by Phil Rickman
Merrily had watched Fergus – or had seemed to – in that frigid flicker of transition between man and monster. Yet he was not a monster. He was the best head teacher they’d ever known in Underhowle; he treated kids like equals and he was endlessly enterprising and affable with everybody, only occasionally displaying the steel cord under the velvet, which was so essential to a good school director.
Yet already, according to Frannie Bliss, the stories were filtering through, including the rumours about why Fergus’s marriage had failed – not because his wife had found out about his evenings of recreational release, but because of what he’d become between the sheets at home: a gradual diminishing of tenderness, the parallel escalation of sexual violence. This indictment had come from Fergus’s mother-in-law, who had thought him such a wonderful man that at first she’d accused her daughter of simply being inadequate to his healthy, masculine needs.
How easily and efficiently he’d lied, exactly the way West had lied, revealing nothing until it had already been found out.
Bliss said that if the killing of Lynsey Davies had not happened exactly as Lol had suggested, he couldn’t have been far out. The way Frannie saw it, the three of them had probably agreed to wait for Roddy’s next blackout and then go for it.
Lol had told Merrily about Lynsey’s resonant instruction to the three of them: Fuse your dreams inside me.
It would be important for all three of them to kill her, fusing the guilt. But when it came to it, Frannie reckoned, Cody and Connor-Crewe would have chickened out. Maybe they didn’t have quite enough to lose.
Frannie wanted Fergus for this one. He’d said on the phone that they’d now be turning major heat on Cody and Connor-Crewe.
He was confident that, before the day was out, one of them would have pointed the finger. And then he’d start on Fergus.
Huw had gone home to the Beacons. But he and Merrily had arranged to return to the Baptist chapel tomorrow, possibly with Jerome Banks and a chalice of Harvey’s Spanish Red and some white wafers. A full exorcism of place would not be underplaying it.
Meanwhile, Huw had been learning more about Lynsey Davies’s past and was wondering how much of a coincidence it was that Donna Furlowe’s body had been found close to the hamlet where Lynsey had been born, near Lydbrook, in the Forest.
Had Donna been killed by Lynsey and Fred? West had, after all, known the girl. Or was it, as the police had suspected, too late in his murderous career for it to be down to Fred? Lynsey and somebody else, then? Not Roddy Lodge, that was more or less certain now.
Lynsey on her own? Or with another of her old Cromwell Street friends?
Not long after Huw had left, Gomer had arrived with a man who was as close to a cube as anyone Merrily had seen.
Jumbo Humphries had parked his blue and white Cadillac on the square, parallel to the Market Hall, the only spot where it was unlikely to cause an obstruction. Jumbo had curly hair and stubble and he talked a lot. He was from the southern end of the Beacons or the top end of the Valleys, however you wanted to look at it, and he talked fast and emotionally.
‘A wonderful lady, she was, Mrs Watkins. A delightful woman. I cannot bring myself even to think about it. Asked myself a thousand times, I have, since I yeard: what could I have done? How could we have helped her, any of us? How could we have saved her?’
Jenny Box.
Jane said now, ‘I’m not sure anyone could have saved her. Really, I’m not just saying that. I’ve been thinking about it all day. She never told you anything straight out, did she? She was like so diffuse – is that the word? I mean, sometimes you looked at her and it was like part of her had already left the building. You know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’ Diffuse. Gone with the fairies. Flying with the angels. Merrily blinked back tears. ‘Oh God, if I’d only gone to see her yesterday morning…’
‘Instead of what? You couldn’t do everything. Maybe if I’d gone to see her… I mean, you’ve hardly slept this week as it is.’ Jane leaned over the table, both hands around her mug. ‘Mum, it was so strange, so unearthly, being in that room and her laid out like the Lady of Shalott. I can’t…’
When she’d come out of Chapel House with Moira Cairns, Eirion had been there on the square, having discreetly followed them back, planning only to hand Jane the Daughters of Uriel printout and see what happened then. In the end, he’d stayed all night, had been with Jane when DCI Annie Howe had arrived with the ubiquitous Andy Mumford and the scenes-of- crime investigators – a big overtime night for the Durex suits.
