Er Serchus Cof, Annwyl Mam, and the name, Carole.
Megan turned away from the pool, returned to her car and resolutely rang the police station. It was not for her that she did it. There was no selfish motive. Only a desire for pure truth.
LIAR.
The same, friendly desk sergeant answered as before. And again he recognised her voice. There was no need to give her name.
“Police Constable Williams? He’s in today, Doctor Banesto. I’ll just put you through.”
Her tension mounted as she waited for Alun’s voice knowing whatever he had intimated at Bianca’s funeral he would not be pleased to hear from her at work. People chatter. Seconds ticked away. She glanced at her watch. She would be late starting her visits. The sick would wonder where she …
“Meggie.” Irritation always made his voice gravelly. She had heard this before. When matches had been lost. When he had given away a vital pass. When she had told him of her decision to leave. A hundred times before she had picked up on this harshness. Too many times to pretend even to herself that she did not recognise its significance now.
Her anticipation had been right. He was not pleased to hear from her.
“What is it?”
“Answer me a question?”
“Depends what it is.” The distance in his voice was enough to make her cringe.
“The stone carving you found in Bianca’s pocket. Where do you think it came from?”
“We’ve given it some thought but we don’t think it’s of any significance.”
She waited.
“We did wonder whether it had been broken off something in one of the churches. You see - it was something like you’d find there, like a religious carving. And it had been broken off not long ago. The break was quite clean.”
“And?”
“Well - we drew a blank. None of the vicars seemed to recognise it.”
He was sounding uncomfortable. “Sorry, Megan. That’s all I can tell you.”
Nothing, in other words.
She said a brief goodbye, pressed the End Call button on her mobile, turned the key in her car and revved up, driving quickly to one of the ugliest council estates in the world. Grey, flat-roofed, squashed in like poor quality chicken coops. It fitted her picture of Russian Gulags but this was South Wales. This was also where her first visit of the day was. And it was where Mandy Parker, Joel’s mother, lived.
Megan dealt swiftly with the bronchitic old man who lived in one of the chicken coops, wrote out a prescription for some Ventolin for his nebuliser and lingered outside Joel Parker’s house, knowing it was ill advised yet unable to stop herself from wondering. What if…? The garden was untended, like many round here. The grass grew high, the fence was broken, the front door had had a replacement panel inserted. Still unpainted MDF. A dog barked from around the back. She heard its chain rattle. A curtain twitched in response. From one of the houses she heard the throb of hard house music. An upstairs curtain billowed behind a cracked pane of glass. People here could be brutal in their retribution and Joel Parker had upset plenty of inhabitants on this estate. A youth sauntered down the path. Leered at her. “Lookin’ for someone sick, doctor?”
It wasn’t Joel but his younger half-brother, Stefan. Shaven head, earrings. An enormous, flame orange T-shirt, baggy shorts and trainers with thick soles. No more than ten years old. He eyeballed her fearlessly “Well are you?”
She met his defiant, world-hating eyes and wondered whether he knew anything about Bianca Rhys’ death. “No. I’ve just been visiting a patient.”
Stefan lounged against the gate and kicked at the rotten post. It crumbled under his shoes. “What - old Parry?”
She smiled. “Just a patient.”
“Sorree,” he said rudely. “Forgot. You can’t tell secrets, can you? Not that I could bloody well care anyway. See who you like. There’s nobody sick in our house.”
“Good. Less work for me.”
He was still watching her as she climbed back into her car, seemed to wait for her to switch the engine on. She could still see him watching her in the rear view mirror as she drove back down the road. He seemed very anxious for her to go. She wondered why. A permanently guilty conscience? Or was there was there some particular reason why he wanted rid of her? She recalled Carole Symmonds’ unhappy heartsearching and desperately wished she could talk to Alun about her own misgivings.
Instead she drove to her next visit, to one of the semis on the new estate and a baby with croup.
It was as she was again climbing back into her car that her mobile phone rang.
Number Anonymous.
Although it had been her wish she was startled to recognise Alun’s voice. “Megan.”
He still sounded stern. “Have you been egging Carole Symmonds on?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“She’s been down here making allegations that could end her up in court.”
“Well it’s nothing to do with -”
“She said she’d discussed it with you.”
“I said hardly anything.”
“Well she’s got the impression that you’re along with her about her mother’s death. That there’s more to it than accident. And now she’s insisting on a full investigation.”
Megan was stung. “She’s entitled to that, isn’t she?”
“There isn’t any point.”
She felt a sudden surge of indignation. “This isn’t to do with me, Alun.”
“No?”
“No.” But there remained one question that had been burning her curiosity. She might as well be hanged for a sheep as a … “Where was Joel Parker on Saturday night?” she asked recklessly.
“With his dad in the bloody Rhondda for the weekend.”
He wasn’t just irritated. He was furious. And he’d been anticipating her question.
“Megan. You saw Bianca Rhys on Friday. Joel Parker was at school all day and his dad picked him up outside the school gates. Understand? He stayed with his dad all weekend and he was dropped off again Monday morning back outside the school gates.”
