Disturbing Ground (14 page)

They couldn’t say when the child had stopped talking. It had been no more than a background tune to their mother/daughter gossip.

Megan took a long time looking at the photograph. The toddler laughed straight back at her, displaying beautiful milk teeth and a face framed by a shock of curly black hair. The picture had frozen her clapping her hands at some unseen photographer. And even through the yellowing pages of the
Western
Mail
the child’s happiness was palpable - as was her parents’ grief in later pictures.

Megan leaned back against the kitchen wall, hardly seeing the smart white kitchen with its blue ash units. Instead she saw faces, the thin-lipped child, the asthenic teacher, the happy three-year-old, clapping her hands, Bianca’s tear streaked face, powder washing down her scrawny cheeks, Smithson’s earnest pleas for someone to listen. The disappearances had spanned more than twenty years. Each had been under a different set of circumstances. Had Bianca simply been fascinated by the unusual and the inexplicable? Or was there some other explanation?

And there was a fourth box, still holding its secrets. But like Pandora’s box she knew it held nothing pleasant. And once the lid was opened …

She
didn’t
want
to
know.

Who knows how long she would have sat still. She was snapped out of her reverie by the insistent tone of her
mobile phone. She fished it out of her bag and read the caller ID. A local number. One she did not recognise.

Always apprehensive it might be a patient she answered hesitantly. “Hello?”

“Meggie.”

It was a shock to hear his voice unexpectedly. “Alun?”

He laughed, embarrassed. “We never did have that drink.”

“No-o.” She wanted to meet him again and at the same time she didn’t. A deliberate assignation would be fraught with difficulties.
Someone
would
see
them.
And
the
further
away
from
Llancloudy
they
met,
in
the
eyes
of
its
inhabitants,
the
more
surreptitious
their
relationship.
And
someone
would
be
sure
to
spot
them.
Wales
is
a
small
country.

Typical Alun, he lobbed the ball into her court. “Well?”

Her eyes roamed the kitchen. And she suddenly realised if anyone was party to the background behind the stories Alun would be. He was a police officer, had joined the local force straight after his A-levels. He might well have been involved in the two most recent disappearancess. She stroked the newspaper on her lap. “I never realised so many people went missing from this little town, Alun.”

He laughed back at her. “You what?”

“Bianca hoarded old newspapers. I’ve inherited them.”

“Whatever for?”

“Esther was making a fuss about the council workers dumping them when she had promised Bianca she would keep them.”

“You’re not still on about all that, surely?”

“Bianca was my patient. And Esther is too.”

Alun spluttered out another laugh. “I know modern
day doctors are into this holistic nonsense - but isn’t this carryin’ things a bit far?”

“I’ve found them interesting,” she replied stiffly.

He sighed and his voice fell flat. “Oh.”

He was losing interest.

“Every box of papers deals separately with a missing person.”

There was a pause before he spoke again. “How many boxes?”

“Four.”

“I don’t remember four people goin’ missin’ from Llancloudy. There’s been a couple of kids.”

“What happened to them?”

“We searched everywhere - with sniffer dogs. Extra police were drafted in from Cardiff. Everybody from Llancloudy turned out to look for the children. We found nothing. Not a trace.”

“Were the mine shafts searched?”

“Of course they were. But it’s a bloody city down there. You can’t search the whole place.”

A swift, awful vision of a child, wandering in the black nothing of a coal mine flashed through her mind. “No.”

“So who were these unfortunates?”

One
more
unfortunate.
His choice of words was terribly apt. “Marie Walker,” she ventured.

“I remember that,” he said. “One of the first major incidents I was involved with. We never found her. Some paedophile got hold of her, I think.”

“Rhiann Lewis?”

“I’ve heard about the case,” he said. “Didn’t she unlock the garden gate and get lost somehow? There was no evidence anyone snatched her. She let herself out of the garden. She would have been safe if she’d stayed behind the door.”

Megan turned turned her head sideways to read the names on the side of the fourth box. “George Prees and Neil Jones.”

“Buggered off to London if you ask me. Pair of juvenile delinquents.”

