by Phil Rickman
‘And was that the cult he’d thought about infiltrating? The Lord of the Light?’
‘He was angry when they started to target us. He wouldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have the patience. Merrily, I don’t want you to think we’re afraid of this woman. It’s just that if she does expose us, it’ll be in a horribly negative way. If we stay, I’ve no doubt it will all come out eventually, but I wanted us to become known as people first. There’s more to us than a book, you know?’
Odd, Merrily thought. They’d be disowning it in a minute. A germ of hypocrisy here, somewhere.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what your tastes in music are, but if you wanted to meet some people, a friend of mine, Lol Robinson, is doing a little concert in the Black Swan tomorrow night. I could introduce you to a few open-minded people you might not have met, if you . . .’
‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Good. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Shirley. Although this . . . may involve more than her. I was wondering if Elliot, in the course of his research into various cults, had encountered a guy called Nicholas Ellis? Fringe Anglican clergyman who ran a fundamentalist ministry just across the border, in Radnorshire.’
‘Not sure. There’s so many of them.’
‘Just I’ve learned in the past couple of hours that the Lord of the Light church was developed from the remains of Ellis’s organisation, and it’s possible he may still have some influence. From America. On the Net.’
Leonora called out, ‘Darling, have you heard of a man called Ellis?’
‘Father Nicholas Ellis,’ Merrily said, as Stooke came in with a loaded tray. ‘That’s not his real name, but it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ve a computer file on him.’ Stooke laid the tray on the desk. ‘Had some correspondence with a reporter out there. I think he was linked to a corrupt itinerant evangelist called . . . McAllman?’
‘Yes.’ Merrily nodding. ‘Ellis’s was an unpleasant kind of ministry involving sexual exploitation of women. He’ll be blaming me, among others, for its demise in this country.’
‘This West woman is one of his disciples?’
‘It’s unlikely she ever encountered him in person. I just wondered if you’d had any contact. Couldn’t find any mention of him in The Hole in the Sky.’
‘It would be in the next book.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Possibly, I don’t know.’ Stooke looked at his wife. ‘Probably does now.’
‘Yeah, yeah, very stupid of me,’ Leonora said. ‘I didn’t think. Pretty damned angry that morning. The electricity meter was read after the last of the workmen moved out and before we moved in. Four or five weeks later we had a bill for over £900? Which, even allowing for the way fuel prices are going . . .’
‘Crazy,’ Merrily said. ‘You do like it warm in here, though, don’t you?’
‘This is oil. And wood? OK, a lot of lights, but we don’t use much electricity otherwise. Eat out most days. It’s not that we can’t afford to pay the bloody bill, it’s just that it’s so obviously wrong.’
‘Thanks.’ Merrily accepting a coffee from Stooke. ‘And that’s why you were asking the guy on the archaeological site where they got their power from?’
‘Just a thought that they might in some way be leeching electricity from here.’ Stooke brushed a hand through his grey-black spiky hair. ‘Bit of a long shot.’
‘We had it tested,’ Leonora said, ‘according to the complaints procedure. They said they could find absolutely nothing wrong. As they usually do. Anyway . . . that’s why I wasn’t in the best of moods when I stormed into the post office to pay the final demand instead of just posting it.’
Stooke sat down on the sofa, close to the stove. He didn’t seem to be aware of the heat.
‘The agents were no help at all. And the firm that owns the place is in France. Places like this, Middle England, they think they can charge what they like for half a job. I’d quite like to move out and try and get some of our money back, but—’
‘Darling, I couldn’t face it again. Not for a while. The sheer stress of moving, feeling like refugees. We’ve just . . .’ Leonora turned to Merrily ‘. . . had a run of trivial teething troubles, that’s all. It’s a barn conversion, nobody’s lived here before. Power surges. Bulbs popping. Wake up in the night and one of the smoke alarms is going off, which sets off all the other smoke alarms.’
‘They saw us coming,’ Stooke said.
‘So they know who you are?’ Merrily asked. ‘The agents.’
