you?’
Julie shrugged, aware that the Palmer affair was starting to drive a wedge between them. ‘I suppose I think the evidence and the fact that one of them has confessed, tends to point that way,’ she said, narrowly avoiding a note of sarcasm. ‘I also can’t begin to understand why anyone else would have done it.’
Gordon let out a long sigh and said, ‘I don’t either but that doesn’t mean to say that the Palmers are guilty. It just means that we don’t know who or why at the moment.’
‘But he confessed,’ protested Julie. ‘You seem to keep ignoring that.’
Gordon rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘I’m not ignoring it,’ he said in a tightly controlled way. ‘But after talking to Lucy and giving the matter a lot of thought, I’m sure John confessed to protect his wife.’
‘You mean she did it?’
‘No, no,’ insisted Gordon, becoming agitated, ‘But he thinks she did. It’s all a misunderstanding. Neither of them did it.’
‘That’s what you think ,’ said Julie. She made it sound like an accusation.
‘It is what I believe, yes,’ agreed Gordon.
Julie looked at him long and hard and said, ‘I think you have to accept that, if one of the Palmers actually thinks that the other one did it, the villagers can be excused for thinking much the same thing. I don’t suppose they care too much which one of them it was but they are convinced it was them.’
‘Well it wasn’t,’ said Gordon. ‘Now they’re being told what to think by the tabloid press. Have you seen this stuff?’ He picked up the papers he’d brought in with him. ‘They were a loving family, for Christ’s sake. John Palmer is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know and this lot are suggesting he’s Dr bloody Mengele!’
‘I saw some of it earlier,’ said Julie. ‘The confession is the problem. It’s given them free rein to go for the jugular. She sighed and said, ‘If you’ll take my advice you’ll stand back from it a little. You’ve made a lot of friends since you came here, Tom. I’d hate to see you lose them over this.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
There was a short uncomfortable silence in the room while both of them reflected that they were not going to agree about this.
FIVE
The funeral parlour of J. Prosser and Son had stood in Mould Street, Caernarfon for more than seventy-five years, its black-painted frontage and discreet gold lettering boasting its credentials for Care and Concern in times of Bereavement . It was the sort of place where local people tended to hush their voices in passing, intimidated by the open Bible lying in the window on a cushion of maroon velvet in front of matching, heavy curtains. Young children might ask what lay behind the curtains but were seldom graced with an answer. If they were, they were told that it didn’t concern them; it was nothing for them to worry their little heads over.
It was therefore something quite out of the ordinary when John Prosser was woken up in the flat above the parlour at seven in the morning by someone hammering on the front door and demanding that he open up shop.
Wrapping his plaid dressing gown around him and hastily perching his half-moon specs on his nose, he hurried downstairs to tip toe through the cold gloom of a March morning and open the door. A thickset man in his late twenties with dark curly hair and an anguished expression stood there. His breath smelt of whisky and the bags under his eyes spoke of a lack of sleep.
‘Martin Griffiths?’ exclaimed Prosser. ‘What are you doing here, man?’
‘You’re burying my girl today, Prosser,’ said Griffiths, his speech a little slurred but his gaze steady enough.
‘And right sorry I am too,’ replied Prosser.
‘I want her to have my mother’s ring in the box with her, see.’ Griffiths brought out a small, scuffed, blue leather ring box from his jacket pocket and waved it in front of Prosser’s face.
Prosser frowned then said kindly,
Julie shrugged, aware that the Palmer affair was starting to drive a wedge between them. ‘I suppose I think the evidence and the fact that one of them has confessed, tends to point that way,’ she said, narrowly avoiding a note of sarcasm. ‘I also can’t begin to understand why anyone else would have done it.’
Gordon let out a long sigh and said, ‘I don’t either but that doesn’t mean to say that the Palmers are guilty. It just means that we don’t know who or why at the moment.’
‘But he confessed,’ protested Julie. ‘You seem to keep ignoring that.’
Gordon rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘I’m not ignoring it,’ he said in a tightly controlled way. ‘But after talking to Lucy and giving the matter a lot of thought, I’m sure John confessed to protect his wife.’
‘You mean she did it?’
‘No, no,’ insisted Gordon, becoming agitated, ‘But he thinks she did. It’s all a misunderstanding. Neither of them did it.’
‘That’s what you think ,’ said Julie. She made it sound like an accusation.
‘It is what I believe, yes,’ agreed Gordon.
Julie looked at him long and hard and said, ‘I think you have to accept that, if one of the Palmers actually thinks that the other one did it, the villagers can be excused for thinking much the same thing. I don’t suppose they care too much which one of them it was but they are convinced it was them.’
‘Well it wasn’t,’ said Gordon. ‘Now they’re being told what to think by the tabloid press. Have you seen this stuff?’ He picked up the papers he’d brought in with him. ‘They were a loving family, for Christ’s sake. John Palmer is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know and this lot are suggesting he’s Dr bloody Mengele!’
‘I saw some of it earlier,’ said Julie. ‘The confession is the problem. It’s given them free rein to go for the jugular. She sighed and said, ‘If you’ll take my advice you’ll stand back from it a little. You’ve made a lot of friends since you came here, Tom. I’d hate to see you lose them over this.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
There was a short uncomfortable silence in the room while both of them reflected that they were not going to agree about this.
FIVE
The funeral parlour of J. Prosser and Son had stood in Mould Street, Caernarfon for more than seventy-five years, its black-painted frontage and discreet gold lettering boasting its credentials for Care and Concern in times of Bereavement . It was the sort of place where local people tended to hush their voices in passing, intimidated by the open Bible lying in the window on a cushion of maroon velvet in front of matching, heavy curtains. Young children might ask what lay behind the curtains but were seldom graced with an answer. If they were, they were told that it didn’t concern them; it was nothing for them to worry their little heads over.
It was therefore something quite out of the ordinary when John Prosser was woken up in the flat above the parlour at seven in the morning by someone hammering on the front door and demanding that he open up shop.
Wrapping his plaid dressing gown around him and hastily perching his half-moon specs on his nose, he hurried downstairs to tip toe through the cold gloom of a March morning and open the door. A thickset man in his late twenties with dark curly hair and an anguished expression stood there. His breath smelt of whisky and the bags under his eyes spoke of a lack of sleep.
‘Martin Griffiths?’ exclaimed Prosser. ‘What are you doing here, man?’
‘You’re burying my girl today, Prosser,’ said Griffiths, his speech a little slurred but his gaze steady enough.
‘And right sorry I am too,’ replied Prosser.
‘I want her to have my mother’s ring in the box with her, see.’ Griffiths brought out a small, scuffed, blue leather ring box from his jacket pocket and waved it in front of Prosser’s face.
Prosser frowned then said kindly,
Similar Books
