by Phil Rickman
‘We’re all praying it won’t, Miss Huws.’
‘Thank you. Thank you. Oh, good morning, Mrs West. Isn’t it terrible?’
‘It is indeed, Miss Huws.’ Shirley’s arms dropping to her sides. ‘What can I get you, Mrs Watkins?’
‘Just twenty Silk Cut, please, Shirley.’
Shirley smiled.
‘I’m afraid we’re out of cigarettes today, Mrs Watkins.’
Merrily looked up at the shelves, saw packets of pipe tobacco and Rizla papers.
‘Mr Prosser doesn’t keep many now, look. Sold the lot last night. Panic buying. You know what people are like. He was expecting a new delivery today. Not gonner happen now, is it? Now we are an island.’
Shirley West, triumphant.
48
History and Fear
THE BLUE STRETCH Land Rover was parked on derelict ground on the edge of the Plascarreg – south of the Wye but not as far south as it had been last night. The Wye was hungry and taking big bites out of Hereford.
Bliss walked back very slowly, past the shell of a black Nissan Micra, twocked and burned out. Without the waxy sky above it and the rainwater pool underneath, you could imagine that Jumbo’s blue wagon was an armoured car in the ruins of Baghdad.
For once, even Bliss fitted in. He was wearing what Naomi called Daddy’s SAS kit: Army-surplus camouflage jacket, cargo trousers, hiking boots, green beanie. He’d climbed down from the Land Rover and walked around the brown concrete fringe of the estate for maybe ten minutes, on his own, trying to get his head round this.
‘Feeling better now, is it, Mr B?’
Jumbo Humphries leaning out of the driver’s window, offering him a swig of a half-bottle of Bells. Bliss shook his head, went round and got back in on the other side.
Better would not describe how he was feeling.
‘Jumbo,’ he said. ‘Move this heap somewhere else, would you? If I was a cop and I saw a Land Rover on the Plascarreg . . .’
If I was a cop? Mother of God, had it come to this?
The back of the Land Rover was like a cell. Vinyl-covered bench seat along one side. No windows. Jason Mebus sharing the seat with Andy Mumford in a donkey jacket.
‘You worked it out now, boss?’
Still finding it hard to contain his delight, Mumford looked fondly at Mebus, who was staring down at his hands like they were already locked into cuffs. Didn’t look up when Jumbo Humphries started the engine and drove them round the back of the estate, into a field entrance. Jumbo was programmed for fields.
‘This all right for you, is it, Mr B?’
‘Safer,’ Bliss conceded.
Jumbo, a before picture for WeightWatchers, got out, squelched through the puddled ground to open the galvanised gate. This way they’d only be disturbed by some farmer, and there weren’t many farmers Jumbo didn’t know. Bliss sank back, hands behind his head: how to play this . . .
Or even whether to play it. What any copper with sense would do was get on his mobile and summon the troops. Back off, let them deal with it, hoping a result would save his career.
Two possible reasons for what Andy had done. One, excitement: lower-ranking cops were still being pensioned off at fifty – the new thirty, too young to be thinking the most exciting time of your life was history. Yet Bliss had thought Mumford, who’d looked more than a bit pipe-and-slippers at forty, would’ve been able to handle it better than most.
Which suggested it was more likely to be the second possible reason.
Charlie Howe.
It was conceivable that Mumford still had a conscience about helping Charlie cover up that death, way back, maybe nursing a feeling that Charlie should go down one day for something. Wasn’t exactly uncommon, that need to tie up a few ends before you left the service.
And maybe it was actually easier, these days, to come back and tie them: no rules, no stifling paperwork, and you still had all the skills.
Bliss looked over the back of his seat at Jason Mebus. Just a kid. A cold-eyed, corrupted kid, still just about young enough to be at school but with many years of criminal experience. His upper lip was puffed out on one side.
‘I really think,’ Bliss said, ‘that you have to give me a name, Jason. Or, to be more specific, you have to give me the name.’