“Convenient.” The word slipped out before she could stop it.
“That he’s got an alibi, you mean? Well it’s a bloody good job he has otherwise tittle tattlers like you and that bloody daughter of Bianca’s would be …” He was too angry to continue.
Megan waited.
“Honestly Talk about giving a horse a bad name.”
“It’s a dog, Alun.” Megan desperately tried to summon up her last vestiges of dignity.
“I don’t care what bloody animal it is. Bianca drowned. Unfortunate. But there isn’t always someone you can blame for the unfortunate.”
One more Unfortunate, One more Unfortunate. The phrase spun around in her head. One more unfortunate.
Megan was silent, listening to the words and hearing Alun’s rapid breaths down the phone. More puffed by anger than by a race up the pitch to the twenty-two line.
“Was there anything else?”
“No.”
“Alun, I’m sorry. I promised …”
“I know who you promised, Meggie. And I understand that Carole’s upset but she mustn’t go around spreading rumours.” Already he was melting. His anger had always been quick to raise, swift to subside. By the time the ref had reached him he was invariably already apologising. She knew his style. Only now was she realising just how well. “This is a small place, Meggie. Rumours start all too easily. You and me going for a drink, Carole Symmonds making allegations about Joel Parker. This isn’t a big city like Cardiff where you can get lost. Mud sticks.”
“Alun - ”
“Leave it.”
She thought she understood him completely, read into the two words an instruction to abandon both the examples he had quoted.
She was silent and again his apology was swift.
“I’m sorry. Meggie. I’m being a bit short with you.”
Yes you are.
“No. No. It�
�s OK. You’re right to warn me off.”
He was silent for a moment and when he spoke again she could hear the concern in his voice. “Meggie - are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just that. Well - you’re getting yourself in a stew all about an accident. I’ve been years in the police force. I know there’s nothing suspicious about Bianca’s death. I can’t understand the way you’re carrying on. You don’t like Joel Parker. OK. You’re not alone there I can tell you. But to start throwing mud at him. I mean - what are you suggesting? You’re not being rational. Meggie. It’s not sensible. It’s not you.”
He was right. It was not her. Not sensible Megan, Megan the swot, Doctor Banesto. But Doctor Banesto was not always sensible. She had gone on holiday, had a flirtation with an Italian, brought him back to the valleys. And married him. Megan Banesto lacked judgement. She was impulsive.
“I think you’re working too hard. And the strain of the divorce - it’s starting to show. I think you should go away far from here, Megan, and have a good holiday.”
She thanked him politely and formally.
Chapter 10
Days drifted by during which Megan did manage to forget about Bianca. Her life was filled with work and visits to far flung friends. As autumn approached the surgery grew busier and she was further distracted.
And then early in October she received a summons to attend the coroner’s court on the following Friday
In cases where there was doubt burial normally took place after the coroner had pronounced his verdict. But coroners are busy people and relatives tend to want expedient burial. It aids the grieving process. And so the police and the coroner had come to agreement that Bianca could be buried before judgement was finally pronounced.
The inquest had been set for 11 am in the morning in the coroner’s court in Bridgend. As Megan set out she had a feeling of underlying calm, a sense of hope that justice would be seen to be done, that some explanation of Bianca’s death would be forthcoming. The other inhabitants of Llancloudy had forgotten about Bianca. Even Carole Symmonds had not returned for a repeat prescription of her sleeping pills. But Megan was uncomfortably aware that Bianca’s death still lay at the back of her mind. Had she been a superstitious woman she might have believed Bianca’s restless soul roamed the earth. But it was not in her religious repertoire. So as she turned right into the court car park she looked forward to a resolution.
The first person she saw as she pulled into a parking bay was Carole herself, the centre of a cluster of people, one of whom was wielding a reporter’s notebook; another wafted a large, furred microphone in front of her. Megan gave her a quick smile which Carole returned before diverting her attention back to the woman in jeans who was scribbling everything down at a furious rate. Behind her, just climbing out of a police car, was Alun - in uniform. He gave her a brief nod and walked straight into the coroner’s court. It was the cue for the others to file in behind him.
The interior reminded Megan more of a schoolroom than a courtroom. And like a schoolroom there was no doubt who was directing the proceedings. The coroner, Ieuan Griffiths, sat at the front, frowning over some papers. He was hardly known personally to Megan though she had spoken to him and his office frequently over the phone. He was short and stocky with pale skin, black curly hair and blue eyes, the type thought of as physically typical of the Welsh. He cleared his throat, looked up and the room fell silent.
The coroner addressed Carole Symmonds first, in a voice so soft and quiet the others could hardly hear. But Megan could tell by his tone that they were words of sympathy. He was patently well used to dealing with anguished, grieving relatives. And angry ones too. Whatever he did say Carole Symmonds looked instantly calmer and partially appeased. Megan glanced around the courtroom and wondered who everyone else was. Relatives, Press, friends? Alun was sitting two seats to her left. He glanced across and gave her a warm, chummy smile. At that very instant he felt like a good friend. A really good friend, someone she could trust and rely on - implicitly. The coroner cleared his throat and addressed everyone in the room. He spoke with heavy authority, setting out his remit like a strict teacher or as clearly as a lawyer. “My job here today,” he said loudly, “is to establish the facts surrounding the death of Bianca Rhys. It is not my job to point the finger although it might be appropriate for me to make certain recommendations.” He cleared his throat again. “Perhaps we could start with you, Police Constable Williams.”
