The Secrets of Pain mw-11

by Phil Rickman

  Bliss drove between the lights. Almost immediately, you could see newly covered polytunnels, like big white worms. Nobody about at all. In summer the tunnels would be like wasp nests.

  ‘I’m not even on overtime for this, am I?’ Karen said.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, kid. One day.’

  Needed her local knowledge, this was what it came down to. There were details he might miss on his own. He parked near the top of a low hill, in front of a long shed with a poorly lit glass porch.

  ‘We should really be in town,’ Karen said. ‘If even Rich Ford is predicting trouble…’

  ‘Rich Ford’s an old woman.’

  ‘Been around a long time, boss, and he’s got a nose for under-currents. If there’s some underlying migrant issue here we know nothing about… I think he could be right – spot the retaliation and you’re there.’

  ‘Yeh, well, this won’t take long.’

  The manager, Roger Hitchin, was waiting for them. A vague-looking feller who said straight off that he was no use to them. Didn’t deal much with the migrant workers, not being much of a linguist, just a man who knew about the business of growing strawberries. Which was why he wanted to introduce them to the firm’s Personnel Liaison Officer.

  Vasile Bocean. A Romanian whose halfway-good English had apparently lifted him out of the ranks, putting him into a permanent caravan with electricity. Vasile told them that, proud of his caravan. Couldn’t be more than twenty-four. Spiky hair with gold highlights.

  Hitchin left them alone with Vasile and they talked outside the office, under a metal awning. Vasile seemed to be a permanent resident now, going out with a local girl and, yes, he certainly remembered the Marinescu sisters.

  He beamed.

  ‘From village near Sighi oara.’

  Bliss nodded. He knew that much. Confirmation had come in late this afternoon from the Romanian police. The parents already contacted, photos exchanged, talk of family members coming over to take the girls’ bodies home. Elly Clatter had finally put out the sisters’ names in time for the six o’clock news.

  ‘Sighi oara!’ A short laugh from Vasile Bocean. ‘Is very famous town. Very small but very famous.’

  Vasile was grinning, as though Bliss and Karen ought to recognize the significance. ‘Sighi oara, Transylvania? Famous tourist place. Old-fashioned buildings, like Middle Ages. But most famous…’ Vasile raising his hands, making his fingers into claws ‘… as birthplace of Mr Dracula.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Vlad Tepes. Impaler.’

  Bliss let Vasile enjoy himself explaining how this English writer had borrowed this notorious serial killer’s name and his castle and his reputation, turning the already uncuddly Vlad into an eternal emblem of the Undead.

  ‘These were country girls, then,’ Bliss said when it was over. ‘Unsophisticated.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Simple. Simple girls.’

  ‘People there is all very weird, detective. Everything, they believe. Curses. Evil… omens? Spirits of the dead? Mr Dracula! Woowoo!’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘These girls… full of all that.’ Vasile waggling his fingers. ‘Spooky stuff.’

  Bliss exchanged glances with Karen, bulky in a blue fleece, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but here.

  ‘Simple country girls, Vasile… can get preyed on. Like Dracula preyed on girls?’

  Karen gave him a look. Bliss heard the rattling of a breeze on polythene, glanced down the valley, where no lights were visible, probably because of dense woodland.

  ‘Who preyed on the Marinescu sisters, Vasile? You know, don’t you?’

  Karen barely spoke to him until they were back on the outskirts of the city. It had started to rain.

  ‘I had to push him,’ Bliss said. ‘His English wasn’t that good. He needed direction.’

  ‘He was upset,’ Karen said. ‘He was shocked. His grasp of English wasn’t great. He was very distressed when you told him what was done to them. And you capitalized on that. He didn’t know… He didn’t even know they were dead.’

  ‘Yeh, it occurred to me, when he was having a laugh about Dracula, that Hitchin hadn’t bothered to tell him about the girls. The firm’s way of distancing itself. Saying, we just employ them, whatever they get up to in their own time… nothing to do with us.’