They’d all listened to the message on the vicarage answering machine. He’s defiled my chapel. The only interpretation they could put on this was that the chapel had been defiled by Gareth Box’s body and his blood. Why he’d gone down there, why he’d even returned from London, remained a mystery. All that was known for sure was that Jenny had smashed him savagely around the head and face with the heavy gilded iron cross that had stood on the altar.
They’d found Jenny’s bloodstained clothes in a bathroom. She’d evidently stripped off everything, taken a shower and then dressed in that long white Edwardian nightdress and gone to lie on the bed with her prayer book, her Bible, a carafe of water and two bottles of sleeping pills.
Andy Mumford had called back, at the end of his extended shift, and Merrily had told him about the woman from the Mail on Sunday who’d wanted to speak to her about Jenny Box. Mumford already knew about it. The Mail had been cooperative. It seemed that Gareth Box had supplied them with a large package of background information and a long, unattributable interview with himself. The proposed end product: a definitive profile of Jenny Driscoll demonstrating conclusively that Jenny Driscoll had become mad. The paper had been told of her gift of eighty thousand pounds to a woman vicar with whom she had become obsessed – a vicar who, incidentally, was having a secret affair with a rock musician who had ‘history’.
Box apparently had said that while this little detail might not turn out to be appropriate to the story, it might, if mentioned, make the vicar more amenable to a frank discussion of Jenny’s ‘stalking’ of her.
‘And Jenny found out about this?’ Merrily had said. ‘She killed him and then herself because she found out he was trying to destroy her in the press, for whatever commercial reasons…? That’s why?’
‘We don’t know,’ Mumford had said. ‘But it’s not the weakest motive I’ve ever come across.’
But then there was the other thing.
‘Reason I’ve called, see, Mrs Watkins,’ Jumbo Humphries had said, ‘is I thought I ought to let you know this small thing.’
‘Bugger means I thought he oughter let you know,’ Gomer said, ‘on account of all that stuff about you he pumped out of me unbeknownst, for this lady.’
‘What you have to understand, see,’ Jumbo said, ‘is this issue of client confidentiality. Couldn’t breathe a word of this while the client was alive, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you now but for—’
‘’Cept for me twisting the fat bastard’s arm,’ Gomer said grimly.
‘Well, yes. Except for my friendship of many years with Mr Parry. Now, you’ll know that I was retained initially through Marquis and Co., the London investigation bureau working on a regular basis for the Vestalia company. However, Mrs Box – so satisfied, she was, with my services that she asked me to undertake separate inquiries on a more personal basis, which of course I was delighted to do. This all come about because of the name of a Midlands-based company which she’ve noticed in the newspaper in relation to this Underhowle business, see. The name being Efflapure.’
‘See?’ Gomer said urgently. ‘See?’
Merrily blinked, well overburdened with information.
‘The reason this name struck a chord,’ Jumbo Humphries said, ‘was that, although the business side was something she left largely to her husband, she was vaguely aware of some investment he’ve made in this very company – Efflapure.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Merrily said.
‘As you say. My inquiries at Companies House and other sources revealed that Mr Gareth Box had invested substantially in Efflapure, and was – until his death, of course – a director.’
‘See?’ Gomer said. ‘This feller was keeping Lodge in work.’
‘Maybe I’m tired,’ Merrily had said, ‘but I think there’s something I’m missing.’
Eirion finally dragged himself away around six, leaving Merrily and Jane alone in front of the sitting-room fire.
‘You’re OK?’ Merrily asked the kid.
‘Yeah. We’re OK.’ Jane slumped down on the sofa. It was dark outside; the fire of logs and coal was the only light in the room. ‘I feel like I’ve been away. I feel like I’m still away.’
‘Strange days,’ Merrily said, head resting on a cushion.
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s like when Lucy Devenish died. It wasn’t real then, and this is different, obviously, because I didn’t really know Jenny Driscoll, but I did. You know? We just walked the streets in the rain for less than an hour and I knew her.’
‘Maybe you had more in common than you imagined.’
‘She said… she was talking about you, and she said, “It’s a deep-embedded evil she’s confronting. And she needs the angels at her shoulder.” What did she mean?’
