by Phil Rickman
‘Could put it that way,’ Lol said.
Merrily thought about a cigarette and something else. Denied herself the cig and leaned over the back of her seat.
‘Gomer, you know you said they were using Gerry Murray’s JCB on the site – the excavation?’
‘Ar.’
‘What was Gerry Murray actually doing?’
‘Strip the grass off, kind o’ thing. I dunno. Bit of a bent deal how he got hisself hired, sure to be.’
‘Mmm.’ Merrily turned to Lol. ‘Would explain how Blore managed to plant modern masonry under one of the stones, wouldn’t it? Who could you trust to do it and keep quiet more than the landowner?’
‘Blore directing him,’ Lol said. ‘Then the earth goes back. And all the rain . . . all the mud. Couldn’t have better conditions. And who’s going to challenge his findings? One of the students?’
‘We need to make sure Bliss deals with this as well. If we can get it out in court, that’s going to turn it all around, and maybe Jane gets her henge. We can win this yet.’
Gomer sat up, listening. A car door slamming. Gomer furiously leaning on the door handle.
‘That’s my jeep, vicar! Some bugger’s in my bloody jeep!’
Hit the door, lurched out of the car and he was off into the dark, like a young, angry man, Merrily crying out,
‘No . . .’
Turning, in fear, to Lol, but Lol had already gone after Gomer.
God, God, God, God, God . . .
She fumbled at the key, started the car, threw on the headlights. Saw the figure coming out of the jeep, one arm raised up. A glinting.
Saw them all for an unending moment in the whitewashed night.
All four of them, three in motion, one still.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT
’Twas strange that people there should walk
And yet I could not hear them talk.
Thomas Traherne
‘Shadows in the Water’
‘No such thing,’ Bliss said. ‘Not yet.’
‘No?’
‘Well, all right, we’re getting killers who are close to inhuman. When they become totally inhuman, detectives will be redundant. Nothing to go on. Nothing to get hold of. I don’t wanna be doing this job when that happens.’
Seven o’clock Christmas night.
‘It wasn’t even rage that did for him,’ Bliss said. ‘Nothing so over-the-top. It was much smaller, a much more human thing – he was aggrieved. He’d been taken advantage of. Exploited. Even wairse . . .’ Bliss could feel his accent dipping into the Mersey. ‘He’d been asked to do something beneath him. He’d been dissed. He was being treated like the odd job man – oh, and on your way, Gregory, if you could just pop into the church. And buy a spray can, would you, there’s a good boy.’
‘Spends years refining a technique,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Has this image of himself as a well-oiled killing machine. And he’s made a lot of money – an increasing amount of money. And he’s realised that the further up-market his clients are – like Lasky – the less chance he has of being nicked.’
‘Yeh, but what he may’ve taken a while to realise is that his clients don’t see him as a fellow businessman. They don’t respect him – not like he, in some way, respects them – you heard the way he talked about Blore. Admiring. This big, confident git with a professorship and a world-class reputation and his own TV show. But when you hear Blore talk about Glyn . . .’
‘Not that he has yet,’ Annie said.
‘He will. Sooner or later, he will. He won’t be able to hold it in. Not with Glyn running off at the mouth. Some of what Glyn’s been saying – when we tell him – will offend Blore deeply. Hit him right in the intellect.’
‘All right,’ Annie said. ‘So they used him to mess up the church.’
‘Daft idea. Overkill. They always went that bit too far, like with Ayling. Glyn’s feeling put-on, demeaned, and when this mad woman comes out of the shadows, calling him satanic, demonic, screaming the place down . . . what’s he gonna do? What can he do?’
‘Stooke was to have been knifed, too, I take it?’ Annie said. ‘Until someone thought, why not take advantage of the conditions? Blore, I’d guess?’
‘Merrily tells me there’s a quote from the Bible about the Antichrist being drowned before the Endtime . . . it’s not perfect but it’ll do. But Glyn’s a knifie. He doesn’t like this idea. But because of his respect for Blore, a famous man who still likes a beer with the lads, he’ll do it. Waiting out there. Gives Stooke a shout. Here, mate, giss a hand. But although he’s stronger and fitter it’s bloody hard work. Put the blade in, the target’s disabled immediately. This way, the target’s fighting back, fighting for his life, and you get pissed wet through. Plus, you’ve gorra hit him and stuff. I’ll be interested to see the PM report, what other damage has been done.’
‘The worst aspect of this,’ Annie said, ‘is that Glyn is not, by any normal definition, a psycho. He is – and, ironically, Frederick West was another example – a man doing a job, to the best of his fairly considerable abilities.’
