Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

He showed her out and she returned to the spa where Victoria was waiting for her. They reviewed the most recent applicant for the hairdresser’s position, and Penny agreed that Alberto was definitely someone they should interview. With Christmas coming up so quickly, though, it might not be possible to get the position filled. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She smiled at his confidence in calling himself by just one name: Alberto.

The day passed quickly, filled with small things that needed crossing off the to-do list and other things that popped up and needed her attention right away. As she responded to yet another e-mail, she wondered how business ever got done without it. She had just about cleared her electronic in-basket when a direct message popped up. Seeing who it was from, she read it immediately.

Have dinner with me tomorrow night? it read.

She thought for a moment, then typed. Early? 5 P.M. Conwy?

Where? came the reply.

Meet you police station?

Right!

A few minutes later another message arrived from Gareth. Doing TV appeal tonight Harry Saunders.

It was getting on for four, so Penny checked on Eirlys in the salon and, after reassuring herself that everything was fine, gave Eirlys a grateful pat on the shoulder and went off in search of Victoria.

She found her in the photocopy room, bending over, feeding paper into the machine. “I’m not sure where all the paper goes, but we’re going through reams of the stuff,” she muttered as Penny walked in. “What did we do before we had our own photocopier?” she asked as she stood up, and then answered her own question. “Got by just fine, thank you very much.”

Penny looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Just coming to tell you that I’m ready to go now. I’m tired. Oh, and I’m having dinner with Gareth tomorrow night. Seems ages since I’ve seen him.”

“Right,” said Victoria. “And thanks again for the flowers. They’re lovely. I’ll take them upstairs.” As the photocopier resumed its printing job, she tossed a couple of wrinkled bits of paper into the recycling box. “Did you get in touch with Gwennie? Have you asked her to do the cooking for Christmas yet?”

“Yikes, thanks for the reminder. I’ll call her now.”

A few moments later she put down the phone in her office. Gwennie had cheerfully agreed to do all the cooking for Penny’s Christmas lunch and, indeed, had said she welcomed the opportunity to get away from her bossy, controlling sister’s home for a few hours. Gwennie had said she would bring Penny a shopping list of everything she must get in for the meal, and she, Gwennie, would take care of the rest. Oh, and there was just one other thing. Would Penny mind if she brought Trixxi? Penny had assured her Trixxi, an adorable black Lab, would be most welcome.

Gwennie had worked for many years as housekeeper to the Gruffydd family, owners of the charming Ty Brith Hall, situated high above Llanelen with spectacular views over the valley to the hills beyond. But with the murder earlier in the year of Emyr Gruffydd’s posh bride, and the death soon after of his father, Emyr was now spending much of his time at the family’s estate in Cornwall. Ty Brith Hall, the family home in North Wales, remained silent and shuttered. Gwennie, who adored Trixxi, was happy to look after her, especially as this meant living in at the Hall as her house-proud sister would not allow an animal in her tidy home in Llanelen.

Satisfied that most of her Christmas arrangements were taken care of, Penny set off for the short walk home. On the way, her thoughts turned to her visit to Brian Kenley’s home. Was it odd that he was leaving for Yorkshire? Not really. A man living alone would naturally seek out his family at Christmas, and the pictures on the bookshelves, probably taken by Brian himself, indicated a strong family bond. But something about the way he had responded to her giving him the replacement plate began to bother her. Something was not quite right; his behavior had been odd. Something was missing, but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was. Except, maybe, he had seemed uninterested. Detached. And yet he’d seemed quite upset when the daffodil plate had got broken.

Deep in thought, she approached the darkened charity shop and paused for a moment to study the window display. It was filled with the best the shop had on offer, but everything in it, from a small milk jug to a souvenir bell marking the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer, was a castoff, no longer wanted or needed. She liked the idea that people could donate unwanted articles to help fund a good cause and that everything in the window had been kept out of the landfill. As she turned to go, a small artificial Christmas tree, tilted a little to one side, caught her attention. Its little red and green lights winked cheerfully on and off, illuminating its small ornaments. Her eyes moved upward, expecting to see an angel at the top. But, instead, she saw what looked like a six-point snowflake and as her heart began to beat faster, she realized with a flush of joy that she was looking at her snowflake brooch. She tried the door, but it was locked, and the sign listing the shop’s opening and closing hours indicated it closed at four on Saturdays. She banged on the door, hoping one of the women who ran the shop might still be on the premises, but when no one came to see who was knocking, she accepted that the shop was empty.

She fumbled about in her bag for her mobile and was disappointed to get Detective Inspector Gareth Davies’ voice mail.

“I think I’ve just spotted my brooch,” she said. “Call me.”

A few minutes later she let herself into her cottage and once again, finding nothing in the refrigerator that looked as if it might make a decent dinner, pulled a ready-made meal out of the freezer, telling herself as it heated in the microwave that she really needed to do a better job of getting in proper food.

After looking over a few documents Victoria had asked her to check, she switched on the television and waited for the news. At the sight of a familiar face on the first news clip leading off the broadcast, she set down her mug and leaned forward.

Wearing a dark overcoat and standing outside the floodlit walls of Conwy Castle, Detective Inspector Gareth Davies conveyed sincerity and concern as he spoke directly into the camera.

“The case of Harry Saunders remains a complex, unexplained death inquiry,” he began. “We are appealing to anyone who may have seen or had contact with Mr. Saunders, in the period between about the first of December until his death, to come forward and speak with us. We believe he was an American and we’d like to know if he has family in the area or what business dealings might have brought him here. We are asking for swift public help in reconstructing events leading to his death.”

Penny was impressed by his apparent ease in front of the camera and then remembered he had mentioned that all senior officers had been sent on a media training course. It’s paying off, she thought. He’s confident someone’s going to come forward, and I won’t be the least bit surprised when someone does.

A few moments after he went off the air he rang her.

The police will try to contact the store manager in the morning, he said, and told her to keep the evaluation handy.

Of all the police stations in North Wales, the grey, two-storey pebbledash Victorian building in Conwy was Detective Chief Inspector Gareth Davies’ favourite. He liked its location overlooking Lancaster Square, the way it seemed to keep a benevolent watch on the town, and he especially liked its bright red door. If you ignored for a moment the signage on the front of the building advising visitors to ring for assistance, or if you somehow failed to notice the police cars parked alongside, you might think it the home of a prosperous businessman or solicitor.