Murder in the Welsh Hills

by Vic Evans

Genres: Mystery; Crime Fiction; Spy Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

In the majestic mountains of North Wales, retired MI5 agent Huw Cecil is reluctantly drawn back into a world of espionage and murder. While visiting his childhood home of Llangollen, Cecil becomes embroiled in a dangerous mission to obtain top-secret information that could lead to the total collapse of the NATO Alliance. But when his Russian contact is brutally killed, Huw knows that he is the next target. In a deadly game of cat and mouse, with no one left to trust, Cecil enlists the help of Lottie Williams-Parry, a local woman who is struggling to overcome her own dark secrets, and together they take on dark forces and evil assassins in a bid to outwit their enemies and expose the shocking truth...

Release date: September 10, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 355

Sample

Moscow, Friday 23rd July 1993

Office of the Deputy Prime Minister of the

Russian Federation, Mikhail Poltoranin

The splintering crash as the hinges of the door were torn out of its frame in response to the single blow of the sledgehammer brought Poltoranin to his feet. His two assistants scurried into the inner office. The wielder of the sledgehammer stood modestly to one side, allowing two large dark-suited men to enter. Poltoranin’s assistants stole out behind them. The two men came round to him, seized his arms and thrust him face-down on his desk top. Another slightly built man appeared through the wrecked door. He advanced with a bearing indicating he was obviously in charge. Clutching a handful of Poltoranin’s hair and wrenching his head up with one hand, he thrust a document before his eyes with the other. Putting his mouth to his ear, he said in a sibilant voice that turned Poltoranin’s blood cold, ‘Deputy Prime Minister, this is a search warrant issued by Chief Prosecutor Stepankov. I’m the investigator in command of this group and we’ve come to exercise it.’

He snatched the document away and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, leaving his hands free to grasp Poltoranin’s ears and pull his head close to his own heavily pock-marked face. ‘It is a corruption investigation, Poltoranin,’ he snarled, ‘aimed at the highest level of government. Do you understand?’

Poltoranin blanched at the blast of garlicky breath and was slow to answer until the hold on his ears was eased.

‘Well?’ demanded the investigator.

Poltoranin would have nodded if his ears had been free but instead he managed a mumbled, ‘Da.’

‘In a moment we’re going to release you and you are going over to the safe to open it and unlock all drawers and containers. Is that clear?’ The investigator emphasised each word of his question by pulling Poltoranin’s head up and down by his ears.

Poltoranin attempted a painful nod but instead made do with an affirming grunt.

‘Then you’re going to assist us,’ the investigator went on, ‘as we go through each file in this office, turning the place inside out making sure nothing is missed or, as we say, “accidentally lost”. You will do this voluntarily, in a spirit of cooperation. Agreed?’

He grunted again.

‘Good.’

As his arms were released, Poltoranin moved towards the red telephone on his desk but the investigator was there before him, placing a well-manicured hand over it. ‘If you’re thinking of contacting your friend Yeltsin,’ he sneered, ‘you’re wasting your time. He’s taking a short holiday in the countryside and he’s not to be disturbed.’

Extract from The Scotsman newspaper, 23rd July 1993:

Today in Moscow, prosecutors armed with a search warrant entered the office of Deputy Prime Minister Mikhail Poltoranin, 53, a close friend of President Yeltsin, seizing KGB documents transferred from the Kremlin on Yeltsin’s orders. Poltoranin told reporters he voluntarily opened his office and gave the team of investigators all the documents they requested. He claimed he wasn’t arrested but he was shaken by the four-hour search. ‘These outrageous methods are frightening,’ he said.

It seems Russia’s chief prosecutor Valentin Stepankov has sided with the legislature against Yeltsin and launched a corruption investigation aimed at the upper echelon of government. The investigator who led the search said he was looking for documents about the Berlin Friendship House, a former so-called Soviet cultural centre in the eastern part of the city.

Llangollen, North Wales February 1956

Mary got up from her knees. She put down the scrubbing brush. Arching her back she placed her hands firmly on the base of her spine to ease the stiffness as she watched little Huw playing with his green and red wooden train.