She asked the last name knowing Alun would hold as little knowledge as she. “Bleddyn Hughes?”

“Haven’t heard about him.”

“Way before you joined. 1971 he went missing.”

Alun laughed again. “As you say - way before I joined. So the disappearances span quite a few years then.”

“Thirty.”

“We-e-ell. Not that many really.”

Was
he
right?
Was
this
the
normal
wastage
of
a
village?
Was
it
simply
Bianca’
s
mind
which
had
distorted
events
into
a
mys
tery?

“Now about that drink.”

Megan arranged to meet him on the following night.

As she lay in bed that night, Megan tried to supply a rational explanation to Smithson’s and Bianca’s interest in the disappearances. But her dreams were filled with Alun, who kept running towards her then swerving at the last moment while she held her arms out, waiting. She awoke to a dull, blustery morning and a feeling of disappointment tinged with worry. It was not a good idea to be meeting Alun tonight.

She dealt deftly with the morning’s patients and picked up the requests for visits - amongst them Triagwn.

She walked into the hall and was immediately met by Sandra Penarth. “Morning, Doctor,” she said warmly. “And how are you today?” There was no hint of either embarrassment or aggression.

Megan was anxious to repair the damage. “Fine, just fine. And how are my patients?” She spoke more heartily than normal.

“Well, Mr Smithson’s been quiet since you started him on the Haloperidol.”

“No more weird stories?”

Sandra made a face. “No more than usual but at least he is quiet. And we haven’t had to have him transferred anywhere else, which suits Arwel better.”

“I’m sure.”

“After all - it would a shame to move him from here after so long.”

“Quite.”

Megan felt a snatch of guilt that she had been responsible for robbing the old man of what little fight he had had left. She had reduced him to yet another easily controlled
geriatric when he had been such a demanding man all his life. Now he was everything the nurses liked - obedient, quiet and pliable, robbed of his tendancy to spill out disquieting stories and disturb the calm of the old people’s home.

“I’d like to see him.”

“Fine.”

They ran the gauntlet of the patients in the ground floor sitting room before climbing the stairs towards room four. And already Megan was noticing how much quieter the place was. She entered the small room and realised. Even the smell was different. She knew instantly what they had done - given him a wash, sprayed him with plenty of deoderant, and the room with air freshener. Smithson had been sanitised. The room now bore the corporate scent of Imperial Leather and lavender Airwick. He was sitting in his chair, staring out of the window. He did not turn as she entered. A trickle of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. She sat in the chair opposite. And finally he turned and looked at her.

“Well, Doctor Banesto?”

He had lost weight. The skin hung down from his face. But his eyes still had some fight in them. “Hello, Mr Smithson,” she said.

Give
me
the
fighter
-
anyday.

“It’s OK, Sandra, you can go now. I’ll talk to Mr Smithson. If I’ve got anything extra to say I’ll pop in the office on my way out.” The nurse was irritating her, hovering in the doorway.

To her interest Smithson’s face flickered as the nurse moved away.

Megan leaned in close to the old man so she wouldn’t have to talk loudly.
Walls
may
not
have
ears.
But
people
do.
They
say
old
men’s
ears
grow
bigger
as
they
age.
It
helps
them
to
hear
better.
An
evolutionary
process?
Old
men
have
more
enemies
than
young
ones.
They
have
had
a
lifetime
to
watch
the
numbers
multiply.

“How are you today, Mr Smithson?”

His world weary face locked in to hers. “I’ll survive,” he said. “I expect.” A pause. “For a while, anyway.”

“You must miss Bianca,” she ventured.

He nodded. “A bit. Not much. No harm in the woman. A bit loopy. But not evil.”

“No. Not evil.” She hesitated. “Was it from Bianca that you heard about Marie Walker?”

Smithson was shaking his head.

“The girl who vanished on her way back from buying chips?”

He said nothing but stared at her.

“She did tell you stories?”

Smithson nodded, hooding his eyes with the wrinkled old lids.

“Stories about missing people?”

Smithson nodded again. More slowly this time.

