Chapter Sixteen

A police car with its distinctive blue-and-yellow markings was parked on the verge beside the travellers’ campsite the next morning. In daylight, Penny could make out details that had been obscured by last night’s rain and darkness. Old, rusted vans and cars and newer caravans had been parked all over the fields, tearing up the grass and leaving a muddy pit in the middle of them. Dogs tied on short chains barked loudly, and a few men, dressed in jeans and jackets, sat in a semicircle in front of a fire, smoking and ignoring the dogs. A heavily pregnant woman carrying a child on her hip emerged from one caravan and disappeared into another. Men’s shirts pegged on a washing line that had been strung up between two vehicles hung motionless in the still air.

As Penny approached the police car, the engine started up and the passenger-side window slid smoothly down. “’Morning,” Inspector Bethan Morgan called out to her, leaning over from the driver’s seat. “If you’d like a lift into town, jump in. I was beginning to think about leaving but thought I’d give it a few more minutes in case you happened by.”

Penny climbed in. Bethan checked the rearview mirror and, with one last glance over her shoulder at the encampment, pulled away.

“Keeping an eye on the travellers?” Penny asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. I want to make it really obvious that we’re keeping them under surveillance.”

“But why you? That seems like something an ordinary police officer could do. Surely it doesn’t need someone with a DI rank.”

“Oh, I needed a little quiet thinking time on my own,” said Bethan. “You know how it is. And sometimes I just like to see things for myself.” She shifted gears. “How’s everything with you?”

“I had an unexpected visitor last night. Gareth sent me a text and then dropped by to tell me to keep my doors locked,” Penny said.

“Quite right, too,” said Bethan. “As a police officer, I always recommend that people keep their doors locked. It would save us no end of bother if folks would take our advice. Seems strange, though, his coming all the way from Edinburgh to advise you to lock your doors.” She cast a quick glance at Penny and grinned. “Hell, I could have told you that. I didn’t know he was back. I wonder how long for.”

“I don’t know,” said Penny. “He mentioned he had some personal business to take care of. He didn’t stay very long. I’d had a long day, and I was hungry and tired and just wanted to get on with my dinner, to be honest. I didn’t ask too many questions and he didn’t volunteer much information.”

“Still, it’s a bit odd he drove over to yours to warn you about the travellers, because the encampment only went up last evening.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Penny. “He had to have driven by to have seen them, to know that they’re there. So it occurred to me that he must have been on his way over to my place anyway, and then the travellers became a convenient excuse to call in. If there was another reason, he never got around to it. But I’m interested in the travellers. Did you speak to them at all this morning?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?’

“I wondered if they’re Irish, that’s all.”

“Oh, I don’t need to speak to them to know that they’re Irish. They’ve been here before and are known to us. Why do you ask?”

“I’m not really sure. It just seems that there’s a lot of Irish coincidences in my life right now. I’m pretty sure I spotted Michael Quinn in town on Sunday, coming out of the pub. I didn’t see his face clearly, so it’s possible, I suppose, that I’m mistaken, but the man that I saw certainly walked like him. He had that limp and I had a very strong sense that this person was none other than Michael Quinn.”

“Michael Quinn? From the antiques show?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he just lives in Bangor, so it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for him to have come to Llanelen on a Sunday, I suppose. Maybe he was here to enjoy a Sunday lunch with friends. Was he with anyone?” Was he with his wife, you probably mean, thought Penny.

“No, he was by himself. Came out of the pub, crossed the square, and disappeared round behind the bank.”

“Hmm. And when DCI Davies—sorry, old habit, Gareth—visited you, did you discuss what happened at the Hall on Saturday night?”

“No. As I said, I was that tired. I didn’t have the energy or inclination to get into a conversation with him about Saturday night, or anything else, for that matter. It had been such a long day, and I was drained. I just wanted to be left alone to eat my dinner.”

Bethan laughed. “Oh, poor you. I know that feeling so well. ‘It’s just not the right time. I’m so not into this right now.’”

“That’s exactly what it was like.” Penny then brought the conversation back to Saturday night. “But speaking of the events at the Hall, I wondered if you’ve got the postmortem results yet.”

Bethan slowed down and flicked her turn signal. “We have. Rhodri Phillips died from a blow to the head, just about here.” She raised her hand off the gear lever and tapped the left side of her head. “Probably with a stone or rock, something heavy and hard like that, of uneven shape. The pathologist couldn’t be too specific. Possibly a brick, even. And then his head injury was complicated by the effects of hypothermia. He was out in the cold and rain for some time.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Penny. “Do you mean that if we’d found him sooner, he might have survived?”

“He might have,” said Bethan. “But you mustn’t blame yourself. You weren’t to know.”

“The head injury. It was slippery out there,” said Penny. “In the dark, in the rain, could he have fallen and hit his head?”

“Not a chance,” said Bethan.

“Because?”

“Because whatever made contact with his head wasn’t there. If he’d fallen and hit his head, we’d have found the rock or whatever it was beside him, or at least nearby. We didn’t find anything like that.”

“Could he have been attacked elsewhere and then somehow ended up where I found him?” Penny asked.

“The forensics from inside the house hasn’t shown anything to indicate the attack took place there, and there was nothing on his clothes or shoes to lead us to think he’d been attacked anywhere other than where he was found.”

Penny thought that over. “So Rhodri was outside, in the rain, at the back of the house. Why? Had he just gone out for a smoke or to use his phone, interrupted the robbery in progress, and tried to stop it? Or had he been part of it … he’d let someone into the house and then gone outside with them? And then they got into an argument, then whoever it was hit him, Rhodri went down, and whoever it was disappeared with the rock or stone?”

