‘Sure I did, I had no choice! I dragged it further into the yard, covered it with sacks and kept the dog away. Next day, I went walking on the bog and worked out a route to a place that seemed OK. I did not want risk taking it far, in case I was stopped.’
‘So you used the van, did you?’ snapped Hartnell.
‘Sure I did! It was too far to carry it all the way. Next night was dark, no moon. I lifted it into back of van, drove half mile on road, then dragged it down through field to bog. Spent bloody two hours digging hole with shovel, dropped it in, filled up and went home.’
His hands were shaking now, as he played with his cheap lighter, made from a brass bullet casing.
‘And you expect us to believe that?’ barked Meirion.
Beran shrugged indifferently. ‘Take it or leave it. I got nothing else to tell you.’
‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ snapped Hartnell. ‘I’ll buy the part about you burying the body, but all that about the two men and the Mercedes is a fairy story.’
Jaroslav shook his head, like a bull confronting matadors.
‘Why I do that? I hardly knew the Yank, he was just a pair of hands sent down to me to get him out of the heat in Birmingham, so they said.’
‘When did you stop working for Doyle?’asked Trevor.
‘When I got nicked over some of his stuff from house robberies. Long time after this dead body shit, he didn’t want anyone once they’d been fingered by you police.’
The interview ground on, going back over the story for dates and places, though Beran was conveniently vague about details. Eventually the solicitor, who had been silent most of the time, declared that his client had had enough for one session and they broke up the interview.
Upstairs in the DI’s office, the three detectives were joined by Gwyn Parry and they reviewed what they had so far.
‘He seems determined not to tell us who actually strangled this Josh fellow and cut off his head,’ said Hartnell. ‘But his admissions are enough to charge him as an accessory to murder, as well as all the stuff about obstructing the coroner and illegal disposal of a body.’
‘Do we believe in these two mystery men from Birmingham?’ asked Meirion.
His sergeant pointed out that the head had been found a hundred miles away, so perhaps Beran’s claim to have been in Cardiganshire when the killing took place, possibly had some validity. ‘And we should be able to trace police and fire service records if a Merc was burned out between here and the Midlands around that time.’
They kicked the evidence around for a time, until Meirion decided he had better go and tell David John Jones what had taken place.
‘It’s up to the brass to decide what happens next — especially who runs this prosecution, us or your lot, Trevor?
Hartnell pondered this for a moment. ‘I’ll be ringing my boss in a minute, but I think it has to be a Birmingham case from here on. You’ve got an unlawful burial, but it looks as if the murder was in our patch.’
The local DI nodded his agreement. ‘I’m sure you’re right, and it’s not our problem. But who the hell strangled him? Beran seems to have been down here, so either the two hoods who brought the corpse killed him — or even Mickey Doyle himself.’
‘And until Spain signs an extradition treaty, we’ve not got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding out,’ said Trevor Hartnell with an air of finality.
TWENTY-ONE
After the first few days of January had come and gone, it felt in Garth House as if the festive season had never been. A faint air of anticlimax hovered over the staff as they settled down to pick up their routines.
Sian’s microscope sections of the heart in the ‘road rage’ dispute had allowed Richard to confirm his previous suppositions. The thrombus in the coronary artery was seen to be at least several days’ old, certainly well before the incident with the truck. This fitted with the suggestive results of the TTC experiment that there was infarction of the heart muscle, tissue damage which had to be well in excess of the one-hour interval between the altercation on the road and the time of death. Having explained all this to the Hereford coroner, that worthy was able to placate the relatives sufficiently for them to abandon their intention to bring a legal action against the other driver.
Angela and Richard had two other matters coming up for their attention. In a few days, they would be going to the Royal Courts of Justice for the Millie Wilson Appeal — and soon after that, they were to investigate the intriguing case of the vintner’s Prodigal Son.
On the tenth of the month, they found themselves at Newport railway station, waiting for the Red Dragon express to Paddington. Jimmy had driven them down in the Humber, as they would be staying in London for at least one night, depending on how the case went.
When the train thundered in behind the famous Caerphilly Castle engine, they found their seats in a First Class carriage, booked by the ever-efficient Moira.
There were four other people in the compartment, so they were unable to talk shop. Richard was in one of his restless, expansive moods that Angela was coming to recognize. She thought he was like a big schoolboy, excited at a journey by train to ‘the big city’.
‘This is getting to become a habit, buzzing off together to London for the night,’ he whispered. A few months earlier, they had gone up to deal with an exhumation for the War Office at the military hospital on Millbank.
‘We’re becoming creatures of habit,’ she responded. ‘Just like last time, I’m going to haunt Bond Street this afternoon, while you go to hit the library again at the Royal Society of Medicine!’
He grinned at her. ‘But we can’t go to see The Mousetrap this evening, because we did that last time.’
‘No, but you can treat me to a meal at a decent restaurant,’ she countered. ‘Then we’d better go back to the hotel and swot up our reports ready for tomorrow.’
Richard groaned. ‘I’ve been through them so often, I could recite them by heart! But you’re right, we have to do our best for poor Millie. We only get one shot at this.’
A few minutes later, the train plunged into the Severn Tunnel, the longest in Britain, and he felt Angela shudder.
‘I hate tunnels,’ she murmured. ‘I always feel as if I’m being buried alive.’
He felt a sudden urge to hold her hand until they emerged into daylight again, but the presence of other passengers inhibited him. Before they reached Swindon, he suggested coffee in the dining car, partly to be able to talk without being overheard. As they sat facing each other across a table, they discussed recent cases and the personalities in their little world of the Wye Valley.
‘Moira seems dead set on this law thing,’ observed Angela. ‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but I’m glad she’s found something to aim for. She’s too young to just moulder away as a lonely widow.’
‘I’m making enquiries at the universities in Cardiff and Bristol, to see what’s on offer for someone like her,’ he replied. ‘She got good results years ago with her School Certificate and says she has her double-matric, so there shouldn’t be any problem in qualifying for admission. Getting some financial help would be the thing — there must be bursaries and scholarships for mature students.’
Angela smiled. ‘We’re like a couple of earnest parents, trying to do the best for our children!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be getting Sian to do a doctorate soon!’
‘Not just yet, though she’s damned good at chemistry. In fact, I’m hoping to get us some work from that private clinic in Newport. They often want blood sugars, ureas, glucose tolerance tests and other clinical stuff. Sian could do those standing on her head, if we get the kit for her.’
Again she smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘Who’s left for you to help up the ladder, Richard? Perhaps you could send Jimmy on an Advanced Driving Course — or perhaps over to Burgundy to learn viniculture!’
‘More likely he’d want to go to Evesham to learn how to grow bigger strawberries!’ said her partner ruefully. ‘Talking of viniculture, are we all set to go down to Chateau Dumas next week?’