An irrational tension had set in. Power surges. Bulbs popping. Smoke alarms. How often had people brought domestic problems like that to her door?
‘The security services had a word with the agents,’ Stooke said. ‘Presumably pointing out that if anything leaked out from them, we’d have to move, putting the house back on the market.’
‘And they had enough difficulty letting it last time.’
‘Did they?’ Stooke looking up sharply. ‘Why?’
‘Because . . . the future of Coleman’s Meadow is undecided. You either get a whole army of new neighbours or a prehistoric tourist attraction. You were a godsend. As it were. What’s the atheist term for a godsend?’
‘Are you going to make atheist jokes all night, Merrily?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no.’ Stooke stood up awkwardly. ‘It’s me.’ He grimaced. ‘Fractious. Sorry.’
He folded his arms. Amazingly, in this temperature, he was still wearing the black fleece. Merrily smiled uncertainly. She felt swimmingly disorientated – that uncomfortable sensation of floating one step behind your senses. Too much heat, too much light. She stood up.
‘I’m going to have to go.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend—’
‘No, you didn’t. I have to drive to the other side of the county and I don’t want to be back too late in these conditions. Just one final thing. Shirley’s friend . . .’
Stooke looked blank. Merrily almost snatched the opportunity to say it was OK, it didn’t matter. Get herself out of the heat. She didn’t need this kind of complication.
‘Oh,’ Stooke said. ‘You mean the man who was watching the house.’
‘Erm . . . yeah.’
‘That made me angry. I don’t think Lenni’s seen him, but I spotted him a couple of times. He’d just be standing there at the top of the field, on the edge of the wood.’
‘The orchard?’
‘Yeah, whatever, the trees. I thought he was one of the archaeologists at first, and I shouted to him from the door, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there. Well, it’s a public right of way, so you can’t actually order people off. I just went back into the house.’
‘What time of day was this?’
‘Early evening. Just on dusk. Five-ish? Next time I looked he’d gone. Then I saw him again, a couple of days ago.’
‘Same time?’
‘More or less. It was raining. Lenni’d gone into Leominster, to the shops.’
‘Antique shops.’ Leonora had pulled off the towels, was shaking out her red tresses. ‘So many in Leominster.’
‘And there was the guy again, getting soaked?’
Stooke went over to the desk, opened a drawer, took out some papers and extracted one.
Merrily said, ‘What was he like? Anybody I might recognise?’
‘He wasn’t close enough. I thought . . .’ Stooke handed her a folded sheet of A4. ‘We’d had that the same morning, and I suppose I saw him in those terms . . . as, presumably, I was expected to.’
We know why you are here.
We know why you have come NOW.
To call forth the old dark ones from
the woods and reclaim the stones for
your infernal master.
But know that we too are vigilant!
Stooke wrinkled his nose in distaste.
‘First time one of these . . . missives had mentioned the stones. I should’ve made the connection
after your parish meeting. I suppose when the guy appeared again, I saw him as . . . like it says there.’
‘One of the dark ones from the woods?’
‘Some kind of Stone Age warrior. Short cloak or a skin, and a stick. Couldn’t see him clearly, too much mist. I was angry, but I did nothing. Should’ve gone out, but the field was soaking wet and . . . you don’t know what drugs these guys are on, do you?’
‘Who? The Church of the Lord of the Light? You really think so?’
‘Well, maybe not drugs.’ Stooke took the paper back, crumpled it angrily. ‘But how can they think we’re so stupid?’
‘You’re destroying the evidence.’
‘It’s a copy.’
Stooke looked into Merrily’s eyes, and she really didn’t know what to make of his expression.
‘I’d better be off,’ she said.
Merrily stood for a while, leaning against the Volvo, relishing the cold, even the rain, looking back across the hardstanding at what was, essentially, a new house, all its downstairs windows bright.
For a fraction of a second, the lights seemed to flare brighter still, as if there was a flash of lightning inside Cole Barn.
Don’t go there.
She got into the car, troubled.
