Aberystwyth Mon Amour

He drank his rum slowly and then started again.

'Did you have an appointment with anyone tonight?'

I shook my head.

'An appointment with Giuseppe Bronzini?'

I paused for a second, and then said, 'Who?'

He laughed. The hesitation had been for the tiniest fraction of a second but the wily cop had seen it. I didn't like where this was heading.

'We spoke to his mother earlier; he told her he was going to meet you this evening. Know anything about that?'

'Llunos, what the fuck do you want?'

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card I had given Calamity Jane in the afternoon.

'Recognise this?'

'It looks like one of my cards.'

Llunos examined it as if he'd only just noticed it. 'Yes it does, doesn't it?' He flicked the card with his thumb. 'We found it on Bronzini earlier this evening. I don't suppose you can explain that?'

'Bronzini?'

'Yes. He was dead, by the way.'

I stared at him across the desk, fear starting to flutter in my stomach. He raised one eyebrow, prompting me to explain.

'I went to the Moulin, I left and went for a walk. I had some whelks and came home. I had no meeting arranged. And I've never met this kid.' It was silly buggers time.

'Any idea how he came to have your card?'

'I don't know. Maybe he picked it up off the floor.'

The tired detective stared at the ceiling and considered my reply with an air of sarcastic thoughtfulness.

'I see,' he continued. 'So you've never seen the dead boy. You didn't have any arrangement to see him this evening, you were just out walking. Hmmm.' He examined my story like someone trying on a hat they know doesn't fit, just to be fair to the hat. 'And you say he probably picked your card up off the floor. Hmmm. Any idea why he stuck it up his arse?"

Chapter 3

THE CELL DOOR clanged open and banged shut throughout the night as rhythmically as a pile-driver. I sat in the corner and gazed through red throbbing eyes at the lurid pageant: drunks and punks and pimps and ponces; young farmers and old farmers; pool-hall hustlers and pick pockets; Vimto louts, card sharps and shove ha'penny sharps; sailors and lobster fisherman and hookers from the putting green; the one-armed man from the all-night sweet shop, dandies and dish-washers and drunken school teachers; fire-walkers and whelk-eaters, high priests and low priests; footpads and cut-throats; waifs, strays, vanilla thieves and peat stealers; the clerk from the library, the engineer from the Great Little Train of Wales ... it rolled on without end. At about 2am they brought in the caretaker from the school, Mr Giles, wearing the same tree-coloured tweeds he wore when I had been in school two decades ago. He slumped on to one of the benches lining the wall and held his head in his hands. Everyone was in a bad way here, but he looked more unhappy than most. I went over to him.

'Mr Giles?' I said placing a gentle hand on his broad back. I could feel silent sobs quivering through his large frame.

'Mr Giles?'

He looked up. He was a friend of my father and knew me well.

'Louie!'

'You OK?'

'Oh no, no, no, no I'm not.'

'Did they beat you?'

He shook his head.

'What did they get you for?'

'They haven't told me.'

I nodded. It was the usual way. You wouldn't find the procedure outlined in any of the pamphlets issued by Her Majesty's Stationery Office, but Llunos had his own methods. Most people were picked up, thrown in and thrown out again the following morning without being charged or any sort of paperwork involved. It helped keep the crime figures down.

'I know what he's up to, though,' Mr Giles said. 'It's about that dog.'

'What dog?'

'At the school. He's going to pin it on me. It just isn't fair.' He buried his face in his hands again. It was unusual to see Mr Giles as upset as this. For a man who spent his life stockaded into a potting shed at the corner of the rugby field at St Luddite's, his hoe swapped for a night-stick, fortitude was a way of life. It was probably the drink making him emotional.

'What's this about a dog?'

He answered into the palms of his hands. 'One of the Bronzini boys killed Mrs Morgan's dog and they're blaming me.'

There was a fresh bout of silent sobbing; I patted him gently and moved off, leaving him to his pain.

Just before breakfast, Llunos released me. I stood blinking in the bright morning sunshine on the steps of the jail.

'You're letting me go?'

He nodded. 'You've got friends in high places.'

'News to me.'

He turned to go back inside. 'Not the sort of friends I'd like to have, though.'

I stepped down on to the pavement.

'One thing, Peeper!' he called after me.

I stopped and looked round.

'This Bronzini kid . . . was murder. Serious stuff. No room here for a private operative, you understand?'

'Sure.'

'If I find you sniffing round it, we might have to arrange for you to fall down the police station steps.'

I said nothing and walked away. An awful lot of people in this town had fallen down those steps.

'Kierkegaard or Heidegger, Mr Knight?'

'Sorry, you've got me there, Sospan.'

'It's Existentialist week; my latest promotion.'

'Give me a mint choc chip with a wafer of the Absurd.'

'Coming up.'

A Sospan Speciaclass="underline" the only over-the-counter preparation effective against the sarcasm of an Aberystwyth cop.

Sospan pushed my money back across the counter.

'Already paid for; gentleman over there.' He motioned with the ice-cream scoop towards one of the benches near the railings. A man in a white Crimplene safari suit was seated there, incandescent in the early morning sun. It was Valentine from the boutique, the 'fixer' for the Druids. I walked over.

'Nice suit.'

He looked at the material on his arm as if surprised to see it there.

'Quality stuff thith,' he lisped. 'You should come down the thop, I'll do you a nice price.'

'If I ever go on safari, I will.'

'Thit down.'

'I'm OK standing, thanks. What do you want?' He paused for a moment as if weighing each word carefully.

'You have a ... a ... shall we thay an "item" in your possession which is of interest to my organisation.'

I took another lick. 'Is that so?'

'You know what I'm referring to?'

'Maybe.' I had no idea.

'It was given to you by Myfanwy.'

'Oh that!' I still had no idea.

'We'd like to buy it.'

'That's nice.'

'We're nice people, Mr Knight.'

'Is that why you smashed up my office?'

He raised an apologetic hand.

'A mithtake, very regrettable. We'll be more than happy to compenthate you in return, of course, for the item in question.'

I pursed my lips thoughtfully.

'How much?'

Valentine smiled, revealing a gap between the front two teeth.

'We're reasonable men; we wouldn't want to fall out over a few pounds. Thay two grand?'

I considered. 'That won't pay for the broken furniture.'

He laughed and slapped his knees in the action of standing up.

'From what I hear, 50p would be more than enough to pay for the furniture in your office. Two is very generous.'

'Let's say five.'

'I'm afraid not. There are also hidden costs to be taken into account; costs which you would have to bear if we found we could no longer afford to be nice.'