Grounds for Appeal (28 page)

One of the youngest detective constables came in with two cups of tea and a plate of McVitie's digestive biscuits.

‘I like a proper cup and saucer,' declared Meirion, lifting a yellow cup with Royal Welsh Show 1927 emblazoned on it. ‘Can't be doing with this new fad for thick mugs . . . like drinking with a lot of navvies on a building site.'

Trevor grinned to himself at this unsuspected fad from a policeman who looked as if he could wrestle an ox, but then brought his mind back to the current problem.

‘So what do we do next? Knowing this chap Beran used to be a gangster doesn't take us any further forward in our murder without more evidence.'

It was Thursday afternoon before some help in that direction arrived. Hartnell and his fellow DI were treated to lunch by David John Jones, going down the promenade to a small hotel which had one of the few restaurants open in the depths of winter. After a couple of pints of Felinfoel bitter, they sat down to a leek soup, which the other two said was
cawl
. It was followed by a good steak and three veg. A rich bread-and-butter pudding made Trevor suspect that the rigours of a decade of rationing may not have been so severe in Cardiganshire as in Birmingham and by the time he had walked back to the police headquarters and climbed all those stairs, he was glad to be able to drop into a chair in the office he had borrowed.

However, his rest was short-lived, as within minutes, Meirion Thomas appeared at the door.

‘Just had the forensic people on the line from Cardiff,' he announced. ‘They've found human blood in the samples they took from the van! No doubt about it, they said, it certainly wasn't just animal. Not only that, but it's Group B, Rhesus negative, whatever that means. Doctor Rees says that B negative is relatively unusual. Only about eight per cent of the population are B, but only two per cent are B-negative.'

‘Are you going to tell me what I hope you're going to tell me?' asked Hartnell, rising from his chair.

‘Yes, Philip Rees confirmed that the corpse in the bog was also B-negative! Doesn't prove it was his blood in the van, but it's a damn good bet that it was!'

Though after a decade or so, urgency was not really a prime consideration, the looming imminence of Christmas sent the detectives back out to Beran's cottage that same afternoon. Trevor Hartnell was especially anxious to get home next day, to avoid his wife's exasperation, though after eight years as a policeman's wife she was getting used to his inconvenient absences.

Sergeant Parry drove them in a black Wolseley 6/80, the archetypal post-war British police car, and parked it across the front of Gelli Derwen cottage. He sat in the car with a uniformed constable in the front passenger seat, while Meirion and Hartnell went to the door, where once again a dog's bark turned to a whine after they had banged on the panels. After a delay, James Brown dragged the door open and scowled at them.

‘Now what you want?' he growled through the crack allowed by the length of security chain on the inside.

‘We want you to come with us to the police station in Aberystwyth to answer some questions,' announced Meirion Thomas.

‘Go to hell, I done nothing!' was the response. ‘I told you last time, I know nothing about what you talk.'

‘That was before we found blood soaked into the floor of your old van,' snapped Thomas.

There was a coarse laugh from behind the door. ‘What the hell you talk about? That damn farmer had my van for years. He carry all sorts of animals in it, plenty of blood.'

‘Not human blood, the same type as the man buried down in the bog there!' Hartnell gestured over his shoulder at the huge marsh in the distance behind him.

Beran's response was unexpected. He closed the door, his visitors expecting him to unhook the chain inside, but instead there was a click as the lock engaged.

‘The bugger's shut it on us!' snapped Meirion and hammered on the panel. There was a momentary silence, then a muffled whine of pain from the dog inside, but the door remained obstinately closed.

‘He may be doing a runner!' shouted Trevor. ‘Let's get around the back.'

As they started to trot around the cracked cement path that went around one side of the cottage, there was the sudden roar of a motorcycle engine starting up. By the time they reached the back corner of the building, they saw Beran flying past them on the other side of a straggling hedge, where a side lane ran out towards the road.

‘He can't get far, the number of his bike will be on record,' shouted Meirion.

