by Phil Rickman
‘Or maybe both of them at once,’ Howe said. ‘It’s quite a generous bath.’
A tiny fibre-optic Christmas tree on the mantelpiece over the blocked-in fireplace changed from mauve to silver.
‘Actually,’ Howe said, ‘if the only men out there were the kind of crass bastards generally found in the police service, I think I might well have gone gratefully down that road.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Bliss said, ‘I didn’t actually place a bet.’
‘You parsimonious bastard, Francis.’
‘Shit,’ Bliss said. ‘It wasn’t for charity, was it?’
Jesus, did Annie nearly laugh then?
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I won’t waste your time. I’ll just lay this out on the floor and if you don’t like it you can kick it down the lift shaft. Essentially, the suburban coke affiliate that was supposed to keep me out of the way until Twelfth Night has turned out to link directly into Ayling.’
Howe was rocking gently. Near-white hair fluffed over her eyes. Glasses – the rimless Gestapo-issue – on the end of her nose. What had happened to the contacts?
‘Connection comes through a council planning officer called Steve Furneaux,’ Bliss said quickly, ‘who turns out to be the main player, while Gyles Banks-Jones . . .’
‘Frontman.’ Howe stopped the movement of the chair with the tip of a trainer. ‘Well recompensed, I’d guess, to take all the risks. Idiot, basically.’
‘Well . . . yeh.’
‘Furneaux’s a reptile.’
Bliss grew cautious, tilted himself forward so both feet were firmly on the floor.
‘Worked in local government and public relations in Birmingham,’ Annie Howe said, ‘and the Black Country. West Midlands have a slim but meaningful file on him.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Well, nothing we know about, obviously, or they’d have had him years ago. That house in Hereford, though, he paid cash. He also has a very nice flat in Solihull, which he rents out, and a time-share in Menton. And in case you’re wondering about private income, his parents are still alive, both low-grade schoolteachers, so nothing from that end.’
Bliss shuffled uncomfortably to the edge of the sofa.
‘And you know all this . . . how?’
‘Mainly from my dad. They serve together on a quango called . . .’
‘Hereforward.’
‘I believe that’s the name. Whenever someone mentions it, I plead ignorance because – you’ve probably noticed this yourself – no two people ever give the same explanation of what it actually does.’
‘And what, uh . . .’ Bliss hesitated. ‘What does County Councillor Howe say it does?’
‘You should ask him.’
‘I tried. Tried to ask him about a few things.’
‘And?’
‘He said I was a sick, twisted little Scouser with no friends and no prospects who ought to go home and probably throw himself in the Mersey. But you knew that.’
‘Didn’t, actually. When was this?’
‘Last night.’
‘Before you went off sick.’
‘I got very wet. Charlie having expressed a wish that I should die of pneumonia.’
Annie smiled, a bit twisted.
‘That’s my pa.’
‘I was able though, before I left, to inquire about his new hip, and he said Mr Shah had done an excellent job.’
‘I’ve heard he’s the best.’
Bliss stood up.
‘What are you doing, Annie? What are you doing?’
‘Sometimes, Francis, I almost think I know.’ Howe used a heel to start the chair’s momentum, in a slow, meditative rhythm. ‘Sit down. Tell me what you hoped to achieve by disrupting my quiet Christmas Eve in.’
‘Well . . .’ Bliss sat. ‘There’s that information that Mark Connelly wouldn’t give to Karen Dowell without your say-so. I think your guy also killed Ayling.’
‘It’s a possibility. The wounds weren’t identical.’
‘But you’ve got Willy Hawkes in the frame.’
‘Wilford Hawkes has gone home for Christmas. His chainsaw’s clean. We were interested that it had a new chain, and he’d forgotten what he’d done with the old one but we eventually found it. One of the women he lived with had borrowed it to loop over a five-barred gate to hold it to the post. That tells you how blunt it had become, but it wasn’t blunted on flesh or bone. Tests yielded sawdust, nothing else. He may be charged in connection with a threatening phone call, but possibly not.’