“That’s too much speculation at this point,” said Bethan. “And as for the rock, or whatever it was that he was hit with, unfortunately it could be at the bottom of the river by now.” She gave the River Conwy a fluttery little wave as they drove alongside it. “We may never find the rock or brick, but that wouldn’t be unusual. We don’t always find the murder weapons because we’re not always on-scene that quickly.”

They’d reached the town limits. “Have you had a chance to speak to Lane yet about the people who threatened him on Saturday night?” Penny asked. “I’m worried about him. It could be the same people who attacked Rhodri. At least, I’m assuming it was more than one person. Lane said ‘they’ told him he’d be in big trouble if he told anyone what happened.”

Bethan did not reply and a few moments later slowed the vehicle and parked near the town square. She switched off the ignition and shifted sideways in her seat. Penny did the same so they were turned slightly toward each other.

“It could be the same people,” Bethan said.

“So that’s a real concern. And even if he’s not in actual, real danger, if Lane imagines he is, goodness knows how he’ll react or what he’ll do. Something really frightened him, and that’s why he ran off to hide with Dilys. He was still frightened when he talked to me on Sunday. He does know something, and I think he wants to tell us, but he’s afraid to because of that threat hanging over him. I know it’s hard to get information out of him, but I thought he might be ready to talk by now. It’s really important to find out who spoke to him.”

As soon as the words had escaped her lips, Penny hoped she hadn’t come across as telling Bethan how to manage her case. Bethan’s response was smooth and measured.

“I’ll send someone to talk to him today, if I can. He’s on our list, of course, as is everyone who was there that night, but with our limited resources, we can’t get to everyone all at once. We’ve been interviewing the waiters and the guests and that’s been very time-consuming. So far, the guests have turned up nothing. All pillars of the community, and nobody saw anything. Same with the waiters. They did what they were supposed to do and took remarkably little interest in anything else going on around them. And, of course, we’ve been looking into the life of our victim, Rhodri Phillips. Trying to piece together his last few days. What he did, who he was with.”

Penny decided to chance it. “And?”

“And nothing. Yet. The problem at this point is not just that I don’t have the rabbit; I don’t even have a hat. But something’ll turn up. You just have to have faith in the process. One piece of information, one observation, one answered question will give us a bit of traction, and when we get that break, everything will start to come together.”

Penny gathered up her handbag and lunch. “I’d better get going. Like you, we’re short-staffed. Rhian is needed at home with her family, so we’re all doubling up on reception duty.” She placed her hand on the car door. “Lane said something on Sunday that’s bothering me, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. It actually kept me awake last night trying to remember. I just feel if I can remember what he said, it might start us off in the right direction.”

“Then I hope it comes to you,” said Bethan. “There’s always that one light bulb moment that, if it doesn’t exactly crack the case wide open, at least shines enough light to pry it open a little. And if you think this thing that Lane said—whatever it is—could do that, if it’s that important, then please think harder.”

Penny waved Bethan off and waited until she had disappeared up Station Road in the direction of the police station before crossing the town square. She reached the Spa’s black wrought iron gate, pushed it open, reminding herself for the thousandth time that they really must do something about its awful squeaking, and walked down the path that led to the Spa’s front door. As she entered, Victoria looked up from the reception desk, looking much calmer and better organized than Penny had the day before when she’d tried to open the business for the day. They exchanged morning pleasantries and Victoria held out several weekly magazines. “The news agent just dropped these off. If you don’t mind gathering up the magazines from reception and the quiet room,” she said, “and putting out the new ones. I’ll take last week’s Country Life, and Eirlys takes Woman’s Weekly home to her mother.”

“How do the appointments look for this morning?” Penny asked as she reached out for the magazines.

“A few for you, Alberto’s booked solid, and Eirlys will cover reception over the lunch hour. We’re good.”

Penny set off down the hall to the quiet room. A small space reserved for private conversations or a reflective moment alone, it was decorated in soothing, sophisticated neutral colours of cream and taupe and featured two deep, squishy chairs upholstered in chocolate brown faux suede arranged to face each other and a low coffee table between them. On a small floating shelf mounted under a watercolour of the Spa building as it had been before its renovation, painted by Penny herself, a grouping of LED candles, there to provide a convincing atmosphere without the fire hazard, waited to be switched on. At Penny’s touch they flickered into artificial life.

She then turned her attention to the magazines on the coffee table. Leaving the monthly ones, she scooped up the weeklies, swapping two current ones for last week’s. She arranged the magazines neatly and took one last look around the room to make sure it was tidy. She was just about to leave when a cover line on Country Life caught her attention. ALSTON COURT, SUFFOLK: A VIVID INSIGHT INTO TUDOR LIVING ON THE GRAND SCALE.

She picked up the magazine and sank into a chair. With the publication resting on her knee, she ran her finger under the cover line, her finger pausing at the word “grand.”

Grand! That’s the word Lane had used that had been eluding her. What had he said? She’d asked him what he thought of something and he’d replied that it sounded like a grand idea, or words to that effect. It was such a strange word choice for him. He’d used the word “grand” in a decidedly Irish way, the way an Irish person would. Not grand in the sense of great or magnificent, but grand in the sense of fine.

He must have been talking to an Irish person, Penny thought, and picked up the word usage from them. Of course it didn’t necessarily follow that he’d heard someone say the word “grand” on Saturday night, but then again, it was a possibility. She felt a vague stirring of excitement, the feeling that she might be on to something, or at the very least, that this was something worth pursuing. The big question remained: who had spoken to Lane at the Hall on Saturday night and put fear into him on such a grand scale?