The Secrets of Pain mw-11

by Phil Rickman

  11

  Stable Doors

  Mid-morning, Day Three of the Mansel Bull investigation, and the police press officer was on the phone to Bliss. Elly Clatter, this was, ex-local journalist from the Black Country and a nice enough woman if you didn’t mind being treated like a maladjusted kid at play school.

  ‘Normal way of it, Francis, my duck, I’d be suggesting you maintain a dignified silence. Only it looks to me like this is starting to become a bit of an issue.’

  An issue. This year, everything was a frigging issue.

  ‘And he’s saying what, exactly?’

  Sollers Bull. The first formal interviews since his brother’s murder. Hunt hero Sollers Bull, in the Tory tabs. Twat in Bliss’s book.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything yet. He’s doing TV and radio in about an hour. But if he says what we think he might say, we’re going to need to be ready with some answers.’

  ‘Not me again, Elly, I’ve done enough.’

  Couple of pressers over the past two days. This was a particularly savage and pointless crime. We know the killer left the scene with a considerable amount of blood on his clothing and on his person. Somebody out there knows who this is. This is an individual nobody should be hiding.

  Trite crap. Hated the telly, particularly.

  ‘You can relax,’ Elly said. ‘It’ll just be a quote from a police spokesperson at this stage. All we need from you, Frannie, or your colleagues, is some background, so we can formally say, no, we’re not turning a blind eye to petty crime in the countryside, and yes, we do investigate all reports of suspicious behaviour.’

  ‘Shit, Elly, I’ve gorra-’

  Bliss broke off. Eyes were raised all over the CID room. Must’ve been shouting. Normally he’d be in his own office, but that wasn’t the best place to find out if people were dissecting your private life.

  ‘If you cobble something together,’ Elly said, ‘I’ll mess around with it, read it back to you, then take it upstairs for clearance. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Or you could just tell the media that DI Bliss has told Mr Bull to go and-’

  ‘Now, Francis…’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bliss lowered his head into Billy Grace’s report: divided trachea, several blood vessels… ‘I’m not gerrin a lorra sleep, Elly. I’ll talk to the DCI, get back to you, all right?’

  ‘He seems to be an impulsive sort of man, this Mr Bull,’ Elly said.

  ‘Yeh.’

  Bliss had a few of the back-stories on his laptop. THE BLOODING OF PREZZA – Daily Express on the red-paint incident. A Telegraph feature on the saintly Sollers’s battle to defend a thousand-year tradition. Pictures of Sollers in his fox-hunting kit and his ear stud. Bliss looked up and saw that Elly Clatter hadn’t gone away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d be a bit a careful, Frannie. You just see him as a man with form, but in hunting circles it’s a medal. Him and that Otis Ferry?’

  ‘Both members of the Jumped-up Twats Club.’

  A moment’s silence. From opposite corners of the CID room, Terry Stagg and Karen Dowell were staring at him.

  ‘You ever think you might be working in the wrong part of the country, Francis?’ Elly Clatter said.

  About half an hour later, Bliss rang Annie Howe at headquarters in Worcester. From his office this time. Door shut, voice lowered. Annie was still only half-available, required to be on hand in case she was recalled to the Crown Court. She’d been quite helpful meanwhile, which was still a whole new experience for Bliss.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We tried. Either they know nothing or they’re not playing.’

  ‘Or the translator’s crap,’ Bliss said.

  ‘She’s actually a very good translator, I’m told.’

  It had been Annie’s idea – and not a bad one – to approach the two men facing rustling charges in Evesham, offer them a deal in return for information on who might be lifting stock in Herefordshire. A network couldn’t be ruled out.

  ‘Both came over as seasonal workers,’ Annie said, ‘but don’t seem to have been at any of the Hereford fruit farms.’

  Bliss and Stagg had been over to the Magnis Berries farm first thing. Still a pre-season skeleton staff: local manager, six workers. Everybody living off-site, the whole place locked up all night.

  ‘Stuffed, then,’ Bliss said. ‘They could’ve come from anywhere… Birmingham… Newport… Gloucester…’

  ‘Widen the net, then. Talk to West Midlands, Gwent. What about general crime? No pointers there?’

