The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer Read online

  ‘Aye. A nice piece of journey planning that’ll make the petrol money worth spending,’ replied Mavis. ‘I’ll be off now. I have my mobile if you need me. Bye for now, dear.’

  ‘Tarra,’ said Carol cheerfully, and she resumed her humming – much more loudly; this time it was ‘Calon Lan’ delivered with real hwyl.

  When she arrived at the police station on the outskirts of the market town of Builth Wells, she managed to find a place to park that meant she didn’t have to walk too far. By the time she presented herself at the front desk she could feel her cheeks glowing, and even though her duffel coat didn’t quite cover her entire body any more, she was warm.

  The young policeman behind the counter looked up from his computer and caught her standing in front of him wiping the dew of sweat from her brow.

  ‘Are you feeling alright? You look like you’re having a bit of a turn,’ he said, sounding concerned.

  Carol felt just fine, but she made a split-second decision. ‘Well, I don’t know, the baby’s being a bit active at the moment, and I suppose I could do with a bit of a sit down. I don’t suppose you could rustle up a glass of water for me, could you?’ She adopted her ‘pathetic’ face, and smiled, reaching behind her for a chair as though it was a great effort.

  ‘Just a tick, let me give you a hand,’ said the young constable opening the secure door to the waiting area. ‘My sister’s pregnant. Always going red in the face she is, too. You sit down.’

  A few moments later Carol was sipping water and the solicitous young officer was finally asking why Carol had come to the police station.

  Taking her cue, and laying on the Welsh accent as heavily as she dared, she told a pretty tale about how the four women were trying to make a go of it in the countryside as enquiry agents, showed him her credentials, then spoke emotionally about how she, pregnant and the only Welsh member of the group, was having to struggle to make sure she kept her end up. The sympathetic young man seemed impressed by how much effort she was prepared to put in to find out about Aubrey Morris’s van, and he allowed her to access a great deal of information, even though he didn’t really need to.

  Half an hour later she sat in her car, pulled out her laptop and typed up a memo for the rest of the team.

  TO:MM, CW-S, AP

  FROM:CH

  RE:Aubrey Morris Van – police information

  1. Information gleaned from PC Stephens at Builth Police Station. I have seen the files, but wasn’t allowed to bring any hardcopies away. I gained an opportunity to leaf through the file alone when the kind officer left me to bring a second glass of water. That means we don’t officially have some of this information.

  2. Aubrey Morris’s van was discovered around 2pm yesterday afternoon by a Mrs Russell of Hay-on-Wye who stopped her car in a lay-by for her dog to relieve itself. The dog ran off, then attracted her attention to the unattended van. She phoned the police when she returned home, saying she waited until then to do so because there was no mobile signal where she found the van.

  3. The police ascertained the van had no occupants. The doors of the van were closed, but not locked. The contents in the rear of the van were the sort of tools the police assumed would be carried about by a handyman, and were undisturbed. A note, and some photographs, convince me the van was parked so it could not be seen from the road.

  4. Other than tools and work bags, the police noted there were no obvious personal items in the van (e.g.: no luggage etc.) no mobile phone, no paperwork etc. There was nothing to indicate to the police why the van had been abandoned in the manner it had been, and they state there is no way to tell how long the van had been there.

  5. Comments: PC Stephens seemed to be of the opinion that the fact Aubrey Morris has chosen to leave Anwen-by-Wye at this time is mildly interesting, as opposed to being ominous, or criminal. That appears to be the general consensus. I spun the young man a story about Aubrey having taken a critical piece of domestic equipment from my kitchen to fix it, and it being in the back of his van. He confirmed the location of the van for me, and told me I could mention his name if I wanted to have a quick look at the van at the impound. I will do that next.

  Carol was satisfied with her little update, then buckled up and drove off along Builth Wells’ narrow high street toward the animal market and show grounds, then around the swinging curve that led to the water meadow and the ancient bridge over the river Wye. Taking the road to the left, heading away from the town center, Carol kept her eyes peeled, looking out for the turning that would deliver her to the police impound. The roads were quiet, and the journey didn’t take long. Finally she pulled up outside a sadly tatty Portakabin with metal grilles on its windows and a rather inadequate couple of steps leading to its metal door.