  Bliss wondered what Vasile was paid as personnel liaison officer. He figured about fifty pence an hour more than the pickers.

  ‘At least we’ve planted the idea, Karen. He’ll be thinking about it. And then we go back and talk to him again.’

  Sex, Vasile. I’m talking about sex. Don’t tell me it doesn’t go on – and not necessarily always with consent. Women get raped on these farms, Vasile, you know that. It’s just that they don’t come and tell us about it, because of the possible repercussions.

  Vasile had said, Cushions?

  Because they’re afraid of it coming back on them. People get beaten up on farms like this, too. Injured. Hurt. Isn’t that right, Vasile?

  I never!

  Our information, Vasile, is that these girls, they were having a bit of trouble while they were here. No, no, I’m not saying it was anything to do with you, but if you don’t tell us what you know, there might be repercussions when we eventually find out. You know what I’m saying?

  Cushions?

  Cushions, yeh.

  ‘It’s not as if he’d ever make a witness,’ Karen said as they came up to the Westgate traffic island. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I don’t expect that to be necessary, Karen.’

  Listen to me, Vasile. Suppose the Marinescu sisters had been the victims of sexual harassment – men asking for sex in return for favours, easier work?

  That never happen here! Vasile backing off, shaking his head, hands going like windscreen wipers on fast mode. I swear to you -

  Vasile, a few people are known to have taken their own lives because of intimidation, bullying. Not here, maybe, but other farms. We know what goes on, and maybe we haven’t asked as many questions as we ought to have. But murder, this is very, very different. Two young women beaten to death in the city, right under our noses? Anybody who withholds information about that, doesn’t tell us what they know, we’re gonna take a very dim view of it. Maybe they’ll go to prison, these people who conceal information, maybe they’ll get deported?

  Listen, detective, please, I tell you everything I know. These girls, all they talk about… is about how this place is bad.

  In what way, Vasile?

  With ghostmen! Mr Dracula!

  Ghostmen.

  Come in the night… I dunno…

  Of course you dunno, because…

  I’m telling you -

  Because what came in the night, Vasile, was ordinary men. No, listen to what I’m saying. I’m talking about men from outside. You understand? I’m not trying to blame your people – your workers – for things they didn’t do. Which happens sometimes, doesn’t it? Sometimes they get the blame for bad things done by local men. Bosses. I know there was a boss who was very interested in some of the girls. And somehow… I think you know that, too.

  ‘The name Bull,’ Karen said. ‘All the name Bull meant to that boy was the murdered man on the farm. Who he felt he had to keep saying he didn’t know in case you were trying to hang that one on him as well.’

  ‘He knows more than he’s saying. He thinks he’s gorra good job, with prospects, and the future’s rosy, and no way he’s going to jeopardize that by grassing up somebody important. You notice how his English seemed to get gradually worse the more we pressed him?’

  Bliss felt Karen’s wobble of rage.

  ‘We? We pressed him? This blind obsession with nailing Sollers Bull to the wall, it’s turning you into a-’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something I never thought you were.’

  ‘Mother of God, this is nothing to do with what Sollers thinks about me, or how well he knows me father-in-law. Sollers finds a
source of uncomplicated sex with women he doesn’t even have to talk to. Vasile is the… intermediary, shall we say?’

  ‘Pimp.’

  ‘Whatever. All this spooky girls, Transylvania shit – he thinks we’re that thick? This is an old-fashioned gut feeling, Karen. Remember them?’

  ‘Sure, and you’re an old-fashioned detective, Frannie. Which is no longer a compliment.’

  ‘The blokes those kids saw in the pub,’ Bliss said. ‘Who’s to say they weren’t paid to do it? One job, big money. They’re probably on their way home now.’

  ‘Pulling two murders together – one knife, one blunt-force – because they both have connections to a man you don’t like?’

  ‘It was you who-’

  ‘Yeah, and I said tell the DCI. Leave it to a senior officer who hasn’t got a very visible axe to grind.’