‘She could’ve meant anything. I don’t really know, flower. There are lots of things I wish I knew.’ Merrily closed her eyes, thinking of Melanie’s angel, all the little connections you could make if you wanted to.
What will you do with the money?’ Jane asked.
‘If it turns out that it’s mine to give, I think I’m going to find out which charity is supporting research into electro- hypersensitivity.’
‘Cool,’ Jane said.
‘Yes. I’m sure Ted will agree, if threatened.’
‘Will the paper still do this story?’
‘They’ve got a much bigger story now, haven’t they?’
‘I mean you and Lol.’
‘I think that’s very unlikely, but I don’t really care. I think it’s time me and Lol… came out, as it were.’
‘You’re just saying that because he’s this big star now. Well… he is in Hereford.’
‘And then the world.’
Jane said, ‘I think I saw Jenny Box’s ghost.’
Merrily opened her eyes and sat up.
‘It was when we got back here, Moira and me. Jenny was walking across the square. She must’ve been dead some time by then.’ Jane gazed into the fire. ‘Moira didn’t see her at all.’
‘Moira didn’t know her,’ Merrily said softly.
‘You couldn’t miss her. Who else walked around with a big white scarf over her head? And her face – unclear. Like a face in motion. Like a face painted by… who was that guy?’
‘Francis Bacon?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Were you scared?’
‘No. Not then. I didn’t know what I was seeing.’
‘Are you scared now?’
‘A bit. When we found her dead, it was… it was like somebody had played this awful trick on me. But afterwards… I mean it’s awesome, isn’t it? It’s bloody awesome, Mum. The implications, you know? Awesome.’
‘Yes. It is, sometimes.’
‘And I’m sorry, Mum,’ Jane said. ‘I’m really so sorry.’
It was after nine when Frannie Bliss arrived. Jane had gone to ‘bed. Merrily had fallen asleep on the sofa. She staggered to the door and brought him back into the lounge.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘And you look all sleepy and sexy. And I didn’t say that. I’m a married man, just.’
‘Have you even seen Kirsty today?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you have a job?’
‘Bloody right.’
‘Do you want coffee?’
‘I don’t think I will.’
‘Heavens,’ Merrily said, ‘have we entered a parallel universe?’
The fire had burned low. Bliss sat down on the sofa. ‘I’ve nicked Fergus.’
‘You sure of him?’
‘No. But, by God, I’ll try. I want this man so bad I can’t breathe when I think about it.’
‘Handle him carefully.’
‘Merrily, I’ll handle him like with those little plastic tongs they give you to shovel a scone onto your plate in these self- service joints. I, er… Lol… Lol did well.’
‘Six numbers and an encore.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, he did.’ Merrily shovelled a little coal onto the fire and poked it until a few small flames appeared. ‘I think he was probably the only person who, from the very beginning, had a strong feeling that Roddy Lodge was innocent. And he didn’t let it go. It was… a new Lol.’
‘Lot of changes.’ Bliss looked very tired. ‘Lots still to understand. Lots we never will. Listen.’ He moved to the edge of the sofa. ‘Couple of things. You were in from the beginning, so I’m telling you. One… Melanie Pullman. Missing bones.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Two toes and an ankle bone from the left foot.’
‘They’re definitely not… ?’
We went down another metre. Nothing.’
‘So what’s it tell you?’
‘I don’t know, Merrily. I don’t know what it tells us. The other thing is this.’ He brought a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘It’s a photocopy – one of the photocopies I showed you before. Neither of us noticed this, but then why should we?’
Merrily unfolded the paper and held it close to the flames.
INSIDE THE HOUSE OF HORROR
EXCLUSIVE
Former tenants talk for the first time about real life in
Twenty-Five Cromwell Street.
By GARETH BOX
‘Christ,’ she said.
Frannie leaned back in his chair. ‘Box started his career in the Gloucester office of the Three Counties News Agency.’
‘Yeah, I know Three Counties.’
‘They don’t pay much, but it’s good experience for a young reporter. You get to see your stories in the big papers – usually under somebody else’s byline, but it’s a start. Also the big papers get to know you. You can make an impression.’
‘But he wasn’t at the news agency when he wrote this, was he?’