  Teetering on the steps, Carol hammered at the door which was eventually opened by a small man engulfed by a large, luminously-yellow jacket.

  ‘Ydw?’ said the man in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

  ‘Bore da,’ replied Carol, hoping to get on the man’s good side. ‘PC Stephens sent me. I’ve come to take a look at the white panel van that was brought in from the Builth Road earlier this morning. The Aubrey Morris van.’ She decided it was best to keep things simple.

  Suspicious, slightly beady eyes regarded Carol with uncertainty. ‘Not police, are you?’

  Carol reached into her pocket. ‘No. Private enquiry agent.’ She showed her picture ID and smiled.

  Regarding her photograph, then Carol in person, the small man’s face betrayed a modicum of respect. ‘Can’t be too many of you, can there? Pregnant Welsh women private investigators. Hardly two a penny.’

  Carol nodded sagely. He wasn’t wrong. The question was, would he let her peer inside Aubrey’s van as she wanted.

  ‘Send you over from the station, did they?’

  Carol nodded. And waited. The small man’s eyes flickered as he considered the matter. He looked at Carol’s bump, then reached for a set of keys. ‘It’s over by here. Follow me.’

  Carol waited while he locked the door of the Portakabin, and followed him toward the van.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing her a pair of surgical gloves. ‘It’s not locked. You can open it. You can look. You can’t take nothing. Right?’

  Carol nodded, and did what she was allowed to do with the aid of a torch she pulled from her handbag. She also took a lot of photographs with her phone’s camera. Peering over her shoulder toward the man she said, ‘Can I open the glove compartment?’

  The small man looked around furtively. ‘Go on then, but quick mind, and don’t go disturbing nothing.’

  Again, Carol did only what he’d suggested she was allowed to do. ‘Thanks,’ she said as they walked back toward her car.

  ‘S’oright,’ said the little man, ‘gets a bit boring round here usually. When’s it due?’

  Carol was taken aback. ‘Any day now.’

  ‘Thought so. Our third’s due around now. Wants to call him Fred, she does. ’Orrible name for a kid, innit? Still, it’ll keep ’er happy see. Tarra for now.’ The man clambered back up the rickety steps, let himself into the cabin and clanged the door shut behind him.

  Takes all sorts, Carol thought to herself as she reinserted herself into her car, glad the odd little man had at least been so accommodating. She checked her watch. The pubs were open, and she knew a loo and a warming cup of coffee were in her not-too-distant future, as well as a Wi-Fi signal which would allow her a chance to send a couple of emails and some photos to the girls.

  She swung the car onto the main road and headed back toward Builth’s High Street; there was a pub with a comfy lounge where she knew she could get everything she wanted, and a sandwich for lunch too. Now all she had to do was find somewhere to park, not easy on the narrow high street, but she crossed her fingers and headed off.

  THIRTEEN

  Annie was feeling pretty chuffed with herself; she’d managed to talk her mum into accompanying her to the Lamb and Flag for lunch, whic
h was quite an achievement. All in all it hadn’t taken her long, though now she was counting her fingers while she waited for Eustelle to find a jacket that would complement her red skirt, which Annie knew wouldn’t be easy.

  Appearing at the doorway to the little sitting room, Eustelle Parker had obviously plumped for her orange mackintosh, the one Annie had talked her into buying in the sales at John Lewis in Kingston with the words, ‘Yes, of course orange can be a neutral, Eustelle.’ That had sealed the deal, because her mother had been on some sort of kick to eradicate all patterns from her wardrobe – something Annie was totally convinced would never happen.

  ‘Do you t’ink the green scarf, Annie?’

  ‘We’re only going to the pub for a sandwich, Eustelle.’

  ‘But do you t’ink the green scarf?’ Eustelle swathed her head in a vivid emerald satin scarf and posed for her daughter, pulling a face.

  ‘Watch the wind don’t change,’ said Annie with a grin.

  ‘It already did, many years ago, child.’ Her mother winked at her and pulled open the front door. ‘I got me stuff wit’ me,’ she added, patting her large handbag.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need it there,’ said Annie, wondering how Tudor Evans would react if her mother produced a bottle of hot sauce to add to whatever it was she might order for lunch.

  ‘Just in case,’ said Eustelle ducking as she left the cottage. ‘Mind your head, child,’ she cautioned as Annie followed her out. ‘Tiny little people those old Welshies.’

