To Dream of the Dead (MW10)

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Don’t let these Watkins women out again, Barry,’ James said as the Stookes came in behind him, shaking out an umbrella. ‘Find them ringside seats and tie them down.’ He stood over Merrily. ‘Plan to board the bottom of the window, drape something over the damaged area of the rood screen for tonight. Cover the doors with opaque plastic sheeting rather than risk damaging the wood with paint-stripper. Couple of hours max, OK?’

  ‘James, I’m very grateful but I’m not sure, after that level of violence and . . . malevolence, call it what you like . . . that the atmosphere’s going to be exactly conducive. I think I’d rather put it off.’

  James was arching forward, peering at her under half-lowered eyelids.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, vicar, but one rather thought dealing with atmospheres was your thing.’

  She started to laugh. And maybe he was right. There was time. Maybe.

  ‘James . . . have you met, erm, Leonora and Elliot—’

  ‘Stooke,’ Elliot Stooke said firmly, the mauve ring around his white smile. He unwound a black scarf. ‘We’re at Cole Barn.’

  Well, well . . .

  ‘This is James Bull-Davies, Leonora. You . . . met his ancestor.’

  ‘How’re you?’ James said. ‘Talk later, if you don’t mind. Work to do.’

  ‘God.’ Leonora watched him striding out into the downpour. ‘Isn’t he so wonderfully feudal?’

  ‘Except we don’t pay tithes or whatever to the Bulls any more,’ Merrily said, ‘and he still feels responsible for us. I’m sorry, we’ve had a bit of trouble – nothing you wouldn’t understand, so maybe we could have a drink later. If you want to go in . . . sounds like he’s between numbers.’

  Still be hard pushed to say she actually liked Leonora Stooke.

  Lol was talking into the mike about how Lucy Devenish had introduced him to Thomas Traherne, at a time when his life was turning around and he’d just met a woman who was going to be more important to him than he ever imagined a woman could be.

  Jane rolled her eyes, beaming, Merrily shutting hers, aware of a blush coming up. The Stookes went into the passage leading to the lounge and then two men emerged from it.

  ‘. . . Come in for a quiet drink, and we have to listen to this shit.’

  Merrily figured County Councillor Lyndon Pierce was at least halfway drunk. He was with his client Gerry Murray, twenty years older, a fair bit heavier, the owner of Coleman’s Meadow, inherited. Pierce’s gelled black hair was slicked over his forehead. Merrily said nothing, didn’t bother smiling, hoped Jane hadn’t heard.

  As if.

  Jane said, ‘Why don’t you make one of your speeches instead, Mr Pierce, then they’d really know what shit sounded like?’

  Bugger.

  ‘Jane,’ Merrily said, ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s the famous archaeologist, Gerry,’ Pierce said. ‘I hear Professor Blore was suitably impressed.’

  Merrily said, ‘Jane—’

  The craving for tobacco making her shiver. Couldn’t keep a limb still. What would help right now was if Barry came back. She looked across to the doorway to the passage leading to the lounge bar.

  Neither Barry nor anyone else emerged. Lol began a song she didn’t recognise. Jane restrained herself commendably until Murray was halfway through the main door, Pierce following him, and then she said loudly,

  ‘Mum, wasn’t that Lyndon Pierce, the notoriously corrupt councillor?’

  Merrily watched Pierce turn, like in slow motion, walk right up to Jane.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Jane backed up a little. Maybe his breath.

  ‘Nothing you haven’t heard before, surely.’

  ‘You heard it, didn’t you, Gerry?’ Pierce said. ‘That gives me an independent witness when I take this girl to court.’

  ‘You shouldn’t’ve said that about Lol.’ Jane was blinking uncertainly. ‘He was asked to play, and a lot of people have come through the floods to see him.’

  ‘Well, that was another good reason to get out of there.’

  ‘And I’m sure they’re all glad you did, you . . . uuuh.’

  He’d gripped her arm, hard.

  ‘Cocky little bitch—’

  ‘Get your—’ Merrily pushed him. He spun round in surprise and stumbled to one knee, and she dragged Jane away. ‘You’re drunk, Lyndon. Bugger off!’

