Last Tango in Aberystwyth (15 page)

‘Valentine, what happened out there at the sanatorium? What did you see?'

The words kindled a feeble light in the empty pits of his eyes. A tiny, quivering gleam like the stormlamp of a wanderer taking refuge from the tempest in an empty house.

‘What did you see out there? What was it, this Ysbyty Ystwyth Experiment?'

The grip of his hand on my trouser-leg tightened slightly, like the claw of a wren. Then, slowly, his mouth opened and through teeth the colour of caramel he whispered, ‘The horror! The horror!'

Then there was strength inside him for no more. His head fell back to rest on the bench; he closed his mouth, exhausted at the effort of those six syllables. I tugged my trousers away from his childlike grip and left him staring at the ceiling with eyes bigger than saucers, waiting for release of death.

As I left the club I saw the cowgirl's holster hanging up by the door and, making sure no one saw, I slipped the toy gun into my pocket. Outside, the pavements were wet with spray from the sea. Patrons were starting to leave. I kissed lonawr and pressed some money into her pocket and told her to go. I had things to do that night that it was better she didn't see. But no sooner had she left than I was cheated of my dark design. In a riot of drunken giggling, Mrs Bligh-Jones climbed awkwardly into the back of Jubal's car and stuck her legs through the wound-down window, wiggling them until a shoe fell off into the gutter. And Father Seamus, with whom I had an appointment tonight, got in the front and the car sped off.

The shoe lay in the gutter next to the drain, a tawdry spoor of a Cinderella with size twelve feet. I took a half-step and scooped it up on to the pavement with the toe of my foot. Then I kicked it towards the cleansing sea. It toppled through the air like a rugby ball, over the white crossbar of the railings. It did little to lift my despondency. The moment called instead for an act of penance.
I walked up to the stand and ordered a hot dog. As I waited, breathing in the rich perfume containing all the disappointments of my life, I thought of Myfanwy. Who had been on the other end of the line? Was it her? Where was she calling from? South America? How could it be and yet why could it not? There was no way of knowing, and yet my heart was deeply troubled. I took the hot dog and walked off into the night and thought of Mrs Bligh-Jones, the heroine of Pumlumon. True, she might have lost an arm up on that mountain, I thought grimly, but who could deny that in return she gained a kingdom?

IT WAS JUST a comment passed in an Aberystwyth bar. After half a lifetime presiding over the mortal remains of Aberystwyth folk, he decided to go and see where the course materials came from. Just a passing comment made to a harmless stranger in the sort of bar where the strangers never are. My trade is death.

I stirred the tea in the pot and set out two cups then leaned back in my chair and let the hot fug of the paraffin heater lull me. Calamity walked in and I poured the tea as she emptied her schoolbag on to the desk: copper wire, anti-rheumatics, nylons, chocolate, fake library tickets … and a packet of sugar marked ‘Property of the Red Cross, Geneva'. The last item out of the bag was a packet of bird seed. I asked her what it was for.

‘Custard Pie asked me to get it.' She looked at me slyly.

‘You went to see him, then?'

‘You said I could.'

‘I know.'

‘It wasn't as bad as you think. He was quite friendly, really. The guards think he's lost it. Do-lally.' She twirled an index finger next to her temple to demonstrate his mental state.

‘And he asked you for bird seed?'

‘There's an air vent leading up to the ground, he thinks he can tame some birds like the Birdman of Alcatraz.'

‘I suppose he can't eat it and fly out of there. But just be careful. Make sure you sell it dearly. Tell him to give you some
information about the Dean and then when he does, say: “You call that good information! The whole town knows that, give me something I don't know.” Or something like that, OK?'

‘Right.'

‘And be careful, whatever you do, don't trust him.'

Calamity took her tea and stood staring out of the window. ‘Actually, Louie, I was thinking, seeing how dangerous this project is, I may need a heater on this one.'

‘Put on a jumper, like your mum keeps telling you.'

‘You know what I mean, stop messing around.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Not that sort of heater – you know, a heater.'

‘A heater?'

