Disturbing Ground

by Priscilla Masters

  The answering voice was uncurious. “I’m sorry, Police Constable Alun Williams is not on duty today. Who is it speaking please? Perhaps I can take a message.”

  Megan’s eyes drifted across the road at the dark slick which marked the Slaggy Pool. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Will you please tell him Megan Banesto rang. I’d like to talk to him.” She was anxious to explain that this was a professional call. “It’s about a case.”

  “He’s got your number, has he, Doctor Banesto?”

  Anonymity was impossible in these valleys. She gave the officer both her home, mobile and surgery number and he asked her to hold on for a minute.

  Put the ball into Alun’s court. If he rang back, fine. She could pursue her line of reasoning to him. If not. Well. Nothing ventured … A swift flash of Alun, streaming off the rugby pitch, muddy and grinning, straight into her outstretched arms, made her blink with pain. Why hadn’t she settled for him instead of committing virtual social suicide by hitching up with the Italian Stallion? Life would have been so simple. Predictable. Comfortable. She would have been happy. Only now she knew it. More than ten years too late. But she had left for Cardiff Medical School, leaving him behind in the valleys without so much as a backward glance. The world was out there. Waiting for her. She had felt a desperate need to escape. Escape had seemed more important than anything. And by the time she had finally returned to Llancloudy to take up a General Practice post it had seemed inappropriate to pick up the strands of an old relationship.

  The police officer came back to her with his calm, reassuring voice, breaking into her thoughts before she could continue this awful, pointless agonising. “Right. Well. I can’t tell you when PC Williams is due back, Doctor Banesto, but I promise I will give him your message. All right now?”

  “Thank you.”

  Relief swamped her. She had taken some action. Now she could go home.

  Home was one of the terraced houses that had its back rammed against the mountain. Number 37, Heol Caradoc. A well built, two bedroomed, ex miner’s cottage with the luxury of a bathroom. Downstairs the living room and the dining room had been knocked into one and a kitchen built on at the back. It was small, basic and secure. She could lie in bed and hear movements in the houses either side of her. And downstairs she could hear neighbours’ televisions, hi fis, the ping of a microwave and occasionally noisy, family rows. The tiny front garden which overlooked the road meant that sunning yourself was a public affair and the back was little more than a yard and a tiny tool shed. Privacy was at a premium in Llancloudy.

  She had bought number 37 when she and Guido had finally split and sold the detached modern estate house at the bottom of the valley which had briefly been their marital home. From her 50% share she had bought this house outright. It was a solid practical place which she had largely decorated herself but it was basically sound, warm, cosy and she felt safe hemmed in and guarded by her neighbours. The only real drawback was having to leave her car out in the street, tightly parked and clamped against the gangs of out-of-control streetboys led by Joel Parker, a twelve-year-old psychopath who was capable of joyriding in the Calibra and smashing it up together with his band of law breaking mates. One day, she had promised herself, she would move. Only not yet.

  Megan let herself into the narrow hall, picking up a couple of bills from the floor. She went straight into the sitting room and flopped down onto the cream sofa, flicked the TV on, channel hopped for half an hour, found nothing of interest then padded upstairs to run a bath. Her big toe was poised to dip in when downstairs the telephone rang. “Bugger,” she cursed. “Bugger.”

  One of the nice things about living alone was that running downstairs starkers she was unlikely to encounter anyone. But she still felt embarrassed when Alun’s deep voice spoke from the other end.

  “They told me you’d rang the station, Megan. What is it?” He sounded very slightly irritated. Almost a stranger. Not glad to hear from her at all.

  She could hardly ask him to wait while she put some clothes on so she perched on the bottom step, grateful for the retained warmth in the house. She began tentatively. “I-I wanted to ask you about Bianca Rhys.”

  “What did you want to know?”

  “What the official line is, Alun.”

  He gave a non committal “Mmm”.

  “And the pathologist said she had some stone in her pocket.”

  He gave a loud burst of laughter. “Well she was always nickin’ something. Gave us no end of trouble. She must have pinched it from someone’s garden.”

  “Well what was it? Was it heavy enough to have weighted her down in the water? And why did she go up there in the first place?”

  “I think … Hang on a minute.” There was a pause. He was shutting a door. “I think I should buy you a drink and we can talk about this face to face, in a civilised fashion.”

  Relief enveloped her. He had no idea how much she would like that. “Yes. OK. When?”

  “What are you doing now?”

  She glanced downwards. “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Just about to have a bath.”

  He chuckled again and she knew he knew she was wearing nothing.

  “Are you free then for the rest of the evening? After your bath?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour then, Megan.”

  “OK. I live -”

  “I know where you live.”

  She washed quickly, shampooing her hair, blowdrying it, straight and sleek, around her face and pulling on some cream cotton jeans and a black silk shirt with black, leather mules. One of the rewards of being five feet eight inches tall and weighing eight stone was that she could wear most clothes without worrying whether her “bottom looked big” in them. She left her face bare apart from a touch of mascara. The Alun she had known had disliked makeup. She finished her toilet with a spray of Chanel then perched on the window seat and peered out into the street, waiting for him. He would not be able to find a parking spot. She would need to meet him on the road.