  ‘Farm thefts are up. Stolen quad bikes, chainsaws. Diesel drained from tanks. Widespread metal-theft. Some organized poaching, but no recent rustling of farm animals, no violence. We’ll keep trying.’

  The press conferences had shaken out sightings of two un familiar pickup trucks on private land – one up towards Bredwardine, one seen turning round at Lulham like he was a stranger who hadn’t known it was a dead end. This was the best so far, but still not worth much.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Bliss said, ‘Mr Bull is doing interviews.’

  ‘Talking stable doors? Accusing us of giving rural crime low priority? Don’t react. I mean it, Francis.’

  Bliss found himself wondering what Annie was wearing.

  ‘Where are you tonight?’

  ‘Jury’s still out, and we’re warned to expect an overnight.’ She was always careful on police phones. ‘Might make it over there before close of play. Failing that, I’ll be home this evening. If you need me for anything.’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Malvern.’

  ‘Right,’ Bliss said.

  The lunchtime TV news had pictures of grey fields, barbed wire and police tape. It said the hunt for the killer of a farmer in the Wye Valley had been stepped up.

  What they always said when there was no new line. Bliss switched off. He’d brought Karen Dowell and Terry Stagg into the office, with a pot of tea and a few sandwiches.

  ‘We’re going to get a hard time over this, aren’t we?’ Terry said.

  Sounding almost pleased. Bliss extracted an egg sarnie.

  ‘But it’s not totally our fault, is it, Tezza? As we’re severely undermanned, underfunded and overburdened with bureaucratic shite. I think we need to quietly point this out to the media.’

  ‘Quietly, how?’

  ‘I was thinking you, actually. When you go back out there, I thought you could find out which pub they’re occupying, join them for a butty, exchange a few confidences. You’ve got the look of a boozer, Tez, it’s the veins in your nose. They like that. Maybe you could find out what Sollers is telling them on the side, and what they think of him.’

  ‘You don’t like Sollers Bull, do you, boss?’ Karen said.

  A wholesome country girl, but smart.

  ‘Karen, what were his relations with Mansel, do you think?’

  ‘Big old family.’

  ‘It’s not the frigging Royal family, Karen.’

  ‘It’s near enough, in this county. You should know, you married into the fringes of… all that.’

  Bliss scowled.

  ‘Sorry,’ Karen said.

  ‘I was sensing a distance, between Sollers and his brother,’ Bliss said. ‘The way he kept telling me what a well-respected man he was. No conspicuous affection.’

  ‘With respect, boss, he wouldn’t show that in front of you.’

  ‘But they weren’t mates. Big age gap. Not exactly grief-stricken, is what I’m saying. And he’s very likely going to inherit a big slab of prime riverside acreage, plus a small mansion. Mansel had no wife left, no kids.’

  ‘I heard that’s why they’re history,’ Terry said, ‘the wives.’

  ‘That’s what Billy Grace thought. Mansel wanted an heir to Oldcastle but refused to believe it might be his fault he didn’t get one. Bottom line, looks like Sollers could be in line for most of it. They were partners.’

  ‘You want to be a bit careful, boss, that’s all,’ Karen said. ‘Under the circumstances.’


  ‘I’m doing me job.’ Bliss threw up his hands. ‘He’s got form.’ ‘He was nicked for exercising his countryman’s right to protest about what he considered to be an unjust law.’

  ‘ You think he’s a hero, do you, Karen?’

  ‘I think he’s clever. University, then business college? Big on diversification – farm shop, restaurant…’

  ‘We frequent his restaurant, do we?’

  ‘No, but my mum works there.’ Karen split a Kit Kat. ‘What’s the DCI’s line? Something this big, I keep expecting her to come stalking in, rapping knuckles. But she stays in Worcester. Odd, that.’

  ‘She’s been in court.’

  ‘Not over the weekend. I mean, she was here, but not for long.’

  Terry Stagg said, ‘Maybe keeping out of the line of fire. Let the DI cop the flack.’

  ‘Not the only odd thing, when you think about it,’ Karen said, thoughtful. ‘She does that spell as acting-super here and then gets offered Thames Valley, which – unless I’ve got this wrong – would’ve been about six months under a superintendent coming up to retirement. On a promise. Why didn’t she go for that? Not the Howe we know, is it?’