‘Protection … an equaliser …'

‘A what?'

She sighed loudly. ‘A rod, an iron, a gat …'

‘You mean a gun?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sorry, kiddo, you're only licensed to carry a catapult.'

‘I'm serious, this is a crucial aspect of the case.'

‘Is that so?'

‘I get the feeling it all hinges on this, we can't afford any mistakes here. I could take yours.'

‘I haven't got one.'

‘Yes you have, it's locked in the sea-chest. Mrs Llantrisant told me. The key's taped behind the picture of Noel Bartholomew.'

I changed tack. ‘Calamity, as long as you work for me, you'll never carry a gun. I never carry one and it's probably the only reason I'm still alive.'

A floorboard creaked and we both looked round. The door opened and Gretel stood framed in the doorway. ‘Hi! Can I come in?'

She was wearing a hessian trouser suit and a wide-brimmed hat and had painted her nails scarlet. I had an awful feeling it was
an attempt at glamour. There was also something slightly stilted and unnatural in the way she walked, as if her recent exposure to the tarnished streets of Aberystwyth was causing her to affect a growing worldliness. I poured out another tea and Gretel told me the news. The Dean had telephoned her and pleaded with her to call off the sleuths.

‘He was very angry with me,' she said. ‘He said there were some very bad men looking for him who wanted him dead and having two bungling private detectives hunting him was just making it easier for them.'

I nodded thoughtfully.

‘He knew you'd been to the hotel and the Seaman's Mission and the Komedy Kamp at Borth. And he said Mister Marmalade was … was … what's the word?'

‘Whacked,' said Calamity.

‘What!?'

‘Whacked. He got whacked. That's what we call it in this business.'

I looked at Calamity who ignored my questioning gaze.

Gretel looked puzzled. ‘I don't think he said that, it was something else.'

‘What does it matter,' said Calamity. ‘Whacked, smacked, topped, zapped, greased, rubbed-out or bought the farm, he's dead and they did it.'

‘Who?'

‘We don't know.'

Gretel put her fist into her mouth and made a sort of weeping sound. ‘Do you think they'll … they'll … what was it?'

‘Whack him,' said Calamity helpfully. ‘Who knows? But don't worry, we know what we're doing.'

Gretel went to the bathroom, and Calamity said simply, ‘What a dipstick.'

‘And she's paying us money, so be nice.'

‘She's definitely holding back on us.'

‘You think so?'

‘You don't? All this weepy stuff for a professor? It's all fake.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Whoever heard of someone hiring a private detective to find their teacher?'

‘In the real world people do all sorts of things you wouldn't believe.'

‘And her body language is all wrong. The crying, that's always a tough one to fake.'

‘They looked like real tears to me. Or has she got an onion in her fist?'

‘They're real but she's doing them in the wrong places. Textbook stuff. Crying inappropriately and not crying at the appropriate time. It's a giveaway.'

‘She just did that?'

The toilet flushed and we stopped and when Gretel came back it was to a silence that fooled no one, even someone as unworldly as her.

‘Talking about me, are we?' She sat down. ‘I've been thinking, maybe we'd better call off the hunt.'

Calamity went and sat down on the edge of the desk and invaded her personal space like the cops do. ‘Getting cold feet? Losing your bottle?'

‘B … b … but what if they whack him?'

‘If they really want to kill him,' I said, ‘it's even more reason for us to find him first. Calling us off will just make their job easier.'

‘That's if he was telling the truth,' said Calamity.

‘What do you mean?' blurted Gretel. ‘Of course he's telling the truth. Why wouldn't he?'

Calamity put a mean face on. ‘How do I know? Why would anyone ever dream of telling a lie? It beats me. Right from the cradle we're taught to tell the truth, and yet there are all these
people out there who don't do it. I don't get it, what about you, eh, Louie?'

I tried again to flash a warning look at her but she deliberately avoided it.

‘The Dean never told a lie in his life,' said Gretel.

‘Yeah, but what about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘You haven't exactly been telling us the truth, whole and nothing but, have you?'

‘W … w … what do you mean?'