‘We’re having to move the goalposts,’ Bliss said. ‘In the old days no remorse was the primary symptom of a psychopath. Nowadays, it’s almost the norm in the criminal classes. Conscience is an anachronism. Now whether you could put that down to . . . what Merrily Watkins, say, would put it down to . . . I don’t know.’
‘I’m not sure what I know any more.’
Annie rolled over on to her back. Her breasts were quite a bit smaller than Kirsty’s and her body was more angular. Her face – most of the time – was more than a touch severe. You could see her bones. Feel her bones. Bliss put a hand on Annie’s bare stomach. He could feel the gym in her.
Well, that was OK. It was all OK, really.
And what he really loved – hold on, back off, Frannie – what he was loving was the cop pillow talk. You got home after a result, you were high on it, and Kirsty never wanted to know. You did not bring felons into the bedroom.
At some stage, he’d start to hate himself again, about Kirsty and the kids. It was his fault. No question. He hadn’t even tried to save it this time. Hell, he’d put a wedge into the split.
He’d nipped over with the presents mid morning, left them in the porch at the farm, buggered off quick. Too soon to discuss visiting rights. Then back to his house in Marden, where she was waiting. She’d even cleaned the place up a bit. Well . . . changed the duvet cover. Would’ve been safer to go to Malvern, but they both needed to get back to Gaol Street later. So much to do. So many long hours of interrogation on the schedule. Frigging sublime.
‘Something’s just struck me,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon it’s conceivable that some small portion of our council tax will have helped pay for the murders of Clement Ayling and Mathew Elliot Stooke?’
‘Francis – do not even ponder the question.’
‘Hmm. Leonora? Much more to come from her?’
‘Thought it was going to be downhill all the way, Francis, but she’s quite clever. She’s realising that there might be a way of putting Blore firmly into the driving seat. Yes, she’d known him a while. Which she knew could be proved, because she did the pictures for a Sunday magazine feature on him about a year ago. It may well have started there. It was clearly a very strong physical attraction. And the way she talks about Stooke, it’s as if he’d served his purpose, time to move on. And, for some reason, he was becoming irritating. Starting to lose it – she said that twice. Lose what?’
‘I’ve talked to Mrs Watkins about this, and I’m definitely not going there, and nor will the CPS. Let’s just say there’s a lorra money to come from Stooke’s royalties. Most she’d get would be half if it was divorce. And Blore – not as rich as you might think. Three kids from a defunct marriage to maintain, apparently, down in Surrey. That’s what the CPS understand.’
Bliss kissed Annie’s neck. She put a slim hand over his hand on her stomach.
Charlie’s daughter.
&
nbsp; Woooh.
They hadn’t talked much about Charlie, and he could tell she was in two minds, one of them thinking if it came out through Furneaux, well, at least it would be over. Probably no more than a minor sex-scandal, the procurement of women by Steve in the same way he procured drugs. Control. Except you could only control Charlie when he found it useful to seem to be under control.
Bliss had tentatively mentioned it to Annie about an hour ago. Annie who’d become like she was because of Charlie. Because she’d needed to put a big, big space between what she was and what Charlie Howe had been.
‘Whatever,’ she’d said, hand on the inside of Bliss’s thigh. ‘This will hurt him far more profoundly, if he ever finds out.’
‘And will he?’
‘Might do.’ And then she’d said, ‘I saw a picture of you and your wife on the sideboard downstairs. She’s rather beautiful, isn’t she?’
Bliss had raised himself up and looked down at the severe, angular face. He could’ve told her about the no felons in the bedroom rule and a lot of other stuff besides.
‘Annie,’ he said. ‘I’ve gorra tell you, this is one thing you just don’t understand.’
Later he woke up in the dark, the Acting Detective Superintendent still asleep, the curtains open, a scuzzy moon over the chimneys. It hadn’t rained for nearly a day. It could even be over.
Bliss and Annie had decided to go for it and nick Blore on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. While they were still waiting for the CPS, Blore had wandered into Gaol Street himself, mid morning. Casually bumptious. Thought he ought to drop in and make a statement about Gregory. He didn’t get to walk out. It would be hard going for a while, but when Blore worked out the depth of shite he was in, he might start off by giving them Lyndon Pierce to dilute the mix. And that would rebound.
And they had Gregory. Straightforward, open. Comparatively. Be a star in the slammer – not only could he make a serviceable shiv out of a plastic teaspoon or whatever, but he knew where to put it and he’d have nothing at all to lose.
When you thought about it, he’d had nothing to lose last night on the edge of Coleman’s Meadow.
It was clear that Gregory – finally betrayed by Blore’s amateurism in the craft of killing – had figured his last hope was to nick Gomer’s Jeep and take off across the fields, smashing through barriers, negotiating floods until he was clear.
