Meirion Thomas, sitting with his feet up on a chair, staring out at the sea, shook his head at the telephone. ‘It’s a long time ago. I was only a DC then. I can ask around with the older or retired CID men, but that would have been before he first got arrested, so he wouldn’t have come to our notice all that much.’
‘What about this van, then? Thankfully, this dealer in Ludlow took down its registration, otherwise we wouldn’t have had this break. Is it likely to be still around? Plenty of pre-war vehicles are still on the road.’
The local DI swung his feet down to the floor, ready for action.
‘I’ll check that with our County Road Tax Office — they’re in the same building as us, as it happens. Unless they’re too busy with their Christmas parties, I’ll ring you tomorrow about it. And I’ll get on with trying to find this damned Jaroslav fellow.’
After he had rung off, he clumped down the stairs and followed some passages to the other side of the big building, which still seemed reluctant to shed its atmosphere of an old hotel.
As it was past five o’clock, he expected everyone to have gone home, but found a middle-aged man and a couple of young ladies busy decorating the main office, standing on the public counter to pin up paper chains to the ceiling beams. A cardboard Father Christmas stood on a filing cabinet and a sprig of mistletoe hung from one of the lights. A bottle of Cyprus sherry was surrounded by three half-empty glasses on the counter and it seemed from their jovial and cooperative manner as if the Yuletide festivities had already started.
One of the girls found another glass and pressed a sherry upon Meirion. As he had no intention of more detecting that evening, he accepted, then announced his mission, laying on the urgency of the quest, as it ‘was related to a murder investigation’. As the Borth body was the first murder in the area for several years, they knew perfectly well what he was referring to and, with rather giggly excitement, the other young lady took his piece of paper with the registration number and went across to a long bank of metal cabinets, with scores of small drawers, each carrying index numbers.
Within a couple of moments, she returned with a card and laid it on the counter, topping up his glass at the same time.
‘There we are, Inspector! That’s all we’ve got on EJ 2652. Merry Christmas!’
He studied the details on the card, which gave the specifications of the vehicle and the list of owners since new. There were six and the last but one was Jaroslav Beran. Meirion pointed to this final name, and asked the girl, who was hovering over the counter, consumed with curiosity, ‘Does this mean he sold it on to the last chap?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, in July 1952. The current registered owner is Myrddin Evans of Ty Ganol Farm, Comins Coch.’
‘Does that mean he still has it?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘Can’t tell from that. There’s no scrapping notification and no further transfer of ownership, but often they don’t bother to tell us if it’s been taken off the road.’
‘You can’t tell if it’s still got a current Road Fund Licence, then?’
She shook her head. ‘You’d have to see the vehicle for that — or at least look at the logbook, to see if it’s been stamped to show a current payment.’
With seasonal greetings all round, he thanked them and went back to his office. First job tomorrow, he thought, was to go up to Comins Coch to see if this damned van is still there.
SEVENTEEN
In the house in the Wye Valley, there was as yet no sign of an anticipation of Christmas and work went on as usual. On Tuesday, the solicitor in Bristol phoned to confirm that the date for the Appeal was the tenth of January. After returning from his morning visit to the mortuary in Chepstow, Richard invaded Angela’s sanctum across the hall to discuss the arrangements.
‘We’ll have to stay in London for at least the previous night, as the kick-off is ten thirty in the morning,’ he said. ‘A pity it’s a Thursday.’
She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Why is it a pity?’
‘Means no chance of a dirty weekend, partner!’ he replied with one of his facetious grins.
‘You’re like an overgrown schoolboy sometimes, Richard!’ she replied with mock disgust, though she had to hide a smile of her own. ‘If I have to put up with you for a night, I suppose we could stay again at the Great Western in Paddington. It seemed so convenient for the train.’
Serious again, he nodded. ‘I’ll get Moira to ring up and make a booking. I wonder how it will turn out?’
He was referring to the Appeal itself, as until today they had heard no more from the lawyers since the conference in Bristol.
‘Are you happy with our side of the evidence?’ asked Angela, motioning to him to sit down in a swivel chair on the other side of her desk.
‘I’m quite sure that I can debunk the ridiculously over-accurate estimate of Anthony Claridge about the time of death. What about your end?’
His partner shrugged. ‘I’m absolutely sure that the blood splatter couldn’t have come from the knife; it had to be the injury to the nose. Whether or not they believe me is out of my hands.’
Richard nodded. ‘That’s not our problem. We just present the scientific truth as best we can. After that it’s up to the lawyers.’
She fixed him with her brown eyes. ‘Do you think she was guilty, Richard?’
He thought for a moment. ‘It would be wrong to say that I don’t care, as any miscarriage of justice is an affront to society, especially if it arises from bigoted minds who are more concerned with their own reputation than with the truth. But what matters to me is offering the best scientific opinion I can, without any influence from sympathy or compassion for the client. Perhaps she did kill him, but on the evidence that was presented to the trial jury, she shouldn’t have been convicted, given the alibi she had. That’s what matters to me.’
Angela nodded. ‘That’s how I feel, too. At least Millie won’t hang, whatever happens next month.’
There was silence for a time, as they both looked out across the valley, where the trees now wore their grey winter uniform. Richard, conscious of an air of sadness that had descended on them, decided to change the subject.
‘What did you think about the last part of the Dumas saga last weekend? A pity if the family get divided because of the return of the prodigal son.’
Recognizing that he was trying to divert her, Angela was grateful for his sensitivity.
‘Do you feel this chap from Thailand is genuine?’ she asked.
The final chapter of the strange story related to them by Louis Dumas was that the arrival of the alleged missing son had created a serious rift in the family. Though the father maintained a neutral scepticism until more proof was forthcoming, Emily Dumas was convinced that Pierre Fouret was her long-lost son, Maurice. When the younger Dumas, Victor, learned of the extraordinary reappearance of his brother, he exploded into a tirade of denial, both because of what he claimed was the cruel deception being played upon his parents, especially his mother, but also with an eye to his inheritance. Apart from the house and vineyard, his father had extensive property in France and the prospect of having to share it with an alleged elder brother incensed him beyond measure. He had denounced the man as a scheming impostor and every argument put forward by his parents was met with a contemptuous dismissal.
‘If he could find those facts from the army records and the old newspapers, so could anyone else, especially a confidence trickster intent on swindling you!’ he had declared, according to Louis. He refused to take part in any medical tests or to meet Pierre, threatening that if he came to the house, he would walk out on him.
The Dumases had consulted lawyers and employed an investigative agency, but they were not helpful, saying that as far as they could determine, the facts advanced by Pierre Fouret were true, but repeated what Victor had pointed out, that such public information was available to anyone who had the incentive and patience to dig deeply enough. They had contacted the Fourets in Montreal and confirmed that Pierre’s story was true as far back as his being taken by them from the orphanage, but there was no corroboration of what had happened in the years prior to that.
‘We even made enquiries through the British Embassy in Thailand,’ Louis had said. ‘But it was impossible to locate any of the nuns in the former orphanage as it had long been disbanded. Enquiries in Vietnam were out of the