I slid down in my chair, trying to get my foot towards Calamity under the table.

‘This Bad Girl stuff for instance –'

‘I don't talk about her –'

‘That's a lie for a start – you never stop!'

I managed to get my foot across and kick Calamity. She jumped slightly and shot me a furious look. Then she eased herself down off the desk and stamped on my foot.

‘I … you … how dare you?' said Gretel.

‘You didn't tell us he made a pass at her one night and tore her blouse, did you?'

‘He didn't … who says … how did you know?'

‘It's my job to know, I'm a detective.' She took out a notebook and read from it. ‘She was a hussy and she shouldn't have been there, huh? More interested in drinking and partying than learning about Abraham; and when it came to the Ten Commandments she only knew how to break them. And then there was the incident with the Dean; by rights he was the one who should have been thrown out on his ear but the wives of all the other tutors got together and hey presto! off she goes. Not that she cared of course, it's what she wanted all along … am I getting warm?'

Gretel stood up angrily. ‘I won't stay another second to hear the Dean's good name dragged through the mud like this. Good day to you both.'

After she had slammed the door I held my hand out for the notebook. Calamity snapped it shut and put it in her pocket. I stood up and took a step towards her. She moved round to the other side of the desk.

‘Let me see.'

‘What for, don't you trust me or something?'

‘There's nothing in it, is there? You made it all up.'

She shrugged. ‘So what if I did? They're in it together, you mark my words.' She walked out.

I took the cowgirl's gun out of my pocket and put it on the table. It was a real beauty. Replica cowboy Colt 45, the ‘Peacemaker'. It had been adapted to light cigarettes with a flame that appeared where the hammer hit the pin. Everything worked as on a real one: the chamber spun, the blanks slid in and out, the trigger mechanism worked. You'd need to know a lot about guns to tell it wasn't real. I slid it into my jacket pocket and went out to make my peace with Father Seamus.

The inside of the confessional booth was warm and dark and comforting, like the inside of a womb, and almost as intimate with its air of shared secrets. I leaned my head against the wooden side and said, ‘Father I need spiritual guidance.'

‘That's why I am here, my son.'

‘It's not easy.'

‘Take your time.'

‘I need to know whether shooting a priest is a mortal or a venial sin.'

The sound of forced, uncertain chuckling came through the grille.

‘I suppose it depends which priest,' I added.

‘Louie, that's you, isn't it? What are you doing? This is God's house.'

‘How come he let you in?'

‘This is no place for jokes.'

I stuck the gun through the grille. ‘Who's joking?'

‘My God! Dear Louie, what on earth has got into you?'

‘I could ask you the same question.'

‘This is about last night, at the club, isn't it?'

‘How was the Vimto?'

He forced a laugh.

‘Or did you turn it into wine first?'

‘Louie, when the Lord calls upon you to do his work, you cannot quibble at the sort of establishment –'

‘Of course not. Jesus was never too proud to enter a house of fallen women.'

‘That's what I tell myself.'

‘Yeah, I bet you do. I don't remember the bit in the Bible where he drank Vimto from their shoes, though. Must have missed that bit. Still,' I said, slowly twisting the gun chamber and letting the sound of the clicks fill the booth, ‘you must get thirsty standing on that battlement all night. Eyes smarting in the frost. Denying the soft pleasures of Mrs Bligh-Jones's palliasse.'

‘Mrs Bligh-Jones is a very holy woman,' he said coldly. ‘Now I must remind you that this is the House of God. If you've come to make a confession –'

‘No,' I said, pulling back the trigger. ‘I've come to take one.'

He gasped. ‘What do you want!?'

‘I want the answer to a question. If you choose not to answer or give me one I don't like I'm going to shoot you. If you don't believe me, I'll shoot you. That makes three ways to end up dead and one that doesn't.'

‘Have you gone mad?'

‘Yes. I have. Now here is the question. Yesterday morning I showed you a picture of a girl. Just the sort of fallen woman you seem to specialise in. You said you'd never seen her before, but
you were lying. Now you're going to tell me the truth. Who was she?'