D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

Just when he thought the questioning was drawing to a close they went over the same things, framed differently each time but designed, he thought, to trip him up. Another hour later he was beginning to feel the stress, his head crackling with pain, his body telling him he needed sleep. It had turned into a very long day.

It was during the final stage that Gareth inadvertently gave away the fact that he was in possession of Erica’s box of jewellery. As soon as he let it slip he cursed to himself.

‘You never mentioned this before,’ said Stafford, his eyes suddenly alight with the thrill of a new chase.

‘I didn’t think it important,’ he said lamely.

‘Where is this box now?’ he asked him. ‘And what did you intend doing with this jewellery, Mr Davies?’

‘I guess I was holding onto it in case she came back.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s back at the cottage.’

‘Holding onto it… I guess you were,’ he said. ‘You weren’t withholding information, of course.’

‘As far as I know it was a box belonging to a young woman, that’s all. Now she’s a young woman involved in something dodgy, according to you.’

‘Perhaps she is. We don’t know yet, Mr Davies. But we’d like to see this box.’

‘You weren’t planning to use the jewellery for your own ends by any chance?’ asked Styles.

‘Of course not!’ Gareth burst. ‘What are you suggesting? I’d have probably handed it over to the police eventually!’

‘Probably,’ echoed Styles.

‘Had I known there might be a connection with this Manchester thing then I wouldn’t have hesitated.’

‘Well it could be stolen,’ said Stafford. ‘A boxful of jewellery is rather suspicious. And you must contact us immediately if this woman turns up again.’

Gareth nodded dumbly. ‘One more thing which might not be important and I don’t want to sound paranoid. There’s this man; I think he’s been following me,’ he said. ‘An American or Canadian, don’t know which. He was asking about the woman at the hospital and apparently he turned up in my village looking for me.’

Styles cocked his head. ‘Can you describe him?’

He did so, as much as he could remember. ‘Seems you can recall him better than the young woman,’ noticed Stafford.

‘One of those things, I guess,’ said Gareth tiredly. ‘He was quite distinctive.’

Then it was all over. They reminded him to contact them if the woman or this man turned up again. They’d be round soon to collect the box of jewellery and run some forensic tests on the symbol. He was driven home, totally hollowed out and exhausted.

Things couldn’t get any worse, he thought.

The trail went cold.

Weeks passed. She never came back. Not that there ever was a trail. Erica disappeared as readily as she’d entered his life. He had nothing to go on. A first name. He didn’t even have a surname. And there was a chance even Erica might be false. He refused to believe it, of course. He hung onto the notion that he had a sister like a dying man hangs onto his last breath. The forensics team descended, scraped off slivers of black paint from his wall, took fibres from the carpet, dusted for prints, and looked a little displeased he’d attempted to paint over the symbol. They made a mess of the wall by the time they’d chipped away at it. They shook their heads when he told them he’d cleaned the carpet of muddy footprints ages ago.

Clive Foster contacted him the day after he’d been hauled in by the police. ‘I say, you’re not in trouble are you?’ he asked. ‘Only I had the law around here asking about your prints, who bought them, that kind of thing.’

‘So who bought them?’ said Gareth, intrigued.

‘I checked the edition numbers and it turns out those were the ones sold on the night of the exhibition to the woman claiming to be your sister. You remember, the rather attractive one I told you about? Didn’t take an address or anything for the receipt.’

‘Did you tell the police that she claimed to be my sister?’

‘I told them she seemed to act a little strange and left it at that. Not a fan of the police, old man; bad for business having them sniff around. This isn’t going to get to be a habit is it? Only I have my business to think about. You know how it is. Some of my wealthier clients, let’s say they’re particularly edgy when the law gets involved.’

‘Clive, I haven’t had so much as a speeding ticket before now. I hardly think you and your wallet need worry over this.’

‘A relief, old man. Strange, though, I had this Canadian guy in the gallery asking about the same set of prints a while before the police. He was interested in knowing all about you.’

Gareth frowned. ‘Canadian, you say?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Middle-aged, grey hair, nice teeth?’

‘You know him?

‘I’m getting to know him better than I’d like,’ he replied. ‘What happened?’

‘Never thought anything about it. People are generally interested in the artists or photographers. Gave him your card with your number to call. He pushed for an address but as you know I don’t give out those kinds of details. Told him Pembrokeshire, that’s all. He didn’t buy anything though.’

And that was it. Beyond that last phone call his search for Erica came to a crashing dead end. Weeks passed and he got his life back on track after what he assumed was to be an extremely unsettling but short-lived period. It began to feel like it had all never happened. Then DI Styles turned up out of the blue at his door.

Gareth let him in. He asked to see where the symbol was.

‘I’m afraid I’ve painted over it some more and you can’t see it. Do you have any more information on all this? Why it appeared here?’

Styles touched the wall where the symbol was, and gave a vague answer that neither confirmed nor denied. ‘Have you heard anything more from the young woman?’ he asked.

‘Not a thing.’

‘Remember, you must contact me if you hear anything about her,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s evidence that the murdered woman wasn’t living alone. There might have been someone else living there in the flat with her.’

‘You think it’s the same woman I knocked over?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘What did you find out about the jewellery?’

Styles had unexpectedly wandered off, walking around the small room, his body appearing relaxed with his hands behind his back, but his eyes were like that of a raptor seeking prey. ‘Generally quite old, mostly Victorian, a few Georgian pieces, all good quality according to our experts, so someone with an eye for good stuff. We’ve estimated it as being around?90,000 in value. The provenance has yet to be determined, but it’s most likely stolen and the young woman probably had a hand in its disappearance. A fence, maybe.’

Gareth felt the sting of disappointment that Erica might prove to be nothing more than a common thief. ‘But there’s no proof of that, is there, that she stole it? I mean, she could have come about it quite legitimately.’

Styles looked at him like he was dealing with a child that could not, or would not, understand. ‘Innocent until proven guilty and all that,’ he said. ‘But my advice is to not take her at face value, or believe a word she told you; she’s probably conducting some kind of scam. At the very least she’s involved in something extremely suspicious, maybe even dangerous. So, as I said, your first port of call is me if you see anything of her or hear from her again,’ he reiterated, this time with more of an edge to it. ‘Do you remember a certain sapphire and diamond brooch amongst the jewellery?’