From Aberystwyth with Love (5 page)

‘Gethsemane spent the morning in town with her auntie, Mrs Mochdre, buying a present for her mother’s birthday the following week. They went to the Pier amusement arcade as a treat, then returned to Abercuawg around lunchtime. Gethsemane went out to play with the neighbour’s dog, Bingo. The dog came back on its own later that afternoon. They used him as a sort of bloodhound, sent him off to search for her with the whole village following. They lost his trail and the dog was never seen again.’ She pulled a photo out of the box and slid it across the table. ‘This is Bingo, sired by the famous Clip—’

She broke off and gave me a look of guilty complicity. Clip had featured in one of our previous cases. He could now be found stuffed with sawdust sitting in a glass case in the museum on Terrace Road, one ear permanently cocked for the whistle of the Great Shepherd in the Sky. In his heyday he had been a star of the newsreels from the war in Patagonia in 1961, the Welsh Lassie. In moments like this, when a ghost from our past resurfaced, we struggled to recall whether the case had turned out well or not. There was one key criterion for deciding: did the client die? But we never actually met the client in the Clip case; she was, or claimed to be, the Queen of Denmark and our business was conducted over the phone. But since her head is still on the postage stamps we take it as a positive sign. And none of the postal orders she sent bounced. Calamity, remembering this vital fact, continued.

‘Goldilocks was a local hoodlum attached to the Slaughterhouse Mob – a bunch of tearaways who worked at the slaughterhouse and hung out at the Pier ballroom. They were into the usual small-time stuff: robbery, extortion, violence. The evening after Gethsemane disappeared someone saw Goldilocks burying something in his garden, it turned out to be one of her shoes. He couldn’t account for it and wouldn’t say where he had been on the day in question. He was convicted of her murder and escaped from Aberystwyth gaol the following November.’ She slid another photo across the desk. ‘This is him.’

He had an angelic face with tight blond curls. He didn’t smile and didn’t look like he understood the purpose of the expression. His eyes were dead, like those of a mackerel in the fishmonger’s. They were the eyes of a man whose heart is cold as a fireless grate, one who never takes pleasure or mirth from his passage through this world and is irritated and bewildered by those who do. You can tell a lot about the soul from a photograph. Or at least you think you can. Maybe I was just projecting into the image what I already knew. If I had been told this was a photo of a boy who had rescued a baby from a burning building I might have been touched by his gentle aspect and said he looked a little angel.

‘The only member of the Slaughterhouse Mob still alive is the chief typographer down at the rock foundry. We can go and see him.’ Calamity took out another cutting. ‘This is the only photo the newspaper could find of Gethsemane.’

It was a school nativity play: shepherds in dressing gowns and tea towels on their heads; a Roman centurion; a crib; Mary and Joseph; angels.

‘Gethsemane is the robin redbreast.’

She had bird’s feet made out of rope, a dark cloak and a cardboard beak. In her eyes there was a certain wistful awareness: staring out across the years from the grey fog of a tattered old photo, it betokened the early understanding of what life held in store for a misfit doomed to wear a cardboard beak when others among her peers were centurions or angels.

‘The guy playing Joseph is Rwpert Valentino, the star of the TV soap
North Road
. We can check him out, he hangs out every night after the show at the railway station buffet.’

‘How did you find that out?’

‘It’s in the scandal pages in the
Cambrian News
. He’s got a girl who works there.’

‘OK, that’s good stuff. Anything else?’

Calamity slapped the back of her hand against one of the news reports for emphasis. ‘This lady, Mrs Mochdre, interests me. Gethsemane’s aunt, the one who took her to the Pier that morning. Last one to see her alive, that’s always a red flag.’

‘Not always.’

Calamity scowled at me and carried on. ‘She’s married to the Witchfinder, keeps pigs, used to be pretty big in the ABLL.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Anti-Bearded-Lady League.’

I blinked. It seemed like an appropriate reaction.

‘A lot of the champs on the Pro-Bearded-Lady circuit from the forties and fifties used to come from the area around Abercuawg,’ Calamity explained. ‘Mrs Mochdre used to campaign against it on grounds of idolatry or something. I thought we could talk to a few.’

‘A few what?’

‘Bearded ladies, get them to dish the dirt – there can’t be much love lost between them and Mrs Mochdre.’

I looked at her through narrowed eyes. Calamity inspires a curious mix of emotions in me: pride and a desperate desire to protect her from the bad things in this world; I want to stop her from even knowing about them, even though she probably already does. Maybe this is how fathers feel all the time. Is this how Eeyore feels when he sees me?

There are certain subjects we never discuss. Her father is one. He does not live in Aberystwyth; according to her mother he lives at the racetrack, but no fixed racetrack, in England, or sometimes the Republic of Ireland. The other subject is boyfriends. I do not think Calamity has a boyfriend, and her behaviour and dress do not betray any interest in that direction. I know how painful it would be for her if I mentioned it, with that clumsy well-meaning insensitivity of adults who have forgotten the grief of their own youth.

She wears jeans and T-shirts and arranges her hair in an untidy spiky pile that is somehow arranged in its lack of arrangement. She is not a tomboy but she has a slight fear of girly things. On occasion I have seen her wearing eyeshadow but so little the lack of confidence shone through.

Calamity tilted her head to one side to express mild puzzlement at the reverie that had caused me to be silent.

‘Talking to former bearded ladies seems like a . . . a . . . a very left-of-field way to begin a case,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ said Calamity. She paused and said with a casual air that was slightly forced, ‘I thought we could use it as an example of superseding the paradigm.’

‘That sounds like a good idea.’

‘I think so too.’

‘What does it mean?’