  Bliss drove slowly down towards the turn-off for Gaol Street. Traffic was light. The higher than usual percentage of police cars was very evident. He wasn’t expecting to see Annie tonight, though a late-night phone call couldn’t be ruled out.

  Karen was right. It was best.

  He needed Annie to get Sollers. Needed Annie to want to get Sollers.

  30

  Share

  Back home, Merrily went directly through to the scullery, called Fiona’s mobile.

  Answering service. She thought of leaving a message, wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. She sat looking at the American paperback, with the Roman soldier and the fire. They came, they saw…

  The book fell open at page 35.

  Caradog was a warrior, born to it. From childhood he had been taught that fighting was something to be relished and, when necessary, he killed without much thought. But he was learning that there was something different about the way the Romans fought and killed. He wanted to know what it was. What had made them the finest fighting force in the world… so that he might use it against them.

  Who was he really? Where was he? Barry had avoided telling her Byron’s real first name. There were ten million Joneses in the phone book.

  Ethel was slaloming between Merrily’s ankles, and she got up to put out some Felix. She could hear the sound of the TV from the parlour. A chance here of discovering what was on Jane’s mind. Take some hot chocolate in. Meanwhile, she rang Lol to explain the situation. It was important to keep him in the loop. Start sharing more. Guard against slippage.

  ‘It was on the news,’ Lol said. ‘About the body on Credenhill. No name. God… Syd Spicer?’ A silence, then he said, ‘Don’t even think of shouldering any-’

  ‘It’s not about blame,’ Merrily said quickly. ‘It’s about finding out what was damaging him and making sure nobody else is affected. This is supposed to be my manor. If he was keeping something from us because it involved national so-called security… well, that’s not my problem, either.’

  ‘You need to be careful with those guys.’

  ‘Me? A harmless lunatic? A medieval throwback? Oh… I’ve been asked to do his funeral.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lol said. ‘Not that.’

  And then there was someone at the door. An efficient tapping, as if with the tip of a walking stick or an umbrella. Or an army officer’s baton.

  Merrily watched James Bull-Davies shaking out his umbrella, shuffling on the doormat, angled like a tower crane.

  ‘Not, ah, keeping you up, am I?’

  ‘It’s not yet nine o’clock, James. Coffee?’

  ‘Bit late for caffeine.’ James stood his umbrella under the Light of the World print. ‘No, hell, might as well. Thank you.’

  Merrily led him into the stone-flagged kitchen. Chilly in here in these days of post-Aga economic restraint.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was meaning to call in, after…’

  ‘Mansel? Second cousin, twice removed, something like that. Hadn’t spoken to him in years. Nothing wrong, just never that close.’

  ‘Still a hell of a shock, though.’

  ‘Rather admired him for his refusal to give up the family home, the way we did ours. Otherwise, lived within his means. Which both his wives seem to have seen as being tight with money, but… shocking, as you say. Shouldn’t happen. Country going down the lavatory.’

  James pulled out a chair at the refectory table and spread himself over it in his ungainly way. He was wearing an old tweed jacket, grey woollen tie.

  ‘Reason for disturbance… you met a friend of mine earlier. Lockley. William. Never Bill. Despises Bill, don’t know why.’

  ‘He said you were friends.’

  ‘Shipped orf to the same school, for our sins. Christ Col, Brecon. Also served Her Maj together as young chaps, briefly, before he… took a slightly different path. Now. This man Spicer…’

  ‘What does William do? With the Regiment?’

  ‘Nothing too active now. Had his time in the sandpit. They keep him on. Chaps like him have their uses, if it’s only a long memory.’ James coughed. ‘This is me talking to you, by the way. Not him. Not them. Fairly clear, that, I suppose?’

  ‘You know I’d never suspect you of making covert inquiries on behalf of the Ministry of Defence.’

  Army county, this. Someone’s fingers snapped and men who were never quite retired came out of civilian limbo. James cleared his throat.

  ‘Here – far as I’m aware – purely on behalf of my old friend Lockley.’

  ‘As far as you’re aware.’

  ‘Or could ever expect to be aware.’

