The Family Remains(77)

‘Birdie Dunlop-Evers?’ I offer.

‘Yes. That’s the one. And it says in this article here in the Guardian that she was last known to be living with her boyfriend, a Justin Redding?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I don’t know if this is helpful in any way, I could be totally barking up the wrong tree and about to make a complete fool of myself. But I’m pretty sure the guy who gardens for me is him. Except his surname isn’t Redding. It’s Ugley.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The man who gardens for me, his surname is Ugley. With an “e”.’

‘Justin Ugley?’

‘Yes.’

I stifle an urge to say something flippant about how it is no wonder he chose to use a stage name and I clear my throat and say, ‘And how old is Mr Ugley, roughly?

‘I’d say, mid-fifties?’

I nod to myself. This would be correct.

‘And for how long has he been doing your garden?’

‘Oh, about a year or two.’

‘And what makes you think it is him?’

‘Well, his face, really. The photo on the article. Of the pop group. I remember the pop group, but I really only remembered the face of the lead singer. I’d never really looked at the other members before but when I looked at him in that photo, I just had a jolt. You know? Caught my breath. It was him. It was Justin.’

‘And this Justin, do you know where he lives?’

‘Well, he’s something of an itinerant, I would say. I have a strong feeling he lives in a camper van. But I’ve also seen him leaving a cottage on occasion, in the village.’

‘And this camper van. Where would we find it?’

‘It’s in one of the fields up behind the business centre.’

‘Which business centre is that?’

‘Cowbridge Business Park. On the A4222. About a five-minute drive east from the village centre.’

‘And if I were to come now, would I be able to find him there, do you think?’

‘Well, I have no idea. He works for me on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have no idea what he does on Fridays. I have no idea about him at all really. He’s a very nice man. But I think he has some issues.’

‘What kind of issues?’

‘Well, drink, mainly. He’s a drinker. Spent some time in prison too over the years, I believe. And just generally a bit of a loner.’

‘And has he ever said anything to you about having been a musician? In his youth?’

‘No. No, he hasn’t. But I have seen him once or twice in the village pub playing the tambourine with a local band. It wasn’t his tambourine, he just picked it up and joined in. As if he was sort of drawn to it, you might say. So that’s something that makes it seem likely, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I think it does.’

‘And there was another thing in the article that caught my eye,’ Cath Manwaring continues. ‘It said something about the house where they think Birdie might have died, about a suicide pact and people poisoning themselves with a homemade tincture. And Justin has offered on occasion to resurrect our herb garden. He says he used to be an apothecary. That he spent years living on a smallholding growing herbs and making potions. I tried to find out more about it, but he didn’t seem to want to expand on it.’

I make some noises down the line to express my interest in what Cath Manwaring has just said, and I make notes that are not actually notes but lively pencil doodlings which express the thrill that is beginning to consume me. I believe that this man is Justin Redding. I believe it with every iota of my being.

‘But listen. Like I say, he’s very nice man. But very damaged. A man on the edge, you might say. And if it is him, if he is Justin Redding, I wouldn’t want him getting hauled in and dragged over the coals for something he didn’t do. I would feel terrible. I mean, do you really think he did it?’

‘Mrs Manwaring, at this point, I really cannot say. But I strongly suspect that he will know something about the house where Birdie died and, at the very least, he will be able to help us move our investigation along.’

‘Are you going to come out? To Cowbridge?’

‘Yes. I am going to come out to Cowbridge.’

According to Google Maps it will take me three and a half hours to drive from here to Cowbridge. A seven-hour return journey. But Libby Jones and Miller Roe are due to meet me here at the station at 3 p.m. and even if I were to leave right now, I would have no time to do anything other than turn right round and come straight back if I want to stand any chance of making the meeting. I call Donal.

‘Donal. I have a big request. When Miss Jones and Mr Roe arrive this afternoon, please could I ask you to step in and oversee the conversation? I have to go to Wales. I will be back to join you as soon as I possibly can.’

Donal of course says yes. He loves to interview. And I take the car from outside the station, type the name Cowbridge Business Park into my satnav and go.

The British countryside is a beautiful thing, especially in June. The blinding fields of rape. The puffball trees on swollen hills. The tumbling baskets of flowers hanging outside country pubs. I have some music playing, a mix of pop songs and some jazz from the 1920s; you can hear the crackle of the needle on the vinyl. I have my window open, and my heart is full of anticipation. I asked Cath Manwaring if she perhaps had a phone number for Justin Ugley and she told me that, as far as she is aware, Justin Ugley does not own a phone. So I am coming to him unannounced and he will be unprepared and, really, that is the best way for me to find him. Newly born.