Huw’s sleep had been disturbed. He was at an age too young for school but old enough to absorb ideas and images that untangled in sleep, giving him nightmares. Although he did not have the language to describe them to his parents it was clear they contained features from his cloth book: a clown; a giant; and a witch with enormous eyes. The nightmares had ranged throughout the night and several times Mary had left Owain in bed to go to him, leaving her tired. Eventually they had taken him into their own bed. Something they would never have done with the others, but Huw was different.

There were thirteen years between Gwen, who’d been the youngest, and Huw. Mary was forty-five when he was born. The boys were twenty and seventeen, not yet married and still living at home. Huw had come into their lives like a beam of bright unexpected sunshine. The house was transformed. Owain had always treated the others with reserve and maintained an air of gravity in his relations with them. With Huw, it was different. Owain could not bear to be separated from him, asking about him as soon as he set foot over the threshold when he came home from work. His reserve disappeared with him doing roly-polies on the mat, making comical noises and burying his face in Huw’s belly as he squealed and wriggled. The others would watch these antics for hours, sometimes joining in. There was always one of them playing with him and helping to dress him, wondering at the perfection of his dimpled little limbs as they eased them into sleeves and trouser legs.

Mary tore her attention away from Huw. There was work to be done. The water in the bucket had become cool and dirty. Time to empty it and fill with more from the heater. The heater was a metal box that was part of the range. It was kept full from the top of the hob and the fire in the grate kept it at a high temperature. Indeed, when the polished brass tap was turned at the front of the range, the water sputtered out in steamy spurts.

She carried the bucket to the stone sink and emptied it. At the kitchen range she placed it under the tap and straightened her back while it filled. Then she got a jug of cold water to bring it to a temperature tolerable to her raw hands and placed it on the floor. She smiled to herself as she saw Huw still playing. He was chattering away and swirling the little wooden train around on the linoleum.

The steaming water had reached a manageable level. Huw decided his little train would run onto the inviting expanse of the tiled floor. Intent on this he toddled along pulling it behind him.

She leaned forward and turned off the tap. Holding the handle with both hands she lifted the bucket, taking care to prevent the steaming water slopping over just as she had done many times before. Slowly she shuffled around and moved forward, one awkward step at a time, to set it down in the middle of the floor.

Years later, ceaselessly looking back, she could never recall the instant when she stumbled over Huw. The instant at which there was no return. The instant at which she should have seen him. She would gladly have given her whole life to reverse time and turn back the clock just for that one second. Recovering her balance, letting go of the handle, and clasping the bottom would leap into her mind at odd moments without warning. But to no avail. The bucket continued to move forward under its own momentum. Even then it wasn’t inevitable. Why didn’t she throw it from herself? Who would’ve cared about the mess? Who would’ve cared if the bucket had cracked a tile? Why had she not done that? Instead, instinctively, she continued to hold on to it as the near boiling water emptied over the little boy. She remembered the bucket feeling so light but she could never bring to mind what happened to it afterwards.

For the briefest moment there was a stillness, pregnant with dread. Had the water missed him? Had it poured harmlessly onto the floor? But of course not. The scream that broke the silence bore horrifying witness to that.

Until her death, it would tear into her dreams, so she would dread sleep. Sometimes in her waking moments during the day, if caught unawares, she’s running with the hot trembling little bundle clutching one tiny shoe and feeling she must get to the hospital. It’s just along the road, not far. She must get him there quickly, just one more road to cross. She’s dodging the cars. She’s panting. There’s the hospital. He’s quiet now. She feels his little body trembling, his breath coming in sucking gasps.

An image of her dashing into the main reception hall invades her mind. There are nurses taking him. She doesn’t want to let him go. Just let me hold him. He’s gone they say. But he isn’t. He’s there. She’s still holding him. She can feel the gentle weight of him. They want to take him away but she won’t let go. They bring Owain from work. ‘Let me have him,’ he’s saying, ‘just for a moment. Then we’ll take him home.’ But she won’t let go.

A village in North Wales, 2018

Miss Lottie Williams-Parry had an appointment. She was sheltering from the chill of a June south-westerly coming off the mountain. Peering through the Gothic window of the dilapidated cemetery lodge, she waited.

