joking.’
‘I’m not. We advertise a second-hand black ’47 Buick in the Cambrian News classifieds section. If anyone rings up we can count them as a possible alien, or an intermediary representing their interests.’
‘Nothing I say will stop you, will it?’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Is it? Of all the wildest goose chases you’ve ever proposed, this . . . this takes the biscuit.’
‘How can a goose chase take a biscuit?’
‘You know what I mean. We’re looking for a chap called Iestyn who robbed a cinema in 1965 and was hanged; but for some reason as yet unexplained he is still alive. Allegedly.’
‘Looking for a dead man is also a wild goose chase. If you are allowed then so am I. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’
I looked at her in surprise. She grinned. ‘Point is, we are not the only ones looking for him. If the farmer is to be believed, so are the aliens. Raspiwtin says they had a rendezvous arranged. So we find out what their connection is. That way we find Iestyn.’
‘Assuming the farmer can be believed. My guess is, he dreamed the whole thing up.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll ask him. Get his address.’
‘Already have. He lives out at Ynys Greigiog.’
I filled the teapot with hot water and carried the tray over to where we once had a desk. ‘We’ll go and see him.’
‘Sure, but we also do the ad.’ She picked up a sheet of paper torn from an exercise book and read. ‘For Sale. Secondhand 1947 Buick, black. One careful lady owner, 27,000 miles on the clock. Must be seen to be believed.’ She looked up grinning. ‘I’ve already placed it.’
I put my hat on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to see the mayor and ask for the address of his soothsayer.’
It was raining on the Prom but not heavily – a drizzle. Dark rags of cloud scudded across the blue sky and turned the world to silver and anthracite. The pale blue wooden benches misted over; the charcoal grit that passed for sand on the beach darkened; there were no bathers to disturb, just dog-walkers who didn’t care, and a few students defiantly sitting on the pebbles, dressed in that strange amalgam of charity shop and high street, a sort of Dickensian-New Aquarian oddness. It probably wasn’t a good idea to see the mayor, but that was often the trouble with being a private eye: most of the good ideas were simultaneously bad ones.
I cut through the public shelter to South Road. The town hall was up ahead on the left; the mayor held an afternoon surgery every Wednesday. I entered a small anteroom and approached a counter. I gave my name and told the clerk I wished to speak to the mayor about the arrest of Iestyn Probert in 1965. Then I took a seat. There was one other person waiting. He was staring at me with a venomous intensity. It was Meici Jones.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said.
Meici was a spinning-wheel salesman I had encountered on a previous case. He was one of life’s mistfits who had lived with his mum till the age of thirty-five and still wore short trousers on her orders. As a consequence of that case – indirectly, although I was sure he didn’t see it that way – his mum had been sent to jail for murder. At the time of the trial I had wondered how he would cope on his own, and the image that presented itself to me in the mayor’s anteroom suggested not all that well. He was wearing long trousers now, but they were ragged and crumpled. His white shirt was grey and blotched, though he had managed to wear a tie. His hair was badly in need of a cut.
‘Hi Meici.’
‘I saw you come in. I was here first.’
‘How have you been keeping?’
‘To tell you the truth, Lou, things have been pretty difficult. I’m on my own, did you know that?’
‘Yes, I . . . assumed . . . at the trial I –’
‘I wash my own clothes and stuff now, and I get my own food. Mum used to be quite hard sometimes, but . . . it’s funny . . . now
‘I’m not. We advertise a second-hand black ’47 Buick in the Cambrian News classifieds section. If anyone rings up we can count them as a possible alien, or an intermediary representing their interests.’
‘Nothing I say will stop you, will it?’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Is it? Of all the wildest goose chases you’ve ever proposed, this . . . this takes the biscuit.’
‘How can a goose chase take a biscuit?’
‘You know what I mean. We’re looking for a chap called Iestyn who robbed a cinema in 1965 and was hanged; but for some reason as yet unexplained he is still alive. Allegedly.’
‘Looking for a dead man is also a wild goose chase. If you are allowed then so am I. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’
I looked at her in surprise. She grinned. ‘Point is, we are not the only ones looking for him. If the farmer is to be believed, so are the aliens. Raspiwtin says they had a rendezvous arranged. So we find out what their connection is. That way we find Iestyn.’
‘Assuming the farmer can be believed. My guess is, he dreamed the whole thing up.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll ask him. Get his address.’
‘Already have. He lives out at Ynys Greigiog.’
I filled the teapot with hot water and carried the tray over to where we once had a desk. ‘We’ll go and see him.’
‘Sure, but we also do the ad.’ She picked up a sheet of paper torn from an exercise book and read. ‘For Sale. Secondhand 1947 Buick, black. One careful lady owner, 27,000 miles on the clock. Must be seen to be believed.’ She looked up grinning. ‘I’ve already placed it.’
I put my hat on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to see the mayor and ask for the address of his soothsayer.’
It was raining on the Prom but not heavily – a drizzle. Dark rags of cloud scudded across the blue sky and turned the world to silver and anthracite. The pale blue wooden benches misted over; the charcoal grit that passed for sand on the beach darkened; there were no bathers to disturb, just dog-walkers who didn’t care, and a few students defiantly sitting on the pebbles, dressed in that strange amalgam of charity shop and high street, a sort of Dickensian-New Aquarian oddness. It probably wasn’t a good idea to see the mayor, but that was often the trouble with being a private eye: most of the good ideas were simultaneously bad ones.
I cut through the public shelter to South Road. The town hall was up ahead on the left; the mayor held an afternoon surgery every Wednesday. I entered a small anteroom and approached a counter. I gave my name and told the clerk I wished to speak to the mayor about the arrest of Iestyn Probert in 1965. Then I took a seat. There was one other person waiting. He was staring at me with a venomous intensity. It was Meici Jones.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said.
Meici was a spinning-wheel salesman I had encountered on a previous case. He was one of life’s mistfits who had lived with his mum till the age of thirty-five and still wore short trousers on her orders. As a consequence of that case – indirectly, although I was sure he didn’t see it that way – his mum had been sent to jail for murder. At the time of the trial I had wondered how he would cope on his own, and the image that presented itself to me in the mayor’s anteroom suggested not all that well. He was wearing long trousers now, but they were ragged and crumpled. His white shirt was grey and blotched, though he had managed to wear a tie. His hair was badly in need of a cut.
‘Hi Meici.’
‘I saw you come in. I was here first.’
‘How have you been keeping?’
‘To tell you the truth, Lou, things have been pretty difficult. I’m on my own, did you know that?’
‘Yes, I . . . assumed . . . at the trial I –’
‘I wash my own clothes and stuff now, and I get my own food. Mum used to be quite hard sometimes, but . . . it’s funny . . . now
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