Gwyn found it on his laptop. She was leaving the inquest, wearing dark glasses, a slight figure in a black coat, black beret aslant on her long blond hair, white in the monochrome picture.
‘Doesn’t look like her,’ Robin said. ‘But then…’
Bliss bent to the screen.
‘Let’s just deal with this. How come nobody recognized her when she came back?’
‘Who’d recognize her anyway?’ Gwyn said. ‘After thirty years? Nobody in the town really knew Mephista. Even the man who was in the Convoy and settled here had no particular memories of her, except for the name. And a skinny blonde, now decades older, dark-haired, heavier?’
‘And why did she come back?’
‘I can speculate, but it’s no more than that. I’m not a policeman any more. Can’t take statements.’
‘Because in my experience,’ Bliss said, ‘all that about people returning to the scene of the crime is an exaggeration. Just as often, they put as much distance as they can. Especially if they’re only an accessory. You’re sure this is her?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of that, if little else. Even contriving, on a warm day, to see the remains of the tattoo. No longer a convincing swastika but not entirely removed.’
Nobody had noticed Jeeter Kapoor coming back with the VHS machine.
‘Didn’t like to say anyfing, but when you close your eyes… that laugh… it is, innit?’
Merrily was keeping out of it. She didn’t know these people, hadn’t seen them until today. Neither, she assumed, had Bliss.
Had she heard the laugh? Maybe.
You tell them, girlie.
A likeable woman. Sexy and fun. The laugh had come easily. It would be one of the regular sounds that fizzed over the barchat, just as it had over the tape-hiss.
‘Listen,’ Robin said. ‘Can we like spell this out? Two questions. One – is Gwenda really Gore Turrell’s mother? And two—’
‘Yes,’ Gwyn Arthur said. ‘Thank you, boy. I think we all know what the second question is.’
No business of his. Not a policeman any more. And even if he were, it was hardly uncommon in the hills. Well, Merrily knew that. Brothers and sisters, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters – consider the famous Eric Gill at Capel-y-ffin. No one harmed, and if there was no under-age business involved, blind eyes might be turned.
‘Gwenda and Gore,’ Gwyn said, ‘they were accepted by the people frequenting the bar. Or at least she was – he was perhaps a bit aloof, but always obliging. A glamorous older woman and a fairly unassuming young man – not a partnership likely to incite much comment. And I had no reason, see, until now, to believe that incest might be far from the worst of their crimes.’
‘Somebody must’ve pointed you at them, Gwyn,’ Bliss said. ‘Not as if they look much alike, is it?’
‘Ah, you settle somewhere in retirement, it’s hard to turn off the old instincts. You get to know more people and their backgrounds. Especially the incomers. The white settlers, as we used to call them. Usually happy to talk, lay out their credentials for being here. Gwenda and Gore, now – very friendly, but revealing little. Gore’s a mystery. Spends a lot of time on recreational running – but not in an ostentatious way. Often turning out before dawn, arriving back from the hills before the bar opens. Competes in marathons he never seems to win, though always well placed. Nothing to draw attention to himself.’
Merrily glanced at Bliss. Had that been sufficient reason for Gwyn Arthur Jones to investigate these people, delve into their history? Had to be more to this.
‘They have an extensive apartment,’ Gwyn said, ‘behind and above the bar to which few people have ever been invited. But the visiting builders and plumbers of my acquaintance report a quantity of sophisticated fitness equipment. And no books at all. No books. An economy founded on books, and their biggest customers are booksellers, but no books… what’s that saying?’
‘Suggests they aren’t particularly… in sympathy with the Hay ethos,’ Merrily said. ‘What else did you find out?’
‘There was a second marriage. And a profitable divorce. A Mr Carter, owner of a restaurant in Cardiff. And then Mr Protheroe, who I know nothing about, yet. Except that he’s no longer in the picture.’
On the hottest night of the year so far, Merrily felt physically cold. She saw Bliss’s discomfort, saw Robin’s pain translated into the paleness of his skin. Jeeter Kapoor just sitting there, blinking, chewing his lower lip, clearly wondering if he should say something.
‘All right,’ Bliss said, ‘the worst of their crimes. What are the worst of their crimes?’