  She was panting in fury, trembling. Her legs felt weak and the yellow light from the lanterns hurt her eyes. She saw Pierce coming slowly to his feet, dusting off his suit trousers, then pointing a finger at Jane.

  ‘You won’t be laughing—’

  ‘I’m not laughing now.’

  ‘You won’t be laughing when the real truth comes out about Coleman’s Meadow.’

  He turned and walked out. He didn’t look back. Lol sang about honey flowing from rocks.

  Jane said, ‘What’s he talking about? Look, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stop myself after he said that about Lol’s music. What did he mean?’

  ‘He’s drunk.’

  ‘He meant something.’

  ‘Let’s go in. Let’s just—’

  ‘You go in.’ Jane had her mobile out. ‘I’m going to call Coops.’

  57

  Deadwood

  ANNIE HOWE HAD noticed the parcels in the back of Bliss’s car.

  ‘Your kids?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘How long were you . . .?’

  ‘Nine years.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sorry? Jesus, last week it had been, I don’t know what your problem is . . . my information is that it’s personal and domestic. But you’d better either keep it under control or seek counselling.

  Could be she was a night person, and when the sun came up the frost would form again.

  Bliss drove down into the centre of Malvern. They were going in the one car to discuss strategy. He’d have cleaned the Honda up inside if he’d known she’d be wearing the near-white mac.

  ‘But I still think you could’ve told me,’ he said.

  Even ordering him to forget the original Furneaux interview. Like, what if he’d actually done as he was told? He gave her a sideways glance. She’d had a psychological profile done on him, or what?

  ‘What difference would that have made?’ she said. ‘And no, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Or got Brent to look into it.’

  ‘I wanted a result, not a massage.’

  ‘What if I hadn’t come looking for you tonight?’

  ‘You had till Boxing Day.’

  Bliss finally smiled, waiting for a bunch of kids firing party poppers at one another on a zebra crossing. She was right, of course. If she’d come clean he wouldn’t have believed her, he’d’ve thought it was something she and Charlie had cooked up between them. And no way would he have gone near Andy Mumford.

  ‘But if we don’t get Furneaux tonight,’ Annie said, ‘your arrangement with Mebus—’

  ‘Uh-huh. No way, Annie. I’m not saying we shouldn’t make every effort to snatch the twat for something else, but I’m not breaking Mumford’s word. And, with respect, ma— With respect, you also need not to offend Andy Mumford, because if anybody knows the truth about your old man and what happened in the Frome Valley all those years ago . . . yeh?’

  No reply; she was looking out of the side window at the statue of Elgar and the fountain all lit up in the centre of Malvern. Bliss thought Malvern looked good. The floodlit priory and the old hotel in the dip, all mellow. Closest he’d felt to Christmas spirit in . . . a long time.

  Still hadn’t got a name out of her, though, for the lad who’d turned his white van over to the Mebus brothers and gone to retrieve his motor bike from the forest. He needed to give her Furneaux.

  Giving him this uncertain Do I know you? look under the bulkhead light on the wall over his front door. It had a Christmas wreath on it, this door. Buy one, get one free at Sainsburys.

  Bliss pulled off his beanie.

 
‘DI Bliss, Mr Furneaux. This is Detective Superintendent Howe.’

  ‘Francis . . . I’m so sorry. How nice to see you again.’

  ‘All right if we come in, Steve?’

  ‘Well, sure, but—’

  ‘Ta. This won’t take long.’

  Steve’s sitting room had a look of second home and IKEA summer sale. Two airport-looking yellow sofas, a fitted TV. Also a surprisingly attractive Asian girl who didn’t look at all surprised at strangers walking in on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Get you a drink, Francis and . . . Anne, isn’t it? Think I know your father.’

  ‘Lorra driving to do, thanks, Steve,’ Bliss said. Howe just shook her head and Steve glanced at the girl.

  ‘Yasmin likes early nights, so if . . .?’

  ‘We certainly do not expect Yasmin to entertain us, Steve,’ Bliss said. ‘This is strictly about you, cocaine, Clem Ayling, cocaine, Hereforward, cocaine . . . Oh, and did I mention cocaine?’

