Mrs Dinorwic-Jones sat clutching a mug of cocoa, dressed in a pale lemon housecoat, her grey hair in curlers beneath a hairnet and on her feet slippers crowned with a woolly bob. She stretched her feet out towards the gas fire.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ she said, ‘it was a heck of a shock to me.’
‘Yeah, we heard that,’ said Llunos with a tinge of sarcasm that went undetected.
‘I’m still a bit upset.’
‘These things take time.’
‘I’ve seen a few bad things in my time, doing the chalk outlines for the police, but this – the mutilation – well, that was different.’
‘I expect the noise would have upset you as well.’
‘Noise? What noise?’
‘Gunfire. It never fails to shock me how damned loud a gun shot is. You, not being used to it, must have jumped out of your housecoat.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean!’ Her grip tightened on the mug of cocoa.
‘Yes you do,’ said Llunos. ‘Those two goons, the Moss Brothers, were your nephews. They shot the guy from this room.’
‘No they didn’t.’
‘Yes they did.’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. There were no guns fired from this house.’
Llunos picked up his trilby and spoke to the hatband. ‘You know my mother, don’t you? She’s in Bronglais —’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘You never liked her much, did you?’
‘I . . . I . . . That’s not true—’
‘Yes it is. You never liked her. In fact, you were always sniping at her, weren’t you? Always a bad word to say. I know all about you, you see. You’re a bit of a busybody on the quiet. We’ve got quite a few in this town. And you’re the Queen, the Queen of Fucking Busybodies. I see you in the early-morning queue at the butcher’s or the baker’s, when I drive past. I see you gossiping with the rest of them; and even though I can’t hear, I know what you’re saying isn’t good. You see, that’s the difference between you and my mum. She never has a bad word for anyone. Doesn’t mean she likes everyone, she just doesn’t say it, keeps it to herself. It’s called manners. You don’t need to pull a face, Mrs Jones, and you don’t need to tell me it’s not a crime to say bad things about your neighbour; even though you spend half your life sitting in church professing to love him. I agree it’s not a crime; it’s just a moral failing, I suppose, and I am the last one to lecture anyone on that. In fact, I’m only saying it now because she’s dying, a good woman with a heart full of kindness who you have badmouthed for as long as I can remember. I never said anything before, but today I’m telling you. I’m here to ask some questions and I don’t want you to lie to me or you’ll find out what twenty years of pent-up contempt can do. Do you understand?’
Mrs Jones regarded Llunos with a look of defiance. ‘I won’t be intimidated into confessing to something that didn’t happen.’
‘I’m not trying to intimidate you,’ said Llunos. ‘I’m just clarifying the matter. I don’t want you to be under any illusions that you have a friend in this room. You haven’t.’
‘Tell us about the phoney leg routine, Mrs Jones,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You spotted it straight away, didn’t you? That leg facing the wrong way. After forty years drawing them in class and chalking round them on the tarmac, I guess it was pretty obvious.’
‘You’re talking in riddles.’
‘Maybe, but I’ve got a hunch. It’s been growing inside me, ever since I met a man called Elijah at the Wishing Well on the Prom. My hunch is this: the dead Father Christmas didn’t plant a picture of Butch and Sundance in that alley. At least, not just a picture. Why should he? Elijah already knew about that angle – everyone did since the day the movie came out. He must have planted something else and someone switched it. But who could have switched it? My money’s on you.’
‘I didn’t switch anything, I haven’t a clue what either of you are talking about.’
‘Would you care to take a polygraph test on it?’ asked Llunos.
I looked at him in mild surprise, but fought it back so Mrs Jones wouldn’t notice.
‘A what?’
‘A lie detector. We could sort this out in a few minutes.’
‘I didn’t think they were allowed in this country.’
‘The American sort aren’t, but this is a traditional type, the one they used to use to test witches. What we do is fill the bath with water and hold your head under. If you drown it means you’re innocent and you will have our sincere apologies; if you survive it means you’re guilty. It will only take a few minutes. I do it all the time; it saves paperwork.’
Mrs Jones’s face drained of colour. ‘You wouldn’t do that to me!’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any choice; it’s my job.’
‘But I can’t swim.’
Llunos turned to me. ‘Go and fill the bath, will you?’
‘Hot or cold?’ I said.
‘Hot, of course. We don’t want Mrs Jones catching her death of cold, do we?’
I stood up. ‘Always happy to act as a midwife to justice.’
Llunos leaned towards Mrs Jones. ‘You know, you could save us a lot of wasted time by telling us what happened in that alley.’
I watched the bath fill. ‘It’s about ready,’ I shouted.
Llunos led Mrs Jones by the arm up the stairs. We stood crammed into a small bathroom.
‘It’s better if you kneel down,’ said Llunos. ‘Head at this end, or you’ll catch it on the taps.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Please don’t do this, Mr Llunos.’
He pressed gently on her shoulder. ‘If you’re innocent you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘Please don’t duck me in the bath.’
‘Tell us what happened and we won’t have to.’
Mrs Jones burst into tears and through the sobs began to squeak. ‘They weren’t meant to kill the poor chap.’
‘Who weren’t?’
‘My nephews. I just told them to put a fright into him so he went back from where he came from. But they went too far.’
‘You mean the Moth Brothers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you want to frighten him?’
‘Because . . . because . . .’ Mrs Jones wrung her hands and looked from Llunos to me and back to Llunos. ‘Oh, dash it all!’
‘Just tell us what happened, Mrs Jones. If it’s like you say, if you just meant to frighten him, that’s not so very serious. It’s not your fault if those two goons went too far. I’m sure we could talk to the judge about it, but you need to tell us what happened.’
Mrs Jones continued to wring her hands. ‘Nothing happened, really. I asked them to frighten him but they shot him . . . a few times. They they went down with my bread knife and did the . . . the . . . you know.’
Llunos took Mrs Jones back downstairs and we sat again in front of the fire. She slurped from her mug of cocoa with shaking hands.
‘Why did you want to frighten him?’
‘Because he came to see me. A few weeks ago now. He wanted my help, you see, because of the work I do with the local history society. He asked me, “Have you heard of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” and I said, “Well, of course I have, I’m not stupid you know.” And he said, “Did you know that Sundance had a girlfriend called Etta Place?” and I said, “Yes, I saw it in the movie – she was a schoolteacher wasn’t she?” So he told me that the
