Hell Hath No Fury (23 page)

But it hadn't. Maggie had given up nursing, insisting that they'd be happier living in the country than in a town.

‘We'll find a village like the one where I grew up,' she told him. ‘After a few months people will accept you, and you'll forget about your limp.'

‘But not about my face!' His fingers traced the livid scars that ran from the corner of his left eye down to his chin, a permanent memento of his crash.

‘Three months and no one will see that,' she promised.

‘How do you make that out?'

‘Grow a beard!'

He'd taken her advice. It had taken longer than three months, but once it was established, dark and thick, covering his cheeks and chin, the scar was almost invisible.

There had been one other stroke of good fortune. The manufacturers of the car he'd been driving when the accident had happened desperately wanted to hush up the fact that the car had been faulty. Their compensation was extremely generous.

Knowing how much he loved cars, and realizing that he would never be able to race again, Maggie had suggested they should invest the money in a garage. ‘My uncle has a garage in Pontydaren, not far from Brecon,' she told him. ‘He's talking about retiring soon. Why not go and work with him for a few months and see if you like the idea of running a garage? If you do, then you could buy it off him.'

Like all Maggie's suggestions it had been a winner. Four months later her uncle had moved out of the garage into a small cottage in the village, and Simon and Maggie had moved into the three-bedroom bungalow that adjoined the garage.

That had been almost ten years ago, Simon reflected. What had been little more than a filling station selling spares, now had its own repair bays and car wash and kept him busy from first thing in the morning until dusk.

Being on the main road from Brecon to Builth Wells there was plenty of passing trade during the summer months, and even in winter there was enough repair work, as well as the odd passer-by dropping in for fuel, to keep him going. Like the woman this evening, the one he was sure he knew from somewhere.

‘Well, she certainly didn't recognize you or she'd have said so,' Maggie pointed out when he brought the subject up again as they were undressing for bed.

It wasn't until after they'd put the lights out, that Simon remembered.

‘I was at school with her,' he exclaimed, startling Maggie.

‘What are you on about?' she mumbled sleepily, pulling the duvet up over her ears.

‘That woman I was telling you about, the one who came for petrol just before I closed tonight. I was at school with her in Benbury. I can't remember what her name was. Mary . . . Mandy . . . Something like that. We were in the Upper Sixth . . . She was the only girl in our year who passed her A-levels. Maureen! That was her name. I remember it now. Maureen . . . Maureen Flynn.'

D
avy Howells prided himself on having the best kept household waste disposal tip in Wales . . . or in Great Britain for that matter. Two years running, LLansilin had won the Municipal Environment Award. And he intended it should do so again this year. Three awards in as many years! A hat trick!

This year he was planning a garden theme. He was going to build a patio outside his caravan using all the broken stone slabs that were lying around the place. Then he'd arrange flower boxes, and conifers in tubs, around the edges and various garden ornaments and gnomes standing between them. He might even put out one or two of the garden tables and plastic chairs he'd rescued from the skips and stacked up behind his caravan. None of them matched, but if he fixed up a couple of the garden umbrellas he'd salvaged it would look quite continental.

Living on the site, like he did, he took a pride in making his surroundings look attractive. And he made sure that no one ruined his efforts by dumping bags of rubbish anywhere except in the appropriate skip!

Nothing annoyed Davy more than when someone put glass in with paper, or rags in the skip marked ‘Metal Only'. He labelled them all clearly enough, It was sheer carelessness. Lack of respect because it was a rubbish tip.

Such people totally ignored his hard work in trying to keep the place looking clean and attractive, and he hated them for it. It took him all his time not to show it. One of these days when someone messed up his lovely clean paths after he'd swept them, or dumped rubbish in the wrong skip, he knew he would thump them!

What roused him even more than all these things was when people arrived late, found he had locked the six foot high iron gates, and left their bags of rubbish outside it. More often than not, before he found them next morning, the foxes, or stray dogs, would scratch a great hole in the side of the bag, spilling the contents all over the roadway in front of the gate.

