Davies phoned at eleven to say that Dawes had undoubtedly been murdered. He’d been hit on the back of the head before being locked in the liquid nitrogen store. Gordon said that he appreciated being told but sensed that Davies wanted to say more.
Davies cleared his throat a couple of times before beginning, ‘I know we got off on the wrong foot, but frankly I’d appreciate your input in this case, Doctor. It’s not exactly your run-of-the-mill murder.’
Gordon too was in the mood for reconciliation. He said, ‘I know I’ve been making a bit of a nuisance of myself to the police in the last few weeks. I apologise for that. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.’
‘Good, we’ve been trying to establish who the last person to see Ranulph Dawes alive was. Apparently Dawes was still in the IVF unit at eight o’clock last night. One of the secretaries was there — she was using her word processor to type up her son’s degree thesis. Dawes told her he was hoping to see the hospital’s medical superintendent to discuss what implications Thomas’s death might have for the unit. He was still trying to track him down when the secretary left. We haven’t yet managed to ask Dr Trool if he made contact.’
‘I’m just waiting for the DNA result on Anne-Marie,’ said Gordon. ‘It’ll probably be another day at least. I’ll call you when I have it.’
Gordon decided to walk up to the village and get a few things from the local shops. It had been a while since he’d run the gauntlet and he wondered if anything had changed. He was aware of groups of women whispering behind his back in Main Street but no one he came across was overtly rude. He said good morning to a few of them and got a civil reply. That, he decided, was probably as good as it got. He bought a morning paper at the newsagent and some bread rolls from the bakers before walking back along the street to the steps leading down to the harbour. He’d almost reached them when a double-decker bus pulled up at the stop next to them and Blodwyn Marsh, the woman he’d treated for fume inhalation, got off. She seemed a bit anxious and upset.
‘Good Morning, Mrs Marsh, he’s not been stripping furniture again, I hope,’ said Gordon.
‘Oh, Good Morning, Doctor, I didn’t see you there. No, it’s worse than that, God bless ‘im, the poor man’s dead. He was found dead at his work apparently.’
‘How awful,’ said Gordon. ‘What happened?’
‘The police aren’t saying. It was his neighbour who told me. Poor Mr Dawis, such a gentleman, he was.’
‘Dawis,’ repeated Gordon, bells ringing in his head. The woman had pronounced the name, da-wis; but the fact that he had died at work and the police were involved suggested suddenly that the name was, in fact, Dawes.’
‘Did your Mr Dawis work in Caernarfon, Mrs Marsh?’
‘Yes,’ replied the woman. ‘Why?’
‘At the hospital?’
‘I don’t rightly know what he did,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t think he ever said. We never spoke much, he was always out when I arrived, see. He just used to leave the money for me on the hall table. I think the last time I saw him was when I had to complain about the fumes. Remember?’
‘I do indeed,’ said Gordon. He was thinking that he couldn’t see Ranulph Dawes as the furniture-stripping type and the bells inside his head were still ringing. ‘You must have your own key for the place,’ he said.
‘Yes...’ agreed the woman, a note of puzzlement and caution creeping into her voice.
‘Could I have it?’
Blodwyn Marsh’s eyes opened wide. ‘I don’t rightly know,’ she stammered.
‘I’ll see that the police get it, I promise,’ said Gordon. ‘They’ll know what to do with it.’
‘Well, that would save me having to do it, I suppose. I don’t mind telling you, the news gave me quite a turn.’
‘You could do with a cup of tea,’ said Gordon solicitously. ‘I’ll walk you over to your house.’
Brushing aside Blodwyn Marsh’s protestations, which were weak enough to suggest that she was secretly pleased at the offer, Gordon insisted on accompanying her the few streets to her home where her husband came out to see what the matter was. ‘She’s had a bit of a shock,’ explained Gordon. ‘I think strong sweet tea is called for.’
Feeling that he’d done his good deed for the day, Gordon walked back to Main Street, the fingers of his right hand playing with the keys to Dawes’ house in his jacket pocket. Just what the hell was it that Dawes had been doing that involved fuming chemicals, he wondered? Apart from that, he had been living in furnished, rented accommodation. The furniture wasn’t his to play around with, even if he had been into DIY. The intriguing question was, could he have been carrying out some kind of experimental work at home? Something to do with the cloning business, something that he couldn’t do openly at the IVF unit?
Gordon supposed that the police would get round to looking the place over but, at the moment, they were more interested in making inquiries about Dawes’ movements. He toyed with the idea of taking a look for himself as he descended the harbour steps. He knew that it was something that he shouldn’t even be contemplating — Davies would probably go ballistic, but he found the temptation just too great. He started up the Land Rover and set out for Aberlyn.
It was only four miles from Felinbach to Aberlyn but Gordon had seldom had occasion to visit it. It was a small village, much like Feli itself, sitting on the shores of the Menai, looking out towards Anglesey, but access to it was by a single-lane road that led down from the main road. You didn’t drive through Aberlyn on the way to anywhere else.
Gordon was unlucky enough to meet a tractor coming towards him about a mile from the edge of the village. He had to back up nearly three hundred metres before he found a suitable cutting to move into. The tractor driver drove by without any recognition of Gordon’s action. ‘Have a nice day,’ murmured Gordon. He drove on down to the village and parked the Land Rover well away from the houses on a patch of shingle leading down to the shore. In North Wales, Land Rovers were so common that they were practically invisible. They were the standard form of transport for the sheep farming community and also much in evidence for mountain training and rescue organisations, not to mention the Coast Guard Service and the Electricity Board. His would not attract any undue attention.
The tag on the key ring said 13, Beach Road. It suggested to Gordon a cottage in one of the narrow streets fronting the water but, as it turned out, Beach Road stretched a good bit inland and the houses on the outlying part of it were really quite large. Number thirteen turned out to be a sandstone, Victorian family house on two floors, possibly built for a retiring businessman in its day. It had clearly seen better times; its gardens were unkempt and its roof looked as if it could have done with some attention but all the same, Gordon was impressed with it. It had character.
At first, he walked past the house, feeling it possible that he might be being observed from the neighbouring house he’d just passed — pedestrians would not be too common on this road. On the way past number 13, he noted that there was a side door to the garden; this was on the blind side of the neighbouring house. He decided to try for entry there, hoping that one of the three keys on the ring might fit the back door, which again, would be sheltered from view.
He was lucky: the side door to the garden opened after a turn of the iron ring handle and a hefty push with his shoulder to clear beech leaves and other debris piled up behind it. He stood for a few moments after closing the door in the wall behind him and took in the broody silence of the place. He wasn’t sure if the unpleasant atmosphere he sensed was associated with knowing that Dawes had lived here or down to the house in its own right, but he certainly didn’t like it. He walked round the back and found that the long key on the ring fitted the kitchen door. It opened with a slight shudder due to an imperfect fit in the frame and Gordon stepped inside to a smell of dampness and old carpets.