  Annie didn’t comment, knowing full well that with her mother being five nine, and Annie herself being five ten, or even five eleven on a tall day, ancient Welsh cottages weren’t the only places where doorways had to be treated with respectful caution.

  Although it was almost March, Annie felt the keen wind sting her face as she and her mother walked, arm in arm, around the outer edge of the village green. They stuck to the pavement, knowing that neither of them were shod well enough to contend with the soggy grass of the common itself. Even so, it didn’t take them long to reach the welcoming warmth of the Lamb and Flag.

  Pushing open the double doors Annie said to her mother, ‘Now it ain’t as primped as the Chellingworth Arms, but the man who runs the place is very pleasant.’

  Giving her a sideways glance Eustelle replied, ‘Not a word you use lightly, child. “Pleasant”? You said that about Denzel Washington – I wonder if this one’s as good-looking as him.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Parker,’ said Tudor as the women entered. He rushed forward and ushered Annie and Eustelle to two bar stools.

  Annie’s mother grinned toothily at Tudor and said, ‘If you’re a friend of my child, you’re a friend of mine. I’m Eustelle. Everyone calls me that, even me own daughter, so you should do the same t’ing. And I’ll be callin’ you Tudor. Never knew a Tudor until now. Strong name. And you looks like a strong man.’ Eustelle laughed throatily, her deep voice echoing in the empty pub.

  Tudor nodded a little uncomfortably. ‘Righty-ho, Eustelle it is then. Here are a couple of menus for you ladies to look at while I get you a drink each. On the house, of course. Your usual, Annie, I’m guessing, and what about you, Eustelle?’

  Annie felt the sharpness of her mother’s glance. ‘You got a “usual” drink here already, child?’ asked Eustelle slyly.

  Annie felt herself get warm. ‘Not really, Eustelle. Only been here once before and that was for work.’

  Tudor was already pouring a gin and tonic for Annie, but paused, blushing. ‘Have I got it wrong?’ he asked.

  Annie smiled. ‘That’ll be lovely, Tudor. Ta. And Eustelle will have a tomato juice, right?’

  Her mother nodded. ‘No’ting fancy in it, just the juice in a glass. I got me own sauce wit’ me.’ She patted her handbag lovingly.

  Tudor busied himself with the drinks, and poured himself a glass of tomato juice. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I fancy one myself,’ he said with a smile. ‘Tomato juice is like that, isn’t it? Once you want it, it’s that or nothing. Like Marmite.’

  Annie watched Tudor eyeing the way Eustelle poured hot sauce into her drink with amusement. ‘Fancy some of Eustelle’s sauce yourself?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Alright then,’ said Tudor a little uncertainly. ‘Try most things once, me. Maybe not too much though. Just a bit.’

  Eustelle poured, they both swooshed, then drank.

  ‘Put hair on your chest, that,’ proclaimed Eustelle, smiling.

  Tudor looked at the drink with an expression of pleasant surprise. ‘Nice that. Tidy. Not too hot.’ He took another swig. Two seconds later Annie could see that the heat of the capsicum had kicked in, because Tudor blanched, then turned quite red and began to sweat.

  ‘I’ll give you two a minute to look at the menu,’ he croaked, and Annie stifled a giggle as he found a good reason to leave them and disappear into the bar of the snug.

  Eustelle laid her hand gently on her daughter’s arm. ‘You’re a wicked child,’ she said with a wink.

  Reappearing a few moments later, Annie noticed Tudor’s pink, watery eyes and reddened cheeks. ‘See anything you fancy on the menu?’ he said as casually as he was able.

  Eustelle turned her attention to the card in her hand. ‘Do you make your own faggots?’ She peered over her spectacles, and Annie could tell her mother’s ‘look of death’ was having the same effect upon Tudor Evans it had been known to have on any wayward youth who’d dared to mess with her mother’s launderette over the years – not that she owned the launderette in question, but she had managed it for all the years Annie had been living at home in Plaistow, so, as far as Eustelle was concerned, it was as good as her own.