‘Don’t even know his name.’
‘We think you do, Jason,’ Mumford said.
Mebus flinched slightly.
‘What happened to his mouth, Andy?’
‘Resisting a chat.’
Bliss sighed. No paperwork, no rules.
And a strong element of serendipity.
It came down to history. And fear.
It was not a result that Mumford would have obtained if he’d still been in the job and history hadn’t cut as deep. Jason Mebus knew too much about the tragic death of Mumford’s nephew, Robbie Walsh. Therefore Mebus was afraid of Mumford in a way he wouldn’t be afraid of a serving copper.
Mumford had the look of a brooder.
As it turned out, Jason was already in a state of deep unease. What he’d thought would be no more than some drug-trade disposal had turned out to be part of the highest-profile crime in this town in living memory.
‘Jittery from the off,’ Mumford had whispered. ‘I’m talking about cocaine, and his eyes are all over the place and wondering who Jumbo is. I didn’t do no introductions.’
‘Just fishing at this point?’
‘Trying to get you a bigger fish, boss. I know this bastard. He’s vicious, but he en’t over-ambitious. No way he’d go uptown on his own.’
‘Right.’
Good detective, Mumford. Looking across at the Plascarreg’s prison-block profile, it had already occurred to Bliss that there was no way Gyles Banks-Jones would come down here on his own.
There was someone else in this. A middleman.
‘Go on, Andy . . .’
‘And I’m saying things like, bit out of your league yere, en’t you, boy? And I’m tossing names at him.’
‘Which names in particular?’
‘The names you give me: Gyles Banks-Jones, Steve Furneaux, Charlie Howe. And that was when he . . . when he first tried to get out of the vehicle.’
And hurt his mouth on the dash, apparently. And other parts you couldn’t see, Bliss suspected.
Starting to feel queasy right down to his gut. The information better be solid as a rock because – as Mumford, presumptuously, had already apparently conveyed to Jason Mebus – no way was this going anywhere near Gaol Street.
‘I never killed him,’ Mebus said. ‘You gotter believe me, dad. Why would I? Why would I do an ole feller like that? I en’t never even heard of him.’
‘Now, that’s not true, is it, Jason?’ Mumford said. ‘You had every reason to wish him no good.’
Bliss could tell that Mumford hated it when Mebus called him dad. Even the thought of having a son like this . . .
‘Him being a magistrate and all,’ Mumford said. ‘You don’t remember?’
Bliss smiled, pretty sure that Ayling had come off the bench a good ten years ago, but Mebus wouldn’t know that.
It was about pressure.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t recognise his face?’ Mumford said.
‘I didn’t fucking look at his face.’
‘Squeamish?’
‘I used to work in a slaughterhouse, dad.’
That was how thick Jason was.
‘Who was with you?’ Bliss said.
‘Justin. My brother. But all he done was drive, yeah?’
‘So the bloke you met . . .’
‘Never seen his face. Head to foot in waterproofs, and a black balaclava with eyeholes.’
‘No kidding,’ Bliss said.
‘Swear to God—’
‘Where’d you meet him?’
‘In the forest, as arranged.’
‘Which forest?’
‘Dean. In this . . . where they been clearing trees?’
‘That would be calle
d “a clearing”, Jason. And this was arranged by?’
‘Birmingham.’
They’d been into this. All controlled substances, including supplies to be delivered to Gyles Banks-Jones’s jeweller’s shop, came in from ‘Birmingham’. Mebus was just a distributor, he didn’t know the people he was dealing with. This was normal; if he was nicked, that was where it ended, nobody he could finger to the cops. It was just ‘Birmingham’.
At least, Mebus assumed it was Birmingham.
‘So you’d had a call on the mobile,’ Bliss said. ‘From Birmingham.’
‘I knew the voice.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Male. Brummy accent.’
‘And he asked if you were up for something a bit different. Tell me exactly what he said.’
‘He said somebody was gonner to be topped, kind o’ thing, and—’
‘That was the actual word he used?’ Mumford said.
