FAITH AND THE CASE OF MIDSUMMER MADNESS

INTRODUCTION

This is a story set five years before the start of the TV series, Keeping Faith, featuring Faith, her yellow coat (briefly) and many of the inhabitants of Abercorran we have come to know.

This is written purely for your enjoyment and to raise money for charity during this exceptional time. If you like it, please make a donation however small to https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/masks4nhsheroes.

Although I am the creator of Keeping Faith, the TV companies own the copyright in the stories and characters, so this is not an official story and not part of the TV series. Think of it as a piece of fan fiction!

Thanks for reading.
Matthew

FAITH AND THE CASE OF MIDSUMMER MADNESS

The vast June sun rose into the perfect blue, warming the feathers of circling gulls and sending fingers of light though gaps in the still-drawn curtains of the sleeping town. It beckoned to prince and pauper alike - to the Lloyd-Griffithses in Brynmawr Manor and to the solitary, homeless man, curled in a doorway on his cardboard bed.

Here was Abercorran. A small and sacred place, perched on the edge of a bay where nine rivers met the sea, and many human wanderers, too, reached the end of their meanders.

But what is there at journey’s end, the new dawn seemed to say, other than fresh beginnings?

A solitary ray stroked Faith Howells’ cheek. She stirred and basked for a moment in the bliss of semi-wakefulness, then cast a wary glance at the clock.

Only ten past six.

Heaven.

She rolled onto her side and cwtched up close to Evan.

‘Sweetie?’

He grunted softly and drifted back to his dream.

‘You awake? … It’s only ten past.’

She gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs.

‘Hmm?’

‘Twenty minutes … to ourselves.’

His eyelids fluttered, a smile spreading across his face. He turned his head towards her and slid a warm hand around her waist, finding the bare skin beneath her T-shirt.

‘I love you,’ he murmured.

‘I love you, too … But you can save the soppy stuff for after, alright?  Right now I want some action. It’s been two bloody weeks.’

She pressed her lips against his, pinned his wrists to the pillow and slid on top.

‘Hang on, I should have thought this through.’ She pushed down her pyjama bottoms part-way down and attempted to wriggle out of them.

‘Mam! Mam!’ The voice called out from the landing.

‘Oh, not now … Please, not now.’

‘Megan’s crying.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute, lovely.’

‘She needs you now!’

‘In a minute, I said -’

Too late.
            Faith scrambled back to her side of the bed, clutching the duvet to her chin as five year-old Alys burst in.

‘I think she’s wet herself again.’

‘Oh, great.’ Graduation to pull-up pants wasn’t going smoothly.

‘I’ll go,’ Evan said, selfless as always. He gave Faith’s wrist an affectionate squeeze. ‘You can’t have everything,’ he whispered.

Faith waited for the click of the bedroom door and hauled herself to her feet. Wrapped in the silk robe her best friend Lisa had given her last birthday (thirty-buggering-four!), she opened the curtains and looked out over the rooftops of Abercorran nestled into the crook of the bay. A solitary fishing boat was chugging out to meet the white-tops in the estuary.

Every morning she took in the same view and had the identical thought. What had she done to deserve this life? How had city girl Faith fetched up here, living in a scene from a chocolate box?

She was one lucky, jammy cow, that was for sure.

But still, she could really have done with that shag.

Tom Howells knotted his yacht club tie and paused to admire his reflection in the dressing table mirror. Not at all bad for fifty-five. Plenty of film stars and politicians his age looked far older, especially the skinny ones. The hair might be a little more silver than brown but at least it was still present and correct. And the old eyes still twinkled with the glint of mischief that had won him more than a few admirers in his day.

His day? Correction. On one view, he was in his prime. The finished article. In fact, he had begun to notice recently that women of a certain age were stealing the occasional glance. Several ladies at the Rotary had lately smiled at him in a manner that could only be described as inviting.

            ‘You need to shave your ears. They’re covered in hairs.’ Sitting up in bed, Marion had looked up from her morning tea and Daily Mail and was peering critically over her reading glasses. ‘They’re catching the light.’

            ‘Thank you, Marion,’ Tom said with quiet patience.

            He stepped into the en-suite and fetched his new grooming tool from the cupboard beneath the sink.

            ‘And make sure you rinse them away properly. All of them. I don’t know how many times … And that means wearing your glasses.’

            He bit his tongue and applied the buzzing blades.

            ‘Who are you trying to impress, anyway?’

            ‘No one.’

            ‘You’re wearing your father’s cufflinks. And the captain’s tie.’

            ‘I’m flattered that you noticed, my love.’

            ‘You’re greasing up to someone.’

            ‘No, just meeting with an important client. Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths. He’s having some trouble with squatters on his estate. If I handle it correctly I’m hoping he might put a little more of his considerable business our way.’ He ran a finger over his hairless lobes and turned the tap.

            ‘Squatters? In Abercorran?’

            ‘Hippy types. In vans. They’ve gathered for some sort of rave on Tryleg Hill.’

            ‘Hippy types? What are you, ninety-three? They’ll be New Age Travellers coming for the solstice. Perfectly harmless. They’ll be gone in a week.’

            Tom emerged from the en-suite. ‘Whoever they are, my job is to get rid of them and pick up some blue-chip business for Howells while we’re at it. It’s about time we stepped up a level. There’s no reason the major landowners shouldn’t employ a local firm instead of paying London rates. Especially one with our expertise.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘How do I look?’

            Marion glanced up from her paper and swept him with a critical eye.

            He waited for the verdict.

            ‘Very smart.’ She smiled with something approaching affection. ‘Good luck.’
            ‘Thank you. See you later.’

            He turned to the door.

            ‘Well, at least he won’t be handsy with you.’

            ‘I beg your pardon?’

            ‘Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths. I shouldn’t sit him too close to Faith, though. Maggie Rhys says -’

            ‘Maggie Rhys! I’d hardly take that woman’s word for gospel. Teddy won the DSO for his service in Afghanistan. He’s even agreed to come and speak to the Rotary Club dinner next Thursday.’

            ‘It’s because his wife’s a lesbian,’ Marion continued, casually talking over him. ‘She married a soldier knowing he’d be away half the year and he married her for her money. It’s an arrangement. Perfectly normal in the upper classes, apparently.’

            ‘That really is the most outrageous gossip. Some people in this town have nothing better to do than invent tittle-tattle. I’ve never met a more upstanding man.’

            ‘The woman she goes riding with, apparently. That divorcée from Bristol. The one who’s always going about in jodhpurs.’ She turned to the agony column and became engrossed in some salacious tale of suburban infidelity. ‘Have a nice day.’

            ‘And you.’ Tom let himself out of the bedroom.

            Marion’s voice pursued him down the stairs: ‘And for goodness sake don’t slam the front door. You made me spill my tea yesterday – all over my Gilda and Pearl nightdress.’

            ‘Lipstick … Where’s my sodding lipstick?’

Faith rummaged furiously in her handbag and finally retrieved it from the depths. She applied a good thick layer, smacked her lips and checked the results in the car’s vanity mirror. Not bad considering she’d already made breakfast, put through a load of washing, wrangled a tantrumming toddler into nursery, laddered her tights and rushed home for another pair.  

‘You’ll do.’

She climbed out and hurried along the pavement on narrow heels towards the offices of Howells of Abercorran. Rounding the corner, she was met with a sight that was as unlikely as it was unexpected. In the office doorway a young man with matted dreadlocks was picking himself off a makeshift bed of squashed cardboard boxes while Tom looked on indignantly from the kerb.

‘Everything alright?’ Faith said as she approached.

Tom rocked back on his heels like the Company Sergeant Major. ‘He’s just on his way.’

The young man looked round at Faith while lighting a match, which he then touched to a stick-thin roll-up. ‘With him, are you?’

            She nodded. ‘We’re colleagues.’

            ‘Bad luck.’ He gave an endearing smile and sucked on his fag. Ignoring Tom’s pointed cough, he continued, ‘I was hoping for a bit of legal assistance, see, but he’s just told me to bugger off.’

            ‘We’ve urgent meetings to attend to,’ Tom said. ‘If you would kindly clear your things from our doorway.’

            ‘Sure.’ The vagrant stooped to gather up his sheets of cardboard, then, as he straightened and drew himself up to his full height, he nodded towards the chapel across the road. ‘See what it says on that notice board? Love thy neighbour.’

            Faith shot Tom a look telling him to leave this to her. ‘What sort of assistance are you after, Mr -?’

            ‘Davies … Arthur Davies.’ He met Faith’s gaze as if to get her measure, then extended a grubby hand, the back of which he had just used to wipe his nose. ‘Oh, sorry, love.’ He rubbed the smear onto the sleeve of his greasy combat jacket and offered it again.

            Faith looked at it and baulked. Nappies fine, homeless man’s snot, definitely not fine.

            ‘Please yourself. Should have known I was wasting my bloody time.’ He tossed the cardboard into the gutter and grabbed his duffel bag. ‘Sorry about the smell of piss, only they charge 20p for the public bogs. Eight times a day, that’s lunch. Yeah, it’s shit being homeless. Hope you never have to try it.’

            He tramped off along the pavement towards what passed for the centre of town.

            Faith called after him. ‘Mr Davies -’

            He raised his middle finger proudly to the sky.

            ‘Charming,’ Tom said.

            ‘We can’t just turn him away,’ Faith pleaded. ‘We should at least hear what his problem is.’

            ‘We’re a law firm, not a charity,’ Tom retorted stiffly. ‘And we’ve got Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths arriving in ten minutes and a front step that smells like a public urinal.’ He stepped gingerly to the door and unlocked it. ‘Fetch a bucket of water.’

            ‘In the nicest possible way, Tom – do it your effing self.’

            ‘Ah, Colonel. So good to see you again. You’re looking well.’

            ‘Thank you. And you.’

            ‘Allow me to introduce my colleague and daughter-in-law, Faith Howells.’

            ‘Pleased to meet you.’

            The Colonel, a tall, lean, handsome man a little north of fifty shook Faith’s hand and smiled warmly. She noticed his hazel eyes. They were soft like a child’s and completely at odds with the mental picture she had formed of a battle-hardened soldier.

