Disturbing Ground (24 page)

“But I made a mistake. I talked to her one day about the people who had disappeared. I said this place was the better for some of its inhabitants being under the ground. And then she started with her mad stories of trolls. I heard her one day clacking away to Smithson. “Mr Jones knows about the trolls too”, she said, “what take people.” Mad sad woman that she was. Only even mad as she was at some point someone was going to listen to her stories about “flying plates” and people who’d disappeared. And Mr Jones who knew they were underground. I couldn’t take that risk. Not any more. I’d had enough of her. But she was so damned easy. I must say. I enjoyed tipping her in that filthy pond.”

“Not alive?”

“What would it matter to you?” The anger was back. “As it happens, no. I just kept giving her stuff to keep her under. I even tried to be humane. She was no more than an animal after all; not responsible for her actions like the others. But she fell over and banged her head. And I put her under the water in the bath to make sure she was dead then took her up the pool in my car, late on the Sunday night when nobody was around. I must say it was quite exciting being the one to draw everyone’s attention to the clothes floating near the surface of the pool. For the first time I could see why people actually
want
the bodies to be found. It
is
much more rewarding. Of course, it was a bit of a shame it wasn’t a murder
investigation. That would have livened up Llancloudy. But all the same.”

“Did she know you were the one?”

“Know?” He was shouting. “Bianca know? She didn’t
know
anything.”

“Then what harm …?”

“Maybe none. Maybe some. I couldn’t take the risk.”

“Smithson?” she asked faintly.

Again she sensed doubt, maybe even grief. “I watched my old friend, Caspian, dying of lung disease knowing old Smithson was behind it all. And only two rooms away. Ranting and raving like he was sorry. Sorry …”

The
words
bounced
along
the
sides
of
the
tunnel
“Sorry
…
sorry
…
sorry
…”

“He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t have an ounce of regret in his dirty soul. He was an arrogant heathen, a pig. I stuffed a pillow over his face and rejoiced when he was dead.”

She could guess now about Stefan. The broken windscreen must have finally sealed his fate.

And
now
there
was
her
fate,
hanging
in
the
delicate
balance
of
life
and
death.
And
if
she
died
no
one
would
ever
know
what
had
happened.
She
would
be
another
vanishing,
turned
eventu
ally
into
a
pile
of
stories
in
yellowing
newspapers
in
a
crazy
per
son’s
house.

It was as though Mervyn Jones’ thoughts had shifted along the same plane. She could sense it, a swift turn of direction, a fumbling in his pocket, the beam of his torch wavering away from her face.

She tasted fear like bile. Fumbled in her pocket for something. A weapon. Something from the toolkit.

But
Jones
knew.

And the tunnel was too close a space.

He lunged and she felt something small and sharp graze her.

He
had
a
knife.

“Now come here, my lovely,” he said. “Just come here, to your Uncle Merv.”

She smelt the hatred in his voice.

But she felt it too. She hated him. Who did he think he was?
The
avenging
angel
of Llancloudy?
His
the
right
to
be
judge,
jury,
executioner?

It would not be.

He was nearing, his hand outstretched.

She
could
have
touched
him.

She remembered a long ago talk, aimed at Health Service employees. Eyes, testicles and drop.

She dropped her torch and jabbed outstretched fingers at his eyes. And felt them connect. He screamed. Then she jerked her knee up. Hard.

And heard him scramble to the floor, the torch beside him, beaming against her feet.

She used them next. Kicking him harder and harder with all the viciousness she could summon up. She kicked him and listened to his screams without pity. The tunnel filled with the sounds. Then she ran, crouching low, towards the bottom of the ladder.

Hand
over
hand.
Foot
over
foot.
Back
towards
the
small,
pale
light.

An hour later and drama was screaming around her. Blue lights flashed, police everywhere, men in white suits, radios. Noise. She sat and shivered in her car feeling as though she would stay cold and frightened for the rest of her life.

They’d roped in cavers and potholers and ex-miners with lights fixed to hard hats, bulky equipment and ropes. A pathologist had been summoned down there too, to carry out his grim examination. At some point a small figure with a blanket flung over his head was bundled into a Black Maria and she was told she would need to attend the police station and make a statement.

Again
a
crowd
of
voyeurs
had
gathered.
The
people
of
Llancloudy
were
curious,
standing
round
in
a
whispering
clus
ters,
spreading
rumours,
guessing.
Because
they
did
not
know
the
truth.
Yet.

Megan sat and shivered, longing to go home, to have a hot bath, to blot this all from her memory. Pretend none of it had happened. That it was nothing but a bad dream. And she would wake soon, feeling refreshed.