  At one stage, Steve actually said it.

  At first, he just looked slightly huffed, a touch put-out, saying to Annie, ‘I hope you realise, Superintendent, that I’m merely on the edge of this committee. Purely an adviser.’

  And then a bit later, so far up against the wall that he just had to come out with it.

  ‘Inevitably, if I go down, a number of people go with me. Including, of course, your father, Anne. An elected representative, a decision-maker. While I . . . am a mere adviser.’

  Adviser. This was the key word. Consultant. The government spent millions every year on fellers like Steve. Well, maybe not quite like Steve, although many of them would look not unlike him tonight, in his violet silk shirt and his Italian jeans.

  Bliss turned to Annie, next to him on the flatter of the two sofas.

  ‘I said you’d like him, didn’t I, ma’am?’

  He’d told Steve that they would, if necessary, search the premises and himself and Yasmin. Pointing out that, from his landing window, he might be able to make out the roof of a police car containing DC Terrence Stagg and two uniforms, one of them female. And the duty spaniel was on call. Even if he’d got rid of all the stuff, the dog would pinpoint where he used to stash it. Steve wasn’t daft. He knew that one white millicrumb was enough to have him banged up for Christmas and no Waitrose pudding with extra cognac.

  ‘It’s good here, though, isn’t it, Steve?’ Bliss said. ‘Some areas of Britain, local government tends to be under less scrutiny than others, and Herefordshire’s one of them. Right on the edge of Wales, no daily paper, hardly any local news coverage on the box. And only a bunch of sheep-shaggers to take for a ride. Perfect, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. And I think you’re being rather insulting to a very beautiful part of the country and its people.’

  ‘I’m one of its people, Mr Furneaux,’ Annie Howe said. ‘And what I take offence at is patronising bureaucrats who think we’re simple country folk on whom democracy is wasted, so, hey, why bother with it?’

  ‘Ms Howe—’

  ‘Clement Ayling,’ Anne Howe said. ‘Although I didn’t actually know him on a personal level, I do know his type. Not averse to short cuts in the interests of putting one over on the opposition or central government. Not incapable of deceit in defence of his local authority or his party. But essentially, not the sort to have his drive tarmacked by the highways department. Old school. Rather straitlaced. Especially where . . . drugs are concerned.’

  Annie looked at Bliss, who picked up the story.

  ‘And not just a generation thing, Steve. You ever hear about Clem’s daughter, Nerys? Not many people know this – he hated to talk about it. Anybody asked why Nerys didn’t take over the electrical shop – used to work there, apparently, ran it very well, for a while – oh, she’d left the area. Difficult to run a business from a psychiatric hospital.’

  Bliss looked at Steve. Steve didn’t react.

  ‘Been in hossie for many years now, Steve. Quite advanced schizophrenia. Never mentioned it, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or that it seems to have begun with what we now know as cannabis psychosis. Tragic.’

  ‘Of course Ayling knew that cocaine wasn’t the same as cannabis,’ Annie Howe said. ‘It being a Class A drug, compared with Class C.’

  ‘A downgrading which left Clem appalled and disgusted, naturally,’ Bliss said. ‘But he wasn’t a man to go into battle without full ammunition. He did some research on the Internet about the very real perils of cocaine. Or rather, not being too adept with the old dot coms, he got his computer-literate wife Helen to check it out. This would’ve been some time after the near-fatality during a Hereforward Blue-Sky Thinking Weekend near Stowe-on-theWold.’

  ‘Knowing – as I do – Ayling’s type,’ Annie said, ‘the very last thing he would do would be to make something like this public by raising it at a meeting or going to the police and tarnishing the image of an authority he’d served loyally for many years. What he’d do, having carried out his own discreet investigation and determined the source, would be to confront the perpetrator of this abomination and tell this man he wanted it to stop forthwith. And, naturally, he would want this man to pack his bags, without delay, and remove his shabby arse from God’s own county.’

  ‘And that,’ Bliss said, ‘seems to be how Clement Ayling signed his own death warrant. Doesn’t it, Steve?’

  ‘Wildest conjecture.’ Steve shook his sandy head. ‘I don’t believe you have an atom of evidence for any of this.’