            ‘Let’s step into the conference room, shall we?’ Tom ushered their visitor across reception and called over to Delyth, who had been Howells’ meeter, greeter and all-round office manager for thirty years. (Tom’s father, ‘The Major’, had employed her straight from secretarial school in 1985 and after three decades Delyth knew more about the firm’s inner workings than anyone.) ‘A tray of coffee, please?’

            ‘Of course.’ Delyth rose dutifully from her desk and headed along the passage to the kitchenette. She was as obedient to Tom as a faithful Labrador.  

            They arranged themselves around one end of the shiny conference table which Faith had insisted replace the Victorian monstrosity that had hosted client meetings since1898. Together with the addition of glass partitions and brightly coloured walls, she had almost succeeded in bringing Abercorran’s premier (and only) legal practice into the 21^st century, having skipped the 20^th entirely.

            Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths cast an admiring glance around room, which didn’t go unnoticed by Tom. ‘Not what you were expecting from a local firm, Colonel?’

            ‘Teddy, please,’ the Colonel said, relaxing into a chair. ‘And if I’m perfectly honest, no, it isn’t. Very sleek.’

            ‘Things have moved on a lot in recent years. Faith here was a junior associate at Linklaters in the City before she married Evan. And he chose the family firm over offers from several prestigious practices. London expertise at country rates – that’s our USP.’

            ‘Linklaters? I’m impressed.’ Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths looked at Faith with renewed admiration. ‘It must have taken something very special to tempt you away from them.’

            ‘Evan did a good sales pitch,’ Faith said.

            ‘Evidently.’ Teddy’s hazel eyes crinkled at the corners.

            ‘Well, then,’ Tom said, getting down to business, ‘these squatters of yours. I propose we go to the County Court first thing tomorrow and obtain an order for their removal. The sooner we act the better. We don’t want them putting down roots and littering up the place. Disgusting mess these people leave.’

            ‘Yes, well, I actually had word with them yesterday. Apparently, they’re planning to push off next Friday. Some nonsense about the summer solstice. I was thinking we might hold fire until then. Don’t want to be too harsh - you never know how these things can be misrepresented in the media.’

            ‘I suppose that would be sensible,’ Tom said, swiftly retreating, ‘although it may do no harm to get the paperwork ready.’

            Teddy gave a silent nod and steepled his fingers. He cast his gaze down at the table.  After an unsettling pause, he looked up with an expression that could only be described as vulnerable. ‘There is one other rather delicate matter I’d like to raise. In strictest confidence, if you don’t mind?’

            Tom shot a nervous glance in Faith’s direction. ‘Of course.’

            Then, just as the moment of revelation approached, the conference stalled as Delyth entered with the coffee tray.

            She caught Faith’s eye as she set it down, sensing the delicate atmosphere.

            ‘Thank you, Delyth, we can manage,’ Tom said.

            She smiled politely and withdrew.

            ‘Well, it’s like this,’ Teddy began. ‘My wife has many wonderful qualities … She married into the army and put up with years of me being away more than I was at home … But I’m afraid she’s been less than honest with me.  After my retirement back in March I started looking into our finances. I discovered that she’d been selling shares and dipping into our savings accounts.  There’s more than £200,000 missing.’ He let out a sigh that spoke of silent suffering. ‘I was wondering what might be done.’    

            ‘Any idea what’s she been doing with it?’ Faith asked.

            ‘I’ve really no idea.’

            ‘Have you asked her?’

            ‘No. Not yet.’

            ‘Don’t you think perhaps you should?’

            ‘When the time’s right.’ He looked meaningfully from Faith to Tom. ‘When I’ve more information.’

            ‘Quite,’ Tom said, in a tone that signalled that he was taking charge. ‘May I be blunt with you, Teddy?’

            ‘Please do.’

            ‘Assuming Jennifer hasn’t developed a fondness for gambling, the usual reason a spouse dissipates assets – to use the technical term – is in anticipation of a separation.’ He braced himself for the awkward question. ‘Do you think she might be planning to leave you?’

            ‘Jennifer?’ Teddy seemed astonished at the idea. ‘Why ever would you say that?’

            ‘No particular reason – beyond what you’ve told us.’

            Faith noticed Tom’s neck reddening above his shirt collar and the veins in his temples start to throb. Signs that gave her the distinct feeling he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

            If Teddy had noticed Tom’s disquiet he kept it to himself. He leaned forward and reached for the coffee pot. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Be my guest,’ Tom said, nervously tapping the table top with his fingers.

Faith took her cue to intervene. ‘Assuming your wife is siphoning off money, your choices are limited. No crime’s been committed - it’s not usually possible for a husband or wife to steal from the other. But if she were to leave you, the missing money would be counted as part of your joint assets on divorce, so you wouldn’t lose your share. The worst case would be if she were gambling or giving it away – we’d have to think about something called an add-back procedure which would mean a trip to court. And of course, you also have the option of suing her for divorce.’

Teddy took a sip of coffee and gave an approving nod. ‘Very good. That’s exactly what my solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn said.’

‘Lincoln’s Inn?’ Tom said, in a falling tone.

‘Yes, Travers King. I’ve been with them for years. My apologies, I wasn’t coming to you for legal advice as such, I just thought that with you being so much part of the local scene you might have picked up on the gossip.’

‘Gossip -’ The word fell from Tom’s lips like a stone.

‘I’ll pay your usual rates for this meeting, of course.’

‘I see.’ Tom took a moment to gather himself as the prospect of a large annual retainer from the Lloyd-Griffiths estate vanished like rain water down a drain. ‘I’m sorry, Teddy, I’m really not much one for gossip.’

‘Well if you do hear anything -’

‘You’ll be the first to know.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been most understanding.’ Teddy rose from his chair and turned to Faith. ‘Good to meet you, Faith. Will you and your husband be at the Rotary dinner?’

‘Three-line whip.’

‘Excellent. I’ll look forward to having a proper chat.’ His gaze lingered on her for a moment more than was entirely comfortable. ‘Oh, and not a word to Jennifer.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘What in God’s bollocks was that all about?’

‘Really, Faith. I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘What sort of man pays lawyers for gossip?’

‘A worried man, evidently.’

Faith had pursued Tom into his office having got the distinct feeling there was something going on.  

He sat behind his desk and shuffled some papers. ‘Is that all? I’ve a busy morning.’

Faith stood her ground, her hand planted firmly on her hip. ‘You know something, Tom. Your neck went bright red. And you’ve cut your ear by the way – it’s gone all crusty.’ She reached out a tissue and licked it. ‘Here –’

Tom swatted her away. ‘It’s alright. I’m not a child.’ He sat back in his chair and shifted uncomfortably. ‘As a matter of fact, I did hear something on the grapevine.’

‘Bethan?’ Faith was referring to her sister-in-law, an estate agent with the firm of Proberts further along the High Street. If a mouse broke wind between here and Carmarthen, Bethan was sure to know first.

‘As a matter of fact, it was Maggie Rhys at the antiques shop. Not exactly the Delphic Oracle, I’ll grant you, but apparently she told Marion that Jennifer and Teddy have an arrangement.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper as if to spare Delyth’s delicate ears, were she to have one of them glued to the keyhole. ‘Teddy married her for her money but in the full knowledge that she was … Well, she’s an outdoorsy type. Horsey ….’

‘You’re making no sense at all, Tom.’

He sighed. ‘You know what I mean … The kind that prefers female company.’

‘Oh. You mean she’s a lesbian.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Your neck’s gone red again. Les-bi-an. Try saying it without clenching your buttocks, Tom. Les-bi-an.’

‘Faith. Please!’
            ‘Alright, so if she digs girls and he knows about it, why’s he coming to us for gossip? He’ll know exactly what she’s up to.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Tom shook his head sorrowfully, his thoughts returning to the lost retainer. ‘Travers King of Lincoln’s Inn. As if we couldn’t do the job just as well … Gossip! I ask you.’

Faith strolled to the window and looked out over the street below. The homeless man was begging outside the chapel and Reverend Talbot was responding in a most un-Christian way, prodding at him with a rolled-up copy of Sporting Life.  ‘Do you know what I think, Tom? I don’t think he wanted gossip from us, I think he was sowing the seeds and hoping we wouldn’t be able to resist casting them about the town. If Tom Howells says Jennifer’s losing the plot and blowing the family stash it must be true.’

Tom was aghast. ‘Why on earth would he want that?’

‘To blacken her name. To make her persona non grata so then when he gives her the shove she’ll be the one that feels obliged to move out of Lloyd-Griffiths Towers. He loves playing the country gent, the Land Rovers and shooting parties – you can’t deny it.’

‘You’ve got a devious mind, Faith. I can’t begin to believe that of Teddy. He’s an officer and a gentleman.’

Faith lifted her chin and sniffed the air. ‘Isn’t it time you had your nappy changed?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were born yesterday?’

‘Very funny.’

She headed for the door.

‘Don’t forget the interviews this afternoon – we’ve got three excellent candidates,’ Tom called after her.

‘I can’t wait.’
           

            ‘Goat’s cheese and chilli chutney.’

            ‘Brill. I’m starving.’

She bit hungrily into the baguette in a repeat of what had become a ritual on sunny days: take-out lunch from the Ferryman caf on a bench overlooking the estuary at the foot of the castle. Another of the many little privileges of living in Abercorran she tried hard not to take for granted.

‘Any luck with the Colonel?’ Evan asked.

‘Long story. Sore point. Move on.’

‘Sorry I asked.’

‘How’d you get on at court?’

‘Not guilty on both counts. Between you and me, I think Mr Baldini might have had a word with a couple of the prosecution witnesses – or had someone do it on his behalf.’

‘He’s a nice sort of rogue, though?’

‘Butter wouldn’t melt. Not so nice when he nicks your car and chucks your flat screen in the boot.’

‘We couldn’t do without him, Evan. It’s villains like that who put food on the table. Thin on the ground in these parts.’ She wiped the crumbs from her lip and took a slurp of Coke. ‘Hey, love, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you getting us out of that Rotary dinner is there? I’m always one to do my duty, but really?’

‘They mean well, Faith. They’re all good people.’

‘With pokers up their arses.’

‘Only a few of them.’

Faith sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. ‘Tell me we’re not going to end up like that.’

‘We are not going to end up like that … What?’

‘I was just wondering … Is that what happens to people when they get too comfortable - they join the Rotary and start clipping gardening tips out of the Telegraph?’

