nineteen than most people see in a lifetime. The girl was wrapped up in a fur coat. The silky brush against my wrist suggested it was real, though probably full of moth-holes.
'Like that, huh?' she said when I didn't answer, and sat down next to me. A syrupy thud filled the room as someone, somewhere, clumsily dropped a needle on to a record, and after a few seconds Jim Reeves struggled to raise his voice above the bacon-frying hiss and sing, 'Welcome to My Home'.
'It's not a lot of fun, really, I know,' said the girl. 'The summer's much better and that's not a lot of fun either.'
I smiled. There seemed something familiar about her, although there was almost nothing physical to see in the darkness. Reflections of flames dancing in her eyes, an edge of gold outlining her cheek, giving her the air of a wench in a Rembrandt painting. It wasn't her voice that was familiar and since I couldn't see her face I couldn't put it down to that, but still there was something. And when you work as a private eye in Aberystwyth you learn not to worry too much about where your hunches come from.
'I could show you round if you like ... show you things.'
'So you're a tour guide, are you?'
'Well not exactly ... no ... well yeah, in a way.'
'Is there much to see?'
'There's the castle. I could show you that.'
'And I bet you know all about it, don't you?'
'Yeah, of course.'
'Who built it, then?'
'The Romans.'
'The Romans!'
'Yeah, I s'pose. Or Robin Hood or someone. I don't know — who cares?'
She took out a cigarette and a lighter and the flame gave her young features a tender wash of light. When the cigarette was alight she nicked the lighter again and held it up to my face. Through the harsh hot glare I could see the glints of her eyes as she scrutinised me. The flame went out.
'You're Louie, aren't you?'
'Yes, how did you know?'
'I've seen you about. I'm Ionawr.' She grabbed my hand in the darkness and shook it gently. 'Nice to meet you.' The hand was cold and smooth like a pebble on a beach.
'Do I know you?'
'We haven't met, but I know you through my sister.'
'Is she here?'
'She's dead.'
I peered at her intently through the blackness.
'My sister was Bianca.'
We found the game in a cellar on Prospect Street. Ionawr, who had sold me the information for the price of a drink, insisted on coming with me, saying I wouldn't get in otherwise, which was hard to believe. But she refused to come in herself, knowing better than me what sort of reception a girl like her would get in this crossroads for the world's gossips, shrews, scolds and harpies. Inside, the air was fetid and moist, filled with the gamy fug of wet hair drying, infused with cellar smells of old stored potatoes, and Mintos, and camphor, cheap scent from grandsons at Christmas, ointment ... and everywhere the air tingled with an intense, feverish mood of anticipation. It was partly the buzz you get at any big fight but also there was the build-up of static brought on by the rustling of pacamacs, and which had on occasion, so they said, given rise to the appearance of ball-lightning at these events.
The two contestants sat at a small kitchen table either side of a pot of tea. The audience was gathered round in rows of seats. We sat down as the umpire clumsily shuffled a pack of very big cards and called on a woman in the front row to draw. These were the Pleasantry cards and carried bonus points. The woman took three and the umpire read them out. 'Well, that's what I heard, anyway' (murmur of disapproval from the crowd and shouts of 'easy'). 'Well you can't be too careful now, can you?' (more grumbling). And, finally, one that drew a ripple of applause: 'E'd have bloody flattened her if he'd found out, wouldn't he!'
The bell dinged and the lady in the red scarf started.
'Well, anyway, Mrs Beynon was just saying that it's not her first one that Mrs Jenkins was talking about. It's the elder one — she's got two, hasn't she? — the youngest one is still in Penweddig, isn't it? And the eldest is out at Talybont married to the chap whose father ran the garage that was knocked down, anyway it wasn't him it was his brother whose two boys were in the same class as the daughter of the one from the woman who lives above the bakers in Llanfarian —'
There were cries of 'Logic! Logic!' from the blue corner and after a quick conference among the judges the charge was upheld and points were deducted for logic. The woman in the red scarf picked herself up off the canvas and came out fighting: 'Anyway, it was her niece what made the jam for the 'bring and buy' after her husband came back from the mines with emphysema -
There was a roar of delight from one section of the crowd and the other section looked on stony-faced. Two ladies in front of me turned to each other and swapped disapproving nods. Another lady in front of them turned round and said, 'It wasn't emphysema at all — it was nothing to do with the aureoles as such —'
'I heard it was viral,' said another spectator, 'but they weren't quite sure what.'
'You'd think she'd test her weak spot with mumps and measles or something first, wouldn't you!'
'Or maybe sciatica, that's always a good one, that is.'
'You watch!' the first one scoffed. 'Mrs Jenkins will trump her now with the pneumoconiosis.'
People in the other rows turned round and told them to hush and I saw the cleaner from the Seaman's Mission waving to me from the adjoining room.
I walked in and bought two paper cups of beer served warm from a party-sized can and handed one to the woman. She took a drink and let out a satisfied 'Ha!' as she patted her chest.
'Needed that, I did.' She nodded towards the next room. 'Just the warm-ups, the real stuff isn't until after eleven. Hang around a bit and ...' Her words trailed off as her attention was caught by the entrance of another woman. A very old, shrunken woman who carried herself with the regal air of an abdicated queen. Her face was bony and almost skull-like, with fine white strands of hair stretched with painful tightness across the dome of her head. The woman serving at the bar instantly poured out a gin and put it on the counter for her, saying 'Evening, Champ!'
The cleaner nudged me. 'It's Smokey G. Jones. Won the treble in '62. Fifty-eight bouts and never lost.'
I tried to look impressed and then asked her about the Dean. Tearing her admiring gaze away from the Champ, she licked her lips. 'Well,' she said, switching instantly into disapproval mode, 'I knew straightaway there was something funny about him, like. He wasn't like the usual ones you get at all. Always giving himself airs he was and saying the bathroom was dirty and moaning about the breakfast and he never wanted to watch the same TV programmes as everybody else. Well, I could see he wasn't going to last long. 'I didn't know we had a member of the royal family staying with us,' I said to Mrs Jenkins so he could hear. But he didn't take the hint of course. Them type never do. I mean if he was so high and mighty, why wasn't he staying at one of the posh hotels down by Consti?'
I yawned. 'You expect me to pay for stuff like this?'
She jerked her head back indignantly. 'Well I'm not doing for me health now, am I?'
'This isn't gossip, it's ancient history.'
'I should hope so too, I'm not one to gossip.' She leaned closer and whispered, 'I haven't got to the best bit yet.'
I forced another yawn. 'Don't tell me, let me guess: some man in a long back coat turned up asking questions about him.'
'Yes,' she hissed. 'But the point is, what did he want to know?'
I shrugged.
'The valise! He wanted to know what had happened to the valise.'
'What's a valise?'
'A case, you idiot!'
'Why didn't you say that?'
