodri, mock-surprised.

  She didn’t need this – not after the kind of day she’d had. ‘What did you tell him?’ Sara asked.

  She did not imagine Rhoddo would have opened up to Jamie Harding. Even to Sara, he spoke little about their childhood. He did not reminisce about their father’s impotent rage, or their mother’s tight-lipped silences. And certainly not about the violence that brought both to an end.

  ‘I told him to leave you alone,’ Rhodri said.

  Sara remained silent for a time. ‘Thank you,’ she said finally. ‘Why did he come?’ she asked finally. ‘Did he give you a reason why he wanted to know so much?’

  ‘Nothing that rang true,’ Rhoddo replied archly. ‘He said he cared about you.’

  Sara sighed. Jamie’s way of trying to show concern was infuriating. It was simply not on to delve ghoulishly into her past to demonstrate his compassion.

  But Sara’s fury wasn’t easy to sustain. During their drive back from Gefail, it had seemed only proper, even necessary, to order Jamie out of her personal life ... but now, the world seemed a chillier place for having done so.

  ‘Sara?’ Rhoddo said. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Oh ... yes. Let’s talk about something else.’

  Rhoddo seemed to sense her mood, and distracted her with questions about the case. She told him about her unsettling visit from the street person at the Drop-In Centre. He showed genuine concern, and asked a number of questions about the man – his actions, his appearance, the things he said. He warned her against any further contact. ‘He sounds dangerous.’

  Sara promised to protect herself. Rhoddo was two very different people – one of them so caring and sweet, the other so tormented by horrors that it drew him into brutality to expiate his pain.

  They spoke for several minutes more, mostly of inconsequential things, before saying goodnight. Sara put down the receiver with sadness. She thought about all the turns their lives had taken, and what she might do to make her brother whole.

  In their first summer at Aunt Issy’s house, Rhodri had tried to kill himself. After their parents’ burial, and the dying down of media interest in Duncan Kraig, life in their new home in Machynlleth had settled into something like normality. They finished the academic year at a grammar school in their new town, but neither of them made any close friends. They were too notorious, their storie
s too whispered-about. Rhodri settled down to work, and surprised everyone with remarkable GCSE results ... but still, he had remained quiet, withdrawn. He had kept to his bedroom – avoiding the guests that flowed in and out of the two remaining bedrooms at Aunt Issy’s B&B.

  Then one day, Sara had arrived home to find the house quiet; the guests were out and Aunt Issy was at the nursing home where she worked part-time. Nothing had seemed unusual as Sara made her way through the large entranceway, with its payphone and tourist brochures. Sara had climbed the two flights of stairs to her bedroom, enjoying the smell of fresh flowers and rose-scented pot pourri. As she neared the top of the stairs, she felt the skin on her arms prickle and she slowed, cocking an ear. There was a muffled rubbing from the door of Rhodri’s bedroom.

  ‘Rhoddo?’ she called. The rubbing stopped. ‘Rhoddo?’ she repeated. Suddenly, there was a thud against the door, and, a second later, feet kicking wildly against the wooden floor.

  ‘Rhodri!’ Sara screamed, and dashed the remaining few stairs, throwing herself against the bedroom door and twisting the knob frantically. She had had to shove with all her weight to push the door part-open, as if something had been piled against the other side.

  Gasping with effort and terror, she squeezed through the narrow gap and screamed: Rhodri was half-slumped on the floor. The terrycloth tie to his dressing gown was bound to his neck with a slip knot, its other end secured to the large brass hook on the back of his door. Rhodri’s face was mottled red, his eyes bulging and his chest heaving with rasping attempts to suck in air.

  For a second she stood, paralysed. A succession of anguished feelings, much too rapid to solidify into thoughts, flickered through her mind. Images of her parents, dead and bloody, terror that Rhodri was dying, fear that she would be alone, the sense that she was unprepared for this.

  Rhodri’s lips moved, but the only sound to emerge was a series of horrible gurgles. Sara fell forward, wedging her hands under Rhodri’s armpits and heaving up with all her strength. By leaning into her brother, she managed to push him against the door, and then work two violently shaking fingers under the cotton tie, loosening the slip knot and tugging it over Rhodri’s head.

  ‘Help me,’ he said in choking whisper. ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘You won’t,’ she said, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling. His neck was scarred with livid welts, which were oozing clear fluid. ‘The rope is off now,’ she said, choking on tears. ‘I’m going to leave you for a moment.’

  ‘Don’t call anyone,’ Rhodri gasped. His neck was starting to swell.

  ‘Rhodri, you need to see a doctor,’ she screamed, her voice cracking hysterically.

  ‘No,’ he said, but Sara fled the room, dashing for the telephone.

  Sara rode with Rhodri in the ambulance. On the way to Aberystwyth, the attendants checked his breathing and heart rate, and took his blood pressure. Sara sat pressed into a corner, trembling and sniffling, her eyes aching sharply from wiping away so many tears. At Bronglais Hospital, the triage nurse checked Rhodri over again, and swabbed the marks around his neck. By now, Rhodri was more embarrassed than distressed, having to admit his suicide attempt to every nurse and doctor he came across as they took his medical history, did an electrocardiogram, and arranged for him to chat with a staff member from the psychiatry department.

  Aunt Issy was located, and – once the nurses had learned about the death of Rhodri and Sara’s parents – their social workers were alerted. From then on, both Rhodri and Sara began regular visits to a psychiatrist.

  Sara never blamed Rhodri for what he had done. Even at the age of fourteen, she knew that it had been a panicked cry for help. Afterwards, she felt closer to her older brother, and more protective of him than ever.