‘If it makes them happy, what’s the problem?’

‘I guess. I’d just hate to get boring.’

‘Not your style.’

Faith nodded, but couldn’t banish the fear of becoming like one of those women who modelled comfortable slacks at the back of the paper. That was the only downside of country life – not knowing if you were keeping pace. For all she knew, her old London friends might already consider her about as cool as a Ferrero Rocher washed down with a warm glass of Asti Spumante.

‘Hey, Evan.’

‘Yeah?’

‘On the subject of not getting too square … do you think we’ve got time to pop down to the boat?’

He met her gaze, his eyes lighting up, then glanced at his watch. A whole half hour until they were due back in the office to interview the three young candidates competing – for reasons best known to themselves – to practise law in a sleepy corner of West Wales.

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Come on, then. Let’s not hang about. Finish your sandwich.’

With their pulses quickening they set off towards their battered sailing boat moored at the floating pontoon a little further along the bay.

They had covered no more than ten yards when a shrill and insistent voice carried to them on the breeze - ‘Evan! Yoo-hoo! Faith!’ – and stopped them in their tracks.

They turned with sinking hearts to see Marion hurrying in their direction, pushing Megan in her buggy. She arrived breathless and beaming. ‘We knew we’d find you here. When I picked Megan up from nursery and asked her what she’d like to do, she said, “Feed the seagulls with mummy and daddy.”’ She produced a plastic bag bulging with breadcrumbs. ‘You don’t have to be back in the office just yet, do you?’

Actually, Marion, we were just popping down to the boat for a quickie because according to Cosmo our current hit rate puts us in the same category as the average 60 year-old nun … is what Faith didn’t say. Instead, she beamed at her beautiful, smiling daughter, hoisted her out of the buggy, kissed her peachy cheeks and went in search of hungry seagulls.

      ‘Is everything alright, Evan?’ Marion asked with maternal concern. ‘You look a bit out of sorts.’

      ‘No. Everything’s fine, mum. Absolutely fine.’
   

      Only two of the candidates arrived at the allotted hour. One was a pale and earnest young man named Geronwy James, who despite his first class degree from Aberystwyth University had all the charisma of a wilted lettuce. The second, Sanjit Khan (who had financed his studies by working as a DJ and tattoo artist in Wolverhampton), politely withdrew his application when his inquiry as to whether Abercorran was served by Uber or Deliveroo was met with three blank stares of incomprehension.

‘Do you think he was talking about one of these online law library services?’ Tom said, still puzzling after the disillusioned Khan had left the room. ‘I can’t abide them myself. Give me a proper book any day. Everything was much easier before all this nonsense.’

‘Uber’s a mini-cab company and Deliveroo does take-aways,’ Faith said, looking up from her phone. ‘They work through apps.’

‘Apps?’

‘You know what an app is, Tom,’ Faith said, heading off the old fogey routine that was getting a little too frequent for her liking.

‘We’ve got Gareth Taxi and the chip shop. What more does he need?’

‘I don’t think he was who we’re looking for,’ Evan said. ‘Maybe we should be considering an older person – someone downshifting from a bigger firm, perhaps?’

‘I am not letting Howells become a retirement home for clapped-out lawyers,’ Faith objected.

‘Not one’s suggesting that, Faith,’ Tom said. ‘But I do think Evan’s got a point. A more experienced and mature candidate may be just what we need.’

‘Rubbish. We want energy. Ambition. The world’s changing – yes, Tom, even in Abercorran.’

There was a knock at the conference room door.

Delyth looked in. ‘I’ve got Miss Cerys Jones here. Got stuck behind a tractor all the way from St Clears, she said.’

Tom sighed. He couldn’t abide lateness. ‘Alright. Show her in.’ He glanced at her CV while Delyth went to fetch her. ‘Swansea University. Only twenty-five. I wonder what apps she’ll be demanding. Is there one for virtual apron strings? Most of these youngsters can’t seem to leave home without them.’

‘I wish there was one for old-man-itis,’ Faith shot back, unable to control herself.

Before Tom could retaliate a slender young woman strode confidently into the room and helped herself to a chair. ‘Sorry I’m late – country roads. Google maps doesn’t do tractors.’ Her blond hair was cut into a neat bob that framed a face that, if it weren’t for the intensity of its owner would be called be pretty, perhaps even beautiful. But Cerys Jones’s steel-edged attitude determined that above all else she was immediately arresting.

‘Good afternoon,’ Tom said, his interest already piqued.

Faith cast a quick sideways glance at Evan and saw that he, too, was transfixed.

There followed an awkward pause during which both men and in the room appeared to become momentarily tongue-tied.

Faith stepped into the breach. ‘Faith Howells. Pleased to meet you. So what brings you to Abercorran, Cerys?’

‘I need the job. Rent. Car. Student loan. If someone gives me the chance I’ll run at it.’

‘But why here and not in Swansea, say?’

Cerys Jones leaned forward in her chair. ‘I did my training contract in Harper Croombe – nearly a hundred of us in a state-of-the-art office in Cardiff Bay. Hated every moment.’

‘You prefer the fresh sea air and the personal touch of a small practice?’ Tom ventured hopefully.

‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr Howells – I don’t like being told what to do. Any client who walks through the door, I’ll fight to the death for them, but on my terms. I won’t gripe about money, I won’t clock off at five, but if a case is mine, I run it. The one thing I value in this life is independence.’

‘You seem very self-assured for someone who’s only just turned twenty-five,’ Evan said.

‘I’ve been paying my way since I was sixteen,’ Cerys Jones said. ‘I know what I want – and isn’t spending the rest of my life on a supermarket till like my mum and it certainly isn’t being a corporate drone. I’d love to work here. You know what my dream is? To find a really big case, a class action against some multinational, and mount it from somewhere like this, under the radar – then BOOM! – sock it to the big boys.’

Tom and Evan stared at Cerys Jones in silent admiration. There would be need for a show of hands. They were bowled over.  

Cerys had agreed to start a probationary three-month period immediately. Faith had approved her appointment but wasn’t sure quite what to make of her. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the human whirlwind that had swept through their offices, yet at the same time Cerys had provoked more than a twinge of jealousy. It wasn’t just that she was young and attractive; she was such a force of nature that she had left Faith feeling a bit of a plodder, and while Evan was upstairs reading the kids their bedtime story, over a glass of Chardonnay on the veranda, she admitted as much to best friend, Lisa.

            ‘Plodder? You? You never bloody stop, Faith. I’m the lazy bitch.’ She took a large and enthusiastic mouthful of wine. ‘This morning I spent two hours getting my nails done,’ she held up an immaculately manicured hand, ‘and all afternoon in the hairdressers.’

            ‘Special occasion?’

            ‘It’s meant to be a birthday surprise, but I was having a nosy at Vic’s phone and saw that he’s only gone and booked three nights in Ibiza. We’re flying out Friday night from Cardiff.’

            ‘Lucky you. Business is good, then?’

            ‘Oh, business is fine. Three new bungalows going up at Pendine. He did say he wants me to choose the kitchens …’

            Faith detected a note of doubt in Lisa’s usually ebullient voice. She gave her a searching look over the rim of her glass. ‘Lis?’

            ‘He’s so busy all the time – evenings, weekends - we hardly get a chance to talk. It’s nice to have the money and everything but some days I do feel a bit like a spare part.’

            ‘You know what you should do, lovely – train as a counsellor.’

            ‘This is all the counselling I need, babes – a glass of wine and a chat with you.’

            ‘Anyway, you’re the best listener I know. You absolutely nail people.’

            ‘Do I? … I always thought I was a bit thick.’

            ‘You are wise, Lisa. Do you hear me – wise as an old owl.’

            Lisa gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Thanks. I’ll take that.’ She reached over and gave Faith’s hand an affection squeeze. ‘So what’s up with Evan this evening, then?’

            ‘What do you mean?’

            ‘He was in a world of his own earlier. Hardly spoke to me. Standing there at the counter chopping onions, he was, just sort of smiling to himself.’

            ‘Huh …’ Faith took another glug from her glass. ‘I think I know what that’s about. We’ve taken on a new associate. Twenty-five. Sharp as a knife and bloody gorgeous. Her name’s Cerys.’

            ‘Cerys?’ Lisa asked, as if the name were somehow familiar. ‘Cerys who?’

            ‘Cerys Jones. Blonde. Did her training contract in Cardiff -’

            Lisa’s eyes had lit up. She fetched out her phone. ‘Let’s see now – Vic’s company use solicitors in Cardiff. If it’s who I think it is … Let’s just say she might shake things up a bit.’

            Faith tip-toed across the landing from the bathroom and slipped silently into the bedroom. The lamp above the headboard glowed dimly but Evan’s eyes were already closed. Not a man anticipating a night of furious passion, although to be fair, they were a morning couple. Nevertheless, Faith couldn’t help but feel a touch rejected as she slid beneath the duvet.

            She stared at the ceiling for a long moment then reached disconsolately for the light-pull.

            Evan spoke softly from the darkness. ‘I heard you talking to Lisa.’

            ‘No, you didn’t.’

            ‘Not exactly hard to hear, the two of you, especially after a glass or two. Just to put your mind at rest, I don’t fancy our new associate.’

            ‘I never said you did.’

            ‘You implied it.’

            ‘No, I didn’t.’

            ‘Alright, I inferred it.’

            ‘Such being such a lawyer.’

            ‘Don’t you believe me?’

            Faith felt Evan’s fingers grazing against her arm then slid down her wrist and slip between hers. ‘You, my love, are the only woman I have ever loved and ever could … Am I allowed to give you a kiss?’

            ‘Allowed?’

            ‘Well … we’re normally morning people.’

            ‘Not tonight. Emergency rules. Come here, you rascal.’

            ‘Rascal?’

            ‘Maybe it’s not the right word. Sod it! Just come here. But put the light on first, it feels all weird if I can’t see you – could be anyone.’

            ‘Charming.’

            He switched on the light. They kissed and started to fumble, neither quite sure whether this was a slow burn or quick-fire situation. Faith was just about to break off to suggest the latter when an infant’s cry sounded from across the landing. Not a sob, but a full-blown scream of the sort that would have the neighbours phoning the NSPCC.

            ‘Sounds like another molar coming through,’ Evan said with a sigh. ‘How does anybody manage to conceive more than two kids?’