  Terry Stagg smiled greasily through his unsightly stubble.

  ‘Maybe she has other things she wouldn’t want to leave behind.’ Grinned at Bliss. ‘Father’s daughter?’

  ‘OK,’ Bliss said, ‘let’s just…’

  ‘That’s crap.’ Karen shaking her head. ‘Even I don’t think she’s bent.’

  ‘That case…’ Terry brushing crumbs off his tie ‘… maybe she’s finally getting herself seen to.’

  Shit. Bliss was looking down at his desk, turning over the forensics, feigning lack of interest, when he heard Karen go, ‘It’s not you, is it?’

  His gut went tight as a drum.

  His head came up very slowly – a struggle to frame some flip reply, until he saw she was looking at Terry Stagg.

  A joke. How many of these frigging jokes could his heart take? He watched Stagg shudder.

  ‘Why is Karen trying to give me nightmares, boss?’

  ‘She’s actually not bad-looking,’ Karen said. ‘In her austere way.’

  ‘Karen…’ Terry Stagg blinked. ‘That woman’s a metal coat hanger with tits. It’d be like, you know, with a plastic doll or something? Staring over your shoulder with glazed eyes. Anyway, nobody’s yet proved to me she’s not a lezzer.’

  ‘ How many times we been through that?’ Karen said.

  ‘Does a brilliant impression of a woman who hates men.’

  ‘Gay women cops, Staggie – man-friendly. Always. Am I right, boss?’

  ‘Sorry, Karen?’ Bliss tried not to look too concerned either way. ‘I was just wondering how Terry knows so much about having sex with a plastic doll. That was a very telling detail about the way their eyes stare over your shoulder.’

  Karen giggled.

  ‘Sod off,’ Terry Stagg said, going not quite red.

  ‘Boss.’ Bliss relaxed. As best he could these days.

  ***

  He stood fingering the loose change and the car keys in his pockets, unhappy about the way Annie Howe’s uncharacteristic professional restraint had been spotted. Had they also noticed how readily she’d trusted him to handle a major inquiry of national interest?

  ‘Karen?’

  On their own now in his office, Terry Stagg heading back to the crime scene.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Karen, look, I’m gonna come over all pathetic now. Is there any kind of rumour going round? About me.’

  ‘What? About being gay?’ Karen grinned, then saw his face. ‘Sorry, boss, I’m not sure what you’re asking me. If you mean Kirsty… a wonky marriage’s hardly got novelty value in this place.’

  ‘Nothing else? I apologize for sounding girlie.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Unless I’ve failed to pick up on something, I’d say the pressure of a high-profile murder investigation, combined with your domestic issues, is making you just a bit paranoid.’

  ‘So nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. Frannie, I’d know. And if I knew, I’d tell you.’

  Should’ve kept his gob shut. She’d be curious now. And Kirsty… Kirsty still knew something. But from whom? Who’d found out about him and Annie and passed it on?

  ‘Things’ll get better, boss,’ Karen said.

  ‘Yeh,’ Bliss said, as Gwyn Adamson, office manager on the Mansel inquiry, came over with an envelope.

  ‘Couple of things, Francis. One’s an eyewitness report from a petrol station at Leominster. Bloke apparently was dropped from a car and then escorted by two men into a four-by-four. As he was getting in, someone pulled a bag over his head.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last Wednesday night. Two nights before Mansel was killed. No indication of duress. Witness thought it was a joke. However this…’ Gwyn handed Bliss the envelope ‘… is more interesting. Came in the lunchtime post, just addressed to Police, Hereford. Could be a crank job, but…’

  Bliss accepted a folded sheet of A4. Computer printout.

  The word BLOOD all over it.

  12

  Act of Sacrifice

  These were two pains that shewed in the blessed head: the first wrought to the drying while his body was moist, and that other slow, with blowing of wind from without, that dryed him more…

  The sky, through the scullery window, was scored with raw pink cloud. Easter was coming, and Easter Week at the end of March would sometimes mean snow. Nobody here would be surprised after what last winter had hurled at them.

  …and pained with cold, more than my heart could hold… and The shewing of Christ’s pains filled me full of pains.