‘I didn’t know he meant it literally. It was fucking horrible, dad, in the back of that van . . .’
‘White van, right?’ Mumford said.
‘They said it wasn’t hot. False plates and that. We met in the Forest, he gives me the keys and half the money.’
‘What build? Short? Tall? Fat? Thin?’
‘I dunno – medium? You couldn’t tell how fat or thin under all this gear.’
‘Voice, how old?’
‘He din’t say much. I’d had the instructions on the phone. Where to put the . . . parts. He just hands over the keys and pisses off. He likely had a car somewhere, or a bike? Motorbike?’
‘So you looked in the back of the van?’
‘Well . . . yeah.’
‘What did you see.’
‘There was like a . . . two parcels? The big one, it was like this roll of black plastic. The . . . littler one, that was just a bin sack.’
‘So you did which one first?’
‘The big one. The river.’
‘They specify which river?’
‘The Wye. We left our wheels in the forest, went off in the van.’
‘No problems?’
‘Nah, not this time of year, at night. We found this track, rolled it down the bank, went round and dragged it to the water. Just unrolled it from the plastic, straight into the river.’
‘What happened to the plastic?’
‘Put it back in the van like I was told.’
‘All right,’ Bliss said. ‘Let’s talk about the small parcel.’
‘Can I have a fag?’ Mebus said.
‘No. I want to know about the head.’
‘I hadn’t to open it till we got there. There was a bag to carry it in, like a holdall?’
‘Carry it where?’
‘Rotherwas Chapel. This old church, back of the council tip? You know the place?’
Bliss nodded. As a matter of fact, he did. Private chapel of the Bodenham family, Catholics. Lovely building. Too lovely to be stuck on the edge of an industrial estate.
‘So what went wrong, Jason?’
‘Two cop cars is what. Two cop cars parked up near the tip. Nearly shit myself. Like they was waiting for us.’
‘Sort of cop cars?’
‘Usual sort. Blue and yellow?’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Turned off, soon’s we could without it looking obvious. Drove straight back into town.’
‘Didn’t you think to try again?’ Mumford asked.
‘Oh yeah. Like if they was still there they wouldn’t notice the same white van? No way, dad. Justin, he wanted to dump the van somewhere, but we had to get back to our own wheels, din’ we?’
‘You had specific instructions where at Rotherwas Chapel to put the head?’
‘In the porch. Somewhere no foxes could get at it, you know? So anyway, we drove around town a bit. I didn’t know what to do. I’m thinking it better be a church, right? I was thinking the porch at the Cathedral, but we got there and there was some service going on or summat, so we was fucked there, too.’
‘Nobody you could call and ask for advice?’
‘I told you, no.’
‘What time was it now?’
‘Dunno, seven-ish? Mabbe a bit later. All the churches round town, there was like nowhere to park or people about. And then I remembered this place, the ole monastery down Widemarsh Street. Had, like . . . reason to go there before and I knew how quiet it was. We was getting a bit desperate by then, look.’
‘So you parked up . . .?’
‘Some street round the corner. Takes the bag in there, thinking we could leave him on a wall in the ole monastery?’
‘And that’s where you left the bag, is it?’
‘Nah, we took the bag away with us. Anyhow, we seen this cross thing with the steps. Seemed better than a wall.’
‘Whereabouts did you put the head?’
‘You telling me you don’t know?’
‘No, Jason, I know. I’m just making sure you know. Where exactly did you leave the head?’
‘In one of them spaces. There’s like these openings, like church windows? Justin found this brick to prop it up.’
‘You had to touch it?’
‘We had these rubber gloves. They all went back in the van before we poured the petrol all over it and set it alight.’
‘And you’d been left petrol for that, had you?’
‘Four cans. Had to be a serious fire. We had to hang around, make sure it was well burned out.’
Bliss wondered if Gloucester had found it yet. Wouldn’t be much use DNA-wise, anyway.
‘You said you didn’t look at it much. The head.’