            ‘Beats me,’ Faith said, hauling herself out of bed. ‘My turn.’

            Another cheerful if not tuneful sound was added to the dawn chorus while the clouds held off for yet another bright and glorious morning. As Marion arranged her pillows in preparation for the delivery of her tea tray the whistled strains of ‘Hymns and Arias’ drifted up the stairs and through the open door. Tom was not a man given to spontaneous outbursts of any sort, especially whistling, and it stirred in Marion a deep and curious sensation that gradually formed into a long-forgotten memory. Yes, she had known something like this before – a very long time ago. A very long time ago, indeed. She had been an aspiring actress playing a small but significant role in Private Lives at the Swansea Grand and Tom, who was pursuing her relentlessly at the time, had a summer job in the theatre box office. Whenever he came to call at her lodgings she would hear him whistling as he approached along the garden path beneath her window – the same dreadful tune.

            She followed her animal instincts into the en-suite and was instantly rewarded with the evidence. There was a distinct whiff of cologne and her tweezers were resting the wrong way up in the toothmug where she stored them alongside her toothbrush and several other daily essentials. He had been plucking. And there was the smoking gun – eyebrow hairs scattered around the plughole.

            Tom's footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs. Now he was humming. He entered with the tray. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, Marion. You should get out for a walk.’ He delivered it to the bedside table.

            ‘Yes, I shall,’ she said, pretending not to notice that he was wearing a pink shirt set off by a vivid blue tie. She unfolded her Daily Mail. ‘Oh, dear, another cabinet minister caught with his trousers down. Such a shame to see an intelligent man make a complete fool of himself.’

            ‘See you later, my love.’ Tom turned to go, and in anticipation of her daily warning not to slam the front door, added, ‘I shall leave quietly. Your Gilda and Pearl is safe.’

            Faith’s morning at the legal coal face had done nothing to diminish her fear that she was failing to live up to her potential. Her client was a retired civil servant pursuing an action in nuisance to prevent smells from a neighbour’s septic tank drifting over his patio. After several hours of court room debate over whether the odours in question were any more or less offensive than those caused by the annual muck-spreading on surrounding fields (verdict: they weren’t), Faith clomped through the office door ready to stick her head in the microwave.

            ‘Delightful day, isn’t it? Not a cloud in the sky.’ Tom breezed out of his office and handed Delyth a hand-written letter to type up. (Despite heroic efforts over two long decades she had failed to coach him beyond two-fingered stabs at the keyboard.) ‘I’m very impressed with our probationer, Faith. I gave her a knotty question on restrictive covenants and she had the whole thing cracked in a couple of hours. She’s exceptionally bright. And so driven.’

            ‘Good.’ Faith snatched her mail from the tray on Delyth’s desk. She wasn’t in any sort of mood for hearing how frigging marvellous Miss Cerys Jones was.

            Blind to all Faith’s cues, Tom persisted. ‘I’ve been thinking, Faith. Our new addition really does cast Howells in a very different light. We’re a vibrant young practice now, a world away from the other stuffy firms in the area. Perhaps if I were to invite Cerys to join us all at the Rotary dinner, Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths would see that he really is wasting his money with Travers King. In fact, I’m sure we’re much a sexier proposition than that stuffy London lot.’

            ‘Sexier? … If you say so, Tom.’

            ‘Excellent. I’ll ask her now. In fact, I’m about to take her out for a spot of lunch – care to join us?’

            ‘Thanks, but I’ve got some urgent calls to make,’ Faith lied. ‘But just one thing, Tom – make sure you ask her to bring a plus one. You don’t want to creep her out.’

            ‘Ah, yes. Understood.’ A flicker of anxiety crossed his face. ‘Let’s hope he scrubs up, whoever he is … I imagine she’s got high standards.’

            ‘I’m sure she has, Tom. Exceptionally high.’

            Leaving her senior partner with that assurance, Faith retreated to her office.

            A short while later, while ploughing through her emails, a low grumble told Faith it was time for a solitary trip to the sandwich shop. (Evan had selfishly taken himself off to court in Swansea so couldn’t perform his normal delivery.) Stepping out of Howells’ front door into the balmy afternoon she was met by the sight of Marion approaching with Megan’s buggy.

            Faith pasted on a smile and reminded herself to be grateful for Marion’s daily help with the children.

            ‘Hello, Marion,’ Faith said brightly, ignoring her mother-in-law’s martyred frown.  She leant down to give her youngest daughter a big wet kiss on the forehead. ‘Alright, baby? Did you have fun at nursery?’ She gave a tickle, making her giggle.       

            ‘He chose her, didn’t he?’

            Faith glanced up from Megan’s beaming face.

            ‘I just saw them through the window of Brown’s,’ Marion continued. ‘Laughing and smiling. He’s never like that with me … I’ve become invisible to him.’ She let out a despairing sigh. ‘People will talk. It’ll be half way around the town already – Tom Howells making a fool of himself over a girl half his age. I’ll be a laughing stock at the Rotary dinner. I can’t bear to think what Maggie Rhys will be saying about me.’

            ‘Marion, have you had lunch yet?’

            Marion shook her head, surprised at the sudden tenderness of her daughter-in-law’s tone.

            ‘Let me buy you a sandwich at the Ferryman’s.’ She took control of the buggy. ‘I’ve got something that might just cheer you up.’

            ‘I cannot believe this. I am actually getting all dolled up in a cocktail dress to go to the Abercorran-flaming-Rotary Club annual dinner.’ Faith stared at herself in the mirror. The little black dress that had once fitted like a glove now bulged (ever so slightly) at the top of her hips. ‘Evan, I’m not sure I can handle it. I look like I’m smuggling sausages.’

            Evan buttoned his dinner jacket and stepped up behind her. ‘You look beautiful, my love.’

            ‘Look at it – handfuls! I’m a frump.’

            ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

            ‘This isn’t me, Evan … I wasn’t born to dress up in a frock and suck up to the local nobs.’

            ‘Then don’t go.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Let’s forget about the dinner, pop down the boat, have our own private party and stick two fingers up to the world. We’ve got a babysitter – might as well take advantage.’

            ‘Do you mean it?’

            ‘I’m game if you are. We’ll tell them we got a puncture.’

            She stared deep into his eyes. ‘I know you’re pulling my leg, but if you weren’t, I couldn’t … I couldn’t do it to Tom.’

            ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Evan said, ‘have we still got that tequila kicking round in the back of the cupboard? I haven’t had a mojito in years. Now might be the moment.’

            Sometimes things simply refused to go to plan and this evening’s dinner, Tom sensed with creeping dread, was turning out to be one of them. There had been a problem in the kitchen – head chef Marcel was off sick and another had been drafted in from Tenby. Dinner would be forty-five minutes late, meaning an extra three-quarters of an hour on the terrace of the Red Dragon Country House Hotel before the Rotarians and their guests took their seats at table. But no one was complaining. The sun beat down, the sea sparkled and the drink flowed.

            As the current president of Abercorran Rotarians, Tom felt obliged to stay in command of his faculties. Sipping orange juice (which was going down like battery acid) he watched with bemusement as upstanding members of the community – people whom he had hitherto considered models of restraint – laughed uproariously, clapped each other on the back and teetered tipsily on high heels.

            Faith was causing him particular concern. She and Evan had arrived late, already flushed and giggling, and now she was holding court to a group of cackling women that included Maggie Rhys, the Mrs Reverend Talbot and Jennifer Lloyd-Griffiths. Faith’s voice rose above the others, ‘If you think that’s naughty, Maggie, listen to this. Evan and I only stopped off for a quickie on the way over – on our boat!’

            Tom looked shame-faced into the depths of his glass as Jennifer Lloyd-Griffiths led the ensuing chorus of raucous hoots. He glanced up to see the only other sober face at the gathering – that of Maldwyn Lewis, a retired undertaker, magistrate and strict teetotaller – staring mournfully at him from the far side of the terrace. This is all your doing, Tom Howells, his chilly stare seemed to say, and no good will come of it.

            Tom scanned the happy crowd for Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths, hoping that he might at least be able to save their honoured guest from the worst excesses, but he was nowhere to be seen. He did, however, spot Marion paying rapt attention to a silver-haired merchant banker who had recently bought a large farm in the area for tax purposes. Marion laughed at one of his quips and touched an appreciative hand to the millionaire’s wrist. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Tom went in search of a gin and tonic.

            He took the scenic route to the bar through the hotel’s formal gardens which had been preserved from the days when the Red Dragon was a private house belonging to a Swansea steel magnate. As he followed the gravel path between the rose beds he noticed a scruffy-looking gardener who seemed somehow familiar pushing a wheelbarrow. But just as he was about to place him, Tom heard a voice coming from behind the tall yew hedge that surrounded a small, secret garden off to his left. He stopped to listen. It belonged to Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths. He was rehearsing his speech. ‘And in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen … in conclusion, I would like to assure you all that despite the many slings and arrows, the British Army stands as ready as ever to defend our proud nation … Thank you.’ After a short pause he started up again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen … It is a singular honour to be addressing you here … this evening.’

He could scarcely believe his ears. Teddy sounded nervous, frightened even.

            ‘Boo!’

            Tom startled at the sound of Faith’s voice. He turned to see her standing behind him barefoot and grinning. She was holding her shoes in one hand and a cadged cigarette in the other.

            ‘Sneaking off for another drink? So am I. Come on then, I’m buying. Oh, have you seen Teddy? His wife says she’s lost him.’

            ‘I think he’s -’

            ‘Here I am.’ Teddy appeared through the arch in the hedge. ‘Just admiring the grounds. Splendid, aren’t they?’

            ‘Let’s get you a drink,’ Tom said, sensing that for his distinguished guest at least, a little lubrication might be in order.

            ‘I wouldn’t normally, before a speaking engagement.’

            ‘Rubbish!’ Faith said and grabbed Teddy by the elbow, all inhibitions long gone. ‘I’m going to get you boys a mojito.’

            The promised forty-five-minute delay became an hour … and then an hour and a quarter. It was a little past nine-clock when the anxious maitre d’ finally summoned the diners inside. There was a brief kerfuffle as dinner jackets that had been draped over garden benches were retrieved by their squiffy owners and ladies dashed for a final trip to the loo, then finally, at nearly half-past nine, entrées were served.

