Tangled web, p.9
Tangled Web, page 9
Gordon and Lucy started walking towards the garden in front of the cathedral.
Gordon thought that she still looked frail but not as devastated as she had the last time he’d seen her. A little composure had come back but her eyes were still sunken and full of anguish. ‘How are you?’ he asked gently.
Lucy gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I think I’m as low as I can get,’ she said. ‘The only way left for me to go is up. I’ve lost my baby, my husband’s in prison awaiting trial for her murder and most people seem to think I was involved too. I keep thinking the whole thing’s a bad dream and I’m going to wake up soon but it’s not and I won’t. I’ve got to start fighting back but I just don’t know where to begin.’ She swallowed and looked down at her feet.
‘Have they said when you can see John yet?’ asked Gordon.
Lucy gave a bitter laugh without looking up. ‘John is refusing to see anyone,’ she said. ‘Including me.’
‘But why?’ Gordon stammered.
‘He must still believe that I did it, whatever I say.’
‘Do you think he’d see me?’ said Gordon.
Lucy shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, finally raising her head to look at him, ‘Might be worth a try.’
They found a bench with dappled sunshine playing on it and sat down for a few minutes. Lucy closed her eyes and held her face up to the sun, courting its warmth. Gordon thought her skin had taken on a translucent appearance. After a few moments silence she said, ‘What would happen if I went to the police and told them I did it?’ She kept her eyes closed as she waited for an answer.
‘Did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why would you want to do that?’
‘Just tell me what you think would happen,’ insisted Lucy.
‘Presumably the police would have to investigate your claim but it probably wouldn’t take them long to show that you were lying. They’d ask you questions about Anne-Marie’s death you couldn’t answer.’
‘They don’t seem to have bothered too much about investigating John’s confession,’ said Lucy.
Gordon, who’d been thinking much the same thing, agreed but didn’t elaborate further although he continued to think about that point while they enjoyed the sun in silence for a few minutes. He suspected that the police really should have been able to pick holes in a false confession if they’d had a mind to. The fact that they hadn’t, suggested that they didn’t have any other kind of evidence to go on apart from circumstantial. ‘If you were to confess too, they’d probably charge you both with murder and let circumstantial evidence do the rest,’ he said.
‘Could they do that?’
‘Roberts thinks they could.’
‘God, what a mess,’ sighed Lucy, getting to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
EIGHT
It was still quite early when Gordon got back to Felinbach and found that the one-man business of Pryce Electrics had not yet been to fix his faulty central heating and electric fire. The spare key however, that he’d popped through the firm’s letterbox that morning along with a note, lay at the back of the door. There was a brief letter attached, typed on a machine with several faulty keys, saying that ‘pressure of work’ would prevent ‘the firm’ from carrying out repairs in the foreseeable future and that it might be best if he looked elsewhere for an electrician.
Gordon felt a momentary surge of anger then he shrugged and threw the note in the bucket. ‘Glad to hear business is so good, Sparky,’ he said under his breath, ‘Maybe you’ll be able to buy your wife a decent typewriter in the near future.’ He locked up the flat again and walked up the hill to the surgery to join Julie for evening surgery. Five people were already in the waiting room when he looked round the door so he asked the first one through. The patient was a woman in her fifties who was a regular at the surgery; she was obviously having difficulty walking. Gordon waited for her at the door to his room then ushered her inside. ‘Don’t tell me … it’s your arm,’ he joked.
The woman made a dismissive gesture with a wave of her hand. ‘It’s my veins, Doctor. They’re getting worse. They’re killing me.’
Gordon examined her legs and saw the knotted mess of varicose veins on the back of both her calves.
‘Dai says they look like a road map of Gwynedd.’
‘Sensitive soul, your Dai,’ said Gordon.
‘Wouldn’t know the meaning of the word, Doctor.’
