The afternoon was drifting into evening when I received an email from Faye. Her task as a mystery guest was complete. She would take a two-day break in Mid-Wales to recharge her batteries, then home to Marlowe and me. Although I’d enjoyed the reminder of old times, when I’d performed my tasks as a solo operator, it would be good to see her again and revel in her company.
I was leaning back in my office chair, reflecting on Faye, when the telephone rang. It was Maya.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about what you said. I’d like to meet you, in secret, to talk.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Westland’s,” she said. “You know, the disused colliery.”
I paused and made a mental note of the location. “Okay,” I said. “When?”
“My husband mustn’t know,” Maya insisted, her tone troubled, on edge.
“He won’t find out from me. When would you like to meet?”
“In an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and she broke the connection.
Westland’s was a disused coalmine situated to the north of the city. The land had been partially reclaimed and used as a marketplace, and for Sunday morning car boot sales. However, health and safety had discovered subsidence in the area and had closed the market accordingly. A wild, lonely, desolate spot, we could meet there in secret.
However, I remained in two minds about Maya – could I trust her? She sounded genuine, desperate to see me. With her help, maybe I could topple Osborne and obtain justice for Vittoria.
I threw my mobile phone, and my Smith and Wesson .32, into my shoulder bag and set off on my journey.
Spring had reverted to winter and, as forecast, the rain fell in torrents. Indeed, the B roads were better suited to boats than my Mini.
I splashed my way along the B roads, into the countryside, into a forest. Nine minutes late, I arrived in a clearing, at the site of the old colliery.
Maya was sitting in her Range Rover, waiting for me. While I parked, she leapt out of her vehicle and ran towards my Mini. “You weren’t followed?” she asked, her gaze furtive as she glanced around.
“No one tailed me,” I said.
I climbed out of my car, locked the door, then sought some much-needed shelter. Apart from a rusty coal wagon and a scattering of derelict mine workings, the old bathhouse offered the only place of sanctuary.
“Are you sure?” Maya persisted.
“I’m certain,” I said.
I turned the collar up on my trench coat, though it did little to protect me from the rain. In the summer, I’d follow Catrin’s fashion suggestion and don my short leather jacket. Faye wore a leather jacket and it looked great on her; mind you, Faye could wear a bin liner and she’d still look stunning, but I digress.
While looking around, searching for trouble, but finding nothing save for the ghosts of our once proud mining industry, I asked, “You want to talk?”
“I have something to show you,” Maya said. She wore a raincoat and a flowerpot hat, which perched, incongruously, atop her silky black hair. “Over here,” she insisted, “in the bathhouse.”
Splashing through the puddles, tiptoeing over rusty chains, I followed Maya to the bathhouse.
As Maya eased an oxidized bolt from its corroded catch, she glanced at me and asked, “You want to punish my husband?”
I nodded. “I want justice for Vittoria.”
“In here,” she said. “A box. Hidden behind that grill. It contains evidence of my husband’s business transactions.”
My gaze followed her long, shapely finger, which pointed to a ventilation grill, placed high in the wall. The wall was black, covered in coal dust. The old shower cubicles were black too; the dust had found its way in through cracks in the windows and walls. The windows were high, narrow and protected with wire mesh, which had rusted and fractured in places. For over a hundred years, coal had been king, the foundation stone for our towns and cities, for our roads and railways, for our ports and leisure resorts. Now, King Coal was a pauper, a dirty old man, not wanted at all.
As I stared at the ventilation grill, I asked, “The box...it contains details of match fixing, of crooked loans?”
“All the details,” Maya said.
“Why hide them here?” I asked.
“It’s safe,” she said. “The box is my insurance policy.”
“You want out of your marriage?”
She bit her lower lip, gazed down to her black boots, sighed and moaned, “Will you help me?”
“I’ll help you,” I said. I smiled and placed a hand on her arm.
While standing under the ventilation grill, I raised an arm and reached up, extended my paltry five foot five to its maximum. “I can’t reach it,” I said, “we need a ladder or a box.”
“Over there,” Maya said, pointing towards the far corner, “a box; I used it before.”
I allowed my bag to slip from my shoulder, scurried over to the box, a large, empty packing crate, and dragged it across the floor. With the crate in position, I climbed aboard. Then I ran my fingers over the grill. The grill contained a number of screws, all rusty, though they showed signs of recent wear.
“We need a screwdriver,” I said.
Maya nodded. “I’ll get one from my car.”
While Maya rummaged in her toolbox, I tried to peer through the grill, but I wasn’t tall enough. Besides, night was closing in and I required a torch. I had coal dust over my hands, over my clothes, over my face and a big black splodge on the end of my nose.
For some bizarre reason, I felt an urge to remove the black splodge, so I looked towards my shoulder bag for a tissue. However, my bag wasn’t there so I glanced over to the bathhouse door. Maya was standing outside the door, my bag in her hand. As I jumped off the packing case and ran towards the door, she threw my bag on to a mound of rain-washed coal, then secured the lock. She hadn’t retrieved a screwdriver; she’d obtained a key and a shiny new padlock.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though her tone lacked all compassion, all sincerity, “but he’s my husband and I must stand by him.”
I peered through the cracked glass to Maya, my face pressed against the grill, which covered the upper half of the door. I watched as she took backward steps, as she retreated into the darkness, into the rain.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she climbed into her Range Rover, revved the engine and drove away.
As she rounded a corner, her tail lights glowed like flames. Not once did she look over her shoulder, not once did she glance my way.
Meanwhile, I rattled the door handle and fought the urge to panic. I was locked in, trapped. I could do nothing, except sit back and wait for Osborne. I could do nothing, except maybe find religion and pray.