Calamity pulled a piece of paper from her back pocket, and unfolded it. ‘I saw it in this month’s
Gumshoe
magazine. It’s called “The Existentialist Detective and Non-Linear Cognition”. It’s all about superseding the paradigm.’

‘We’ve managed well enough without superseding it so far but I’m always open to new ideas.’

Calamity began to read. ‘Traditional detective methods which rely on deductive reasoning are premised on the belief that life makes sense. This is a mistake. Normally, life only makes sense in novels and movies where events are shaped by the hand of a creative artist. In the real world events are born of contingency and are frequently shaped by the hands of people who are often clinically insane. Thus, because no rational process can be discerned behind the events of life, deductive reasoning is not best suited for unravelling its mysteries. In the past one means of countering this problem was the frequent use of the policeman’s hunch which proceeds by non-linear and counter-intuitive methods and aims to break the straitjacket of conventional thinking. Deployed successfully the hunch often re-arranges the pieces of the jigsaw in such a way that old paradigms are superseded. Though a reliable method of unravelling stubborn mysteries, the hunch suffers from the drawback that it occurs but rarely and, crucially, is not subject to conscious control. The advanced detective seeks to summon up the paradigm-busting thinking that hallmarks the hunch by deliberately entertaining hypotheses that are absurd.’ She put the article down and looked across.

Before I could think of something to say, the phone rang. Calamity answered. She wrote something down, thanked the caller and hung up. ‘That was Mooncalf. He’s arranged for us to spend tomorrow morning with Meici Jones the spinning-wheel salesman. This is his address.’

‘Did we ask him to arrange that?’

‘I don’t think we told him not to.’

That night the sky over the beach at Ynyslas had the translucence of a cathedral window on a moonlit night. I opened the door of my caravan to air the inside and went to sit on the brow of the dune behind. For the first time in days, the night was cool. The heat had gone with the setting of the sun, and a soft breeze wafted in off the sea and raised goosebumps on grateful flesh. The beach was dark, the tide far out, you sensed it rather than saw it. On the horizon there was a thin band of lighter blue, the same shade as the neon letters on the ‘Eats’ signs that flash above so many diners down this coast. I lay back on the sand, felt the rasp under my hair, the sharp ends of the marram grass spiking my cheek. I kicked my shoes and socks off and buried my toes in sand that was still hot. In the morning the same sand would feel as cold as bathroom linoleum on a winter’s morn. There was no sound, not even the customary susurration of the sea, it was leaden, unmoving; the sand grains stopped tumbling and hissing like snares on drums; not even a dog dared to bark.

The noise of a van pulling up disturbed the silence. A door slid open, followed by the crunch of a man jumping down on to gravel. I sat up and looked over. He was outside my caravan, knocking on the door. He was wearing a light summer macintosh and a panama hat with the brim pulled down low over his eyes; it didn’t look like the postman. In this twilight he could have walked up to the caravan carrying a bloodstained chainsaw and no one would have batted an eye, but the hat brim pulled down was like a big advertising hoarding announcing nefarious intent. I could hear a thousand net curtains rustle, hear the quiet melancholy of eyes staring out in the night at a stranger. I climbed to my feet and wandered down the face of the dune, annoyed at the intrusion. He climbed the caravan steps and peeked inside.

‘If you’re selling encyclopaedias you’re wasting your time, the guy in there already knows everything.’

He turned to face me. ‘Looks to me like he needs a brush salesman.’ He stepped down off the step. ‘Or maybe I’m not here to sell anything, maybe I came to set a cross up outside his caravan and set it alight.’

‘That would certainly get his attention. Tell me what you want to tell him and I’ll see he gets the message.’

‘They told me you were an entertainer, but I’m not in the mood, I’ve got a bad stomach, so maybe you’d like to get in the van.’

‘Where is the van going?’

‘To see some of Mr Mooncalf’s friends.’

‘Stamp collectors, huh? That explains why they sent a tough guy.’

‘Don’t waste your time trying to pump me. I’m just here to take you. You need to put this on.’

He handed me a blindfold.

‘Is it all right if I get in the van first?’

‘That would be the smart way to do it, but no one’s insisting.’

I climbed in and put on the blindfold. The driver checked to make sure it was placed properly, started up the engine and drove off.

All things have their polar opposites: hot, cold; day, night; love, hate; the Roman Catholic mass is sometimes refracted through a dark lens of wickedness into the black magic rite, the cross inverted and the ritual debased. So it is with stamp collecting. Generations of schoolboys sifting through the little squares of coloured paper have given this pastime a reputation for dullness. The snuff philatelist however is a different beast. He lives in the shadows and meets under the arch of the railway bridge, out of the penumbra of the streetlamp, his collar raised to the level of his eyes, the brim of his hat pulled down low. His trade is one that must hide its face from the light of day. He delights in murder and mayhem, but only at the arm’s length of correspondence that passed through the hands of the crook. Letters that are decorated with the fingerprints of the criminally insane, letters postmarked Sing Sing or San Quentin, Holloway or, better still, because insanity adds an extra frisson of terror, Broadmoor. He takes the necromancer’s delight in the bizarre, perverse and crepuscular ravings of man, in the freak shows that are played out after hours in the hinterlands of the human heart. The snuff philatelist is not concerned about the lives of the various heads of state, the profiles of Victoria or George, but lives only for the tongue of the serial killer who licked the back of the stamp, or failing that the tongue of his mum or someone who knew him. Except when writing deliberately badly spelled letters to the press to taunt the cops for their lack of success the serial killer seldom writes letters. And this makes his stamps all the more rare. For the collector, the thought that within those molecules of glue on the stamp’s back can be found the saliva and DNA of a monster, who once made the front page and caused a whole town to avoid the streets at night, makes his viscera quiver with pleasure.