‘I think we should see about getting you an appointment at the hospital,’ said Gordon. ‘We’ll get these veins stripped out and you’ll find walking a lot easier with the circulation restored. You may have to wait a bit though. It’s not an emergency so there’ll be a list … but I’ll do my best. I’ll tell them it’s interfering with your international career as a ballerina.’
The woman smiled but Gordon thought her reaction a bit restrained: he’d always found it easy to make her laugh in the past. She got up to go and he called in the next patient – this time using the buzzer. The patient, another middle-aged woman, shapeless in a long, loose raincoat that buttoned up to her chin, came in and sat down in front of his desk, placing her shopping basket on her knees.
Gordon thought her vaguely familiar but didn’t know her name. That was the thing about working in a fairly small community; everyone seemed familiar by sight if not by name. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.
The woman said something in Welsh and Gordon smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a Celt but not a Welsh one.’
The woman did not smile in return but said something else in Welsh. Gordon shrugged again and felt puzzled because although Welsh was spoken widely in the area he hadn’t come across anyone before who didn’t speak English as well: it made him suspicious. As the woman got up to leave and put her hand on the door handle he said, ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve dropped something.’ She turned round and looked at the floor before slowly raising her eyes to meet Gordon’s. There was no appearance of guilt about her and certainly no apology forthcoming. Gordon interpreted her expression as one of pious superiority, the pitying look of a Christian fundamentalist for a lesser being, currently being used as the devil’s tool.
‘My mistake,’ he said.
The woman went back to the waiting room to wait for Julie Rees and Gordon reflected on this latest example of his growing unpopularity in Felinbach. He saw one more patient without incident before Julie came in to declare the waiting room empty.
‘It seemed unusually busy today,’ she said.
Gordon told her about the woman pretending she couldn’t speak English in order to be seen by Julie rather than him.
Julie grimaced. ‘I didn’t think it had gone that far,’ she said. ‘But don’t let that old harridan upset you; Meg Richards was born miserable. If there’s a bad side to anything she’ll seek it out and see it as her Christian duty to expose it. Compassion is as much a stranger to her as humour.’
Gordon nodded: he didn’t tell her about the electrician’s note but Julie could see that the things were getting to him.
‘You look as if you’ve had a bad day,’ she said.
‘You could say,’ replied Gordon wearily.
‘Problems?’
‘John Palmer insists on continuing to plead guilty when he’s not and now he’s refusing to see anyone, even his wife.’
Julie paused as if editing what she wanted to say so as not to cause offence. ‘Tom …’ she began, ‘Have you even considered the possibility that John Palmer might actually be guilty?’
Gordon shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Because he isn’t.’ He realised immediately that his reply needed some expansion if only in the interests of harmony. ‘If I’m perfectly honest,’ he said, ‘there was a moment when I did wonder if Lucy might not have had some kind of relapse and killed Anne-Marie in a fit of depression but now I’m convinced she had nothing to do with it either.’
‘So where does that leave you?’
‘Looking for the real killer, the possibility of which no one else is even considering, including the police.’
‘No one could fault your credentials as a loyal friend,’ said Julie, ‘but I do wish for your sake that you’d leave the investigating to the professionals. You have neither the time nor the background to carry out a criminal investigation on your own.’
‘I haven’t been too impressed with what the professionals have done so far,’ said Gordon. ‘I have to do what I can.’
Julie shrugged her acceptance. ‘What does that involve now?’ she asked.
‘I want to visit John in prison if they’ll let me.’
Julie nodded, more in resignation than approval. She changed the subject. ‘How did the meeting at the general go last night?’
‘Pretty much as expected. They’d really just like us to go through the motions of an inquiry, conclude that there was nothing basically wrong and that it was all just one of these things.’
‘Something tells me the Griffiths won’t be thinking along these lines,’ said Julie.
Gordon nodded. ‘I think the hospital know that. They’re resigned to having to make a pretty hefty pay-out at some point,’ he said, ‘but they want to limit damage to the hospital’s reputation. I think they’d like it if it could be shown that neither mismanagement nor professional incompetence played any part in the proceedings and that the whole thing was just a low-level mix-up.’