“Rhiann Lewis?” Megan ventured very quietly.

“Poor kid,” he said.

“What happened to her?” Megan waited.

Smithson was silent.

“What did Bianca think had happened to Rhiann?”

“Look, doctor,” Smithson said slowly, “Bianca was not right in the head. Everyone knew that. Anyone who believed her stories…”

“But you believed them.”

“Let me finish,” he said. “Anyone who believed Bianca’s stories must be halfway to nutty themselves. Understand me?”

“But the disappearances are fact. I’ve read the newspapers, Mr Smithson.”

“That might be fact,” he said, “but not her explanations. They
can’t
be true.”

His eyes were closing.

“What happened to the others, Geraint?”

Smithson’s bony hand shook on the arm of his chair.

“What did Bianca
think
had happened to them?”

“She didn’t
know
what had happened to any of them. How could she?” Smithson’s eyes had flicked open and were boring holes into hers. “How could she,” he repeated. “She was just a mad old thing.” His eyes dropped. “Like me.”

Megan stood up. She had a terrible feeling that she had asked questions just a little too late. She would have got more out of Smithson a month ago.

She would learn nothing now. But as she reached the door Smithson spoke to her. “Llancloudy,” he said, “is not a safe place. You have to be careful.”

She halted in the doorway. “What do you mean?”

“It is not a
tolerant
place. Look around you, doctor. The valley is narrow. There never was the room for all these houses. People are squashed together and it makes life difficult. Nobody’ll put up with anything. And it causes problems. That’s all I’m saying.”

He dropped his chin onto his chest and gave a couple of soft snores. She gave up.

But she felt almost released as she walked outside the nursing home and into the walled garden. The colours were flattened now to their subdued winter tones. Black, brown, grey. Back to the subtle, depressing tones of Gericault; Rousseau and Gaugin suppressed. A couple of care assistants were braving the weather to puff on their cigarettes. Like most building allied to the medical or nursing profession, Triagwn operated a No Smoking policy. Megan tossed
them a smile and carried on, towards the rim of pines that marked the edge of the trees. “What’s wrong with you, girl,” she scolded. “You’ve been getting this thing right out of proportion. Bianca just slipped and drowned. She had a love of sensational headlines. And like most schizophrenics, she cottoned onto one idea and simply stuck there.”

“First sign of madness,” one of the care assistants called after her. “Talkin’ to yourself, doctor.” It was typical, chopsy, South Walean banter. But it sent a shiver running through her.

Once you have conferred on yourself an aspect of strangeness, you begin to analyse your every action and then you are lost. She had seen it happen to a fellow medical student and had watched, horrified, as he had talked, late into the night, about the shaky issue of sanity, neatly and logically turning the discussion into a desperate plea for some precise yardstick by which he could prove he was not mad.

There
is
not
one.
There
is
no
yardstick
which
proves
sanity.
Catch
22
had
dallied
with
this
concept.
Is
to
question
one’s
sani
ty
itself
an
insane
process?
Or
a
sane
one?

She wandered towards the back boundary of Triagwn to the point where its own land ended and the dereliction of an old railway line had been transformed into a cycle track. Here a path threaded through the woods. And this was where - quite unexpectedly - she found another piece of the fragmented puzzle. The back wall which marked the boundary of Triagwn was built of stones; large, round stones like the ones found on Southerndown Beach. But over the years they had tumbled and been left where they had fallen. Brambles had adopted the undergrowth and crept along the floor with stinging nettles. They formed an impenetrable barrier.

No
one
came
here.

But her attention was caught and held by a tiny bird flittering near the floor. Probably a wren but she was curious and stepped forward. She banged her foot against some heavy, stone object and had something else to excite her curiosity.

She bent down.

