CRISTY: ‘Look out – someone’s backing out of the car park.’
Bringing his own car to a stop, Connor watched the vehicle in front, and as someone climbed down from the four-by-four, he said, ‘It’s Maggi, isn’t it?’
Cristy watched the woman, dressed in her usual jodhpurs and boots, hair scrunched under a cap, as she came towards them.
Lowering the car window, Cristy said, ‘Hi, is everything OK?’
Maggi looked pale and distracted. ‘I should probably thank you for coming, but to be honest, I wish this wasn’t happening. I thought you’d go away, if I told you she killed them …’
Unsure how to respond to that, apart from with the nerves that clenched her heart, Cristy said, ‘Is he here?’
Maggi glanced down the lane that stretched out ahead of them. ‘You need to follow me,’ she replied. ‘It isn’t far.’
As she returned to her vehicle, Cristy said to Connor, ‘Did we record that?’
‘We did,’ he confirmed. ‘So where is she taking us?’
For the next few minutes, they kept a close tail on the Defender as Maggi led them along the narrow, winding road away from the farm, dipping through a fast-running ford at one point before rising steeply between tightly packed hedgerows. Eventually, she came to a stop in front of a large grassy bank that faced a row of old cottages. Remembering that more staff were housed in a nearby hamlet, Cristy presumed this was it and got out of the car.
It was a pretty remote spot, that was for sure: picture-book, surrounded by sky and empty fields and home to hundreds of budding daffodils. The church, at the heart of it all, was clearly ancient, and protected by a crumbling dry-stone wall.
‘It looks medieval,’ Cristy commented as Maggi joined her.
Glancing up at the tower, Maggi said, ‘I’m told the last dragon in Wales was slain here, but they say that about a lot of churches in Wales.’ She turned as Connor came up behind them, and said, ‘We need to go over there.’
They followed her through a weathered stone gateway, its lintel crooked with age, into the churchyard filled with time-worn graves and centuries-old yew trees, classic symbols of immortality and eternity. The earthy scent of moss and stale water tanged the fresh, cold air, while the sound of birdsong livened the eerie stillness.
‘He’s over there, with his grandparents,’ Maggi told them and gestured for them to go ahead.
Cristy finally spotted him, at the far side of the cemetery, squatting down in front of a grave, elbows resting on his knees. She glanced at Connor and started through the haphazardly placed obelisks, tombstones and Celtic crosses. She wondered about the ghosts they were passing, the people who’d come to lay their loved ones to rest, the passing of time and old stories long forgotten. The whole place was as emotive as it was still, as alive with the past as it was filled with the dead.
By the time they reached Meier, he was standing, turned towards them, and though no more than four days had passed since Cristy had last seen him in Vevey, she was shocked by the change in him. The light had faded from his eyes, leaving only soreness and sorrow; the colour had drained from his face.
He offered no greeting, simply looked down at the grave beside him, as if inviting them to do the same.
Cristy’s heart was pounding as she read the inscription:In loving memory of Gwyn Edward Jones 1936–2005 and his beloved wife; Marie Jones 1938–2012.
Then she saw it: the tiny ceramic plaque beneath the engraver’s simply hewn words, and her heart turned over so hard it hurt.
Marie’s two great-grandchildren 2004–2005.
Tears sprang to her eyes as a flood of despair engulfed her. Their precious lives really had ended back in 2005.
She turned to Meier and found him watching her, his face deathly pale, his expression drawn with grief.
‘Are they really in there?’ she made herself ask.
‘They are,’ he confirmed.
‘And you – you’re their father?’
He nodded, and as he looked down at the grave again, a sudden, blinding sunray broke free of a cloud, as though to single him out in some way. Or maybe it was offering a quiet surge of strength for what had to come next.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Meier led the way to an old picnic bench just beyond the church wall, perched at the edge of a steep, grassy meadow with spectacular views of the valley below. Cristy’s mind was racing, still trying to get past the shock, to overcome the torrent of conflicting emotions, while feeling profoundly thankful that she and Connor had never shared the twins’ age-enhanced images. They never would now, of course, and certainly not with their father, for whatever Meier had done, however his children had ended up in a hidden grave on a remote Welsh hillside, she felt certain – at least for the moment – that he didn’t deserve that particular extra torment.
By the time they were seated, Meier with his back to the view, Cristy and Connor facing him with the recorder between them, she was more or less ready to begin leading them to the answers they needed.