The very next time that happened he intended calling the police. He wasn't quite sure what sort of charge it would be, but he was sure he'd be able to think of one if they could trace the person who'd left the bag.

The double iron gates of the Llansilin household waste site were not simply closed but securely locked when Maureen Flynn drew up outside.

She felt incensed. Fancy locking the gates! Who on earth would want to steal anything from a rubbish tip, she thought angrily as she rattled them to make sure they really were locked.

Now what was she to do, she wondered. She didn't want to turn up at her parents' house with the black plastic bag still in the boot of her car, yet she daren't leave it propped up against the gates in case a fox, or some other animal, ripped it open before morning.

It was a pity one of the skips wasn't near enough for her to toss the bag straight in. The only alternative was to toss the bag over and rely on the fact that whoever unlocked the gate in the morning and found it lying there would dump it into the skip.

No, that was too risky, she decided. She was about to turn away when she saw there was a light shining in the caravan parked just inside the gates, and through the uncurtained window she could see a man moving about inside the caravan. Maureen rattled the iron gates as noisily as she could, hoping to attract his attention.

In the stillness that bathed Llansilin the noise was deafening. The man paused in what he was doing, peered out of the window, and to her relief came out of the caravan. He didn't come over to the gates, but stood on the pathway waving at her to go away.

‘We're closed! Come back in the morning.'

‘I can't do that,' she yelled back. ‘I have to go to work.'

Grumbling, he walked over to the gates and unbolted them. He may as well take the stuff in as have to pick it up from the path in the morning, he thought. At least she hadn't just left the bags and cleared off. ‘Give it here!'

‘No, I'll put it in the skip myself,' she told him.

‘Oh no! I'm not letting anyone past these gates once they're locked for the night,' he told her stubbornly, and he grabbed at the black plastic bag she was holding.

For a split second they stood there glaring at each other, neither prepared to relinquish their hold on the bag. With a sudden jerk, he pulled it from her, and he immediately slammed the iron gates and began bolting them from his side.

Knowing there was nothing she could do, Maureen backed away. ‘Thanks!' she shouted over her shoulder as she reached her car.

Now that the bag was gone she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She began to wonder why on earth she had got so worked up and come all this way simply to get away from Benbury.

She drove on in a daze, wondering if she had panicked over nothing. When the signposts indicated that she had only about another five miles to go she was filled with misgivings as to whether she was doing the right thing in visiting her parents. They were bound to ask questions about why she was there, and why she hadn't let them know in advance that she was coming.

Perhaps she should turn round and go back to Benbury!

She'd disposed of the evidence, and there was no way anyone could ever link anything in the black plastic bag to her, so what was she worrying about? All along she'd been incredibly careful never to leave a single clue so that there was nothing at all that could be traced to her.

She'd achieved what she'd set out to do. All four of the boys who'd raped her when she'd been eighteen were now dead, and the police didn't have the slightest indication who might have killed them.

Even though there wasn't the remotest reason why they should connect her with the crime, it might be better if she went back to Dutton, however, and lived as she normally did. She didn't know many people, but her neighbours were probably aware of her routine, even if she didn't study theirs.

Still undecided about what to do, she decided to stop at the next pub she came to and have a drink. A celebration all on her own, she told herself as she pulled into the car park of the Golden Lamb. And while she was having it she'd make her mind up about whether to go back to Dutton or carry on and visit her parents.

A log fire was blazing in the lounge bar, but the customers were all in the public bar, engrossed in a game of darts. The barman broke away just long enough to serve her with a drink.

Maureen took her glass of vodka and tonic over to one of the tables near the fire. Warm and comfortable, she sat there sipping her drink and relaxed. The background noises of the darts game, and the television suspended on a bracket over the bar, lulled her senses so that she could easily have drifted off to sleep.

