Hampton's bookshop had a window
display featuring
the
new
Ordnance Survey maps, local travel guides and a handful of books—in both
English and Welsh—about the history of Wales. Most prominently displayed was a
paperback with a man's face superimposed over a map of Wales. The face looked
thoughtful and ended in a beard with a forked tip. The book was called
Glyndwr, The Last Prince
. It was by a
Dr. D. G. Evans.
"Naw." Berry said
aloud. 'Couldn't be."
He went in out of the rain.
"Dreadful weather,"
said an elderly man, looking up from a copy of the
Spectator
spread before him on the counter.
"Could be worse. I guess,"
Berry said.
"It
was
worse a few nights ago. The river almost burst its banks."
Berry picked up the Glyndwr paperback and turned it over and saw another
bearded face in a black and white photograph on the back.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Sold seven copies in the
past couple of days," the elderly man told him proudly. "Mostly to
journalists more interested in the author than the subject."
Berry put the paperback on the
counter with a ten pound note. "Guess that makes it eight."
"Actually, they're remainders,"
the bookseller confessed. "Touch of inspiration, though I say it myself.
As soon as I heard Plaid'd picked him as the candidate, I rang the publishers
and offered to do a deal for however many copies they had left, they were only
too pleased, only having managed to get rid of a couple of thousand."
"When'd it come out?"
"Five years ago? Six? Not
much interest, you see, outside Wales, in Owain Glyndwr." He wheezed out a
laugh. "Actually, not much interest inside Wales until now. But that's
business. You have to seize the moment. If he wins I'll doubtless flog the lot,
if he doesn't I'll still have made a reasonable profit."
Berry said. "Listen, can I
ask you . . . Does Bethan McQueen live here?"
"Ah," The bookseller
folded the paperback into a brown paper bag and handed Berry his change.
"The lovely and intriguing Mrs. McQueen." He pointed to the ceiling.
"Up
there."
"Intriguing?"
"Oh well." He smiled
ruefully. "Beautiful widow living quietly and discreetly. Never any
visitors . . . Well, this chap" —he pointed to the Glyndwr books —
"on occasion, but never for very long. I'm a terrible old gossip, as you may
have gathered, so pay no heed to a thing I say. There's a short alley next to
the shop door. Just inside that you'll find another door in a recess. Ring the
bell. I don't know if she's in."
"Thanks." Berry
stepped out into the rain and then dodged into the alleyway. The door in the
recess was plain, no glass, and painted some indiscernible colour. He pressed the
bell-push and waited, not able to tell if it was working. Until the door opened
and Bethan McQueen stood there in white jeans and a turquoise sweater of soft
wool.
"Mr. Morelli."
"Hi," Berry said,
suddenly lost for words. "I, ah ... I have this feeling we should
talk."
"About Giles Freeman?"
"And maybe other things."
Bethan McQueen said, "Did
you tell Guto you were coming?"
"Sure did."
"And what did he
say?"
"I don't recall the exact
words. But he seemed to be indicating that if I bothered you I could expect to
have him clean the street with my ass."
Bethan McQueen turned on a
small, impish smile. "You had better come up," she said, "while
he's safely out of town."
"Tea? Or coffee."
'Tea, please. No milk."
"I'm glad you said that, I
don't think I have any milk. Do you like it strong?"
"Like crude oil," Berry
said. While she made the tea he took in the apartment. It looked temporary,
like a storage room for furniture that was destined for someplace else. There
was a big sofa with a design involving peacocks. He sat in one of a pair of
great fireside chairs with loose covers in a floral print. Too big for the
room, like the enormous Welsh dresser in honeyed pine. The dresser was empty
save for a few books.
As Bethan returned with a tray,
two white cups with saucers on it, and biscuits, there came a hoarse crackle
from outside and then a tannoyed voice announced:
"THIS IS SIMON GALLIER,
YOUR CONSERVATIVE CANDIDATE. I SHALL BE AT THE MEMORIAL HALL AT SEVEN-THIRTY
TONIGHT WITH MY SPECIAL GUEST, THE SECRETARY OF STATE FOR TRADE AND INDUSTRY, THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN GORE. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE AND WE WILL BOTH WELCOME
YOUR QUESTIONS ON LOCAL AND NATIONAL ISSUES."
Then the same
message—presumably—was repeated, in Welsh.
"He's English, this
Gallier." Berry said, taking a cup and saucer. "But he's learned
Welsh, right?'
"I believe"—Bethan
perched on an arm of the sofa— "that he has been on some sort of crash course.
Two weeks work at a residential centre. Very intensive."
"Like, they wake you up in
the middle of the night, flash a light in your face and make you answer
personal questions in Welsh?"
Bethan smiled.
"That the kind of course
you had Giles on?"
Bethan's smile became a frown.
"Don't think me rude." She looked him hard in the eyes. "But who
exactly are you?"
