To Wilhelm Warth
Mrs Powell’s first cousin had left Patagonia and gone back home to Wales.
‘He
Aberystwyth at Christmas. The smell of pine drifts along the Prom mingling with the reek of bladderwrack, toffee apple, vanilla and wet donkey fur . . . From somewhere beyond the spires of the old college children sing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, and the siren from the distant prowl car wails in harmony. The ice man shivers behind his empty counter and in a filthy alley in Chinatown a man in a red-and-white coat with a long white beard lies dead in a pool of his own gore. In happier times the red robes of his office – like the red cross of Switzerland – conferred a species of neutrality in the never-ceasing disputes that wash over the Prom; but these are not happy times. The cruel melancholy of his death is heightened by an extra finesse: his manhood has been hacked off and placed in his mouth. And with the last of his strength the man has dipped a finger in his own blood and written a word on the pavement: ‘Hoffmann’. With the blood beginning to freeze and glitter like raspberry ripple, the school art teacher, Mrs Dinorwic-Jones, kneels beside the dead Santa and prepares to draw a chalk outline around the corpse. Just like so many times before; but this is not like the times before. Her hand shakes uncontrollably and tonight the white chalk line zig-zags in and out like the outline of an electrocuted polecat. Aberystwyth at Christmas. Compliments of the Season.
Editorial,
Chapter 1
WHEN I ARRIVED next morning flakes of snow were swirling like moths in the penumbra of the street-lamp outside the office. There was a car parked on the kerb and two moths sat inside. The Moth Brothers. Two men in their late fifties who took care of debt collection for the druids. The difficult cases, the type that are often fulfilled by a transition to the state that proverbially pays all debts: the state of not being alive very much. They were identical twins; so alike, it was said, that the only way their mother could tell them apart was from the pattern their tiny moth teeth left on her nipple when she suckled them. In later years it was their victims who had to be identified by their teeth. They had heads that were bigger than they should be, and big eyes that were placed too far to the side of the head. Their skin had the pallor of candle wax and the texture of ear wax. No one knew whether they had always looked like moths or had grown to look like them the way some people grow to resemble their pets. Maybe they acquired the name because they usually came out at night; or maybe it was something do with the habit they had of leaving their clients’ clothes full of holes. When they saw me they stepped out of their car and followed me up the stairs into the office. I didn’t offer them a drink.
‘We’ve come to claim our reward,’ said Meic. I knew it was Meic because he had a big M on the front of the sweater he wore under his jacket. Othniel wore an O.
‘Reward for what?’
‘The Father Christmas murder. We know who did it. That means we get some books, right?’
‘On philosophy,’ added Othniel.
‘By some Danish bloke. Exis . . . exis . . .’
‘Stentialism, that’s our favourite.’ Othniel pulled out a copy of the
I took the paper and made a great play of reading it, even though I knew what it said. They fidgeted while I read, so I took some more time.
‘We haven’t got all day,’ said Meic.
I put the paper down and regarded them. ‘It certainly seems to be in order, all here in black and white. Anyone who gives me useful information that helps track down the culprits gets a signed first edition of the works of Soren Kierkegaard. First editions are difficult to come by so I can understand your excitement.’
‘We’re all a-tizz,’ said Meic.
‘OK, then, who killed him?’
Meic pointed at Othniel and said, ‘He did!’
Othniel pointed at Meic and said, ‘He did!’
‘There’s only one set of books.’
‘We don’t mind sharing.’ They laughed.
‘And I bet you’ve both got alibis, too.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Let me guess. You were with him and he was with you the whole night.’
‘That’s right,’ they said in unison. ‘The whole night.’
‘So there’d be no point me trying to run you in.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Not with alibis provided by two upstanding members of the community.’
‘We hadn’t thought about that.’
‘Couple of nice guys like you, loved by everyone, what sort of jury would convict you?’
‘Oh dear, it looks like our attempt to turn ourselves in has been thwarted,’ said Othniel.’
‘No books for us,’ added Meic with mock gloom.
‘And given the way you both look so alike, you couldn’t absolutely swear in a court of law that it was Meic