The area was ribboned off with official tape. An important looking police officer, resplendant in his uniform disappeared behind the gorse bush only to reappear some while later looking grim and cold.

And then the bodies were brought up, zipped into dark blue vinyl bags. Six of them, some smaller than others, one very tiny. It only took one WPC to cradle this one.

Megan watched.

So
Lift
them
up
tenderly

Take
them
with
Care.

Then Alun arrived and crossed to her and she shot out of the car and clung to him, ignoring the fact that Police Constable Nigel Jenkins was standing at his side, embarrassed and uncomfortable. Alun held her tightly, stroking her hair as though she was a child. Once he pressed his lips to her. But only for a few seconds before his grip on her arm pulled her away. “What the bloody hell do you think you were doing. He could have killed you, Meggie. And we might never have found you. You utter, stupid, absolute idiot.”

Then her tears came. His anger had finally thawed her.

“I’ll take you down the station,” he said finally. “You’ll have to make a statement. Do you want me to run you home first to take a bath?”

She shook her head. “I’d never get out of it.”

Alun sighed. “All right then. Leave us your keys and someone’ll drop the Calibra back at your place and leave the keys with a neighbour. Come on, girl.”

She wiped her nose and Alun took a handkerchief out of his pocket. “You do look a sight,” he said reprovingly.

All the way to the station he was reproaching her. “I don’t know what possessed you … I don’t suppose it would have occurred to you to tell us of your suspicions.”

“But I didn’t know. I was only guessing.”

“We’d have searched that damned tunnel even on the strength of a guess. Do you think we don’t listen when people tell us things?”

She said nothing, but stared resentfully into the passenger mirror.

He had to force a way through the watchers by turning both the light and the siren on. She knew most of the faces that pressed against the car, Carole Symmonds, holding the hand of a a youth half her age, Ryan and Mark, grimacing,
Gwen Owen. They all saw her and she wondered what the stories flying around Llancloudy would soon be.

That
she
was
the
killer?

That
she
had
found
the
bodies
because
…
?

That
she
had
been
arrested
…
for …

She smiled. She didn’t care any more.

Alun glanced across. “Now that’s my girl,” he said.

She dabbed her face with the hankie a little more and saw his face lighten until he smiled. “You are such a damned …”

She waited.

“Woman.”

And she smiled again.

Alun called to see her a month later. On a cold day when snow had iced the tops of the mountains, the fires were lit and people were staying indoors. “I’ve had my wish,” he said proudly. “I thought you’d want to know. Another little boy.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll have your rugby team soon.”

He nodded.

She knew she must ask the question. “Your wife?” she said.

“She’s fine. Tired but fine.”

That
wasn’t
what
she
had
wanted
him
to
say.

“I’m glad,” she began but she knew Alun had more to say.

“We’ve had all the results of the post mortems typed up and decent.”

“And?”

“I don’t know whether you really want to know this,” he said.

She shrugged.

“Hughes had had his throat cut. The pathologist found knife marks on his jaw. We’ve had positive ID from dental records and the clothes he was wearing. Marie Walker and Rhiann had been strangled. Manually, we think,” he said. “No sign of a ligature. But some bone had been broken.”

“The hyoid,” she said automatically. “And the boys?”

“Strangled too, Stefan - ”

“With his tie.” She finished for him.

Alun nodded. “There’s more. We’ve just had word from Jones’ solicitor. Believe it or not he’s pleading
insanity - or at least balance of mind disturbed - and all that. And we think the CPS will probably accept the plea.”

“Which means?”

“Hell be detained,” Alun said, “but not in a prison. In an approved institution.”

“For life?”

“Probably.”

She nodded. There was an awkward silence between them.

Alun looked across at her, for once sensing something he didn’t understand.

“Your wife,” she said.

He looked uncomfortable.

“What colour car does she drive?”

“Blue.”

“I see.”

The
word
Cariad
mocked
her.

“What make,” she asked sharply.

“A Corsa,” he said. “A Vauxhall,” and she felt nothing but relief.

“And what was all that about?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely bloody nothing.”

Who
in
the
rainbow
can
draw
the
line
where
the
violet
tint
ends
and
the
orange
tint
begins?
Distinctly
we
see
the
difference
of
the
color,
but
where
exactly
does
the
first
one
visibly
enter
into
the
other?
So
with
sanity
and
insanity.
In
pronounced
cases
there
is
no
question
about
them.
But
in
some
cases,
in
various
degrees
supposedly
less
pronounced,
to
draw
the
line
of
demarkation
few
will
underate,
though
for
a
fee
some
professional
expert
will.

Billy
Budd,
Herman Melville.

There would be more funerals in the valleys.

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