            Meanwhile, the scruffy young man whom Tom had chanced on in the rose garden disappeared around the back of the shed, stuffed three wallets into one of the many pockets of his combat jacket and hunkered down with a bottle of cider.

           

            Shrouded as he had been in a rosy alcoholic fog since he and Teddy had taken cocktails at the bar, Tom had completely forgotten about Cerys Jones and her plus one. Only when they took their places at the Howells table along with Teddy and Jennifer Lloyd-Griffiths did he become aware – to his great relief – that her companion was not a bewhiskered young male who had made only a half-hearted attempt at dinner dress, but an elegant female friend in a stunning, high-necked, turquoise frock.

            While Evan fell into conversation with Teddy and Cerys and Jennifer bonded over a shared passion for something on Netflix, Tom turned his attention to Natasha. Faith and Marion exchanged a glance over the table arrangement and eavesdropped while they ate their sautéed scallops.

            ‘A junior doctor? How admirable. Do you have a specialism in mind?’ Tom inquired.

            ‘I’m hoping to be a cardiac surgeon.’

            ‘No harm aiming for the top. Good for you.’ He rinsed down his seafood with a mouthful of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Did you and Cerys meet at university?’

            ‘No, online,’ Natasha answered politely.

            ‘Is that how people make friends these days? I suppose it must be.’ He pretended interest in the phenomena. ‘And how does that work exactly – making friends? Do you discover common interests on Facebook?’

            ‘Actually, we met on Girlfriends.’

            ‘Ah,’ Tom found his supply of small talk running prematurely low. ‘I must confess, my knowledge of these things is rather limited.’

            Faith couldn’t help herself. She caught Marion’s eye as she spoke. ‘It’s a dating site, Tom – where girls meet girls.’

            The penny finally dropped, causing Tom to flush a bright shade of beetroot.

            Natasha shot Faith a grateful smile.

            ‘Well, I must say you make a lovely couple,’ Marion chipped in, keen to add to her husband’s embarrassment. ‘Howells is so delighted to have Cerys and the two have you have got on so well with everybody this evening. It already feels like you’re part the family. Doesn’t it, Tom?’

            ‘Yes … Absolutely.’

            Waiters descended and whipped away their plates even as the last forkfuls were being loaded. The late start had pitched them into a race against the clock: the management of the Red Dragon wasn’t about to indulge them with overtime.

            Braised chicken breast served with asparagus and gratin dauphinoise was swiftly followed by chilled profiteroles. But while many of the well-oiled Rotarians had by now resorted to the fizzy water, Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths had firmly grasped the baton, and ignoring the increasingly frequent warning glances from Jennifer, repeatedly refreshed his wine glass. By the time coffee was poured and Tom rose to introduce their speaker, the colonel’s soft hazel eyes had taken on a bloodshot, almost devilish, appearance and the formerly good-natured smile was tinged with malice.

            ‘… And so without further ado, I shall hand you over to our most esteemed and distinguished guest, Colonel Edward Lloyd-Griffiths DSO MBE.’

            Teddy stood, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin to a challenging angle as the polite applause faded.

            ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he boomed. ‘Fornication!’

            ‘Oh, God,’ Jennifer whispered under her breath. She stared down at the tablecloth, hiding her attractive face beneath a glossy curtain of chestnut fringe.

            Teddy gave a theatrical cough. ‘For an occasion such as this, I thought it might be appropriate to illustrate to you the human face of the army. It is often said that an officer is like a monkey – the higher up the tree he climbs,’ he cast a leering smile at Cerys and Natasha, ‘or she, the more you see of his or her unpleasant parts. I can assure that is quite untrue! I have never seen anyone drop their trousers in the mess above the rank of Major.’

            There was a smattering of nervous laughter which Teddy seemed to take as a spur to redouble his efforts. Faith and Evan exchanged a look of mutual bewilderment and held on to each other’s gaze like a lifeline as the speaker blundered on.

            ‘Now most of you will know that the regimental mascot of the Welsh Guards is a goat, but may not have turned your minds to the fact that a healthy young billy goat deprived of female company …’

            The anecdote was thankfully interrupted by a yell of ‘Stop, thief!’ from the corridor, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a fire alarm of deafening intensity.

            ‘Everybody out!’ Tom commanded over the din.

            Reverting to type, the Rotarians obeyed and filtered from the dining room in orderly, if slightly unsteady fashion.

            And so, an evening that had begun so gaily petered out.

           

            Faith woke to the sound of her ringing phone with a splitting head and with a taste in her mouth like a neglected rabbit hutch. She fumbled for it in the darkness while squinting at her bedside clock. Half-past-sodding-three!  

            ‘Who the hell?’ She looked through gummy eyes at the screen: Police Station.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

‘Hello,’ she croaked. ‘Faith Howells.’

‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Faith.’ The cheerful voice belonged to Terry, her brother-in-law and the local constable. ‘Both in the same boat. I was dragged out of bed to mount the search. I’ve found him, though.’

‘Found who?’

‘The thief. From the hotel. Homeless bloke. He was passed out blind drunk on a bench at the front. Says his name’s Arthur Davies.’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘I’m charging him with theft. He’s demanding to speak to a lawyer. You’re the duty.’

‘I’m still drunk, Terry.’

‘That’s alright, the walk down’ll sober you up nicely. It’s lovely out, too. Peaceful. Oh, and if you could remember the fliers for the next quiz – Evan said he’d printed them out. Our printer at home’s out of ink, see, and if I get caught using the one here - ’

‘That’ll do, Terry. See you in half an hour – if I’m still alive.’

Feeling about as vigorous as a reheated corpse, Faith followed a cheerful Terry along the short passage in Abercorran’s compact and very under-used police station that led to its two cells. Never in living memory had both been occupied at once.

‘Couldn’t get much out of him. Maybe you’ll have more luck.’ Terry unlocked the heavy door. ‘Would you like me to stay?’

‘I’m sure I’ll be alright.’

‘I’ll go and make us both a brew then, eh? You look like you could do with one. I’ll leave the key in the lock.’ He smiled and ambled off to boil the kettle.

Faith nudged open the door. ‘Mr Davies?’

The dishevelled figure lying on the thin mattress hoisted himself slowly to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He looked blearily at Faith. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

‘Faith Howells. Duty solicitor. You seem to have got yourself in a spot of bother.’ She consulted the brief statement of facts Terry had written out in longhand. ‘Found in possession of three wallets stolen from dinner guests at the Red Dragon Hotel, £100 in assorted notes, ten bags of peanuts and an empty bottle of Tia Maria.’

            Arthur Davies shook his dreadlocked head as if the allegations were a complete mystery.
            ‘Were you at the hotel last night, Mr Davies?’

            ‘Earlier on. Yeah. I’ve been doing a bit of gardening up there, see? Casual labour, like. Cash in hand.’

            ‘Have you any explanation for how these items ended up on your person?’

            ‘Beats me.’

            ‘You can do better than that.’

            The prisoner gave a weary sigh. ‘I finished work, had a drop of cider, a bit of a kip down by the sea … then there’s Robocop out there clapping me in handcuffs.’

            Faith pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples and took a deep, patient breath. ‘OK. The wallets belonged to a Mr Ivor Morgan, Mrs Sioned Ellis and Colonel Edward Lloyd-Griffiths. Any of them friends of yours? Did you have reason to be looking after their wallets?’

            Arthur Davies shook his head, but there was something in his expression that struck Faith as odd, as if he had become suddenly distracted.

            ‘Never heard of them.’

            ‘Right. We’ve got a problem, then, don’t we? Where do you live, Mr Davies?’

            He thought for a moment. ‘Here, I suppose. Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke?’

            Faith shook her head. ‘Listen, Arthur. You’ll be up in front of the magistrates in the morning. If you plead guilty and let me tell them your hard luck story I think we might get away with community service. But you’ll need to tell me everything – who you are, why you’re here. Can you do that?’

            ‘What happens if I go not guilty?’

            ‘You’ll be remanded in custody for a week. Then we’ll have a trial.’

             ‘Perfect. I could do with a bit of stir. Remand wing’s not so bad.’

            ‘You’ve been inside before?’

            ‘Once or twice. Nothing serious, like. Is that it, then? I’m knackered - it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning.’

            ‘One last thing – what was it you wanted advice on the other day?’

            ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said dismissively and lay back down on the cot shelf. In the space of seconds he had fallen back into a drunken slumber.

            Resigned to not getting any sense from him until morning, Faith closed the door, and as acting deputy jailer, turned the key in the lock.

She found Terry in the small open-plan office that served as Abercorran Police  Station’s centre of operations. He was carefully transferring damp tea bags to the waste paper basket using an elaborate system involving a pair of teaspoons and kitchen paper.

            ‘I can’t abide drips,’ Terry said by way of explanation. ‘Bethan drummed it into me and now I’m worse than her.’ He handed Faith her mug. ‘Guilty, is it?’

            ‘Not yet. I think he fancies a few nights’ free board and lodging at Her Majesty’s Hotel.’

            ‘You’ve got to feel sorry for a bloke like that. To think he was in the army.’ He nodded to his computer screen which was displaying Arthur Davies’s police record.

            Faith scanned the few details it contained. Her client was 28 years old, his last known address was a hostel in Splott, Cardiff, and he had been an enlisted soldier from 2005 until 2013. In the two years since leaving the armed forces he had managed to collect three convictions for petty theft and one for criminal damage – putting a brick through the window of an Army Recruitment Office.

‘With that record he’s looking at quite a stretch,’ Terry said with a sincere note of sympathy.

(Faith had never thought Terry suited to a career in the police. His wife, her sister-in-law Bethan, however, was an ideal candidate.)  

            ‘I suppose I’d better have a quick look at the evidence before I go,’ Faith said, stifling a yawn.

            ‘Help yourself.’ He pointed to a number of plastic bags on the neighbouring desk.

            Faith opened the one containing the three wallets and glanced through their contents. There was still cash and credit cards in all of them. This was, she supposed, a small point in favour of the defence, but hardly enough to secure an acquittal. Then, out of sheer nosiness, she had a good poke through the Colonel’s wallet, hoping perhaps to find a fruit flavoured condom or a receipt from some den of sin, but sadly there was nothing in the least incriminating. The only item of the slightest interest was the business card of Luke Rowlands BACP. Individual Counselling and Couples Therapy. Faith couldn’t help herself - she brought out her phone and while Terry was meticulously rinsing his mug, quickly snapped a photo.