‘Why were you so keen to nail him?’
‘Because all the evidence pointed at the Dinedor Serpent.’
‘No other reason?’
‘Like not wanting to investigate my father?’
‘I’m saying nothing, ma’am.’
‘Don’t call me ma’am again. I know what it means when you use it, and it isn’t a term of respect. No, I didn’t want to investigate my father. All through my career I’ve been hoping I would never have to investigate Charlie Howe . . . and you breathe a word of this outside this room, Bliss, and you are history.’
‘You know I won’t,’ Bliss said, ‘or you wouldn’t be telling me. Anyway. I’ve got no friends, me.’
‘Really hasn’t lost his touch, has he?’
Annie Howe grinned. A phenomenon like the northern lights and UFOs: you’d heard of other people who’d seen them. Bliss blinked, and it had gone.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I need to hear it from you. Why you handed me the Gyles case.’
‘You’ll have a long wait, Francis.’
‘Here’s my version, then. Sometime in the past, Charlie must’ve said something to you about Furneaux. Maybe asking you to look into him. Maybe suspicious of Furneaux’s affluence. And maybe you made a few inquiries to keep the old guy happy?’
Annie Howe looked up at the cream-washed moulded ceiling, didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head.
‘Was he happy? Was he happy to know Furneaux was without form, therefore clever? Therefore . . .’ in for a penny ‘. . . safe to have dealings with?’
‘Be careful.’
‘I bet you never forgot Steve’s name, did you?’
Maybe she was a better detective than he’d given her credit for. She couldn’t possibly have been in the cops for – what, twelve, fourteen years? – without hearing the Charlie stories.
‘What happened? You run into Furneaux at some social event?’
‘As everyone keeps pointing out,’ Annie said, ‘it’s a small city.’
‘Not for very long if the council have anything to do with it. Hear about the toxicology report following a heart attack at that Hereforward weekend spree?’
‘I read the toxicology report. And I was very relieved that Councillor Howe wasn’t there. He was . . .’ hollow breath ‘. . . on holiday in the South of France.’
‘Not . . .’ oh joy ‘. . . staying at Steve’s time-share in Menton?’
‘Shut up now . . .’
‘How lovely,’ Bliss said.
‘It’s not a crime.’
‘No, no. But when Ayling got topped, I bet you had Charlie on the phone in minutes, assuring you . . . well, making certain assurances.’
‘It would have been odd if he hadn’t phoned me under those circumstances.’
‘Did he, uh . . . suggest it might not be a good thing in general for the city of Hereford if a certain nasty little Scouse cop with a chip on his shoulder was in charge of the investigation?’
‘That sound like my father?’
‘Totally. And did he, by great good fortune, happen to be making a post-op visit to the orthopaedic surgeon who’d done his hip, and . . .’ Bliss sighed. ‘Jesus, Annie that was a sad bloody excuse for a complaint, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ve heard better.’
‘But I tell you what would look bad . . . if it subsequently emerged that there was a link between Steve Furneaux, Hereforward and Clem Ayling’s killing, and Councillor Howe’s daughter, leading the in
vestigation, had conspicuously—’
‘All right!’ Howe stopped rocking. ‘Being fast-tracked to the top isn’t an automatic indication of someone with an honours degree but no basic nous. What’ve you got?’
‘Jesus, you deliberately put me in from the other side to find out if Charlie—?’
‘I told you you’d have a long wait and I meant it.’
‘You sent me in there with a shitload of grudge against your ole man . . .’
‘If you couldn’t involve him then he wasn’t involved.’
‘And if I could involve him?’
‘Can you?’
‘You still think he might actually—’
‘You tosser!’ Annie Howe sprang to her feet. ‘I’ve known the bastard for thirty-five years. I know every lie he told my mother, and some even she doesn’t know about. I know how, despite telling everybody who’ll listen how proud he is of my success, that he did everything in his power to keep me out of the police. Now what’ve you got?’
Bliss sat with his feet not quite touching the floor. He couldn’t remember when he’d last fancied a woman this much. How crass did that make him?