Beran didn't get far, for as soon as he heard the engine start up, Gwyn Parry had moved the Wolseley forward so that it blocked the narrow exit to the lane. He reached it just before Beran's BSA, which skidded in a desperate attempt to squeeze through the closing gap and fell on its side. The sergeant and constable were on him before he could get his leg from under the bike and in seconds, the PC's handcuffs were snapped around his wrists.

The two detective inspectors hurried up, just as Gwyn hauled the would-be fugitive to his feet.

‘Put him in the car, sergeant, we'll take him back to Aber.'

Meirion turned to the constable. ‘You'd better stay here and keep an eye on the place until we get back. And look after that poor dog, will you?'

Jaroslav Beran – neither of the detectives could think of him as James Brown now – stood glowering at them, but was keeping his mouth firmly closed. Dressed in a grubby pair of canvas trousers and a thick navy-blue jumper, he offered no resistance as he was pushed into the back of the police car. Meirion sat alongside him and Trevor went into the front alongside Gwyn Parry as they drove back to Aberystwyth.

‘Where were you thinking of going on that bike?' asked Meirion, conversationally. ‘Back to Birmingham, was it?'

Beran remained mute, as he did when he was taken to a dismal interview room on the ground floor of the police station on the Esplanade. However, after being given a cup of tea and a cigarette, he unbent enough to complain that he had done nothing wrong and that they had kidnapped him unlawfully.

‘I reckon your parole has gone down the tubes now,' advised Trevor Hartnell. ‘Obstructing the police in the course of their duties is enough for that. And now we want an explanation of how you happened to have had a van which has traces of human blood in the back.'

Vehemently, Beran argued that he knew nothing about it. ‘The bloody van had many owners before me, you find the log book and see their names,' he snarled. ‘Then I sold it to a farmer, they all carried black-market meat for years.'

Meirion for once felt the urge to be facetious.

‘I know this is Cardiganshire, but even so, there's not many cannibals around these parts. This was human blood, of a rare group which was the same as that body found less than half a mile from your cottage.'

Hartnell took up the questioning. ‘Funny you should mention black-market meat. We know you were mixed up with Mickey Doyle in Birmingham years ago. He ran rustling and illegal meat rackets, didn't he? Is this all to do with that?'

For the first time, Jaroslav failed to deny anything. He sat staring down at the table, his cigarette burning down unheeded between his fingers.

‘Listen, we want some answers,' continued the Birmingham DI. ‘Firstly, who was this man in the bog? Secondly, how did he die – and finally, did you kill him?'

The last question jerked Beran into sudden animation.

‘No, I not bloody kill him! Don't try to hang that on me!' he flared.

‘Hang it on you might be quite near the mark, Jaroslav!' said Meirion heavily. ‘You can still hang in this country, you know. Both for murder or even being an accessory to killing.'

Trevor Hartnell nodded his agreement. ‘But you might be able to do yourself some good if you're helpful to us by telling us everything you know.'

For a moment, they thought the Czech might be about to ‘cough'. But then the obstinate expression came back across his heavy features. Having learned about criminal proceedings from hard experience, he uttered the words he knew were his best defence.

‘I want lawyer – now!' he muttered.

TWENTY

I
t was now Friday, the day before Christmas Eve, and as everyone at Garth House was planning to be away over the coming holiday, there seemed little point in hanging up festive decorations in an empty house. Moira was going to Newport to spend three days with her sister and Angela was off to Berkshire for the whole week. Sian was going home to her large family in Chepstow and Richard was off to his parents in Merthyr Tydfil, though as he had agreed to be on call for the police until Boxing Day, he was leaving his contact number with the forensic science laboratory in Cardiff. Though there were no chains of coloured paper festooning the rooms, Moira had put up several sprays of red-berried holly from a tree in her garden – and Sian had hopefully hung a sprig of mistletoe from a light in the staff room.