‘God, it must have been awful for Mr Griffiths,’ said Julie. ‘By all accounts, it was bad enough for Prosser, the undertaker. I hear he collapsed on the floor when he saw what was in the coffin. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for the child’s father.’
‘How come?’ said Gordon suddenly.
‘How come what?’
‘Gordon frowned and remained deep in thought for a few moments. ‘When Prosser opened the coffin,’ he began hesitantly, ‘he shouldn’t have seen anything more sinister than a plastic bag.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ said Julie.
‘If it was all down to a simple mix-up, as the hospital are keen to claim, it would suggest that both the child’s body and the biological waste must have been in the same kind of disposal bag. Yes?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Julie. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘That raises a question on its own,’ continued Gordon.
‘Quite.’
‘But presumably sealed, otherwise they would have realised their mistake right away.’
‘Yes …’
‘So why should Prosser faint at the sight of a plastic bag?’
‘Presumably he opened it.’
‘But surely his first thought would have been to realise that there was something wrong and that he should stop Griffiths coming anywhere near it?’
‘Maybe he got such an awful shock when he looked inside it,’ said Julie.
‘He’s an undertaker,’ said Gordon, ‘he’s been in the business for years. He shouldn’t shock that easily.’
‘I take your point.’
‘There’s something not right here,’ said Gordon. ‘I smell a rat.’
On Thursday morning Gordon planned his house calls so that the one nearest to Caernarfon would be the last. It turned out to be at Plas Coch Farm, a hill farm about three miles south east of Caernarfon. The farmer, Glyn Edwards, had taken a fall from his quad bike while out on the hills and had gashed his leg. His wife had phoned the surgery to say that he was in pain and hadn’t managed any sleep for two nights.
Ellen Edwards came out into the yard to meet Gordon as he parked the Land Rover and tried to find a dry line of approach to the house. Two sheep dogs stalked him on the flanks as he tiptoed cautiously through the mud, sending hens clucking off in all directions. ‘I should have put on my wellies,’ he joked. ‘How is he?’
‘You know Glyn, Doctor, he keeps on insisting I’m making a lot of fuss about nothing but I can see he’s in great pain. He didn’t even try to go out on the hills this morning: it’s just not like him.’
Gordon did his best to scrape the mud off his shoes on the metal scraper bar by the door before entering the warmth of the kitchen and following Ellen through to where Edwards lay with his bandaged leg stretched out along the couch in front of him. He grunted when he saw Gordon come in.
‘Fell off the quad I hear,’ said Gordon. ‘That’ll teach you to play Michael Schumacher at your age.’
The comment got a grudging grin from Edwards whose complexion after a lifetime on the hills almost matched the reddish orange of the curtains in the living room. Gordon could tell from his eyes that Edwards was in considerable pain. ‘Let’s have a look, old son,’ he said, opening up his bag and taking out scissors to cut away the old dressings. The leg felt very hot and there was an unpleasant smell coming from the bandaging. ‘When exactly did this happen?’ he asked.
‘Three days ago,’ said Edwards. ’Didn’t seem too bad at first but it’s giving me merry hell now.’
Gordon examined the exposed wound closely and made a face. ‘It’s infected,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s giving you the pain. Do you know what caused the cut?’
‘Sharp stone,’ said Edwards.
‘You’re sure no metal was involved? No rusty nails or barbed wire?’
‘It was a stone, I’m sure,’ said Edwards.
‘Good, I’m just going to take a swab for the lab then I’ll write you up for some painkillers so you’ll get a sleep tonight and I’ll give you an antibiotic to fight the infection. You should notice a big difference by Saturday. If you don’t, give me a ring.’
‘I will, Doctor,’ said Ellen, ‘and I’ll see that he takes his medicine.’