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I know who disposed of Ayling’s body. I don’t know who actually killed him, but I think I know why he was killed. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Charlie was connected to the murder.’
‘Furneaux?’
‘Furneaux for definite.’
‘All right,’ Annie said. ‘Let’s go and spoil his Christmas.’
56
Corrupt
JANE SPRAYED TORCHLIGHT at the church porch door, watching Mum recoil.
Heartsick. That word on her church . . .
ANTICHRIST
Mum had been upstairs in the bedroom, dressing for the gig – cashmere and the black velvet skirt, the last cigarette half-smoked and then carefully pinched out. She’d flung on her cape to cover the skirt, but nothing was totally protected in this weather. Pools were already forming around their wellies, and the splashing of the rain made it hard to hear what she was mumbling.
‘. . . come off. Everything comes off, somehow.’
Not easily. It was old wood. Eirion had reckoned they might wind up having to sand it down. She’d sent Eirion to the Swan. Nothing he could do now. It was evidence, anyway.
‘I’ll . . . have a go later if you like,’ Jane said.
‘. . . Think I’m inclined to leave it till after Christmas. Let everybody see it. That was the idea, presum—’ Mum broke off, her eyes unnaturally wide in the torch beam. ‘My God, what did I just say?’
‘Makes sense to me. Let everybody see what she’s done.’
‘And then they can all cross the road when she walks up the street? Use another post office?’
‘Saves having to listen to a lot of born-again bollocks.’
‘Talk about her behind her back? And maybe some kids will go and spray-paint her front door, thinking they have an excuse for it now?’
‘She’d love it. Make her feel like a real martyr.’
Jane played the torch beam through a wall of rain like gilded splinters to the white-sprayed words
BORN THIS NIGHT
IN LEDWARDINE
‘What does it mean, anyway?’
‘It means exactly what it says. After gradually stripping away traditional Christianity in Ledwardine in favour of a kind of neopaganism, I’m now going all the way . . . Jane, its—’
‘No, go on . . .’
‘Conspiring with the satanic baptist Mathew Elliot Stooke to celebrate, on the stroke of midnight, not the holy birth but some demonic intrus— I can’t even say it.’
‘They truly believe that?’
‘Who knows? Maybe she thinks this will deter people from coming tonight. Perhaps it will.’
‘Somebody has to stop her.’
‘I can’t do anything.’ Mum numbly shaking her head, shoulders slumped. ‘In the absence of the police – and they’d be unlikely to come before Christmas anyway – I’m not going to be . . . judge and jury.’
‘Mum . . .’
‘And the truth is, we don’t even know it’s her, do we?’
‘Oh, come on—’
‘There are supposed to be other members of her . . . church around. Jane, let’s just go home and get— We’ve got ten minutes before Lol starts, right? So let’s just get a bucket, some det—’
‘Mum . . .’ Oh God. ‘You haven’t been inside.’
Mum looked at Jane who turned away, tearful. She’d looked so pretty in her best clothes and . . . kind of glowing. As if tonight at the Swan, with the Boswell and everything, would be the start of a new phase for her and Lol. Maybe even the prospect of . . .
‘Mum, listen, she – whoever it is – is mentally ill. This has nothing to do with religion. Nothing to do with you. You’ve done everything you could possibly—’
‘There’s more, right?’
‘Yeah.’
Jane shone the torch at the ring handles, but Eirion had left the doors slightly ajar anyway. She pushed one open with the end of the rubber torch and followed Mum inside.
To where the chairs and pews arranged for the meditation service had been tipped over, thrown into disarray, a couple of the lighter chairs smashed . . .
. . . Along with the bottom left-hand corner of the Eve stainedglass window with its red apple that always caught the sunset. A hole punched in it, glass gone, lead strips twisted, rainwater exploding on to the sill down the wall to spread over the flags.
Mum stood and looked up, past the organ, up towards the chancel and, as if her gaze had been guided, to the rood screen.
Sixteenth century. With those exquisitely carved-out apple shapes at the bottom.