            A date with the magistrates later that morning served only to make Arthur Davies clam up even tighter. He refused to answer any of Faith’s questions during their brief consultation in the cells and when he was brought up to the dock he would utter only two words: ‘Not guilty.’ Then, when the bench announced that he would be remanded in custody for seven days, a third: ‘Cheers!’ accompanied by a broad grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up.

            ‘Take him down,’ came the sour reply.

            Faith arrived back in the office feeding her hangover with a particularly sugary Chelsea bun to a forbidding look from Delyth and the instruction that Tom would like to see her in the conference room.

            ‘About?’

            ‘Something to do with a conflict of interest,’ Delyth said, not wanting to be drawn.

            Faith shrugged, wolfed the last of her bun and headed in to see what the fuss was about.

            ‘I hear you’ve been defending that thief,’ were the accusing words with which Tom greeted her. ‘It was that scruffy fellow, wasn’t it – the homeless layabout who was fouling up our doorway?’

            ‘His name’s Arthur Davies. He’s a former soldier.’

            ‘I don’t care who he is,’ Tom said, ‘while Teddy and I were having our aperitif –’

            ‘Aperitifs, Tom,’ Faith corrected him. ‘You had two, he had three.’

            Tom continued with strained patience. ‘While Teddy and I were talking, I as good as convinced him that Howells is more than capable of handling his affairs and he promised to get back to me within the week. We are talking about an annual five-figure retainer, Faith. So you cannot, you absolutely must not be seen to be defending a common thief who half-inched his wallet. For all you know he could be called as a witness for the prosecution.’

            ‘That’s highly likely.’

            ‘Well, then. It’s a clear conflict of interest. You’ll have to surrender the case.’

            ‘I shall do no such thing. I promised Arthur Davies I’ll be defending him at trial.’

            ‘Can’t you see, Faith?’ Tom was exasperated. ‘How do you think we pay our wages? It’s not through defending worthless riff-raff like that. In fact, as you well know, with legal aid cut to the bone most trips to the magistrates court actually cost us money.’

            Faith gave Tom a moment to regain his composure, then perched one hip on the corner of the table. ‘Do you remember the other day when we were discussing gossip?’

            Tom gave a dismissive grunt.

            ‘Well here’s some for you. While we were milling around on the hotel lawn last night waiting for someone to switch the alarm off, Evan saw Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths stroll up to Cerys and Natasha and ask them if they ever “batted as a team”, or something equally disgusting. He was going to have a word but Cerys stopped him – she said they have to deal with that sort of sexist crap all the time.’

            ‘It was probably just an ill-judged joke,’ Tom muttered. ‘Everyone was three sheets to the wind by then.’

            ‘And what if he were to become a client – would you expect Cerys to be in his company? What if he said something else offensive? Personally, I think she ought to write to him this morning demanding an apology.’

            ‘Let’s not be too hasty, Faith. Teddy is one of our finest military men,’ Tom was starting to panic. ‘No need to rush to judgement without full possession of the facts.’

            ‘Well, we can certainly agree on that. Let’s let justice take its course, shall we? We are meant to be lawyers, after all.’

            And with that, she went in search of Cerys, leaving Tom to simmer in his own juices.

           

            Following this testy exchange, for most of the following week, Faith forgot about the case of Regina v Arthur Davies and left the necessary research to Cerys. She was far too caught up with potty training, drafting wills, retrieving swimming kit left behind at the pool, negotiating boundary disputes and trying to maintain some semblance of a marriage to give much thought to her client in Swansea jail. On the eve of trial, however, her thoughts returned to him when she found herself hanging around the local stables waiting for Alys to finish her pony-riding lesson.

            Faith was listlessly scrolling through her emails (they never got any more exciting) when the sound of a woman sobbing carried through the partially open stable door of a nearby loosebox. A soothing female voice was telling her that everything would be alright in the end – they just needed to talk.

            ‘But he won’t talk to me,’ the sobbing woman said. ‘I don’t think he’s capable of it. I’ve tried and tried – he just disappears into his study with a bottle of whisky and slams the door …’

            ‘Mam! Mam! Come and watch – we’re going to go over the jumps.’

            Faith looked up to see Alys waving at her from the rail of the training ring.

            ‘Coming, sweetheart.’

            She put away her phone and caught a final snippet from the loosebox: ‘It scares me, Angie. Honestly. I’m frightened that one of these days he might do something …’

            Like the travellers on Tryleg Hill, the sun had folded its tent and vanished from the scene. The point of midsummer was past and as if to underscore the fact that the nights were now drawing in and it was all downhill till Christmas, Friday morning was damp and overcast. Already frazzled from last-minute panics over misplaced gym kit and forgotten homework, Faith trudged towards the looming entrance of Carmarthen Magistrates buried deep in her yellow raincoat and idly wondering what she might be doing in her parallel life in Linklaters. Gliding up in a glass elevator to meet a billionaire client? Or jetting off to New York to seal an international corporate merger? Basking in the imaginary comfort of Virgin Upper Class, she dumped her coat in the advocates’ room (a glorified broom cupboard that smelled of toilets) and made her way down the stone steps to the cells.

            ‘Alright, Faith? How’s it going?’ Arthur’s beaming face appeared in the hatch of the cell door. He was transformed: clean shaven and ruddy cheeked. ‘Tidy it was. Cell to myself. All these police cuts, see – can’t be bothered arresting no one.’

            ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’

            ‘You know what? The weed in there was epic. Mind blowing. Best I’ve had in years.’

            Faith opened her blue legal notebook to a fresh page. ‘Right, then, what’s it to be?’

            ‘Not guilty, of course.’

            ‘You do appreciate that if we lose -’

            ‘We’re not going to lose, are we? I’ve got it all worked out, see. No, listen –’

            ‘Go on.’

            ‘If you were going to nick three wallets and a £100 from a hotel, would you get pissed-up and fall asleep with it in your pockets on the nearest bench?’

            ‘Not if I wasn’t trying to be caught.’

            ‘Exactly! You’d have to be a right twat. So obviously the real thief sneaked up on me and planted them.’

            Faith was struggling to follow his logic. ‘What about the Tia Maria and peanuts?’

            ‘I don’t mind pleading to those.’

            ‘That’s your defence, is it?’

            ‘Copper-bottomed. How’s the prosecution going to disprove it, then? You tell me.’

            Faith nodded and smiled, pretending to give his proposal serious consideration. ‘Let me ask you a question, Mr Davies -’

            ‘Arthur. Call me, Arthur. No one’s called me “Mister” in my life.’

            ‘… Arthur. You were a private in the Welsh Guards, right?’

            The smile faded from his face. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

            ‘One of the wallets you stole belonged to -’

            ‘That’s all in the past,’ He snapped. ‘I don’t talk about it, alright?’

            He stepped away from the door and crouched down against the wall, out of sight.

            ‘Arthur? … We need to settle your instructions. I need to know what you intended to do with those wallets.’

            ‘Forget it. I’ll go back inside … No bullshit there.’

            The interview was at an end.

           

            The local CPS had wheeled out their crack prosecutor for the occasion. Sion Madoc was a former detective inspector with the Dyfed Powys Police who, not content with merely arresting life’s unfortunates, had studied for an Open University degree so that he could have the satisfaction of hounding them all the way to the prison gates. Now a greying, bullish man in his early 50s, he was looking forward to what prosecutors like to call an ‘easy pot’.

            ‘You won’t be requiring me to call any of the losers, will you?’ he asked Faith in the corridor outside the court room. ‘Surely nothing in their statements is in dispute?’

            ‘Have they agreed that nothing was taken from their wallets?’

            ‘Yes,’ Madoc grudgingly conceded.

            ‘Good. Then two of them can go. I might need Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths, though.’  

            ‘He is a very busy man. The bench won’t look kindly -’

            ‘The bench can do one, Mr Madoc,’ Faith said, her blood already up. ‘Let’s get this party started, shall we?’

            The panel of three magistrates was chaired by the unsmiling Maldwyn Lewis, retired undertaker. He and his two female companions sat in wintry silence as the court clerk read the list of charges alleging that Mr Arthur Davies did dishonestly obtain property belonging to another intending thereby permanently to deprive them of the same.

In the dock Arthur sat hunched on his chair staring at the floor, refusing to engage with the proceedings.  

            Sion Madoc rose to open the case for the prosecution and outlined the facts to their worships as gravely as if the matter involved capital murder. An itinerant vagrant, recently expelled from a homeless hostel in Cardiff for selling ecstasy tablets to fellow residents had offered his services as a garden labourer to the Red Lion Hotel. At the end of only his second day, the hotel’s manager, Mr Philip Preece, had caught him stealing a bottle of Tia Maria and several packets of peanuts from the store room behind the hotel bar. A brief struggle ensued during which Mr Davies set off the fire alarm in the lobby before fleeing into the night.

            With the stage set, Mr Preece entered the witness box. A worried-looking man with a gleaming bald head, he smiled nervously at the bench as he placed a trembling hand on the Bible and repeated the oath.

            Madoc led his witness through the facts, establishing that on presenting himself at the hotel Arthur Davies had claimed to have an address in Abercorran and long experience in the horticultural field. ‘In other words, Mr Preece, this man lied to you about everything except his name.’

            ‘I suppose he did.’

            ‘And on the evening in question was he still working in the garden when the guests arrived for their pre-dinner drinks?’

            ‘I believe he may have been tidying up. It was a very hot day – he’d taken an extended lunch break.’

            ‘And owing to the warm temperatures, were many of the gentlemen in shirt sleeves?’

            ‘Yes. A number of them had draped their dinner jackets over the benches on the terrace. I think he must have gone through them and stolen the wallets.’

            ‘That’s pure speculation, your worships,’ Faith interjected.

            ‘I was merely seeking to establish precisely how the defendant may have come by the opportunity to purloin the wallets, your worships,’ Madoc retorted.

            ‘We take your point, Mr Madoc,’ Maldwyn Lewis said, glowering at the prisoner in the dock.

            ‘I’m most grateful to your worship,’ Madoc said. ‘I have no further questions.’

            Faith rose to cross-examine. ‘Mr Preece, would you have given a gardening job to a homeless man with no relevant experience?’