Simon Gallier's speaker-van
made a return trip up the street, "DON'T FORGET, SEVEN-THIRTY AT THE
MEMORIAL HALL. AND MAKE THOSE. QUESTIONS TOUGH ONES!"
"That's a tough one,"
Berry said.
"You do not know who you
are?"
He drank some tea.
"Who do people
think
you are?" she asked.
It was the strongest tea he'd ever
been served. It had to be at least a six tea-bag pot.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not helping the situation am I? I, ah . . . I'm a reporter. I work
for an American news agency in London. Giles was my friend. Originally, what happened
with this guy we both respected—dead now—he told me to dissuade Giles from
throwing everything up and moving to Wales. So I came out here with Giles—early
in the fall this was—lo look at his cottage. And there was . . . something
there I didn't take to, OK? Now Giles is dead. That's it. That's everything.
Basically."
This was what reporters were
supposed to be able to do. reduce the Bible to a paragraph.
And edit all the meaning out of
it.
Bethan McQueen drank her tea
slowly, watching him.
"Giles was my friend too,"
she said eventually. "I tried to teach him Welsh, and I failed. It was a
disaster. I came to feel that the lessons were doing him harm. When I learned
about his . . . tumour, it was as if I had personally, you know . . ."
"Finished him off?"
"Yes."
"That's crazy, Beth."
"Bethan."
"Sorry."
"No,
I'm
sorry. My husband called me Beth. I'm being stupid"
"If we're getting into
self-flagellation here," Berry said, "most likely,
I
killed him. I failed to persuade him
not to come here. Didn't hardly try. If he'd been in London maybe he'd have
gotten some medical attention instead of pushing himself like he did, to move
out here in record time, commuting to and fro, all that."
"I don't think that is
what you're saying, is it?" Bethan said.
"I'm sorry ... ?'
"You said you think you
might have killed him because you failed to persuade him not to come here. You
are implying he died because he came to Y Groes."
"Well, no, I . . "
"That is not what you were
implying?"
"I . . . Shit, I don't
know." Berry rubbed his eyes, drank more tea. She was forcing him to say
things he hadn't even put into thoughts.
"Look, give me your
cup." Bethan said. "I should not have tried to poison you."
"What?"
"Nobody can drink tea as
strong as that. Except for me when I am feeling beaten, which is most of the
time at present."
Berry held out his cup.
"It was wonderful tea. I mean that, seriously."
"You are joking. I'll make
some fresh."
"Listen, forget the tea.
Siddown please."
Bethan put her cup and saucer
on the floor and sat down on the sofa. She reached forward and flipped the
switch on the side of an archaic three-bar electric fire.
"This is kinda hard."
Berry said. "It's like we're walking round each other, keeping a distance.
Like suspicious dogs, trying to provoke each other into snapping or something,
Listen, how about we go for dinner tonight? Always presuming there's some place
other than the Welsh Pizza House where we can actually
get
some dinner."
"I'm sorry. I mean, I
really
am
sorry. I have to go to Simon
Gallier's meeting. In my role as Guto's secret agent. I have to report
back."
Berry thought about this.
"Well, would you mind if I tagged along? I have to file some kind of piece
to the agency tomorrow. I do need to see this guy Gallier in action."
"All right."
"Good. Maybe we can figure
out how to approach this thing. Always assuming there's something that needs to
be approached."
"Mr.
Morelli
, I've lived with this for so long that I don't know who to trust
any more
."
"Berry, for Christ's sake."
"Bury?"
"As in strawberry. My
name."
"Oh."
They stood up. Bethan
straightened her sweater.
"I would love to say you
can trust me," Berry said. "Only I'm not sure I can trust myself. I'm
notoriously neurotic."
She faced him from the other
side of the monster sofa with the brilliant peacock fans on it.
"She said, "Do you
believe Giles died because he came to Y Groes?"
"I . .
"It's important. Do you
believe it?"
Berry shook his head.
"Also, I'm indecisive."
"Well, I believe that
Robin . . ."
"Robin?"
"My husband. I believe Y Groes
killed Robin. I hate that village, Mr. Morelli. I'd like to see the church fall
down and every stone of every building smashed and pounded into The ground."
Part Seven
THE NIGHTBIRD
Chapter XLV
ENGLAND
Miranda had been absolutely determined not to do this. A clean break was
the only way. They simply didn't need the hassle of each other
any more
.
The problem was she'd got
rather pissed on the plane - private plane owned by the company, no expense
spared when you were working with these people, lots of Champagne, none of this
Sangria nonsense - and the thought of ferrying all her luggage out to Daddy's
place had been too tedious.
Besides, the Spanish resort
where they'd been shooting - two days for about six seconds - had been a sort
of hot Bognor, the kind of location that dictated at least an hour in the
shower absolutely as soon as one reached
civilisation
.