When the post of part-time Cemetery Liaison Officer for the village community council was offered to Miss Lottie Williams-Parry, she’d taken it on with some reluctance. After all, she thought, I’m already a part-time librarian. It was a small branch library in the village. Communicating with people seeking to locate the graves of relatives and ancestors was not what she would have seen as her métier. Oh no, indeed, it wouldn’t be me, but it isn’t demanding and being an executive officer on the council is the best way of keeping my name in the public mind, the public that matters. And it supplemented her small salary.

She had been known throughout the village as a voice coach and pianoforte teacher of the highest standard. Some years before, many years before if she was honest with herself, she was a coloratura celebrated throughout Denbighshire and renowned for her rendition of The Queen of the Night. In those days, no concert could be planned without her and any programme not carrying her name was considered incomplete. It was said, one year in her younger days she’d gained the stage at the National Eisteddfod, though no one could actually recall it first-hand.

He wasn’t the first visitor she’d had recently. When the first one arrived at the lodge, appearing in the doorway as a dark shape with the sun behind him, he’d given her quite a start. ‘It’s all right to talk’, he’d said. He’d cleared it with the Cemeteries Superintendent. Introducing himself, he showed his warrant and badge in a heavy-looking black leather wallet with a crest embossed in silver. How had he put it? Arrangements had been made for her to be at the disposal of a ministry in London if she agreed. Of course, if she did, she would have to sign the Official Secrets Act.

He wasn’t free to say which ministry, except it was a matter of considerable significance and national security that required her assistance. She still felt a glow of self-importance and not a little excitement whenever she recalled the words he’d used. ‘There is no one else in the village of sufficient social stature who could be entrusted with the task.’ And she would be remunerated on a part-time basis, he said. All she had to do was pass on communications in whatever form to the address given and to send a report of anything out of the ordinary in respect of visitors to the village. She would receive instructions from time to time and, if she felt it necessary, she should contact the number he gave her immediately. She was invited to put her signature on a form which, surprisingly, already contained all her details and her address. Then he handed her a small wallet. On one leaf there was a box number address, a phone number, her identification, her photograph and a personal number. There were also words to the effect that she was not required to communicate with uniformed police officers nor them with her. The facing leaf was embossed with a silver cypher and a series of numbers and letters.

She saw her second visitor struggling with the cemetery side-gate as it reluctantly granted him access. Brushing a cobweb from the sleeve of her dark suit and smoothing the skirt, she glanced at her watch, gathered up her clipboard and handbag, and stepped out of the door.

As luck would have it, Miss Lottie Williams-Parry was well chosen, for she possessed a native curiosity bordering on impertinence. Coming towards her, she observed a man of medium height in his mid-fifties. He was of a rather stocky build with a slight limp and a full head of hair. His overcoat, worn over a suit, looked expensive. She noted he was about to take a sip from a small bottle of something but, when he spotted her, he slipped it back into his coat pocket.

At the gate, her visitor had paused to look over the cemetery falling steeply to The Nant below, as long-dormant feelings of familiarity stirred within him. For a fleeting moment he forgot the last few years, what he had experienced, and what he had done. With the clarity of vision brought through the lens of the past, he saw for the first time that the placing of the heaving mounds had been an attempt to marshal the graves in some sort of order. Nevertheless it had been defeated by rank nettles and sparse tufts of moorland grass. The view was stark and not at all like the picture carried in his mind’s eye for all those years since childhood. There was the occasional crooked column or cracked sarcophagus but, in the main, there were kerbs and lichen-encrusted gravestones. Their inscriptions marked the tide of nonconformism that had engulfed the villagers in the last two centuries. A religious movement leaving these people high and dry, he thought. The chapels no longer the houses of God but antique emporiums, Poundlands and Wetherspoons.

In the field at the side of the cemetery stocky black cattle stood unmoving as if stilled in the act of grazing. From the west he heard the clamour of the rooks colonising a sparse coppice of birch trees. He glanced toward it highlighted as it was by the sun struggling through thin pale cloud. In the instant he turned back, the cattle had moved to a different part of the field still standing immobile as if, it seemed to him, there had been a crimp in time. The mountain loured over the cemetery as it had always done. A keen wind from the southwest brought him a brackish scent off the moors and. . .