  ‘I don’t make them myself,’ confessed Tudor, ‘but a good friend of mine who runs an excellent butcher shop in Llandrindod Wells does, and he knows his faggots. Won prizes with them at the National Welsh Show he has. And not just once. His grandmother’s recipe, with a bit of a twist on the spices, he says. Not that he’ll tell anyone the recipe, of course. I haven’t had any complaints about them. Always consistent, and delivered fresh every couple of days, they are. The gravy comes with – he makes that too, from stock he makes himself. So it’s all home-made, just not made in this home. Peas and mash we do here ourselves. Up to that, we are. Will that suit?’

  Eustelle handed him the menu. ‘I, too, will give most things a go, once,’ she said, smiling – quite coquettishly, thought Annie.

  ‘I’ll have the same as Eustelle, thanks Tudor,’ said Annie, knowing if she ordered something else she’d end up preferring the look of what was on her mother’s plate in any case.

  Smiling, Tudor said, ‘Righty-ho, back in two ticks,’ and scuttled off toward what Annie assumed was the kitchen.

  As soon as he was out of sight her mother asked, ‘Got any children?’

  ‘Tudor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lucky. They might be as ugly as him.’

  ‘Eustelle!’ Annie was shocked. ‘He’s not ugly. He’s just … you know, not good looking. In the usual sense.’

  ‘He could turn milk,’ was all Eustelle had a chance to say before the beaming Tudor was back in his spot behind the bar.

  ‘Quiet today,’ observed Annie with a smile that was possibly a little too bright.

  Tudor nodded. ‘Not unusual, I’m sorry to say. I sometimes think I might as well not bother opening up on these winter afternoons. Especially a day like today when it never really gets light, and everyone’s busy rushing about their business. But a pub’s a pub, and people expect you to be open, even if they don’t usually come in. Still, it’s a bit better in the summer, when the hall is open to the public and the day trippers come through.’

  ‘Will you be shut on Saturday, because of the wedding?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tudor. ‘There’s more to life than profit in the purse, isn’t there? It’ll be a rare treat to dance at a duke’s wedding. For all that I go on about him, he’
s not a bad sort, and I think that Stephanie could be the making of him. Knows what’s what she does. I bet she’ll throw herself into everything quick as you like. Not that I’m saying the dowager did a bad job, but she’s bit past it now.’

  Eustelle’s deep tones sounded menacing as she replied, ‘Althea Twyst is a fine woman, Tudor. I’ve been lucky enough to spend a bit of time wit’ her and Annie’s friend and colleague Mavis.’ Annie was relieved when she broke the tension she’d caused by then laughing aloud and slapping her thigh as she added, ‘Like two schoolgirls them two. One’s younger than me, one’s older, but I t’ink they both six years old in here.’ She smacked her chest hard. ‘I kept up wit’ de walking, though. Sometimes it helps to have long legs, ’specially when you’re walking about with short folks.’

  Annie had noticed heads turn in the village as Mavis, Althea and Eustelle had gone for lengthy walks over the past couple of weeks.

  ‘You’re right to say the dowager is a fine woman,’ replied Tudor quickly, ‘and she was an excellent duchess. But it’s like a job, isn’t it? I mean, when her duke died, she sort of retired. It’s just that this duke didn’t have a wife, so there’s been a sort of void. The daughter doesn’t seem to know the village exists, and we’ve come to expect that Elizabeth Fernley, you know, the Chellingworth estate manager’s wife, will do most of the things the duchess would. Well, some of them, anyway.’

  Tudor paused and Annie jumped in with, ‘Do you think her nose’ll be put out of joint with the new duchess coming on board?’

  Tudor’s expression suggested he didn’t think so. ‘Be glad to be rid of most of the duties, I expect,’ he replied. ‘It’ll be up to the new duchess to step up and try to do something about the church hall, for example. Always the duchesses domain, that. And it’s in a terrible state. Can’t use it at all now. We’ll have to have the next PCC at the market hall.’

  ‘PCC?’ enquired Annie.

  ‘Parochial Church Council,’ explained Tudor. ‘I’m the chair. Vicar’s not up to it. Good at all the religious stuff, but when it comes to getting things done? Not his forte. Let’s leave it at that. And now we’ve got to meet at the market hall. Not right. PCC should be at the church hall – or even at the vicarage. Unmarried vicars are all well and good in theory, but in actuality you need a vicar’s wife to do quite a lot of the heavy lifting. And the Reverend Ebenezer Roberts never did marry, which is a shame for all of us in his parish.’