  Long ago on dates she had always made the men park their car, knock on her door - formally - while she counted to ten - slowly - before opening it. She had dropped such affectation years ago.

  He turned up a few minutes after half past eight, pulling up adjacent to her car, throwing open the passenger door of the Peugot estate as she locked her front door behind her. A swift glance over her shoulder told her this was a family vehicle - there was a Britex child seat in the back.

  Megan could swear right along the road curtains were twitching. A few kids across the street stopped passing their rugby ball to each other while they stared.

  Alun waited until she had closed the car door behind her before he spoke. “It’s good to see you again, Megan.”

  She looked long and hard at his blunt featured face and felt as though she had come home. “You too.”

  “Thought we’d go to one of the quieter pubs. Some of them here you can’t hear yourself think - let alone have a civilised conversation. All right if you’ve got nothing to say. But …”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  He accelerated down the road, drove swiftly to the head of the valley and climbed towards Llangefni, a small collection of scattered houses and an ancient pub. Once there he parked the car neatly in Y Ddraig Goch and they entered the lounge bar.

  As pubs go it was OK. Not posh but not fake either. Round oak tables, a faded red carpet, the cloying scent of stale cigarettes, a fruit machine sparkling in the corner. Two girls beside it, a mobile phone silent on the table between them.

  “He said he would phone. That’s if he can get away. Bloody wife of his.”

  Megan turned her eyes on Alun. He was blushing.

  “What do you want to drink, Meggie?”

  The name had been his pet one for her, the one that could turn her knees weak. Trust him to use it now, turn the clock back.

  “A white wine, please.” Long ago Bacardi and cokes
were ignored in a swamp of sophistication.

  Alun returned from the bar with a pint pot for himself and a glass of wine for her. As he put it carefully on the table he spilt a drop and she had the satisfaction of watching him turn red again. She smiled to herself. He always had had this tendency to blush. Useful to know when he was lying. It had come to her aid before - on more than one occasion. She wondered whether he would blush when his wife asked him where he had been tonight. And with whom?

  He took a deep draft then set his beer back down on the table. “And how are you managing now, on your own?”

  She shrugged.

  “Must be a bit lonely after -”

  She sidestepped the personal interest. “What’s the official version of Bianca’s death? Are the police making any investigation?”

  “Why do you ask? What’s your involvement in it? She was just a patient of yours, wasn’t she?”

  “Her daughter …” she began.

  “Oh - Carole.” Alun made a face. “She’s been makin’ all sorts of allegations. Police neglect - not caring. You name it. Actually we have been takin’ statements as well as making a proper inspection of the area around the pool.”

  “And?”

  “We think Bianca slipped in sometime on Sunday night. She can’t possibly have fallen in during daylight. Someone would surely have seen her. So that would mean after nine o’ clock on Sunday night. We’ve taken statements from a few people who saw what they thought was some old clothes in the pool. It was her all right. There was light rain on Sunday night. That would have made the ground a little bit slippy.”

  She remembered the rain, a soft, summer rain that had seemed to moisten the atmosphere without falling as raindrops. And the cloud of damp had lain heavy in the valley as a cloying, grey mist blotting out the mountains. She had escaped by spending the evening with a friend in Cardiff and had returned late - well after nine. By then Bianca must have been a floating corpse.

  She looked enquiringly at Alun for further explanation.

  “The pathologist thought she might have saved up a couple of her pills and taken them all together, got a bit confused and knocked off, wandered up there, slipped on the grass, knocked her head and fell in. And the police surgeon agreed with this version. Apparently once she’d fallen in the water she never really drew breath. But she would have found it hard to scramble out of the pool anyway because her clothes had got tangled up in an old pram someone had dumped there. That’s the official verdict.”

  It was a logical explanation. But something didn’t fit. Megan fumbled around trying to understand what it was. “And the stone in her pocket? Would it have been enough to weigh her down?”

  “No - not really. Goodness knows. It was something broken off an old statue or something. A piece of carved stone. Not very big.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. Like a claw or something.”

  “And where had she got it from?”

  “I don’t know, Megan.”

  She picked up on his exasperation. “And you don’t think it’s important.”

  He shook his head, leaned forward, touched her hand. “Meggie,” he said bluntly, “all the police are concerned about is that no one else was involved. It wasn’t murder. It might have been suicide. It probably was an accident.”

  “But what was she doing up there in the first place? Bianca was frightened to leave her house after dark.”

  Alun looked amused. “You’re not trying to be a detective, are you? You should stick to being a doctor, Meggie. From what I’ve heard you’re good at that. All I can say is we’ve finished our enquiries. We’ve handed our notes to the coroner and he’s happy.”

  She regarded him for a moment before asking, “Have you seen anyone who actually saw her heading up the Pool? Did anyone see her any time on Saturday or all day Sunday?”

  Alun reddened. “What are you suggesting?”

  “And how do you explain the head injury?”

  “She hit it as she fell into the pool.”