  ‘James, my head’s starting to ache.’

  James shifted in his chair, like a minor rockfall.

  ‘Didn’t just drop out of the cot, Merrily. Fully aware of the degree of suspect politics which may appear to be lurking behind anything involving the military. Fully aware of that.’

  ‘Good. Go on.’

  ‘Having him as stand-in chaplain… not universally applauded.’ James sighed irritably. ‘Hate this kind of thing. Poor chap’s gorn, that should be an end to it. However, one or two things still leave cause for concern.’

  The atmosphere had altered, the banter was over. The coffee pot began to burble. Merrily went to it. James cleared his throat again.

  ‘Probably know what they found in Spicer’s bedroom?’

  ‘I didn’t go in. Wasn’t invited.’

  James was silent.

  ‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘I may have an idea what was in there.’

  ‘I, ah… made it clear to Lockley that I had considerable respect for you, as a person. Wouldn’t like you to be buggered about. However, they… that is, we… I… were wondering how far you’d be prepared to share.’

  She turned to face James, a mug in each hand.

  ‘Share?’

  ‘Things are sensitive. We’re in wars, could be for some time. Not made easier by the nation being in two minds about the need for it. Though, with all the loss of life, there’s a lot of sympathy, at present, for the chaps who have to fight. Anything which might affect that sympathy or the morale of the fighting man, which, between ourselves, is getting bloody close to rock bottom… PTSD, combat-stress… obviously needs to be watched.’

  Rain skittered like moths on the high window. Merrily frowned.

  ‘I know how hard this is for you, James, but you’re going to have to spell this out.’

  ‘Merrily, this… hell’s bells, they don’t understand this stuff. Not their field of combat. Lockley’s job’s to ensure that whatever was bothering Spicer could not, if it ever emerged, be damaging to the reputation of the Regiment. Might’ve been the onset of mental illness. Might’ve been something personal or foolish. Or…’

  ‘What do they think it might be?’

  James didn’t reply.

  ‘Share means share, James. Two-way street?’

  Merrily waited. James sat there for some moments, concrete-jawed. She guessed he often wondered where he’d be now if he hadn’t been dragged out of the army after the sudden death of his father, to pull what remained of the estate together. Not too
successfully, as it had turned out. Savitch was the squire now.

  She began to lose patience.

  ‘Maybe I need to consult my boss. Before this goes any further.’

  James looked up sharply.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’

  ‘The Bishop?’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked relieved. ‘Dunmore. Well, yes, of course. Absolutely fine. Apparently.’

  You could only take that one way. Small county with a long history of cooperation between Church and Military. It felt like the walls were closing in on her with a sinister splintering of old, brittle wattle.

  ‘Though we’d rather you said nothing to the other chap,’ James said. ‘Owen.’

  Merrily let the mugs come down, clunk, on the table. James smiled ruefully, chin sinking into his tie.

  ‘Complicated times, Mrs Watkins. Even in our own little world. Savitch bidding to buy the Swan, heart of the community?’ He coughed. ‘Apart from the church of course.’

  ‘No, you were right the first time.’

  ‘Should talk again.’ James stood up, looking sorrowfully down at the spillage on the table. ‘But I think you understand where we’re coming from, broadly speaking. And, ah, perhaps it is a little late for coffee.’

  After James had gone, Jane was still in the parlour, sitting on the sofa. But the TV sound was off, and she was talking into her mobile.

  ‘Yeah,’ she was saying, ‘I’ll consider it.’

  When she came off the phone and didn’t ask who’d been here… well, absence of curiosity was often a sign that Jane had something of her own to conceal. And when it was weighted with a muted fury which couldn’t have been more apparent if the kid had been slashing the sofa…

  ‘That was Eirion,’ Jane said.

  Tossing the phone onto a cushion, as CSI Miami played silently on the TV: shiny, flawless techno-puppets moving in digitized choreography against glass walls and orange skies.

  ‘How is he?’ Merrily said.

  ‘Bit bored.’

  ‘With university?’