Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

Wrapped in a warm bathrobe, she slid her garments along the clothes rail assessing each one as it passed by. Too tight. Too severe. Too old looking. He’s seen that. I hate that old thing-must give it to the charity shop. I look like hell in trousers. There’s a button missing on this blouse and anyway it pulls across the bust. One by one she assessed the items in her wardrobe and found nothing to her liking.

She sat down on her bed and sighed. She was regretting those hurtful things she had said to Florence. I’ll ring her later, she thought, and put things right with her. And then she remembered that Florence couldn’t afford a mobile phone and had not left a telephone number where she could be reached.

Mrs. Lloyd stood up and returned to the task of rummaging through her closet, finally taking out a black skirt and a tailored white blouse. I’ll dress that up a bit with my pearls and put on some black stockings. She rummaged around in her drawer, found a new pair of tights, and started getting changed. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black shoes, checked the time on her bedside alarm clock, and after taking one last look around her bedroom to make sure it was invitingly tidy, closed the door behind her. She took a few steps down the hall and then returned to her bedroom. There was something she had forgotten to do.

She sat down on her bed and picked up the photo of her late husband, Arthur, that she kept on her bedside table. She looked fondly at his kind, handsome face, gazing cheerfully back at her from its silver frame, never growing any older, always watching over her as she slept.

She gave the image a little kiss and then gently placed the photo in the top drawer of her nightstand. After a moment’s thought she twisted off her wedding ring, placed it on top of the photo, and then closed the drawer.

The heaviness of the afternoon sky, filled with fast-moving, menacing clouds had given way to an ominous evening, and Mrs. Lloyd glanced out the window before closing the curtains against the darkness. The lamps in her sitting room cast a cozy, comforting light, and she turned on the radio, choosing a station playing soft background music. She lit several candles and grouped them on the coffee table. She stood back and surveyed the room. Deciding that it looked welcoming and attractive but not too obviously seductive, she headed to the dining room to check on the table. Florence had left everything very nice indeed, Mrs. Lloyd had to admit. The silver shone, the dishes were carefully set out, and a centrepiece of white roses gave everything a serene but somehow seasonal look. Satisfied with all the arrangements, she entered the kitchen to see to the dinner.

At ten minutes to seven she put the fish pie in the oven to heat and then returned to the living room. She reached in her handbag for a lipstick and, using the little mirror in her compact, applied it carefully, smacking her lips together and giving them a little rub. She patted down her skirt and, after a quick glance around the room, sat down on the sofa and idly thumbed through the Christmas issue of The Lady . A few moments later she tossed the magazine aside.

Seven o’clock. He should be here any minute now, she thought, aching with delicious anticipation.

Fifteen minutes later, as the aroma of fish pie began to seep out from the kitchen, Mrs. Lloyd picked up her mobile phone and rang Harry. There was no answer. Had he forgotten? Had she been clear about the day and that she was expecting him tonight?

Mildly anxious, she fiddled with the dial on the radio until she heard a voice.

“That was Mary Hopkins and her wonderfully appropriate ‘Snowed Under,’ which is what we’re going to be tonight with a low front moving in, bringing with it heavy snow for much of the northwest,” said the radio announcer. The voice continued, “Police are advising motorists to take to the roads only if their journey is essential, as between four and eight inches of snow are expected to accumulate overnight.” A whiteout in South Wales led to a twenty-six-mile tailback on the M4 during rush hour, the voice added.

Oh damn, thought Mrs. Lloyd, switching off the radio. That’ll be what’s keeping him. Of course, if he can just get here, he’ll have to stay the night.

She strode over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out into the empty street. Large flakes of snow were falling, swirling, and catching the sodium orange light from the streetlamp as they tumbled to earth. The snow was beginning to pile up on the window ledge and Mrs. Lloyd found the whole notion of being snowed in with Harry for a day or two unbearably romantic.

It had been so many years since the town, or the country for that matter, had experienced a really severe winter that she could barely remember the last one. Sometime in the 1980s, would be her best guess. Of course, back when she was a girl the winters had been much worse, but somehow everyone survived. Was there a possibility with a severe snowstorm that the electricity might go off, she wondered.

Or might it be better if the power did stay on so she and Harry could listen to the radio and dance? But, on the other hand, if the electricity did go off, that might not be so bad either, having to cuddle up together by candlelight…

Two hours later, the dripping candle wax had set into hard, pink puddles and their formerly cheerfully romantic appearance now seemed sad and pathetic. Over the past hour Mrs. Lloyd had reluctantly and gradually realized that Harry would not be coming. She had pulled the fish pie from the oven and, after taking one look at its charred, dry edges, had scraped it into the rubbish bin and left the pan to soak in the sink. After one last monitoring of the snow piling up outside, she yawned, accepted defeat, and plodded upstairs to bed. As she settled under the covers, she ran her hand longingly over the empty half of her bed. With a heavy sigh, she rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the spot where she had imagined Harry, arms outstretched and eager to hold her and smother her with tender kisses. She turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the duvet up around her ears, and closed her eyes.

I hope nothing bad’s happened to him, she thought. Still, he could have telephoned me. I hope he’s all right. Why didn’t he ring me? He might have known I’d be worried. As anxious little thoughts nibbled away at the edge of her consciousness, she pushed them away and slipped into an uneasy, restless sleep.

A few streets away, bundled up against the snow, Penny Brannigan said good night to Victoria and stepped out into the pathway that led to the road. Framed in the doorway, Victoria peered out into the shadowy night. She could just make out the River Conwy, its dark waters shifting like moving slate.

“I guess we should have paid more attention to the weather,” Victoria said, “and not worked so late so you could have been away earlier.”

“Well, there’s lots to do and it needed doing,” Penny replied. “Anyway, I don’t have far to go and I’m going to enjoy this.” She gestured at the snow and then, picking up a handful, threw it at Victoria who squealed, ducked for cover, and then with one last good night and a little flap of her hand, shut the door behind her.

Penny knew snow.

Growing up in Nova Scotia she had seen plenty of it during long, white winters filled with blinding storms. And, of course, according to elderly relatives, it had been even worse in their day. She recalled an aunt describing winters so severe the snow reached the top of the telephone poles and hardy folk who took the weather in their stride would cheerfully ski to church. Penny had left Canada behind decades ago and had made a good life for herself in this small Welsh town, safe and happy among its warm, welcoming people. Until recently, she’d thought that her life was in a pretty good place but now gratefully recognized it was in a much better one.