  “What on? Have you sent frogmen down?”

  “The pool’s a few feet deep, Megan. The bottom is full of rubbish. There’s plenty of stuff there she could have hurt herself on. I don’t get where you’re comin’ from.”

  “I’ll tell you where I’m coming from, Alun,” she said quietly. “Bianca was “three streets short of a city”. If she had been a normal woman your investigation would have been more intense, more detailed. Because she was a schizophrenic you’re hardly bothering.”

  “No - it isn’t because of that. It’s because if Bianca had been any normal woman we could probably have worked out what she was up to. But with her anything is possible. Her voices might have told her to throw herself in - or go up there late at night. It was always the voices she blamed for shoplifting. All we care is that she wasn’t deliberately pushed in or drowned. And think about it, Meggie. There wouldn’t be any point to it besides it being a useless way to try and murder someone. She might have climbed out. You couldn’t predict the fact that she would die of shock the minute she hit the water. If new evidence came to light we’d look at her case again. But as it is there’s no justification for further investigation.”

  “You’re not searching for new evidence, are you?”

  “We’ve done the necessary. We’ve carried out house to house. We’ve examined the ground beside the Slaggy Pool.”

  “After half the population of Llancloudy had marked the area with their own footprints.”

  “Hang on a minute. We came as soon as we were called.” Native honesty compelled him to add, “Well - within the ten minute deadline anyway. We couldn’t help it if people had already trampled around the pool destroying trace evidence.” He lifted his beerglass, his eyes never leaving her face all the time he drank. “I wouldn’t have thought your life was so lacking in drama you’d have to go searching for it in this sad accident to a pathetic old mad thing.”

  She wanted him to understand. “It’s because she was a sad, pathetic old mad thing.”

  He always had struggled to understand her commitment, her attitude, her responsibilites.

  “And her daughter isn’t happy.”

  Alun snorted. “Her daughter’s never happy. Carole Symmonds is the sort who’d always say her family was being discriminated against.”

  There was an element of truth in the statement.

  “Don’t bother turning over stones,” he advised.

  “Because there might be toads underneath them?”

  “No - because there’s nothing and I wouldn’t want you to waste your time and energy. It’s not worth it.”

  She sensed his anger was rising and so she was silent, disagreeing but not wanting a confrontation. She was enjoying his company - even the sparring. They always had been a quarrelsome couple. After they had parted Megan had realised that half of their quarrels had been encouraged for the passionate reconciliation.

  Alun drained his beerglass and put it back on the table with sudden firmness.

  She waited for the storm to break.

  “How could you be such a …” he burst out. “You were the prize catch of the sixth form. You could have had anyone. We all had the hots for you. How could you have married that …? Why the hell did you, Meggie? It was obvious from the start what he was.”

  She felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. “Not to me it wasn’t obvious.”

  Alun looked incredulous. “I don’t believe you. You must have known.”

  She gave a dismissive shake of her head. “Don’t - please - don’t.” She stuck a bright smile on her face and touched his hand briefly. “I went on holiday. The sun shone. I was away from work and the dullness and the stifling closeness of here. We lay on the beach and talked and talked. We made love. We swam, we ate, we slept. It seemed an idyllic existence. I couldn’t know things would be so different when we came back here. He changed.”

  “Rather a lot as I understand.”

  She
closed her eyes for a moment and nodded.

  He hadn’t finished. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard - falling for an Italian waiter like some cheap holiday romance.”

  “He wasn’t a waiter,” she said, stung. “He owned the restaurant. He is a cultured and intelligent man with a huge appreciation of beauty.”

  “And he likes men,” Alun said sourly.

  “Alun,” she appealed. “I know what the gossips say. Don’t join them, please.”

  “Well they aren’t talking so much about you any more,” he said. “They’ve got something else to concentrate on now.”

  “Temporarily. Memories are long in this part of the world. They’ll never forget. I’ll always be labelled as the doctor who went on holiday, married an Italian waiter. And he preferred men. Even if I married again the gossips would follow me. As long as I stay here, in Llancloudy.”

  “Why do you?” he asked. “Why did you come back?”

  “Because people here need me.”

  “I needed you,” he said, looking away, “once.”

  “But not any more. You’re married now.”

  He nodded.

  “And I hear you’ve a …”

  He was already fumbling in his pocket, pulling out a photograph of a mischievous looking toddler. “That’s Gareth.” His pride was evident. “Two next birthday. And another one on the way.”

  “You’re happy then.”

  “Oh yes.”

  The worst of it was that she believed him. Alun invariably blushed when he was lying. And he wasn’t blushing now. If anything he looked slightly pale. Mentioning his wife had made him worry talk would trickle back to her about his drinking companion tonight.

  Best to return to safe subjects.

  “And you’re happy that Bianca’s death was simply an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “One last thing,” she said. “The piece of stone. What have you done with it?”

  “It’s down at the police station.”

  “Describe it.”

  “About four inches long, carved grey stone. As I said, looks like a bird’s claw - or something. Maybe not quite a bird’s claw, Megan. More an animal’s claw.”