It must have stood near the wall, a sentry to guard against intruders, a stone carving of a gryphon, the winged monster of mythology, head of eagle, body of clawed lion. Only one of the claws was missing. Megan instantly knew where it was. She had taken little notice of Alun’s description of the contents of Bianca’s pocket - the animal claw. But as she bent down she knew that Bianca must have come here, probably knocked against the fallen statue as she had done, and broken off one of the gryphon’s claws. It was an explanation. The police had believed the claw had been broken off a statue in a church. But they had been wrong. Welsh churches were notoriously Low. They did not go in for rampant gryphons and such High idolatry. Only the owner of Triagwn had. Mythology, devilry, idolatry were all in his repertoire.

She studied the cruel beak of the eagle. So Bianca had walked this way shortly before she had died.

Was it significant?

She did not know. But she did want to see the claw for herself.

She glanced at her watch. Half past three. She must return to surgery.

Friday evening surgeries are, traditionally, the worst surgeries of the week.
Everyone
wants “checking out” before the weekend. Patients suddenly realise if they don’t squeeze into the Friday night slot they will have to
manage without for two more whole days. And so they pile in. For prescriptions, sick notes, advice, results of tests. The waiting room was heaving when Megan entered and for two and a half hours she could not afford to think about Bianca. She was even unaware of Gericault’s Mad Woman surveying her critically from the walls.

But as soon as the last patient had left the room Megan’s mind was again busily working overtime.

One person might have an explanation to the newspaper cuttings.

Bianca’s daughter.

Megan had to park in the pub car park and walk back to Carole’s house, a similar place to her own, small and terraced, cars jammed nose to bumper the length of the road. She could see the television on as she squeaked open the gate. Immediately, someone rose from the armchair and peered out suspiciously. By the size and shape Megan knew it was Bianca’s daughter.

The door was flung open. “Doctor?” Carole said uncertainly.

“Yes. I was passing. I wondered how you …”

“Come on in. Come and ‘ave a cup of tea. I was just about to make a brew. Well. It seems funny to see you here.”

Megan waited while Carole filled a brown earthenware teapot with teabags and boiling water then briskly stirred and finally poured out two mugs of tea.

She handed one to Megan and leaned against the units. “We-ell,” she said.

“Shall we sit down?”

In deference Carole turned the sound of the TV down and switched the main lights on. Then shrewdly she sat back and waited. Megan’s eyes drifted around the room
and fastened on to a large, framed photograph. Carole crossed the room and picked it up. “It’s by far the nicest picture I’ve got of Mam,” she said, handing it to Megan. “She always was at her ease with children. Loved them she did.”

A terrible thought flashed through Megan’s mind. What if? It was true. Bianca had loved children. She had naturally related to them, playing with their toys, giving them sweets, talking innocent nothing talk. What if? Four of the missing had been children. Might Bianca have abducted them? She stared at the strange face, framed with pink hair which smiled innocently out of the frame and immediately felt ashamed. Bianca could not have done that. Even if she had been at her very worst and had been capable of murder she would not have been able to dispose of a body.

Not
even
if
her
voices
had
directed
her?
… And there she stopped. Because Carole Symmonds was staring at her. “Are you all right, doctor?”

No -
not
even
then.

“Carole. I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but Esther has been moved to a singles flat.”

Carole nodded, waiting.

“She made a great fuss about moving.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“She made a particular issue about some boxes.”

“Oh yes. The rubbish my mam used to keep.”

Megan smiled. “Most of it I took to the dump.”

“Best place for it.” Carole took a long, noisy slurp of tea.

“Some of the boxes had old newspapers in.”

“Yeah - I know. Mam used to set great store by them.”

“They were all about missing people. People who’d vanished from Llancloudy.”

Carole nodded. “I know.”

“What did your mother think had happened to them?”

Carole gave a great chuckle. “Somethin’ different every day. One minute someone had murdered them all. Next thing it was aliens come down in a space ship. Sometimes she’d say there was another city underneath Llancloudy with all the old miners in and they were there. Goodness knows.” Another long slurp of tea. “Why, are you interested then?”

And suddenly Megan realised that Bianca’s own daughter, much more familiar with her mother’s delusions than her doctor, had discounted any logical connection between the disappearances. Megan drank her tea, explained that she had inherited the boxes only because the dump had been closed and she had made a promise to Esther, and made her escape.