42
Witch-Hunt
WHEN SISTER CULLEN rang from the hospital, Bliss was parked in the entrance of Phase Two of the housing estate where Gyles Banks-Jones lived.
Just after five p.m., and well dark. Phase Two had barely been started and had no street lighting yet. Two hours ago Bliss had slid in next to the site hut, his rear wheels spinning, his lights already switched off. He was sure he could feel the car sinking into the mud, but at least the building site gave him an excellent view of Gyles’s house, directly opposite, and the house the other side of Gyles’s shared drive.
Steve Furneaux’s house. Still no car there, still no lights.
‘So would that be all right, Sister?’ Bliss said.
‘Don’t see why I can’t find that out, it being Sunday,’ Cullen said. ‘Although I shall expect some personal intervention from your good self the next time I fall foul of a speed camera.’
‘I hate them speed cameras, me.’
Both of them knowing Bliss had nil influence in Traffic.
‘Give me twenty minutes, then,’ Cullen said.
‘This is very decent of you, Sister.’
‘Merrily Watkins is a good woman.’
‘For a Prod?’
‘I don’t mess with religion, Mr Bliss.’
‘Very wise, Sister.’
Bliss settled back with his Thai Prawn sandwich and a can of shandy. He could afford to give it another couple of hours. Not like his life was going anywhere.
A Christmas tree was lit up in the Banks-Joneses’ front window, but no sign of movement behind it. Either Gyles and Mrs Banks-Jones were quietly talking it through, or – easier for Bliss to imagine – they were sunk into the sick, silent aftermath of a blazing row.
However, at some stage over the holiday period, Gyles would be sitting back in his favourite armchair, thinking how pleasant it was here, how warm, how safe. What a nice warm, safe life he’d had. Then getting jerked out of it by the memory of Bliss’s rancid Scouser’s voice going, Bang! That was your cell door, Gyles.
And in case Gyles, full of good whisky and maudlin Yuletide emotion, should then wish to make prison less of a prospect for the New Year, Bliss had given him his mobile number. Pretty sure that Gyles, at some stage, would ring with something he could use. But meanwhile – and more interesting – there was Steve.
Steve Furneaux revisited. Steve Furneaux who kept wiping his nose in Gilbies, but seemed to have no other cold symptoms. Bliss had registered it at the time, but you saw it all over the place these days. Even the red-spotted handkerchief: nosebleeds. If you were constructing the very model of a modern suburban recreational snorter of the white stuff, the computer simulation would be just so Steve Furneaux.
Because Gyles was still holding out about his source and refusing to involve his next-door neighbour on any level, Bliss had gone back to Alan Sandison, the Baptist minister.
Making Alan’s Christmas by telling him how unlikely it was, now that Gyles had coughed, that he would have to give evidence against any of his new neighbours. Alan had relaxed, much relieved – his conscience clear, all neighbourly relations intact. They’d had a cup of tea, an informal chat . . . quality time.
In the course of which it emerged that, yes, Alan did know Bliss’s friend Steve, from the council. Indeed, the first neighbourly gathering attended by the Sandisons, before they knew about the cocaine, had been a barbecue in Steve Furneaux’s garden.
And surely Alan knew Charlie Howe, didn’t he? Everybody knew Charlie . . .
Oh, the very friendly white-haired man with the stick, would that be?
Nice.
The chances of busting Steve for possession were remote. But Steve wouldn’t know that. Very likely that Steve, with his comfy council job and his blue-sky future on the line, was in a state of some anxiety. Which was also nice. No better time for an informal chat about Hereforward, Clement Ayling and – please God – Charlie Howe.
Just don’t let Steve have gone away for Christmas.
Bliss ran the engine to demist the windscreen and then, unwilling to push it too far with his old mate God, he rang his old bagman, Andy Mumford.
‘Boss,’ Mumford said. ‘’Ow’re you?’