Gordon took a swab from his bag and slid off the outer tube, taking care not to touch the sterile tip against anything else before rubbing it gently along the gash to absorb a sample of the exudate. He placed it back in the tube and wrote Edwards’ name on the outside before dropping it back into his bag. He put a fresh dressing on the wound then stood up saying, ‘There you go, you’ll be right as rain by next week.’
‘Thanks Doc.’
Gordon tore the prescription off his pad and handed it to Ellen. ‘This should do the trick,’ he said, then turning to Edwards, he added, ‘Easy on these fast corners, boyo.’
Gordon tip toed back to the car and checked his watch: it was a few minutes after noon. There would still be time to visit Prosser’s before the meeting at one.
He parked the car in his usual place down by the harbour in Caernarfon and walked round the outside of the castle walls to begin working his way back up through the narrow lanes to reach Mould Street and the premises of J. Prosser and Son. A bell above Prosser’s door gave a solitary ‘ting’ as he entered and a man wearing a dark suit and black tie materialised from the back. ‘How can I help?’ he asked reverentially. His hands were folded in front of him and his head held slightly to one side.
‘Mr Prosser?’ Gordon asked cheerily.
‘Yes …’ answered the man, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
‘I’m Tom Gordon. I’m a GP in Felinbach. I’ve been co-opted on to the inquiry team investigating the Megan Griffiths affair.’
Prosser’s manner changed in an instant. The hands fell to his sides and his shoulders sagged forwards. ‘Whoever was responsible for that deserves a right old bollocking,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Gordon. ‘I was wondering if I might ask your staff a few questions?’
Prosser looked suspicious. ‘What is this?’ he growled. ‘If that lot think they’re going to shift the blame on to me and my staff they’ve got another think coming. It had nothing to do with the boys or me. The coffin was closed when we collected it from the general.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Gordon assured him. I’m doing this off my own bat. It’s nothing official I assure you and I realise you’re under no obligation to talk to me at all but I thought, as you’ve obviously got nothing to hide, that you might be willing to help?’
‘If you put it that way,’ said Prosser slowly. ‘Ask away. The boys are out in the yard cleaning the vehicles.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gordon, ‘I appreciate it but I wonder if I might ask you something first?’
Prosser led Gordon into the same small office he had used to talk to Morgan Griffiths on that awful morning and invited him to sit. ‘What can I tell you?’ he asked.
‘I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened when you opened up Megan Griffiths’ coffin.’
Prosser swallowed before answering, ‘I’ll never forget it as long as I live. People keep saying I should be used to awful sights with my job but I wasn’t prepared for anything like that, see … bits and pieces … Jesus.’
‘Didn’t the plastic bag make you suspicious before you opened it?’ asked Gordon.
‘What plastic bag?’ asked Prosser slowly and cautiously as if fearing it might be a trick question.
Gordon felt his limbs become heavy and the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand on end. ‘Are you telling me that the bits and pieces, as you call them, were not contained within a plastic bag? That they were visible when you opened the lid?’
‘Absolutely, that’s what gave me such a shock like.’
On top of everything else, this was probably what Gordon wanted to hear least in the whole world. If there was no bag, there had been no mix-up. It was as simple as that. The person who had put the waste into the coffin had known full well what they had been doing. But maybe the bag had been there, and had simply burst open. He asked Prosser if this might not be the case.
‘I didn’t see no bag,’ he replied.
‘What happened to the contents?’ asked Gordon.
‘The hospital sent down a van, sealed them in one of their bags … and took the whole lot away, coffin and all.’
‘So that’s when the material went into a disposal bag, thought Gordon. He thanked Prosser for his help and said, ‘Maybe I could speak with your men now?’
Prosser led the way through the back shop and out into the yard at the back where two hearses and a black limousine were parked. One man was hosing down the limousine while the other two sat on wooden crates, smoking and watching him. They got up when they saw Prosser who turned and nodded in Gordon’s direction. ‘This is Dr Gordon; he’d like to ask you some questions about the Griffiths business.’ Prosser introduced the three men. ‘This is my son, Paul.’