Suddenly, she was wide awake. The news programme was on, and the announcer was giving details of Dennis Jackson's murder.

‘The police are anxious to trace a man and a woman who may be able to help them with their enquiries.'

She stared in horror as two photographs were flashed on to the screen.

‘They are Maureen Flynn and Simon Gould,' went on the crisp tones of the announcer. ‘These pictures were taken a number of years ago. Photofit experts state these two people could now look like this.'

Two more faces appeared, artists impressions of what the two people might possible look sixteen years later.

When Maureen saw the one of herself she almost laughed aloud with relief. It bore no resemblance to what she looked like. In the photofit her hair was shoulder length, and she looked plump-faced and motherly.

She drained her glass and left. There was no question of visiting her parents now. They had probably seen the news, and they would be bound to recognize the photo taken when she was eighteen. They might remember Dennis Jackson's name, too! She hadn't thought of that. He was the only one whose name they would remember. She wasn't even sure if she had told them the names of the other boys who'd been involved.

No, she must get right away. But where? No one in Dutton knew she had once lived in Benbury. And they certainly wouldn't recognize her from those pictures on TV, so it might be best to go back to her flat and simply act as though nothing had happened. She could lie low until all the hullabaloo about the murders died down.

Or she could pack some clothes, clear everything out of the flat and simply disappear. She could go abroad! She had enough money saved up to live on for a few months. Take a train to France then start a new life. Researchers were always wanted in EEC countries.

If she didn't like living in Europe she could always come home again. Not back to Benbury, of course. London would be safe though. Or Dublin. She quite fancied living in Ireland. America might be a safer place to hide. But she'd need a work permit if she went there!

Her mind was a seething whirlpool of confusion. She couldn't decide what to do for the best. Except to head back south. Return to her flat and act as if nothing had happened.

There wasn't a shred of evidence to connect her with the murders, she reminded herself. She was positive about that.

Even if the police did trace her from that photograph, it wouldn't really matter. She'd have to admit she had known Moorhouse, and Franklin, and all the others when she'd been at school, but she could say that she'd never seen any of them again after she'd left Benbury. No one, except her parents, had any idea why she'd left, and they had been so ashamed by what happened that they were hardly likely to tell anyone now.

No, she was quite safe, absolutely in the clear, as long as she kept her nerve and acted normally.

‘D'ye mean to tell me, boyo, that you've dragged us all the way out here simply to tell us that someone tossed a black bag full of rubbish over the gates last night after you were closed?'

‘No, no, no! Of course not,' Davy Howells exclaimed indignantly. ‘If I called you out every time some inconsiderate person did that then you'd be living on my doorstep.'

‘So what is the problem?'

‘This bin bag, see. Brought to the gate after I'd closed last night—'

‘I thought you said that wasn't the reason,' Sergeant Thomas interrupted sharply. ‘Look, Howells, I told you . . .'

‘Hold on, hold on, Sarge. Hear me out, man!'

‘Go on, then.'

‘Well, it's not the bag, see. Like I told you, they're always tossing them over the gate, or leaving them on the path outside. This one is different. A woman came with it, and she stood there rattling the gate until I came out, see!'

Sergeant Thomas's face hardened. ‘So?'

‘It's what's inside it, see!'

‘So what is inside it . . . A body?'

The sergeant laughed at his own joke, then stopped when he saw the uneasy look on Davy Howells' face. ‘It's not a body, is it?'

‘Not exactly. I think it might have something to do with a body though.'

‘What do you mean?' The banter had gone from Sergeant Thomas's voice. Now it was sharp, questioning.

‘Look for yourself.' Davy Howells opened the neck of the black plastic bag and upended it, tipping the contents on to the ground in front of them. ‘See what I mean!' Davy pointed to the miscellany of clothes and the pair of trainers. ‘They're all brand new!' He bent down to pick up one of the trainers. ‘Perfect, except for a dark stain on the toe of one of them.'