The sheep-shit accent provoking a surprising tug of emotion, bringing back comfort-memories of the old days – last year, in fact – before Andy’s thirty had been up and he’d been shown the door. Poor sod was working with Jumbo Humphries, now – garage owner, feed dealer, private inquiry agent. It was either that or a position as some factory’s Head of Security, for which read caretaker, dogsbody, odd-job man.
‘And life’s exciting, Andy?’ Bliss said. ‘Lots of Land Rover chases?’
‘What bloody Humphries didn’t tell me,’ Mumford said, ‘was that when there’s no case on, I’m expected to work in the bloody warehouse, selling bags of bloody mixed corn to bloody chicken farmers.’
‘And how often is there no case?’
‘This is the sticks,’ Mumford said. ‘There’s a credit crunch. You work it out.’
‘I feel for you, Andy. Not as much as I feel for meself, but still . . .’
‘Made inquiries about getting back – cold-case squad, kind of thing,’ Mumford said mournfully.
‘And?’
‘Seems it would’ve helped if I’d been a DCI rather than a humble DS.’
‘Elitist bastards. Listen, Andy, you still got that little sister on the Plascarreg?’
‘Not my responsibility.’
‘No, don’t worry I’m not . . . It’s just I’ve had young George Wintle out there, looking for a new coke channel.’ Giving Mumford the back-story and the names: Banks-Jones, Furneaux. ‘He won’t get anywhere, but I was wondering what the buzz was, if any. Who’s running the Plascarreg this week?’
‘Jason Mebus grows up fast,’ Mumford said. ‘Real businessman now.’
‘I thought he’d been busted up a bit in a car crash.’
‘Broke his collarbone rolling a nicked motor, that was all. Young bones heal quick.’
‘You don’t like Jason, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Good thought, though, Andy. I’ll get George to talk to him.’
‘He won’t talk. Not to the likes of Wintle.’
‘Talk to you?’
‘Mabbe.’
‘Cold-case buggers don’t know what they’re missing.’ Bliss took a breath, went in casual. ‘You ever see anything of Charlie Howe these days, Andy?’
Heavy pause.
‘No,’ Mumford said. ‘Nothing.’
This was a little tricky. It was widely rumoured that Mumford had done some cleaning-up after Charlie over the undiscovered murder in the Frome Valley, way back when Charlie had been at Blis
s’s level and Mumford just a sprog – so that was excusable, just. All the same, a touchy subject. Safer to keep this contemporary.
‘You know of any link between Charlie and the late Clem Ayling?’
Mumford found a short laugh.
‘Wondered how long it’d be before you got round to Ayling. I did hear your role in that had got a bit shrunk, mind.’
‘And you heard that from . . .?’
‘Pint with Terry Stagg. Funny arrangement all round, Terry says. Why would Ma’am set up an incident room within walking distance of Gaol Street?’
‘Only if she wanted a soundproof box,’ Bliss said.
‘Ah.’
‘He’s never liked me, you know that, Andy.’
‘Charlie? No, I don’t reckon he has.’
‘Not since I got too interested in the Frome Valley.’
No reaction from Mumford.
‘Where I won’t be going again, you understand. It’s history. I accept that.’
Best to underline it: no question of Mumford’s youthful indiscretion ever being exhumed.
‘All right,’ Mumford said.
‘But if Charlie’s name crops up on the edge of an inquiry I still get interested. And Charlie knows that, and Annie knows it.’
‘This connection with Ayling – that just the council?’
‘Goes a bit further. Charlie and Ayling’d both got themselves co-opted on to this quango think-tank thingy known as Hereforward. Which was Ayling’s last meeting. Walks out of it, never seen again attached to his head.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘You ever heard of Charlie doing . . . Charlie?’
‘Coke?’
‘Or anything.’
‘Charlie don’t like to lose control.’
‘Oh.’
‘Women’s Charlie’s thing. Young women. Always a charmer.’
‘Still?’
‘Older he gets, younger he likes them. Jumbo was telling me about a divorce case he was working, led to this isolated farmhouse in the Black Mountains where there was what you might call communal activities. Jumbo seen Charlie through his binoculars, once.’