            ‘I most certainly would not.’

            ‘What if that man were a military veteran who had fallen on hard times?’

            There was a pause before the witness answered. ‘I suppose that would depend.’

            ‘A military veteran who deserved compensation for his trauma but who had never received it?’

            He thought for a moment longer and corrected himself. ‘Then I’d probably give him a chance.’

            ‘As a matter of interest, did you have any complaints about the quality of Mr Davies’ work?’

            ‘… No. He seemed to work quite hard. Probably lulling me into a false sense of security.’

            Faith glanced across at Arthur in the dock. His gaze was still firmly fixed on the floor.

            ‘How much did you pay him, Mr Preece? What was the hourly rate?’

            The witness’s mouth opened and closed but no sound emerged.

            ‘Does £5 an hour ring any bells? Several pounds short of the minimum wage?’

            ‘It was a trial period -’ Preece said weakly.

            Madoc grunted quietly into his brief.

            ‘Did Mr Davies attempt to stand on his rights and demand more?’

            ‘No.’ Beads of sweat began to glisten on Preece’s head.

            ‘And did he tell you that he had served as a private in the Welsh Guards for eight years?’

            ‘No. He didn’t.’

            ‘Finally, Mr Preece  - would the cost of a bottle of Tia Maria and ten packets of peanuts have been roughly the same as the extra money you should legally have paid him for two days’ work?’

            ‘There or thereabouts.’

            ‘Thank you.’ Faith resumed her seat.

            ‘Your worships, the issue of wages is entirely separate from the matter of theft. Mrs Howells is attempting to muddy the waters with an emotional rather than a legal argument.’

            Maldwyn Lewis exchanged a look with the court clerk, seated at a desk beneath the elevated bench, whose job was to advise their worships on the law. The clerk nodded, affirming the correctness of the prosecutor’s point.

            ‘Understood,’ Mr Madoc. ‘Rest assured, we will decide the case strictly according to the law.’

            Faith glanced apprehensively at her watch as Madoc called his final witness, Constable Terry Price, and led him through the circumstances of the arrest. The evidence was damning and unless her plan came good in the two minutes remaining, she was sure Arthur would be found guilty and referred up to the Crown Court for an even stiffer sentence than their worships were empowered to impose.
            Just as she was beginning to give up all hope of retrieving the situation, her phone buzzed. She checked the screen and found a message from Cerys: Made it. We’re here!

            ‘Do you have any questions for this witness, Mrs Howells?’

            ‘Only one.’ Faith hurriedly tucked away her phone and rose to her feet. ‘Constable Price, how did you find working with Mr Davies?’

            ‘Working? Oh, I see what you mean.’ He gave a good-natured laugh. ‘He was no trouble at all. A pleasure.’

            ‘Thank you. That’s all, Constable.’

            Madoc dismissed his witness from the box and addressed the court. ‘That, your worships, is the case for the prosecution. And unless Mrs Howells has changed her mind and wishes me to call Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths, whom she specifically asked to wait outside in case she had need of him, I would request he be released. I’m sure he has plenty of pressing business to attend to.’

            ‘Mrs Howells?’ the chairman of the bench said in a weary tone.

            ‘I don’t want to keep the Colonel long, your worships, but as technically he has already given evidence in the form of his sworn loser’s statement, I would request that he be invited in to hear the defence case. He may yet be needed.’

            ‘This is most irregular, your worships,’ Madoc objected.

            But Faith had her legal authorities to hand and passed a heft bundle of photocopied cases along the bench to her opponent. ‘I’m quite happy to expand on the relevant law, your worships. I imagine the discussion may only take an hour or so.’

            Madoc registered the pained expressions on the bench, briefly contemplated the prospect of lengthy legal argument and decided to cut losses. ‘Very well, your worships.’ He turned to the usher. ‘Would you mind asking the Colonel to come in?’

            Moments later, a slightly bemused and irritated Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths took a seat on hard benches at the side of the oak panelled courtroom.

            Faith stood to open the defence. ‘I call Mr Jimmy Haines.’

            For the first time in the proceedings Arthur looked up from the floor – with a look of both surprise and alarm. Cerys came through the door of the court with the witness, directed him to the witness box and took a seat alongside Faith, handing her a hastily written statement.

            Jimmy Haines was a man of about thirty, with a shaved head and a friendly smile. He read the oath in a steady voice and stood up straight to give his evidence.

            ‘You are Mr James Anthony Haines, a scaffolder, of 89b Crossland Towers, Hounslow, London.’

            ‘That’s me,’ Jimmy said.

            ‘And for five years you served alongside Arthur Davies in the same platoon of the Welsh Guards.’

            ‘I did.’ He nodded to his old comrade in the dock.

            ‘And during that time, you completed no less than four tours in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.’

            ‘That’s right. For our sins.’

            ‘And did the two of you know Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths?’

            ‘We knew of him. He wasn’t in our company. Brave soldier by all accounts. Only heard good things about him.’

            Appearing humbled by the remark, Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths glanced down at his shoes.

            ‘Could you describe your living conditions on a typical tour, Mr Haines?’

            ‘Well, most of the time we’d be in a forward command post. It’s a sort of compound made of these big Hesco bags filled with dirt. A few tarps to sleep under, army rations and jerry cans filled with water dropped in by helicopter. Not much in the way of latrines. No phones. Pretty basic, really.’

            ‘And did you go out on regular foot patrols?’

            ‘Yeah. Most days. Mostly it was quiet, but it was always tense, like. You never knew if there was going to be an IED or some Tali’ taking a pot shot at you.’

            ‘This is all very interesting, but hardly relevant to the thefts from the Red Lion Hotel,’ Madoc interrupted.

            ‘If Mr Madoc will bear with me for just a moment, he may find it highly relevant.’

She turned back to the witness. ‘On the 12^th February 2013 you and Arthur Davies were involved in an engagement with the enemy. Would you mind briefly telling the court what happened.’

            Jimmy become suddenly serious and met Arthur’s gaze, both of them sharing the pain of a memory they preferred not to revisit. Then, finally, Arthur gave a hint of a nod as if granting his friend permission.

            ‘We were coming back from a night patrol. It was just before dawn. We were about half a click from the post when we caught some incoming fire from some trees over to our left. It was a proper ambush. Must have been eight or ten of them waiting for us … We all dived into this ditch at the side of the road that led down to a wadi that would take us virtually back to the post. The young lieutenant in charge was crapping himself – he just kept yelling at us to keep going. We were about half way back when someone called out that Scrapper wasn’t with us. He was a young lad of 19 - first tour. The officer told us not to stop … Arthur ignored him. He went back and got Scrapper. He’d been hit in the chest and was bleeding out in the middle of the road. Carried him all the way back to the post with bullets flying everywhere. Took him nearly two hours. At one point they were pinned down for more than thirty minutes only a few metres from the post. He was giving Scrapper CPR while we tried to cover them with the machine gun fire from up on the sangers.’ Jimmy Haines trailed off and swallowed a lump in his throat.

            ‘What happened then?’ Faith asked.

            ‘He dragged him across the road and across to the gate still under fire … Scrapper was still conscious but he died a few minutes later. At least he had his mates around him. God knows what the Talis would’ve done if they’d found him.’

            ‘And what about Arthur? Was he recognised for his actions?’

            ‘By us, he was,’ Jimmy said. ‘We all knew he deserved a medal but technically he’d been disobeying orders.’ He gave a philosophical shrug. ‘That’s the army for you.’

            ‘And what happened to Arthur Davies after the tour?’

            ‘Like a lot of us, he started to get mental problems. The army don’t know what to do with you, so you get a discharge. A couple of months pay and off you go. I tried to track him down but he’d vanished. Someone said he’d gone off to Oz … It’s good to see him. Really good. I’ll be honest, I feared the worst.’

            Faith glanced over at Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths. If she wasn’t mistaken, his hazel eyes were glistening.

            ‘Thank you, Mr Haines,’ Faith said. ‘Mr Madoc may have some questions for you.’

            ‘No questions, your worships. And I’m afraid I have to repeat, admirable as these exploits may have been, they are of no relevance to this case.’

            Maldwyn Lewis gave Faith a sorrowful look of concurrence. ‘Mrs Howells?’

            ‘I’d like to call my final witness – Mr Arthur Davies.’

            ‘No. I’ve got nothing to say,’ Arthur protested.

            ‘Excuse me a moment.’ Faith stepped out from behind her desk and marched to the rail of the dock. ‘Listen to me, Arthur,’ she hissed. ‘You mate Jimmy’s come all the way from London, paid his own train fare and lost a day’s work. The least you can do is to try and make it worth his while.’

            Arthur looked over at his brother-in-arms, who urged him on. Still, Arthur remained glued stubbornly to his chair.

            ‘Please, Arthur. And when this is over, I’ll help you sort the compensation you’re owed. That’s why you came to the office, isn’t it? … I’ll get you back on your feet. Promise.’

            ‘Come on, soldier. You’re a Welsh Guardsman, for God’s sake.’ The quiet but firm command came from the mouth of Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths.

            Faith shot him a grateful glance and reluctantly, Arthur obeyed.

            ‘I swear by Almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ Arthur read the oath in a flat monotone. The colour had drained from his face and his shoulders had slumped. He looked far from a valiant soldier.

            ‘What happened to you when you left the army, Mr Davies?’ Faith asked gently.

            ‘I got a place in a hostel … Had the odd job … I’m afraid the old drink mostly got the better of me.’

            ‘It can happen to the best of us,’ Faith said with feeling. ‘No family to go to?’

            ‘Not really. There’s my nan, but she’s 83, in a home over in Newport.’

            ‘Have you had any official medical diagnosis?’

            Arthur shrugged. ‘Army doc said it was probably PTSD. They offered me pills but I’d rather stick to the booze and weed, if I’m honest. At least I know where I am with them.’

            ‘What kind of symptoms do you suffer from?’

            Faith cast a sideways look at Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths as Arthur muttered his answer. ‘Anxiety … flashbacks … paranoia. Sometimes I get the shakes.’ Teddy swallowed uncomfortably and loosened his tie.

            Sensing that Madoc was about to voice another objection, Faith turned to the facts in dispute. ‘Let me ask you about the wallets found in your pocket. How did they get there?’ She held his gaze, pleading with him to be honest.