The ancient wood chopped out around them, the delicate tracery of the screen cracked and splintered.
You could still almost feel the frenzy, hear violent echoes from the stone.
It wouldn’t have taken long, with a hammer or a hatchet. Nobody came across to the church at this time of day.
Certainly not in this kind of weather, and there weren’t that many people left in the village anyway.
And nobody outside would hear the hacking through the noise of the rain.
Lol looked up from his tuning in some surprise. It wasn’t so much the noise as . . .
. . . The hush, when he played a couple of experimental chords, the Boswell plugged into the old Guild acoustic, a basic E-minor as thrilling and visceral in this crowded, tarted-up Jacobean alehouse as a pipe-organ in an empty church.
He looked around bemused. A swirl of faces. Could be a hundred or more, seated at tables pushed together round the walls, some groups standing in the alcoves. He’d heard them coming in, thought they were just going for drinks. Kept his head down, concentrating on preparing a guitar he’d never played before. No need, really, the tuning was perfect and stayed perfect – in the small accessories compartment in the Boswell case he’d found a note from Al saying the guitar had been strung three days earlier, lightweight strings tuned daily, played once for four minutes, retuned.
Was ready.
Like Al had known about this.
The rain hissed and rattled in the leaded windows. He sat in a corner, unobtrusive like a sideshow. Couldn’t see Jane, or Merrily or anyone he really knew, but Barry was here, leaning over, whispering.
‘Whole bunch of people up from Hereford, did the full two-mile walk across the footbridge, over the fields . . . Coach party. Someone said it was like a pilgrimage.’
‘For this?’
‘Bigger than you thought, mate.’
Pilgrimage.
He recalled Jane this morning in deserted Church Street: Well, I put it up on the Coleman’s Meadow website. It was support for Jane, for the meadow, for the stones; he was just a focus. That made him happier.
‘And Merrily says, don’t forget, not a word,’ Barry murmured. ‘Whatever that means.’
It was the last thing she’d said to him before sh
e’d pushed him out of the vicarage, the way Moira Cairns had pushed him on stage that terrible night at the Courtyard in Hereford, the kick-start of his solo career. Don’t dare mention me in connection with the Boswell. Just . . . play it.
Barry grinned.
‘We’re in profit after all. You ready, mate?’
‘Hang on—’
Lol leaned into the amp, gave it a little extra concert-hall depth, the merest hint of reverb, tapped the voice mike – too loud.
‘You want an introduction?’ Barry said. ‘I don’t really know how these things are done.’
‘I’ll just go into it,’ Lol said.
‘Good boy.’
Lol felt the first shoulder-twinge in days as Barry stepped away, lifting a hand to Eirion, and the lights went down and, on the plasma screen behind him, the first thin red slit of sunrise began to burn between the earthen ramparts on Cole Hill.
Holding the new Boswell close like a woman, he let his fingers find the only riff he figured most of them would know, from Flicks in the Sticks showings of ‘The Baker’s Lament’, named after this song. Lol closed his eyes, took a breath. One more time, for propulsion, and . . .
‘The shoemaker . . . made me some shoes . . .’
The sound low and warm and woody. A rush of applause soaking up the rain.
Merrily pulled off her cape, pushed back her hair.
The oak-panelled reception, lantern-lit heart of the New Cotswolds. No mirrors.
‘Look reasonably OK?’
‘You look fantastic,’ Jane said. ‘Now just—’
‘Just go in, damn you.’ James Bull-Davies blocking the door to the square. ‘Pair of you. I’ll get Parry, we’ll deal with this.’
‘James, look . . .’ Merrily clutching his arm. ‘I’ll cancel it. It’ll be simpler.’
‘The hell you will. My family kept that church from collapse for four centuries. Damned if I’m going to let some lunatic—’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Suspect list pretty damn short.’
Barry came through, rubbing his hands.
‘Two coachloads. Supporters of the Serpent. Sounds like some sort of secret society. Don’t normally allow walking boots in the lounge, but under these conditions, what can you say?’