Megan watched Alun move towards the front with the heavy, rolling walk of a sportsman. He began at once, referring to his notebook frequently and giving evidence clearly and unambiguously.
Times, dates. All the facts with no interpretation and no emotion. Ieuan Griffiths listened with approval.
“I was summoned to Llancloudy Pool on Monday the fifth of August at 10 am with the information that a body was visible in the pool. Myself and Police Constable Jarvis Watkins arrived at the scene within ten minutes.” He glanced up, his broad face troubled for an instant. “Quite a large crowd had gathered and we saw, in the water, what looked like a bundle of clothes. Myself and PC Jarvis Watkins waded in, brought out the body of a woman and lay it on the bank. I recognised it straight away as Bianca Rhys.”
“How?” interrupted the Coroner.
“She was well known to us.” Alun flushed, “She had very - distinctive hair, sir.”
Carole Symmonds gave a noisy sob into her handkerchief and the woman sitting by her put her arm around her. The coroner gave her a swift glance and asked for a glass of water to be brought. Carole took a few sips and put it down beneath her chair.
The coroner continued with his questions. “Did you make any attempt at resuscitation?”
“No, sir.” A swift, apologetic glance at Carole. “The body was quite cold. I was of the opinion it had been in the water too long for us to be able to bring her round.”
“Were there any marks around the pool to indicate she might have fallen in?”
Alun had beautiful eyes. Very dark green-brown, fringed with thick black lashes. Megan leaned back in her seat and watched him answer the coroner’s questions.
“I didn’t know what to think, sir. The ground around the pool was heavily footmarked because so many people had gathered.” Megan looked at Carole. She was watching Alun with a definite challenge in her face.
“I see.” Ieuan Griffiths looked displeased. “And then what did you do?”
“In cases like this,” Alun said slowly, “it’s advisable to have life pronounced extinct at the scene.” He risked the tiniest of smiles at Megan. “Doctor Banesto’s surgery is just across the road so I summoned her.”
“I see.” The coroner adjusted his glasses, glanced down at his notes and looked Alun straight in the eye. “And, Constable Williams, did you have any reason at your preliminary assessment of the case to suggest that death was in any way due to other than natural causes?”
Alun did not hesitate. “No, sir, I did not.”
Megan knew both the deliberation and choice of words had been selected to put Carole Symmonds’ mind at rest. She risked a swift glance. Carole was staring fixedly at Ieuan Griffiths as though she had absolute trust in him.
The coroner gave a brief summing up and Megan knew she would have to give her statement next.
She was called.
As she stood up she caught sight of Esther Magellan sitting alone - right at the back - apart from everyone else. The seats around her were unoccupied. As usual she was bizarrely dressed in a flowery cotton skirt and a vividly coloured flowered blouse. Her face was frozen of all emotion except one, She was suffused with intense disappointment as though Megan was letting her down. Megan felt irritated. What did Esther expect her to say?
The coroner addressed her from her left. “Doctor Banesto. Perhaps you’d continue.”
“When I arrived at the banks of Llancloudy Pool,” she began slowly, “I could see Bianca Rhys’ body lyi
ng on the bank. I touched her. As Police Constable Williams has already said she was quite cold.” On the tips of her fingers Megan could still feel the chill of Bianca’s skin like a dead, uncooked fish.
“Rigor mortis was present. I was of the opinion she had been lifeless for some hours.” Megan ran a swift check on the faces watching her. “I checked for a heartbeat with my stethoscope and formally pronounced life extinct.”
“You didn’t take her temperature or form any opinion as to how long she’d been dead?”
“I didn’t take her temperature.” The words were sticking in her throat. She was having a struggling to retain control. Taking the temperature would have meant a very public intrusion. Not for the world would she have exposed Bianca’s sad skinny little body to the watching public. She met the coroner’s eyes and knew he read her - perfectly.
“I formed the opinion she had been dead for at least twelve hours. There was some wrinkling in the skin suggesting she had been in the water for some length of time.”
The coroner gave her the briefest of smiles. “Thank you, Doctor Banesto.”
As a contribution it felt very little. Megan sat down, her mind still struggling to blot out the flashbacks. The dress, sodden and dripping, Bianca’s mouth, slightly open, filled with the filthy, coal-black water of Llancloudy Pool.
The police surgeon gave his evidence concisely, that Bianca “appeared to have drowned” and that he had authorised removal of the body, suggesting they bag up her hands to preserve any trace evidence and finishing with the sentence, “Then we awaited the results of the post mortem.”
The coroner next turned his attention to a tall, slim man in his early fifties who introduced himself as Franklin Jones-Watson, pathologist. He was clear and very precise about his post mortem findings. Too sure. Megan listened intently.
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