            ‘I took them from the dinner jackets on the bench.’

            Madoc sat back in his chair and crossed his arms triumphantly across his ample stomach.

            ‘And I presume there came a moment later in the evening when you opened them and saw who they belonged to?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘And when you saw that one belonged to a former colonel in your regiment – did that change your intention as to what to do with them?’

            ‘Your worships! Mrs Howells is leading the witness.’ Madoc couldn’t resist another dig.

            ‘Please be careful, Mrs Howells,’ Maldwyn Lewis’s slender reserves of patience were running low.
            ‘Let me rephrase the question, Mr Davies … When you saw that the wallet belonged to a former officer of your regiment, did you change your mind as to what to do with it?’

            Madoc interrupted once again. ‘If Mrs Howells is trying to suggest that having stolen the wallets it was possible that Mr Davies decided to unsteal them, that is most certainly not a defence in law. Theft occurs at the moment of dishonest appropriation.’

            Faith’s heart sank. She had been banking on Madoc being less of an expert in the finer details of the Theft Act. But still, she continued to press the point, though more in hope than expectation.

            ‘I know what you’re saying, but no, that wasn’t it,’ Arthur said. ‘Fact is, I’d seen the Colonel around the town and then I saw him again at the hotel … I’d had a drop of cider and sometimes when I’ve had a drink I get these crazy ideas in my head. I thought, what if I were to nick his wallet and then return it to him?’ He shook his head in self-reproach, ‘I suppose I hoped he might offer to help me out, you know, get me sorted with a place or a job – if I told him who I was.’

            ‘I see,’ Faith said, sensing a glimmer of hope. ‘But you had three wallets -’

            ‘I watched him put down his jacket but when I got to the bench I couldn’t be sure. I had to be quick so I dipped into a few pockets.’

            ‘And what did you intend to do with the ones that weren’t his?’

            ‘I was going to leave them in hotel reception but things got a bit out of hand.’

            ‘About the Tia Maria and peanuts -’

            ‘Yeah, I helped myself to those.’ He addressed the bench. ‘Sorry, your worships. I was starving hungry and there’s only so much cider a bloke can stomach.’

            ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the teetotal chairman of the bench replied.

Following the closing speeches and during the tense minutes while their worships retired to consider their verdict, Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths felt a faint vibrating sensation against his ribs. Expecting a message from his stock broker he reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and brought out his phone. The text wasn’t from the brokers but a number with which he wasn’t familiar. He opened to find the following message: Like I said - it can happen to the best of us. Go and see him - together. Jennifer’s worried sick about you. And please apologise to Cerys and Natasha for being such a total dick – they’re still waiting. Faith H.  Attached to the text was a photograph of the business card of Luke Rowlands BACP. Individual Counselling and Couples Therapy.

            Teddy Lloyd-Griffiths looked up in alarm and met Faith’s gaze. She gave him a forgiving smile. From the seat next to her, Cerys gave a friendly but expectant wave.

            ‘All rise!’ The usher announced the tribunal’s return.

            The three magistrates returned to their ornately carved seats and Maldwyn Lewis addressed the prisoner. ‘Stand up, Davies.’

            Arthur hauled himself to his feet.

            ‘On the count of counts of stealing one bottle of Tia Maria and ten packets of peanuts, we find you guilty.’

            Sion Madoc gave a satisfied smile. Faith felt a consolatory pat on the arm from Cerys.

            ‘On the count of stealing three wallets, we find you –’ Maldwyn Lewis hesitated for a second as if to check that he had got it quite right, ‘not guilty.’

            ‘Get in!’ Arthur punched the air.

            Faith sat back in her seat and exhaled in relief.

            ‘That will do, Mr Davies. Calm down. Now, for the counts on which we find you guilty you will receive a conditional discharge for a period of twelve months – which means that should you be convicted of another offence in that period you will sentenced again for this one. Do you understand?’

            ‘Got it, your worships. Ta very much. Never thought I’d a snowball’s chance.’

            Arthur was sprung from the dock and made for the door where Jimmy Haines was already gesturing with a cocked wrist that a pint or five was in order. Without so much as a backwards glance, Arthur headed out to freedom.

            Maldwyn Lewis shook his head in deepest disapproval.

            ‘All rise!’

            ‘Ungrateful little sod! He didn’t even say thank you,’ Cerys said to Faith, offended on her behalf.
            ‘They never do,’ Faith said, her thoughts returning for a fleeting second to glass elevators and first class cabins. ‘They never do.’ She noticed then that Colonel Lloyd-Griffiths, too, had already beaten a hasty retreat.

            A gloomy, rain-soaked weekend that confined an increasingly tetchy Howells family to barracks (matters not assisted by a shared tummy bug that had swept through Megan’s nursery and made its way home) was followed by an equally dismal Monday, the highlight of which was a meeting with Mr Catherall, the firm’s accountant. An unexpectedly large bill was looming, national insurance was going up and belts would need to be tightened all round. Tom muttered something under his breath about ‘radically reassessing priorities’ and ‘wasting resources on undeserving clients’ that left Faith feeling personally responsible for the firm’s dwindling fortunes.

            That night, as Evan lay sleeping, Faith padded softly down the staircase and sat with a mug of cocoa staring into the flickering flames in the grate. She tried hard to count her blessings – a devoted husband, two girls she loved so much it hurt, a house with a view of the bay – but still it was hard to shed the nagging doubt that it was all too perfect; that she was kidding herself that you could be a thoroughly good and honest person and still have a happy and a prosperous life. She had left Linklaters precisely because she hadn’t wanted to become a cynical, hard-boiled lawyer who would stop at nothing and trample on anyone for a hefty cheque. But even here in Abercorran she feared that the similar calculations would have to be made: when it came to making a living, the little people, the Arthur Davieses of this world, had to be sacrificed for the sake of the big.

            It was with this depressing thought still hanging over her that Faith arrived at the office on Tuesday morning to find Tom in unusually chipper mood.

            ‘Faith! I think I may have saved our bacon.’ He rubbed his hands with undisguised delight. ‘What are you up to at twelve?’

‘A bit of belt tightening over a probate case or two.’

‘Excellent. Jennifer Lloyd-Griffiths is coming in. She called me last night. I’d like you to join us. Best behaviour, please.’

            Tom was all urbanity and charm as he ushered Jennifer into the conference room where coffee and petits fours (fetched by Delyth at vast expense from Saundersfoot) were already set out.

            ‘Please come in. Do take a seat. You and Faith know each other.’

            ‘Hello, Faith,’ Jennifer said. She settled into a chair seeming a little overwhelmed by Tom’s attention.

            ‘Now, I can assure you, everything said in here is in the strictest confidence,’ Tom assured her.

            ‘Thank you.’ Ignoring the petits fours, she pressed her hands into her lap. ‘Well, as I began to explain on the phone last night, Teddy’s gone away for a while, to a clinic – on a medical advice … It turns out he’s been probably suffering from PTSD, like so many former soldiers.’

            ‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ Tom said with convincing sincerity.

            ‘You both probably realised at the Rotary dinner that something wasn’t quite right. I’m afraid drinking too much to hide the pain is one of the symptoms.’

            ‘Poor Teddy,’ Tom soothed. ‘Let’s hope he makes a swift recovery. Now, how can we help?’

            ‘Well, one of the things the counsellor recommended is that I relieve him of the burden of running our affairs. In truth, I’ve been taking care of the estate’s finances for months. He tries to look at the books but every time he goes near them he gets in a muddle and starts accusing me of hiding money.’

            Tom nodded in understanding. ‘We’re more than equipped here to meet all your needs.’

            ‘I’d be most grateful. In fact, I’d much rather be dealing with a local firm. It turns out that the lawyers Teddy’s always used in Lincoln’s Inn are the most terrible gossips.’

            ‘Really? That’s appalling.’ Tom was shocked.

            ‘Yes. A friend of one of my old school chums is a partner there. Apparently, he came home and told her that I was a lesbian who was about to run off with my riding instructor. As far as he was concerned, we were all set to divorce.’ She shook her head in despair. ‘Where do they get this nonsense from? I’ve loved that man for over thirty years and I’m not about to give up on him now.’

            ‘Good for you.’ Tom poured Jennifer a cup of coffee. ‘Let’s run through a few practicalities, shall we? Would you like us to contact Travis King to arrange for your files to be sent down?’

            ‘That would be a great relief. Thank you.’

            ‘And then there’s the matter of our fees.’

            ‘I was thinking of an annual retainer. Does £15,000 sound about right?’

            ‘Almost exactly the figure I had in mind.’

            ‘Oh, good.’ She reached for her handbag and fetched out a large envelope which she handed across to Faith. ‘Teddy asked me to give you this, Faith.’

            While Tom and Jennifer concluded formalities, Faith opened the envelope to discover that it contained two smaller ones. The first, a card, was addressed to Ms Cerys Jones and Companion and the second was addressed to her. Inside, she found £200 in cash and note asking her to hand it to Arthur Davies ‘if he can be found. Otherwise consider it a down-payment on his next court appearance. And tell him to look me up when I’m back. Kind regards, Teddy.’

            ‘What an absolutely charming woman,’ Tom said as reclined in his swivel chair, safe in the knowledge that the Howells ship was once again afloat. ‘I knew Marion’s gossip was all hot air. I can only say I’m jolly glad I had that heart-to-heart with Teddy before dinner the other night.’

            ‘A heart-to-heart?’

            ‘When I bought him a drink at the bar.’

            ‘You mean when I bought you both several drinks.’

            ‘Yes, well, anyway, he opened up to me. When I said I’d heard him practising his speech in the garden he confessed his nerves weren’t quite what they were since leaving the army.’

            ‘Wow. Sounds like he was positively gushing.’

            ‘I told him I quite understood. My father was in the war. Men like him and Teddy, you see, they bear their suffering with fortitude. You don’t catching them smoking pot, sleeping in doorways or stealing from hotels.’

            ‘Just propositioning innocent young women.’

            Tom pretended not to have heard. ‘A fine upstanding man like Teddy – it all comes down to character. You either have it or you don’t. That’s the sort of client Howells should be attracting – what my father called a proper person.’

            Faith had heard enough. She headed for the door and her lunchtime sandwich date with Evan. And just perhaps, if they managed to give Marion the slip, they might pay a quick visit to the boat.

END