The following week was a barren one for getting much work done. Though more people died over this period, from road accidents, suicides and increased natural disease precipitated by cold weather, overeating and overdrinking, the legal machinery ground to a halt for quite a few days, as solicitors' offices were closed, coroners held no inquests and the other courts were suspended. However, the police and forensic pathologists had to carry on as usual – and in fact, the homicide rate increased slightly, mainly due to more alcohol-induced disputes. Richard had arranged with the several coroners' officers with whom he dealt to begin post-mortems again on Wednesday, as a Sunday Christmas meant that an additional day's holiday was due after Boxing Day.

After lunch on Friday, they held a modest office party in the staff room, where they exchanged Christmas presents and spent an hour in pleasant relaxation. Richard contributed a bottle of Harveys sherry and one of Mateus Rose, while Angela brought Gordon's gin, her favoured tipple, and a bottle of cherry brandy.

Moira had made mince pies and an iced cake with Santa and reindeer decorations. Jimmy came in long enough to drink two pint bottles of Rhymney Bitter, then vanished on one of his mysterious expeditions with friends ‘up the valley', which Richard suspected involved shotguns and dogs.

They ate and drank in a convivial mood, looking back contentedly at the first seven months of their forensic venture and looking forward to even more success in the coming year. No one was driving that day, so the level in bottles dropped without challenge and as it did, so the level of chatter and gossip rose. Their more memorable cases were revisited and the star event was, of course, the Body in the Bog.

‘Haven't heard a word from the cops about it lately,' said Richard, relaxing deeply into the sagging armchair that had once belonged to Aunt Gladys. It sounds as if the trail has gone cold – hardly surprising after more than ten years.'

He was about to add that even Scotland Yard had given up and gone home, but looking across at Angela, he decided to close his mouth, as he knew she did not want to be reminded of Paul Vickers.

‘What happens when an investigation stalls like this?' asked Moira. ‘Does the coroner just put the file on the top shelf and forget about it?'

Richard warmed to her abiding interest in legal matters.

‘No, eventually he will have to hold an inquest, but inevitably there would be an “open verdict”, which allows the body to be buried, but leaves the option for a later criminal trial or a reopened inquest, if further evidence ever comes to light.'

Moira, a couple of glasses of wine making her less reserved than usual, broached a subject that she had been nurturing for some time.

‘My eyes have been opened since I've been with you all,' she said, rather emotionally. ‘You all are experts in various things and I've just been stagnating, especially since I lost my husband. It's time I did something myself. Doctor Pryor, if I tried to start training as a lawyer next year, would you help me, please? You know so many solicitors, barristers and all about college applications and so on.'

Though it was hardly a Christmas party topic, Richard was immensely pleased that he seemed to have stimulated someone to move on to better things.

‘Of course I would, Moira. I'd be delighted to do what I can. Let's talk about it after the holiday. It can be your New Year resolution!'

Angela and Sian also added their encouragement. ‘Only on condition you find us someone who can cook as well as you!' chaffed Angela. ‘Seriously, it's a great idea. I'm sure you'd do well. You could be a QC cross-examining me before very long!'

Sian came across and gave Moira a hug. ‘You'll knock them out, a great girl like you!' she enthused. ‘Why not go the whole hog and do a degree, like me? I know you've got double matriculation from your School Certificate, so you could apply to Cardiff or London. There are grants for mature students; you could start next October.'

Richard beamed like a benevolent father with his forensic family. ‘That would give us time to scour the kingdom for a secretary almost as good as you!'

Moira, throwing caution to the winds, went over to Richard and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes moist with gratitude to these good friends. After a hug for Angela and another for Sian, she pulled herself together and demanded that they all tucked into her mince pies and iced cake.

As they ate, Richard proposed a few toasts, primarily to the continued success of Garth House Consultancy and all who sailed in her. Then Angela raised her glass to Millie Wilson, who was languishing in Holloway Prison. ‘Let's hope we can do her some good at the Appeal,' she said sincerely. ‘I'm afraid she won't be having much of a Christmas this year.'

They all drank to Millie, then Sian reminded them of another apparently stalled case.

‘I expect that the Dumas family won't be too happy this year, either,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry for the poor mother, yearning to believe that this chap from Siam really is her lost baby, but not knowing if it's true.'