Last Tango in Aberystwyth

'How can a man love a woman he knows he is going to kill?'

'Don't be such an arse! I am a Raven, it is my mission to spring the honey-trap, it would be impossible if I did not enjoy the taste of the honey, even Mrs Bligh-Jones's honey. And now it is my turn to die. I do not complain.'

'But why?'

'Because my work is over.'

'Who do you work for?'

He raised his head slightly and smiled a smile of pure evil. 'Mrs Llantrisant, who else? You see they call me a Raven but really my true nature is different. A soldier ant would be more appropriate. I mate and die. Steadfast in the service of my queen. Her survival is all that matters. Now that I have done my task I am content to make my exit. Although sadly I will miss the final act in Mrs Llantrisant's masterful plan.'

'Calamity.'

'Ah yes, Calamity.'

'This was Mrs Llantrisant's plan?'

'Of course, who else would have the genius to conceive of such a mission? In this respect, brilliant though I am, I am a mere puppet. My job was to eliminate Bligh-Jones, facilitate the escapes of Herod, Custard Pie and Mrs Llantrisant; and then arrange Mrs Llantrisant's piиce de rйsistance, the Little Red Riding Hood murder. Masterly. We have a special agent up from Cardiff to play the wolf. When it is finished Mrs Llantrisant will send you the tape to watch in your long lonely hours of self-hatred.'

'But what has Calamity ever done to Mrs Llantrisant?'

'Nothing at all! Absolutely nothing. That's the beauty of it, don't you see? The pure blinding joyous beauty of it. It's not Calamity she hates, it's you, Louie, for destroying her dream and putting her away on that island. But how can she get back at you? Kill you? Pah! Too feeble! Too altogether paltry an act — a mere spoonful of liquor with which to assuage Mrs Llantrisant's ravening thirst for revenge. No matter how slowly you died it would still be too quick. Whereas the death of Calamity, an innocent who placed her trust in you — whom you love like a daughter — ah! Think of that! No matter how quickly she died, the torment would last for ever. In your own soul, Louie, your own soul! It will burn like quicklime eternally inside you and there will be nothing you can do to undo your folly or soothe the pain. And should you ever try and forget you will always have the little tape to remind you. Oh, Louie, the beauty of it! The sheer spectral beauty of her genius!'

'Except of course that none of this is going to happen. It's fantasy.'

'You think so? I think it will happen tomorrow night.'

'You will tell me where they are. I'll make you.'

'And how will you do that? Threaten to kill me? I've beaten you to it! What possible threat could you wield with any power against a man who has taken his own life?'

I stood up and rushed to the door. 'Then I'll have to save you.'

The phone had been torn from its socket so I ran down four flights of stairs to the desk and called Doc Thomas. He wasn't in so I called an ambulance and as I shouted instructions into the mouthpiece, telling them we needed an urgent blood transfusion, I saw Llunos walking up the steps of the hotel towards me. Together we rushed back to the suite on the top floor, burst through the door and found the room empty. The discarded bandages were lying on top of the TV set. Llunos picked them up and touched the red stain with his fingertip, then dabbed his finger to his tongue. He looked over at me. 'Damson jam.'

Pointlessly we searched the apartment. There was nothing apart from the dirty plates, the sticky glasses and the discarded clothes. Behind the sofa Llunos found the lid of a box and threw it to me. It said: The Essential Mr Kurtz. The Pro Agent's Guide to simulating moral collapse.

'The old Mr Kurtz routine,' said Llunos. 'Haven't seen that one for a while.'

I turned it over and read a list of contents. Digests of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Eliot, Sartre ... Hamlet's soliloquy. Posters of Mao, Guevara, Papa Doc. Recordings of Kurt Weill, Stravinsky, Marlene Dietrich ... A concordance of degenerative diseases of the Self. The Dummies' Guide to Despair. I threw the box at the wall.

Llunos walked into the bedroom.

'They're going to kill Calamity,' I shouted after him. 'Little Red Riding Hood. Tomorrow night at full moon.'

I heard him rooting around in closets and drawers and I walked over to the bay window and looked out over Aberystwyth Prom. Was Proteus the name of the Greek god who came from the sea and could change his shape at will? How many incarnations were there left? Jubal Griffiths, film-maker, and Raven, and black widow spider of the ballroom, and soldier ant ... I picked up the dancing-shoe that was lying on the floor. Inside, the words engraved in silver were still faintly discernible: Property of the Pier Ballroom, 1947.

'He said there's a special agent up from Cardiff to play the wolf,' I shouted.

Llunos reappeared carrying a flesh-coloured, saddle-shaped piece of plastic, with straps.

'What's that about a wolf?'

'A special agent from Cardiff.'

'I think I know who it is. I got a phone call first thing this morning from the Bureau. They fished some chap wearing concrete boots out of Milford Haven harbour last night. He'd been in the water for quite some time so they just got the dental records sent over for an ID.'

'Is it anyone we know?'

'Yes, a man called Harri Harries.'

I stared at him thoughtfully. 'Any chance of a mistake?'

'Not unless he stole Harri Harries's teeth before he went for his swim.'

'So who's our friend with the plumbing-tools?'

'I don't know. But something tells me I'm going to enjoy asking him. You might like to come along.'

He threw me the plastic saddle. It was some sort of medical contraption, a prosthetic.

'What's this?' I asked.

'It's Jubal's hunch.' And he laughed like a morgue attendant. 'Keep it. Every detective needs a hunch.'

Chapter 19

The needle jumped a couple of times with soggy, bass thumps and then through the clicks the crackles and pops the voice of Myfanwy emerged, singing 'Ar Hyd a Nos.' 'All Through the Night', a gentle stream of notes that perfectly captures the objectless longing and confusion of a night that won't end. 'Ar Hyd a Nos,' the mid-point in her act at the old Moulin and the song that would get me through this night with help from my faithful friend, Captain Morgan.

I raised a glass to the photo of Marty and to the picture of Myfanwy on the record cover. And I thought of Calamity. I raised a glass to them all, drained it, refilled it, drained it, refilled it, toasted them all once more and drained it, and finally felt better. I pondered whether I should go out now and get another bottle rather than wait until there was no more left and mild panic set in. My deliberations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs; the door banged open and a gale blew in scattering papers around like snow in a giant paperweight. When the door closed, the paper settled to reveal Ionawr holding a brown paper bag. She was drenched and the bag was soggy.

'I baked you some rock cakes,' she said holding the bag up. 'Probably ruined by now. And I found this on the mat.' She handed me a letter.

'Thanks,' I said without enthusiasm.

She looked at me a little uncertainly. 'Having a party?'

'Just a little get-together with all the people I've let down recently.'