Bliss had been nauseously sure that one of them – Gomer or Lol Robinson – was going to get the blade.
What had sapped the lad’s resolve was hard to figure. According to Terry Stagg, first through the gate, he’d done one precise, calculated downward sweep of the knife through the empty air, at nothing, and the momentum of it had brought him to his knees, the knife burying itself in the earth.
When they’d cuffed him and bagged up the blade, Bliss administering the caution, Gregory had been gazing out over the empty field towards the derelict orchard, and he’d been going, ‘Just keep that ole woman away from me, all right? I don’t like her.’
And then twice more, ‘I don’t like her.’
Credits, plus . . .
They are covering the snake, they are covering the snake, covering it over. But don’t worry. The people that know will know that it’s there, the people that know will know.
Amanda Attfield, 2007
The Dinedor Serpent/Rotherwas Ribbon was discovered by archaeologists just a few months after publication of The Remains of an Altar, which described the events leading up to the Cole Hill/Coleman’s Meadow revelations. And, as you’ve just been reading, it led to a similar furious row. Eight protesters were arrested, some detained in cells as far away as Worcester before the charges of aggravated trespass were dropped.
The coincidence was inescapable: same situation, same council. There was no way I could avoid finding out how the serpent might wriggle into the Dream of the Dead scenario. The new road, by the way, is now open, although the controversy goes on.
It should be emphasised, however, that none of the councillors or officials in this book is in any way connected with existing or past members of the Herefordshire Council.
And no members of the current Herefordshire Council have ever served on any quango called Hereforward. (Good name though, ennit?)
Many thanks to the archaeologist Jodie Lewis for crucial background on the way digs are organised and financed these days and checking certain chapters. Also to Tracy Thursfield, who knows about these things. However, any damage caused to the archaeological profession and its traditions are entirely down to me. I particularly made a point of not approaching any archaeologists working for Herefordshire Council, so the opinions of Neil Cooper are entirely his own.
Thanks to the people in and around local government in this area who, for obvious reasons, would rather not be named.
In roughly the same period, the Border area was affected by widespread flooding – not as severe as nearby Tewkesbury and Upton-upon-Severn, but still fairly devastating. Many people didn’t get home on several nights. Thanks to Mike Eatock for exhaustive technical background on bridge collapses, and his wife, Yvonne, for processing it.
Thanks to Chris Hinsley re. Dinedor and for helping with suggestions for the cover picture which, in the end, was pushed out by the Wern Derys standing stone. This cover was problematic for a long time, and the excellent (and flexible) John Mason spent many long days exploring possibilities.
Disturbances connected with ancient sites: thanks to John Moss, of the British Society of Dowsers, and Clare Dewhurst, who told me about her experience at Avebury.
Thanks to Hereford journalist Sally Boyce. Fiona Hopes, of the Gatekeeper Trust; Maggy Anthony, for inspirational thoughts on the origins of a complex kind of atheism; Peter Bell for a Hereford trader’s viewpoint.
To Peter Brooks for parish affairs, guardians, Endtime and other problems. Michael Nicholson for artistic considerations.
Melvyn Pritchard, for letting me have a quick go on his JCB.
Allan Watson for the citrine and giving me the Elbow.
Karen Dowell, who donated her name a few years ago, probably never suspecting that the then DC Dowell, who she does not resemble, would get promoted into regular service.
Bernard Knight for eleventh-hour advice re stabbing people accurately.
Gabrielle Drake and Cally for oiling wheels, re Nick Drake, and Kobalt Music Publishing Limited, 4 Valentine Place London SE1 4QH for permission to quote the lines from Nick’s ‘River Man’.
Bev Craven for his brilliant designs for the Ledwardine Leisurewear collection, available exclusively from the tireless Terry Smith – details on the website www.philrickman.co.uk, designed and maintained by Krys and Geoff Boswell and Jack.
Jonathan Black’s The Secret History of the World (Quercus) planted some seeds.
On the editorial side, endless, heartfelt thanks to Carol, who slaved for so many weeks and always thought of ways out. And, in the Endtime, to long-suffering copy-editor Nick Austin and my agent, Andrew Hewson, who read the MS twice in two days, as we ran out of injury time and into penalty shootouts. Finally to Nic Cheetham, Georgina Difford, Laura Palmer and Lucy Ramsey at Quercus, for ultimate patience and unfazeability.
The saying, To dream of the dead is a sign of rain, was told to Ella Mary Leather, author of The Folklore of Herefordshire by a Mrs Powell, of Dorstone.
Thank you, Mrs Powell.
