Last Tango in Aberystwyth

Next morning I put a call through to Gretel's hall of residence. It was a bit early to expect students to be up but they were made of different mettle in Lampeter and the porter told me she was out giving alms. I left a message for her to call me before evensong at the latest. Then I made some coffee and called Meirion, the crime reporter at the Gazette. He'd heard about the attack on Marmalade but no one knew what the story was. The police were just treating it as routine. He promised to let me know if he heard anything. I asked him about the man in the Peacocks' coat. Did it ring any bells? He chuckled. We both knew that on matters like this he had a whole cathedral belfry at his disposal.

'I seem to remember some sort of incident out at Ysbyty Ystwyth a while back,' he said. 'Something to do with the military, called the Ysbyty Ystwyth Experiment or something. Apparently some civilians saw something they shouldn't have and afterwards they got a visit from someone dressed the way you describe. I didn't cover the story so I don't know much but I'll dig up what I can.'

I thanked him and went downstairs to fetch the post. There was a card from Mrs Llantrisant. If ever there was a demonstration of the fact that we never really know anyone, she was it. Ten years swabbing my step and general cleaning and all along she had been planning to blow up the dam at Nant-y-moch. She'd been on Saint Madoc's Rock for eighteen months now, standing, they said, all day long on the cliff-top like a statue from Easter Island, staring out towards Aberystwyth. On fine days you could charter a boat from the harbour and look at her through binoculars. She must have earned some privileges through good behaviour to be allowed to send mail. This was the second in four months.

A pair of puffins have taken up residence in the eaves of the old wool shed. I have called them Gertie and Bertie. They dote on each other madly. Their cooing and billing fills me with joy in the gleam of the morning sun. But when evening falls and a gentle melancholy descends upon their preening a fear creeps into my heart and I have to close the shutters and banish them. Ah yes! love, that beautiful demon that devours us all in the end. I think of you and all that has passed between us and I forgive you freely with my heart because only love —for that harlot whose name I will not utter — could have made you betray me the way you did. Banished from the hearths of those I love and confronted daily with the rubble of my life, this is the truth I publish abroad: love will corrupt us more assuredly than sin.

Yours

Gertrude Ophelia Llantrisant

I dropped the card on to the table and said to the empty room, 'Wow!' Despite all that had happened I found no hatred in my heart for her. Only pity. Was her middle name really Ophelia? I put on my hat and coat, left Ionawr sleeping, and walked out.

It was a grey, damp morning and the light on the end of the harbour jetty winked sleepily. I walked to the very end of the Prom and then doubled back, my steps taking me unwittingly, or perhaps because they knew better than me where they wanted to go, to the place on Harbour Row where Bianca had died: the stigmatic stain in the tarmac that commemorated the short blasted life of an Aberystwyth harlot. The mark had faded now but the faith that her outline would return was strong among the pilgrims. The nearby guest-houses were already booked out for the week of the anniversary next summer and it didn't matter how much Domestos the ladies from the Sweet Jesus League poured on the tarmac. There was a man standing at the spot, staring down and deep in thought. It was Father Seamus. He bent down and picked up a wreath, one of the donation from the Abergavenny Rotary Club, and put it in the bin. He looked slightly embarrassed to find himself observed.

'Best place for it,' he said lamely.

'You think so?'

'We could do without this sort of nonsense.'

I nodded. 'You're a sceptic, then?'

'Don't tell me you're not, Louie?'

I shrugged. 'I am, of course, but it really did look like her, you know. And this is the exact spot where it happened.'

'It's just a stain. You could probably find one on your toilet floor that reminded you of someone if you screwed up your eyes and stared long enough. And had enough to drink.'

'True, but no one has been murdered on my toilet floor.'

Father Seamus took my arm and led me away. 'This sort of thing doesn't help, Louie. I really don't think so. These people have very pressing needs, real problems of squalor and sickness and hunger and overcrowding. Dickensian problems even ...' We walked along towards the Seaman's Mission, Father Seamus still holding my arm, although I didn't feel comfortable with him doing it.

'These people need concrete solutions. Looking to ghosts for their deliverance won't help them.'

'I'm sure you're right, Father.'

'I know it's hard, but sometimes we have to face facts, no matter how unpalatable.'

'But what are the facts, Father?'

He raised his hand and put it on my shoulder and leaned in, faking a look of deep, pained seriousness. 'Sometimes when a prostitute dies in brutal tragic circumstances, it doesn't make her a Mary Magdalene, it just makes her a dead whore.'

I winced and in that moment I hated Father Seamus. No one who knew Bianca could have used words like that about her. But I said nothing because forcing a smile on to a face that sees little reason to smile and getting on with it is all part of the job.

After Father Seamus disappeared from view I walked down the alley between the two buildings to the Rock Wholesaler fronting the harbour. The door was ajar and I entered, my nostrils filling instantly with an intense suffocating sweetness. It was an Aladdin's Cave of confectionery: millions of pink crystalline rods, neatly stacked and rising to the ceiling like alabaster columns in a mosque. The light had a soft pink translucency, almost hypnotic, like you get from staring at the bright sun through an eyelid, spidery red veins showing through like the scarlet letters a.b.e.r.y.s.t.w.y.t.h.

After the flood the stockpile had been replenished with the same urgency that they rebuild stocks of coal at a power station following a strike. And now, all around, men scurried like ants with sugar, toiling to keep it topped up. I passed through another door into an antechamber where I came upon the same scene except for a minor difference. A door was open at the back and men were lifting crates on to a lorry. Off to one side, with a Biro stuck behind her ear, Calamity was sitting on an upturned crate, punching numbers into an adding machine.

'What do I do with the Blackpool, Miss Calamity?' said a warehouseman.

'Stack it behind the rainbow-coloured ones,' she said without looking up.

I took a step forward, my shadow falling across her gaze.

'Oh hi, Louie! How's it going?'

'What's this, contraband seaside rock?'

'Just skimming off some surplus production.'

'Didn't I tell you to stop all this wheeling and dealing?'

She sighed. 'I know, you did, Louie, but it's just not that simple.'

'Where's the hard part?'

'You can't roll an empire up overnight. I've got people relying on me.'

'One of these days you'll get into trouble.'

'Everyone's paid off, don't worry. They're all looking the other way.'

'And what's all this about Smokey G. Jones and some placebo?'

'I'm trying to cut her down — she's getting through three bottles a week.'

'That's not what I meant.'

She shrugged. 'You know how it is. She took part in a trial at the hospital for some new drug and they gave her the placebo. She said it worked a treat. Placebos are the —

'I know what they are.'

'Faith can move mountains, Louie.'

'But you can't go round prescribing drugs.'

'It's only vitamin C. And anyway, she's hooked now, I can't stop it.'

The sound of a man unconvincingly barking like a dog cut through the air. The noise set off a frenzy of activity. The men stopped unloading and scurried hither and thither, slamming doors and flinging tarpaulins over crates. Shouts of 'police' and 'stop' came from the other room. Calamity grabbed her stuff and fled to the far side of