Aberystwyth Mon Amour

'They're from her garden.'

'Fuck off!'

'I was there about half an hour ago.'

'She'll tear your bollocks off.'

'Why would she suspect me?'

He sat down, slowly, as if there was an egg on the seat beneath him. I started speaking to no one in particular. 'About an hour ago she was in the curry house; she had three curries. I reckon she'd be on the third by now. Maybe after that she'll go for a few more pints. Maybe she won't, maybe even she has early nights now and again. You've probably got about an hour to put her knickers back. Otherwise, you might as well start packing your suitcase.'

For a while he sat and looked at me without saying anything. I could see he was working it out. I could be lying, but why would I bother? If I wasn't lying, he was in trouble. I hated doing it to him.

'What do you want?' he said finally.

'Iolo Davies, from the Museum.'

He shot up and started to leave again but I grabbed the sleeve of his coat. The waitress looked over and then quickly away again.

'What happened to him?'

'What do you mean?'

'I hear he left the Museum.'

'So?'

'Bit sudden wasn't it?'

He shrugged. 'Maybe he wanted a change of career.'

'Did you do any business with him?'

'Yeah. Some.'

'What happened?'

Archie looked sadly at the panties, thought for a while, and then said, 'That thing with the semen stain was bollocks. He'd never get caught like that. He was a pro; we all were.'

I nodded.

'We had a well-run group — you know, respectable people, vicars and school teachers and the like, none of your riff-raff. Everyone was clean. No stains, no mess. Everyone used protection. It was understood. If anyone got caught we'd all go down. The authorities had known about it for years; they didn't care as long as they all received their fat envelopes of cash at the beginning of every month. Then one day they went for Iolo.'

'What about the rest of the ring?'

'That was the funny part. It was just him. Whatever it was he'd done, it wasn't the underwear.'

'What happened to him?'

'I heard he managed to get out of town; or maybe they let him, I don't know.'

'Do you know where he went?'

He shrugged.

I placed a hand on the panties. 'Don't force me to do this, Archie.'

He shook his head. 'I really don't know where he went, but it's not hard to guess ... I mean the man's got to make a living hasn't he?'

'So?'

'So years ago, long before he became Mr Big Bollocks, he had a different trade. The sort they don't paint your picture in oils for and hang up in the Rotary Club.'

'What was it?'

Archie looked into my eyes and stared long and hard. He knew he was going to tell me, but he still didn't like it. Eventually he said the three words:

'Punch and Judy.'

Chapter 10

IF THE PIRATES caught you,' I explained, 'they chained you to an oar and rubbed chillis in your eyes to keep you awake. Unless you were a woman in which case they sold you into slavery.'

Calamity stood in front of the map of Borneo and studied the route of my great-great-uncle.

'What makes you so sure she didn't drown?'

'She probably did.'

Calamity unwrapped a sugar lolly. 'So you just sit here staring at your uncle?'

'It's the second rule of being a private eye.'

She looked at me with interest. 'How does it go?'

'Look after your shoes.'

She frowned.

'It means don't waste shoe leather walking around all over the place when a lot of things can be worked out with your head.'

'What's the first rule of being a private eye?'

'Don't be one.'

She frowned again. 'And the third?'

'I'll tell you later.'

'You mean you haven't thought of it yet.'

I laughed. 'Come on, get your coat, it's time to violate the second rule.'

In Venice a nobleman would arrive at the Duke's palace in furs and silks and half an hour later would exit the back way over the Bridge of Sighs to prison. With Iolo Davies the way led over Trefechan Bridge but the symbolism was the same. For years he had basked in the warm glow of Aberystwyth respectability. Not a duke or a lord, perhaps, but a man occupying an eminent position, enjoying the esteem of the movers and shakers of his little world. Invited every year to the Golf Club Summer Ball and the Rotary Club Christmas Party; holder of a seat on the St Luddite's School board of governors; advisor to the examining boards; publisher of several pieces of research into the lost art of whalebone corsetry. A proud man who had his suits tailored in Swansea, and bespoke aftershave mixed to a personal recipe by the perfumers of Gwent. A man of culture now forced to scratch a living putting on marionette performances in the back rooms of pubs.

Aberaeron was the centre of the Punch and Judy circuit and as we drove south along the coast road, we talked more about Hermione Wilberforce. I explained how years later Bartholomew's journal was found in the jungle. It recorded how his guides and bearers abandoned him one by one, until finally he ploughed on alone; how his last weeks were spent racked by fever and madness. And how in the final delirium before he died he described the day when, alone in the jungle and too ill to move, he was visited by Hermione.

'The thing is,' said Calamity, the lolly still in her mouth, 'that doesn't prove anything, does it?'

'Nope.'

'It could just have been a hallucination.'

'Of course.'

'Or an orang-utan. Or he could have just made it up.'

'Except for one thing.'

There was a slight pause. Calamity looked at me sensing the mild air of melodrama in my voice.

'What?'

'He took a camera with him.'

I could sense her interest quicken.

'It was one of the very first ones — the size of a step-ladder and he lugged it all the way to Borneo and then upriver. He was the first person ever to record images of the headhunting tribes. He once described how he arranged a photo session and had to wait an hour for the women of the tribe to get ready. He said women were the same all over the world.'

Calamity snorted.

'Most of the film was eaten by insects but a few plates survived.'

'Where are they?'

'Sydney University.'

'You're not going to tell me he took a picture of Hermione?'

'I don't know. That's the fascinating thing: the camera was never found — they found his journal and other effects but not the camera. Then fifteen years later it turned up, or so the story goes, in a junk shop in Hong Kong. An American merchant bought it and there was a plate still inside. They say he had it developed and although partially ruined you could still make out the ghostly image of a European woman in the midst of the rainforest.'

'What happened to the picture?'

'He lost it.'

It was late afternoon when we drove into the fishing village of Aberaeron. I pulled up and parked outside the butcher's shop on the main street. A fawn Allegro pulled in and parked about thirty yards behind me. It had been following us most of the way from Aberystwyth.

'How many pubs are there in this town?' Calamity asked.

'Loads.'

'How are we gong to find the right one?'

'Third rule of being a private eye. When confronted with a mystery, don't ask what's the answer, ask what's the question.'

Calamity considered that one for a second. 'That's a good one; better than the first two.'

'Can you see the fawn Allegro behind us?'

'It's been following us since Southgate.'

I squinted at the driver in the rear-view mirror. Trench coat and trilby, beard, dark glasses, newspaper balanced on the steering wheel, it didn't prove anything, but when did an innocent person ever dress like that?