‘It was dark, wannit? We took the bin sack out the bag, lifted it up the cross in the bin sack. Then I gets it in position and like . . . eased the bag away, real slow and careful.’
‘So you didn’t notice anything odd about it.’
‘Only what we’d been . . . They said to be real careful and not dislodge these bits of stone? In the eyes?’
Clincher.
‘Kind of stone?’ Bliss said.
‘This, like . . . like you get on graves and stuff? Bit like that.’
‘So you left the head in the wrong place, eh?’
‘Just done what we thought was best.’
‘You had a reaction to that? From Birmingham?’
‘Nah. But I en’t had the rest of the money neither.’
‘How do you normally receive it?’
‘Sometimes a bloke on a Harley. Varies.’
Bliss glanced at Mumford, who nodded. Would explain why Jason was jittery. Were Birmingham cross with him? And when people like that were unhappy with your performance, how would they convey their displeasure?
‘All right, Jason,’ Bliss said. ‘Let’s go through the highlights again. That first call. Birmingham. They say why they wanted you for this job?’
‘Well, we . . . handled goods for them for a good while, ennit? They knew us.’
‘Nothing this big, though, I’m guessing, Jason.’
Jason said nothing.
‘Worthwhile, was it?’
‘Not bad.’
‘So when they called you first, they just said this feller was gonna be topped. They give any indication why?’
‘I just thought mabbe somebody they been supplying hadn’t paid his bills. Din’ reckon on no council big shot, no way.’
‘You mean you didn’t ask.’
‘No.’
‘They tell you why they wanted the two bits in different places?’
Mebus shook his head.
‘Didn’t it even occur to you to ask?’
‘It occurred to me . . .’
‘Mother of God,’ Bliss said. ‘You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you, Jason?’
‘They said he had to be made an example of. That’s why I thought a poor payer.’
‘You never said that before.’
‘I only just remembered.’
‘Give me strength. Who sawed Ayling’
s head off, Jason? Was that you? Deep in the forest, with a chainie that eventually went up in flames with the white van?’
‘No! I told you. It was already done.’
‘So you never saw his eyes.’
‘No.’ Mebus suddenly lurched in his seat, his gaze swivelling from Bliss to Mumford and back. ‘Hey, none of you’s wired, are you?’
Bliss shook his head in weary disdain.
‘How about you escort our friend back to his estate, Jumbo?’
49
Sharpest Knife
JUMBO GOT THE message: time for cop talk. Bliss watched him follow Mebus towards the Plascarreg, clap the kid once on the back, then go his own way diagonally across the field. Leather bomber jacket, bouncy walk; he looked like a battered old medicine ball.
‘Well,’ Bliss said. ‘That was a bit of an eye-opener, wasn’t it?’
‘Thought you’d like it.’
Mumford spread himself on the long back seat, stretched his legs out where Mebus had been sitting.
‘Yeh, but what . . . what am I gonna do with it, Andy? Walk into Annie’s sanctum, tell her she’s got this case all to cock? Explain exactly how I know she’s fallen for what she was supposed to fall for?’
‘Rotherwas Chapel. I noticed you liked that.’
‘The stones in Ayling’s eye sockets were from what the council still prefers to call the Rotherwas Ribbon.’
‘Was that on the news?’
‘No way, it was what they held back. Served its purpose, too. Told me Mebus wasn’t lying.’
‘So Rotherwas Chapel . . .’
‘The official ancient monument at the foot of Dinedor Hill. The one they can’t destroy to put a road through. That was just perfect.’
‘If you wanted to fit up the Serpent-lovers?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Likely Jason done ’em a favour,’ Mumford said. ‘Takes you a while to put it together, it don’t look like you were led there by the nose kind of thing.’
‘That’s true. So where’s this go next? I tell Annie she’s a stupid cow, but don’t worry about it because I only know the truth on account of I’ve been working on me own with a private investigator, unethically, on the verge of actual criminality and—Jesus, Andy.’