‘No, he was in London by then, working on a national, but in quite a lowly position. But then the West story breaks, and he gets them to send him back to his old hunting ground. And he comes up with some heavy dirt. He knew exactly who’d been in Cromwell Street when all the murders were happening, all the torturing in the cellars. He knew exactly who to go to for the inside stuff. His paper was very pleased with him. Never looked back. Within a year he’s an assistant editor in features and writing Jenny Box’s column, and the rest is… as they say.’
‘But you think the real history…’
‘Young reporter in Gloucester in the late seventies, finding ‘his way, earning peanuts. In need of some cheap accommodation. Merrily, there is so much… so much gossip about that place, and he may not have been the only young journalist to have spent some time there. There are – as I’m sure you’ve heard – even suggestions that some lads who dropped in for an occasional leg-over had to take off their dark blue trousers first. But Box – yeh, we’re pretty sure about him.’
‘Oh God, Frannie.’ Merrily was wide awake. ‘He was also a director of Efflapure.’
‘Yeh, and Lynsey Davies knew somebody at Efflapure and was thus able to bend somebody’s arm to put the area contract Roddy’s way.’ He did his acid smile. ‘The Old Cromwellians, eh?’
‘And he liked young girls.’
Bliss nodded.
‘You knew all about that?’
‘Mrs Box didn’t leave a note, and it’s always nice to know why they do these things, isn’t it? The general feeling is that he only married her because… well, because she was famous and earning more than him, but a
lso because she still had the look of a teenager who’d been given bad drugs and then beaten up.’
‘Yes.’
‘By mid-morning, Annie Howe even had the names of four of Box’s ex-girlfriends, all with bad memories. And a fifth, who’d… disappeared some time ago.’
Merrily poked mindlessly at the fire.
A deep-embedded evil.
She looked up. ‘You think he killed? You really think Box killed?’
‘One thing you learned at Cromwell Street,’ Frannie Bliss said, ‘was how easy it could be.’
‘And he knew Lynsey…’
‘And you’re thinking about Donna Furlowe.’
She nodded and wondered how much Jenny Box had known, and what else Jumbo Humphries had been able to tell her. The enormous, holistic connections her mystical mind must have made as she waited for Gareth Box, with the iron cross held high.
‘Don’t you sometimes feel,’ Frannie said, ‘when these horrible little coincidences occur, that there’s a wider plan, and it isn’t always constructed by somebody with our best interests at heart?’
‘I don’t get paid to feel that,’ Merrily said uncomfortably.
That night, she prayed by the landing window overlooking the square. She didn’t see a woman out there with a white scarf over her head.
But she found she still had Melanie’s angel, and she slept with it under her pillow.
CLOSING CREDITS
NOBODY WHO HAS studied the Cromwell Street case believes it was satisfactorily resolved or even, in the end, fully investigated – there is a limit to police resources. Estimates of the number of West victims still undiscovered range from ten to more than forty. All over Britain, there are relatives of missing women and girls who are unlikely ever to know whether their worst fears are justified.
The idea that the guilt extends beyond Fred and Rose is not new but is still rarely spoken of. Researching this book, I was told more unpublished West stories than I could reasonably use. The Black Dai story is true; a thirty-two-year-old man was jailed for life on 4 December 1996. The Terry Crick story is also true.
I owe particular thanks to West’s official biographer, Geoffrey Wansell, who knows more about Cromwell Street than anyone should ever have to. For information about the West case, electricity, radiation, EH, septic tanks, Ariconium and other related issues, many thanks also to: Rosemary Aitken, Penny Arnold, Caroline Boots at GPU, Krys and Geoff Boswell, William Corlett, the Courtyard, John Deeley, Paul Devereux, Kate Fenton, Philip Grey, Paul Harrison, Prof. Dennis Henshaw, Michael Howard, Prof. Bernard Knight, Mike Kreciala, Rebecca Lacey, John Mason, John Mayglothling, Ed Richmond, The Electric Shop at Ross, Lisle Ryder, Andrew Taylor, Rebecca Tope, Hereford Samaritans and West Mercia Police at Hereford, who were very accommodating and probably very grateful not to have Frannie Bliss in the CID room. Thanks also to Gruff Rhys, of Super Furry Animals for permission to quote lines from the excellent album Rings Around the World.