  ‘True. All we have at present is more than enough evidence to nick you in connection with the supply of a controlled substance.’

  ‘What evidence?’ Steve leaning far back into the yellow IKEA stretch sofa, but his face was redder by now than his hair. ‘Francis, you’re beginning to make me quite angry. I have a number of friends on the police authority who’d be appalled at the idea of Hereford CID behaving as irresponsibly as this.’

  ‘I’m from Off,’ Bliss said. ‘I don’t know any better.’ He leaned forward. ‘All right, let me put it this way, Steve. Some hard kid – been in more courts than Venus Williams by the time he’s twelve – is often difficult to break, I’ll admit that. But take a grown man with no form, pop him in the blender, and you don’t even have to switch on.’

  Bliss let the subtext get fully absorbed and then turned to Annie, like the newsreader quizzing the special correspondent.

  ‘Ma’am, from your local knowledge, why would someone like Steve, with a good job, risk his pension by introducing responsible local administrators to this vile pastime?’

  Annie slowly unbelted her mac and undid some buttons, like she was preparing for a long night chez Steve. This woman was becoming more admirable by the minute.

  ‘It’s about power, I suppose, Francis. Some users like to say cocaine isn’t addictive, but of course – while not in heroin’s league – it very much is. Though perhaps reliance is probably a more exact word. And there’s a reliance, too, on the supplier. In more ways than one, because you are, of course, partners in crime, and that can be quite a significant bond. Quite a significant bond.’

  Bliss looked across at the window. The hammering rain could only be increasing the pressure.

  ‘How was it done, Steve? At the end of the day, the only member of that committee who could’ve participated in the final act would be you. What did you do? Offer to give him a lift because of the rain? Or tell him there was something you wanted to discuss with him privately?’

  Annie Howe said, ‘But Francis, if Ayling had already warned Mr Furneaux about his behaviour, wouldn’t he be a bit alarmed about going with him . . . anywhere?’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, I don’t think Clem would be in the least worried about being physically damaged by someone like Steve – even if he does go to the gym. Big man, Clem. A very confident man. A man who’d shaken hands with prime ministers, Bill Clinton . . . But then, perhaps it wasn’t Steve who actually put the knife into him . . .’


  ‘How could you even imagine—?’ Steve springing from the back of the sofa, clean red hair wafting. ‘Superintendent, you have to call a halt to this nonsense.’

  Difficult to know how to interpret this. Perhaps Steve thought it was time to start feigning the protestations of an innocent man. Bliss ignored him, the way you ignored a child clamouring for attention.

  ‘I suppose what we’re looking at here, ma’am, is the difference between actual murder and conspiracy to murder. Usually many years’ difference.’

  Annie looked unconvinced, wrinkled her nose.

  ‘We know that the body was taken to the Forest of Dean for butchery. We know that the disposal was handled by other parties with links to the Hereford cocaine trade. Personally, I think it’s quite reasonable to presume that the actual killing was done by Mr Furneaux . . .’

  ‘Who maintains he’s just an adviser.’

  Howe did the Ice Maiden’s brittle laugh. Bliss turned at last to Furneaux.

  ‘Committee decision, was it, Steve?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I mean, all the aspects of this – particularly the false trail to the Dinedor Serpent – suggest it needed more than one adviser. That it could be on a bigger scale than we imagined.’ Bliss turned to Annie Howe. ‘I mean, yeh, if we’re looking for an easy result, it’s Steve getting rid of a man threatening his long and lucrative career. But I’m guessing there’d be quite a few other people who wouldn’t be sorry to see Ayling gone. A dinosaur. Deadwood.’

  ‘Far-fetched, Francis. In my experience, the small, squalid solution is usually the correct one.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. And it is Christmas. It’s all government targets, isn’t it, and you don’t get extra points any more for being clever.’ Bliss stood up, walked over to the other sofa. ‘Steven Furneaux, I’m arresting you on suspicion of supplying a controlled substance and also on suspicion of the murder of Clement Ayling. You don’t have to say anything, but it may seriously fuck up your defence if you—’

  ‘All right,’ Steve said. ‘Just . . . just give me a minute, will you?’