  FOURTEEN

  Being around Trevor Hughes was difficult for Eldon Carson. He had shared many hours of conversation with the man, and found him to be stupid, unprincipled, randomly violent, and filled with hatred for all the wrong things. It was a rage that would one day erupt if not stopped. Still, for the moment, Carson needed Trevor Hughes.

  That didn’t mean he had to stay up all night talking garbage with him. He had excused himself early, and managed to drift into a light, fitful sleep. Suddenly, Carson was hit by an impression close enough in time and proximity, and fierce enough in intensity, to connect with a blinding force. Straight from a fevered dream, he found himself plummeting through a barrier of brilliant light. Even in his surest moments of knowing, of seeing the past or future, the journey had never been this violent. As he dropped, he fought against the near-paralysing sense of disorientation, and managed at last to find his centre, controlling the last few moments of his psychic fall.

  He found that he had dropped into a maelstrom of carnage: the sounds of terror, contorted faces, bodies falling, blood spattering and seeping. Never had the emotions he experienced been as intense, or the vision so clear. Carson was terrified.

  Where was he? When was he?

  He pulled back, and willed himself to rise into the air. Don’t panic, he said to himself. Freeze the moment – freeze it here.

  He surveyed the still scene: red brick buildings, a monument, a castle, an abbey. This isn’t Aberystwyth ... but it’s not too far away. Further north ... north and east. England. Carson remembered travelling through this place on his way to Wales – he was in Shrewsbury. He drifted down over the frozen bloodbath below, until he located the storm’s calm centre ... the blankness that was a man named Frank Linden Dundas.

  He is going to do this. And he’s going to do it soon ... o, sweet Jesus Lord, this is very, very soon.

  Carson struggled to blot away the sensation and sat up on the mat, his head thumping violently. He burrowed through his satchel for a pad of paper, and began making notes and sketches. He knew that, if it was the last thing he did, he had to stop Frank Linden Dundas.

  After feverishly working the plan through on paper, Carson was able to quiet his racing mind. He told himself this job would be no different than anything else he’d done – even easier in a way, because he had seen it so clearly. The only real problem was that it demanded he leave Aberystwyth for a time.

  And that was a problem, because it meant abandoning Sara Jones.

  A surge of anger pulsed through him. This new responsibility would take him away from his most important charge. That was bad. He had primed Sara; she was waiting. He knew she was in an emotionally vulnerable state. She needed him.

  And, if he were to be honest with himself, contacting her was not totally unselfish; he had never found another person like Sara Jones, and coming to know her, to help her, was almost a holy quest.

  Carson weighed it all up, and made a decision. He had just enough time. He would see Sara Jones, and then leave for Shrewsbury. He put away the hastily scribbled notes and stood unsteadily.

  In the tawdry living room, Trevor Hughes drank beer and watched television. When Carson entered, Hughes looked up with his usual vapid grin.

  ‘I need to borrow your car,’ Carson told him.

  Sara sat upstairs, in the second-largest bedroom, which she used as her office. She was drafting a letter to the Welsh Language Board, inquiring about grants. Today, the torrential rain – which had fallen for days in thick angular sheets – had finally blown away. It had left behind a pleasant, cool Sunday evening, disturbed only by the shrill roar of military jets on manoeuvres overhead. Through her office window, Sara could see sheep grazing on the wet hill behind her house, their wool reflecting the dim orange glow of the dying sun.

  The letter was something she had been putting off since the end of last week. After Thursday morning’s visitor, Sara had been unable to devote her mind to paperwork. She had told the police about the vagrant’s visit, but so far nobody had managed to locate him.

  By the time Sara finished the letter, the sky outside was a patchwork of dark blue shades, and the trees and bushes were uniformly black. Aside from the occasional bleating of a sheep, the
night was still and quiet. The first vague indication that something was not right came as a distant sensation, light as a feather brushing against her forehead. She stopped and her eyes defocused; she groped to get a better sense of why her subconscious had pricked her into this still wariness. Had she remembered something else about the distressed man who had visited the Centre?

  No, that isn’t it.

  Was it a sound? There was a muffled something downstairs. A creaking floorboard, a small thud. She told herself it must be Gareth, the constable on duty, but rose as quietly as she could. Gareth should be patrolling the lane outside.

  ‘Gareth?’ she called, warily.

  There was no reply. She heard rustling – a body settling into a chair – and frowned.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, ‘who is it?’

  There was now nothing but silence on the ground floor below. She scanned the room for something to use as a weapon – her medical bag was downstairs. She settled upon a well-sharpened pencil that sat in a cup next to her computer. She grasped it like a stiletto and, tentatively, crossed the groaning floorboards. The light from the bedroom threw her long shadow down the blackened stairs. She peered down, into the dimness of her long, narrow sitting room.

  In the sky above Penweddig, a fighter jet ripped through the air with a deafening shriek.

  Sara winced, hesitated a moment, then descended slowly, with one hand skimming the stone wall for support. At the bottom, she thumbed the light switch. The fluorescent tube in the ceiling had been dying slowly for the past few days, and now it burned at the edges only, casting a feeble, milky glow through the room. As the dim half-light popped and flickered into life, Sara gasped. A man was sitting in the chair in the corner. She could not make out his face.

  ‘Gareth!’ she screamed, praying her guardian was nearby.

  ‘Shhhh,’ the man whispered. ‘You’re not in danger, I promise you.’

  Sara flinched with startled recognition.

  ‘We’ve met once before, Miss Sara,’ her visitor said politely, ‘though I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.’