  Merrily folded down the corner of the page, shut the paperback. It was still scary. It had the feel of reportage. Informed, forensic, almost dispassionate reportage. Nothing quite like it before or since.

  There’d been a few blank faces when she’d brought it out in church yesterday, Palm Sunday.

  This had been after the evening meditation, attended by the more thoughtful, committed parishioners, all ten of them.

  ‘Julian of Norwich.’ Holding up the paperback. ‘A woman. Mother Julian. A nun. An anchoress, or recluse, and a mystic. In 1373, when she was just thirty, she became very ill and nearly died, and that was when she experienced the series of visions she discusses here.’

  Or fever dreams, hallucinations, whatever.

  ‘Leaving us with this profoundly, harrowing, gritty account of what crucifixion must really have been like. Which, erm… I was thinking we could use as a basis for the Good Friday meditation.’

  A suitably sombre prelude to the proposed vigil in the church through Saturday night to Easter Day. Amanda Rubens, the bookseller – looking a little nunlike herself in a long black dress – had probably spoken for most of them.

  ‘And you really want us to dwell on wounds and killing… exactly a week after what happened at Oldcastle Farm?’

  It had been all over Ledwardine by the time she’d arrived home from Brecon. Ten miles was nothing in the country. Ten miles was somewhere you could see, across the fields, between the trees.

  Although she’d never met or heard of Mansel Bull, she knew a relative, James Bull-Davies, last remnant of the Ledwardine squirearchy. And Gomer Parry had once dug a pond for Mansel. And Jim Prosser in the Eight Till Late, his brother-in-law had had a sheepdog pup off Mansel less than a year ago. Merrily’s own grandad had farmed at Mansel Lacy after which the dead man, apparently, had been named. Connections everywhere: an act of sudden, blinding violence ricocheting like a pinball around the countryside, setting off vibrating lights, jarring the whole table.

  The Sunday papers had pictures of a red-brick farmhouse on the edge of an orchard above the Wye and a smiling thickset man leaning on a gate.

  This morning, a new For Sale sign had appeared in Church Street to join the existing four. All of them reactions to the
winter and the fatal flooding which had turned the church into a no-go area on Christmas Day. The mopping and the mourning into New Year, when the snow came.

  And then the bitter winds, driving the sleet, heralding the murder of Mansel Bull at Oldcastle, whose high chimneys you could see from Cole Hill in the lifting of the morning mist.

  Some weeks, during the frozen months, there had been no actual meditation in church. Too cold in here, even with all the heat on. They’d just sat around, in their coats, and talked. Ledwardine shivering in chill fatalism, and the village still looked raw and flaking. Not much energy here, except around The Court, where Ward Savitch hosted upmarket action weekends and shooting parties to reawaken hunter-gatherer instincts in men from Off.

  ‘Obviously we should do it,’ Gus Staines had said.

  Gus was a plump little woman with a semi-permanent goblin smile. She’d come up from London in January to join Amanda, her long-time partner, who had been making an adequate and decorous living here in the New Cotswolds… until the weekend visitors began to be repelled by the snow and the electricity kept failing, and the shops didn’t get supplied so often.

  ‘We’ve all gone soft,’ Gus said stoutly. ‘We should throw ourselves into the full horror of the Crucifixion. The violence and the misery. Because that’s the reality of what people do to each other still. This is not the time to turn away.’

  Merrily had glanced over to where Jane was sitting on the edge of the circle. Jane had been to the meditation most weeks since Christmas. Not saying much, which was probably just as well. She didn’t say anything now, but she looked mildly interested. And then…

  ‘It’s a magical ritual,’ she’d said last night. ‘You’re playing with the Big Forces here. Community shaman.’

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘Resurrection of Christ, resurrection of Ledwardine. Correct?’

  The kid was sitting, as she often did, on a cushion at the edge of the hearth with the reddening log fire behind her, Ethel the black cat on her knees, the eyes of both glittering like LEDs.

  ‘The role of the shaman being to lead the tribe out of the dark. Like, out of the tunnel of winter onto the sunlit hillside of spring. Pain and death, a vigil through midnight and then, boom… catharsis… Easter! ’