“Cheating spouse,” I repeated. *Another loving husband who wants to have his buns and eat them.”
There are times, and they’re coming more frequently, that I imagine myself to be some famous old-noir detective. You know the ones, shady raincoat, worn Fedora, chain-smoking? Anyway, I thought that I’d set my agency up along those lines. I thought that it would be a good thing that I write myself a number of killer-lines, but none have come to mind yet. Anyway, I think that a few cryptic couplets may go unnoticed, or simply confuse, in Conwy. A lot of the locals here speak that language called Welsh. It is a language even though it just sounds like made-up words with a few English ones thrown in for authenticity. I couldn’t imagine a sharp-tongued sleuth making any waves here, unless they become the local loon. Nevertheless, time waits for no seagull.
People who belong to Conwy (Conway if you’re English) like to think of themselves as true inheritors of the true Welsh. That is to say the Welsh who refused to bow to Edward 1 when he was rampaging through the principality. The castle that we have here is a tourist pull and statement of English intent. The walls, though, are far more serious. They go all the way back to Llewellyn The Great. If you’re Welsh, Llewellyn is a big name. Anyway, the people who are born inside the walls of Conwy like to call themselves Jackdaws. They call me a seagull.
This errant spouse, whom I have been asked to investigate, is one of the most important Jackdaws in the town. He has a string of small shops, newsagents and ice-cream parlours; and a few other places that do not bare too much scrutiny. Let’s say that in Conwy terms, he’s one hell of a big Jackdaw. Now birds like that do not go unnoticed. They have followers, lackeys, lovers and rivals. Alwyn Llewellyn was a blessed man; whatever he touched turned to brass. People stood off him and let him have his way. The women who worked for him put in extra shifts to keep the pennies coming in; he wasn’t a tight man. In that little seaside market town, the dye had been caste centuries ago and nobody had ever thought to change it. Llewellyn was King around Conwy but the times they were a changing.
We tended to do most of our shared work after the sun had fallen. Old Leather seems to like it that way. It’s amazing what can evade notice in such a place as this. Imagine, if you will, a corpse strolling along any major high-street in any town or city in the UK, and then imagine the likely responses. Probably not a good example as I have a feeling that there are already lots of them out there, going about their business without anyone bothering to notice.
That’s the thing folks, there are many more of these corpses walking our streets than we would care to realise. Many of them have been around for decades whilst a select few have been around for much, much longer. I personally believe that it was the Leather-vote that swung BREXIT.