To Dream of the Dead mw-10

by Phil Rickman

  ‘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 investigation, 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…

&n
bsp; … 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 she’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?’

  ‘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.’